In the days that followed, Cyprus began to unfold strange problems for the Queen, as its story fell from the lips of the young Cyprian woman whose confidence she had so freely invited.

"Tell me I pray thee of Carlotta—Sister to the King—all that thou knowest," she said.

"It is a long tale, your Majesty."

"And these summer-days will be long, while the King is at the chase; we must seek wherewith to give them some new interest, for the Court is dull without him," she flushed like a shy, young girl, adding as if to cover her show of feeling: "it is dull with so many absent."

The Lady Margherita was some years older than Caterina, and she felt the gravity of the task that the Queen had imposed upon her—to tell of the contest between her husband and his sister: she was silent in her perplexity.

"It is a matter of history," she said slowly. "Doubtless your Majesty knew that many of us in Cyprus had taken oath of fealty to Carlotta before the Sultan sent us Janus and upheld him for our King. It is a difficult tale to speak of before our Sovereign lady—whom we love."

She looked up, a smile transforming her grave, dark face and deep, sad eyes; the rare sweetness and directness of the young Queen's nature had already won her reverent love: but suddenly, as the Lady Margherita looked at her she grew aware of the unsuspected fund of strength beneath the gracious girlish exterior, realizing that the spring of her actions would be in true nobility—not in selfish pleasure. Might not some good for her dear land come from the enlightened love of its youthful Queen? Yet she hesitated to bring any shadow into the life which had seemed all sunshine during these few months of bridal festivity, and the Queen was young to look at life through such serious eyes. But she had asked, and the King, who was still a lover, might be steadied by his wife's influence.

Caterina put out her hand in response to the smile and clasped that of Margherita.

"It is for your Majesty to command silence or speech," the Cyprian maid-of-honor said tentatively, as Caterina still held silence. "Yet, if it be speech, I pray your Majesty to remember that it is not I, who am the cause, if my page of history should offend. If I must speak, it can only be what I believe to be truth."

"It is only those who speak truth, my Margherita, of whom one may trust the friendship," Caterina answered gravely. "And I have chosen thee for my friend."

A deep flush colored the Cyprian's ivory cheek as she knelt and kissed the queen's hand in acknowledgment; for the reticent maid had opened her heart, with unwonted warmth, to the appeal of the rare simplicity and force of her liege lady's gentle nature.

"I would rather know, than fear I know not what," Caterina pursued. "Our most Reverend and beloved Patriarch of Venice hath given me this talisman to help me in my new land," there was a little pathetic lingering on the words, which touched her listener, "'Seek to know the truth concerning all thy people. And tell thy perplexity, if there be any, to Christ and the Madonna.' I would know that I may help the King," the young wife pleaded.



IX

And now, by the Queen's command which might not be denied, the talk flowed through the days of leisure during the absence of the King, while Caterina strolled with her Cyprian maid of honor through the terraced gardens in the cool of the evening, or rested in the heat of the day, in the shaded apartments of the voto. The girl-queen listened with breathless eagerness to the strange revelations, often interrupting with passionate exclamations, for her short taste of Cyprian life had been so colored with the glamour of love and happiness and the excitement of her novel surroundings that the vague forebodings which were beginning to temper the brilliancy had suggested no serious shadows.

In vain Donna Margherita pleaded that she might be allowed to put the theme aside, as she told of the disaffection of some of the ancient nobles of Cyprus who had been despoiled of vast estates because of their sympathy with Queen Carlotta. "But Janus was ever generous," said Margherita, "and none of their riches went into the King's treasury, but always into the hands of those nobles who were loyal to the new Government."

The new Government! Queen Carlotta! The young Venetian's hot resentment rose fiercely against the Republic which had left her in such ignorance of Cyprian matters while she turned her proud young head away that Margherita might not guess how little the name of Carlotta had meant for her.

"Tell me more of Carlotta—tell me everything," she commanded, steadied by her quick resolve to know and endure whatever the past might hold for her; and Margherita, who had been watching her with strange intuition, knew that she might hold nothing back, as she also knew that the young Queen had been kept in absolute ignorance of the complications preceding the accession of Janus. But it was impossible for Caterina to conceal the play of her angry emotions as the tale progressed, and she frankly gave up the attempt. Janus—her beautiful Janus—the idol of the old King—not the legal heir to the throne! Janus, in his boyhood, hated, thwarted, intrigued against—living in very fear of his life!

"Nay!" Margherita assured her with glowing eyes, "he knew not the color of fear, for he had the heart of a King!"

Then Caterina drew her close and gave her a passionate kiss, in seal of a friendship that was never to be broken.

"He had need to be brave," Margherita went on when she could command her voice, for the Queen's great eyes were beseeching, "for Queen Elena cared not how he should be put out of the way so that he might not interfere with her absolute sway nor with the holding of the Crown by her daughter Carlotta, when old King Janus should die."

So this was why, by Queen Elena's command, the dashing, masterful boy of fifteen had been created Archbishop of Cyprus—in the hope that the honors of the Church might absorb his powers and keep the wish for his succession out of the thoughts of the people who idolized him! This holding of the Primacy had been a mystery to Caterina, who, dearly as she loved her hero, knew him to be no saint. But, whatever the rights of Carlotta—who had been left Queen by her father's will (and insistent questions thrust themselves into the thoughts of Caterina while she listened, zealous to escape no detail)—it was evident that Margherita's sympathies went out to Janus.

"He hath more the quality of the Lusignans—to whom the De Iblin were ever loyal," she explained to Caterina, "and Carlotta is like her mother. Janus was first to offer his homage to his sister, pleading that as children of one father there might be truce and loving intercourse between them; but he was refused admittance to the Royal Palace; denied his right, as Primate of Cyprus, to preside at the coronation and commanded to remain within his palace during the ceremony, lest the love of the people should acclaim him King. But the crown of Carlotta fell from her head as she returned in stately procession to the palace," Margherita exclaimed, crossing herself devoutly—"so one might know that her reign should not be happy!"

"And then?" Caterina questioned, impatiently.

"Ah, yes, your Majesty, there was more; for our brave Janus had been gentle withal, but for ceaseless outrage that forced him to forswear his oath of loyalty. His revenues were withheld: he was beguiled to a banquet in the palace of a high officer of the crown where poisoned meats were set before him, but here, as in many another intrigue, the watchful love of the beautiful Maria da Patras—his unhappy mother—saved his life. Poor lady! she watched and prayed for him, and had no other thought.

"One knows not how—but she always knew—as if some spirit had told her!" Margherita continued in a tone of awe, after a moment's silence. "For none but she had dreamed the great Sir Tristan traitor to his trust, he who came of the noble house of De Giblet and was keeper of the Episcopal Palace and on guard at night! Yet once it befell that Sir Tristan came stealthily into the sleeping chamber of the prince, and the pages of the night who stand at arms beside the couch had fallen to the pavement, heavy with some strange sleep. But Donna Maria had watched and warned and our Janus was already stealing far on his way to Alexandria, when Sir Tristan drew aside the curtains and plunged his dagger deep into the mass of pillows which in the darkness wore some semblance of a sleeping form. It was told that he howled with rage at such childish thwarting, for Donna Maria had men at hand who came running at the outcry and took Sir Tristan into safe keeping."

"Madre Sanctissima!" Caterina exclaimed in her excitement, and urging the recital with a quick motion of her hand.

"It was the last time, sweet Lady, that our Janus might feel Carlotta's power; for soon he returned from Alexandria to take possession of Cyprus by order of the Sultan, our Suzerain, upheld by his armies and his treasure. For the charm of the Prince had won their hearts; the circumstance of his birth and a woman's rights were of small account in the estimation of the Sultan, and the march of our young King from his landing to his capital was a victory—the people kneeling in his pathway—wild with the joy of welcome."

Margherita had told the tale with eloquence, her breath coming quickly, her color rising, but Caterina was fairly startled by the dramatic ring in her voice as she told how Carlotta, at the last moment, finding further resistance impossible, had sent an envoy to Janus to promise him the revenues of his See, once more, if he would but lay down his arms and renew his allegiance. But the magnificent ambassador from Alexandria, whom the Sultan had sent with Janus to see his will enforced, made reply:

"It is the will of my master—the Sultan of Sultans, the Lord of lords, the King of kings—that Janus, prince of Cyprus, should reign as King; and my master, the Sultan of sultans, will acknowledge no other sovereign."

Then, suddenly, Caterina felt that she could bear no more; she must be alone to think, and she held up her hand to entreat silence. How tender she would be to him on whom such cruelty had been wreaked—how loving—to make amends for all the hatred of the past! How brave he was, her true knight—how forgiving—to have told her nothing of all this tragedy! It was not strange that his people loved him so—his people who had thronged upon his pathway with acclamation and greeting! Her heart beat high with adoring love and her eyes filled with happy tears.

"My Janus!" she cried, and then again, "my Janus," she whispered softly, filling the syllables with a wealth of tenderness and sympathy. She felt that she could not wait until he should come again; these few days had seemed so long!

But her elation passed and a sense of overwhelming disaster possessed her. "The Senate had known it all—the Senate had told her nothing—nothing about Carlotta. Why had they not named her—was it because—because——?"

And then the questionings that had come to her hastily and been lost in the recital of the perils and escapes of one so beloved came back with renewed force and would not be quieted, but called out for an answer. When Janus came she would ask him—in her staunch fair soul, she knew that she must ask him, though he might be angry and the bare thought of this made her shrink and quail—it even shadowed a little the pleasure of his longed-for coming—for he had always been so knightly to her. But yet, she could not wait! A great horror came over her of the old Queen, who had been painted as without principle and of wild passions—shrinking from nothing so that she might gain her will, and she was glad in her soul that Elena was not the mother of her Janus, while she struggled with her Venetian pride and promised herself to be the truer to him for his wrongs. And so the night wore on; and between her longing and her trouble there was no sleep for her while the day delayed.

A vague shape of terror seemed to hover between her and her vision of the future that had been so golden. Where was Carlotta? Might she not come again and strive to win back her crown? Were the nobles many who would uphold her?

Nay; but it was Janus whom the people loved—Janus! who had been crowned their king, with all solemn ceremony in Alexandria, by order of the Suzerain of Cyprus—to oppose him was rebellion! Janus—her beloved—so winsome, so masterful! Then, slowly out of the darkness rose the noble face of Lorenzo the Giustinian, full of quiet and strength—her mother's face, loving, comforting—both asking her best of her; and the Question grew in her soul. "Perhaps Carlotta's right was greater—could it be greater than her husband's?"



X

All day the queen had been restless and depressed, starting at the sound of a footfall only to drop her eyes again in disappointment and relapse into unquiet revery; the weight of empire hung heavily upon her girlish spirit and she was unutterably lonely in the absence of Janus which seemed so unduly prolonged. It was the latest day that he had named for his possible absence, and still no courier had come to announce his return.

The noon had been unusually sultry, the stifling heat of the upper chambers oppressed her and the ceaseless, rasping whir of the cicala smote her with weariness, but she resisted the attempt of her ladies to detain her in the cooler atmosphere of the voto, for in these underground chambers she could have no sight of the great plain beyond the boundaries of the palace-gardens—and she preferred remaining in the halls that overlooked the terraces—turning her eyes often in the direction of the forest.

It was like a pall upon them all to see their young mistress, usually so gracious and responsive, wholly absorbed in her troubled revery; but to-day her maidens played their sweetest strains upon their silvery lutes, without her answering smile; the gentlemen of her court sought in vain for some diversion to distract her; even the Lady Margherita could do nothing for her pleasure, while she watched in unobtrusive tenderness, feeling that quiet, however unsatisfying, was more welcome than speech.

The pages, at a sign from the Lady Margherita, had dipped their fronds of feather in the great vases of mountain-snow that stood between the columns, and waved them about the chamber; the queen followed their movements with a fleeting smile as this breath of coolness reached her, then fixed her eyes again, with a despairing look, upon the distant forest.

"She wearieth for the King," her maidens said low to each other, "and verily he may come to-night, for the days have already numbered more than he giveth of wont to the chase."

"She is not like herself," the Lady Ecciva de Montferrat whispered to her young Venetian companion, Eloisa Contarini, as the company strolled out upon the terraces at a sign from the Lady Beata Bernardini whose loving motherly eyes saw that Caterina needed rest and solitude. "She is strange and pale to-day—like one who hath seen a vision." Lady Ecciva spoke with deep seriousness, for superstition was a vital part of the Cyprian nature, belonging alike to peasant and noble.

"How meanest thou—a vision?" Eloisa questioned, startled.

The other turned to see that they were not followed and answered in an awe-struck tone: "The vision of the Melusina—the fate of the Lusignans! Didst thou not hear her shriek from the Castle of Lusignan in the dead of night?"

"The Melusina? Ecciva, who is the 'Melusina?'"

"She is the evil genius of the House of Lusignan," Ecciva explained to her excited companion, "all Cyprus knoweth that when the Melusina crieth three times from the towers of the ancient Chateau of Lusignan, in far France, it meaneth death, or some great misfortune to a ruler of this house."

"And thou—didst hear this lamentation verily, Ecciva? I should have died from fear!"

"Yea, thou being from Venice—not knowing that it bodeth not harm for thee—it is misfortune only for some ruler of their house of Lusignan."

"And that is naught to thee!" the Venetian girl exclaimed in astonishment. "Thy King—is he nothing to thee?"

"One knoweth not," the other answered nonchalantly. "There is Carlotta—both of the house of Lusignan; and she might be kinder than King Janus who seized the fiefs of my father because he came not forth to do him homage when he landed with his army from Alexandria."

Eloisa drew herself impetuously away from her companion who was watching her through long, half-closed eyes.

"Thou then—why art thou here?" she exclaimed indignantly, "in service of my beloved Lady, who is so good and fair, if thou lovest her not—nor the King!"

The youthful Dama Ecciva laughed lightly:

"Thou art a veritable turco for fierceness, Eloisa! I have naught against her Majesty, who truly is most fair and gracious—quite other than Carlotta—whom I love not at all! And if I held some grudge against the King for seizing of my father's lands (which broke his heart before he died) one cannot long be churlish in presence of our Janus, who hath a matchless fashion of grace with him, so that all think to have won his favor. Verily, that is a King for Cyprus!—he mindeth one of Cinyras. I must tell thee the tale of our hero of Cyprus some day, Eloisa."

"Aye: but tell me now—how camest thou at Court if the King hath wronged thy house?"

"Such eyes thou hast!—like a frightened child! I know not if I shall reach thy comprehension, were I to answer thee—but I, being only daughter to my father, Gualtier of Montferrat, who had no son—plead with my mother to send me hither when I came of age, to do homage loyally to King Janus, and claim our fiefs of him again—I being his vassal by right of long generations past—there was no other way."

"A vassal so loyal doth honor to him and thee!" the warm-blooded Venetian maid cried scornfully, with a toss of her dainty head.

Again the Lady Ecciva laughed lightly, but no shadow of discomposure marred the exquisite outlines of the beautiful, cold face: the skin, delicate and fine as ivory, showed no flush of color: her eyes and tresses were dark as night—the eye-brows slender, yet marking a perfect arc—the eyes beneath them tantalizing, inscrutable—the mouth rosy as that of a child—the fingers long, sinuous, emphasizing her speech with movements so unconscious that sometimes they betrayed what her words left unguessed.

"I do not understand thy vassalship," the Lady Eloisa said with hesitation—yet eager to know more of her companion's attitude toward the Queen; they had wandered far down the terrace to the basin where the swans were floating, opalescent in the sunset light.

Dama Ecciva broke off some oleander blossoms and flung them at the royal birds with teasing motion, watching them contentedly as, one by one, they floated away with ruffled plumage and sounds of protest.

"It is a right of our house for many generations," she explained; "being allied with royalty through the elder branch of the Montferrats, I am a dama di maridaggio by birth, and since there is no son of our house to offer homage in return for our fiefs, the duty was mine to do service to our King and claim our lands of him again. It was a simple ceremony—to bend the knee and kiss his hand, and make some empty vows—to see my mother Lady of her lands once more."

"Aye, it were well—if thy vows were not so 'empty,'" Eloisa protested. "How shouldst thou speak so coldly of thy vision, if thou hadst one spark of loyalty?"

"It was not my vision," her companion answered nonchalantly; "I slept the night through, the better to enjoy the day, which, verily, was not worth taking such trouble for,—so stupid hath it been!"

"But the vision?" Eloisa questioned impatiently—"there was no vision! Thou hast said it but to frighten me!"

"It is her Majesty who hath had the vision—one can tell it but to look at her: and for the three fatal shrieks—the shrieks to curdle one's blood—Josefa told of them but now. Some one hath heard them; but they hush it in the court for it meaneth disaster."

"I may not stay with thee!" Eloisa cried turning away in hot displeasure; "not for fear—for I do not believe thy vision: but because I hate thy mocking spirit and thy so strange loyalty—dama di maridaggio!"

The Lady Ecciva calmly resumed her pastime of swan-teasing as her impulsive companion, flushed and panting, began to climb the long flight of marble steps that led back to the palace-plateau.

"I think I am better companioned this heavenly night without thy preaching," she said serenely, as Eloisa, half repenting her quickness, turned back to wave her a farewell, "for the breezes are comforting after the day, and fret me not with questions. And for my loyalty"—she lingered mockingly on the word—"my loyalty will serve King Janus well enough, unless he seeketh to enforce his rights to my displeasure."

"How to thy 'displeasure'? What 'rights'?"

"His right of Lord of the fiefs—for our lands are gifts of the Crown—to choose a husband for his dama di maridaggio who suiteth not her fancy."

"Nay, verily, Ecciva, he is a noble gentleman—he would not press thee too hard, thou wouldst protest."

"Aye, I should protest—I would protest. And so he hath no scheme to marry me with the miserable Neapolitan noble who held our lands while we were dispossessed, I care not! But it were good to know what fancy might seize him—our charming Janus! For he is a man of many moods and some favorite of the Soldan may next be friend to him!"

The evening breezes were slowly waking over the torrid land, bringing needed refreshment after the long sultriness of the day: the air was laden with delicious odors—fragrance of rose and jessamine and orange blooms; birds of brilliant plumage called to each other in jubilant notes as they flitted hither and thither among the pomegranate blossoms which burned, like tongues of flame, among the thickets of green.

Back through the long alleys of wonderful trees where many a clinging vine trailed masses of riotous color, it was pleasant to hear mirthful voices ringing freely after the dull day's repression, or echoing back more faintly from adventurous wanderers in the farther shrubberies. This garden of delights which Janus had made for his bride, environing this palace of Potamia, was alive with charm—rippling with stolen streams, more costly than molten silver at the summer's height, which kept it in such vesture of luxuriant bloom as only a monarch might command.

But Eloisa sped quickly up from terrace to terrace, scarcely pausing to answer the persiflage with which her companion sought to detain her; she was overwrought and unhappy, in spite of herself; she had no faith in the vision of Ecciva; she felt hurt and outraged by her coldness, and she was hastening back for one look in the true and noble face of the Lady of the Bernardini, who mothered all these young Venetian maids of honor in the court of Caterina, craving to express her deep loyalty to the Queen herself by some immediate act of silent homage.

Only the Lady of the Bernardini and Margherita de Iblin were with Caterina in the loggia, just without the palace, as Eloisa came flying up the steps and falling on her knees covered the young Queen's hand with passionate kisses.

"What is it, carina mia?" Caterina asked in alarm; "thou bringest news? There is a courier?"

"Niente—niente, Serenissima—only to be near the one I love!" the girl cried fervently; and then grew suddenly quiet, in full content after this needed avowal.

"Poverina, thou art lonely for thy Venice, and thy people," the Queen murmured in her own soft Italian tongue, while her fingers strayed caressingly through the glory of red-gold hair which fell unbound about the maid, in the fashion of those days for one of noble birth and tender age.

But presently she withdrew her hand and motioned Eloisa to a corner among the cushions on the curving marble slab, grotesquely wrought with talismanic symbols, which outlined the end of the loggia where they sat. "Thou art come a-propos: for the Lady Margherita hath promised us a tale of ancient Cyprus, and we of Venice wish to know these legends of our beautiful island."

"Nay, beloved Sovereign Lady;—it is not legend but simple historic truth, which your Majesty hath granted me permission to narrate—a tale of love and loyalty of the annals of our house; and out of it hath come this Cyprian proverb: 'Quel che Iblin e non si puo trovar.' 'Such an one as Iblin may no man find!'" Dama Margherita, usually so pale and grave, was flushed and eager; her deep eyes sparkled; her breath came fast.

The name of Joan of Iblin was revered in Cyprus and the Queen turned towards Margherita with some comprehension of her pride in the nobility of this ancestor who had spent himself in loyal service for the early Kings of Cyprus, touching her hand with a light pressure, smiling her approbation.

No feast at any court in those days was complete without this diversion of recitation, when the nation's heroes, or some passage from its greater classics, furnished the theme; or when some improvisator wove a tissue of myth and legend, embroidered with fact, which won its way through confiding ages as historic truth, till the time, growing sophisticated, laid it heroically aside for a curio. And Cyprus stood high among the Eastern nations in literary reputation. Was not its poet Enclos earliest among the Greek prophetic singers? Was not the "Cypria" celebrated among the epics of antiquity, a precursor to the Iliad itself? Was any land more fertile than Cyprus in food for poets?

The Cypriotes no longer knew whether Cinyras were god, or man, or myth; whether he were the son of Apollo, or of Pygmalion and the bewitching ivory image of the sculptor's dead wife; or, in very truth, that splendid prince of Agamemnon's time, as sung by Homer in the Iliad, winning laurels at the siege of Troy. This hero of the "Cypria," was he, in verity the great High Priest of the island and chief of the stately race of the Cinyradae who had ruled the people long in State and Sanctuary, and filled their realm with stately temples? The Cypriotes drew breath in an atmosphere of myth and poetry and felt the recital of the feats of their heroes to be no less a duty than a delight.

The improvisatorial faculty so often bestowed upon this imaginative people was greatly prized, and not infrequently it descended from father to son, as an inheritance, winning for its possessor something of the reverence granted to a prophet.

Dama Margherita de Iblin possessed this gift, though only in moments of deep feeling was she willing to exercise it: but to-night she was strangely moved out of sympathy for the Queen, whose evident anxiety filled her with foreboding and whom she eagerly longed to divert.

"Since your Majesty hath graciously commanded the story of Joan of Iblin, Lord of Beirut and Governor of Jerusalem—a tale of our dear land when it was young—I will tell it after the fashion of my people," she said, rising with her sudden resolve, her strong, dark face grown beautiful from the play of noble emotions.

She stood for a moment, her tall figure in its sweeping folds swaying in slow rhythmic cadence—her attitude and gesture full of grace and dignity—irresistibly compelling—as in low, penetrating monotone she began her chant.

The music-maidens stole noiselessly forth upon the loggia, accompanying the noble improvisatrice with lute and rhythmic posture; the night deepened and the stars came out, and still her hearers listened breathlessly, as in moments of emotion the chant leaped wildly to meet the urgency of her thought, or deepened in melting tenderness to its pathos; for such was the intensity of Margherita's emotion and dramatic quality that she endued each character with an almost startling vitality—or had she put her auditors under some magic spell with the compelling gaze of her deep eyes? They felt as if living in that past time, partakers in its very action, and they surrendered themselves to her power.

It was the tale of an infant heir of Cyprus, when the realm was young and the Emperor Frederick was her Suzerain, and with a sweep of her magnetic fingers Margherita showed the babe lying helpless and appealing before his uncle the noble Lord of Iblin, to whom the widowed Queen had confided him during his tutelage. The guardian's faith and devotion were sketched in rapid strokes; and when the tiny King had been crowned and his knights and barons of Cyprus and Jerusalem had sworn him fealty, the souls of her listeners swelled indignant within them as Dama Margherita thrilled forth the challenge of the Emperor to the Lord of Iblin to lay down his trust and surrender the child with the customs of Cyprus to him—their Suzerain—until the boy should be of age.

"Not so—most gracious Lord and Emperor!" Joan of Iblin had made dauntless answer; "for my tutelage is by order of the Queen, his mother, who holdeth the regency justly, and by the laws of Cyprus and of Jerusalem—which, with all courtesy, I will defend. I make appeal unto the courts for this our right!"

Her sympathetic auditors verily heard the tramp of armies in the wild chant of Margherita when the Emperor had replied with scorn and insult, trampling on the rights of Cyprus; they could have sworn that they saw the Emperor's hosts gathering on the plains as they watched the impetuous motions of all those beckoning maiden hands; and then, advancing in quiet dignity, sure of their right, the old-time knights and barons of Cyprus and Jerusalem, moving to the measure of a quaint, Christian psalm: and so fully had her listeners yielded themselves to her potent spell, that but hearkening to her recital, they quailed and trembled when she told that the enemies of the Lord of Iblin came by night and sought to whisper treachery to his staunch soul, while in tones that scarcely broke the hush, the false words of the tempter reached their consciousness, quivering through them, as if they themselves were guilty of this treachery:

"Ye are more in number than the hosts of the Emperor—kill him while he sleepeth! For we will see that his guards wake not."

Then fell a deep, throbbing silence, tingling with a sense of shame, broken by a sudden discord of the lutes and the wild burst of ringing scorn.

"Shall we, Christian men of Cyprus, do this iniquity!"

Again, the whispered voice of the tempter: "Aye! for the Emperor is false; he hath taken thine own sons for hostages and keepeth not his promise but in his camp entreateth them shamefully; and in the courts, which shall judge of this thy cause, doth seek to malign thee."

Once more came the voice of Joan of Iblin, invincible:

"We have sworn fealty to the Emperor—we are true men—be others untrue."

And then in unison—swift, sure, triumphant—the words vibrated on the air: "We have sworn fealty to the Emperor—we are true men—be others untrue."

The voices in the garden had long since ceased, and one by one the wanderers had gathered on the terrace, waiting in responsive silence the conclusion of the tale they loved. Among them the Bernardini stood entranced. He had been strolling alone, filled with anxious thoughts which had brought him to a mood easily wrought upon, and from the silence of the garden to come suddenly upon this scene of picturesque action was a surprise that gave it added power.

He stood as if fascinated, never moving his gaze from the lithe figure of Margherita, whose every motion revealed new grace and unsuspected depths of feeling. Margherita, whom he had thought so grave and cold! So intently was he watching her that he realized no others in the vivid pantomime until the music maidens had gathered closely about her with hushed lutes and a mysterious silence fell—as of night upon the plain—spreading with the slow movement of the down-turned palms of all that girlish throng—the graceful, swaying figures scarce advancing, yet seeming to encompass the plain.

Between these interludes of dramatic rendering, the thread of the story was held in a quick, clear monotone easily followed. The hushed tramp of a great army withdrawing in the night—not from fear, but to honor their vows—the words of Iblin: "We will not fight our Emperor, for our men are more than his: which having seen, it will now perchance please him to accept our terms of honorable peace." The Emperor's acceptance of the terms from fear or wile, or because of new wars pressing in his own lands: his promise to leave the customs of the realm to Cyprus: and then, as Suzerain, his swift summons to the Lord of Iblin to join him in Crusade with men and arms. But the friends of the faithful guardian close round him and the chant of Margherita grows fierce and ominous:

"Beware! He meaneth treachery. It is no summons—save to entrap thee."

But the answer rings out loyally in the knightly faith of those early days, while the deep, contralto tones electrify her audience: "Shall we show fear of our Emperor, or fail to bring him aid in holy warfare of Crusade—we, who are Christian knights? Faith begetteth Faith!"

Then the Cypriotes fare them forth to do the bidding of their dauntless leader,—all the knights and nobles of Cyprus and Jerusalem, the youthful King and the sons of the Lord of Iblin—with interchange of gifts and feasting and homage as of leal men to their Suzerain: with much pledging of faith, from each to each, after the manner of those days—against the background of that noble chorus following from afar in massive, chanted solemn tones—

"Faith begetteth Faith."

But now, to the cities of Cyprus, left destitute of defense while their nobles were gone to honor the Emperor's command, came a band of mercenaries of the Emperor's sending, who stole the customs and by their lawless acts frightened the people who fled for safety to the convents, denouncing Frederick as false and craven; while the governors sent by him, in despite of his solemn treaty, made havoc in the land, proclaiming in every city:

"Let not the Lord of Iblin set foot in this land of Cyprus—by order of the Emperor!"

Suddenly the indignant cries of the whole listening company mingled in confusion with the inspired voice of the improvisatrice and the descriptive music of the lutes.

Caterina sprang to her feet, not knowing what she did: "Bring back the Lord of Iblin!" she cried. "Bring the noble Joan back! Save this people of Cyprus!"

At the sound of her voice the lords and ladies of her court came crowding up the steps of the loggia from the terrace, clinging around her, kissing her hands with fervent words of loyalty and pleasure, before she realized that she was in the Now, or that she had cried out in her excitement. But this was the Cypriotes' story of stories, and her unconscious action had bound them to her.

But Dama Margherita, still in her trance of song, waved them to quiet again as they stood grouped about the Queen, in the very mood of the closing scene, creating an atmosphere of restrained passion, through which the voice of the improvisatrice throbbed and pulsated like their own hear-beats.

But now the tones of the improvisatrice are low and quiet, and her motions assert the dignity of a life nobly lived. For Joan of Iblin has returned from Crusade, has conquered the intruders and restored quiet to the realm. But, thereafter, siege is laid to his own castle and fief of Beirut, and now, gray-haired and full of honors, his time of service drawing to a close, his trust fulfilled and the young monarch come to his majority, he implores his royal ward to assemble his full court, and kneeling in their presence before the youth whom he had served from tenderest infancy, he prays:

"If I have served thee well, my nephew and my monarch—now come to thine own—because I loved thee well, yet loving honor more:

"If I have fought for thee in keeping of my trust, and dared the enmity of the Emperor our Suzerain,—and for thy sake:

"Now, by my love for thee—for I am old and the cities of my fiefs are doomed;

"Send, if it seemeth good to thee and to these, the knights and barons of thy realm, and save my lands—that they be not wrested from me when my strength is spent!"

The true-hearted Prince threw loving arms about him, with words of comfort and with promises, and would have raised him. But the Lord of Iblin would bring his speech to its conclusion and have his say before them all, thus kneeling—as if it were a rendering of his trust, a fitting close to a so loyal life.

The words of his Swan-Song had been chanted in full, rare, solemn harmony—the lutes in gracious melody accompanying, like an undertone of love—slow tears down dropping from the eyes of Margherita.

And one by one, as the chant proceeded, through her strange magnetic power, her listeners saw a knight step forth from the circle and drop to his knees, swearing fealty to the King and the Lord of Iblin, until all were kneeling. Then the chanting voices hushed and the rapid motions ceased: and under that spell they saw, as in a vision, luminous in the darkness, the kneeling knights of that early court of Cyprus, and in their midst, the gray-haired Joan of Iblin and the boyish monarch, in his young, rosy strength—a vision of love and loyalty!

Aluisi Bernardini breathed a sigh of content as he moved quickly away with a sense of his responsibility being shared; for it was only now that he felt that he knew Margherita, and she would be ever near the Queen, a Cypriote of the Cypriotes, but loyal to her heart's core. He could have kissed the hem of her trailing robe as it floated towards him, stirred by the motion of his passing—for in the maiden's tale she had revealed herself to him: it was not of her grace and talent, nor of the poem that he thought—but on the surety of her staunchness of soul—of her consecration: he heard her voice again ringing in the words:

"We are true men: be others untrue!"



XI

A Little page who had been leaning on the marble parapet beyond the terrace, came stealthily and beckoned to a comrade on the steps of the loggia.

"A troop of horse were coming across the plain," he explained in low, agitated tones, as the other reached his side, and followed him back to the post where he had been watching. "I saw them all the time Dama Margherita was reciting—Holy Mother, but it was long!—I thought the King was coming, and it was I that should carry the news to her Majesty—I came near crying out! But I could not see his orange plume, and I waited. They came slowly—Santissima Vergine! He was not there!"

He clutched his comrade's doublet with a trembling hand and turned an ashen face towards him.

"What ailest thee, Tristan?—thou who art already a damoiseau and shalt be a true knight? Thou art verily dreaming—I see nothing."

"They are gone within—in the first great court of the palace—those who came. They were the King's gentlemen—all the King's gentlemen—Messer Andrea among them. I thought the champing would have roused the Queen who hath been watching all the day. I am not afraid——" he gasped; "but it was so horrible!—Thou knowest, Guido, Messer Andrea never leaveth the King."

The boy's eyes were dark with fear.

"He will come with the others—he will surely, surely come," Guido asseverated.

They clasped each other close and pressed their fresh cheeks together, trembling so that they could scarcely speak, yet struggling to be brave, as became little pages that should be knights.

"They were so long," poor Tristan said in a choking whisper, "and it was so still—so still—no music, and they returning from the chase! And—when they came nearer, I thought I saw his horse, but I could not see a rider—and I thought, I thought—perhaps because it was dark—and I ran down the front of the palace to get nearer when they crossed the bridge. Ah, but the tramp was dreadful! And—and—it was his horse, and a squire leading him—and—behind them—oh Guido!—Then I knew."

"We will be knights, Tristan mio," Guido whispered, wiping away his comrade's tears while his own were falling; and then, straining each other convulsively, they broke down in sobs together.

* * * * *

Dama Ecciva stole up the steps from the terrace, and catching Eloisa's hand, dragged her forcibly away.

"Come quickly," she whispered, with chattering teeth, "Santa Maria Vergine! I am so frightened. Oh, the poor, poor Queen! That was why she hath been so strange—she hath truly seen the vision. Poverina, it breaks one's heart! And he but a week away! So gay and debonair, and beautiful as a god!"

There was no mistaking her wild eyes.

"Tell me!" Eloisa gasped.

"I was there in the pergola, and I saw them come—the frati from the Troodos in the midst of the troop of horse—with—with IT.—Oh Eloisa, it was true!—They are telling her now."

* * * * *

There was a stir in the great audience-chamber back of the loggia where Caterina sat—a sound of hesitant feet, as of many who came unwillingly, unutterably weary from the dull weight of evil tidings.

The muffled footsteps roused her from her revery and she turned her head and saw them coming. Her heart stood still for fear.

Messer Andrea came before the others, falteringly—as if youth had died out of him: he was pale and strange and no words fell from his blanched lips during that long instant while he crossed the interminable stretch between them, and Caterina waited, with all her tortured soul crying out for Janus.

Then the King's favorite, with the cruel story written in his anguished eyes, turned them full upon hers for one moment, that she might know—then bowed his head upon his breast and opened his arms, as if he fain would shelter her—

"Caterina——" he said—"Child——"



XII

In the first dazed days that followed, between the necessary adjustment of matters of state, and the many ceremonies incident upon the King's sudden death, there was scant time to discuss the rapid happenings; even in the court-circle they scarcely knew what was passing—still less how it had come about. It was said that Janus had died of malignant fever, due to the terrible malaria of the coasts where he had been hunting. Yet some hinted that there were natural poisons, as of the marshes, and others—more fatal: but this was with bated breath and kept well without the innermost circle of the court, for no one really knew. It was easy to talk of poison, but far less easy to make assertions implicating those who might be innocent; and, meanwhile, the complications surrounding the throne of Cyprus demanded infinite wisdom and despatch.

Almost before the Queen could lift her head after the shock of her husband's death, the nobles and barons of the realm had penetrated to her private boudoir and sworn her fealty, with a tenderness and reverence that deeply touched her. By the will which the King had left, Caterina Veneta was now Queen of Cyprus, with a Council of Seven appointed to assist her; and every Venetian who held a post in the Government was restless until the young widow of Janus, who had been crowned with all due ceremony in the Cathedral of Nikosia at the time of her marriage, had publicly received the full seal of her authority.

So quickly death had fallen upon the brilliant, pleasure-loving young monarch—so without warning—that it seemed to those of his court like some dread nightmare from which they might presently awake to a new morning, fair and gay as those they had known so little time ago, before the music and the mirth, the jewels and the festal robes that befit a court had given place to the gloom and mourning of these horrible days. As in a dream they had taken part in the sumptuous funeral ceremonies, feeling still that it could not be true—he was too young, too brave, too gay, too gracious, to have come so soon to this! And if to some of those young nobles it was rather the shock of the loss of a boon companion than a serious grief, there were many among them who, for the few bright words that cost him little—a smile—the grasp of his ready hand—permission to come and shine about him—now brought their tribute of adoring tears.

Meanwhile, in the halls of the palace, time moved with slow and halting footsteps: the stricken Queen came rarely among her circle of ladies, and only for short intervals, and the talk, however varied, was but upon one absorbing theme.

It was known that soon after the funeral, the Queen seeking how she might do highest honor in preparing the permanent tomb, had been told of the priceless sarcophagus of oriental jasper—the gift in early ages of the Emperor of the East to Santa Soffia in Nikosia, and she had sent an envoy to the brothers of the convent to ask that it be surrendered for the tomb of Janus, their king, promising whatever compensation they should ask.

"Ah, but it will be magnificent, that tomb under the dome of our own San Nicolo! It will stand on the precious mosaic pavement from Alexandria, on columns of ivory chased with gold. Dama Margherita hath seen the design which hath been made for her Majesty by the curator of our library of art."

"I also," said the little Contarini, timidly, for she was proud of the favor of the Queen whom she devotedly loved: "It was most beautiful; and the Serenissima la Regina held it long, as if she could not put it away."

But a hand was raised to hush the topic:

"Speak no more thereof; for word hath come but now that the request of her Majesty hath been denied."

There was a chorus of indignant protest:

"It could not be, when she so grieveth! They have no hearts—those frati of Santa Soffia!"

"The Queen will not endure this refusal without reason!"

"There was no reason that should be told," their informer whispered low to one of them. "For love of the Queen, hush the topic."

But an elderly member of the Queen's Council who had been passing through the great Hall and had paused near them, taking no part in the conversation, now came forward, after a moment's hesitation.

"I speak that you may forget it," he said: "for it seemeth to be a pleasing theme of discussion among you—yet should be so no more—a mere extravaganza of fancy that our girl-queen might wisely abandon."

"Signore!" exclaimed the Lady of the Bernardini, rising indignantly, "I maintain the dignity of our Sovereign Lady's Court, while she perforce, from sore affliction, must be absent. All speech must be as in her presence."

The Councillor, resenting the reproof, gave a slight cold bow, studying her curiously, and pondering whether he dared go further.

"The matter is of interest," he pursued, after a moment's pause, "for they gave their reason, these monks of Santa Soffia, and scrupled not—being willing to keep their treasure."

"Signore Consigliere——!" Dama Margherita exclaimed beseechingly.

But if the monks of Santa Soffia had a reason for their conduct, he also had for his, and would not be stayed.

"They gave their reason; that the precious gift should not be desecrated to hold relics that were subject to excommunication," he said with painful distinctness, and would not linger for any explanation.

"It is shameful—such a reason so calmly told by a member of our Queen's Council! He should unsay the words!" one of the maids of honor cried hotly. "There could be no color for it: the Signor Fabrici hath proven that he loveth not the Regina!"

"It was unholy speech," said Dama Margherita crossing herself, "which had not been, save for the Consigliere: it hath no shade of truth; may the Holy Madonna forgive him—and us, who have listened to slander."

"Cara Dama Margherita," said the little Contarini consolingly, "if we have listened—it is not with our hearts!"

"Thou art wise, carina: and we who love her will see that the ill word goeth not beyond."

But the speech of the Consigliere had caused such consternation that it could not be immediately dismissed; and one of the elder ladies of the Court was obliged to explain it, for "excommunication" was a word of evil omen.

"The word is a slander," she said. "But it is known that the Holy Father hath had small friendship for King Janus since he declined alliance with the niece of His Holiness, who was not one to please our young King's delicate fancy, though His Holiness strove to have his will—first by promises and then by threats."

They pressed closely about her, with exclamations of interest and astonishment, for this gray-haired noble woman, Madama de Thenouris, had not been one of those to retail gossip and they might not question her strange tale; they knew that she had some serious purpose in this unwonted freedom of speech.

"This was known by some of us in Cyprus before the marriage of our King—yet was kept hushed, lest trouble should grow from mention of the displeasure of the Holy Father; but no threat of excommunication hath reached this court. My children, I am trusting you with confidences—for it is a time of trouble for our most gracious Lady and we of her court must know truth from slander that we may stand for her."

Each one came and laid her hand, in silent pledge, in that of the gray-haired speaker.

"Later, not long since," she continued, "there came from Rome a tale—maliciously whispered about by Fabrici—not to be believed—that by some act of renunciation of the Christian Faith, Janus won the favor of the Sultan when he sent him hither to regain his throne. The Consigliere Fabrici went with others to the monks of Santa Soffia, and if he told this matter there, so as he hath whispered it in the court of Cyprus, it may well be that the frati reasoned thus."

"Is it true, Madama, that an ambassador is already come from the Sultan to acknowledge Caterina as Queen of Cyprus, and that there shall be some gathering of the court to-night to receive his homage?"

"Aye; such a gathering as one may have in these sad days, my children."

"And Carlotta?" another asked eagerly—"Ecciva—tell them what thou hast spoken of Carlotta."

"That she, in very person, hath sailed from Rhodes to meet the Admiral of Venice on his fleet—to throw herself on his mercy, as heir of Cyprus, to ask his help, to place her on the throne, from the long friendship between the islands." She told it with a little note of triumph, for it was strange news.

"Carlotta! To seek aid from Venice!—It cannot be true!"

"Aye; it is verily true," Madama de Thenouris said quietly—"as Ecciva hath told it; for a report hath come from Messer Mocenigo, himself. But that is like Carlotta, who leaveth no imagining of her brain untried. She hath even the courage to urge her near connection with Venice through her brother Janus the King, by his marriage with Caterina Veneta!"

"She hath lost her reason, one would say: there can be no more to fear from Carlotta!"

"No more to hope from Carlotta," some one corrected in an undertone; but the voice sounded unfamiliar in the group and when they looked to see who might have spoken, there was no one to whom they could assign it.

Eloisa Contarini turned to the young Dama Ecciva de Montferrat with her impulsive question:

"Who was it, Ecciva?"

"Nay, I was about to ask—I also."

Dama Margherita turned and looked at her steadily; the girl gazed back at her with narrowing eyelids, slightly shrugging her shoulders as she finally dropped her eyes.

"But Carlotta?" one of the Venetian maids of honor questioned, impatient for the tale: "she knew not of the will of his Majesty the King?"

"Nay; and she had hope of being first to carry news of his death to the Admiral of Venice;—a most strange hope of any favor from such a quarter!"

"The answer of the Mocenigo was a marvel of courtesy, as it hath been reported, and worthy of a diplomat," Madama de Thenouris continued. "Most graciously he assured the Princess that Venice held her friendship gladly and would not fail of anything that she might do to prove her loyalty to this Crown of Cyprus. Yet now, the Daughter of the Republic, Caterina Veneta, being left by the Will of Janus Queen of Cyprus, Venice must first uphold the rights of Caterina, and might show her Eccellenza, the Princess Carlotta, no favor that could prejudice the sovereignty of the Queen."

"And then?"

"And then came further pleading from Carlotta, with a new tissue of reasons. But finally the Mocenigo told her plainly: 'The reasons which avail in kingdoms are arms—not questions of legality.'"

"It is a theme for a comedy! And Carlotta——?"

"Hath sailed again with new wisdom for Rhodes; or, perchance to plan some enterprise that bespeaketh her less mad."

"She is not mad—but brave!" cried the Dama Ecciva boldly.

"It is enough of Carlotta," said the Lady of the Bernardini, rising to break up the talk.

But she beckoned to Dama Margherita to remain, as the others were leaving the hall, and gave her a charge in a low tone.

"See to it that these tales add not to the weariness of our beloved Lady who hath already enough of grief to bear; and the time is full of dangers for her. I count much upon thine influence with the younger maids to keep her from breaking her heart," she added with hesitation, but with a smile which conveyed her confidence in the Lady Margherita, "and to hold them loyal."

She laid a detaining hand upon the younger woman's shoulder as she spoke the last words, uncertain whether to confide in her further, and Margherita, having given her assurance, still waited.

"For this question of excommunication," the Lady of the Bernardini said at last—"lest it should be bruited about by the enemies of the Queen—it hath no color of truth. My Son, the Lord Chamberlain, hath confided to me—(I am trusting thee, Dama Margherita, that thou mayest know it to be so, for the peace of mind of our poor, young Queen, and so mayest lead others to thy belief—yet speak no hint of this my confidence). My Son, the Chamberlain, hath seen in the most revered chronicle of State of this kingdom, the Libro delle Rimembranze, the copy of a letter sent by King Janus to His Holiness, to accredit his Reverence the Archbishop of Nikosia, brother to this same Signor Jean Perez Fabrici the Consigliere, who spoke with us but now—as Ambassador to His Holiness: and the manner of this letter leaveth no room for doubt that he wrote as a son of the Church, in all confidence of favor. He calleth His Holiness 'Santissimo e Beatissimo Padre!' and the signature of this letter (which it is noted that he wrote with his own hand) was 'Devotus vester Filius, Rex Jacobus Cipri.'"



XIII

"Madre Mia!" he said with deep tenderness, "I think it is not possible to hold the knowledge from her longer. It must be told to-night."

They were in the loggia overlooking the splendid stretch of terraced gardens, now flooded with moonlight; they had been standing there, quite silent, for a long time, each feeling that there was something to be spoken and suffered—each praying to defer the moment.

"Oh, Aluisi—no!"

Her tone was an entreaty: but he only put out his hand and laid it tenderly upon hers: the beautiful, tapering fingers trembled under his touch, then slowly quieted, for there was a rare sympathy between them.

"I have done everything," he continued in a low voice, without looking at her, "but they will not wait—matters of State, they say, to be passed upon—a Queen must give her signature when it is needed."

He came closer, suddenly turning upon her a gaze which compelled her startled comprehension. "They would be quite willing to pass the measure without her signature," he added, in a still lower tone. "It has come to that—we must think of her rights and protect her against her Councillors!"

"She has had so much to bear, poor child—so young—and her heart is broken already with sorrow for her husband. For she had faith in him. And now!—Have they no feeling for her?"

"Madre, carissima, thou knowest not Rizzo; he is the most powerful among them, and the most ill-disposed. 'Let her take the Prince of Naples,' he hath said openly before the Councillors, 'and give us a man to reign over us.'"

"And Janus but two weeks dead!" The Lady Beata gave an involuntary cry of horror. "But Fabrici, the Archbishop?" she asked after a moment, "may he not influence them to be more gentle with her—having a brother in the Council?"

Aluisi shook his head sorrowfully. "Nay, Mother—I know not which is worse. Venice, at his election, would have prevented it, but could not, because he represented this intriguing power of Naples which hath not ceased from effort to have its will of Cyprus, since the betrothal of Caterina—which also it sought to overthrow."

"How knowest thou?"

He laid his finger on his lips—"If we were yet in Venice, I might not answer thee; but here—and it is for me and thee alone—it was I upon whom the Signoria laid the task of drawing up their monitory letter to Janus to hold him to his contract."

"Oh, if thou hadst not done it! I would rather thou hadst not written it!" she said with a low moan.

"Aye—Mother: and I—even then I knew that it must be happier for the child if that contract might be broken. Though if I had dreamed of this I could not have doomed one of our Casa Cornaro to such suffering and dishonor. But thou knowest the pride of Venice: if not my hand, another's would have written it: and I then—we should not have been here to shield her."

"But the Archbishop Fabrici cannot hold malice against Caterina. He hath all the church of Cyprus in his command; he must be friendly to the Queen."

But Aluisi's face gave her no hope, as she turned to him.

"Fabrici, for another cause, holdeth the queen in deep disfavor," he said, "for that he, having been sent by Janus on some embassy of marriage for the child Zarla, came into the Chamber of Counts of the Kingdom—not many days since—and with much grossness of speech would have discussed the matter at length in that presence; which we, of her household—she being in the first grief of her young widowhood—prevented, through members of the Queen's Council, better disposed."

"It was well, Aluisi: it seemeth even now too soon—too cruel—to add this shadow to her grief: and but for thee, she must have known thereof that day. For she seeketh already to take up the burden of the State and questioneth daily of the Secretary of the King of that which passeth in the Council. 'That I may rule my people,' she sayeth sadly, 'and those who loved the King will help me!' With what a tender grace she sayeth 'my people!'"

"Madre mia, thou who lovest her and art so wise—shall I leave this parchment with thee? Thou best canst spare her in what must be told. I have had made this copy of certain clauses of the Will of Janus, which may not longer wait official reading before the Council in the Chamber of the Counts and in presence of the Queen. Thinkest thou not it would be too hard for her to learn first of its provisions before them all?"

"Thou art right, Aluisi—always right. But her faith in him is deep; how shall I make her believe it?"

"I know not," he answered with a groan, and crushing the parchment in his hand. Then he smoothed it out remorsefully and gave it to her. "It is a faithful copy; there is no other argument. Thou wilt go to her now—for it must be."

With bowed head he led her to the door of the Queen's ante-chamber. "I am here," he said, "if need should be."

She still hesitated. "It may be long, for I know not how to tell her."

"Thank Heaven that she hath one like thee to care for her," he answered, gently forcing her through the doorway as he held her hand. "For I do think the Council would willingly have her away."

In the ante-chamber scattered groups of court-ladies in deepest mourning, were talking in low tones. They all rose as the Lady Beata entered: but she, with only an inclination of her head passed on hastily into the inner chamber which was the private boudoir of the Queen.

Caterina was quite alone, lying back on a low couch near an open window, through which the moonlight streamed in long pale rays; while many soft lights of perfumed oils, burning low in lamps of ivory, made only moonlight within the chamber. She held the miniature of Janus pressed against her cheek, and as the Lady Beata came towards her she tried to welcome her with a quivering smile.

"I sent them all away, Zia mia: sometimes it seems less hard to bear when I am quite alone."

The Lady Beata bent over her, stroking her hair caressingly, striving for courage to break the silence.

"Caterina mia," she said at last, "it is needful to give some thought to matters of government—the Council will not wait. Hast thou the strength?"

"I must have strength," she answered with instant resolution, rising and laying aside the miniature with a lingering look. "Wilt thou call Aluisi? He ever maketh me understand. It is so new to me," she pleaded feebly, as the Lady Beata did not move.

"Carina, it will be best alone; Aluisi hath asked me to speak with thee. If—if thou wilt read this parchment"—the Lady Beata held it out to her—"it is the Will of the late King, Aluisi hath bidden me give it thee."

"There is no need," Caterina answered listlessly, as the Lady Beata opened it and put it into her hand, "the provisions have been told me."

But the other persisted. "To-morrow—for the Council say that they will not longer wait; it will be read before the Counts of the Chamber, and they would have the Queen take oath of fealty to Cyprus."

"I shall have the strength when to-morrow cometh," Caterina answered wearily, and making a motion to return the parchment.

"There are other clauses; Aluisi thought it might be better to read them here—alone—before—before——" Her face was blanched and pained, and her words came with difficulty.

The young Queen looked at her in surprise, then, after a moment's indecision, dropped her eyes upon the page and read the short clauses through; then once more—as if she did not understand—then again, a scarlet flush growing as she read.

The parchment contained but three short clauses: King Janus left his kingdom to his wife Caterina, who was to reign, with their child, if there should be one; or alone, if the child should die.

He provided a Council of seven to assist her with the Government:

In case of her death and the death of the child, the kingdom should descend to each of the three other children of Janus, in the order named. The unwedded mother of these children was not mentioned and Caterina had never dreamed of their existence.

She stood trembling—her face slowly paling to a marble whiteness. "Mater Dolorosa!" she gasped, with a moan of pain, instantly repressed.

The Lady Beata put her arm around her to steady her; but Caterina drew herself away, standing upright.

"Call back the Chamberlain!" she cried, imperiously; and stood waiting—panting—until he entered the room.

Then she drew up her slight figure in defiance, her eyes flashing in her white, white face—her voice ringing scorn as she pointed to the document which had dropped from her hand.

"How should I believe this—this baseness of my husband—your King?" she cried. "Who hath dared to fashion it?"

"Beloved Sovereign Lady"—he answered her, and for very pity could say no more.

She turned from one to the other with an impatient, questioning, imperious gesture.

They came nearer—slowly—silently turning upon her such faces of love and sorrow and comprehension that the fire in her eyes died in anguish.

A quiver shot through her, but she struggled to stand, motioning them away again when they would have helped her—she must drink this cup of bitterness alone. "How should I believe it?" she repeated brokenly, still studying their faces.—"How should I believe it—ye are not faithless to him—to me——?"

There was no need to answer her: again they looked their unspeakable compassion.

But as Caterina's eyes rested upon the parchment once more, a sudden hope came to her. "The will of the King was written in his own hand," she cried eagerly. "Thou hast said it, Aluisi; this is not the writing of the king!"

"Nay, beloved Sovereign Lady," the Chamberlain made answer, as he picked it up, and held it before her; "this is but a memorandum made for your Majesty's convenience, but attested under the seal of the kingdom. The original Will is in the keeping of the Lord of the Privy Seals, awaiting your command. It was thought that your Majesty would wish to see it before the Council should be assembled."

She understood and bowed her head in silence, while all hope died out of her face.

Aluisi advisedly used the ceremonious form by which he was accustomed to address the Queen in public, hoping to hint to her of some necessary preparation to control the meeting of the Council that could not, in any event, be long deferred.

They lingered wistfully, seeking vainly for words that might not hurt her; but Caterina looked at them beseechingly, with dim eyes—her lips moving without sound.

The Lady Beata understood.

"I go now to pray the dear Christ for thee—the Man of Sorrows," she said with inexpressible tenderness. "And later—Carinissima—I will come again, and thou wilt rest."

So young—so sorely stricken—she knelt in the cold moonlight alone—her hands clasped in passionate repression on her throbbing heart—"Mater Dei!" she moaned: "Death—and then this!—If but it need not have been told me! If I might but have kept the memory of my happiness!"

Only the stars and the pitying angels looked down on the fierce conflict of grief and love and disillusion with which her desolate young soul wrestled alone through the long, midnight vigil. How should she separate these two beautiful faiths which had been enthroned as one in the happy depths of her guileless heart, without perilling her very trust in God!

Yet, as the sad day dawned over the hills and sea, she knew that God was still in His Heaven, behind the clouds—while she clung as a drowning mariner—the more desperately for her weakness—to the spar of this faith in the wreck of her happiness, though the love to which her whole being had moved in rhythmic content was as a lost star, glimmering uncertainly behind the mists.

But through the desolate night-watches the Lady of the Bernardini in the ante-chamber of the Queen had been agonizing in prayer for her until thought was spent; and now she had moved out upon the loggia and stood there waiting for the dawn that seemed long-deferred, in a half-conscious wonder that there were no sorrows great enough to stay Nature's punctual recurrences—that to-day and to-morrow there would still be dawns and sunsets, whatever happened to the souls of men.

In the silver line that etched the dark mountain crests against the pale monotone of the sky, single firs stood forth saliently, while dim in the distance, vast shapes, clothed in perpetual snows, held wraith-like watch over the smiling plains below, where life and bloom were possible.

Athwart the low, confused twittering of bird-notes which had infused the solemn silence with a vague hint of life, strident sounds grew dominant—a crow calling to his mate from tree to tree—a short, sharp symphony of swallows—a cock announcing the coming of the dawn.

Then motion broke in upon the majesty; hurried rushes of flight across the sky—beatings of wings—pulsings and ecstasies and triumphs of bird-life—and the Day was new.

Faint twitterings in the copses deepened to melody—to canticles of rejoicing; tints of turquoise and opal crept into the shadows and gold into the greens: the night-dews gleamed upon the firs and grasses, while a luminous haze dimmed the dark glint of the waters to pearly gray, softened the grimness of the mountain-faces and wrapped them—sea and mountains, as soul and body in a vision of mystery, a prelude to the blaze of golden glory that was suddenly outpoured on land and sea.

Yet the heavenly splendor was but for a moment; it faded in sudden gloom, as a bell from the inner chamber called the Lady of the Bernardini to attend the Queen.

* * * * *

When at early morning, the Chamberlain was summoned to the Queen's presence, the change in her beautiful face smote him to the heart: every line had been chiselled by pain—ennobled by a high resolve—by a strong new-born will, rendered selfless; and in her eyes a soul—tried by fire and suddenly grown to a great height—looked forth, luminous.

Instinctively, he dropped his eyes and fell upon his knees, as if in the presence of some heavenly spirit, his hot tears falling upon the fragile hand she held out to him, which he clasped, unconsciously, in both his own, with a grasp so like a vise that it would have smitten her with sharp pain had she been capable at that moment of any physical emotion.

"Beloved Cousin and Queen!" he cried, when he could find his voice, "we love and revere you; we would give our lives to help you!"

She made an effort to speak, but no words came; she could only bow her head to accept his homage, while his asseverations of loyalty and love and impotent help came crowding upon his first utterance—the immoderate outpouring of a deep, knightly soul, unused to confess itself—the barriers of reserve once overcome by the stinging sense of the irreparable wrong of which the revelation to this guileless, confiding girlish nature had suddenly wrenched every memory that once had been happiness, out of her young life—yet, in the very immensity of her anguish, had searched to the inmost truth of her woman's fibre and, in the fierce unfolding, had found it wholly noble.

As he knelt, still protesting, yet out of his great reverence, using no word to wound her—the more compassionate because he might not denounce the one who had wronged her—it was as if he were looking up to a beloved daughter, immeasurably above him, who yet had need of his knightly protection. He did not know that he was speaking—he did not know what passed—only that deep in his soul he prayed to comfort her.

Slowly, with expression, the hot passion melted into a softer mood; his grasp relaxed and she withdrew her hand, seamed and marred with red lines where he had unconsciously tortured it; yet in her misery she was grateful to be reached across the awful gulf of loneliness that separated her from the world by a sense that such loyalty yet remained to her.

She laid her hand lightly on his head, the fingers moving for a moment—half in caress—half in benediction, while he felt her almost imperceptible gesture dismissing this unusual audience where soul had faced soul on the brink of a great catastrophe; and he rose to meet the strange, luminous, unsmiling gaze of the great dark eyes which yesterday had been almost the eyes of a child.

She pointed to the loggia, where the morning breeze came freshly laden with the fragrance of myriad blossoms that were just opening to the gladness of the sunrise—a sunrise over the beautiful, fabled slopes of Cyprus—while shadows still lay on the flower-gemmed plains that stretched between them and the sea. Ah, yes, the cool, blue, restless sea stretched far between her island realm and the proud Venetian home from whence she had sailed a happy girl—one little year before—to meet her radiant visions of the future; and now, in all the splendor of the morning, for her the light of life had died forever on the hills of hope.

It was to this loggia that Janus had first led her when he brought her to this summer palace of Potamia, that she might see what a vision of beauty he had prepared for his bride—the far-reaching terraced gardens with their brilliancy of exotics, rivalling the plumage of the peacocks that proudly flaunted their jewelled eyes among them—the pergolas of precious marbles from which the vines flung out a wealth of bloom, luring the birds to a perpetual feast of song; and behind them, spreading up to the deep groves of varied greens upon the hillsides, the snow of countless blossoms lay whiter than the wings of the swans, floating at leisure in silver pools among the beds of color. It was here that Janus had spoken words she had dreamed eternally and sacredly her own: Mother of Consolation, she must remember them no more!

She had not thought of this when the sense of suffocation had impelled her to seek the air, to rush where it might blow over her and through her, lift her hair about her throbbing temples and help her to forget. Oh God—Omnipotent and Merciful—can one never forget!

A sob broke in her throat, but she made no sound, as she turned to re-enter her audience-chamber—the sumptuous audience-chamber where she might feel herself less a woman and more a queen.

But Aluisi, obeying her slight motion, had already passed between the marble columns of the portico, out into the sunshine, and stood confronting her—her friend, her cousin, and a Councillor of her realm.

The thought gave her courage, and after a moment's struggle, she grew calm again, listening gravely to the question of State he had wished to open to her before it should be discussed in full Council.

He spoke at first with averted gaze, feigning to be attracted by the beauty of the morning, that he might give her time to recover herself: but as he turned his face to hers for her reply, she put the matter aside with an imperious gesture.

"To-day, Aluisi, I have graver matter to command my thought: the Council shall wait until I give orders for its assembling—thou, meanwhile, using all courtesy in its delay and the enforcement of—of my command—the Queen's command—so only that it be enforced. These methods are new to me," she added, with a sudden softened appeal in her tone; "thou wilt know the way to compass it—for my sake—for it must be done."

"It shall be done," he assented uncompromisingly; but in surprise, knowing only too well the imperious methods of the Council appointed to assist her in her government and the temper of the men who composed that body—for Janus had not been great in his knowledge of men; and possibly the only one of the seven who had been strictly devoted to the King, had died shortly after his appointment, and the place had been filled with one less favorable to the present rule of Cyprus. Fabrici was known to be in sympathy with Naples; Rizzo, Chief of Council, strong, domineering, unscrupulous, was perhaps the creature of Ferdinand, King of Naples. "It shall be done," he said again, having vowed to help her.

"For, until I have had speech with the holiest man among the priests that may be found in all this kingdom of Cyprus," she said with a decision that amazed him, "I will treat of no matter of State, however urgent. Nay, Aluisi—my cousin"—as she noted his start of surprise—"to thee alone—who must be my counsellor in days of desolation—pray Heaven more dark than thou shalt ever dream of—I will confide that out of this night of vigil hath come this resolution which I dare not break. Seek thou the man."

He had already turned to fulfil her quest which might be long in the doing—and these impatient Councillors would be hard to hold; yet he had no thought of parleying with this girl-queen, so suddenly grown to a full stature.

But her voice, even and low, arrested him. "He must be Greek in birth," she said, "and of the Greek Church, which my people love. But above all—he must be a man to trust."

He turned when he had crossed the great audience-chamber, under the entrance colonnade of huge porphyry columns, wrought with barbaric symbols of earlier dynasties and guarded by colossal Assyrian bulls—she seemed so young and tender to leave, even for a day, in those surroundings unguarded, at the mercy of that Council of Seven whom he had reason to distrust—in her kingdom seamed with dissensions of which she had, as yet, small comprehension; of which, perhaps, she did not even dream—with her shattered happiness behind her and loneliness before, and this great responsibility pressing its leaden weight upon her fair young head.

He longed to throw her a last reassuring glance—to leave with her the absolute faith that with every power of his being he would uphold and steady her in the rough and desolate way.

For since he came from Venice he had not ceased his vigilant study of the complications of Cyprus, that when her need came he might be ready.

He never forgot the vision of the girl-queen in her sweeping widow's robes, across the great space between them, in the sunshine of the loggia—her hand extended as if to hasten or to bless him—a wonderful, unearthly light and strength in her face; and, for one moment as she met his gaze and understood the full depth of his devotion, the ghost of a smile—as if it had been granted him to bring her in this hour of martyrdom one little ray of human comfort.



XIV

Hagios Johannes, the holiest man in Cyprus, stood waiting in the vast, empty presence-chamber of the young Queen; for, since the sudden death of Janus, there had been no court-life in this palace of Potamia, and the gloom hung most heavily over the more sumptuous halls of ceremony.

Hagios Johannes—the holy John—they called this prior of the House of Priests from Troodos—the Mountain of the Holy Cross—after the name of the earlier Saint who had made the spot famous for the holiness of his living, for his boundless charity and the wisdom of his judgments, so that the people had gone to him in ceaseless procession with their sins and woes in the days of primitive Christianity in Cyprus, and had returned to their peasant homes the stronger to endure and to renounce. Johannes the Lesser, this one called himself—being truly great and devout of heart, so that his vision was wise and true as that of Hagios Johannes the Greater.

A curtain at the further end of the audience-chamber parted to admit a stately figure in mourning-robes, as the Lady Beata of the Bernardini advanced to meet him, bringing the message that the Queen would receive him in an inner cabinet.

"She is very worn and tired, most Reverend Father, and in years so near to childhood that the nobility and strength of her resolve are marvellous. And the comfort that she seeketh of thee she doth most sorely need."

The eyes of this strong and faithful friend gleamed with unshed tears as she turned them upon the prior, in tender appeal.

But to Hagios Johannes all courts were strange; the life of his mountain overflowed with possibilities of ministration which busied all his powers, and it was the first time that he had ever entered any of the palaces of the luxurious Kings of Cyprus—of which, perhaps, this summer palace of Potamia was the most sumptuous. The long corridors of precious marbles, with intricate carvings and gleamings of gold and mosaic displeased him, though he had no knowledge of their worth or beauty; but he stood aghast at the magnificence of the audience-chamber, and the huge Assyrian bulls which guarded the entrance gave a hint of pagan power and oppression which instantly angered him.

The appeal of the gracious Lady Beata but roused his indignation.

He was a stern, wild figure with his flowing beard, his long hair falling straight and unkempt about his brown throat; and his sombre monk's garment was wrought on breast and shoulders with a salient cross of natural thorns—the symbol of those monks of Troodos—the Mountain of the Holy Cross; and the Lady Beata trembled for the interview that was to be, as he answered her rudely:

"The dwellers in palaces of ivory have naught to do with wild men of the mountains who live close to nature and care only for suffering humanity. I have Christ's work to do; let others bring her rose-leaves and honeyed words."

She laid a gentle, detaining hand upon him as he thrust aside the curtain of the inner chamber.

"Most Reverend Father, are not the words of our Lord and Saviour, as well for those who suffer in palaces, as for the wanderers and poor upon the earth?

"Are not the wounds of the spirit as deep in anguish as those of the physical man?

"May not the burdens of rulers be greater than those of the ruled?—Have compassion upon our Queen!"

"Christ knoweth not kings," he answered her, as he shook off her light touch—"save only those who bow to Him: and the mighty among men—aye—even he who calleth himself His Vicar upon earth—are puffed up with pride and know in their hearts no virtue in this—His sacred symbol." He pressed his rough hand hard against the thorns upon his breast as he spoke. "Hath not he—this false and sumptuous Vicar—but now asserted that we, of the Holy Greek Church have no part in the Communion of the Holy Catholic Church on earth? Did Christ call the Latins only?" he ended fiercely.

It was a grievance that rankled; and Hagios Johannes had not learned the gracious art of self-control, being accustomed to feel that whatever he thought or wished was good—his hatred as well as that which appealed to him—since he honestly sought nothing for himself, despising riches and station from the depths of his soul, with an open scorn for the great ones of earth and an imperious assertion of his own methods and judgments which he would have denounced in any earthly ruler, however wise. He never dreamed himself an autocrat over that continuous stream of pilgrims who made their way into the House of Priests on Troodos: they were chiefly peasants, rude in ways and understanding, whose accustomedness to absolute methods and short words made their obedience the swifter; and the few more learned ones who came to consult him knew that in his heart he was faithful and seldom treasured the offense against him—though they may have decried his wisdom. But these came more rarely as his absolutism grew upon him, and the prophet of the mountains came down to the cities of the plains only to see the luxury of them—the sin and godliness of them, and to denounce them, in unmeasured words.

Within his soul, although he did not confess it to himself, the generations of men were separated by a wide impassable gulf—the rich and ruling class, the godless, on one side; the poor, the suffering and lowly—the to-be-saved,—on the other, and none ever passed across the deep abyss. He would have challenged any man who counted him, Father Johannes, in his hempen garment studded with thorns, among the rulers of men!

The youthful Queen, weary and worn indeed from the perplexities and struggle of the two long nights and days that had elapsed since she had sent her Councillor on his quest of "the holiest man in Cyprus," rose from her couch as the prior entered and advanced to meet him with a gracious reverence.

But he, unconscious of any rudeness, spoke at once, without turning his eyes upon her, and offering no homage.

"I am a plain man from the Mountain of the Holy Cross, your Majesty; I know naught of the ways of Courts. The matter should be great that calleth me from my work. Let it be presented, that I may be dismissed."

She was almost too weak to stand, and the rebuff smote her to the quick; her lip trembled slightly, but she only stretched out her hand to her beloved friend, drawing her close and leaning lightly upon her shoulder, that she might feel the support of loving companionship in her great need.

Father Johannes had been vaguely conscious of some movement in the chamber and involuntarily he turned towards this royal lady whom, as yet, he had never seen, but whose urgent summons had roused his indignation.

She looked so young and fair and simple in her heavy folds of mourning—so worn from vigil, with the lines of anguish and of a strange strength written in her white girl-face—that she might have been the vision of some youthful saint, wearing the rough cross of Troodos upon her breast, beneath her robe: and for a moment, the holy man was startled—did such heavenly visions, in truth, visit the palaces of the great?

There was a moment of stillness in which his wonder grew.

The breeze blew faintly in through the great arched openings, behind which rose the mountain chain that led to his own Troodos; there were the groves of pine, darkly green, below the hills, with their deep solitudes for prayer and meditation between the vast gnarled trunks; and the group of the two noble women before him—severely simple—was a vision of love and womanly grace and spiritual need; the younger one, all pleading and pain, clinging to the elder who closely enfolded her, her face strong in the strength of love. It was not like any life that he had ever seen—this holy man, whose personal life had been solitary and whose knowledge of human love, as it is known in happy homes, had died long years ago with the passing of the mother who had borne him in her heart. It might be that he needed such a vision to redeem his spirit from the harshness which sin and pride in high places, and want and crime and poverty of spirit among ignoble ones, had made him grow to think the whole of life!

He was very weary and his vision was not clear; for the previous day had been a solemn fast, and he had walked far and long since the early morning, that he might be the less delayed. He felt like kneeling where he stood—if perchance it should be a vision!—But he only bowed his head and waited—and his weakness passed.

The younger one—the maiden with that strange mystery of pain and strength in her white face, was coming towards him.

"Father," she said, "hath none offered thee refreshment? Thou must indeed be weary, for the way is long. Zia, let us be served here—in sight of the great forest that will seem like home to our good Padre."

"Nay, nay," he interposed quickly, with an effort to shake off this incomprehensible spell and return to his wonted mood of protest, "for I have never banqueted in the palace of a Queen—your Majesty."

"Let it be brought," Caterina said, turning to the Lady Beata, "a simple meal; for I myself have need, having tasted nothing since the long vigil of the night—being too sore from my great perplexity." For she divined that she must be alone with the prior to melt his mood, which grieved her; but she had not the less faith in his judgment for his hatred of royalty, and at all costs she had the grace to crave for truth in the questions she would ask of him.

"My Father," she said with winning gentleness when they were alone, "we will speak together as father and daughter—it will be better so, for I was not born to Majesty, and I have sent to ask of thee thy counsel, for life is difficult. And for my hospitality—is it not offered to the pilgrim in thy House of Priests of the Troodista? Hath not our Lord Himself commanded the giving of the cup of water?"

He was startled at her learning: surely it was rare that women out of holy orders had such knowledge of Christian traditions. He looked at her reverently, still wondering, and would have spoken to excuse his rough speech, but that he knew not how to frame a thought so strange and new.

She motioned him to a seat where a table had been spread under the deep arches that looked toward the forest. There were wines and fruits in tempting chalices of rainbow glass and low baskets of ivory and chiselled silver, cooling with snow from the mountain; figs from Lefcara; caistas, golden and delicious, emitting a fragrance of glorified nectarine that rivalled the perfume of the wine itself; pomegranates—the gift of a goddess to the thirsty Cyprian land, planted, as was well known, by the royal hand of Aphrodite herself, each fruit holding a fair refreshment for a torrid Cyprian day in its sparkling, semilucent, ruby pulp: ortolans from the sea-coast, steeped in wine.

The table was a slab of oriental alabaster, polished like a jewel, upheld by griffins with outthrust tongues curiously contorted and entwined. But beyond the silken curtains of the palace-windows the forest and the hills, with a wandering breath of coolness from the mountain-breeze, drew and welcomed him, with some faint, new perception of the oneness of God's earth.

She had banished with a glance the maiden who stood waiting with her lute to give the customary accompaniment to the meal, and they were quite alone.

He crumbled his bread and swallowed his wine like a hungry man, drawing the wild, purple figs nearer, unconscious of the dainties which she did not press upon him, while he tasted the familiar food—the food which his Lord Christ had blessed to man's uses. So, also, the luxury of the service passed unnoticed, as he fixed his eyes on the distant darks of his own forest, with the "Troodista" rising on a peak far, far away—that haven of distressed souls to whom he was a father of consolation. Her fingers toyed with the fruit that lay untasted before her, while the difficulty of speech struggled within her. Yet he felt, subtly, as he kept his eyes upon the hills, that he was in sight of the shadow of a soul in pain, and he waited—for once, oblivious of the distance between a palace and a convent.

"Thou art born a Greek, my Father?" she questioned. "Thou art a priest of the Greek Church—which my people love?"

The commanding habit of a lifetime was strong upon him and again his resentment rose to quench the softer mood which was possessing him, and of which he was afraid.

"I knew not that I had been summoned from my work for Christ to answer of myself," he said sternly. "If thou hast need of counsel, tell it quickly."

Again her lip quivered at the hurt, but she put it aside bravely, as she rose and moved backward for a pace further into the shadow. "I ask it for my people's sake—I being their Queen," she said, "and knowing that my people are rather Greek in feeling, I would do naught to hurt them."

How tenderly the words "my people" fell from the lips of this young, Venetian woman, who seemed almost a child—had their imperious Grecian Queen, Elena Paleologue ever so uttered them? Had she not named a boy to the highest See in the gift of their church—with no thought of fitness—but solely that he might be put aside lest he come between her and her greed of domination? Had she not plotted murder and whatever else might lie between her and the accomplishment of her will? His heart melted within him, and he rose and followed Caterina into the chamber.

"The most Holy Father of Rome hath of late been prejudiced against the King—my husband—and I sought for one who might give me counsel, unprejudiced."

If she had been a wily diplomat she could not better have wielded the prior's mood than by this unconscious utterance.

"So help me God, I will strive to help thee in counsel," he answered fervently. "But are there not men, set apart as Councillors for the realm, to aid one so young in the ruling of her kingdom?"

"Aye, Father," she admitted sadly, "but it is to steady mine own judgment to judge of theirs—that I have sent for thee. The question is not for Court Councillors, but for one who hath no part nor lot in this matter—who is often in meditation on holy matters, and hath won wisdom."

He made a motion of deprecation, but she went on speaking in her clear, even voice, still questioning: "Thou knowest well the history of the kings of Lusignan?"

He bowed his head in assent.

"And the history of the life of the King—my husband?" She dwelt on the word with inexpressible tenderness—the slight pause that followed it was like unuttered music.

Did she know? Was it possible that she knew? he asked himself.

But the question came again.

"And the provisions of his will—for myself and for—for others?" A wave of color had flushed her cheek and brow.

He looked at her searchingly, seeking for words that might best comfort. "I know them," he said, "the provisions of the will having been told me by your Majesty's messenger: and I, being a Greek, and the friend of the people, that which toucheth them, toucheth me. My daughter, the sins of the race descend from father to son, and are in the blood; and there hath been no loving care of holy women about his childhood—which should be remembered and win forgiveness."

"It is no question of forgiveness," she answered proudly, "of which I would speak with thee—that lieth between our Holy Mother in Heaven and the souls of those who suffer." She seemed to dismiss the subject with an imperious wave of her slight hand. "It is a question of human judgment in which that of a holy man may avail, but in which this knowledge is necessary—else had it not been spoken of."

She paused for a moment to gather strength, while the old man watched her in growing wonder—so young—so wronged—so tender—so brave—so strong to endure!

Hagios Johannes the elder had been known through the long years of his canonization as Lampadisti, the illumined: and as the prior listened, he prayed with fervor that the wisdom of his sainted predecessor might descend upon his soul.

"My Father," she resumed with a great effort, "I knew not of this history of the last of our Kings of Cyprus, until my marriage had been made.... I knew not of any right of Carlotta, being own daughter to the King, the father of my husband"—again that tremulous pause of unuttered music—"to contest the crown with him, until I learned it in Cyprus, these few weeks past."

Her head drooped lower, but she went on resolutely. "I knew not, until I came to Cyprus—for they who knew and should have told me, held the knowledge from me—that any might question the right of Janus—my husband—to this kingdom of Cyprus—he being only son to the King. For I knew not that his mother was not the Queen, until I came hither."

She paused again to gather strength, lifting her guileless great eyes to his, in agonized appeal, while he watched her dumbly.

"And now, my Father," she said, throwing back her head with sudden vigor, and with the dignity of a great resolve, "this is my question, which hath come to me in the watches of the night and will not be denied, and for which I have summoned thee. I—being wife to Janus, who hath been crowned King of this people—and I, with him, crowned Queen; and by his will left Queen of Cyprus—with Council, appointed by him, to help me rule; shall I, a Christian woman—a Venetian and not a Cyprian—his widow—hold this kingdom against Carlotta, who is daughter to the King, the father of my husband—and to the rightful Queen, Elena—his father's lawful wife?"