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THE SPAGNOLETTO.
325
In token of the grateful memory
Wherein I hold his guidance of my mind
Up the steep paths of art.
- [While Lorenzo speaks, Rivera slowly gains consciousness of his situation, raises his hand to his head, and shudders violently. Lorenzo’s last words seem to awaken him thoroughly.
RIBERA.
I crave your pardon
If I have answered roughly, Sir Lorenzo.
My thoughts were far away I failed to know you
I have had trouble, sir. You do remind me,
I had forgot my hat; that is a trifle,
Yet now I feel the loss. What slaves are we
To circumstance! One who is wont to cover
For fashion or for warmth his pate, goes forth
Bareheaded, and the sun will seem to smite
The shrinking spot, the breeze will make him shiver,
And yet our hatless beggars heed them not.
We are the fools of habit.
Enter two gentlemen together as promenading; they cross the stage, looking hard at Ribera and Lorenzo, and exeunt.
LORENZO.
Pray you, sir,
Let me conduct you home. Here is no place
