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THE SPAGNOLETTO.
To-night I will not press thee. Thou art weary;
Thy nerves have scarce regained their tension yet;
But from thy deep emotion I can see
T will cost thee less than I have feared. To morrow
We will talk of this again.
MARIA.
To-morrow !
RIBERA.
Now,
Good-night. T is time thou shouldst be sleeping.
MARIA.
Father,
I cannot leave thee ! Every word of thine
Gnaws like a burning coal my sore, soft heart.
What ! thou shalt suffer, and thine own Maria
Will leave thee daughterless, uncomforted ?
What! thou shalt weep, and other eyes than mine
Shall see the Spagnoletto s spirit broken ?
RIBERA.
There, there, poor child ! Look up, cling not so wildly
About my neck. Thou art too finely touched,
