DON JOHN.
Dear master, blame him not. I came attended
By one page only. Here I blush to claim
Such honor as depends on outward pomp.
No royalty is here, save the crowned monarch
Of our Sicilian artists. Be it mine
To press with reverent lips my master’s hand.
RIBERA.
Your Highness is too gracious ; if you glance
Round mine ill-furnished studio, my works
Shall best proclaim me and my poor deserts.
Luca, uplift yon hangings.
DON JOHN (seating himself).
Sir, you may sit.
RIBERA (aside, seating himself slowly).
Curse his swollen arrogance ! Doth he imagine
I waited leave of him ? (LucA uncovers the picture.)
DON JOHN.
Oh, wonderful !
You have bettered here your best. Why, sir, he breathes!
Will not those locked lids ope ? that nerveless hand
Regain the iron strength of sinew mated
With such heroic frame ? You have conspired
