He was dumbfounded and could not answer her at once; but while he sought for words he bowed his head in mute reverence.

"My daughter," he said at length, "hath this question been put to thee by any men of Cyprus?"

"Nay, Father; but it hath come to me in these sad nights, because I fain would do the right—that which is well for my people: and life is very difficult."

"My people," again, uttered with the accent of a mother who folds her child to her heart—it was a revelation; but he must probe more deeply before he could answer her.

"And this palace—and all the palaces of this estate?" he asked slowly, as if he could not comprehend her. "Thou wouldst renounce this splendor when none hath asked it of thee?"

"I would even bear the weight of it, if it be right," she said, "though rest were sweeter."

"Thou wouldst be free, perchance, to seek thy home in Venice?"

"Nay, nay!" she exclaimed, shrinking from him—"never Venice again—since she hath sent me hither, knowing all, and told me not. I cannot go back to Venice!"

He pondered gravely.

"Then what is thy will, my daughter?"

"To do the right!" she cried vehemently; "out of my own great sorrow to expiate the wrong! May it not be, my Father, if I shrink not from the right at any cost?"

"I will consider," he said, "since thy will is strong for this sacrifice."

"Sacrifice!" she cried, in her amazement breaking all reserve. "Oh, Father! To call this 'sacrifice,' when the very light of life is gone from me! He was so beautiful and gracious—with such a light in his eyes—and I thought—oh, I thought we were so happy! And now—oh, God, it breaks my heart—I loved him!"

"Daughter——"

"May not the suffering of one atone for another's sin?" she questioned feverishly.

"Nay—leave that thought, it is too heavy for thee: and not revealed to men, that they may declare it."

"Pray for him, Father! Thou wilt pray for him—thou and all those who come to thee. There will be many, many prayers and God will hear. For his people loved him—none could stay from loving him, he was so winsome. Mother of Mercies, thou wilt take my anguish for his atonement!—Oh I suffer!"

The words came in a low moan, wrung from her unaware. Father Johannes caught the small hands which she had flung out before her clenched, in her passionate struggle for control, and with faltering motions of unaccustomed gentleness, he soothed her until she had grown quieter and he could unclasp them. Then he spoke strange words, out of a great compassion:

"Christ knoweth; for He is Love—and He will save!"

"There is more," she gasped with her spent voice—"but I dare not name it—the thought of it is torture. But it is not true; Madonna mia! it is not true!"

The strong man could bear no more; he groaned in spirit and ground his hands against his breast—his lip curling with scorn at the pain of his own torn flesh. "Tell it!" he commanded; "it cannot be true."

She looked at him, hope dawning in her stricken face. "The words they speak—they who are his enemies—that he had forsworn his faith: it is not true."

"It is the very machination of the Evil One!" he thundered. "I know the slander and the man who fathered it, for spite. And may Heaven forgive its maker—for he hath need—standing high in the holy place of Earth. I know it is not true!"

He looked his faith into her eyes until he had banished her terror, and she put out her wan hand, grateful, for his assurance.

Then he turned from her abruptly and wandered away to weigh her question, looking into the depths of the great forest while he pondered and prayed to be enlightened. He must have sight of his own solitudes if he would keep his judgment free, and though she called to him, timidly, thinking he had forgotten her, he made no answer, being not yet ready. Surely, it could not be God's will that so fine a spirit should resign her claim to their uneasy crown!

It was long before he returned to her side, for the shadows were lengthening and a crimson light flamed in the West.

"Daughter," he said with deep solemnity, "it hath come to me with full light in answer to thy question, that thou, being crowned Queen and consecrated in the Duomo of Nikosia, together with King Janus, thy husband—whom this people loved—and decreed by him to hold this realm, which—for the first time in many years, and by his hand, is now united under one sovereign, that thy duty biddeth thee hold and rule it against all other claimants—were it even Carlotta who hath once been called its Queen.

"Rule thou this people with the fear of Heaven in thy true heart—so God shall make thee wise!"

She came slowly, as to a heavy task, and knelt before him, with clasped hands, kissing the crucifix which he held out to her; the red light streamed through the arches with a fierce illumination.

"Father—and Janus!" she cried—"hear my vow!

"To do for my people as Heaven and the Madonna shall teach me: to bear them in my heart and seek their happiness; to live for them alone! And if harm hath been—oh God, if harm hath been done—to nerve me to the more strenuous duty, that wrong may be forgiven!"



XV

It was a moonless night in June, with lowering clouds and a threat of distant thunder echoing from the far mountains.

A crowd was gathering, low-voiced and eager, in the Piazza San Nicolo: a crowd chiefly of the people, and the faces and costumes of many races came out grotesquely under the spasmodic glare of the torches which flared about the standard of Cyprus, in the centre of the square—the standard was tied with mourning and wreathed with cypress. There were many women—here and there a peasant with a child slumbering in her arms, or clinging sleepily to the tawny silk scarf woven under her own mulberry trees. Here and there, with the fitful motion of the wind, the light touched the fair hair of a chance peasant from the province of La Kythrea into gleams of gold that a Venetian patrician might envy, or brought into sudden relief the smothered passion of some beautiful, dark Greek face. But the women were chiefly of the lower Cypriote peasant-type, heavy-featured and unemotional. There was a sprinkling of monkish cowls and of the red fez from the Turkish village of Afdimou which lay in seeming friendliness of relation close to the village of Ormodos, whose population was wholly Greek.

In front of the long facade of the palace of Famagosta a cordon of soldiers stood motionless, while before them the mounted guard paced slowly to and fro; and across the Piazza, with that impatient, surging crowd between, was faintly heard the steady footfall of the sentinels, measuring and remeasuring with unemotional precision their narrow beat before the entrance to the world-famed fortress of Famagosta.

A group of nobles in eager, low-voiced converse crossed the square, pressed through the cordon of soldiers and gave the password and the great door was opened to admit them and closed again.

Two burghers picked out a face among them, as the torches of their escorts flared.

"That was Marin Rizzo, Counsellor to the Queen; a man of power—unscrupulous."

"And more a friend—I have heard it whispered in Nikosia—to Naples than to Cyprus."

"Hast evidence for thy speech?" the other questioned eagerly in a lower tone.

"It is for that we must watch; the time is threatening."

"But Messer Andrea Cornaro was with him: he will know how to guard the interests of the Queen, having been so great a favorite with our Janus, and one for management, despite his courtly ways! Without our Messer Andrea, his niece had never been our Queen."

"Nay—nor if His Holiness had had his will. I had the tale from a source to trust, though the story was kept hushed. It would take one like our Janus, with his royal ways, to scorn the flattering offers of His Holiness! There were also threats!"

"Nay; threats would never move him, except to see the comedy thereof and make his mood the pleasanter! But I had not dreamed him saint enough for the Holy Father to sue to him for an alliance."

"Ah, friend, the ways of those above us be strange! But it was for this, I take it, that His Holiness—who hath a temper most uncommon earthly—sent none to represent him at the Coronation of the King."

The other shrugged his shoulders. "It lacked for naught in splendor; it was a day for Cyprus and for Nikosia."

"Vanitas Vanitatum," droned a friar of the Latin Church who had been standing near enough to catch echoes of their speech.

Both men glanced towards him and instinctively moved away.

"Aye; little it matters now—coronation honors or splendors for him! But he had a way with him!"

"And he was one for daring!"

They crossed themselves and lapsed into silence, as their eyes sought the banners drooping, shrouded, before the palace-gates, near the statue of their dead King—a very Apollo for beauty—the pedestal heaped high with withered tokens of loyalty and mourning.

But the mass of the waiting crowd were silent, scarcely exchanging a whispered confidence;—so still that the long, low boom of the surf upon the shore reached them distinctly, like a responsive heart-throb. They could hear the storm-waves outside the port dashing wildly against the rock-bound coast, with fierce suggestions of strife. But they knew that within their sheltered harbor their waiting galleys rode at anchor, ready to sail at a moment's notice—for Venice, for Rome, for Egypt—though the flags they bore were still at half-mast, with their King but a month dead.

There was a sense of suppressed excitement in the hush of the throng; almost, one might have said, an atmosphere of prayer. For the great bell of San Nicolo—the bell with that wonderful voice of melody—was ringing softly, as for vespers; continuously, as if the people had not answered to the call. Yet many a low-voiced "Ave" responded to the chime as now and again some toil-worn hand lifted the rosary that hung from a girdle, or clasped a rude cross closer.

Restless under the chiming, some simple mother who had fought for her place in the crowd before the palace, deep in her heart besought the blessed Madonna to forgive her because she would not yield it to kneel at the altar in the Duomo; while leaning over the little one slumbering on her breast, she kissed it with a meaning holy as prayer, and did not dream that the angels were watching.

The only steady light in all the square was the soft gleam, as of moonlight, streaming through the windows of the Duomo out into the mist, and here and there among the crowd some face turned towards it and was heartened.

For back of the splendid marble columns of the peristyle, when the light from some torch flashed suddenly upon their polished surfaces, the long lines of palace-windows lay dark; and it was growing late.

"They say that the holy sisters keep vigil this night in the Convent of the Blessed Santa Croce," murmured a woman's voice.

"Aye," another answered her reverently, "for the love of Santa Elena and the Holy Relic, they will bless our beautiful Lady!"

The theme unsealed their peasant tongues, for this relic brought from the East by the Mother of Constantine, was the glory of Cyprus, and their speech flowed more freely.

"The most Reverend our Archbishop should send for that Santa Croce in procession, to bring it hither—for truly it can do anything!" another woman cried eagerly. She crossed herself and bowed devoutly as she spoke. "For all the world knoweth that once, when it had been lost and the good pater would prove if he had really found it, he held it in the heart of the fire until it glowed like the very flame itself. But when he drew it forth, it was burned not at all—Santissima Vergine!—but wood as before—being too holy to burn. A miracle! And then——"

"I also know the miracle about Queen Alixe," another woman interposed, eager to show her knowledge of the marvel of the Relic, "for my sister dwelleth by the gate of the Convent of the Troodos, and she hath much learning of the most blessed Relic;—how that Queen Alixe laid the bit on her tongue—she who could never speak fairly—more like a blockhead of a stammering peasant than a Royal lady—may Heaven forgive me! And how for ever after, her speech flowed freely, so that all might understand her. It must be good to be in Cyprus."

"Holy Mother! but it should be lonely in the great palace," a young peasant-mother confided to her nearest neighbor, as she shifted the baby to her other arm and arranged her wrappings tenderly, with hands that looked too rough for such loving ministration. She was thinking of her Gioan who would be waiting for her with a gruff greeting when she returned, but who was good to her, if he often scolded when the porridge was burned. But men were that way about women's work, and never knew that an angel would forget when the baby cried. "But she was growing heavy, blessed be the Madonna! Why wasn't there a light?—It would be good if one might sleep!"

A mounted messenger came out from the fort and dashed across the square; the crowd holding breath, parting silently before him, but surging tumultuously back, to wait—though they were very weary and the shifting clouds were dropping rain. But there were yet no lights in the palace windows.

It was growing darker and the wind was rising; a quick flurry of drops extinguished some of the torches, and in the greater gloom the voice of the wind wailed like an evil omen. But still the women would not go—waiting for that sign of the light in the palace windows.

Only they pressed closer to each other and crossed themselves in terror, with smothered ejaculations and adjurations, shuddering from the superstitions that enthralled their simple natures; for at this season, in Cyprus rain was most unwonted, surely a sign of Heaven's displeasure! Still they waited in the darkness of the night, with shivering hearts, with the wind growling like angry fiends out beyond the harbor and down from the environing hills—upheld to this costly tribute of devotion by the dumb, dog-like loyalty which their beautiful young Queen had roused within them, by a smile on her wedding-day and the sorrow that had quenched it.

"It is good, va, to see the light in the Duomo! There is many a good candle burning for her at the shrine of Our Lady of Mercy, this night."

"An' there were none for ourselves, we should find one for her!"

"Not a woman of our casal but held a candle in her hand as we came in at the gate of the city; for the silkworms have given us silk and enough to spin this year; and if they had not, we would not grudge it to her. For she hath a smile like an angel. May our Holy Mother bless her for them both."

"And beautiful—beautiful so that it warms the heart! Dost thou remember the day when she came out of the Duomo, beautiful as the Madonna herself—may our Blessed Lady in Heaven forgive me!—with a necklace and a crown flashing fire, that our Holy Mother of Jesus might wear on the Feast of the Annunciation?—and the smile on her face?—and the King beside her——? Ah, but it was a wedding—Holy Saints!—and they ought to be happy—the great ones!"

"Hush then!—But surely 'tis a sin that they left the mourning upon the banner to-night, one should have more respect! If I could get into the Duomo for a drop of Holy water—Sancta Maria!"

But the crowd had swelled to hopeless density, and both women threw out their hands with the magical gesture that never failed to exorcise the evil spirits brought near by such an omen. Then they touched each other reassuringly, and crossed themselves and were silent again.

For a beautiful Greek, not of their own class, stepped out from her group of attendants, and knelt on the pavement, stretching out her hands towards the dark palace with a prayer—they could hear her murmuring,—"For her sake—for the sake of the innocent one who hath been wronged—Holy Mother of Angels, grant us one of her blood to rule this land!"

Her heavy veil of mourning fell aside as she hastily rose and joined her attendants, disappearing in the crowd.

"Madama da Patras! Could it be Madama da Patras, mother to the King, kneeling on the pavement in the night!"

"Her heart is broken with grief, and she thought not to be seen, poor lady."

Two nobles were wending their way with difficulty across the Piazza, they lingered a moment, arrested by the words of the prayer.

"This night may make the difference between anarchy and peace for Cyprus," one of them said to his companion, as they resumed their struggle.

"Aye—Cyprus for the Cypriotes,—instead of Genoa, or Venice, or Naples."

"Or Queen Carlotta?"

"Maledetto!—Who spoke?"

But the challenge was unanswered. The noble who had dared to name aloud the daughter of their last Queen—the sister of their late King—had been lost in the darkness before the trusty guard, sent from Venice, could make sure of him.

"The fellow should be thrust through for his insolence. A Cyprian master is good enough for Cyprus," they confided to each other, as they made pause again, emerging from the crowd at the other end of the piazza, before the gate of the fortress.

"What matters it?" his comrade answered him nonchalantly, "for canst thou tell me the color of a Cypriote now? and his native tongue may be liker that of Spain or Venice than of France or Greece. My Lord of Piscopia hath the color of Venice."

"But of the very household of our Queen:—speak soft! Our Queen?—Perchance this night may be her undoing—how runs King Giacomo's will? Yea, for the matter of the fiefs, she hath been royal with her gifts—a matter not so lordly when confiscation cometh thus easily."

"But she hath a royal way with her, as of one born to the throne, and for that matter it were not strange for one of the house of Cornelii—they held their heads proudly enough in Venice, I am told; and her mother was of the blood of a Comnenus—more royal than a Lusignan, if not so well tempered."

"Aye; she is well enough."

"And she hath a grace that hath verily won the people; never was there such a crowd in the time of any other Queen. See how they throng before her gates to-night—poor simple souls—conquered by a smile that costeth naught."

"Nay; it is not strange; for the people entered little into the thought of Queen Carlotta, or Queen Elena. There is no harm in her; she is a good child, and beautiful enough to be a saint; with too little understanding of the ways of our court: too great a saint for Janus—by every blessed saint of Cyprus! But I had rather she had more earthliness and wile than be the pawn of Venice. A Cyprian for the Cypriotes! Our Janus were better;—a Lusignan—not too much a saint—not a child nor a woman neither—but masterful: less the pawn of Venice."

"As well of Venice with her fleets and commerce, as of Naples—if it be not a Cyprian. How sayest thou? And it was King Janus himself who gave Pelendria—that most royal and bountiful fief of a prince of Lusignan—into the hands of that parvenu of Naples, Rizzo! The King verily guessed not his quality when he named him to such estate! He would outrule monarchs."

"Pace!"

Close to them, in the crowd, they heard the sound of a soldier's lance rasping the pavement as he stood at rest. One not far off seemed to answer his signal.

The storm was growing fiercer; the sullen mutterings of the wind broke into a shriek, with a terrible downpour of rain; but the rushing crowd was stayed by a cry of joy that rose above the tumult—a cry of love from the heart of the people—

"Mater Beatissima! A light in the palace window!"

A candle flamed in a dark window—two—more—a light in every casement!

The gates of the palace were thrown wide and a splendid mounted corps rode forth amidst a flare of torches—white plumes of rejoicing waving from their casques—white banners raised high on the points of their lances—while the herald, in full armor with vizor up, bore proudly before the people the silken banner with the arms of Cyprus blazoned upon it—the white, royal banner of a Prince of Galilee.

The waiting people went wild with joy, for the bells of all the churches of Famagosta were pealing a jubilee, and the night rang with shouts of homage for the Prince of Galilee, the heir to the crown of Cyprus:

For an infant prince had just opened his unconscious eyes upon his troubled earthly heritage.



XVI

White banners of rejoicing floated from every stronghold and palace throughout Cyprus, to publish the birth of the infant prince; but a hush had lain for many days over the city of Famagosta.

In the Cathedral of San Nicolo, the Archbishop of Nikosia, primate of all Cyprus, ministered in solemn state among a throng of lesser dignitaries, priests, and acolytes. His sumptuous robes of office, of cloth of gold broidered with costly pearls, flashed forth a marvellous radiance from the light of countless candles bought with the precious copper bits of the peasants who came from the provinces far and near. As they gathered about the steps of the altar they carefully drew their dingy work-worn garments back, lest their touch should sully the splendid Persian carpet spread for the Reverendissimo, little dreaming that the hint of sorrowing love in their stolid faces robed them with nobility and turned their hard-earned copper carcie into a golden gift.

In the many churches throughout the kingdom the humble people were kneeling, praying their unlettered prayers for the beautiful young Queen, with the more faith that the Holy Mother would listen because one so great as the Archbishop of Nikosia ministered in person before their sacred image of San Nicolo. For had it not been the booty of a slaughtered Eastern city, won by Peter the Valiant in most holy warfare of Crusade, which His Holiness of Rome would fain have counted among the treasures of the One True Church within the Eternal City?

In the grim stone corridors of the impregnable fortress of Famagosta, a crowd of humble pilgrims from the Troodos knelt, breathlessly fingering their rosaries, while the monks of the Holy House upon the Mountain moved among the scattered groups, holding each one his Cross of Thorns, and reciting his low "Ave," that the people might follow in hushed whispers.

But within the little Chapel of the Fortress, Hagios Johannes wrestled alone in prayer; it leaped from his heart with groans and sobs that might not be restrained.

Surely the merciful Father in Heaven would leave this pure spirit to rule the distressed people of Cyprus:—"Were they found too sinful to win so great a boon?—'Let the priests, the ministers of the people, weep between the porch and the altar!'—My God, it is Thy word, spoken by Thy prophet of old!" He pressed his hands against the crosses on his breast and shoulders, lashing himself in a sort of frenzy from the passion of his thought, not knowing that his blood trickled in slow drops upon the very steps of the altar—the blood of man, defiling the purity of that slab of onyx brought from the Temple at Jerusalem by the first of the Kings of Lusignan.

The fortress, not the Palace of Famagosta, had been the birthplace of the little Prince of Galilee; a wise precaution, possibly, in view of the diversities of sympathy to be found among the nobles of Cyprus. In the innermost of the apartments set apart for the Royal use, a grave assemblage of learned men had gathered—men of many races and tongues, of various schools of science, diverse in doctrines and ideals—all, with the exception of Maestro Gentile, the court physician, strangers to the patient whom they were called to treat in a critical moment. As a matter of science the case had a certain value for them, which was not lessened by the fact of the patient's quality; but to Maestro Gentile alone was the hopeless condition of the young Queen a matter of deep personal concern. They came from France, from Greece, from the famous University of Bologna; the Sultan of Egypt had sent a sage learned in all the lore of that ancient civilization; and a wise Arab had brought to this consultation the secrets of every herb that grew; while a holy man from Persia, steeped in the wisdom of the Zend Avestar and in the doctrines of Zarathrustra, stood ready to use his mystic comfort in behalf of the sufferer. The consultation had dragged its slow length through the hot August afternoon, while the strange faces came and went about the couch where the young Queen lay moaning and tossing; the single being under that roof who loved her as her own soul and would have given her life for hers, was waiting alone in the great ante-chamber, listening for every footfall, every motion within—filling each moment with an intensity of prayer.

The great men had barred her from the sick-room while they made their diagnosis, lest the intricacies of the symptoms should declare themselves less positively in the presence of a nature without learning in any method of their art. "There was fever," they said; "it would excite the patient to have one of her own household so near her in this extremity; her strength must be carefully treasured."

But all wore faces of gloom, speaking with hushed voices, as, one by one, they came forth from the darkened chamber, yet with a sense of relief that all had been done that could be done and the weakness might now be left to run its course, "For there is no hope," they said.

The Lady Beata had questioned each face silently; but when the last one passed, bringing the same sense of doom, "Can nothing more be done?" she asked with clasped hands.

They shook their heads, gravely, with decorous looks of sympathy, repeating their short refrain, like a knell.

"Then I will go to her," she answered, "that she may see a face of love when she passes," and pushing them all aside, she resolutely entered the sick-chamber, signing to Maestro Gentile to follow her; but the protest from the group of learned men was less than she had feared, since the Queen was now so ill that nothing could cure or harm.

The fair young mother, fever flushed, with wandering eyes, lay tossing on the silken cushions of her low couch—broken words feebly struggling from the parted lips in pathetic tones, "Madonna—I am so tired—so tired—take me——"

There was no recognition in her eyes, as the Lady Beata leaned over her, startled at the words, her soul wrung with sympathy.

"Why can they do nothing?" she asked in low authoritative tones of the physician.

"The will is gone," he answered sorrowfully; "she hath lost all desire of life; she will not rally, being too weak for the effort, and having no consciousness to help herself."

There was a hunted, frightened look in Caterina's face; the words came again, more faintly—"tired—take me——"

"She shall not die until she hath known this joy which Heaven hath sent her!" the Lady Beata cried with conviction and a sudden sense of power. "We will save her—thou, Maestro Gentile—and I—who love her. Give her only some potion for her strengthening, I beseech thee, caro Maestro;—life is flickering—she must not die yet."

"There is no hope," he answered her again; but he gave the strengthening draught, for he could not resist her imploring eyes.

The Lady Beata had been moving noiselessly, throwing wide the curtains; a faint, pitying evening breeze stole into the chamber. She came now and knelt beside the couch.

"Bring the little Prince hither with all possible haste, from his chamber," she said without lifting her eyes from Caterina's face. "We must rouse her!"

And now the Maestro went without further question, to do her bidding, although the child, and all that belonged to him had been kept out of sight and sound of the invalid, through these days of danger, lest an emotion should snap the slender thread of life.

"Bring none with thee," she said, "save only the peasant-nurse; for we must be alone."

Quite alone, with death so near, out of the marvellous great strength in her heart, the Lady Beata laid her firm, cool touch on the restless hands, scarcely restraining them—yet the spasmodic movements grew quieter; she smiled into her eyes, until the strain of the frightened gaze relaxed; she folded her close in the arms of her deep tenderness and willed her back to life with the strenuousness of a great purpose—for was there not the little wailing child to live for, to give her sight of the love and happiness for which she was starving!

Closer and closer yet she folded her, with light caressing motions on hair and brow, calling to her with all sweet names that deep-hearted women know, in tones so like a dream that they caught the wandering consciousness and lighted it with a faint, far hope.

Time is not when such momentous issues are pending. Whether the moments passed into hours, or whether each instant were so fraught with its intensity of hope and fear that every heart-throb seemed an eternity, the yearning watchers never knew. Slowly—or was it swiftly?—Just as hope was dying in despair—a breath of peace, like the wafting of the wings of some heavenly messenger, stirred softly among them, dropping balm on the face of the sleeper.

They bent above her breathlessly; the pale eyelids fluttered and unclosed.

Her breath came gently and broke in a restful sigh; she lay quietly within the shielding arms that had held her back from the dread abyss; the light of recognition was dawning in her eyes.

The Lady Beata trembled for joy; but she scarce dared move or speak; she kept her eyes fixed on the dear, fragile face,—deep in her heart that ceaseless prayer for life.

Maestro Gentile was dumb with awe:—it was a miracle! He stood watching, intent to help—holding his breath lest he should work some harm, while he kept guard over the nurse who held the sleeping child; he was so completely under the spell of that wonder-working will that he needed scarce a sign to work with her.

But the Lady Beata was no thaumaturgist; only a loving woman, standing where science had failed, translating another's desperate need from her own depths of sympathy—arresting the oncoming shadow because of her faith and her great love.

"Now!" she exclaimed under her breath.

She laid the infant on its mother's breast; its dainty breath came and went upon her face with the fragrance of a violet. She uncurled a little crumpled, rose-leaf palm and pressed it close upon the mother's cheek—never moving her gaze, with the will of life strong within it, from the eyes in which recognition had dawned with a strange, sweet surprise. A smile was brooding on lips and eyes. One baby-hand lay clasped in Caterina's—the wee pink fingers closed on hers like the tendrils of a vine.

The Lady Beata's heart throbbed to breaking, but her voice came low and calm—stilled with the passion of her gladness, as Caterina's eyes smiled into hers:

"It is thine own little son, who hath need of thy love:—God's wonderful gift of joy that only mothers know!"



XVII

With whatever magnificence of pageantry the ceremonies of the Baptism and Coronation of the infant Prince of Galilee were surrounded—and under the tutelage of Venice and the auspices of Cyprus which aspired to the splendor of an Eastern Empire, there could be nothing lacking—there were nobler aspects of that brilliant festival which those who witnessed never forgot.

The Embassies which had been despatched to all friendly courts had returned with deputations of rejoicing; a fleet from Venice and ships from the East had brought costly gifts of welcome and men, high in dignity, charged to represent their governments: and the Admiral Morenigo, with two Provveditori had arrived to stand sponsors for the Grandson of the Republic. In the vast banquet-hall of the palace, decorated with all its ancient heraldic devices and trophies of Crusades and Eastern victories, the Coronation Feast was spread, where presently the knights of the noblest families of the kingdom would count it an honor to serve: and the splendid city of Famagosta was gay with the suites and banners of foreign guests.

But, for all that, it was the People's Day—for the young Queen had willed it so.

"Let proclamation be made throughout the land," she had said, "that all, of every degree, may share the festivities, and come to pay their homage to the infant King. And bid the mothers bring their little ones."

The people thronged from far and near until Famagosta could hold no more; from Nikosia, from Larnaca and Limasol and Kerynea and other cities and districts of Cyprus, came great deputations of burghers, with those peasants from the nearer casals and hamlets whom the invitation of their gracious Sovereign Lady had reached and who were not restrained by the unwillingness of their nobles: for there were still some among the ancient families of the island who looked with disfavor upon Janus and his successors.

The Queen had not shown herself to the people since the birth of her little son; and they knelt along her pathway as she passed across the Piazza San Nicolo, from the palace to the Duomo, holding their children up that she might bless them—for it was a miracle! She had come back from Death's door to rule and bless their land!

"Sancta Maria!"

Before her on the golden cushion of state were borne the sceptre and the quaint Royal Crown of Cyprus of the time of their first king, Guy de Lusignan—heavy and far too rough for her delicate brows to endure; and the Councillors and Counts of the kingdom, the knights and nobles and ladies of the court made a brave array. But the people,—the peasants,—half-dazed by their unaccustomed nearness to such magnificence, not feeling as did the people of Venice that the fetes of the kingdom were meant for them, had looked on stolidly at all the bravery of the passing procession and at the glitter of the insignia,—showing no sign of greeting until a white, girlish figure stood under the palace portal.

"Panagia mou! Holy Virgin!" The familiar ejaculation came, half-suppressed, in a whisper of awe, from hundreds of voices. For the words of the Cyprian peasant were few, and this appeal to their most revered image of the Virgin sufficed for the expression of their deepest emotions. Was it, in truth their Queen—or the blessed Madonna herself, who came forth from the palace arches in her sweeping robes, white and gleaming, her royal mantle of cloth of gold and her jewelled crown—like the beautiful ivory image in the Duomo of Santa Croce?—Very pale and fair and sad she was, yet with a smile in her eyes, as she turned from side to side to answer their greetings, which now broke forth rapturously.

The color flushed her pale face when their cries of loyalty arose, and she turned and took the little Prince of Galilee from her Eccellenza, the Royal Governess the Dama Margherita de Iblin, holding him high, close-pressed to her cheek for all the people to see, with a great glory of mother-love in her shining eyes. They rent the air with their sobs and shouts.

The child lay smiling on his mother's arm—serene and very beautiful; it was in truth a holy picture.

The populace forgot that it was their Queen; as never before, that any distance of caste lay between them—they forgot their native awkwardness and dread of the great ones—they thronged nearer, unafraid—only to touch her—to kiss some hem of her floating garments—to look in the face of the little child who was to be their King!

And when the mother and the child were gone into the shadows of the Duomo, so thronged with noble guests and with all the splendid Hierarchy of Cyprus that there was scarce room for the royal procession to pass to the High-Altar beyond the tomb of Janus, the hearts of the people in the Piazza joined in the chorus of love and benediction of the choirs within, as, with new hints of devotion in their patient faces, they folded their own little ones closer with some vague, struggling, incomprehensible sense of aspiration—they were one with their Royal Lady and the Blessed Madonna, in the sacred mystery of Motherhood.

In the spacious apse the Hierarchy and the Royal Court were ranged for the ceremonial, and back of them a low three-arched opening at one side of the apse, supported on columns of polished porphyry clasped with grotesquely hammered copper, gave glimpses of palms waving in the great Court of the Tombs; gave glimpses also of the Monks of Troodos who had come hither with all their numbers, to witness the solemn services of the dedication of their infant king to his high trust.

And just within the portal, in strange contrast to the pomp of his surroundings, stood Hagios Johannes Lampadisti, "the Illumined"—a wild, stern figure, in his sombre robes—unchanged for any highest festival—with the symbol of solemn sacrifice on his breast, beyond all thought of admiration or of reproach for the splendor about him, his prophetic gaze fastened on the face of the Queen with imperious intensity—one hand slightly extended towards her, holding out his cross of thorns.

When the solemn rites were over and the Queen had received her child again from the arms of the Archbishop of Nikosia, Hagios Johannes, never moving his eyes from her face came forward with slow movements, and Caterina, with a sudden, uncontrollable impulse, lifting her eyes beheld the mystic gaze of Hagios Johannes and knelt down before the altar, straining her baby close to her breast.

"Dear Christ in Heaven!" she cried, in the dialect of the people. "I give him to Thee!—I give my All to Thee! He and I, we will live for Thee; and for this People of Cyprus!—so Thou and the Blessed Mother be our helpers."

The Queen's Councillors in their splendid robes of office, looked in amazement to see their Queen forget her state in such a presence, and outrage every precedent by crying out in the unlearned language of the people, before this stately company; and the face of the dignified Primate flamed with wrath at this unseemliness. But Caterina, noting nothing, turned to receive their homage for the infant King, for whom as by an inspiration, she had publicly offered these vows, from the depths of her heart.

As the procession moved out into the sunshine of the Piazza, she held the child up again to the eager, waiting throng—the light gleaming on the tiny coronet above his baby-cap as she spread out his dimpled hands with a motion of welcome, saying quite simply:

"This is your King. Love him, dear people of Cyprus!"

And she would not give the infant back to the Royal Governess, but carried him herself in her own arms across the Piazza, held up for the people to see—which never before had a queen of Cyprus been known to do. But there was a light in her face which silenced those who would have spoken of ways more seemly, and it was a triumphal procession to the palace. But she paused before the peristyle, turning to face the people again.

"There is welcome for every Cypriote," she said, "men, women and little children, who come this day to pay homage to their infant King; and good cheer in the palace for all," and signing to the attendants that they should be made to enter she passed in, smiling, before them.

The child lay in his cradle in the splendid Sala Regia, under the canopy blazoned with the arms of Cyprus—a little, helpless, smiling child—guarded by the Councillors and Counts of the kingdom; and near him stood the Queen with all her court, who for this day only had put off their mourning that no suggestion of gloom nor any hint of evil omen might shadow the royal baptismal and coronation fetes. The ladies were dazzling in gems and heirlooms of broideries and brocades; the knights and barons of the realm were glittering with orders—here and there, above his costly armor, one showed the red cross of the Crusade, or wore the emblem of the Knights of San Giovanni. But the people, who never before had entered those palace doors, came surging—not afraid—nor shrinking from the novelty and splendor nor curious for it; they came to pledge their fealty to the baby-prince—a little child like their own—whose gentle mother asked their love—than which no monarch may bring a gift more royal.



XVIII

"Is there aught to fear, Aluisi?—Thou seemest overgrave," the Lady Beata asked anxiously as her son came late, one evening into her private boudoir in their suite in the palace; he looked unusually weary and depressed.

"There is always much to fear," he answered, with no brightening of his anxious face in response to his mother's smile.

"But not now—surely not now! She hath won the heart of the people—these fetes were a triumph—they almost gladdened her. And now, poor child, she hath the little one to bring her comfort."

"Aye, Madre mia; she hath perchance won the love of the simple folk; but it is a powerless love."

"Aluisi!—thou art not like thyself to scorn it."

"I may well be not like myself in so strange a land," he answered bitterly. "But I know not scorn; nor hopeless trust, neither."

His mother watched him wondering, as he, who was usually so self-contained, strode impatiently about the chamber, as if its limits fretted him.

"A few cries of loyalty—a group of peasants kneeling—make a pretty showing—a tribute to bring her comfort—but it is the chaff before the wind, when danger cometh. And she hath never spoken of the many fiefs from which they came not—withheld by command of their jealous nobles. This peasantry hath no initiative—no aggressiveness. How wouldst thou that they should save her when danger cometh?"

"What danger, Aluisi?"

"The ever-present danger from without and within," he answered despondently. "One knoweth not from whence the first blow shall come."

She was silent for a moment, seeking how she might pursue the theme without further irritating him.

"If the peasants are powerless," she said, "the burghers are strong. And they came in throngs to the coronation."

"Aye, Mother; they are our hope: I thank thee for thy word."

A silence fell again between them, and his face grew less anxious.

"The burden is heavy for thee," she said, as he came and stood near her low couch. "It will ease thee to speak of it, if thou mayest not dismiss it. It is not this last attempt of Carlotta that troubles thee? That hath been crushed?—without renewal?"

He gave a short laugh.

"One knoweth not," he answered, with an attempt at playfulness that showed no color of mirth. "These two hours have I been within. Cornaro was with me. Another mahona may have chanced to land, coming from Africa with some other Valentine to do Carlotta's bidding and assert her claim to this uneasy crown of Cyprus; this Valentine of Montolipho, poor youth, having no longer a brain to work her schemes.—But danger from within is less easy to quell."

She had never seen him so uneasy: but she tried to control her apprehension since he needed all her strength.

"What saith Andrea Cornaro? Doth he share thy fear?" she asked in a low even tone.

"We spoke together but now of his Grace, the Archbishop, who verily wore a face that boded no good to the child nor his mother—even as he held him in baptism that day—sealing him with the sign of the Holy Cross!—And to-day, in Council—verily Cyprus hath need of a new Council——" he broke off suddenly.

"The Archbishop is not of the Council, Aluisi!"

"But his brother, the Count Carpasso, is more to fear," he cried wrathfully. "They are men of one mind and both creatures of that treacherous King of Naples. If Janus had had more wit, he would have left Gioan Peres Fabrici to this day, bargaining for his cargoes of grain, instead of naming him to the Council of the Realm and lavishing the honors of the kingdom upon this faithless favorite."

"Faithless—my son? It is an evil word."

The quiet interruption arrested the angry flow of his speech.

"I pray that he be not found faithless," he said more quietly, "when he hath a chance to prove his quality. But one would think a man so favored of the King would seek, at every turn, to prove his loyalty before the Queen—in which I find him not overanxious."

"It is thou, perchance, who art overanxious, from the greatness of thine own loyalty, and the burden it hath brought thee."

"Aye—am I!—Where there is cause for mistrust it maketh cowards of us, when faith were better. Thou knowest, gentle Mother, that this Valentine confessed, before his death, that he but heralded a larger craft sent from Rhodes, with knights and gentlemen and letters favoring Carlotta! And Gioan Peres Fabrici, Captain of our galley, sent with speed by prayer of us of Venice to bring them hither to confess themselves, found them not. He returned, with speed—and found them not. What thinkest thou, my Mother? Is it my judgment that is gone from too great anxiety?—Or may a valiant captain not see a brigantine armed upon the water?—a ship—a brig, scarce smaller than his own, perchance—that he should let them slip?"

"Why should he let them slip?—And Valentine may not have spoken truth."

"One speaketh truth, or naught—with death so near. And for thy question—I know not why——" He seemed to be evolving knotty reasons, as he sat, with stern brows, deep in thought. With an effort he roused himself and went on with his tale.

"But yesterday, in Council—for Cornaro and I, we had discussed the matter of the royal residence together, thinking it suited not with the Queen's dignity to remain longer in the fortress—a most mournful palace for one so young and who hath need of some distraction about her to keep her from oversadness. But Rizzo, being Chief of Council, would hear naught of the Queen's return to the Palace. Fabrici also spoke against it."

"It is strange:—but they gave no reason?"

"They gave a reason—one of their own making: that there was a matter of more moment before the Council; that the Queen's pleasure might wait."

"Aluisi! What saidst thou?"

"Cornaro lost patience and answered roundly: that he, being by his late Majesty created Auditor of the realm, and by him greatly trusted—it behooved him as much to uphold the Queen's dignity as to have his word in the choice of the residence and aught else pertaining to the costs of the royal household. And that the Chamberlain of the Queen—I having upheld the demand made by him—was like to know what best might suit her Majesty."

"And then?" the Lady Beata questioned, much agitated.

"'Ye are like to know what best might suit Her Majesty—both being of Venice,' Rizzo made answer; and dismissed the Council."

Neither of them spoke for a few moments.

"How will Andrea accept this insolence?" the Lady Beata questioned.

"There is more—far more than that for anxiety," Aluisi said, dismissing her question with an impatient gesture. "I would that the Queen and the child were here—in their own palace—or that we were there. The question hath turned to one of larger import than the good pleasure of the Queen; or the wisdom of holding the Queen and the Prince Royal in a fortress, when the land is not at war—as if her own people might not be trusted with her life. But the argument did not touch the Council—not more than the whim of us—of Venice"—he spoke bitterly. "Before, it was expedient. Now——"

"Now?" his Mother urged.

"There may be some scheme behind it, and I would we were there. She hath none of her own beside her, if trouble should come."

"She hath Dama Margherita—who loveth her well."

"Dama Margherita," Bernardini echoed, and a feeling of peace came over him.

But the Lady Beata sat pondering, in troubled silence. What could it mean? Caterina had taken up her residence in the fortress before her illness; it had been thought wise, although it had not been publicly declared. A few of her maids of honor and Lady Beata, Chief Lady of her Court, had gone with her. But before the baptism, her suite had returned to the palace, that all might be as usual for the reception of the royal guests; the Queen had lingered from day to day, partly that she might escape the crowd and keep more quiet until the festivities were over. But now—was it of her own choice? Why did she not return?

"And now—what wilt thou do?" the Lady of the Bernardini asked at length, turning towards her son, failing to see what course of action might be wisest. "May we not go to her to-night?"

"It is too late: the gates are closed; it could do but harm to rouse them for us to pass, with no cause but our anxieties to offer. But to-morrow, we will compass it.

"Meanwhile I have done what may be done to bring hither more who are of our ways of thinking; for who should care for her, if not we 'of Venice?'" It was evident that the thrust rankled. "I saw our Consul yesterday, who seemed not overanxious from what I told him—therefore I told him not all—I trust he hath not been tampered with by this most wily 'Council to the Queen!' but before the night had fallen, I sent a letter of warning to Mocenigo who, with his fleet, will be at anchor off the coast of Rhodes—to pray that he will come, or will send our Provveditore Vettore Soranzo to await the need."

His Mother grasped his wrist—her eyes dilating. "It must be long before they can come," she said, in a whisper.

"Not many days," he answered reassuringly; "and I have sent by a trusty Cypriote who will make full speed to bring me back the message that meaneth large reward for him. My warning must reach Mocenigo before any message sent from Cyprus to Venice might get to him again."

"Is there aught else that may be done?"

"I have given command to put my fastest brig in trim, and to-morrow she will sail with merchandise for Venice; all day she hath been lading in the port. The message in my special cypher, known only to the Secretary of the Ten, is ready here." He drew the missive from his breast, as he spoke, replacing it instantly. "Marco Bembo will sail with it on the morrow, which he may well do without suspicion, having come hither for the ceremonies now over. The brig will leave the port with all due tranquillity; and afterward will make all possible speed."

"There could be nothing more," she said rising; "thou hast thought of all."

"I thought also to have some one watching—ready to appeal to the burghers, if need should be: and I have sent but now a most secret message by my own trusty squire to his Eccellenza, Mutio di Costanzo, to tell him what hath chanced. He being Governor and Admiral of Cyprus, hath so great power that it should not be left for the Queen's Council to reach him first—if there should be scheming. Being Vice-Roy of Nikosia, he will have the will of the citizens for his following—if need should be. And his loyalty is sure: it was he, who with our bailo of Venice received Caterina's oath of allegiance, after the death of Janus; and he will not fail her."

"Thou hast a right to thy weariness," his Mother said, laying her firm white hand with a weight of tenderness for a moment on his head. "Thou mindest me of thy father—so full of carefulness to be before in any cause that he held dear. I would thou wert not lost to Venice—it was my hope for thee—thou wouldst have been a power in her Councils."

"We would not be false to our own for any fancied glory that might be possible for us," he answered more lightly than he had yet spoken: but he knew that his Mother's ambitions for him were not fulfilled in this mission to Cyprus—that she had sacrificed her heart's desire for him.

He caught her beautiful white hand and spread it tenderly out upon his own—a hand that it had taken generations to fashion—made to command, yet knowing when to yield—modelled with exquisite lines of grace, goodness, courtesy, power—a hand of character, yet with delicate flushes of pink in finger tip and palm, with a touch as tender as strong.

"It is too hard for thee, Madre mia, away from thine old home," he said tenderly. "There is room in the brig for thee to-morrow, if thou wilt: and Marco for thine escort."

She shook her head: "It would be harder to live without my boy," she said resolutely. "Now think on sleep, of which thou hast need—and——" She half-framed the name of Margherita, yet would not utter it.

He smiled at the wistful look in her face; for he understood. "Nay, Madre mia; such thoughts are not for me. I am a general in an alien camp, with scarce wit enough for my tangled duty."

Then he bent his knee, and kissed her hand, in knightly fashion of the time, as doing her reverence, whom in his heart he loved, and left her—a little comforted by his long confidential talk.

But the Lady Beata stood for a while motionless where her son had left her, before the long window that faced the splendid peristyle of the palace. Between the great spaces of the columns she saw the Piazza beyond them flooded with moonlight—white and still and absolutely deserted. There were no human sounds save the monotonous tread of the sentinels pacing to and fro before the palace; and across the Piazza, those of the guard before the closed entrance of the Fortress of Famagosta where their Queen and the infant Prince were in residence, echoed them back. From the Duomo San Nicolo shone the faint twilight glimmer of the tall candles that were ceaselessly burning about the tomb of Janus—each pale flame wafting a prayer for absolution from the broken heart of the Queen, who before her illness had brought them daily with her own hands: and far down upon the shore was dimly heard the ceaseless flow of the waves, keeping rhythmic beat to the passing moments in the mystery of the night.



XIX

The moon had waned and the night was starless when the chimes of San Nicolo told three of the morning in low melodious tones like a voice from dreamland, breaking no slumber.

Suddenly the sharp wild clangor of the great alarum-bell of Famagosta crashed through the silence.

The citizens sprang from their sleep with cries of terror and rushed to the windows; but, alas, they had not dreamed that dreaded danger signal which kept up its fateful toll. Already men, fully armed, were hurrying through the streets that led to the Piazza; whence came echoes of voices talking in quick, awe-struck tones—the flash of torches—a horseman dashing down from the castle to the walls at the port—sounds of excited action ringing back from the ramparts—the quick gallop of a cavalier rushing to join his command.

What might it mean!

Commander Saplana moved calmly out among his mounted suite, fully equipped, from the Castle into the Piazza; yet there had not been many moments in which to make ready since the first notes of that wild alarum had sounded!

Those among the citizens entitled to bear arms were quickly accoutred and dashed out to mingle with the throng.

"What is it?" men questioned of each other—but no one knew.

Had the Genoese returned to storm by night this post of vantage so long their own—and still so coveted?

Were the Turks upon them?

Was it some intrigue of Ferdinand of Naples?

Was it treason?

Was it Carlotta come from Rhodes, with men-at-arms, to surprise them?

There was stealthy talk of a foreign galley in the port.

Some one had noted strange sailors in the throng: one might not be sure of the letters on their caps, because of the darkness: but they were Christians—not Turks—thanks be to the Madonna!

"But the Queen is safe, Sanctissima Vergine! The Queen is in the Castle."

"There is His Excellency, Maestro Gentle, physician to Her Majesty, he passeth but now, the glimmer of his mail beneath his cloak! Holy saints! A gray-haired man, rushing out into the night—thinking first of the Queen and of her safety! The Madonna will be good to her!"

The old court physician gave the password at the castle-gate and entered.

The Signor Andrea Cornaro rode forth from his palace, fully armed, and with him Marco Bembo, cousin to the Queen—surely, they would know! The citizens called to them urgently for some explanation of the tumult, but they passed swiftly by to the palace of the Bailo, the Venetian Resident.

But the Bailo gave them no comfort.

"I know naught of the trouble," he answered them, "save that warning hath been sent me by His Excellency, the Count of Tripoli, that it were wiser that I keep within."

"Then art thou the more needed!" burst from the lips of Cornaro, made desperate by this coolness; "for it well may be that the Count of Tripoli is a traitor set high in trust!"

But the Bailo listened to their importunate pleadings as if it were a trifle.

"Come with us swiftly to the Queen! By all the saints in heaven!—she should have her own about her in this danger—whate'er it be!"

"Nay," he said, and would not move. "This is a place of intrigue—and warning hath been sent me. It is, perchance, some one who seeketh my life."

There was no time to parley.

"Haste thee to the royal palace," the elder man said to his nephew, as they galloped away, "and bring from thence, with all speed, the Queen's Chamberlain, the Bernardini—there is none more loyal. Let none hinder thee."

"I serve our house and our honor!" young Marco called back to him, as he put his horse to the spur.

"I go at once to Caterina," his uncle answered reassuringly, turning the head of his good steed towards the castle—a place of security indeed—a fortress famed as impregnable.

* * * * *

The Royal Palace was doubly guarded—as never before, and Marco when he reached it, plead in vain for admission.

"By order of the Council of the Realm, no man might enter."

"Then take, I pray thee, this message to His Excellency, the Chamberlain of the Queen, and bid him come hither—it is for life or death."

A golden coin, with the head of Janus stamped upon it, glittered in his palm. The valiant guard received the gift and refused the message.

"No man shall enter, nor leave this palace to-night: by order of the Council of the Realm."

"I bring an order from His Excellency, Andrea Cornaro, Auditor of Her Majesty, and member of the Council of the Realm," Marco pleaded desperately.

"Our orders are of the Chief of Council, the Signor Marin Rizzo—whom to disobey this night is death."

The foremost guard of the line had led the defense: and among them all there was no motion to favor this young cousin of their Queen. He was a knight, and brave at arms—but to have fought that band meant certain death; and at the castle, one might, perchance, help the Queen!

"There are some with Caterina to help her," he thought in his loyal heart, as baffled at the palace, he pushed his way across the Piazza and reached the entrance to the castle, "and here she is surely safe."

The Count of Zaffo, her aged Councillor and friend, had risen from a sick-bed to go to her; he had been first to enter the castle-court. "So ill, that he scarce could hold himself upon his palfrey," some one told the young knight in the crowd, in answer to his question.

"The old Councillor scarce could strike a blow for her," thought Marco; "but it is good that he should be within: for his devotion to Caterina is known. And Messer Andrea is there!"

He drew breath more freely for this gleam of comfort, as he gave the usual password.

But the guard was obdurate.

"It is not the password for this night, my Lord."

"I pray thee—I am cousin to Her Majesty, and must have speech with her."

"Eccellenza; by order of the castellan, none may pass, save those who give the word."

"Then call me hither the castellan."

"The password hath been given by the Chief of the Council of the Realm; and without it, the gates may not be opened," the castellan answered without preamble, when he appeared for an instant before the slide in the great gate—as quickly closed, though he had recognized a member of the Queen's family.

"Had his uncle known the password and forgotten to give it to him?" Marco questioned in some anxiety, as he made his way, baffled again, through the crowd in the Piazza, which was growing denser and more excited. "And if he had not known it——?"

He quickened his pace—his horse alert to obey his will, fretting with dilated nostril and pawing hoof at their frequent interruptions.

The citizens had gathered in force, but no one of them knew the cause of the commotion, and they were not immediately formidable in the midst of this armed body of knights and soldiers who kept secret council and obeyed the slightest word of their commanders. Marco searched their faces, as well as he might for the uncertain glare of the torches, but in vain. If he could but find General Visconti and his men, they might cut their way into the fortress—they, being Venetians, were surely loyal to the Queen!

His brain was in a whirl—he could think of nothing that was best, every moment might count—yet he crossed and recrossed his steps, turning down dark streets and back again into the Piazza; he was no longer sure of the safety of the castle; he was growing desperate.

But Visconti's men did not reveal themselves, and Marco worked his way out of the Piazza—since they surely were not there, and since no hint of what was passing within the fortress came from behind the porte-cullis—the single opening upon the square.

Little did he dream that Visconti's men, because they were Venetians and known to be in sympathy with the Queen were kept that night, by order of the Council of the Realm, in close detention.

The troop of horse stood impassible before the entrance and the sentry as tranquilly kept guard upon the turrets, as Marco passed them on his way to a small gate upon the seaward side which he had once noticed and now hoped had been forgotten, and where, in truth he entered when he reached it; for it had not been thought important by the planners of this night's strange revel—possibly because few knew of it, or perhaps, because there were none from the port who would not be welcome, for the fleets of Venice were known to be at anchor off the coasts of Turkey, having sailed thither in glad and unsuspecting temper after the courtesies of the baptismal and coronation fetes.

* * * * *

It chanced that it was through this same small, unguarded doorway that Andrea Cornaro had passed when—unaware of the new password for the night and zealously kept in ignorance thereof by his colleagues in office—he had been denied admission at the great gate upon the Piazza. As all persuasion brought him the more strenuous denial, he felt sure of some perfidy and the more bent upon reaching his niece at all hazards—for he was not one to be easily overcome by obstacles.

Meanwhile, Messer Andrea, Auditor to the Queen and Member of the Council of the Realm, had meant to scale the walls by the seaside and fight his way, hand to hand if need be, to the Queen's side, when he had chanced upon this little gate upon the moat so long unused that its rusty bolt yielded without over-much persuasion to his pressure from without. The first court upon which it gave entrance—being the farthest from the Piazza—was dark and deserted, and he passed, without resistance into the second court, finding it also empty, except for the sentry passing to and fro on his monotonous duty.

The man saluted as he offered the usual password, then, recognizing one of the Queen's Council, presented arms.

Here, at least, all was tranquil—possibly his fears had been too great.

But from the third court—the one first entered from the Piazza, there came as he neared the arched passage that led from court to court through the thickness of the massive walls, hints of commotion that made him pause to consider whether he might not more surely reach the Queen by some other stairway.

As he drew back into the shadow to make some farther plan, the Count of Tripoli, with Rizzo di Marin, Chief of Council, came through, from the first court, followed by one or two mounted nobles, questioning the sentry as to whether anyone had passed that way, and he heard the man give his name.

"Sua Eccellenza, Messer Andrea Cornaro."

The Count of Tripoli repeated this answer, with an accent of surprise.

"He gave the password?" he questioned, sternly.

"Eccellenza, si—come sempre."

Andrea Cornaro, to whom fear was unknown, thinking himself called, immediately responded, coming forward into the light.

"I have somewhat to discuss with thee," Rizzo said nonchalantly. "Wilt have a mount? We will go forth upon the ramparts and see whether all be in order."

"I have but left my horse," Cornaro answered, calling the animal to him with a motion of his hand, "but I would first know of this tumult." He kept his hand upon the bridle and remained standing, while he looked searchingly from Rizzo to Tripoli, the Governor of Famagosta.

"What is this tumult?" he repeated angrily, seeing them not quick to answer.

"Nay, Friend, how knowest thou not? being of the Council—as we:" Rizzo answered with a hint of provocation in his tone. "It is but some difference of the soldiers as to rations and pay: it threatened mutiny and had to be met. It will be put down. Mount then, your Excellency."

"'Rations,' and 'pay,'" Cornaro answered scornfully, "to rouse the city and 'put it down'—at dead of night!"

"Aye: since they chose this time for their own deed of darkness, we men-at-arms may not be dainty about the hour of retribution."

"The Queen—my niece," said Andrea, taking a sudden resolution and throwing the reins across his horse's neck; "I will first go to her. Later I wait thy pleasure, Signor Rizzo; on the ramparts, or where thou wilt.—This is no lightsome night for a woman—a mere girl."

"'A woman'—'a mere girl'!"—the Chief of Council began tauntingly.

Cornaro's hand was upon his sword.

"Scusi!" Rizzo said, suavely, being not yet ready for the break. "I meant no disrespect—but she is young to rule. If thou wilt take thy horse, we will first seek the Queen, who would speak with thee. Nay—not by that court—the winding mount is quieter."

The Count of Tripoli and his companions had already left them and passed into the first court, in eager converse; but Cornaro was scarcely in the saddle before a sudden great uproar in the streets of the city beyond the fort arrested them. Cries, as of many men in concert, proclaiming Alfonso, son of Ferdinand of Naples, Prince of Galilee and Heir to the Crown of Cyprus—"by order of the Council of the Realm:" deafening shouts and threats of the citizens, protesting:—sounds of clashes of arms, terrorizing the people:—the sudden crash of the alarum bell, bursting forth anew to drown their protests:—

Then again the traitorous cries, passing off through the more distant streets of the city:

"Viva Alfonso—Prince of Galilee and Heir to the Crown of Cyprus!"

"What meaneth this insolence!" Cornaro cried, white with passion and instantly drawing his sword.

* * * * *

The Neapolitan was not braver than the Venetian—but with an infinitely cooler brain, well-skilled in villany and intrigue and troubled by no sense of honor, he seized his opportunity, and when his victim's arm was raised, he dealt him a desperate blow on the head which hurled him, with stunning force from his horse. And then, upon the pavement of the castle-court, having him at disadvantage and senseless from the blow, the valiant Chief of Council, cruelly and like no loyal knight, summoned his mercenaries to his aid and dispatched his enemy with quick sword-thrusts, bidding them toss the lifeless body into the moat that circled the castle walls.

The faithful horse was the solitary mourner who watched his unconscious master while life was ebbing and sought to comfort him with mournful whinnies of almost human affection.

* * * * *

Had the young knight Marco Bembo but known of his uncle's barbarous murder, and that the white-haired Councillor Zaffo lay foully slaughtered in the first court of the castle because of his great crime of loyalty to the Queen, he might have paused before he attempted to force an entrance to the fortress. And yet he would not—being loyal as the venerable Councillor himself, and as full of bravery as Andrea Cornaro; the thought of the Queen's greater need would but have spurred his courage.

The young Venetian had reached the second court without molestation, when he turned to silence the cry that came from a swaggering band of sailors who had followed him and were shouting for "Alfonso—Prince of Galilee!" They fell upon him at the signal from Rizzo which marked him guilty—for was he not a Venetian?

"E tu, traditor!"

The words rang out unanswered, save by his desperate sword.

They were but six, and he was standing against treason, for the Queen and the honor of his house!

He fought them all, without a groan, until his strength was spent; and they, eager to do the will of this ruffianly king-maker, who was winning a fresh coronet for their Prince of Naples—this man of force who would make much booty possible—fought six to one, and spared not.

And then, by bidding of their Chief, they flung the palpitating, tortured, lifeless remnant of what—one little hour before—had been a loyal, noble, winsome man, dreaming of duty and high achievement—into the horror of the moat by the pitiful wreck of Andrea Cornaro—the two murdered for the double crimes of relationship and loyalty to the trembling girl-Queen.



XX

His Grace, the Archbishop, was among the first to respond to the summons of the alarum, having his mind filled with weighty matters of life and death which had rendered him sleepless—some of which he had discussed confidentially with General Saplana, who had been one of those most distinguished and trusted by the late King.

With Saplana the Commander of Famagosta, and with his own brother Gioan Peres Fabrici, as with some other members of the Queen's Council, many details of the conspiracy which was now being brought to so satisfactory a conclusion, had been arranged. They knew that the Neapolitan galley would be in port that night to support the uprising and the proclamation that should be made, if fortune favored. They knew of Ferdinand's untiring machinations to win a hold upon this much contested Crown of Cyprus; and none knew better how from the moment that the coveted alliance between Janus and a Princess of Naples had been frustrated by the Venetian marriage, Ferdinand had not ceased from intrigues to that end, secretly and zealously supported by certain men who were holding important positions of trust in the Government of Cyprus.

Andrea Cornaro, by whose means his niece had come to her throne, would be the most formidable individual opponent in any scheme for the benefit of Naples, and it became important to remove him; yet it could not be done without some apparent excuse—because of his relationship to the Queen, and because unless success were complete, they might have cause to dread the strong galleys of Venice. So the wily Primate—keeping perhaps his own counsel as to the fabricator of the plot—invented a scheme which he asserted that the unconscious Cornaro intended to carry into effect that night by which, when the great bell of the Castle should sound the call to arms, the Venetians in Famagosta, under Visconti and his band of Italian soldiers were to rise up and murder every Cyprian member of the Council of the Realm. "Therefore let every man be armed and ready for the defense of Cyprus when the call shall be heard. And spare not the traitors!" he urged upon the Commander of the fortress.

"And if Visconti's men could be under restraint this night," the Archbishop suggested casually, "and if that Chamberlain of the Queen's could be under trusty guard within the palace—not to make suggestions in a matter more to your understanding than mine, your Excellency—but I know the man—a troublesome one and proud and silent—my brother liketh him little. After the Cornaro he is most to fear."

Thus Aluisi Bernardini found himself with his mother, close prisoner in the Royal palace, on the night when his Queen most sorely needed the help he would have perilled his life to give.

* * * * *

The Queen had been restless and could not sleep, being greatly troubled by a missive which the Archbishop had that morning delivered into her hands and which contained a reprimand of no gentle nature, purporting to come from His Holiness of Rome, who charged the Queen and certain gentlemen of her kingdom with being 'wicked and ungrateful,' and assuring her that they were everywhere so regarded, for 'certain reasons well known to the writer,' which were not named.

She had put the letter aside, meaning to discuss it with her Chamberlain in the morning; but in the darkness and solitariness of her chamber, it assumed new proportions, and she finally sent to pray the Lady Margherita to come to her, and they sat far into the night—Dama Margherita trying in vain to comfort her with her assurance that she did not believe the letter to be genuine.

"His Holiness could not speak without reason," she asserted; "and having reasons, why should he not give them—that the fault might be confessed and atoned for?—There are no reasons. It is the work of some one who seeketh to annoy."

Dama Margherita had a positive way of seeing things, which was often helpful to Caterina's more gracious nature.

"Cara Margherita—it was His Grace himself who gave the letter into my hand."

But Dama Margherita had no reverence for the Archbishop of Nikosia.

"I think, your Majesty, that letter is not genuine," she repeated, uncompromisingly.

"But—Margherita—the most reverend, the Archbishop would not——"

Caterina broke off with a vivid flush and left the sentence unfinished, remembering that there had been a previous Archbishop of Nikosia whose code had not been fashioned by her ideals.

Dama Margherita had but just withdrawn when the uproar in the streets began and she rushed back at once to her Lady's side. The sounds came muffled through the massive walls of the castle for there was no outlook on the Piazza; it was the low muttering of a storm, none the less terrible because undeclared. But there could be no mistaking the dread clangor of the bell, and the two young, helpless women clung to each other in trembling silence.

Caterina was the first to recover her composure; she made a pathetic effort to steady her voice as she spoke.

"Margherita, I must know at once what this meaneth. If one of the Council would come to me—there is always one in the Castle—my Uncle Andrea—or the Councillor Zaffo—I would they had not sent Aluisi and the Zia back to the palace!—and—and—I will go to the Boy."

"Dear Lady," Margherita besought her. "Let me rather bring him hither. The Council will be coming at once—they would rather find you here. I will come with the Prince and his aya, so soon as I shall have found one of the Council. Your Majesty will not fear to be left alone?"

"No: No!" Caterina hastened her with a motion of her hand. "The others will be here; thou wilt hasten with the child—and then thou wilt leave me no more!"

But Dama Margherita was already far down the narrow stone corridor, beyond hearing the confession of failing courage which would have brought her instantly back, when a tapestry was thrust hastily aside, and Maestro Gentile, the old white-haired physician, fully armed, but with the air of a hunted man, tottered into the room.

"They seek my life," he gasped, "I know not why. I came through the terror lest your Majesty should need me—for it is a night!—San Nicolo save us!"

"Madonna mia!" the Queen cried piteously with clasped hands, "I do not understand!"

"It is the time for reckoning, fair Majesty; and those who have the power shall rule."

The Archbishop of Nikosia had entered the Queen's apartment unperceived and stood watching her with eyes of triumph.

She shrank from him with a sudden comprehension of his false nature, while he offered his explanation in a voice that struck her sensitive soul like a blow.

Instinctively she drew nearer to the old physician as if craving some stay, and laid her hand affectionately on his arm; then she pointed to the door: "Leave us at least the courtesy of our apartment!" she exclaimed indignantly to the Archbishop; "your Grace came unannounced."

"I came to bring your Majesty news of import," he began, taking no notice of her command. "His Majesty of Naples——"

Was he indeed about to confess his connection with the intriguing King of Naples, of which there had been more than one rumor? Aluisi had bidden her weigh the Primate's counsels before accepting them.

"We will hear your news in presence of the Councillors of the Realm, whom I have already summoned," the Queen interrupted, raising her fragile hand with a motion of silence—her slight trembling figure held erect by force of will, her head thrown back—her eyes flashing scorn—her voice steadied by a supreme effort.

He paused, half in admiration, half in triumph, gloating over the success of the conspiracy of which he had been the master-mind, while he picked the words in which he would announce it to his victim, as one might choose the pebbles for a sling—the smoothest and the sharpest.

"It is scarce fitting that your Majesty should be last to hear what is already proclaimed throughout Famagosta," he said, "that Alfonso of Naples hath been created Prince of Galilee and Heir to Cyprus."

She looked at him with a scorn that burned. "Is your Grace a man," she said, "to use this speech? Or do I not hear aright—from the horror of this night?"

Then she turned to Maestro Gentile, compassionate and protecting.

"It cannot be that any should seek thy life," she said. "Thou art my friend:—I will shield thee here—Madonna Sanctissima! I cannot think—let us pray that this horror pass!"

She put her hands over her eyes and sank upon her knees, and Maestro Gentile knelt beside her.

There was a rush of footsteps, as of pursuers coming swiftly up the secret passage by which the physician had entered the royal apartments; in another second the hanging was torn aside and Rizzo, dark and ferocious, panting like some savage with the madness of the deeds already done—his eyes glaring upon his prey—with an oath at finding them so engaged, thrust the young Queen violently away, and sprang at the physician crying out in a voice of frenzy, as he dealt him two desperate blows with his iron gauntleted fists.

"E tu traditor!"

It was the inglorious watchword—the signal of the brutal captain of this unequal fight; and the mercenaries following his lead, fell upon the old man and held him down while Rizzo stripped him of his sword, which, despite his years, he might have wielded too deftly.

There was a second's reaction from the exhaustion of the rapid chase, and while they drew breath, the physician who had been protected from serious harm by the corslet worn under his long mantle, had watched his opportunity, and with the agility of a hunted man, he started to his feet and escaped into the corridor, running for his life, on and up to the ramparts.

The Queen threw herself before the doorway, in agonized pleading for the life of her friend. But the clinging hands and streaming tears, the heroism of the girl facing all those frenzied men alone, were as nothing to their wrath at the delay—and in a moment they had passed her in hot pursuit.

She listened, every faculty tense to detach the sounds of this tragedy from that other, jangling from without. She heard the footsteps of the ruffians overtaking him; she heard their demoniacal cries, echoing back;—his faint words—"What have I done that ye seek my life,"—but the voice came no more—only sounds of struggle, growing dimmer, as they dragged him farther away upon the ramparts—then silence—and the misery of it burning in her brain.

She staggered back against the doorway where she stood.

Then suddenly, came a flash of agonized revelation—the consciousness that this was but one link in the dark scheme of revolt, and with it came the acute revival of all her powers—the sharpening of every faculty of heart and brain.

"My Boy!" she cried—her voice thrilled through the castle—"Madonna Dolorosa—My Child!" and with the fleetness of a deer she turned and sped with flying feet, down the corridor to the chamber of the little Prince.

So lithe—so brave—so beautiful—so tortured—so resolute—she was a thing to curb and hold! Alvigi Fabrici, the tool of Ferdinand, would have liked to follow her and see the panting vision of her face, when she reached the cradle of her child—and found him gone.

But there was already silence in the corridor: no faintest echo of flying feet—no vaguest rustle of fluttering robes—a moment had sufficed for the mother's startled quest.



XXI

It was dawn after that night of tragedy.

From sheer exhaustion of passion the turmoil in the streets had subsided; the cries of indignant protest had ceased and the populace accepted their fate in sullen acquiescence, knowing themselves not strong enough to contest without aid those intriguing Councillors of the Realm who were entrenched behind the impregnable fortress of Famagosta where they held close captive the Sovereign they had sworn to defend and obey.

The Piazza was deserted: the malcontents who had gathered to mutter at the horror of the moat where the victims of the night had been tossed unburied, had been dispersed by threat of arms; the sentinels nodded at their posts—scarce knowing whose power they were upholding, nor by what name men called their masters. Here and there throughout the city, a little knot of the graver burghers might be found lingering to discuss the situation in attitudes of helpless dejection, and scattering with their problems all unsolved. They were too insignificant to dread, and for the moment the triumphant conspirators were content to leave the city without further imposition or molestation to such rest as a merciful nature might vouchsafe.

They were content to yield this lull in the storm, because it gave them needful quiet in which to mature fresh intrigues, to insure their triumph. Those men of Venice of the Queen's household, who would most strenuously have resisted them, had been quieted forever, it was true; but, as dawn lightened over the ghastly faces upturned beneath the windows of the poor young Queen, an unconfessed tremor stole into the doughty breasts of Rizzo and Fabrici, in the place where most men wear their hearts, and they got them together, in friendly converse, to ponder what should come next.

For Venice was mightier than Naples—and the password they had so successfully wielded for a night—"a bas Venezia"—might not suffice to hold for the young Alfonso the dignity of Prince of Galilee, which they had proclaimed for him throughout the protesting city; it might even have a baneful ring, when news of the night's murders should reach the Republic. A plausible reason for the death must be contrived and sent forward with letters signed by the Queen's own hand, under the Royal Seal of Cyprus, accompanied with decorous lamentations and condolences on the part of her Councillors—such as one Government is wont to offer to another at the death of any distinguished patrician.

For the Chief of Council, Rizzo di Marin and his Grace the Archbishop of Nikosia, no rest was needful: the consciousness of triumph stirred the blood in their veins like strong wine, and with a sense of exhilaration sharpening all their intellectual faculties, they prepared, in a few hours, work that might ordinarily have required the consideration of days. When they closed their conference they had contrived a sheaf of pretty documents which did more honor to their astuteness than to their loyalty, and which, with the signature of the Queen, would put them in possession of all the strongholds on the coast and many positions of vantage throughout the island, including the splendid city of Nikosia—which had shown much dangerous friendliness for Queen Caterina. It was a marvellous bold scheme—a bloodless victory for Alfonso, Prince of Naples; and Rizzo grew grimly merry as he discussed it with His Grace.

His malignant eyes rested fondly on this order for the surrender of the famous stronghold of Cerines to a nephew of General Saplana, the treacherous Commander of Famagosta; with two such fortresses they should command the coast, and their empire in Cyprus was assured. It was a work of genius, this little parchment—he could scarcely bear to fold it out of his sight in the pouch that he wore next to his heart of stone.

And this—to the magnificent Lord Admiral Mutio di Costanzo, Vice-Roy of Nikosia and friend to Caterina, who had received her oath of allegiance after the death of Janus—so high he stood among the nobles of Cyprus—Rizzo's eyes fairly gleamed as he gloated over it—this order commanding him to yield up the splendid city of Nikosia, with his fortress of Costanza and the fleets of the island, to those who should present this parchment with the little signature of Caterina Regina. He, Rizzo, would take the governorship of this city of Nikosia—or, perhaps, the command of the fleets—he knew not which—that was a trifle to decide since all would be in his power: and of course he should instantly re-man the galleys. He allowed himself a moment's vision of this stately Knight Mutio de Costanzo, with his escort of cavaliers—the forty of his noble house entitled to wear the Golden Spurs—surrendering his holdings at the Queen's command, to those whom Rizzo should elect—Rizzo, who had heard himself called "that parvenu of Naples"—and the vision filled him with delight.

Then he folded the other orders without a glance, they touched upon minor points of vantage and entered properly into his scheme—the cities of Limisso and, perhaps, of Costanzo—but that might be requiring too much of the noble Lord of Costanzo, this could wait; he crumpled it in his hand. As for this Castel Dio d'Amore, it was well.

Still another paper he folded in his pouch. That one must go first beneath her signature lest the pretty little Queen should rebel.—But she should not rebel!—By all the saints and devils, it was a good night's work!

And for that session he wrote no more.

When the pouch, compact and hard, lay closely over the place of his heart, it stirred a thought, and he laughed a short wild laugh, with no melody in it. He did not know his own laugh, and it startled him.

"Perhaps," he thought, "when he should have presided over the investiture of these cities and strongholds of Cyprus in the interests of Naples and Alfonso, 'Prince of Galilee'—installing his own creatures in all those places of power—if Naples were not properly subservient and grateful—he, holding the key to the land—perhaps——"

It was a vision that pleased him even better than that of the noble Lord Mutio di Costanzo, surrounded by his escort of cavaliers, golden-spurred, delivering the keys of the city of Nikosia. But he forgot to confide this last tantalizing, supremest vision to His Grace the Archbishop.

These documents had been prepared in the underground Chamber of Conference of the Fortress, where secrets might be freely uttered because of the double walls of massive masonry: where flaring torches fastened high in the chamber, scattered the ghostly shadows, and ample potations of the fine wine of the "Commanderie" sustained their courage.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, a slender figure with vizor down, showing a tunic of mail between the folds of a dark mantle, came out from the Fortress, and stepping forth into the gray of the dawn, crossed to the Palazzo Reale, with slow, uncertain footsteps.

"Open!—In the name of the Queen's Council!"

The words came in muffled tones from behind the vizor—uncertain, like the footsteps, yet impossible to disregard.

"The password for this night?" the guard demanded.

It was given at once, but with visible repugnance—"a bas Venezia!"

"Are ye many?"

"But one."

The bars were instantly drawn back and the young knight entered the first court of the palace.

"Halt! Declare for whom thou standest. That password is already outworn: for they of the Queen's Council be of two minds."

As if from a sense of suffocation the cloak was torn off showing a suit of armor too heavy for the slight limbs; and the helmet was loosened with supple, nervous fingers, disclosing a face pale, strong and soulful. The face might have been that of a man—an artist, or a poet; but the hair, lying in loose, dusky waves about the brows, and low, in rich clinging coils at the back of the shapely head, could only belong to a woman.

A sudden wrath flamed in her deep eyes.

"If they of the Queen's Council be of two minds they are craven, though I, a woman say it! But the Queen's guard, in the Queen's palace, can have but one mind—to uphold her cause!"

There was no other voice in all Cyprus so tender, so compelling, so magnetic, so all-convincing; the voice revealed her.

"Dama Margherita de Iblin!" was echoed about the court in surprise. The news spread. The men-at-arms came thronging about her with reiterated assurances of loyalty; it was good to confess their faith to her.

"We hold this palace for our Queen," they said, "and for no traitorous Council. May the holy Saints in Heaven curse them roundly who forced us to do their bidding, when we thought ourselves serving Her Majesty!"

"How came ye so many here?" she asked in astonishment, as they still gathered from the farther courts—a number far greater than the usual Palace-guard—chiefly a company of knights and men entitled to bear arms, but among them many of the more peaceful citizens.

"Whom serve ye all?" She looked keenly from face to face: her words seemed a challenge.

"Caterina Regina!" they cried in concert, with every man's right hand upraised, calling Heaven to witness.

One, with signs of authority stepped forward to explain.

"Eccellenza, we are in command of the Lord Chamberlain Bernardini, who, since he fought his way through the false guard placed before this palace to serve the treachery of the Council, hath not ceased to gather men of metal throughout the city, till enough shall come to claim the Queen's release. For the cries of the women and unarmed weaklings clamoring under the walls of the fortress for her release, are but impotent wails to tickle the pride of those fiends of Naples."

"Bring me to the Bernardini, for I must speak with him on matter, it may be, of life, or death."

"Eccellentissima, the Lord Chamberlain hath not stayed his foot since this horror began—nor may we see his face until he hath done the possible to gather strength for an uprising to chase these devils of Naples."

"Dear men!" she cried, "it is a task!—I speak, not to stay your loyal hands, but to open your eyes that ye be prepared and fail not. The Commander of Famagosta hath men and arms behind those impregnable walls, and all the wicked strength of his cunning Council to direct them,—Rizzo and Fabrici—masters in intrigue—and the men of the galleys of Naples at the tower in the port, commanding land and sea. Without more force it is impossible!"

"Dear Lady, the Bernardini lacketh no courage, and he commandeth. He hath sworn that we shall save the Queen. The Admiral will come from Nikosia; and the galleys of Venice will haste to the rescue, Pazienza! We are bidden to keep the peace and secrecy until the moment shall be ripe; but to die in defense of this palace, which we hold for Her Majesty as a place of refuge."

"Dost bring us news of her. How fares it with Her Majesty?"

"For that I came!" cried Dama Margherita, her voice ringing through the hall like a leader's call to arms; "to bring news of her to her own! How should it fare with a Queen made captive in her own stronghold?—With a mother whose child hath been stolen from her?—With a woman struggling with such anguish?"

"The Prince!—Our King! Sanctissima Maria! San Marco confound the knaves!"

Every man's hand sought his sword with a murmured oath of loyalty and vengeance. Questions stormed upon her: but she commanded silence with a gesture.

It was news indeed; no hint of it had passed beyond the walls of the Fortress.

"Of where he may be hidden, naught is known. Yet the galley of Naples lieth in our port, and one may reach it at low tide over the shallows—a few feet away from the tower of the Fort. It were easy to carry the child there unseen."

"Aye; it were easy—and not so hard to find him—if he were there."

"Nay, but to hold him when found! Do it not rashly, lest harm come to him. The Bernardini will plan the emprise. Tell him the Lady Margherita came at risk of life—in this disguise—to put his true men on the quest. Tell him——"

She was interrupted by an exclamation.

"Margherita!—the Lady de Iblin—thus!"

The Bernardini had just entered the court of the Palace.

A vivid flush rose to her cheek, but she stood quite still in the place where he had found her, and he came and bent his knee and kissed her hand with the customary homage.

"Else might I not have crossed the Piazza," she said, "nor left the gate of the Castle. It is easy to forfeit one's head at a moment of wrath where Rizzo commandeth! And one—a guard within the Fortress, friend to our cause unguessed of the Council—hath lent me this disguise that I might bring thee my so weighty tidings of woe."

"'So weighty tidings of woe?'" he echoed startled.

"These will tell it thee," she went on hurriedly, "for I must be returned to my chamber ere the change of guard—lest he be called on duty and fail to respond with this full toggery of steel, because he hath shown me this favor."

"The Queen?" he gasped.

"The Queen still liveth; but—oh, my Lord, Aluisi!"—her voice broke and her lips quivered, she stretched out her hands to him, the nervous fingers interlaced in a passion of pleading—"they have stolen the baby-Prince: she will go mad if they keep him from her!"

"They shall not!" he thundered with a terrible oath: he—whose speech was fair as a woman's. "Tell her we pledge our lives to find him—to save them both—all these and many more."

With a gesture he included all the company.

"Heaven hear us!" they swore in deep, angry, concert.

She turned her face to them, a great light shining in her eyes.

"I carry Her Majesty the strength of your loyalty, dear friends," she said. "The Madonna be praised—for her need is sore!"

Then, quite silently, and as with a solemn act of consecration, she made the sign of the Cross before the Leader who was to save the Queen, and with quick footsteps passed under the peristyle.

"Margherita!"

She motioned him back as he would have followed her, and he stood and watched her—his heart in his throat—until she had crossed the moat and been admitted to the Fort—the Lady Margherita—alone—in such a guise—fearless and direct as ever.

* * * * *

Sunrise was just gilding the sea: it flashed and sparkled as if there were no woe.



XXII

The horror of the night still lay over Caterina like a dense pall, clouding her understanding, when the Chief of Council and the Archbishop passed between the guards whom Rizzo had placed to watch within the doors of the Queen's chambers, where, prostrated by anguish and anxiety, one scheme after another for the recovery of her child absorbed her to the exclusion of all other grief. She looked up dumbly as Rizzo and Fabrici drew near her couch—her eyes deep with unspeakable misery.

The Lady Margherita, watching near her, was indignant at the intrusion; she rose and stood before the Queen.

"My Lords, you forget yourselves—Her Majesty hath not summoned you."

"There are moments, my Lady of Iblin, when Majesty is but a farce—and Power need not do it reverence!"

The Queen heard without heeding the words: but the insolent smile on the face of the speaker displeased her. She closed her eyes and turned her head away, imploring them by a gesture to leave her. She had exhausted every argument to induce them to restore her child or even to disclose his whereabouts—she had pleaded as only a mother may, but in vain; and worn by the unequal contest and all unnerved, she now feared to anger them further with impotent protests lest she should tempt them to cruelty towards her child.