The nobles, the soldiers, the courtiers, the people, they came and looked, often with silent tears, as he lay in state, in the light of countless tapers, on his mound of flowers—offerings not only from royal terraces—for his mother had willed it so—but the gifts which his people had brought, lay there together, rare exotics and the flowers of the field and forest, crushed and mangled, perchance, in some toil-worn hand when they came from far.

How little he seemed to have carried the hope of a kingdom!—how strong, to have swept it away with the mere folding of his baby-hand!—how mighty, to have crushed all dreams of happiness, forever, within his mother's breast!

GOD HAVE MERCY!

* * * * *

When the first days of the shock of the child's death had passed, and the Queen had roused herself to notice those who were anxiously watching her, she asked to be left alone with Dama Margherita: but of the child she would not speak.

"Tell me," she said, "of the saintly Margherita of thine house, the Abbess of San Lazzaro; why left she the world?"

"Dear Lady—beloved Lady"—Dama Margherita pleaded, and would have soothed her; but the Queen would have the story. She laid a hot, tremulous hand on that of her friend and urged her with dry, imploring eyes, as she listened to the tale of the founding of the Abbey of San Lazzaro, while for pity, the tears of Margherita were dropping fast.

"We must turn her from this thought," said Dama Margherita earnestly to the Lady of the Bernardini, as she left the Queen's presence, sorrowfully. "She will not speak of the child; she hath wept no tears; and the fever of her grief, locked within herself, will drive her to madness. She hath asked that Father Johannes be sent for, without delay. Doubtless it is for this scheme. Doth it seem wise to your Excellency now—while she is in this state?"

"Cara Margherita, should we be slow to obey the will of a suffering soul, for fear of what might chance? The reverend Father is wise for her: if any might bring her comfort, it is he."

* * * * *

Father Johannes Lampadisti had been often with the Queen in the past year, and had become her trusted counsellor, and almoner in many matters relating to the people, so that the guards and servants of the palace knew that when the wild prior of the convent from the mountain of the Troodos appeared in the palace court-yard asking audience of the Queen, he was never to be denied.

"Most reverend Father," she said, stretching out her hand to greet him, yet with no hint of welcome in her wan face, "they have stripped me of every joy; I had thought the Holy Christus and the Blessed Mother of Sorrows had been more kind!"

"Daughter!" he exclaimed, startled at her mood; "cry not out against the will of Heaven, lest thou sin because of thine unendurable anguish."

The words had escaped him, involuntarily, but already he was chiding himself that he could bring her, at such a time, even the shadow of a reproach.

But Caterina was beyond any perception of minor shades of feeling. She answered him in the same passionless tone in which she had greeted him, with no suggestion of self-pity, nor any claim for sympathy in her manner, as she motioned him to a seat near her.

"Nay, Father," she said, "in this hath Heaven been merciful: I feel nothing; my heart is a stone. For this I thank the Holy Mother; she knew that I could not bear it, else."

She made the statement simply, as if it implied nothing unusual, and waited for him to speak.

But for once Father Johannes had no words; his eyes grew dim as he looked at the young, passive face of the Queen, "stripped of every joy," alone on the threshold of life. "Daughter," he said, stumblingly, "I fain would comfort thee."

"Nay, Father," she answered, still without emotion, "there is no comfort. Let us speak of other things."

"Nay, of this," he said, with an awkward wave of his rough brown hand, as if he would have put everything else away: and then relapsed into silence, for in the presence of the grief which had mastered her, words seemed to have lost their meaning.

She also waited—as a gray stone might wait by the wayside, unconscious of the lapse of time: for him the moments were quick with thought—for her it was as if they had not been, because life had ended.

"There must be comfort for all sorrow that Heaven permitteth," he protested at last.

She looked at him wondering.

"But not for mine," she said in the same colorless tone. "Thou knowest naught of such sorrow, for thou livest apart from men. Thou canst not know the pain, when thou hast not known the joy."

"Yet from sympathy one may know," he began feebly. But she took no notice of the interruption, and as he looked at her he realized that he had never known life in its poignancy—that he stood outside the depths of human suffering, though he had dwelt forever in its shadow, nor had his stern life measured the height of holy, human joy.

"I left my people and my land," she said, "and came hither for a great love, and that—that"—there was the sound of a sob in her throat as she paused for a moment, then caught her breath and went on in the same even tone,—"and that was taken from me. And now—oh, God!—my child!"

She strained her arms tightly to her breast and laid her cheek, with a great tenderness upon her thin, white hands, as if her little one were resting there and she sought the comfort of his caress.

Father Johannes turned away his eyes: the low murmur of cooing tones of mother-ecstasy came to him as in a dream. Was the child's angel really there?—He did not know.

"Now, oh holy Mater Dolorosa, Mater Sanctissima," he prayed within himself.—"I know what thou hast suffered; have mercy!"

* * * * *

There was no longer any sound in the room. She had dropped her arms at her side and had come nearer to him.

"Thou canst not know the depth of human suffering, Father Johannes, for these things enter not into thy holy life—else couldst thou not pass thy days in prayer and passionless meditation."

"Passionless!" he cried, and was silent, pressing his hand, unconsciously, against the thorny cross on his breast.

"I have sent for thee again, Father, to ask a question which thou alone canst answer."

She lifted her troubled eyes to his, deep with her question that seemed the more terrible because her quiet voice still showed no trace of emotion.

"Thou, who knowest the ways of God——"

(He groaned aloud.)

"Hath He stricken me for any sin?"

Then suddenly the passion of her question flamed in her white face—she searched his, as if life or death lay in his answer.

From the hand upon his breast the blood trickled in slow drops, while he laid the other upon her head in benediction:

"No—child—no," he gasped; "God help thee—no!"

"If—if it were for sin of mine," she said slowly, and watching him as if she had not known whether she might trust his words—"might I not leave the world, and take the veil in the Convent of the Holy Cross?"

"Thou?" he cried. "Thou!"

"Am I not fit?" she asked. "Is it not for those who suffer and would leave the world?"

He shook his head. "No; thou art beloved of the Holy Mother. The world is thy cross. It is there that thou shalt do thy penance. The Convent is not for thee."

"Father, I have no tears to offer in penance."

"God asketh not tears if He hath denied them," he answered—his own choking his speech, "but the gift of what He hath given thee—to stand where He hath placed thee and take up thy burden of life."

"Father, I have no strength, nor will."

"They will be sent thee," he answered her.

"God is not angry with me?" she asked again with sudden passion. "Then why—why did He take my child away—my little, little child?—and —thus?"

He looked at her startled. Had the terrible rumor reached her which they were striving to keep from her, that the little, royal, innocent life had been the victim of some intrigue—that the sudden, fatal illness had not been sent by Heaven? The rumor had been sifted, and no clue had been found, while yet it might not be wholly dismissed. Yet was the fear of this horror added to the mother's anguish? Nothing but action would save her from madness.

Then suddenly his weakness left him, because of her need; he felt that he must hold her in her place at all costs. He rose and looked down upon her, steadying her by the magnetic strength in his face,—his eyes wild with the intensity of his belief.

"Whom He loveth, He chasteneth," he said. "It is granted thee to know the depth of the meaning of those holy words. The blessed Christus, with great drops of anguish falling from His sacred brows, cried out, 'Can any sorrow be like my sorrow?' God is not angry with thee, my daughter; but so He fashioneth a soul for His great work. Life is thy cross, my child. Lift it and clasp it—Heaven's peace shall be thine."

"Why not the Convent, Father?" she asked, still irresolute. "I am so weary."

Then his voice took on a note of authority—she shrank before it as the tones rang out like the cry of a prophet:

"It is not for thee; for thy place is here.

"If suffering is sent thee, thou must bear it here.

"If loneliness hath come to thee, thou shalt meet it here.

"If thou art desolate, the children of thy people are thine.

"If thy dream of love is broken, the love of thy people is about thee.

"If thy heart and hands are empty, the duties of thy realm shall fill them.

"Thou shalt keep thy vow!

"Thou shalt make none other; none other may be so holy for thee.

"Thou hast tasted joy and found it bitter; in duty shalt thou find sweetness and strength.

"And the Lord thy God, and the Madonna and the Holy Christus shall bless thee. Amen.

"I have the revelation!"

The crisp sentences crashed upon each other like a rushing torrent, hot with inspiration, challenging acceptance. She had risen to her feet and stood quivering before him, her eyes held to his by a strange fascination—the wild glow within his giving her sight of her dormant self and will.

He raised his crucifix above her and she slowly fell on her knees; and so he left her.



XXIX

For days after the visit of Hagios Johannes, Caterina scarcely spoke, or noticed what was passing around her; and the Lady of the Bernardini and Dama Margherita, with hearts aching from the burden of their pity, were helpless before such desolation.

But at last the young Queen turned to them with mournful eyes of comprehension, holding out her hands to clasp theirs in a convulsive pressure, rousing herself heroically from her absorption and nerving her dormant will to meet the unwelcome stress of life again.

"The Holy Mother hath left you for me to love," she said in a tremulous voice. "Life is not all a blank."

They could not answer her for tears; but her own eyes were dry.

"I thought," she said, "if it might but have been the will of Christ that death should come to me—also"—she paused a moment to steady her voice, "it would have been sweet—I was so weary. And when it did not come to lift me out of the shadow, I longed to carry my broken heart into some holy Sisterhood and be at rest—I felt no strength to live. I thought it might have been the will of the Madre Sanctissima, for she hath suffered; and I know not how to live without my figlio dilettissimo."

Then suddenly she clasped her hands crying out with the passion of prayer:

"My God! I would have trained him for thee! He should have been a noble man and a Christian King. Why hast Thou stricken me!"

She turned to them wide-eyed with her question but the Lady Beata, for answer, could only fold compassionate arms about her—soothing her silently; so young and so bereft.

But Caterina struggled into quiet speech again, as in a confessional—sorely needing some comfort of human sympathy after her long, silent conflict.

"I thought it might have been the will of the Blessed Mother that I should rest; but Hagios Johannes hath shown me that it might not be; I have taken my vows again to serve my people—to live for them; the padre hath promised me that strength shall come."

Her lip quivered, but she bore herself bravely. "Thou wilt help me, Zia," she continued, in pathetic appeal, "and thou, my Margherita; for life is difficult. And Aluisi—he will think what must be done for the people until my strength returneth—for I have forgotten how to think." She pressed her hands tightly against her forehead as if to compel the resistant brain-power.

Then suddenly she laid her hot, trembling hand on that of her compassionate, motherly friend, her voice rising into a wail—"Father Johannes hath said that I must give the people all the love I gave my baby—but not yet—I cannot do it yet!—Mother of Sorrows forgive me!—he doth not know."

She fell back on her pillows exhausted by her emotion, while in a low, crooning voice the name she loved to utter broke from her longing lips again, like a threnody:

"Figlio dilettissimo!"

The Lady Beata's heart was wrung with pity.

"Nay, nay, Carinissima," she said, stooping over the couch and speaking with tender decision, "Hagios Johannes could not know what mothers feel! This holy love for thy little one shall bide ever with thee and grow with thy life. It is thy breath of Heaven! It shall nerve thee to do the work of thy child—to live for the people he would have ruled. Him thou shalt love forever—it is the will of the Madre Beatissima:—but after thy child shall come his people."

A change passed over the strained, worn face of the young Queen, like a faint breath of comfort.

"Zia mia," she murmured, laying her thin white hand in the warm, restful clasp: and so passed into the first quiet sleep that she had known for days.

* * * * *

While the unhappy Queen was bravely struggling to recover her poise, many things were happening; for the death of the infant King had been the signal for further manifestations of discontent from a party of Cyprian nobles whose dread of the "Lion of the velvet paw" increased as the need for some firm governing hand became more evident. They would have liked to anger Venice to the point of withdrawing all protection and leaving them to their own devices—yet they dared not attempt it openly, appreciating the futility of any armed resistance that unassisted Cypriotes might offer.

For the Turk was watching from his near point of vantage; and if he had hitherto been content with sending his private ships to ravage and terrorize the towns along the coast, this might but be the prelude to more ambitious projects. Naples was still eagerly awaiting some favorable moment to lay hands upon the coveted island, and rumors of waning favor had been wafted from Alexandria, since Cyprus had allowed the tribute due to the Sultan to fall in arrears.

Carlotta, upon hearing of the death of the little Janus III, had at once renewed her claim to the throne; some of the ancient nobles had declared for her, and it was felt, rather than known, that her partisans were secretly gathering strength. There was evidently some hostile influence at work in the innermost circle of the Court.

And now, when Cyprus was at extremity, Venice alone—alert, powerful, resourceful—could be relied upon for aid: her protection of the island in the time of Rizzo's conspiracy, had given her the right to a voice in the government—or so she claimed, and there were none to gainsay it. Her Provveditori were armed with the plenary power that was not invariably used to the advantage of Cyprus, yet the vigilant Signoria were ever ready with fresh instructions—if the paw were of velvet, it was no longer sheathed!

Letters of condolence were duly sent from the Serenissimo; so, also, came without delay the declaration that the Queen had inherited the full rights vested in her son, and should reign alone; with the further announcement, so simply stated that it might well seem beyond refutation—that Venice was heir to her beloved daughter, Caterina Veneta.

* * * * *

No wonder that the Cypriotes gnashed their teeth in their powerlessness to dispute this insolent assertion, while their indignation effervesced in petty intrigues!

But Dama Ecciva's spirits had revived.

"It is more like the olden days," she said, well content; "for if there is no splendor of court-life such as our good Janus loved, at least there is matter for gossip to brighten the mortal dulness of a court in mourning! The Ambassador hath returned from the Court of Alexandria, and hath made relation of his mission and declared the favor of the Sultan, which, to the surprise of some"—she paused and glanced about her to make sure that all were listening—"hath been granted to Her Majesty the Queen Caterina—and not to Queen Carlotta."

"There is no Queen Carlotta!" a chorus of indignant young voices answered her. "If the Lady of the Bernardini were here——"

"Aye—but she is not." Ecciva returned placidly: "The Madonna be praised for a moment's liberty to utter one's thought! She and the Dama Margherita who knoweth more surely to tie one's honest speech than even the great Lady of the Bernardini, are gone to the Sala Regia to represent Her Majesty and receive the splendid gifts which His Excellency the Ambassador hath brought from Alexandria. And this am I sent to tell you, by the Lady of the Bernardini—who is a gracious tyrant and would save a bit of pleasure for our childish souls out of the dulness of the days. And when we hear the champing of horses in the great court of the palace—but there is already a tumult below—fly then!"

She had dashed out under the arcades and was leaning between the columns, making her quick eager comments to the bevy of maidens who had followed her, as the little train of slaves bearing the royal gifts passed through the court-yard of the palace.

"A regal mantle of cloth of gold, with its gleam of jewels for her lorn Majesty—who will never again wear aught but trappings of woe, if she might have her will—it is a waste of treasure!"

"For shame, Ecciva!"

"Nay; for we are only we—not the Dama Margherita; nor the Lady of the Bernardini.—Will the mourning bring back the child?—One may weep one's life away in vain."

"Thou hast no heart, Ecciva: how should we not grieve with her!"

"So it pleaseth one to grieve, I am well content. But the way of weeping is strange to me. Methinks it would be kinder to cheer her soul with some revelry—or a race on that splendid Arab steed, stepping so daintily, with its great dark eyes and quivering nostrils, where the red color comes! The Sultan himself hath chosen this beauty for Her Majesty—she who perchance will never mount him, scorning to do aught that would make the blood flow warmer through the veins;—going daily to San Nicolo with her taper and knowing naught of pleasure in life; unless it verily pleaseth her to grieve! What availeth it to her that she is Queen!"

"What availeth it to her to win the love of the people as none hath ever done before!" Eloisa cried hotly, moved from her timidity by her indignation. "That wilt thou never know, Ecciva, who dost so belie thy heart with thy unkind speech. But verily"—she pursued, relenting—"thou art far gentler than thy speech—not untrue, as thou wouldst have us believe!"

"What is 'untrue'?" Dama Ecciva asked, undisturbed. "How may one know? Shall one ask Carlotta?—Or Queen Caterina? Or—if he might but answer us now—the charming Janus?—My brain is too little to unravel the mystery."



XXX

Naples also found the moment propitious for re-asserting her baseless claims to this much-disputed crown; since the death of the infant King had left the Queen without a successor in her own line, and might dispose her to look with favor on the proffer of the hand of Don Alfonso of Naples who would graciously consent to accept the position of King-consort—instead of that of "Prince of Galilee," which had not proved to be the imposing, permanent honor his partisans had fondly hoped.

Meanwhile, with the persistence worthy of a better cause, his supporters had ingeniously thrust him forward—a compliant puppet—from one scheme into another—all tending toward this same noble end. Immediately after the failure of Rizzo's conspiracy, he had been betrothed to the illegitimate daughter of King Janus—one of the three children mentioned in his will—who with her two brothers, had been sent to Venice to avert possible disastrous consequences; a small following in Cyprus upheld this match—so eager were they that some descendant of their charmer King Janus, should keep the crown of their realm, that they granted the Neapolitan Prince Alfonso the shadowy title of "Prince of Galilee."

But after the death of his young betrothed, Alfonso had followed Carlotta to Alexandria, where Rizzo now held the honorable post of Ambassador to the Sultan from the Court of Naples; and here, while Venice was still playing her game, sub-rosa without the overt confession of power that came later—Rizzo, the arch-schemer, first sought to bring about the adoption of the prince of Naples by Carlotta—as heir-presumptive to her rights; and later, as her following among the Cyprian nobility increased, proposed Alfonso for husband to Carlotta.

But now, since the strength of Venice could be no longer doubted, Rizzo, holding ever in view the ascendancy of his chief and with an astounding faith in his own magnificent insolence, rose to the occasion, and sailed on a secret embassy for Cyprus to propose the hand of Alfonso to Queen Caterina herself!

The details of this romantic intrigue were not known until long afterward in the court-circle, except by the few who had intercepted and frustrated the carefully-laid plans; but there were many hints of some concealed happening of deep interest which made delightful themes for romantic conjecture whenever the younger maids of honor found themselves happily without the dignified supervision of the Lady of the Bernardini and Madama di Thenouris, or the equally-to-be-evaded younger maid-of-honor, Margherita de Iblin.

"Something has happened, and no one tells us anything," one of them declared discontentedly when curiosity had reached an unbearable pitch, and the rumors of which they had caught echoes were growing in interest. "There was a fire high upon the hills one morning; some say it was a beacon fire."

"There are always rumors that mean nothing," said Eloisa quietly.

Dama Margherita had been kept in close attendance upon the Queen, who had been often in counsel with the Counts of the Chamber of late, and Eloisa had an uneasy sense that it devolved upon her to uphold the quietness of discussion for which Dama Margherita always strove.

"Nay, Eloisa—that strange craft, hiding back of the great rock on the coast—without lights or colors—why was it anchored there, in sight of the signal-fire, instead of in the port where it had been safer?"

"Thou wilt have it a beacon-fire," Eloisa interposed again; "it is in truth more romantic than a blaze some wanderer may have lighted to do duty for his camp."

But no one answered her, they were all humming about Dama Ecciva, interrupting each other with excited questions; for Dama Ecciva had been, if possible, more mysterious and tantalizing than ever since these rumors had been afloat—which was a sign that she could tell something if she would. "So, my pretty friends!" she answered with a silvery laugh, "for once it entereth your thought that there be matters about which we—the Maids of honor of Her Majesty—are not worthy to hear!"

"I make exception of the Dama Margherita, to whom Her Majesty is honey-sweet!" she added, as her glance rested on Eloisa; and growing hot as she dwelt upon the thought, she went on—"she hath a manner quite insufferable—she, who hath not more right than I to rule this court. If one were to put the question to our knights—'an Iblin or a de Montferrat?' would it make a pretty tourney for a Cyprian holiday?"

She laughed a mocking, malicious laugh; then suddenly stretched out one slender hand and made a descriptive motion as of tossing her glove into the centre of a distant circle—her eyelids narrowing until they seemed almost to close—a strange light escaping from them—her breath coming with slow pants, as if from suffocation—the hand dropped at her side betraying her passion by convulsive movements trembling through the tinted finger-tips.

In the bizarre Cyprian costume which many of the ancient Greek patricians still retained, she seemed of a different mold from the young Venetian gentlewomen of the court of Caterina—like some fantastic fury, half-elf, half-woman.

"The Melusina!" Eloisa whispered, shuddering: "thou mindest me of her. I like thee not in this strange mood!" while the others drew away from her with a faint cry of protest.

But Ecciva's momentary mood of passion passed as quickly as it came; and she answered her companions with a tantalizing, sparkling smile, rallying them on their seriousness, and flashing whimsicalities around the circle like some splendid, inconsequent fire-fly.

Her dark hair, woven with coins and trinkets, fell in innumerable long slender braids behind, from under a coronet of jessamine blossoms strung together upon strips of palm, which clasped the clustering waves of hair closer about her face—pure and colorless as old ivory. Her robe, of green brocade, richly embroidered with gold, fell over full pantaloons of scarlet satin which were tightly bound about the slender ankles by jewelled bands, displaying to advantage the tiny feet, clad in boots of soft, yellow kid, fantastically wrought with gold threads; the robe parted over a bodice of yellow, open at the throat, around which chains of gold and jewels were wound in undue profusion.

"It is thou, perchance, Ecciva, who knowest not how to win the favor of Dama Margherita," ventured one maiden, bolder than the rest; "for with us hath she ever been most gracious. And for Her Majesty, the Queen——"

But a sudden impulse had come to Ecciva to cover herself with glory by making her companions sharers in the news of which she had gotten knowledge by a fashion peculiarly her own.

"Nay: leave the Queen to the Dama Margherita for this one blissful morning," she interrupted without ceremony: "for I have news—verily; and they may return ere it be told. Which of you knoweth aught of the Holy Sister Violante—she of the down-held lids and silent ways—who slipped into the court the night of that great signal fire upon the mountain, behind the citadel?"

She scanned the eager faces triumphantly, but no one had anything to tell.

"For verily the Sister Violante maketh part of this strange mystery," she proceeded after a moment of impressive silence. "She and the great signal fire—of which no one knew aught!—so innocent were all the gentlemen of the court—and the Bernardini most of all! But they are parts of one romance; and the Violante came to influence Her Majesty; the Violante, with her devout ways, wearing the habit of a holy sisterhood to which her gracious Majesty is wont to give undue reverence—being not apt to penetrate an intrigue—too fair a saint, by far!—The Sister Violante came to win Her Majesty to acquiesce in some strange bidding from Rhodes; or perchance from the Sultan himself."

"How knowest thou, Ecciva?" They crowded around her thrilling with pleasant excitement—the craving for which was unduly whetted by the splendor and aimlessness of the life of this Eastern court—for a romance with such a beginning might have an indefinitely delightful termination; and Dama Ecciva had some strange knack of always knowing more than others of any savory morsel of gossip of which there might be hints in the air.

She looked at them nonchalantly, well-pleased at any sort of dominance, but never confessing it by her attitude.

"Have I not eyes?" she questioned, with tantalizing slowness; "and ears?—Are they to grow dull for lack of usage?"

"Nay; tell us, Ecciva."

She drew nearer and lowered her voice mysteriously. "That Tristan de Giblet—he who would have killed the King the night that he climbed the city-walls and fled to Rhodes—we know the tale——"

"Aye, aye; we know it. And then?"—they pleaded impatiently.

But Dama Ecciva was not to be swerved from the irritating composure which pleased her mood for the moment:

"And one of us—hath any one seen Alicia de Giblet? She hath not been among us since that night of the signal fire."

"She hath been ill, in the Chateau de Giblet this month past," several voices responded at once.

"Perchance, sweet maids;—or in some other less splendid castle where dungeons are of more account than the fine banquet hall of the de Giblet! And because Alicia is sister to this Messer Tristan—I have done much thinking of late—it is time for the Bernardini to return. Let us give over talk."

"Alicia de Giblet was sister to that traitor!" one of them exclaimed indignantly; "and we never dreamed it! But she was gentilissima; poverina! Ah, the pity of it!"

"But how came she ill, 'because of it,' as thou sayest, Ecciva?" Eloisa questioned, wishing ever to have a reason for her beliefs; "it was long since!"

"The night of the King's flight was long since—verily—before his coronation. Carlotta was Queen, then;—there have been wars and death and woe enough since then! But this night of the signal fire is but a month agone—and that night came Tristan de Giblet to talk with his sister, who let him into the Palazzo Reale. The daring of the man! We are not cowards—we Cyprians!"

"Ecciva!—how canst thou verily be sure!"

She touched her eyes again, mysteriously.

"I knew him," she said, "when he was talking with his sister, and I heard her promise him to bring him into the private audience chamber of the Queen."

"And thou, also, wert there?"

"Am I the Margherita to be shown such favor? Nay, but I have an audience-chamber of my own from the window of my turret when there is no light within: and all that day I knew by the face of Alicia that there was some intrigue—which I was not one to miss through heedlessness! Alicia was watching for him that night; and I knew his face when I saw them together on the terrace. And with them was another man—wrapped in a cloak—the feather of his hat drooping low over his face.—And his face—I never turned my eyes away from him and I saw it for a moment when the wind swept his feather aside—his face was the face of—Rizzo!" she whispered the name.

"Nay, nay, Ecciva—not he! It could not be he!"

"Nay, my trusting children; believe your betters, if you will! As for me—I trust these eyes, rather than the uncertain speech of those who teach us what we may believe. These eyes are good eyes! They have not failed me yet!"

She laughed lightly, satisfied with the impression her tale had made, as she turned away indifferently; but they were eager for the rest.

"There is more, Ecciva!—that which cometh after?—subito—for the Lady of the Bernardini might return!" They were all clamoring about her. "And Alicia verily brought him to the Queen's audience-chamber?"

"Nay—bide my time, chatterers, if you would hear the tale—for it hath a sequel—we do not often get one good enough to be spoiled by a too hasty telling.—Rizzo, for it was verily he—can any one forget Rizzo!—he turned from them and began to climb the mountain, there, where the signal fire glowed later. And Tristan, the handsome knight, came into the palace with his sister; and after them come following the holy sister Violante—she who came hither from Rhodes some days before."

"Go on!" they cried eagerly, crowding closer. She waved them away from her.

"There is no more," she answered provokingly—"save that which we all know; the signal-fire, and the galley floating below by the coast, half hidden by the great rock—for that also I saw from my turret—thanks be to the Madonna for lifting the mortal dulness! And I left sleep for better things that night; for it was well-nigh the hour of matins when the galley set sail for Venice."

"But the audience with the Queen?"

"There was no audience. For I bethought me of somewhat I had forgotten in the ante-chamber—not to miss the knowledge of what was passing—and I sped me thither. And then there was naught left to do but to hide me, somewhat weak of heart, in the tapestry of the ante-chamber; for the door was wide into the Queen's salon, and there was His Excellency the Bernardini, flashing scorn in his speech, so that one thought the air would break into flames—he, the while, standing still enough for an image of a wrathful Kinyras; the Queen's guard was around him, all in full armor—a doughty corps of men to meet those three!—Alicia, white as a spirit, weeping against Tristan; and Violante, shaken out of her holy calm, kneeling to pray His Excellency's grace!"

"And then——?"

"And then they left the Queen's chamber and I dared not creep forth until all was quiet again. But I heard His Excellency's speech as he stood bowing in the doorway when the guards led Tristan forth—a model of courtesy one would have said—for I could see him through a parting in the arras though I risked my life in standing there—'Her Majesty' said the Bernardini—very fair of speech—'doth surely owe such escort to the Illustrissimo, the Seigneur de Giblet, for the attention he would fain have offered in his own person to King Janus, in his Episcopal Palace before he wore the crown of the realm.' And the Seigneur de Giblet, not to be outdone—being Cyprian—answers him—very proud and cold—'Is your Excellency ever so faithful to reward a service contemplated, but not achieved?' For he had meant to smother the King in his sleep that night, if Janus had not escaped to Egypt."

They were all silent until Ecciva, less overcome by these tragic memories, resumed her story.

"And after that, Tristan came no more; nor his sister, the fair Alicia; nor Rizzo, the dark-browed. Nor was it many days ere Violante, the most holy sister, had left the court.—Ask the Provveditori!"

"But what message did they bring Her Majesty?"

"Am I a noble of Venice that I should know this mystery which toucheth our realm of Cyprus?" she answered scornfully. "Ask the Bernardini, or the Dama Margherita—to whom he confesseth all his soul!"

"But Rizzo?" Eloisa asked, bewildered.

"And Rizzo—when he had lighted the signal fire on the mountain—thinking perchance, there had been time for the meeting with the Queen which Alicia had promised Tristan—and the galley had come to shore beneath and waited for him,—went on board, nothing doubting, thinking to return to Rhodes—who knoweth?—To Carlotta perchance;—but he found the galley manned with mariners from the arsenal of Venice; and Tristan coming to set sail for Venice, with the Queen's guard, all in full armor, to speed him on his way: and a Venetian General in command, in lieu of the African Captain of the galley who brought him hither. For one may seek in vain to outwit a Venetian; one must admire them for that, though it work us woe!"

"It is thine own tale, verily, Ecciva; thou speakest to mock us!"

"Nay—faith of Sant'Elena, it is true and sad enough—if there were not sadder to come. For Tristan, the gallant, handsome knight, being in chains, and fearing worse awaited him when he should reach Venice, wrenched the diamond from a ring he wore and kneaded it into the bread they served him for his breakfast, and swallowed it—and so there was an end."

They still looked at her incredulously—"How shouldst thou know this tale of horror more than others—if it were true?"

She shrugged her shoulders indifferently. "If one maketh wise use of opportunity, one need not always wait the telling. But to-morrow the court will be ringing with the tale; it cometh but now from Venice."

"But Rizzo?"

"He is there in Venice in the pozzi; and the end will not be easy like that of Tristan. For he is the greatest traitor of them all—verily a traitor almost sublime. It were not so difficult to admire the nerve of the man!—Rizzo——"

But her further speech was lost in the babel of expostulation and question that broke forth, and which would have lasted long but for the return of Madama di Thenouris and Dama Margherita.



XXXI

The court had been recently thrown into consternation by the discovery of a plot to seize the various citadels of the island and hold them for Carlotta. It was evidently well supported and far advanced, as disclosed by the intercepted letters addressed to some unknown person, which had been laid before the Council; all who were mentioned as partisans or confidants in this intrigue were designated under assumed names, but the knowledge which these papers gave the Council was of immense value, enabling them to provide that all the garrisons of Cyprus should be commanded by men of known loyalty to the Queen. Meanwhile vigorous efforts were being made to discover the identity of the person addressed as

"L'Illustrissima, Madama di Niuna."

But no light had been thrown upon the matter, although it had been openly discussed in the court-circle.

Dama Margherita had noticed with uneasiness that Ecciva de Montferrat, who was usually on the alert for any excitement, had seemed singularly apathetic when this subject had been broached, and she felt that the trust reposed in her by the Admiral required her to mention her suspicions to Madama di Thenouris, although she shrank from this duty the more because she knew that Dama Ecciva was supposed to be exerting some secret influence against herself.

"Dear Madama di Thenouris," she said appealingly, "it seems so much the more ungracious on my part. Yet it is treachery to our Queen. And if it should be that Dama Ecciva hath been receiving these letters and holding such part in these intrigues—to leave her where she hath free access to the court-circle.—But it cannot be true; she is too young to be so faithless! And if she need not know that I have hinted of my fears? It would seem like some petty revenge—yet I cannot be false to my trust!"

"Thank heaven thou canst not, Margherita, since others find it easy! Yet we must watch for our own assurance, and may thy fears prove naught! Comfort thy soul, for some one is guilty, and the finding of the culprit will clear all others of suspicion."

* * * * *

"It is most strange about these letters," Madama di Thenouris said later, as the young maids of honor sat around her with their embroidery frames. "Tell me, Ecciva——"

There was a sudden convulsive movement of the girl's arm and she gave an exclamation of annoyance as the golden thread snapped in her needle; but she did not look up.

Madama di Thenouris, closely watching, saw that her fingers trembled so that she could scarcely hold her needle.

"Tell me," she pursued in her leisurely fashion, after a slight pause, while Ecciva's needle still remained unthreaded, "what method shall we take to discover the identity of this unknown 'illustrissima'—this Madama di Niuna?"

The girl's alarm grew evidently less; but it was a moment more before she answered:

"Why doth your Excellency thus honor me, in calling me in counsel? There are others whose opinion would carry more weight."

"Nevertheless, since I have asked thee, give me thy thought."

"Madama di Niuna," the young maid of honor exclaimed petulantly, forgetting her deference, "there is no Madama di Niuna!—How should I know?" The silk was hopelessly knotted and twisted about the tiny pearl she had just threaded, requiring close attention; Madama di Thenouris also seemed to watch her work with interest.

"Thou art right, my child, thou art over-young to have any knowledge of so despicable an intrigue. But the matter is naturally of deep concern for us all," she added, as Ecciva, having recovered her perfect self-control lifted her eyes to Madama di Thenouris with a smile that was intended to thank her for her trust, while assuring her that there was no possible ground for supposing that she had any knowledge of this intrigue.

But the gray-haired court-lady met her gaze searchingly and with no answering smile—she who could be so gracious.

"The Council will follow a clue upon which they have just chanced, and which may lead to the discovery. If Madama di Niuna would come forward to confess," she pursued with quiet emphasis, "it might lessen the penalty for participation in this intrigue—which some among the Council tell us can be nothing less than death."

There was a murmur of abhorrence from the young voices about her, but Dama Ecciva was quite silent, although there had been a motion of her blanched lips as if to speak, and Madama di Thenouris still held her fascinated gaze. Her eyes had suddenly dilated with a look of terror, yet almost instantly reassumed their long oval shape—the lids closing to more than their narrow wont: her embroidery had slipped to the floor, as she rose, and she was treading it under her feet—bruising and grinding it passionately, as if it were some safe, unnoticed outlet to the fear and anger that might smother her. She had flung out her hands desperately, the dainty tapering fingers working with strenuous, nervous motions—but now they were tightly clenched in the rose-leaf palms, and she stood bracing herself, like a statue of defiance. There was an added pallor on the beautiful ivory face—so still she was she scarcely seemed to breathe—yet all at tension—like some wild thing of the tropical forest, suddenly brought to bay, summoning all her strength for the leap that was to free her.

But she might rage in vain against the invisible meshes that held her, although it was but for a brief moment that Madama di Thenouris had searched her soul in silent confession.



XXXII

The times were perilous, and it behooved those whose duty it was to keep the wheels of the machine sufficiently lubricated to run without over-much creaking, to see that not only were all possible precautions taken to secure the Queen's safety, but that everything that might promote the loyalty of the uncertain Cyprian nobility should be encouraged.

Some of the older Greek families lived like petty rulers within their own estates, holding absolute sway over their vassals and enforcing their allegiance at least to the point of not daring to act in opposition to whatever political views their lords might choose to adopt. Yet the fact that an old patrician was not in sympathy with the Crown was by no means an assurance of loyalty to Carlotta; it might simply mean that he was waiting to select one from among the many banners that were eager to float over his happy island of Cyprus—or that a more fervent hope possessed him of gathering to his own standard the various malcontents and of wearing, with true Cyprian magnificence, the royal honors that he craved;—as why should he not? since more than one of those ancient Cyprian families claimed kinship by marriage with the royal house of Lusignan.

Thus it had been decreed by the powers behind the throne that the seat of government should be removed to Nikosia,—the most loyal of all the cities of the realm, whose jealousy at her loss of prestige in being supplanted in this dignity by the less important city of Famagosta should be wisely taken into account; and great preparations were being made for the royal progress about to take place, by which it was hoped to stimulate an increased pride in the Government among the populace and the citizens.

Great hopes were also entertained by the Admiral Mutio di Costanzo, the Bernardini, Dama Margherita and Madama di Thenouris that the High Court—an institution distinctively Cyprian, which had not been held since the death of Janus, but of which a session had now been proclaimed throughout the island—would assemble a throng of nobles with their vassals and would prove a strong appeal to their loyalty.

The old Cyprian gentlewoman, Madama di Thenouris, under advice of the Admiral and the Council, had held long frank talks with the Lady of the Bernardini.

"We love our gentle Queen," she said with feeling; "and we do our possible to uphold her. But she also—she must show herself among the nobles—she must claim their loyalty. Hath she the strength to rise above her grief and try to rule? There hath been enough of mourning for the temper of this people; we must have action. We are like children—half-barbaric—more easily swayed by trifles that please us—not of such sober poise as the people of Venice; but the good Lord hath made us thus."

But Caterina was ready to do her part. "Whatever the customs of the country doth require," she answered without hesitation, "I shall have the strength, since it is for my people. Only, cara Madama di Thenouris, thou and the Zia will provide what is best—I cannot think about these things—they seem like trifles; till I grow stronger," she added timidly, in a tone of appeal.

"Nay, beloved Lady; they are but trifles; we will spare you thought of them, that the real matters may help the sooner to win your interest. But it will not be displeasing to your Majesty to see your maidens about you in robes of white—to hold a fairer memory of the infant King, in his innocence and charm, than these robes of woe?" She touched the heavy mourning folds of the Queen's garments, as she spoke.

Caterina started in surprise; but she answered in a moment, with a little effort, "Aye—it will be sweeter—mine also, cara Madama; since never can the grief be less. The Holy Mother, and my figlio dilettissimo—it is enough that they know. And it is for his people!"

Yet in the loneliness of the night, after she had made her last prayer at the tomb of Janus, and lighted the last taper with her own hands for him in the Duomo San Nicolo, and wept her last tears before the altar where, but a few short months ago her little son had been baptized and crowned—kneeling on the slab that bore her baby's name—the sense of desolation overpowered her.

"Even this little comfort I must lose," she cried; "Madonna mia—Janus and my boy seemed nearer here! They leave me nothing—nothing!"

But later in her own chamber, alone in the solemn stillness, deep in her heart an appeal that could not be uttered because of its intensity, her strained gaze fastened on the brilliant, star-lit skies as if she would pierce the mysteries of life and death and surprise some effluence of spirit-love—some smile of tenderness from the angel of her little child—a strange calm came to her—a dim perception of eternal values—of the nothingness of time and place—of the everlastingness of any love that has been true.—Then slowly she sank upon her knees, still looking upward, and the anguish lessened and peace and strength descended upon her soul—a gift from the holiness of the night.

It was in such vigils, since her great sorrows had come to her, that the desolate girl-queen had learned her life-lessons—and she was no longer afraid of their solemnity, coming thus into closer friendship with her own soul and a more implicit faith.

"Dear Father in Heaven!" she cried. "Thou knowest it is because I love them that I leave them, to do their life-work! and Thou wilt grant me wisdom! If but I knew—if but I knew my people's need!"

* * * * *

At that most perfect hour of early evening when the sun was sinking rapidly behind the mountains in a flood of gold and crimson glory, and the air was filled with a delicious wandering breeze, soft and refreshing after the heat of the day and laden with the perfumes of a thousand flowers, the Queen set forth upon her journey.

She was accompanied by her full court of knights and maidens, a guard of infantry and escort of cavalry, with many mounted nobles besides, to do her honor,—a sumptuous cavalcade of at least two hundred horse; with such state had the Council of the Realm thought fit to decree the royal progress. With them came forth the dignitaries of Famagosta and other nobles, as was the custom of those days in bidding a ceremonious farewell—to journey with the royal train a league beyond the city which the Queen was leaving to take up her residence in Nikosia.

And thus the cavalcade proceeded on its way, pausing anon, for the greetings of the villagers who came forth to meet them and offer homage—Caterina slow-pacing on her snow-white palfrey—six knights from among the noblest in the land in constant attendance at her bridle, giving place continually to the new group pressing forward to claim their part of this so honorable service.

They had journeyed thus for an evening and a long day, with but the needful pauses for rest and refreshment, when they saw before them in the distance, embowered in delicious gardens of palms and cypresses and rich masses of bloom, the domes and minarets of the city of Nikosia—slender and white and lace-like against the deep blue sky—and climbing the hillside, high above the city, the turrets and crenellated walls of its far-famed citadel.

The chances of travel had often brought the Signor Bernardini and Dama Margherita together, and there had been much friendly talk between them of things which both held dear and in which their hopes for the quieting of the kingdom had a large share. She was flushed and eager beyond her wont, when they first came in sight of the distant city of Nikosia, and he laid his hand upon her bridle and lowered his voice. "Let us not hasten," he said entreatingly; "the journey hath been so beautiful; and our bourne is all too near."

"Nay—not too near—for Her Majesty may well be weary."

"The Dama Margherita hath ever a thought for others," he answered her. "And for me?—will she not grant me to reach the bourne I covet?"

"How may I help to that of which I know nothing?" she asked inadvertently, her thoughts being full of the problems they had discussed touching the Queen: then suddenly lifting her eyes and meeting his, she turned her head away in confusion.

"Then I will make confession——" he began eagerly.

"Nay; I am no priest," she answered, touching her horse with her whip.

He followed, disconcerted; but she, repenting, soon quieted her pace and turned her face to him again, serene as of wont.

"I would fain tell thee my secret, Margherita," he pleaded.

She lacked the courage to reprove him while he lingered on her name with an accent that turned it to music.

"Nay—if it be a secret, tell it not: for women have tongues."

"Have they also hearts?" he asked.

"Not those who yield them," she said; "but only those who hold them fast."

"Is my secret a secret, Margherita?"

"Your Excellency—a member of the Council of the Realm hath so reported it," she answered, laughing frankly. "Who am I, that I should question his judgment?"

"Thou art thyself," he said half banteringly—half seriously, and watching to see how she would take it. "To none other would I so defer."

"Not to the Queen?" she asked, still playfully.

But he was serious at once. "Aye—ever to the Queen, in duty bound—by kinsman's ties—by knighthood's vows—by my honor, by her sorrows, and by my will—yet this hindereth not that there should be one——"

"Methinks my stirrup is caught fast in the housing!" she interrupted with an exclamation of dismay: and there was naught to do for the Bernardini but to dismount and readjust it,—she—talking brightly the while, of many things for which at that moment he cared naught; and less, because it was she who spoke.

But when they were riding side by side again, and the city was coming nearer, he would not be put off for any whim of hers.

"If thou hast discovered my secret—which I would fain know—most worshipful Dama Margherita,—I would that thou shouldst proclaim it wherever thy tongue listeth. 'Quel che Iblin e, non si puo trovar!'"

He knew that the old Cyprian proverb, "Such another as Iblin is, may not be found," was the pride of her house, and would reach the tenderest spot in her loyal heart.

She turned to him gravely: "Dear Signor Bernardini, let it not be spoken between us," she said. "For the Queen hath sore need of us—of our every thought and care."

"Might we not serve her better so?" he pleaded.

But she shook her head. "Thou who hast been all faith and service, counting thy life naught—thou knowest. She in her trouble should see that we think but of her."

"Is this thy answer—most worshipful Margherita?"

Again she turned her eyes to his—serene and deep—no hint of trouble in them.

"There hath been no question," she said; "there can be no answer, where there hath been no question."

And although he would fain have spoken further, he could not: for that brief moment in which her eyes held his—half-commanding—wholly trusting—was like the sealing of a vow to do her bidding.

Then as she turned away, the echo of a name floated towards him—"Aluisi!" so spoken as no one had ever uttered it before.—Or had he surprised it, written on her soul, in that deep gaze, which she had permitted?

* * * * *

But now the sudden sunset glory of that Eastern clime flamed in the skies, touching the domes and pinnacles of this city of delights with flecks of crimson and purple and molten gold, illuminating the lovely Cyprian landscape with a never-to-be-forgotten light—and Nikosia stood forth radiant against the background of dark environing hills, clothed to their summits with kingly cedars—while in the far distance the sea flashed its silver setting, melting into the opal of the clouds which seemed to rise from its breast.

Was it this fleeting radiance of color that always stirred the birds to sudden, joyous song at the charmed hour of sunset?—that outpoured upon the heavenly breeze, for which the long day often panted, this flood of perfume of a thousand odors? Or was it only because it was Cyprus and for her magic beauty she had indeed been named of all the isles of Greece, "L'Isola Fortunata," beloved of the gods?

But now from the splendid city came sounds of rejoicing—music and vivas—through the gates thrown wide, the tramp of a multitude issuing forth to welcome their Queen, with the homage of loyal hearts,—and her own throbbed almost to breaking. The Vice-Roy and Admiral, Mutio di Costanzo, with his escort of Knights of the Golden Spurs came bringing the keys of the city which had stood for the Queen against the mandates of the Council of the Realm; Stefano Caduna, Leader of the people, stalwart and faithful, brave as a lion, with his devoted guild about him—the judges of the courts and the chief men of the municipality; a chapter of the Knights of St. John, in their white mantles and eight-pointed crosses of red—the new primate of Nikosia, with all the hierarchy of his province of diverse creeds—the burghers—the nobles of the city—they made a welcome that stirred the soul of Caterina and filled it with a hope warm as the presage of the glowing skies.

"Viva la Regina—La ben-venuta!"

The people shouted her name; they thronged to swell the royal procession as she rode through the garlanded streets, in regal state, under the golden canopy which they had brought to do her honor, upheld over her fair young head by four mounted knights of the most ancient houses of Nikosia. Before the portico of the Duomo Santa Soffia the cavalcade came to pause, while Caterina dismounted—the people clinging about her to kiss her hand, to prove their loyalty—until pale from emotion she left them, and passed with all her noble company under the fretted arches of the vast portal, to offer up her orisons—her first act in this city of her adoption, a service of faith and adoration—her first resting-place in her new home, the altar of the church which was one in all lands.



XXXIII

For the first time since the death of Janus, the magnificent hall of the Upper Court in the Palace of the Assizes was filled with a noble assembly of Cyprian patricians who came in state, each with his train of vassals, who were also privileged to enter the great judgment hall and witness the imposing ceremony of the opening of the Court. Each baron wore at the point of his lance the small square banner with the device and color of his ancestral house and the motto, "Cour, Coin, Justice," which was the privilege of his class, signifying that he was entitled to receive homage and tribute from his vassals—his hommes liges and his serfs, and to render judgment upon their minor causes.

The long arcaded corridors leading out to the court-yards of the palace were thronged with serfs in attendance upon the knights and barons, and with citizens who had no seat of right in the assembly; and beyond, from the court-yards, came the sound of the champing of steeds impatient for the voice of their masters and chafing under the unwelcome restraint of their attendants, who kept up a ceaseless babel of adjuration and coaxing.

Every noble of Cyprus in sympathy with the present Government was waiting with his vassals and suites in splendid array to pay his homage to the young Queen, who now first since the death of her child was to appear among them at a high function; there were others who, uncertain or careless of their sentiments had responded to the urgent invitation of the Council of the Realm, from no stronger motive than a mild curiosity; and possibly a few had come with a wrathful determination to find something to condemn in the bearing of the Queen that might stimulate an organized opposition.

Between the splendid shafts of the monoliths that rose like a Cyprian forest from the polished marble pavement, a vast company of the hierarchy of Cyprus—Greek, Latin, and Armenian, in rich sacerdotal vestments—were waiting to take part in the solemn ceremonial; for the royal white-robed procession had already ascended the steps of the dias where the newly appointed Archbishop of Nikosia would offer his prayer of consecration and receive the pledge of the Queen faithfully to uphold the laws of the Realm.

The majestic martial music to which the procession had moved had diminished to a dim, melodic undertone, over which the prayer of the Primate rose and fell in swift, rhythmic periods—a litany of ascription and petition, to which the people, standing with faces towards the East and with outstretched hands, responded full-voiced.

O Thou, God over all, great in Majesty and power, to Thee we ascribe all praise!

To Thee we ascribe all praise!

O Thou, Lord of lords and King of kings, grant to Caterina, Sovereign of this Realm, grace and wisdom to rule her people.

Grace and wisdom to rule her people!

And grant to her, O Giver of all good, Thy benediction, with gladness!

Thy benediction, with gladness!

O Thou, Creator of Life and Immortality, Lord of the living and of the dead, grant that the soul of thy servant Janus may rest in peace!

May rest in peace!

O Thou, Holy and Ineffable, around whose throne the pure souls of sinless little ones float as an effluence of Thy love, grant to the soul of our infant King, Thy joy perpetual.

Thy joy perpetual!

O Thou, supreme in justice, Ruler of all rulers and Judge of all men, grant to the rulers of this Court wisdom, that they may judge righteously!

That they may judge righteously!

Yet, O Eternal Father, Thou who art merciful, grant us to temper judgment with mercy.

Judgment with mercy!

Thou, who art Everlasting Truth, grant us to be true.

Grant us to be true!

And then, while the Archbishop was standing with hands outspread in benediction over the kneeling throng, the music of a wonderful, rhythmic Amen, oft repeated, thrilled and throbbed from arch to arch.

* * * * *

How cruel the changes that had swept the island-kingdom since the last High Court had assembled in this Council-Chamber! Their young and charming monarch, in the very exuberance of life, had been summoned without warning to lay it down. His little child, the hope of the realm, had come and passed as swiftly as some fair vision of the night, leaving scarcely a trace of his short earthly career save in the heart of the mother where its every memory would be cherished deathlessly. And for their fair young Queen, who stood among them widowed and childless—in lieu of the fulfilment of the radiant hopes which had brought her hither, there had been a pitiful record of conspiracy, betrayal and captivity.

These memories smote upon the nobler souls in the throng, moving them to compassion and admiration; for what knight among them could more bravely have borne such suffering and thwarting?

But Caterina, in trailing garments glistening like the snows of Troodos, stood like a queenly lily among her white-robed maids of honor, exalted by the solemnity of the service and looking deep into the heart of her life-problems—ignoring self and contests—dreaming only of duty and the achievement that her people's love might render possible.

They had feared to see her in mourning robes, with a woful court about her,—trembling, sorrow-weighted, pitiful and unimpressive; and a low murmur of admiration just stirred the hush of the chamber as she took her place under the royal canopy and turned to confront the great assembly—the strength of suffering and resolve in the beautiful unsmiling face, which yet seemed to promise and crave for love—to plead with them for their allegiance.

She stood so for a moment, quite still; then she stretched out both arms to them with a sudden impulse.

"My people!" she said brokenly.

Her voice thrilled them, and they answered with a burst of loyalty warm enough to screen the silence of those who took no part in the grateful chorus.

She only bowed her head in acknowledgment, struggling with her emotion: then moving a little aside, she laid her hand upon the arm of the alabaster seat that Janus had been wont to use,—it was filled with lilies in memory of the infant King and guarded by the group of white-clad pages who should have been his knights. And now, as if the touch gave her courage, her voice came clear and unwavering.

"My people!" she said again, lingering on the words as if the claim were inexpressibly dear to her; "because ye were his people—my husband's—the King's: because ye should have been his—my little, little son's;—because they have left me their work to do."

She paused for a moment to steady her voice, for a sudden desperate sense of loneliness and self-pity had overpowered her as she looked into the sea of faces turned to hers and saw—with the intense spiritual insight granted to the few in crucial moments—the conflicting emotions with which they regarded her.

Then, as swiftly, there flashed into her recollection the memory of the scene in Venice, on the day of her betrothal, when there had been revealed to her the sacredness of the tie possible between a Queen and her people—a vision of the holy, surging, passionate mother-love, adequate to all sacrifice. Surely for these days of her desolation that early vision had been granted; and with the force of a heavenly message its memory now brought her strength.

The appeal in her eyes deepened, and the lines of her mouth grew more tender, while she held herself firmly erect,—as one accustomed to rule,—and the tones of her voice took on the accent of unquestioned authority.

"Dear people of Cyprus," she said quite calmly, "I need your love—that together we may rule wisely."

She had not dreamed that ever again she should taste so dear a joy as came with the sound of this tumultuous response to her appeal; for the hearts of the nobles had warmed to her, and a wave of compunction and loyalty swept the assembly.

As she took her seat upon the throne and gave the signal to open the court, the light in her face was a radiance beautiful to behold.

* * * * *

"Bow down before the Majesty of the Law!" His Grace the Archbishop, solemnly proclaimed, while two priests from Santa Soffia stepped forth from under the arcades, reverently carrying the illuminated MS. of the Evangel which had been the treasure of their monastery from earliest ages; and behind them came others of their brotherhood bearing the quaint, copper casket in which were enshrined those revered Books of the Law known as the "Assizes of Jerusalem," and esteemed among all the codes of the nations for their wisdom and justice.

The ancient volumes which bore this title had long since disappeared, in the destruction of Jerusalem; and tradition, prone to assign to well-known authors of illustrious deeds many good feats accomplished by those who remain nameless, had ascribed the compilation of this early masterpiece of judicial wisdom to Godfrey de Bouillon. It had been sacredly kept in the church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem and guarded by a decree ordaining that it should not be opened except in the presence of certain high officials.

Upon the maxims of this ancient work, faithfully digested in the famous law-schools of Nikosia by their greatest scholars, the present volume of Assizes had been founded; and among those most largely concerned in its authorship was Joan of Iblin—the distinguished ancestor of Dama Margherita.

Dama Margherita had never been present when the volume was opened, for like the famous code which had preceded it, it was hedged about with solemn formalities and might not be unsealed save in the presence of the Sovereign and four barons of the realm; and she leaned eagerly forward as the herald, who parted the crowd before the bearers of the sacred chest reiterated again and again the command:

"Bow down before the Majesty of the Law!"

The little procession proceeded slowly through the intricacies of the throng, all heads bowing as they passed, until they brought it under the dome that was raised over the dias where the thrones were set for the Sovereigns, and where, looking upward, one might read in great golden characters, wrought above the frieze, this admonition from the Book of the Law:

Whoever shall appear in this Court and bear false witness, be he the noblest in the land, he shall lose his head.

The Queen, to show her reverence, had risen from her throne as they paused before her, and descending the steps she laid her hand upon the Evangel, where His Grace the Archbishop held open the page for her, and kneeling to kiss the venerated Book of the Assizes, she solemnly swore to uphold the laws and statutes of Cyprus.

* * * * *

But this day was destined to become memorable in the annals of the courts.

There had been some disputes and decrees of minor interest to be passed upon before the matter of the recent conspiracy had been brought forward. This had absorbed the attention of the most learned Cyprian men at law for some time past, and at this first session of the Court of Assizes, the summing up of evidence and the closing arguments were to be laid before the tribunal and sentence would be declared. The revelations of the trial had thus far been kept secret—but it was known from other sources that the identity of many of those implicated had been discovered, and an important prisoner, who was supposed to have had a large share in shaping the plot, was to be brought into court to close her trial.

It was she, they said, who, trusted near the person of Her Majesty, having full opportunity of access to those highest in authority and of friendly intercourse with all the ancient Cyprian nobility, had been chosen by the chiefs of the conspiracy to receive and transmit their orders covertly; to win converts for the scheme, wherever there might be hope of partisans, and to protect their plans from suspicion. The charge was "High Treason," for it was whispered that the seizure of the strongholds was but to have been a step toward the seizure of the Crown, and this leader came of an ambitious race, than which no family of Cyprus could boast a more ancient lineage.

In the innermost circle about the Queen, whatever the suspicions of the maids and knights might have been, the name of this arch-offender was not even whispered: for their dear Queen herself, with eyes that were dark with emotion, had pleaded with them.

"For love of me, seek not to know until her innocence or guilt shall be declared. If she should be innocent—which may our Blessed Lady grant!—let us save her from dishonor in thought and name."

But one of their number had been long absent, on a visit, it had been declared, to her distant estates; and if some who came less frequently to court, named the name of "Madama di Niuna" over-curiously, the courtiers turned their faces from each other, lest their eyes should betray the request of their beloved Sovereign Lady—for so had her misfortunes and her graces and high demeanor won their loyalty.

The prisoner stood before her judges, when they led her into the Hall of the Assizes, mercifully swathed from head to foot in the filmy silken veil usually worn by the women of Nikosia; but through the snowy folds which concealed the features, there came the gleam of the fantastic jewelled garb, and the lines of the pose—proudly defiant—were plainly discernible—it could be none other than the young and beautiful and high-born Dama Ecciva de Montferrat.

The young maids of honor turned sad eyes upon each other, each seeking to touch the hand of her nearest companion, by way of assurance, while all waited, in a stress of suspense that was near despair.

Throughout the trial, the splendid assembly followed every phase with breathless attention, yet with conflicting emotions,—for the prisoner was one of their peers and all felt the case to be momentous; while, as the masterly arguments proceeded, and the evidence seemed irrefutable, perhaps few among them could have determined how it should be most wisely decided, in view of the waverings and discontent which had threatened to undermine the Government.

And now the judges and the learned men had withdrawn for private consultation, and the assembly waited for the verdict in a hush through which one might have counted the heart-beats sounding in tumultuous rhythm; but the girlish prisoner still kept her defiant attitude—tapping the pavement impatiently with her tiny booted foot—as making light of any crime that might be imputed to Dama Ecciva de Montferrat.

Then, more swiftly than one might tell it, a blaze of irrepressible human passion broke upon the decorous quiet of the Chamber; the nobles sprang to their feet, struggling for expression; for the awful announcement "Guilty," although they had awaited it, brought a sudden desperate realization of the fearful consequences, as, almost without pause, the penalty was declared and a piercing shriek rent the air.

"Not death!—Holy Saints—NOT DEATH!"

They could see the sinuous figure writhing and panting convulsively under her wrappings, then tearing her veil like a frenzied woman, as she sank fainting upon the pavement; and the crowd made way in awe-struck silence for the Lady Beata with the maidens of the court who closed about the tortured figure in shielding ministration.

A stately patrician robed in black, fought her way through the excited throng to the steps of the throne, and threw herself at the feet of the Queen.

"Have mercy!" she cried; "she is too young to die! Take my life for hers—she is my child!"

A messenger was crossing the chamber from the judge's throne, bearing a parchment tied in black, a portentous seal depending from the ribbon. It was the first time that a death-warrant had been presented for the Queen's signature, and she was visibly agitated.

The agonized mother at her feet kept up her passionate entreaties.

Caterina started up pale and trembling, holding out her hand to the kneeling figure and drawing her forward:

"Counts and Barons of the Realm, Judges of the Court and all ye people who look to us for protection! We have sworn before you all to uphold the laws of Cyprus—we will not fail you!" she protested. "Yet, oh I beg you to remember that together in this Chamber we have prayed to-day that we might temper judgment with mercy!—Let us not sign it!"

A low murmur of sympathy echoed through the assembly, half-assenting, and Caterina, perceiving it hurried on.

"Let us rule together wisely," she besought them, "and for the honor of Cyprus! Let it not be told that our first meeting in this noble assembly hath been darkened by a sentence of death upon one of our own nobles! Madonna mia! Grant us to be merciful—spare the noble house of Montferrat; let the penalty be exile!"

There was a confused murmur in the Hall of the Assizes: disjointed words punctuated the low babel of sounds: "Exile!" "Exile with confiscation!" "Death!" "Mercy!" "Death and Confiscation."

They scarcely knew whether they prayed for death or mercy, or whether in their souls they wished for justice or pardon, for the question was too weighty to be solved by law, since a nation's peace might hang upon it. They knew not if they saw distinctly, for the mist that seemed to cloud their vision—a mist enfolding two women like a halo—the one tall, black-robed, superb in anguish, with pathetic lines of age upon her hair and brow, and in her eyes, darker than night, such frenzy of supplication as one may only offer for a dearer than self: the other young, tender, fair—all compassion, divine in forgiveness and comprehension—for were they not both mothers, and had she not suffered the irreparable loss that she might learn to shield grieving mother-hearts? She held the Countess of Montferrat closely clasped as if she would sustain her in her trouble.

"Not confiscation!" she pleaded. "Hath not this mother enough to suffer in knowing that her child hath missed the highest trust? Shall we add this also to her pain, and take from her the estates which have been the home of her people for long ages? Shall she not take the vow of fealty to the State, instead of her child? And for the Dama Ecciva—we grieve that it must be exile—yet the safety of the Crown demandeth it. Be merciful—dear people!"

It was a woman's reason—but a woman's heart, stronger than law or precedent, had won the day.



XXXIV

"A confidential communication of deep import to Cyprus—so thou come at once, and alone. 'The Prisoner in the Castle.'"

The Signor Aluisi Bernardini read the note a second time with frowning brows, for there was more than one prisoner, even of this recent conspiracy, in the castle, and the hand was disguised or unknown to him, and he could but guess at the identity of the sender of this mysterious message, which had been brought him, quite openly, by one of the castle guards.

The man stood waiting at the door of his study, until he called to him:

"Thou hast a message for me from——?"

"The Dama Ecciva de Montferrat, Eccellentissimo," the messenger answered, readily.

"Deliver it."

"I was to remind your Excellency that the galley will sail to-morrow for Venice—if your Excellency should have despatches—the Dama de Montferrat feared that it might not be known beyond the castle."

"Is this known within the castle and by order of the Castellan?" Bernardini asked quickly, in surprise.

"Eccellentissimo, the word came to me by the Dama de Montferrat, in confidence. I have no other message."

The Bernardini pondered a moment. She had meant him to feel that the case was urgent, for no hint of the immediate sailing of the prisoner's galley for Venetian waters had yet reached him, who was usually foremost in any information that touched upon Venetian interests. It might be a ruse, or a mere plausible excuse to her messenger.

"Is there aught else in which I may serve the Dama de Montferrat?" the Bernardini asked with assumed nonchalance, partly to gain time to decide upon his own course of action, yet hoping to throw some little light upon the mystery.

"It is written in the note. Doth your Excellency bid me return alone?"

The man's manner was insistent: he had been shown a jewel of value that should be his if he brought the Bernardini back with him, and such fidelity as might thus be purchased, Dama Ecciva could count upon.

"Nay: I follow," the Bernardini answered, waving him on before,—"yet not too closely. At the castle wait for me."

"Of deep import to Cyprus," he repeated to himself, as he made his way across the breadth of the city to the citadel: he was alone save for his horse, who often brought him a sense of almost human companionship, and to-day the responsive quiver of the animal, as his master laid a caressing touch upon his arched neck, gave him an assurance of fidelity that was helpful. For the matter of this conspiracy had sorely wrought upon him and he might not ignore such a message, though it came from one so unreliable as Dama Ecciva, for she was surely in touch with the disaffected nobles. It might be a new conspiracy—yet it was more likely a mere whim, or an attempt to get her sentence remitted—poor girl!

But he felt no emotion of compassion towards her, save for her duplicity, as he was conducted to the apartment which the Queen had had prepared in the castle for her young prisoner of State. By the Queen's grace, also, the Countess of Montferrat occupied the royal apartment under the same roof and was permitted at certain hours, to visit her daughter, though never without surveillance. But for one so high in authority as the Bernardini there were no restrictions and he soon stood confronting the Dama Ecciva in a small cabinet, which by the Queen's mercy had little the aspect of a prison; for she had thought of the mother, as she gave her orders for the prisoner's comfort, and of the last days that she and her daughter might spend together in their native land, and her tender heart had overflowed to them; there were even flowers from the royal gardens, and the air was fragrant; but in Dama Ecciva's manner there was no softening change.

"So your Excellency hath even deigned to respond to the request of a prisoner?" she exclaimed by way of greeting, and lingering with a little mocking pretense on the last word.

"If it be within my power——" he began tentatively.

"Promise not too rashly, my Lord Chamberlain, lest I hold thee to thy word," she answered lightly. "For I shall ask naught of thee that is not within thy sole power to grant. If I ask thee aught—yet I know not if I will:—methinks my mood hath changed."

He was dumb as he looked at her—within a few hours of perpetual banishment she stood before him, brilliant, inconsequent, carefully dressed in her usual fanciful garb—the very jessamines in her hair lusciously over-sweet—with no hint of regret in face or manner—her old fire-fly self.

"Our time is short, Dama Ecciva," he reminded her at length, when she had chosen a cushioned corner and sat toying with a bunch of wild orchids—seemingly forgetful of his presence, as of her summons. "We are alone: and if thou hast a confidence to make—'of import to the State'——"

"The time is long enough for our needs, Eccellentissimo," she retorted, with a rippling laugh. "Verily, I like these wild blooms better than Her Majesty's choice favorites—this orchid hath a face well-nigh human—but overwise; I scarce need tell it—as to thee—that the sailing of the galley was my device to bring thee quickly."

He bit his lip to hold back his impatient speech, for she might not be dealt with as other women, by any appeal to trust or reason.

"Wherefore 'quickly'," he answered her, "since there is time?"

She looked up in surprise at having missed the expected reproof for which she was already fashioning a saucy reply, and her mood changed suddenly.

"Nay, nay, there is not time," she cried passionately, stretching out her hands to him. "There is not time! Though it be not to-night, it may be to-morrow—who knoweth? And it is forever—forever and ever! Caro Signore, art thou not a little sorry for me?"

She looked like a child as she made this appeal, and his heart smote him for his coldness, for she was truly suffering. His sudden sympathy brought a new note of tenderness to his voice.

"So sorry," he said, as he took her hand in a compassionate clasp. "So sorry—that only duty to our land of Cyprus stayeth me from seeking that thy weary penance be lightened. If I might, I would help thee."

"Our land of Cyprus! and thou a Venetian!" she cried triumphantly, her rainbow face flashing smiles, "and how, caro Signore—carissimo Signore—if 'duty to our land of Cyprus' should bid thee help me?"

"It is some new intrigue of which thou hast knowledge?" he questioned, striving to hold her thoughts in one direction.

"Is not the one for which I stand here, and which will send me hence, enough," she answered tantalizingly, "that thou wouldst have more?"

"If it be but for whim of speech that thou hast summoned me," he said rising, knowing well that she would yield nothing to persuasion, "I may not linger longer. If there be a way in which I may serve thy mother, the Countess—ere I take my leave——?"

She shook her head for answer, pulling impatiently at the orchids which she had gathered up again; they seemed akin to her—half elfin flowers.

"Or if there be some message of farewell for Her Majesty?"

Again she shook her head, in emphatic denial; but she was conscious that the Bernardini still lingered, although he had taken a few steps away from her: and looking up she saw that he was watching her in keen disappointment. Suddenly her cheek flamed, for his look was both compassionate and reproachful, yet despite her anger, she thought him more than ever noble while she struggled to repress the half-conscious feeling within her that dumbly answered to his appeal.

"She hath been merciful and forgiven much," he urged, in a tone that was still compassionate toward Ecciva herself; "she hath suffered much because of the grief for thy mother and thyself—and because she might not lighten the penance. Is there no little word of farewell for her?"

Dama Ecciva tossed away her flowers, and rose indignantly:

"I have a message for Her Majesty," she said in quick, hard tones. "Tell her I thank her for"—she glanced about the chamber as if summing up its comforts and elegance—"for her flowers. Tell her that the de Montferrats come of a noble house, well nigh as old as the Lusignans; that of our elder branch came a queen of Cyprus. Tell her that if I know not how to thank her for that she hath decreed banishment for a noble of our ancient house—she who hath lived in our land of Cyprus these few years of her little life—if I lack the grace to be so good a courtier—yet I humbly thank her for—these orchids—which might have sprung from some mouldering trunk in a forgotten corner of my estates. They mind me of the days before she came to Cyprus."

She crushed them angrily beneath her foot as she spoke, and her words stormed upon him.

As he would have answered her, she broke in with more hot words.

"Tell her that I shall not lose my color in exile; it will not cure me of my crime of loyalty to my people—I cannot change my faith—tell her——"

But he interrupted gravely:

"Thou dost wrong thyself and her: knowing well that thy 'crime' is not 'of loyalty to thy people'; but that thou couldst profess a loyalty which was but pretence to the Queen who held thy vows of fealty."

She was quivering still with anger and she did not answer him.

"Speech is useless," he said, "if it be not reasonable: and none grieveth more than our gentle Lady that the welfare of the State demandeth the exile of one who hath conspired against it. She, of her grace, will have it that others have misled thee;—that of thine own heart thou wouldst not have sought this treachery."

"Treachery!" her eyes flamed. "If that be treachery——Listen! I thought to send thee away without my confidence and leave thee to thy blind struggle to rule our people of Cyprus—thou and the fair little Queen! Yet I will tell thee, for I cannot leave thee so."

She had come nearer. "Will the nobles in their far lands bow at her bidding? Never! They need a man to sway them, for the good of Cyprus—one who knoweth how to rule—of strength and constancy to shape their kingdom and make it great. For such a man the nobles would rise in their might."

"There is none such," he answered coldly, "and talk of treason—except it were a maid's wild dreaming—must be brought before the Council of the Realm. Unless thou hast confession of some real import to the State—or names that we should know—and for the telling much might be forgiven thee—I bid thee farewell. Truly it is hard for thee, my poor Dama Ecciva; but in thy heart thou knowest that the penalty could not be less.—May thy reason and the years soften it to thee."

She had not listened to his last words, but stood irresolute as he took his ceremonious farewell: then suddenly she sprang towards him and caught his hand to detain him. Her face had grown soft and eager.

"It is 'confession'!" she cried, "'of import to the State'—and 'names' that thou shouldst know. There are many nobles whom I could reach—I will name thee all their names when we have spoken together: those who suffer banishment with me are but a few. At word of mine they would kindle into fire and make a glory of Cyprus!" She had drawn herself up proudly, her eyes were flashing; she had clenched her small hands so tightly over his that he could not withdraw it.

"Poor child!" he said compassionately; "shall one woman rule them, and not another!—It is the madness of imprisonment and exile; it shall be forgiven thee."

He tried to make his escape, but she clung to his hand yet more closely, so that he could not move without dragging her with him.

"It is not forgiveness that I want," she cried furiously, "but comprehension. Canst thou not see! Have I not said that Cyprus hath need of a man to rule? Who led the people to storm the Fortress of Famagosta? Who ruled the city in quiet through those days of stress?—Thou art the man! Through me, who hold the key, thou shalt rule them well."

"I am a Venetian," he answered coldly; and no longer hesitating to use the needful force to unclasp the clinging, importunate hands. "From compassion have I shown too great patience with thy mad dreaming. I will direct that the Countess of Montferrat be permitted to come to thee now: for the galley must soon sail for Venice.—May the Madonna help thee!"

But as he reached the door a mocking laugh rang out and made him turn in surprise, for it was but a moment since he had instinctively averted his gaze, lest he should read too easily in her mobile face the emotion which she made no effort to conceal.

"Let us at least part with due ceremony, your Excellency," she said, "since we shall both have travelled to other worlds before we meet again: I—who might have been a Queen, hadst thou but believed my 'mad dreaming' and accepted my aid to make thee—that which should have made me thy Queen indeed, and thee a Sovereign of Cyprus!—had I but condescended so far!"

She swept him her most courtly reverence. "Adieu! Thou art a man indeed—like many another—to let a woman outwit thee and befool thee—so that even now thou knowest not within thy soul if she hath spoken truth,—or flattery to beguile thee; or 'mad dreaming'—for which, perforce, she 'may be forgiven,' and render thanks! Thou knowest not whether she hath, in truth, spoken to mislead thee that which should have brought the pride of thy superb Venice low—hadst thou but listened!—So much hath my 'confession' availed thee. O, most astute Venetian!"

She flung the words at him in triumphant tones, while he, in noble pity, stood speechless—having seen her face when she thought he had not seen; and she stood thus—radiant—defiant—until there was no longer an echo of footsteps back through the long vaulted corridor of the castle. Then the mocking smile died on her lips and eyes and she threw herself on her couch in a bitter paroxysm of passion.

"One may dare all, for a man of stone," she cried, "and yet not win! And I would have made him great—great beyond his dreams! O fool!—FOOL!"



XXXV

With the removal of the Court to Nikosia days of peace and sunshine had at last dawned for the distracted island kingdom—whether compassed by the wisdom of the astute and vigilant counsellors who sat close under the ear of the youthful Queen—by the superior force of the Venetian galleys, or by the winning charm of the Queen herself. The echoes of conspiracy had been stilled and the cities of Cyprus were taking new pride in their commerce, while they were growing richer in measures of philanthropy and education and that blossoming of arts and culture which only may adorn a court at leisure from petty wars and intrigues.

Early in these days of quiet Caterina had turned once more to her cousin the Bernardini, bidding him ask some favor at her hand—"For verily I owe thee more than I may repay."

"There could be never a debt between us, my cousin," he answered smiling: then with the ceremonious bow of a courtier, he added, with a singular mixture of gravity and playfulness: "I would remind your Majesty of a function of this Court which it hath never pleased my fair cousin to exercise. There is one among the maids of honor—most rare and noble—bounden by special vows of fealty, as a Dama di Maridaggio, to marry at the command of her Sovereign."