The Archbishop took a step towards her, pausing for a moment, irresolute, before attempting further coercion. But the cold glitter in the eyes of his companion urged him to conclude his task, and he spread a paper open on the table beside her.

From pity, or from wile, if not from shame, he assumed a tone of deference as he explained:

"Your Majesty, it will be needful at once to send advices to Venice, bearing our condolences for the sad fate of our noble Messrs Andrea Cornaro, and the young Seigneur Marco Bembo."

The names roused her: she had been told of their fate, but everything had been forgotten in the later anguish. Now she remembered with a sharp sting of pain, and she turned her face toward the speaker, waiting to hear why they stayed to torment her.

"It will be well for your Majesty to sign this writing, which we have prepared to explain to the Signoria the tragic ending of the quarrel of their Excellencies with a band of laborers whom they had refused to pay."

Caterina had been gazing fixedly at the Archbishop while he spoke, trying to understand. Now she made a supreme effort to shake off her lethargy, seeming for the moment so like her usual self that the two conspirators trembled for their schemes.

"The Council hath not found our signature needful for their extraordinary action of the night," she said. "This letter is of less consequence. We pray you to leave us."

Rizzo strove to hearten his colleague with a glance, as the Archbishop produced the casket which held the Royal Signet and placed it open on the table beside the letter which the Queen had thrust aside, and which lacked only the royal signature to be complete. It had been folded and superscribed with all due formality and homage.

"Serenissimo Principe et Domine excellentissimo, Domine Nicolo Marcello, Dei gratia inclito duci Venetiarum, etc., Domine colendissimo."

The broad band of white-dressed skin by which it was to be closed was already fastened to the letter, though it hung loose with the silken fillets of blue and white which were to attach the great Seal of Janus the III—the helpless infant king whom his wily ministers had stolen from his mother's arms.

Rizzo, opening the casket, stood for a moment gloating over the mastery he was to achieve with this little instrument of the Great Seal of the Kingdom—his triumphant gaze fastened on his scarlet treasure—a pretty toy of wax for such a ruffian to find of consequence, bearing the escutcheons of Jerusalem, of Cyprus, of Armenia and Lusignan, with the naked sword of Peter the Valiant for a crest; and for border, encircling the Seal, the legend punctuated by heraldic roses—

"Jacobus, Dei Gratia, 22 us Rex Jherusalem, Cipri et Armenia."

* * * * *

"Rizzo, Rex!"

The Chief of Council syllabled the sweet morsel of his outrageous thought without utterance. There was no further need for any keeper of the Privy Seals; there was no longer any need for anyone but Rizzo in this Council of the Realm!

But Dama Margherita, closely watching and fearing treachery, stole nearer to the table, standing over the open letter which she had read from end to end before the Chief of Council, in his absorption, had perceived her action. Now he felt her condemnatory eyes upon him, like the merciless gaze of a fate, and he would not look towards her while he rudely seized the letter and pushed it nearer to the Queen.

"It is well for your Majesty to understand," he said imperatively, "that this matter is not one for choice—but of necessity."

"We do not understand," the Queen answered haughtily, but already her voice showed failing strength.

"Guards!" cried the Lady Margherita with tingling cheeks, to the men who stood just within the doorway, "arrest these intruders!—They trouble the Queen's peace."

Unconsciously the men took a step forward—the words had rung out like a command: but Rizzo, with a face of insolent mastery, made a motion which arrested them, and they knew that their impulse had been a momentary madness.

"The Child——" Rizzo began in icy tones, speaking with slow emphasis, his eyes fixed upon the Queen.

The mother sprang to her feet, alert on the instant, her strength surging back tumultuously—every faculty tense.

"The child is safe—while your Majesty is careful to fulfil our pleasure."

"My Lords," cried Dama Margherita, fearlessly, "the writing on this parchment is not true."

The hand of the Chief of Council fell to his sword, as if he would have struck her down—then—remembering that she was but a woman, in spite of her splendid courage, he withdrew it with a shower of muttered oaths.

"It is the writing which Her Majesty will sign to insure the safety of her child," he asserted, in uncompromising tones.

The Queen turned from one pitiless face to the other and knew that there was no hope for her.

"My God, I shall go mad!" she moaned, as she seized the pen with trembling fingers, unconscious that she had spoken: then in a last, desperate appeal, she cried to Fabrici:

"Most Reverend Father, by your hopes of Heaven, I implore you—give me my boy again! il mio dilettissimo figlio! See, I sign the parchment!" and with feverish strokes she wrote her name; then with hands strained tightly together, awaited her answer.

Fabrici moved uncomfortably, turning his gaze away from the stricken, overwrought face: his cruel triumph began to seem unworthy.

But Rizzo calmly affixed the Royal Seal, covering it with the small wooden case prepared for its protection and knotting it firmly in place with the silken fillets—so careful lest a bruise should show upon the fair, waxen surface—he who could crush a woman's heart to breaking, or watch the life-blood dripping from some cruel wound that he had made, as lightly as he would drop the red wax for his stolen signet—it was all one to his deadly purpose.

"Thanks, your Majesty," he said, "there are yet other documents to be signed," and he laid them before her.

"My child!" she cried in extremity; "have mercy—restore him to me—I have fulfilled your pleasure!"

"Your Majesty hath forgotten these," said Rizzo, "and the penalty—if they are left unsigned."

* * * * *

Again she seized the pen and wrote her name as with her life-blood—great veins starting out on her white forehead, her eyes dim and blurred, her heart beating so that she scarce could trace the words that seemed an irony:

"Caterina, Regina!"

"At last!" she gasped, as the pen fell from her hand—"Madre Sanctissima—they will bring my boy!"

"It is enough that he is safe," the Chief of Council answered her. "We did not promise more."

The Archbishop, stout-hearted though he was, felt his soul quail within him, as he glanced at the figure of this young mother agonizing for her child—his Sovereign to whom he had sworn fealty. He turned away from her to strengthen his resolve, taking a few paces forward, thinking perhaps of that "act of homage," over his own signature, duly witnessed, sealed and recorded in the Libro delle Rimembranze, "Homagio et fidelta che e obligato a fare a la Magiesta sua, segondo le lege et usanze di questo regno."

("Homage and faith, which he is obliged to swear to Her Majesty, according to the laws and customs of this realm.")

Margherita turned to Fabrici, who seemed to her less inhuman than Rizzo, for she had noticed the slight weakening in his attitude. "Pardon me, your Grace," she said in a tone of quiet deference; "hath the learned body of the Queen's Council no knowledge of the crime of lese-majesty?"

Fabrici made no answer, being conscious-stricken; but Rizzo turned upon her with blazing eyes.

"Beware!" he stormed, "a man, for less, hath paid the forfeit of his life."

"Life were worth little," she answered undaunted, "if one must forfeit it for speaking truth—or for so poor attempt as mine to spare our Queen in such extremity."

He had looked to see her cower and shrink as men had often done under the glare of his angry gaze; but she stood before him tall, straight and calm—so near that he might have felled her to the ground; there was no fear in her deep eyes while she gave him back his look of hatred, unflinching; dimly he realized that this woman had measured the manhood in him and found it beneath her scorn.

Then—as if he had not been—she turned her gaze from him.

"Your Grace," she said proudly, "it is for the last time,—your Queen—whom you have sworn to uphold—and I—Margherita, of the most ancient noble house of the de Iblin, who have ever served their Sovereigns with their life—we demand our Prince of you; and all Cyprus is with us!"

But if these dastardly usurpers were inexorable, heaven, more merciful, sent the respite of unconsciousness to quiet the mother's anguish just as she could bear no more. Rizzo was speaking when she tottered and fell into the shielding arms of Margherita.

"We may need the infant," he was explaining pitilessly, "to force a deed of renunciation in favor of Alfonso, Prince of Galilee."

"A sword thrust were more merciful," cried Margherita, now roused to a passion of scorn. "How may a man dare perjure his soul to bring her to this!"

Rizzo having nothing further to gain from the interview left the chamber precipitately, muttering oaths; but the Archbishop lingered, from a dim, dawning sense of compunction, watching helplessly while Dama Margherita ministered to the victim of these Councillors who had been created to assist their youthful Queen in her weary task of ruling.

"More air!" Dama Margherita ordered of the guards, pointing to the closely barred windows. "Strong wine—and one of Her Majesty's ladies to aid me—I may not leave her for an instant. The Lady of the Bernardini were best—will your Grace give the order? We must needs save her life while she hath yet a favor to grant."



XXIII

It was the festa of San Triphilio, patron-saint of the city of Nikosia; the great church on the bluff beside the castle was filled with the sickly flames of paltry candles brought by the peasants from far and near. From the quaint tower on the castle-wall one might see them coming in little processions, winding through the forest that clothed the plains below—pausing on the banks of the stream Pedea, to gather water-bloom and rushes to scatter before the shrine of San Triphilio, in memory of the early days when the city had sprung from the marshes to stand—fair and firm upon the hillside above them, beautiful to behold—girt about with impregnable walls and gateways, guarded by its famous citadel, and fortified within by churches dedicated to many saints.

To-day the gates stood hospitably open, to welcome the people who came and went unchallenged through them, wearing their holiday faces and bearing their burden of bloom and green—lotus flowers for the altars, and rushes to scatter on the steps before them—pausing before they entered the sacred precincts to lave their hands in the 'Fountain of Ablution.'

It was truly a festa of the people, and the Cyprian peasants who were a gentle, superstitious, ignorant race, devoutly subject to their priests and trained to the letter of their religious rites, came in from the mountains and the neighboring villages in numbers but rarely seen in the city: a motley throng—yet no shepherd among them was too poor to wear the boot of dark-green leather reaching to the knee—the bodine roughly fashioned and tough enough to protect them from the bites of the serpents which infested the island.

Here and there some shepherd was leading with pardonable pride a sheep who gave a more than usual promise of fine wool, its extraordinary tail, bushy with soft long fleece, carefully spread out on the tiny cart to which it was harnessed for its own protection. It came, meek-eyed and wondering, if a little weary, to this festa of San Triphilio, to whom its first shearing would be vowed, as a special tribute to the saint and a talisman to shield the flocks upon the mountains.

The shepherd might draw himself away, perchance, with a mingling of caste-feeling and of superstition, from some poorer villager of the sect of the "Linobambaki"—a dark, unkempt figure, with his scarlet fez, his string of undressed poultry hanging from his shoulder, even on this day of festa when the saints give all good Christians holiday! But he, poor man, was neither Christian nor pagan—a wonder that the good Lord made him so!—(expressed with devout crossing and genuflexion)—and he would sell a fowl on a holiday for the asking and the few copper carcie that it would bring him, as though he were quite all Mussulman and not half Christian, as his contemptuous nickname signified—a mixture of royal linen and plebeian cotton! His touch might well defile the sacred sheep!

Here was a picturesque peasant-priest from the province of Ormidia, who had left his work in the fields and was moving among the crowd with a slow dignity of motion and the mien of some antique statue—with sheep-skin garments of no shape, nor fashion, nor color, to mark his date—his hair flowing in loose waves to the throat, from under the high, conical hat, his full curling beard and moustache obscuring the lines of the face and intensifying its impassiveness—only in the eyes, without curiosity, a mild look of question at the strangeness of the ways and sights of cities—such as some shepherd-god might wear,—reserving judgment.

To-day, also, some stray brother of the lower order of the Knights Hospitallers might be seen among the throng,—a white star, eight pointed on the breast of the black gown with which in early ages he had been invested by the Patriarch of Jerusalem: and near him some Crusader, with the red cross on his silver mail.

The burghers, too, were abroad in the arcades of the streets of Nikosia, gathering in groups before the Palazzo Reale which had been the residence of the kings of the island until Janus had removed his capital to Famagosta.

But Nikosia had always been a cradle of loyalty in spite of a floating population of strangers who came thronging to visit her monuments and palaces—to see the wonder of her merchandise gathered from the riches of her own fertile land—fruits and wines and silks and jewels, broideries of gold and silver wrought by her peasant women among their vines—exquisite vessels of beaten copper from the famous mines which had baptised this island of Cyprus. But there were carpets also from Persia, and fabulous Eastern stuffs—linens from Egypt, gossamer-fine; and carvings of ivory and gold, and drugs and spices from Arabia. There were slaves too—most fair to look upon—everything that might minister to the luxury of a great city, as there were churches, of many religions, and altars to many saints.

* * * * *

Suddenly a troop of horsemen dashed rapidly through the open gates and into the heart of the city among all the loitering holiday-wanderers, rousing them to instant strenuousness.

"There is news!" some one cried startled. "They have come to pause at the palace of the Vice-Roy. The leader is already within—he hath not waited for his gentlemen to announce him!"

"Aye, there is news:—may the Saints have mercy!" one of the burghers answered to the quick questions of the visitors from the hamlets. "And it is strange news, I wot—Heaven help us! For that was our own Seigneur, Pietro Davilla, new created a Knight of St. John, and gone but this morning, with all the gentlemen and squires of his household, to pay his homage—a leal Knight to Her Majesty. It must be some dread matter that hath chanced to turn him from such duty and purpose ere he could reach Famagosta."

"That was the Seigneur Davilla, on the black champing steed? one of the Councillors of the Realm?" a stranger asked.

"Aye, man; thou art in luck to see our Seigneur with all his bravery of men and horse! That was he who entered the palace of the Vice-Roy."

"And that other—all armed, with vizor down—the steed that bore him foaming with haste, as if his hoof had scarce touched ground?"

"I know not: but he weareth the colors of the Royal House. He hath the look of some spent herald. See, they summon him from within! It must be that he bringeth tidings from Famagosta. Pray Heaven it is well with Her Majesty!"

"And with our Prince!"

"Viva la Regina!"

"Heaven save the Queen and the Infant King!"

A tumult of vivas broke from the excited throng who were on edge with unquiet expectation.

And while they still waited watching the signs of commotion through the palace portals, they beguiled their impatience with bits of broken talk—strange surmises—asseverations of loyalty—distrust of the foreigners who filled important offices in the Government, especially of the Council of the Realm, which they looked upon with unconcealed displeasure. For they of Nikosia were desperately loyal and somewhat sore, withal, that King Janus had seen fit to remove the capital from their splendid city of Nikosia, which from the beginning of the Lusignan dynasty, had held this supremacy.

"For that Janus had captured Famagosta from Genoa, a feat of prowess for his youth—and so would make his boast on it—keeping it ever in mind," an elderly citizen explained to the crowd with a singular mingling of admiration and disapproval. "And mayhap he might have lived to learn more wisdom—may God have mercy on his soul!—if it had pleased His Majesty to dwell in our Palazzo Reale of Nikosia, where one may breathe the air of Heaven, instead of a pestiferous malaria from the marshes of Famagosta."

"It would be well that Her Majesty came hither to dwell," said one of the burghers eagerly; "and the Prince—because of the noisome air and water of Famagosta."

"Aye; and because of other things," interposed a stalwart man who had just issued from the palace of the Vice-Roy and joined the waiting throng. "That she may dwell among a loyal people and away from the Council of the Realm which one may not trust."

He spoke in tones of bitter wrath, startling the others by his hint of danger.

"How 'the Council of the Realm'?" another citizen questioned, astonished and half indignant. "Is not our Seigneur Pietro Davilla one of them?"

"Aye—he is one—but a noble of Nikosia—our loyal city. And because of his loyalty—lest he be thought one with their foul purposes—he hath returned in haste. I spoke with one of his gentlemen but now. Nay, bide your time." For the crowd turned upon him with an avalanche of ejaculations and questions: "it will be proclaimed from the Palazzo Reale."

"But, Stefano—the Council of the Realm?" one of his listeners persisted.

"There are too many foreigners in the Council: and that black-browed fiend of Naples is the worst of them!"

"Be not so daring, man! Hast thou no fear?" a stranger in the crowd exclaimed warningly; "we shall all be arrested for rebels."

"Fear!" a citizen echoed—"Santa Vergine! That was our Stefano!—thou knowest him not."

But Stefano was one who spoke when it pleased him: he deigned no reply, but fixed an intent gaze on the balcony of the palace, while the crowd fell to talk among themselves, still waiting eagerly for news.

Stefano Caduna, this man of the people, was, in truth an idol in Nikosia: rugged, commanding, with an air and tone of authority, the people looked to him for leadership. While they were speaking he moved quickly forward, the crowd making way for him at his quiet gesture—the strong hand, slightly raised.

"Pace!" he commanded, with a motion toward the palace of the Vice-Roy, and an instant hush fell upon the throng.

A band of knights, fully armed, came forth and stood before the palace portal, while their banner-bearers unrolled the standards of the Queen and the Prince—a challenge to the eager cries of loyalty which greeted them. Mounted messengers were dashing with orders up to the citadel and down to the city-gates. The Vice-Roy himself had come to the balcony above the portal and stood watching the messengers anxiously, as if he would speed them beyond their possible. Then he turned to the crowd of eager, upturned faces, now quieted once more, by an imperative motion from Stefano.

Mutio di Costanzo, Admiral of Cyprus and Vice-Roy of Nikosia, Lord of the city and fortress of Costanza, one of a long line of knights, was a gentleman of honor devoted to the Crown and a loyal friend to the Queen: he held the confidence of the people and deserved it well.

An inarticulate murmur of devotion stirred the crowd as he stood for a moment quite silent before them, too overcome by emotion to trust himself to speech. When he spoke, his voice was calm, far-reaching and authoritative.

"Citizens of Nikosia," he said, "I bring you black news of perfidy to our Queen and infant King."

He was interrupted by deafening cries of anger and alarm; but Stefano commanded silence.

"I know," the Admiral continued, his noble face a shade less stern, "that every heart and arm in Nikosia is hot for her defense."

And now Stefano let the passion of loyalty have sway. But the Admiral had more to say.

"The gates of the city will be instantly closed and closely guarded; no man will be allowed to enter who doth not declare for the Queen—who is captive in the Fortress of Famagosta."

The shock of the news held them dumb while they listened. "The Council of Nikosia will sit at once to discuss measures for her release; the forces of Nikosia and of the citadel will immediately report, fully armed. The traitors are Rizzo di Marin and others of the Council of the Realm who have insolently proclaimed Alfonso of Naples as Prince of Galilee and Heir to the Crown of Cyprus."

But now their voices came back to them, sputtering, uncontrolled; a babel of sounds arose, cries of loyalty—of fear—of indignation and wrath and fervor of affection—of hatred for the Council. Questionings, denunciations, curses that made one's hair stand on end—

Only for a moment.

Then the voice of the Admiral was heard again, stilling the chaos as by magic.

"Every man to his post. Let order prevail, for love of our Queen! We have stern work before us."

And below, among the people, Stefano Caduna boiling with suppressed anger, which deepened his voice to an ominous calm—as of the lull before an earthquake—saw that the orders of the Vice-Roy were instantly obeyed.

* * * * *

Stefano was in the very heart of the action in Nikosia during the days that followed; the people furious at the outrage to their Queen, swore that it should be people against nobles, if there were need, in her defense; and assembling in great numbers, at the house of Stefano, they chose a 'Council of the People' and made him its chief.

And well it was for the peace of Nikosia that Stefano was gifted with that rare power which marks some men for mediators in time of storm. He stood between the nobles and the people, trusted by both parties—a man of force and judgment—reticent, comprehending, swift to see his way and scorning subterfuge.

He it was who headed a delegation of the people to urge their petition that the Queen should be rescued with all speed and brought for safety within their walled and loyal city, and who rested not until the Vice-Roy with all his knights and all the forces that could be spared from the defense of Nikosia and of the citadel which they were holding for Her Majesty, had ridden forth to Famagosta.

Stefano commanded the guard at the gates of Nikosia—as also the force of the entire city, during the absence of the Vice-Roy: and he could be swerved nor fooled by no entreaties nor orders from any noble in the land. "No man entereth," he explained in that terrible cold iron voice of his, "save only he who sweareth to live and die in defense of Her Majesty."

He it was, also, who, waiting for no parleying, thundered a refusal to surrender the city to those who brought the demand from the Fortress of Famagosta, signed in trembling letters by the Queen's own hand, "Caterina Regina."

"Nay, but Her Majesty shall write the letters from her own palace—freely—that we, her loyal, servitors may know her will,—or ever we surrender her city of Nikosia." And so, sent back the envoys of Rizzo—foiled.

And when some days later, yet others came—a company of mounted noblemen, demanding entrance in the Queen's name to deliver her answer to the letter sent by the Council of the People from Nikosia and to take their oath of loyalty—Stefano, still unbelieving, not knowing how it fared in Famagosta, gave his unvarying answer:

"No man entereth, save only he who sweareth to live and die in the Queen's defense."

"We are content to swear," they answered him.

But still he gave no order to open the gates, but rode forth himself with the captains of the Council of the People, fully armed, to meet them, dismounting as they approached and offering all courteous salutations of the time—yet with reluctant speech—fearing to grant unwise credence, lest this should be some new perfidy.

"Think not to deceive us with fair words," said Stefano, "who hold this city for our Queen; but if with most solemn oath ye swear to live and die in her defense, we make you welcome."

"On most fair honor of a Knight," they answered him, "in the name of San Giovanni!"

"Call hither the Chaplain with the Holy Book!" said Stefano.

And so without the city, Stefano Caduna, man of the people, received the most solemn oath of these knights and nobles, envoys of the Queen, bareheaded and on bended knee before him, ere he would consent to unbar the gates of Nikosia to receive Her Majesty's own messengers.



XXIV

The immediate liberation of the Queen had seemed a well-nigh hopeless quest to the body of brave men who were on their way to Famagosta, to pledge the loyalty of their city of Nikosia, so soon as news of the conspiracy had been proclaimed, and they had deemed it rather to be won by strategy than prowess. For the Cyprian forces were few and were chiefly intrenched in the fortress of Famagosta—the most formidable of all the strongholds of Cyprus—leaving no trained men at arms in the city itself, which thus lay unprotected, close under the vigilance of the now hostile Citadel, whose commander, Saplana, had been a favorite of the King but was now among the traitors. The Count of Tripoli was foremost among the leaders of this intrigue and he was Governor of the city of Famagosta! And scattered among this Cyprian corps to see the orders enforced, was a band of mercenaries brought from Naples by Rizzo!

The situation in Famagosta had been briefly indicated in the despatch which the courier of Bernardini had urged his spent and panting steed to deliver in Nikosia; there were also certain dark hints of rumors current among the outraged populace, that Rizzo, Chief-of-the-Council appointed to help the Queen, might soon be master of all the strongholds of the island, having forced letters from the Queen commanding their surrender to the envoys of the Chief-of-Council.

Outside the cities news travels slowly, as all men know. For along the highways there are no marke-places whence it may be proclaimed—there is no eager populace to tell it from mouth to mouth, and these treacherous orders might even reach the forts and be obeyed in all good faith, by their Commanders before they could have any suspicion of the revolt of the Council.

Of the wisdom and foresight of the Queen's Venetian Chamberlain the Admiral had ample proof; since the Bernardini's message of alarm, sent the night before the mutiny, had arrived only a few hours before it had been followed by his second despatch, in swift and terrible justification.

Because of these rumors Mutio di Costanzo, Admiral of Cyprus, had ordered messages of warning sent to the chief citadels, as he had been able, before he left Nikosia; and also because of them, he rode to-day with a so scanty following not having dared to leave any points of vantage without sufficient guard.

He turned and surveyed his little band of Knights with frowning brows—his invincible Knights of the Golden Spurs—they seemed so few in the face of the perplexities of his problem.

Not that any thought of personal danger for himself or for them, in the few against the many, entered into his difficulties; but that the facts made failure a possibility; and there must be no failure.

He raised his visor and each man saw his leader's face as the face of a conqueror.

"Coraggio, Signori!" he cried; "our cause is just! God and San Giovanni make strong our arms!"

Well might he be proud of this noble company pressing forward silently, but with quickening pace, at sight of the urgency in their leader's face.

No noble house of Cyprus could boast more ancient lineage, nor so many knights entitled to wear the golden spurs, nor more honorable trophies of the valor dear to knightly hearts. They rode all in full armor, some bearing their famous shields of crimson with the quaint heraldic lion rampant on his golden bar—the device which all men knew had been granted them for extraordinary proof of prowess centuries before.

For this noble family the ancient city of Costanza had been named; and the quaint church of Santa Maria di Costanza, rich in relics and in decoration, had been the private chapel of their historic Castle.

To the assuring rhythm of their strenuous tramp the Admiral turned again to his unsolved problems. For the galleys of Cyprus had hitherto been kept armed by force, but recently their crews had been disbanded, in obedience to a strange clause in the will of King Janus. Now, as Mutio di Costanzo went on his way, wrapped in meditations that were not cheering, the question came to him—"Why?"

Janus, whatever his gifts, had been no judge of men—possibly from too strong reliance in his own power to conquer them by his personal charm. Had this disbanding been deftly suggested to the facile King by his friend, the arch-schemer of Naples?

Was the wily Rizzo, even in those days, planning to leave Cyprus defenceless?

The Admiral gnashed his teeth and sent up a smothered cry to all the saints that his wrath might not unnerve him to the point of losing his iron grip upon himself.

But the situation was not rendered less galling by the reflection that the port of Famagosta—the sole harbor of importance in the island—was covered by the citadel commanded by a traitor; that just within the port a galley flaunting the colors of Naples, rode complacently; and that there were no longer any Cyprian ships-of-war ready for attack.

But retribution must be near; for he knew that Bernardini had sent warning followed by immediate details of the revolt, by secret messengers, concealed in trading-ships to the Venetian fleet off the African coast, and strong help must be at hand. To risk failure by a premature attack, for want of patience to endure a temporary disgrace, would be unmanly weakness. The Madonna be praised, the Chamberlain of the Queen was a man of resource; the people of the cities were devoted to her, and the end might be nearer than seemed possible.

The Admiral was impatient for the conference with Bernardini who had implored him to come without delay.

"At all hazards we shall hold the city-gate," the Chamberlain had written in the first hours of that dark dawn. "With citadel and port in command of the traitors and the Queen in their keeping, this post may have no importance in their eyes. But our help must come from without."

And now the little band of faithful knights were coming in sight of the city-walls—massive and splendid—a monument to the Lusignans.

"For our Queen and Cyprus!" the Admiral said solemnly, his hand upon his sword.

The tone of the utterance made it a command.

"So help us God our Seigneur, and San Giovanni!" the knights answered him in a breath, nerving themselves to attack and success: but they came silently and with no sounds of battle—by order of their chief—not knowing whether to expect welcome or conflict, or whether secrecy might be well.

At the tramp of their horses' feet the warden had advanced to the grille of reconnoitre and withdrawn the small stone shutter for inspection; his head appeared behind the bars, but he wore no tell-tale colors:

"Open! in the name of the Queen! to Her Majesty's faithful vassals!"

The Admiral spoke low—for secrecy might be the very discretion of valor: but fearlessly, for the words were a signal, and every knight stood ready.

"Who challengeth? Speak low."

Was it the word of caution, or a ruse de guerre?

"One of Nikosia."

The Admiral gave the password which Bernardini had sent in that hasty note, and listened, trembling as a brave man may with impatience to be within and at his post of duty, while one by one the bolts were withdrawn, the portcullises were raised, and the signal to advance was given—quite silently: the finger of the guard who had been detailed to accompany them, was upon his lips.

Not until he had conducted them beyond, into the city, did he speak: "We know not what echoes there may be within those walls," he said, pointing back to the ponderous gateway with its many vaulted passages.

Then impatient, the Admiral asked for news.

"Your Excellencies are expected: the citizens await you:" it was said in a tone that meant more than courtesy: Mutio di Costanzo scanned him narrowly.

"From whom dost hold thy orders?" he asked.

"From the Signor Bernardini, commander of the city," the man answered readily.

"Then speak."

"The Signor Bernardini hath this night rescued our infant Prince from the galley of Naples——" He supplemented the statement with an angry oath coupled with Rizzo's name. "We know not where our Signor hath hidden him."

"And the Queen?"

The guard shook his head.

"The Signor hath waited for help to come: it is said that her rescue will be this day. In the Palazzo Reale the guard hath been trebled for her defense, and every man would give his life for the Queen."

"Is there more?"

"Aye, your Excellency: rumor hath it that that devil of a Rizzo hath forced Her Majesty to give him letters of surrender for every fortress of Cyprus, and that to-day he is gone, with other traitors, to receive the keys of all our citadels. Panagia mou! he is capable of every treachery! If he were not within——" He indicated the fortress with a scowl of hatred, then made a motion which seemed to include the entire city and plant the people, resolute, before the windows of the Queen.

"And the Governor of Famagosta?"

"That traitor Tripoli is in the train of the scoundrel Rizzo, both faring forth for other treacheries, thinking us safe enough to leave, with those spies of Naples on guard." His sputtering curses choked further speech.

"It shall be now," said Mutio di Costanzo: "conduct us to the Signor Bernardini"—yet wondering at the silence of the streets as he passed.

"Your Excellency," said the guard once more, in answer to his question, "it is the order of the Bernardini who hath commanded quiet and hath promised, on his life, to restore the Queen to her people."

The hasty conference in the Palazzo Reale, developed the fact that the citizens of Famagosta, too furious for any considerations of expediency, had been with difficulty restrained from storming the Citadel and demanding the Queen's instant release: and now that any trained force, however small, was upon their side, the critical moment had come. Men, women and children flocked into the deserted streets and eagerly followed the cavalcade of Knights to the Piazza San Nicolo, where the crowd was increasing every moment; and when Bernardini and Mutio di Costanzo appeared among them, they were greeted with cheers and vivas.

"Regina!"

"Madonna Nostra Reale!"

"Regina!"

"Subito! Subito!"

The cries startled the silence of the streets, and further restraint was impossible.

* * * * *

"Regina! Madonna Nostra Reale! Subito!"

The city rang with their shouts—the voice of a multitude magnificent in righteous emotion—from the gruff tones of the men of the populace hoarse with anger, to the strident cries and sobs of the women and the high treble of little children; and clear and calm throughout the chorus, the clarion-notes of command.

The mighty sound penetrated to the depths of the Citadel, waking the Cyprian force from its stupor of despondency, rousing the dormant manhood within them.

It reached the chamber of the captive Queen, who had known no thrill of hope since that night of horror.

"My God! my God!" she cried, with streaming eyes. "I thank thee!—Madonna mia Sanctissima! My people are calling for me!"

* * * * *

"In the name of Her Majesty!"

"Surrender command to the Admiral of Cyprus!"

To no mighty force could those strong bars have been more swiftly withdrawn; nor was there need of contest to displace the trembling guards of Naples, as the men of Cyprus within the fort hastened to obey the mandate from without, saluting as the massive gates creaked upon their hinges and protesting that further haste had been impossible.

"Let every traitor crave mercy!" the Admiral thundered as he crossed the drawbridge with his cavalcade: "and on your knees crave pardon of your outraged Queen as we descend."

"Signori!"—to the Knights of the Golden Spurs—"await us here—none less loyal may stand on guard."

* * * * *

To-day the entire armament of the fortress was less than of wont; for Rizzo and Tripoli, secure in their victory and confident that there would be no uprising since none had yet been attempted, had not hesitated to take a considerable following with them to secure the surrender of the other citadels of Cyprus "by order of the Queen." For was not Rizzo the happy holder of many pretty bits of parchment signed by the hand of "Caterina Regina" herself and attested by the royal signet of Cyprus—which to disobey was treason? It would be a pretty farce to insist upon the potency of that trembling signature wrested from the captive Queen when she had worn no semblance of power—a farce to which the Neapolitan schemer was fully equal.

None but a man who knew the famous stronghold of Famagosta so intimately as did the Admiral of Cyprus could thus quickly have made sure that the surrender was complete and that no secret reserves of men and arms were kept back for further intrigues. To swear in those who would stand for Cyprus—to banish the mercenaries of Naples and all who were in sympathy with them to the dungeons below—to make sure of the color of the guards at port and passage—was not so much longer in the doing than in the telling.

And yet, to the young Queen and Margherita the moments had seemed hours: they stood close together; straining every faculty to interpret the meaning of the commotion below, within the fortress, alternating between hope and fear as, at intervals, the cries of the people reached them from the piazza, indistinct and broken by the thickness of the walls; now and again a fierce imprecation rising above the tumult—yet surely there were tones of loyalty—voices calling for "Caterina Regina!"

Caterina's strength was well-nigh spent—she had suffered so much; she caught the hand of Margherita in agitation as the tramp of footsteps echoed through the corridor nearing the door of her chamber, and Margherita laid her other hand on Caterina's with an almost maternal tenderness, from the great pity within her.

"Beloved Lady!" she cried reassuringly; "they bring us glad tidings."

For she read it in their faces as the Bernardini and Mutio di Costanzo knelt in the low doorway to offer their homage.

But the young Queen seemed to tremble between life and death as she stretched forth her arms to them with a low wail that almost unnerved those strong faithful men.

"My Boy! My Boy!—your Prince!"

How may joy immeasurable be told in an instant's space, and one schooled to agony not die from the swift change to such rapture of content!

For the Bernardini had answered her: "Safe in the Palazzo Reale: and the people are clamoring for their Queen!"

And because the Dama Margherita had seen the great shining light in his eyes her heart went out to him, and she knew that the safety of the Royal infant meant a tale of loyalty and danger that Aluisi Bernardini would never tell.

* * * * *

But at last the Admiral and the Bernardini led Caterina forth into the piazza, pale and calm—the glory of a great gladness in her eyes—the suffering which had left deep traces in her face disguised by the exaltation of the moment so that she scarcely seemed less radiant than when she had last stood there on the day of the coronation fete with her child in her arms—as any woman of the people might have done, the tender, baby-cheek pressed close to hers.

Some of them remembered it as they fell on their knees around her, kissing her hands, offering her homage—reparation—sobbing out their devotion:

"Regina! Madonna Nostra Reale! Regina! Regina! May the Holy Mother bless her and our little King!"

She was not a thing of State and jewels, cold and distant like the proud Queen Elena, but a tender human mother, fair and young, and her heart had been all but broken when that wicked Chief of Council had stolen away the child!—the people might gather close about her and weep and rejoice with her.

"Madonna Nostra Reale!"

The air was still ringing with the loyal shouts of the multitude when Vettore Soranzo with that eagerly expected Venetian fleet, weighed anchor in the port of Famagosta and with his men streamed through the unresisting gates of the Fortress into the Piazza San Nicolo, where the young Queen still stood radiant.

* * * * *

With the holy calm of night peace brooded over the distracted city and the Cyprian stars looked down on the old, sweet story of mother and child—as closely clasped beneath the gilded roof of the royal palace as under the thatch of a peasant shed—smiling, forgetful of the days of anguish that had parted them.



XXV

The Venetian Admiral Mocenigo, god-father to the little prince, had followed close upon the coming of Vettore Soranzo, and they had lost no time in examining into the causes of the difficulties and in fixing the responsibility for the treachery where it belonged: disloyal officers were replaced by men in sympathy with the government, men of weight and character were sought for to fill the vacancies in the Council of the Realm, and it seemed that days of sunshine were dawning for Caterina, guarded by the affection of her people and the invincible arm of Venice.

These Venetian nobles would have made short work in meting out justice to those chiefs who had been the instigators of the conspiracy, but as yet they had eluded the search; though it was rumored that Saplana, the Turkish commander of the Fortress of Famagosta, with his nephew Almerico to whom the conspirators would assign control of the castle of Cerines,—had been in hiding in the palace of the Archbishop. And a tale was brought to Bernardini by a group of agitated peasants from the hamlet of Varoschia, that at early dawn a man fully armed, with the semblance of Rizzo—"not an apparition, Signore sa—but how could one know the face of him with his vizor down?—was riding like the wind to Famagosta, and with him a multitude of horsemen, coming very silently. We saw them from the vineyards high up on the hillside. And then—quite suddenly—we looked and they were gone—they came no more—by San Nicolo and the Holy Madonna, it is true!"

Significant gestures gave a certain mysterious color to the peasant's tale; but whatever its truth, it was actually known that Rizzo and other of the conspirators had been seen in the neighborhood of Nikosia; and the whereabouts of these intriguers was a topic of absorbing interest, for it was felt that the sunshine would be clearer when Rizzo with his accomplices should have been found and made to suffer the full penalty of their crime.

Rizzo and Fabrici had been absent at the time of the uprising of the citizens of Famagosta, and the wolf-like courage of the Chief-of-Council was on the wane: for the letters of the Queen had not proved the passport he had expected toward the surrender of the Cyprian strongholds to a traitor: since more than one of the Commanders had been found so staunch in loyalty as to question the validity of the royal signature.

When all had gone so well at first, these failures were exasperating to a man of Rizzo's temper—the more so that the little Queen had refused to prepare another letter of dismissal required of her; and Rizzo, the stronger in wrath and insolence because his faith in his star was somewhat less, had set forth himself to enforce the investiture of Almerico as Commander of Cerines—the castle to which he had been refused admittance on the morning of the uprising in Famagosta.

* * * * *

Venice, meanwhile, with her faculty for establishing confidence and settling all things in order, having brought back the smiles of the Court, had suggested the wisdom of relieving the strain and tickling the fancy of the people by some pageant. There was to be a grand review of the troops in the Piazza on the esplanade, in the presence of the Queen and the infant Prince, at which the presentation by Her Majesty to the Admiral Mocenigo of a golden shield, magnificently wrought with the arms of Cyprus, would diplomatically suggest the important role that Venice had played in the re-establishment of the Government.

Dama Ecciva was in her element again, now that something had happened to scatter the unendurable dulness, and each day brought some new matter for discussion.

"Hast heard, Eloisa, how that this new Council to Her Majesty hath captured the Secretary of His Reverence the Archbishop? and they thought to hang him for his master's treachery and his own; and then, because he promised to confess to save his life, he is in the Castle instead. And there were revelations!—and intrigues!—verily a Reverendissimo!"

"Name him not to me; I have no patience!"

"Thou hast never patience when I bring thee news: and it is tiresome of thee, for one must talk, or die of ennui in this court!"

"Then let it be of something better." Eloisa answered in a tone which showed her distaste of the subject.

"Choose thou—since one can never know thy whim. Shall it be of that famous Saplana who runneth away to put himself in hiding;—for fear—verily for fear—the Commander of Famagosta! afraid to die like a man! A comedy!—one might laugh if it were less craven."

"One knoweth not if he be in hiding, since he is not found; he may be a traitor, yet not a coward too."

"Yes, one knoweth, bella Contarini mia: did I not promise thee news? And thou wilt never guess it."

"It was our Admiral Mocenigo who found him?" Eloisa asked eagerly.

"Nay; not 'our Admiral Mocenigo';" the other answered lingering on the name with a fine mimicry of her tone; "not thine nor mine. Thou hast a foolish way with thee of mine and thine, as if all that came from Venice were held close to thy little heart.—How goes it with thy handsome Signor Bernardini?"

"Oh, Ecciva! The Chamberlain of the Queen! how darest thou? Thou art over free with thy foolish speech."

"Nay, little timid maid; it is thou who art foolish not to see—not to see——. Ah, well, he is but a man for all he is Venetian; and thou—thou art a child and hast no eyes."

"What meanest thou, Ecciva? Nay, thou shalt tell me." She caught her companion's hand as Ecciva made a feint of turning away.

"So——; now there is something found that doth not tax thy fickle patience, since we speak of the splendid Bernardini! Thou hast ever thine adoration ready for a Venetian."

Eloisa flushed indignantly, but she answered staunchly: "Not only I—but every one who loveth what is noble. Thou knowest, Ecciva, the Court is full of his praises."

"Aye, is it, my little one? As well it may be! Then what harm that I should sing them too? Verily, I think he is noble beyond all others;" her taunting tone became suddenly earnest. "And this I came to tell thee."

"This is not news," the other answered coldly, having found it difficult to keep the pace of Ecciva's changing admirations, for the Cyprian maiden was easily captured by any demonstration of power; "and thou camest to bring me news."

"Hast ever thought that the Chamberlain of the Queen would woo a bride?" Dama Ecciva asked lightly, but unconsciously opening and closing her slender henna-stained fingers, straining them into the soft palms with strenuous motions, while she waited for her companion's reply.

"If I knew his secrets or dreamed them, I would not tell thee—being his friend," Eloisa exclaimed indignantly, "such talk ill befitteth the dignity of Her Majesty's maids of honor. What is thy news?"

Ecciva came closer and laid one hand on Eloisa's wrist, tightening her clasp while she spoke in low, slow, insinuating tones—holding her with her strange gaze.

"This is no news to thee—that I—that I——? Tell me Eloisa, dost thou not see?"

The Venetian turned from her uneasily.

"Thou hast shewn me nothing with all thy talk of the Bernardini;" she spoke the name unwillingly, Ecciva seemed to force her to continue the theme, and it was with difficulty that she could withdraw her hand from the Grecian maiden's sinuous clasp. "Let us talk no more; for thou hast no news of real matter."

"Not of the Bernardini, since thou wilt not hear it. But how if I knew of a bride for him?"

"I think he would not ask of whom thou speakest!" Eloisa tried to laugh and shake off the spell. "I will listen no more, Ecciva."

But the other paid no heed. "How if I knew of a bride for him?" she repeated; "of a most ancient house of Cyprus; noble enough to mate with him—for out of it came one of the queens of the land——. And if—and if she would not say him nay!—How then, Carina? For thou, 'being his friend,' wouldst wish to see him win such favor——?"

"It is not the Dama Margherita de Iblin," Eloisa asked with sudden eager interest.

"The Lady Margherita!" Ecciva echoed with a scornful toss of her head. "Doth one seek a bride no longer young when one is a man like that? Nor—nor beautiful?—She is not beautiful!"

"She is more rare than beautiful," Eloisa retorted, piqued. "For she is noble, like the Signor Bernardini: and her face is like her soul."

"They should not trust their secrets to so young a maid!" the Lady Ecciva cried tauntingly.

She had suddenly flushed and grown pale again. Then a new thought came to her. "But she also is a Dama di Maridaggio—she also. Thou mightest tell that for a bit of gossip to the Queen, who, perchance, hath influence with the Signor Bernardini." She had laid her hand again on Eloisa's, with an insistent touch.

"Why dost thou say, she also?"

"That is for thy puzzle—to amuse thee, carinissima; for verily thy brain is dull. It is no wonder with the gravity of this court! But happily to-morrow—thou shalt see to-morrow how the people shout to him, for Cyprus doth owe him honor—and Her Majesty more than life. It is the Bernardini who hath done it all—more than the Soranzo, or the Mocenigo—more even than our great Admiral of Cyprus. Thou shalt see!"

Eloisa fell easily into praises of her hero, and her tongue was unsealed. "To go at night, with only a poor fishing-skiff and a handful of men, to steal back the little king from the galley of Naples—it was not easy! But how should one think of peril when the Prince was in danger?—They are both like that—he and she."

"All knights are like that, or they would be craven: that was no honor to him. But what woman went with him from the palace? I watched them going; it was a night like some great poem!"

"That was our dear Lady of the Bernardini; lest the Prince should be strange without some loving face about him, and none can smile him into quiet, as she with her gracious ways; and they feared a sound, for the galley lay close under the fortress. So quietly they went, along the shore, lingering where the nets are thrown by the shallows, to take the galley by surprise—the Lady of the Bernardini shrouded in the mantle of a fisher-woman."

"And after?—When they had found him? For it was not told where they hid the child—or I heard it not."

"Yes—now it may be known; thanks be to our Mater Sanctissima!" Eloisa answered devoutly. "They floated about in the fishing skiff until they reached the private galley of the Signor Bernardini—so far around the coast that it would be safe for the Prince. And of the peril, the Lady of the Bernardini had no thought. The galley of His Excellency was dark and with no sign of action, yet it had been manned for a cruise the night before the treason—the poor Signor Bembo was to have gone therein"—her voice faltered and they both crossed themselves, the horror of that night was still so new.

"The crew were hidden within it," she continued after a moment's pause, "and if there had been pursuit, it would have started swiftly for Venice, to put the Prince in safety."

"How came this tale to thee?" Dama Ecciva asked with a sudden twinge of jealousy—"we both being of the court?"

"Nay, nay, Ecciva," Eloisa pleaded; "we both are here to do our duty, and in time of peril—thou knowest well—one may not ask counsel on the house-tops; and this was for life or death. How might they hope to surprise the galley of Naples, if it has been told to all the Court?"

"Thou, then?"

"Listen, Ecciva! Since it is past, thou shalt see how they are noble, this Mother and her son! They left with me that night a message for the dear Queen whom they might not reach with speech, to spare her greater anguish, if they came not back. For, oh my God, how she hath suffered!"

"It is yet more a poem," Ecciva exclaimed, stirred by the hope of further romance, and already half ashamed that she had shown her momentary feeling of jealousy. "The message—tell it!"

"'If we come not back, thou wilt tell our beloved Lady that we have sought to wrest the child from the galley of Naples; for rumor hath it that he is hidden there. And if he be there, we will bring him, or give our lives to save him. Tell her our galley waiteth far, to take the Prince to Venice if, from pursuit, there should be need to fly.'

"But—listen Ecciva—they said, 'if we come not again, and our galley should be found waiting on the coast, then tell her that our lives were little to express our love; and she shall not mourn that we have given them for her and for her child.'—Oh, Ecciva!" she ended with a long sigh of adoring appreciation.

Ecciva broke the tension with her exclamation: "No, Contarini mia, all knights are not like that: I said it but to tease thee. Tell it to the Dama Margherita with a face like that, and she will make it a second 'Kypria,' for she hath, verily the gift. I have not such a tale of knighthood to tell thee: yet, if thou carest for my tidings they would make a canto for the new Kypria of the Dama Margherita, in contrast to thine. And first of the traitor Saplana—of whom there is news."

Eloisa greeted the tidings with an exclamation of relief.

"He—and the precious group of noble villains—or of villain nobles—one's tongue takes twist in talking trash—the more when it is true; a precious group of traitors, all on the wild seashore—how the Dama Margherita would bring out the booming of the waves! These doughty villains fleeing because, forsooth, they feared the fleet of Venice!—tossing their reins on the necks of the steeds that brought them, and leaving them to wander at their will. A little gold and their arms and bucklers in the fishing skiff that brought them to the galley of the noble Ferdinand—the goodly King of Naples,—his well-beloved son, Alfonso, wore not for long the title of the 'Prince of Galilee!'—Is it a pretty tale for the poem of the Margherita? The tale of the fleeing villains!"

"But who went with the Commander?—Which others?"

"There was the nephew, Almerico—much in temper because thy noble uncle the Contarini would not yield up to his traitorous care the Castle of Cerines for the signature forced from the Queen. There was Fabrici—the very Reverend, the Primate of Cyprus. And then—and then—not last, but first, and deepest and darkest traitor of them all—the very darkest villain of them all—there was Rizzo!"

"Ecciva! Not Rizzo!—the land is free of him!"

"Aye, Rizzo, child. Did I tell thee I had news? And for their absences may Heaven be praised!—though, truly, they have deserved worse."

"They have deserved death," said Eloisa solemnly: "death between the columns of the Piazzetta—death and confiscation."

"So, my Venetian, thou never wilt remember that we are Cyprians! The drama of confiscation will surely follow upon their deserts, and there will be fiefs the more for their Cyprian betters. But as for death—'death between the columns'—I could almost be glad that Rizzo hath escaped. How shall one not admire the masterful scheming of the man, and the insolence and power of him?—he is fairly great in wile.—Have I not told thee news enough, and of a quality to make thy hair stand on end—the comely hair of a most decorous young Venetian maid?—and thou hast never a word of admiration. Verily, thou art tiresome!"

"It is so terrible, Ecciva: I cannot jest, nor gloat on it for news."

"There, there, sweet child!" Ecciva had slipped easily back into her old, mocking, taunting way—"go look out thy tire for the morrow and try on thy jewels, for the pageant will be fine: and, do thy best, I shall outshine thee—thee and the Dama Margherita! One pageant in six months of woe—it is not over much."



XXVI

The pageant had been brilliant, as one may read in the chronicles of the time.

Even the Queen of the Adriatic, in all her pride, could offer little to surpass the splendor of this great esplanade by the sea where the review had been held. The pavement of costly mosaic stretched along the coast, guarded by the lofty tower which jutted out upon the sea; while the other side of this unusual piazza was dominated by the famous Citadel which climbed the steep acclivity with intricate windings of crenellated walls, dotted with sentry towers where banners were floating. In that clear atmosphere distance was not appreciable, and the castellated slopes seemed to lead up to the highest peak of the Troodos, whose snow-crowned summit flashed its crystal against the deep blue of the Cyprian sky.

The massive walls of modern Famagosta skirted the esplanade, and above their mighty bulwark rose the domes and pinnacles of her palaces and churches—a city of delight. There were strange monuments breaking the sky-line; there were statues and fountains gleaming in the sunlight; there were hedges of rose and myrtle outlining the terraced gardens on the hill-slopes, where rioted all manner of fruits and bloom: back of them the vineyards of Varoschia—lemons, burning like topaz against the dark thatch of their glossy leaves, and near them the thin gray of the olive-trees, outlining with pale shadow the forests that spread to the mountains.

Vast vases of stone looked down from the heights in grotesque shapes—serpents coiled, thrusting out their tongues tipped with rubies, with glaring emeralds for eyes: and below them, deep cut in the living rock and blazoned so that one might read them from afar, the arms of the kingdom—as if sacred pythons, terrible and fierce, kept watch above the harbor for the honor of the realm.

And far off, against that wonderful mountain background, a colossal marble lion stood guard over the ruins of the city that slept upon the coast below—with demoniac, fiery eyes of flashing jewels, striking terror to the souls of mariners who might have wandered with sacrilegious feet among those crumbling tombs and temples in search of buried treasure.

For this buried city on the coast was the ancient city of Salamis, and famed for her magnificence—the Famagosta Vecchia which had furnished many a stately column and intricately wrought carving to enrich the modern city to which Janus had transferred the capital of his kingdom. Half-buried fragments of palaces and tombs and temples reached far along the coast, giving the touch of pathos and historic interest: and about them swept the broken circles of the splendid aqueduct which, in the days long past, had gathered the waters of the mountain streams to furnish the countless fountains and cisterns of Salamis. Great palms had sprung up in the fissures of the massive, grass-grown arches, and vines trailed draperies of beauty over their decay—and so they stood, a monument to the past, challenging the dwellers of the modern city to a labor so needful for the public weal.

The port was gay with trading ships and colors of many lands; but Mutio di Costanzo studied it with frowning brows, noting only the absence of his own galleys of Cyprus, which lay, unmanned in the dock-yards by order of King Janus the Second! And before them, where he turned his gaze, still frowning, on the silver of the sea rode the galleys of the fleet of Venice—decked with the banners of San Marco and of Cyprus.

Caterina, under her canopy, with all her court about her in fullest state, had received the homage of the people, as she passed her forces in review, her cheek tingling with honest pleasure at their enthusiastic greeting. The little Prince had been beside her, crowing his delight at the music, the motion, the noise, the color, in most unkingly fashion, quite unconscious that the storied jewel of his realm—the great ruby that Peter the Valiant had received as the tribute of a conquered Eastern city, glittering in the lace of his infant-cap, by way of royal insignia—demanded a regal bearing.

The presentation to the Mocenigo of the golden shield, richly inlaid with the arms of Cyprus, had made a pretty scenic episode, quite worthy of dramatic Venice.

For Mutio di Costanzo also, and for the Bernardini, there had been demonstrations, as Dama Ecciva had foretold: but the Lady Margherita de Iblin had noticed with uneasiness, that whereas it was a time when the people, high and low, should have assembled to testify their loyalty and affection, the crowd was chiefly composed of burghers and peasants from the hamlets in city neighborhoods, and that many of the old Cyprian nobles with their tenantry were conspicuously absent. And since the death of Janus, some of those who had formerly been in attendance at court, had rarely shown themselves there.

Dama Margherita spoke of this afterwards to the Admiral, for he had asked for some private conversation with her in her boudoir, when the ceremonies should be over.

"What mean these absences?" she asked, when they had bemoaned the situation.

"Venice is feared, not loved," he answered her.

But she was unwilling to confess that she understood him, having a pride in her land and love for her Queen.

"Pardon, your Excellency," she said, "we were speaking of Cyprus."

He passed the interruption by as unworthy, being greatly in earnest.

"And the Queen—a very lovely young woman—is a mere figurehead—a pawn to be moved at the discretion of the higher powers."

"Then, my Lord, it should be seen to that she hath a Council competent to advise," the Lady Margherita retorted with ready indignation, "instead of a horde of traitors."

Her voice took on a higher key in her excitement, and the Admiral laid his hand lightly on her arm to quiet her.

"Dear Dama Margherita," he said, "we have been in conference with His Excellency the Signor Mocenigo—a very remarkable mind—and the Provveditore Vettore Soranzo; and the vacancies in Her Majesty's Council have been filled with men, whom may Heaven keep more loyal!—But why did not the Counts of the Chamber rise up in eager demonstration of interest to put their best men in those vacant seats? And why—are we quite safe to discuss it here?—why did we—having her interests at heart—not dare to ask the great nobles whom we wished to reach, to take those places?"

"It is because of Janus, who hath been heedless and unfair?" she asked reflecting. "For verily the people love the Queen."

"Let us not deceive ourselves out of our very loyalty. The citizens and the nearer peasants hold her in love and reverence: but those of the larger casals and fiefs—the ancient nobles, have the power; and few of these are in her court. I would it were otherwise."

"It is something, your Excellency, to have won the love of the simpler folk as no Queen of this land hath ever done before," the Lady Margherita said staunchly.

"It is something, but not all," he answered; "the nobles are as much to be taken into consideration as the poorer classes. It is not all," he repeated with emphasis. "One may win from sympathy—but one must rule a kingdom by power. And the Queen—God help her!—is a charming child."

"My Lord!"

"A charming child—with a heart developed and matured like a saint; but with a mind untrained to intrigue, unsuspicious of jealousies, unconscious of any injustice wrought by her husband, not apt to comprehend, perhaps, any grievance of the nobles——"

"May we not help her?" Dama Margherita interrupted eagerly. "She would give back the fiefs if she knew that they had been misplaced—that any right had been violated. And now—after these confiscations——"

"Aye, there are more lands to satisfy their demands, it is true. But in their pride they might refuse—let her not wonder at it, nor cease from her courtesies. The nobles are rather sullen than overt in their discontent. They do not want Venetian galleys in their waters—though they must welcome them—nor to do homage to a Venetian for the gift of their own lands. And the restoration is less simple than was the confiscation. For temporary lords have been created and these remain to be reckoned with—even if the will were there."

"I am sure, your Excellency, that the will would not be lacking if this matter were understood; for Her Majesty is fair and generous, and eager to do all her duty by her people. It is of them, and never of herself, that her heart is full."

The old Knight looked at her with kindling eyes as he raised her hand to his lips with the gallantry of the time; yet retaining it in his own and petting it in fatherly fashion, for she had been his daughter's friend from childhood.

"Dear Margherita," he said with emotion, "it is well for our dear Queen that thou art so loyal; and well for our distraught land that thou shouldst be near her." He kissed her hand again as he released it. "I spoke but to try thee, my child. If there are those near her whom we may not trust—it is not thou: I know that a de Iblin could not be disloyal."

"To try me—my Lord——! Me!"

She had drawn away from him, wounded and disdainful, her voice thrilling with anger.

But he answered her quietly and sorrowfully. "Could I risk any hurt to thee, cara Dama Margherita, if duty of plainest speech were not imperative? I trust thee wholly—how else could I speak thus with thee? I have never for a moment doubted thee; yet one might doubt one's own loyalty in this court of Cyprus—where, it is told me, there is a most subtle intriguer who seeketh to do thee harm."

"So it be not those whose esteem is dear to me," she answered wearily, still smarting from the hurt, "what matters it?"

"My child," he pleaded, "if it had not been needful, I should not have told thee; nor told thee thus, but that I wished to see if any suspicion of this had dawned upon thee. But thou, like the Queen, art too noble to soil thy soul with distrust. Yet, bethink thee, for her sake, if there be any within this circle—however fairly spoken—who may be intriguing against thee, yet seeking in secret to disaffect the court in favor of some other claimant."

"Who brought your Excellency this tale?" she asked; "since all may not be trusted?" Her tone was a challenge, and she moved towards the door to close the interview, but the Admiral would not follow.

"Put by thine indignation, Margherita," he answered patiently, "for I have told thee as I would tell my own Alicia, if danger threatened—if somewhat overclumsily it seemeth to a maiden's fancy. It was told me, in confidence, by one of judgment and most loyal honor, whose name I may not reveal, and who besought me that I should warn thee—thee, Margherita—who knew thy loyalty staunch as his own."

A slow, pale flush grew on the girl's proud cheek as she listened and her eyes took on a strange light.

"What matters it, my Lord," she said again, "to me, if I have thy trust and—and—that of all men of honor! Forgive the temper of my house!" She stretched out her hand to him.

"So thou but know when to curb it," he answered smiling, "it is thy strength and our pride. And now—as to this other?"

"My Lord, I do not know"—but she paused suddenly.

"It is well," he said watching her, "for I may name no names—but thou art on thy guard. She was named to me as very fair—subtle—charming—of an ancient house of Cyprus—we have named no names. Let no confidences escape thee in her presence: but we have no knowledge yet of any traitorous intent that might excuse her dismissal from Court; and if it be but petty, personal jealousy"—again Margherita had flushed unwontedly—"for a mere jealousy, one may not insult a noble, ancient house. It is not known if her sympathy be with Naples, or with Carlotta."

"Your Excellency shall know if aught be discovered that should be told," Margherita promised. "But the matter is difficult."

"As to Her Majesty," the Admiral continued lowering his voice still further, "it hath been found needful to guard her interests, and the Signor Bernardini hath been named to the Council—a most excellent gentleman—if he were not of Venice. I would have had another of our Cyprian nobles, because of this jealousy of Venice. But they have kept themselves so much from court that we have not seen their color; and we dare not trifle with them, for the time is critical."

"Why not thou—Eccellentissimo?"

"Nay; I may keep a wider outlook on the interests of the kingdom without the Council. The city of Nikosia shall stand for her; the trading interests are to watch; the fleets must be re-manned; these intrigues must be thwarted. I outside the court, and thou within, very closely within—as near to the heart of the Queen as she will let thee—we shall work and help her, for her task is not light. She swore her oath of office to me, and I to her gave mine, as solemnly—to help her with my life. It is a heavy load for such tender hands to lift:—a question if one may conquer wile with innocency—yet the strife is noble."

"What may be done to help her?" Dama Margherita questioned, heavy-hearted. "What is my part? It is not only the scandal of watching against intrigue."

"That is no scandal to loyal service: and such her very trust and goodness do demand. But there is more: out of thy fuller knowledge of the Cyprian temper—thy comprehension of their grievances—thy loyal Cyprian pride—thy staunchness to the House of Lusignan—make thyself charming to these great Cyprian nobles; help the Queen to see the need of their conciliation, and stoop a little from thy loftiness to win it for them. To two such women, the impossible is easy. I leave thee now."

"Is there no more?" she asked.

"Nay:—or it is a trifle. If they have found the court a little over-dull, of late, blame them not over-much: the need for gayety and splendor is in their blood—more than in ours of Sicily—more even than in that of Venice—which hath greater gravity. I have spoken with Madama di Thenouris and the Lady of the Bernardini; but Madama di Thenouris hath better understanding of the Cyprian temper, its need of excitement—half barbaric—its impatience with a tone of gloom; the tourneys, the tennis, the hunt, all that bringeth life—let the court be charming again with jewels and color. Too great gravity is not wise."

"Yet to-day, your Excellency, if there were no lack of brilliancy—how many were not there to see!"

"It is the beginning only," he said; "let it not be the end. Great issues have been changed by such trifles."

"Must there be no more than trifles?" she asked, detaining him, dissatisfied.

He looked at her, uncertain whether it were wise to speak further.

"Tell no one that they are trifles: but listen," he said. "It will take strength, and patience, and wisdom and cunning and grace to rule this people. Shall we ask all this of any woman?" He dwelt upon the words with weighty enunciation.

"Or of any man?" she answered, half-mocking at the demand. "And if he were really a man, and not a god—and if one might choose one's King——"

He shook his head slowly in response. "Our paragon might not be found in the House of Lusignan, perchance. But surely he would not be a Louis of Savoy—nor a Ferdinand of Naples—no more than a Carlotta. Nor any Cyprian noble who hath eyes upon the Crown."

"Not this, also!" she cried, startled; "not this!"

"So rumor hath it; but none is strong enough. It frets me not. I have but told thee since thou art on guard."

"Is there a remedy?" she asked despondent.

"It is not hopeless. The Ministers must rule the land. We must choose our men and bide our time. Our Queen, by her grace, shall win the people's hearts: and all may be well."

"And the little Prince—under her training?—For she will teach him love and justice. She hath vowed him to the service of his land."

"Aye, he is our hope. We must guard her kingdom for him."

Then suddenly his face flamed with wrath. "This Council of the Realm were arch-traitors!" he said fiercely, "and to think that they escaped death!—Wresting power for their own ends—taking no concern for Cyprian interests—they 'forget' the tribute which assures to Cyprus the support of our Suzerain, and wait for Venice to come with careful inquiry to set such failures right! But what cared they whether the provisions of a solemn treaty were kept or broken? They had no thought of honor—they wanted power to overturn the throne—not to uphold it.—The masterful meanness of such creatures is beyond comprehension!"

"It doth unman me!" he said apologetically to Margherita, after this unusual outburst, for Mutio di Costanzo was a man of few words; then,

"Madama di Thenouris is of our private council," he added, to her immense relief, as he left her.



XXVII

It was the Bernardini whose swift thought had sent the first faithful account of the revolt of the Council of the Realm to the Signoria—his ingenuity which had secured the delivery of this true statement before the false story under the signature forced from Caterina had reached Venice—his prowess that had generaled the uprising of the citizens for the Queen's release—his devotion that had rescued the infant Prince from captivity—his foresight that had sent warning to the Admiral Mocenigo before he could be summoned from Venice to the rescue. Such honors as might be decreed to a fidelity beyond reward had come upon Aluisi Bernardini from the Republic, apt in recognition: and the undying gratitude of the Queen was already his.

"What shall I give thee, beloved Cousin?" the Queen had asked him. "Wilt thou be a noble of Cyprus?"

"Dear Lady," he answered, "I want but thy favor. Doth it not suffice me that I am a noble of Venice?"

"Nay—but to prove how thou art in my grace—with rich fiefs and holdings in this land for which thou hast spent thy service right royally."

"He doth not spend 'right royally' who seeketh reward," he answered, smiling down upon her, as he stood before her.

Caterina answered him by quoting the Cyprian proverb, "Assai dimanda che fidelmente serve." (Who hath faithfully served hath made a large demand.)

But he shook his head, still smiling.

"Other than I have done, what true knight would do?" he protested. "There could be no question of reward between us—thou being royal Lady of our Casa Cornaro, and I sworn to thy faithful service—my cousin and Queen. But, if thou wilt grant thy favor——"

He had grown suddenly grave.

"Nay, Aluisi, how may I grant what thou already hast?"

"I thank thee, fair Cousin. See how I trust thy favor to bring thee warning—being so much thine elder—dealing so much more with men than thou—being now of thy Council of the Realm——"

"Doth it need so many words from thee to me to excuse a counsel?—from thee, who gavest me back my child!"

She held out both hands to him impulsively, as a daughter to a father, her beautiful face radiant with gratitude and affection.

He closed the fair hands for a moment in his own, very tenderly. "I should have envied any," he said, "whose fortune it had been to do this thing for thee. My star hath favored me. Heaven keep our little Prince to bless his realm of Cyprus!"

After a moment's silence, Caterina spoke playfully, to recall him to his theme. "Was it for this fervent vow of loyalty that thou didst crave my grace?"

His face deepened to a seriousness that was almost compassionate.

"Thou knowest that I would fain help thee: thy people would verily spend themselves for thee—thou hast won their hearts. But, among the ancient nobles—it were wise to tell thee frankly—there is some discontent."

"Is it new matter?" she asked, frowning a little. She had motioned him to a seat, for she saw that he had much to say.

"It hath been spoken of before, but since—since the treachery of the Council and—other things—and the most unbounded confidence by the Signoria reposed in me to uphold the Queen—I have sought more nearly to sift the causes of this disaffection. They seem to me to be not beyond conciliation."

"'Not beyond conciliation,'" she echoed, "it seems to thee! It is a sad word to bring me of my people, Aluisi, since I would give my life for them." Her eyes had filled with tears.

"It is sad, beloved Lady: but nothing is hopeless that is not finished. Is it not better to see wisely than to ignore?—Let us be brave."

She folded her hands very tightly for a moment, as if struggling with herself; then she lifted her eyes to his.

"Teach me," she said. "What wouldst thou?—Thou shalt verily be made one of the Counts of the Chamber, that I may know one loyal among my Cyprian nobles."

"Nay, nay"—he made an effort to assume a lighter tone—"there is no need; else would it be wise to sail for Venice with the fleet of the Mocenigo! But, pardon me, fair Cousin; there is no need to bind my loyalty with Cyprian titles and Cyprian lands. Let the Sovereign of Cyprus seek her own nobles for such favors."

"Shall I stoop to buy the people of my kingdom?" she asked, a little bitterly. "Is this thy honorable counsel?"

He rose at once. "My Cousin," he said, "thou art not thyself—thine anger doth color thy speech. I crave thy promise to listen fairly to my honest thinking—which it is not over-easy to bring thee." He spoke compassionately.

"Forgive me, Aluisi; I listen."

"Out of thy generous heart, thou wouldst have covered me—who am a Venetian—with Cyprian honors. I thank thee. But I will translate thee to thyself. Was it 'to buy my loyalty?'"

"Nay, nay—but of appreciation—to show thee grace. Thou knowest it, Aluisi!" Her repentance came swift and warm as that of a child.

"I know it well," he answered heartily. "Show but this thy grace to thy Cyprian nobles and win them to thy court. They should come first in favor of their Queen."

"Have I been found lacking?" she asked, slowly; "and if—and if there seemeth little to reward?"

"Reward that little openly, and there shall be more. Bethink thee: there hath been great honor shown the Mocenigo."

"It was so ordered by the Republic," she began in a tone of self-justification; then stopped with a sudden perception of his point.

"Was it for this, perchance, that the Cyprian nobles came less heartily?" he pursued. "Is there no honor that might yet be granted to that most noble knight, the Admiral Costanzo?"

"Whatever favor he would have is already his:—he was the friend of Janus and my own," she answered in a tone of surprise that was almost indignant. And then, with a lingering on the words that was indescribably pathetic, she added:

"Janus hath written of him, 'Nostro caro, fedel a ben amato Sieur Mutio di Costanzo' (our dear, faithful and well-beloved seigneur) thou mayest read it in our 'Libro delle Rimembranze.' Could I do aught to add thereto?"

For answer he bowed his head, in tender reverence for her thought: for the loyalty with which she sought and treasured every token of nobility that had been chronicled of her husband—for the proud discretion with which she taught herself such utter silence on her wrongs—for the great love which, growing to a culte through those years of girlish dreams and of fair anticipation, had made this attitude possible for her,—who was all truth.

"His Excellency the Admiral is verily the champion of Cyprus," the Bernardini resumed after a little silence; "and methinks he would hold dear the royal order to re-man the galleys which have been disbanded—as it is now thought, by advice of the traitor Rizzo, or of some other Councillor in favor of Ferdinand of Naples. I would fain bring this matter for consideration before the Council, if it hath your Majesty's favor."

"It is well," she said, in a tone of perplexity, "if it seemeth so to the Council of the Realm. But our counsellors of Venice who brought us aid, spoke not of this."

She lifted her liquid dark eyes to his face, as she spoke—a girl of nineteen, bewildered with the intricate jealousies and strifes of her island kingdom—no wonder that she felt her hands weak to hold the sceptre so disputed!

"It may be that Venice hath not so closely at heart the interests of Cyprus as the Queen herself might hold them," he answered slowly and watching her as he spoke. "We must win the Cyprian nobles to our councils and consult their needs and bring them before the people as in the grace of your Majesty. Let us not always think the thoughts of Venice." She started and flushed slightly at his last words, but how could he help her else?—"We must do this to bind the hearts of the nobles to our Prince," he added, to give her courage.

"Let us not always think the thoughts of Venice!" The meaning was new to her, and for a few moments she struggled with it silently; then she lifted her eyes to his face and searched it artlessly, as a child might have done, to see if she had fully comprehended his strange speech—most strange from her Venetian Councillor.

But he met her gaze as frankly, having nothing to add to the simple statement wherewith he had sought to arouse this new consciousness within her, and which he wished her to ponder.

"Thou art more Cyprian, my cousin, than any member of the Council hath ever shown himself," she said at length, "and it heartens me—for thou art right. But now—just now—what may be done?" She spoke eagerly, as if from a new standpoint.

"There is Stefano Caduna, a man of the people—most worthy of your Majesty's grace. And there is Pietro Davilla, Seigneur and Knight, who hath proven his loyalty—how if he were to be named Grand Constable of Cyprus? Shall these be spoken of to the Council which will meet to-morrow, that some favor may be decreed them?"

"It is well; it should be done, thou art strength to me, Aluisi."

"Is there aught else that should be brought before the Council?" he asked.

She hesitated a moment, and then added with visible timidity and reluctance, flushing a vivid scarlet:

"There are other things that seem too petty—but since the death of the Auditor, our Uncle Andrea, thou hast perchance noted much scantiness of our treasury, though when it is a question of pageantry, the Council hath ever found enough and to spare. But the land is a rich land; yet there are no moneys in my hand wherewith to reward a favor or grant a dole of charity. If this be a symbol of power——"

"I will replace the voice of Messer Andrea in the Council," he hastened to assure her. "And, meanwhile—we are of one house, my Cousin——"

"Because thou art generous, shall the Council do less than its duty?" she asked proudly. "Or shall I be content to know that measures wise for the ruling of the realm may be frowned upon by those who hold the keys of my treasury—yet render no account? The knowledge of this added treachery hath come to me but recently; and this also was of Rizzo's malfeasance. Dost think that moneys shall be found for the manning of our fleet? Or that I have any voice in the spending of them?"

"The Madonna be praised that Rizzo and that Minister of Satan are fled!" he exclaimed devoutly.

"While Rizzo held office, I might ask no question," she said, turning towards him a face of pathetic appeal; for she had never before dared to speak freely of her grievances even to him—in so comprehensive a manner had the Chief of Council known how to assert himself: "and now, that I would fain have knowledge, that I may rule my people wisely, so much there is to set in order, that my heart doth fail me. I have written to the Serenissimo to tell him my perplexities—to pray that he might make it lighter for me to rule."

The Bernardini knew that she had cause for her failing courage, while yet he keenly felt that the remedy should not lie in an appeal to Venice, whose power was the unacknowledged core of bitterness in the growing disaffection among the Cyprian nobles. It might not yet be too late to save the kingdom for Cyprus; and what it lay within his power to do, Venetian though he was, he would do, rather than see this 'isola fortunata' slip without a struggle, into a mere Venetian province. The knowledge had been painfully growing within him that Venice was playing her hand skilfully—that Caterina would find herself simply a pawn to be moved at will of the Republic, and that "check" would be called whenever that masterful will should elect: there had been signs, too many to ignore, of splendor of movement and expenditure whenever the prestige of the Republic might be concerned—of indifference when the grievances of the Queen were confessed, or the autonomy of the island was in question—of slowly increasing assertion of Venetian power and rights.

He had accepted his mission, at the hands of his Government, to protect the rights of the Queen—not to enslave Cyprus; and his duty stood forth to him in firm, unwavering lines. Yet how should he dismay Caterina further in the attempt to force her fuller comprehension? He hesitated for a moment, but there seemed no other way. For very pity of her he spoke decidedly, with slow insistence holding her attention.

"The Queen of Cyprus holdeth her kingdom by no favor of Venice; but of inheritance, through her husband, the King. The failures in the Government should be righted by Cyprian wisdom; we must fill the vacancies with Cypriotes. I will take counsel with His Excellency the Lord Admiral of Cyprus."



XXVIII

It was the birthday of the little Prince:—only one year since he had opened his baby-eyes on life—and the day of his anniversary dawned radiantly.

Then, suddenly, athwart the sunshine and the promise, like the cloud in a perfect sky in a day of June, the shadows gathered and darkened.

The child was stricken.

"There is no hope," they said; and before the day had closed the little dimpled hands were folded over his marble breast, the long dark lashes peacefully swept the violet eyes that would never again unclose; and the tiny restless feet were still—oh, God, how still!—while, on the baby-brows that would never know the weight of the crown he was born to bear, the smile of a cherub crowned him with the promise of fairer Life.