He stood before her quite unabashed and smiling, while she scanned him in surprise.

"Margherita de Iblin?" she questioned, half unbelieving.

"Margherita!" he answered, radiantly; "there is no other."

"And how—if when I name the other two which custom doth demand for this ceremonial, she shall find a knight more to her liking?" Caterina asked teasingly.

"Name one; and name him thrice," he answered boldly.

"Little I dreamed thee, Aluisi, so poor a knight that thou shouldst lack the courage to plead thine own cause," she exclaimed in amusement. "And of what avail a gift that is not free?"

He joined frankly in her laugh.

"Nay," he said; "the case is quite otherwise. For she will not say me nay, fair Cousin, because—in sooth some day she shall tell me why; and I count myself too leal a knight to tell it—if I knew—before she shall bid me speak. For the cause hath been pleaded and not rejected; and the gift hath been given, but not confessed; which, were it not thus, I should seek no aid—having no mind to steal, were it even the heart of a maid. But now it is rather wit than 'courage' that I lack, to outwit my lady—may those forgive me who hold her favor!"

"I will right heartily forgive thee, so but thou win it," Caterina assured him. "Yet if she hath not said thee nay—what lackest thou of favor?"

He was suddenly grave. "She will not say me 'yea,'" he answered her, "lest the speaking of the word which she foldeth close in her heart until she giveth her rare self leave to utter it, should make her somewhat less to her Sovereign Lady—who, she hath most solemnly assured me—hath need of us both—and thus—with no bond between her two loyal servitors but their loyalty to their Queen."

"Shall mine be less because of their happiness?" Caterina questioned indignantly. "Nay, but much less—much less, without it!—Where is the Dama Margherita?"

"Nay, fair Cousin," he protested, "let discretion rule the command, I beseech you. For she herself is more proud than any Queen and of a temper to which surrender cometh not easily; and the wooing hath been long. Yet the truth of her deep eyes betrayeth her,—and so I trust my happiness in your gracious hands."

But Caterina would not rest until she had found the occasion for speech: and so soon as she chanced to be alone with Dama Margherita, she announced, without preamble, that she would presently command a right royal festival to please the nobles but lately come to court, with jousts of song and floral games, "and I myself will give the prize, and thou—Cara Margherita, being my faithful Dama di Maridaggio, shall be the Queen thereof."

But the Margherita drew herself haughtily away from the Queen's outstretched hand.

"I do not understand," she said, in a tone that was half resentful. "I am ever at your Majesty's command for loyalty and service: but this custom displeaseth me—I pray your Majesty, let it be dismissed."

"Nay, Margherita, it is my right;" the Queen persisted. "I would have thee choose one of three noble knights whom I will present to thee."

"Three!" she echoed with a sensation of relief: then, after all, her secret had not been guessed: it was truly some freak of the Queen's, and she turned more willingly to listen.

"The first is of rare nobility, whom I fain would honor in bestowing upon him the hand of one so dear—because he hath spent himself for me, and hath held his life little when it might serve me."

Margherita half opened her lips to speak, then closed them resolutely and held silence—a faint flush growing in her cheek.

"The next is one of a most ancient house, of vast estates, it hath been told me, which he himself nameth not, save for some generous use when there is need: of whom all men speak well, because of a certain strength he hath; but women rarely, for the scorn he showeth for heartless trifling. If he should love a woman, she need not fear to trust him."

"And if he loveth not though he were a prince among men," Margherita answered with an effort at playful speech, "it were folly to trust his vows."

"Truly it were folly," the Queen replied, growing suddenly pensive, "and it were not easy to know wisdom from folly in such a matter, perchance. Let us speak no more of it—though I had a third to bring before thee."

"Then," said Margherita with unexpected docility, "an' it please your Majesty I will listen."

"Thou art so gracious that I scarce do know thee!" the Queen retorted playfully, "thou who art wont to hold me with a wholesome fear! But for the third—now I bethink me—it were scarce worth the telling, since it was but a word that he left with me—no more—that I would that thou hadst seen him utter it, a simple vow—yet I know that none shall move him from it! Listen, Margherita: 'For me there is none other.'"

"Said he no more, when he asked so much?" Dama Margherita questioned with a desperate attempt to defer the moment of yielding.

Caterina turned and looked at her seriously.

"If he hath not the gift, already," she said, "it is much to ask. Yet, if he holdeth it, by no constraint—but because it is for him alone and may not be withheld—however one may struggle,—need one ask further assurance of happiness? Choose thou from these, my Margherita. They are good knights."

"All three—or one?" Margherita asked, with deepening color and shining eyes that were her confession and surrender. "These three are one—my Lady giveth me no choice."

"How one?" the Queen answered promptly, willing to grant her a little more time, for she saw that it was not easy for this proud maid to yield. "For one is lofty and masterful, and of a great prowess—so that men fear him. And one is knightly and worshipful, with a trick of speech when it pleaseth him, so that a woman might love him if he plead with her for favor. And one—nay, of him we will speak no more. For he hath a will that may not be denied when he hath said, 'For me there is none other.'"

"My beloved Lady doth trifle with me," Margherita exclaimed in confusion. "She will not lay this command upon me!"

"My Margherita—most solemnly I bid thee choose that which shall bring thee happiness. For thy lover hath confessed himself to me."

"Is it happiness to love,—or is it pain?" the girl questioned very low.

"If sometimes it may be pain," the young Queen answered, a shadow crossing her brow; "yet even then, methinks, one would not have missed it—so only one hath held one's own heart true: for it discovereth depths and heights one might not know without it, and bringeth dreams that make one's soul the fairer. But for thee, cara Margherita—it shall be all happiness—for thy knight is true and noble like thyself; and my heart is glad that I may give thee to him."

"Since I have not chosen him—and there are three!" Margherita interposed faintly—"but if it is of your Majesty's command——?"

"Tell me but this one thing—dost love him, Margherita?"

"If there must be confession, should not the high-priest of this sacrament be first to hear it?" the proud maid whispered, as she knelt and kissed her Lady's hand with a sudden grace: but the Queen knew that she might neither tease nor trifle more.

"My Margherita," she said, folding her closely; "I could dream no sweeter dream than to know my two very dearest ones worthy of each other and happy together."

So it was not long before the Court of Nikosia was gladdened with a festival of old-time splendor, lasting for many days—with tournaments of knights and jousts of song, and recitals of quaint Cyprian legends and classic story, and all that their most punctilious custom might decree for a noble's marriage feast in the days of the cinque cento.

* * * * *

But as time slipped by in apparent tranquillity and growing prosperity, with constant evidences of judicious thought bestowed by the Queen upon the well-being of her subjects—with the coming and going of artists and men of letters to her court, and the resuming of all those ancient Cyprian customs that might minister to the content of the nobles—whom it was ever most needful to satisfy with a sufficient show of gaiety—there had nevertheless been an imperceptibly increasing tightening of the threads of government which stretched far across the waters to Venice's own blue Adriatic, into the very Council-Chambers of the Palazzo San Marco.

Even the moneys of Cyprus were flowing somewhat overfreely into the coffers of the Venetian Provveditori who kept vigilant watch over the island kingdom—which was, in truth, no longer anything but a Venetian province, except in name. Yet Caterina, while she chafed at many hampering restrictions which she was powerless to overcome, loved her people and her work with the strength of desperation, and struggled bravely on.

It was a relief that the petty warfare of conflicting claimants without and within her kingdom had ceased; even the importunity from aspiring suitors came no more—since the same cold answer was ever ready for all, alike: and to Caterina this also was a relief. For, although of her own will she could have given but one reply, she had bitterly resented the imperative command of the Signoria forbidding her second marriage, as an indignity assuring her that she was not free—and each fresh importunity was a reminder of her bondage.

If the Cyprian members of the Council of the Realm also saw that the meshes of Venice were steadily gathering more closely about them, they had no longer power of resistance against that craftiness of the Republic which had known how to divert the moneys that should have gone to the making of a Cyprian Marine, while tickling their love of splendor with some outward show—yet had kept the island kingdom from appreciating this great need, by the readiness with which full-manned Venetian galleys protected the Cyprian coasts whenever they were threatened with devastation.

More than one letter of resistance and impotent pleading in Caterina's own hand, had gone from this Daughter of the Republic to the Doge himself, and passed from the Serenissimo into the secret archives of San Marco; but the very fact of the appeal was an acknowledgment of Venetian right, and the evils steadily increased. While Caterina tried to forget that the clasp of a velvet paw may fatally crush, when the force of an angry lion is behind it: or—if she remembered it too cruelly in the hours of her desolate midnight vigils, what could she do but ignore the insult, with a woman's power of endurance, that she might defer the day that should separate her from her work and her people with whom her last dim hopes of happiness were inextricably bound up: for to them she knew that she was still the Mother Queen—"Nostra Madonna," and the dear title was a cure for much heart-anguish.

More than once the good Father Johannes—his hair and beard now falling in thin gray locks about his throat and breast, but the spirit within him still gleaming fiercely from his deep eyes—had come with painful steps down the long way from his distant Troodos to help and comfort her.

"Daughter," he said, "for thy brave wrestling I absolve thee from thy vow. Christ and the Holy Mother are merciful. They ask no more than man may do. If thou hast not the strength——"

"Father, without my work I have naught to live for. I have not the strength to leave it."

"Then God help thee! and the prayers of all the pilgrims to the Troodista help thee! And of all who have tasted of thy bounty; and of all who have known thy care!"

"Unless, my Father," she interrupted painfully, "there should be one who might better hold this trust, to whom I may yield it? If Carlotta——"

"Is she not like her Mother, the Paleologue?" the Lampadisti answered angrily. "Hath she not plotted murder and treachery to compass her ends? Aye—even a fratricide—because forsooth of the crime of the grace that her brother possessed? Is there a record of good deeds, that the people should wish her back?—Did she strive to uphold the laws, or to know them?—To have her people taught and comforted?"—his eyes blazed.

"Thou dost verily comfort me, my Father."

"For that I am sent. The Holy Relic on the altar of the Troodista seemed to point me hither, with every Sacred Thorn. I could pray no prayers but for thee; I could hearken to no other tales of woe. My feet turned ever thither without my will: and thus I knew that thou hadst need of me!"

But once when he came, and she knew not that it was the last time, she said:

"I have somewhat to ask of thee, my Father."

"Say on."

"That thou wilt receive me into the Holy Sisterhood of St. Francis—as a lay sister; that if I find the world more weary than I can bear, I may be sure of a retreat which thou my faithful friend and spiritual Father will have prepared for me. So that the act of my admission may be known only to thee and me and the directors of the Chapter of St. Francis, and to the Holy Sisterhood, of which I shall be one—yet living in the world, so long as my duty shall call me."

"Thou hast deserved it by thy constancy," he said. "And may the Holy Madonna be gracious to thee: and our blessed St. Francis sing to thy sorrowing soul sweet measures of content, by the voices of 'his brothers, the birds of the air.'"

It was evening, and the Queen had bidden him to her summer terrace over the gardens, where in the luxuriant shrubberies below them the birds were vying with each other in the loud-voiced evening orisons for which the brief flame of the Cyprian sunset was ever a signal.

"The years will make of thee a poet, my Father," Caterina said, smiling at the turn of phrase so unusual from his lips.

"It is not the years but thou, my Daughter, who hast taught me that beauty may be holy and lift the soul."



XXXVI

An Embassy from Venice was expected upon important affairs of State, and there was an unusual radiance in the face of the Queen, for it had been announced that the Illustrissimo, the Signor Zorzi Cornaro, brother to Caterina, was chief of the Commission, and it was long since one of her very own had been with her.

"Zia mia," she said eagerly to the elder Lady of the Bernardini. "Thou wilt see that no courtesy of reception shall be omitted—it is to welcome one of my very own!"

She dwelt on the phrase with a pathetic accent of delight, returning to it again as she discussed some details of the welcome that should be offered to her brother, whom, for years she had not seen.

Never had an ambassador been received with higher honors in the Court of Nikosia, or with such glad faces by all the attendant circle—for was not His Excellency of the Queen's own household?—and it had been rare to see such a light of happiness in her beloved eyes.

And well did the Cornaro seem to carry the honors due to his house—being very noble in bearing, as befitted the brother of the Queen; and so eloquent in speech that already before the first day had passed, the scholarly men of the Court were exchanging glances of admiration at the skill with which he parried their compliments; while Caterina, noting their courtesy and the deftness with which he had won them, grew more than ever radiant, with a certain look of restfulness and of heart-satisfaction which, since the death of the child, those who loved her had scarcely seen her wear.

But Aluisi Bernardini grew somewhat graver than his wont, as the banquet proceeded, while he watched his cousin, the newly-arrived Ambassador, less graciously, his lady thought, than he need have done on this first evening when all were hastening to shower honors upon him.

"Whatever cometh," he said to his wife, as they rose at last from the brilliant tables and passed out upon the terraces at the invitation of the Queen; "whatever cometh, leave her not alone with him, though she should urge thee; use thy sweet insistance—as thou knowest how—to keep others about them for this first evening."

"What meanest thou, Aluisi?" she asked in alarm, and moving quickly aside, as the gay company swept by, that he might explain himself. "Surely she might wish to speak with him alone; she is more happy in his presence than she hath been for years. Seest thou not?"

"Aye, my very dear one, I see it well. It is that I would hold this rare happiness for her so long as may be; and there is that in the manner of my cousin, the Cornaro, which pleaseth me not. I would not have him unfold to her the matter of his Embassy, if it may be a little deferred."

"It hath been told thee, already?"

"Not more than to thee. But in all the grace of him I see his head above his heart—a certain quality of his father, the 'Magnifico, Marco Cornaro'—as he was known in Venice. Yet one who standeth watching, somewhat apart, may note a hint of displeasure at the splendor of his welcome and the loyalty of the court for the Queen: and the ready wit with which he answereth concealeth under its sparkle a certain persistent measuring of some purpose which he hath much at heart—as if he were studying meanwhile how best to compass his end."

She laid her hand entreatingly on his arm. "For once, my Aluisi, it may be thou dost o'er-reach thyself. Is he not her brother?"

He smiled at her, unconvinced.

"I have watched so long," he said, "and the life of our Queen-Cousin hath been so sadly thwarted that it may well be my fear for her taketh flame too lightly. But she hath set such store upon his coming, and with such gracious scheming for his pleasure, that if he leave her time she may soften any hard intent. San Marco grant that I have misjudged him, for he is of our house."

"Thou hast much weight with her," the Dama Margherita answered very low. "Stay near me, that we may guard her."

But scarcely had they reached the terraces where all the Court were scattered, than they found the Queen pleading with her brother.

"Not to-night, Zorzi mio! For this one night let us take the pleasure of thy coming as a brother to my home. Thou must know our customs and our people and let them offer thee glad welcome. I have music and song planned for thee:—and our Cyprian gardens—with their delights!—Let us stroll awhile."

He made a gesture of dissent.

"The banquet hath been long enough," he said, "nor lacking for sweets. There is meat of stronger quality to digest. Not for feasting I came, but upon an embassy the matter of which we must discuss."

"And now?" she asked, still unwilling.

"Said I not 'now'?" he answered resolutely, advancing toward the arches which admitted to the palace.

But Bernardini stood in his way, arresting his quick pace.

"My cousin, thy 'now' must wait upon the Queen's good pleasure," he said, with due deference. Then, more lightly, "It is the way of our Court in Cyprus—which would do thee honor. Her Majesty hath ordered some festive trifle of music, or other entertainment, which our music-maidens, skilled upon the lute, would fain begin."

At a signal from the Lady Margherita, they came floating out upon the terrace: but the Cornaro turned frowning from them and signed with his hand that his cousin, the Bernardini, should let him pass.

At a glance from the Queen, Bernardini moved courteously aside, but Caterina did not follow: she waited for a moment before she spoke—as if to weigh her speech.

"If it be for matter of the Embassy which may not be delayed," she said, "I will bid our Chamberlain advise our Council of the Realm, that we may receive it with all honor befitting the Court of Venice, so soon as they shall be gathered in the Audience-Chamber. Though the hour be strange, it is of thy choosing; and thou art our dear guest—as, also, our honored Ambassador from the Republic."

The Cornaro stood for a moment as if uncertain what part to play; then, making light of it all, he dismissed his frown and with a whimsical laugh and graceful deprecatory motions, he turned to his sister and offered his hand to lead her in.

"Nay, nay, my sister; I spoke of no formal session of State to receive my Embassy; rather of a friendly talk between us two, touching the matter upon which the Republic hath sent me hither—that we may better understand each other before it be laid before the Council. With thy leave, my cousin."

He passed with a friendly nod and some jesting word, which the Bernardini returned more gravely:

"Thou dost verily surround thyself with state, Caterina!" her brother exclaimed in a tone of stern displeasure, when she had indicated a chamber where they might be alone, and he had carefully assured himself that the quaint Eastern draperies concealed no guards—the while she watched him in amazement.

"It is better for thee that there be no listeners," he said, as he placed a seat before her and sat down, fixing her with his gaze.

"Hearken without speech until I have spoken." His tone was threatening.

She turned white and red, half starting up, but cowed by his manner, fell back into her seat again.

"Is this my brother," she asked, "or is it the Ambassador?"

"Nay; leave tragedy, Caterina; I am come to bring thee word of a great opportunity."

"For my people?—For Cyprus?" she responded with instant interest.

He laughed, a curious, unmirthful laugh.

"Aye—for 'thy people'—'for Cyprus,' verily. Listen! Thou hast it in thy power, at this moment, to bestow a gift upon the Republic—thou who art the Daughter of Venice—that shall make thee memorable throughout the ages."

She was taken unaware; yet suddenly the happenings of all the past years seemed to converge in her, as their central point, binding her hand and foot so that she might not free herself: an icy bolt shot through her: "I—I fail to understand," she answered faintly, for there was somewhat in his look that interpreted the meaning she would fain have missed.

"Aye: it is hard to understand—that thou, who art one of our Casa Cornaro—a woman—upon whom Venice hath bestowed such fatherly and unceasing care—should have it in thy power so to reward the Republic, who might have seized the throne of Cyprus, without waiting for thy gift! Yet, of her grace, the Serenissima Repubblica doth verily ask it of thee, as a favor—thou who art Daughter to Venice. Thou mayest well find it hard to understand!"

She rose, indignantly.

"Hath the Signoria of Venice broken faith with her ally of Cyprus? Is she not content to wait for the sovereignty of this realm until my death—knowing that by my will Venice hath been created heir to this throne—that she should wish to deprive me now of that which hath come to me through so great sorrow, by the will of my husband, the King?"

He watched her curiously, while the color came and went with her tumultuous emotions, and her troubled breathing; and he changed his tone—being subtle.

"I said that the Signoria would have thanked thee for thy gift of the realm; and that the ages should have decreed thee great honor for thy queenly giving: but it would have been more of their courtesy than of thine. For thou dost verily hold too great a matter this little kingdom of Cyprus—forgetting the nets that have many times been spread for thee; and the disfavor of those Cyprian nobles who would have a man to rule over them and not a woman—young and without power—unless Venice be her ally and defender! Even now, thou mightest have been a slave in the land of the Turk, were it not for thy faithful upholding by the galleys of Venice, which came between thee and the devastators. Where is the generous response of a woman who, without them, were nothing?—I thought thee more noble!"

She was bewildered, and he had cut her to the quick.

"Nay, Zorzi: thou dost not comprehend. A Queen must first be faithful to her people."

"Aye—'to her people!'" he retorted scornfully. "And are thy people of Venice, or of Cyprus?—that thou mayest be faithful neither to one nor to the other! Wilt thou show thy faith to Cyprus by turning thine only helpers and defenders from thee, that thine enemies of the coasts may have free entrance to thine unprotected harbors, while the galleys of Venice no longer waste upon thine ingratitude their unrequited care?"

"It is not true!" she cried; "they would not thus desert me."

"It is like a woman to build a belief without foundation," he answered her—calmly, as one who makes a study at his ease.

"And this is verily thy mission from Venice—and to me?"

"I have spoken," he said, "but the time is short: thou mayest not delay to reply—Venice hath so decreed."

"My people love me," she pleaded, with a gasp. "I have only them to live for!"

"Thou hast only them, if thou wilt perforce give up thine own," he answered readily; "it is of thine own choice."

"What meanest thou?" she questioned, grasping his arm in terror: "Zorzi!"

He shook off her touch and answered her unmoved. "The choice will be thine, between thy people of Cyprus—who love thee, thou sayest—and thy people of Venice—we of the Casa Cornaro and the Signoria, whom thou wilt offend and who have spent themselves upon thee. They will leave thee to thine own devices, withdrawing every galley from thy Cyprian coasts."

She gave a low moan, pressing her trembling hands to her brow, as if brain-weary from perplexity; then she turned to her brother again with the exclamation:

"How shouldst thou so utterly desert me, Zorzi—thou, and my people whom I love!"

"The mercy of the Republic is at an end," he assured her uncompromisingly, "and for the Casa Cornaro—thou dost mistake, which seemeth easy for thee; it is rather thou who wilt disgrace me—thy brother, with his honorable pride in his house and his most noble country. For him and his children there will no longer be honors, nor any favor of the Senate: upon thy brother, who doth so faithfully counsel thee and from his heart, will fall the enmity of the Republic who hath forbidden him to fail in his mission. And what is left for a patrician who hath suffered exile and confiscation, but death and the extinction of his house? This will be thy doing."

She sprang up, attempting to reach a silken cord that swung upon the wall near her; but Cornaro raised his hand above her and lightly tossed it aside.

"No one shall come between us until I have thy promise: it lieth between me and thee."

"I need some one to help me," she implored; "and Aluisi is of our Casa Cornaro,—he would understand."

"Two are enough," he said,—"nay, too much; for where the matter is urgent, one sufficeth."

She sat on mutely, wrestling with her problem.

From the time that she had first known of her royal destiny, problems of rights of governments had never been put before her in unpartisan, clear-cut lines of white and black—as right and wrong: her judgment had been intentionally befogged by those who should have been her teachers, until she found herself Queen by coronation and inheritance, consecrated in her right by the awful seal of the great High-Priest Death—before whose inviolable silence questions cease, and the scroll of the closed life is no longer searched, save with eyes that blur the lines through overflowing mercy.

It had been easy for Venice to retain her ascendency over Caterina by intensifying her dependence, by fostering the distinctively feminine and predominant side of her nature—by insisting upon abnormal claims to her duty, her obedience, her love, her gratitude.

When the eyes of the Queen had finally been opened to see the danger of these claims of Venice, it was already too late, for the freedom of her realm had been inextricably tangled in the toils of Venice. Since then she had struggled with all her soul to govern her recalcitrant people by the only power that she believed in or possessed—the power of love. But it was love with little knowledge of the problems of nations or the measures needful to cope with the disaffected nobles who were numerous enough to create an influence and who cared rather for their own pleasure, than for any duty that they owed to enhance the unity or moral splendor of their land.

"My Husband left me Queen," she said at last, raising her troubled eyes to his. "It was by his Will that I rule. Have I the right to yield this power?"

"POWER!"

She recoiled from the irony of the tone.

"They are my people—they love me," she persisted, "and thou canst not know how the care for them doth fill my life. Have I the right to give them to any other?"

He laughed again. "Thou hast a veritable talent for creating problems wherewith to vex thyself, my sister, conscience-tossed! Hath one a right to give that which he can no longer hold? Art thou the first who could not rule, to abdicate in favor of a stronger sceptre?"

"We must ask these questions," she said struggling to be firm, "for duty is not easy to find."

"Nor fortune," he answered coldly. "And one must be wise indeed to know when 'one may grasp it by the hair'—as thou hast the chance with this most gracious proffer of the Signoria before thee to reject."

She turned her head away that he might not read her thoughts, while she dwelt upon the full meaning of the cruel word he had spoken so easily—to abdicate: it meant the disgrace of rulers, the acknowledgment of supreme weakness—unless to the greater power belonged the supreme right.

Was this supreme Right vested with Venice, that she might bow without question? The word smote upon her like a touch of ice and her heart quailed.

Meanwhile Cornaro was watching, urging her decision with further arguments. The Signoria would provide for her; she should retain her title; she should still be styled 'Caterina, Regina;' she should live in royal state.—But—if she did not yield—our Lord himself in heaven would be displeased with her, hating no sin so much for any Christian as base ingratitude;—with much more, to which she made no answer.

And thus the night wore on.

At last she rose, weary and heart-broken.

"My brother," she said in trembling tones, "none of thine arguments move me: yet thou knowest I should grieve if thou, because of me, shouldst suffer exile and disgrace, or thy children be held from any honor they might win. But even for this I could not yield. Thy happiness and mine must be as naught in this great crisis, against the welfare of my people. Them only I must consider."

A torrent of imprecation rose to his lips, but he left it unuttered. For as he turned his angry glance upon her and saw her face pallid and distraught by the anguish of her struggle, with the strange gleam of unearthly strength in her sorrowing eyes—it would have seemed like cursing a spirit. He crossed himself unconsciously, drawing a little apart from her, and waited impatiently.

There was a motion of her lips, as if she had more to say: but her strength was spent, so that her voice would not come with her first effort. Cornaro was conscious as he watched her of his fear lest it should fail her utterly before she found her speech. He knew what he had to expect if he did not succeed in his mission, and for him the moment was crucial; others, for a far less bitter thwarting of the will of the Signoria, had suffered death—which had been hinted to him. He had meant to offer this as his supreme argument when all others had failed to coerce her: but instinctively he held it back, fearing to anger her to the point of stubborn refusal, for there was some unexpected power of resistance within the soul of this slight woman.

Just as he was beginning to assure himself that, at all costs he must use further persuasion, her voice came—far away and colorless:

"And if I yield——?"

He went nearer, almost abject in the joy of this sudden reaction, promising her with glowing visions, state, glory, luxury, honor, favor of the Senate, ease, everything that his vivid imagination could seize upon to tempt the fancy of a woman; but she waved her hand impatiently to arrest his quick flow of words.

"Not for myself—but for my people—what for them?"

"Everything!" he answered undaunted; "security, prosperity; they shall be ruled as Venice rules her provinces—ever more wisely than the people rule themselves. Thou knowest that, because of this, foreign States have come to plead that Venice would accept their submission."

She knew that this was true; but her heart was like lead within her as she raised her impotent clasped hands with a sudden, sharp cry of pain. "My God! my God! I am not faithless to my vow—Thou knowest. I must choose their welfare, though my heart should break!"

* * * * *

As the Cornaro gave his hand to lead her to her chamber in the light of the early dawn, she turned to him pitifully imploring his comprehension of her motive: "The Holy Mother knoweth that I am not faithless to my people—since with the favor of the Republic turned from me, I might neither serve nor guard them.—My lot is bitter!"

But the day had dawned for him, if not for her. "Nay; trust me, sweet Sister and Queen, thou hast chosen wisely," he answered with easy gallantry, as he kissed her hand and would have left her where the Lady Margherita stood waiting with troubled eyes and heightened color to receive her—scarcely condescending to notice the Cornaro's homage or his gay, parting words—"your fair Queen hath done this night an act that shall send her name down through coming ages, wreathed with glory."

For words came easily to him, and he had been too well content with his own triumph and escape to weigh the effect of its cost upon Caterina. But now, after the mockery of his conventional salutation—which none knew better than he to make an expression of profound deference—as he turned his bright gaze upon her, the strained pallor of her face with its deep lines of suffering smote upon him, and he addressed Dama Margherita again with some assumption of concern for his sister's welfare.

"I fear she is overwearied; but the long discussion upon business of the Senate hath been needful. Yet now there is only rest before her, and I may leave her, in confidence, in your gracious care."

But the Lady Margherita had turned impatiently from him to busy herself with the Queen before he had finished his speech; then she flashed him a glance which he found it hard to meet.

"We who love her need not your counsel, my Lord, to strive to undo your 'doing of this night. These are the apartments of Her Majesty. We need to be alone."



XXXVII

Was Venice insatiable in requirement?

"It is enough," Caterina pleaded impotently. "Venice cannot ask more!"

"Nay, it is little," the Cornaro answered, "and only that which shall bring thee further honor. The Provveditori will charge themselves with the details of the Royal progress—as the Signoria hath directed."

"Let me but sign the parchment, as it may please them," she urged, "for the last time with the Royal Seal of Cyprus—but spare me more! I would fain withdraw into the Holy House of St. Francis and be at rest."

But this might by no means be permitted; and the Ambassador of the Republic was ready with his threadbare argument of ingratitude, with much other reasoning of which he was scarcely less proud.

"One giveth not a regal gift with the downcast air of compulsion—else were it base in him who receiveth. Bethink thee ever of thine honor and of that of Venice," he admonished his sister many times during the weeks of preparation that followed upon the Queen's decision; whatever the detail under consideration—and few escaped his vigilance—he was inflexible, and her opposition could not go beyond his announcement: "It is the will of Venice."

Where were the nobles of this country tossed hither and thither like a shuttle-cock at the will of the strongest, that they would not arm for resistance—nay—wrapped themselves in sullen silence in the seclusion of their estates, or gathered in great companies to plunge into the forests and forget their vexations in the comradery and excitement of the chase, while for Caterina the slow days passed in agonized entreaty that some miracle might yet chance to save the realm for Cyprus?

Sometimes a wild hope came to her that this extremity might stimulate them to an uprising to save the integrity of their land: but a few words with those of the Council most devoted to Cyprus convinced her that the hope was futile. The days of national ambition were over for this people of many races: their luxuries sufficed for their content and lulled them into a lethargy which had so deadened their perceptions that the gradual encroachments of Venetian power could reach this climax without arousing them to action.

Even the burghers who had so valiantly defended their Queen in earlier days looked on in mournful inertia while preparations for the royal progress went forward, knowing that if Venice thus joyfully accepted the 'resignation' of their Queen—for thus had the act been freely translated to the Cyprian people—they were themselves powerless; and the day of farewell dawned at last, when the royal cortege passed out from the palace-gates to the grand Piazza of Nikosia, where the formal act of renunciation was to be made.

It was a long and ceremonious procession—the high officials of the realm were there in splendid vestments, with many Venetian functionaries in crimson dignity among them—with a numerous escort of guards in full armor—with companies of cavalry and men-at-arms, while, in their midst the Queen, in regal velvet and pearls, rode surrounded by the knights and ladies of her court. But the color of her robe was black, as were also the garments of her maids of honor—of satin, soft and lustrous, reflecting the lights from their jewels as they gleamed in the sunshine,—yet, to the Embassy of Venice the sombre choice was displeasing, as an unpermissible expression of the Queen's sentiments.

"Hath Venice also concerned herself with sumptuary laws for the ladies of my household?" Caterina asked with ineffable disdain, when remonstrance had been made. And they, having gained so much, feared to press her further.

After the solemn mass in the Duomo, the magnificent chords of a jubilant Te-Deum filled the Piazza with harmonies—it was the music of a Triumph indeed:—the soldiers, the knights, the high functionaries of State, the priests and chanting choirs were all there; but the central figure under the golden baldachino, upheld by the barons of the realm and surrounded with royal honors, was not the Conqueror—but the victim—the prey—the sacrifice. It was rather they—the leaders of this pageant, in their crimson robes of office with the shadow of the banner of San Marco above them, who rode proudly, sure of the honors and emoluments that awaited them when Venice should echo to them the Roman cry of victory—"Io Triumphe!"

And now the Queen pronounced the speech that Venice had decreed, wherein she claimed the love that her simple people had lavished upon her—

"For Venice—to whom we have freely yielded our right."

The words were strange upon her lips, and she spoke them stonily, as if she knew not that they had a meaning; and thus tortured from her, it may well be questioned whether the Recording Angel ever noted them in his book—yet they were her answer to the popolo who thronged about her with tears and blessings, as she journeyed from city to city to repeat the mournful ceremony of farewell; and the people heard them with sobs and groans.

In every city, as one for whom life had died and speech had lost its soul—she uttered these words which Venice had decreed; in every city she looked on mutely from under her royal canopy—she who was so powerless—while the flag of the island of Cyprus was supplanted by the banner of San Marco, and the sculptured marble tablet with the winged lions guarding its triumphant inscription, was placed as a record of a kingdom too weak to rule.

FRAN. DE PRIULI VENETAE CLASS. IMPER. DIVI MARCI VESS. CYPRI FELICITER ERECTUM EST. NO. MCCCCLXXXVIII. 28 FEBRU.

How dreary the passage across those wide waters to the shores of the smiling Adriatic for the desolate woman who had left them in the first flush of her youth, with hopes as brilliant as the skies of Venice, and with a promise as fair—to return to them lonely, despoiled, heart-broken, craving rest! The gray light of the storm-clouds by the banks of the Lido and the moan of the rising winds which threatened to engulf the Bucentoro and the fleet of attendant barges coming in state to meet the deposed Queen, were typical of the change.

Not caring for the splendor of her equipage, though the Doge himself was her escort—not deceived by the pageant of welcome that Venice offered, Caterina—very beautiful and pale and still, with the sense of the motive power broken within her—passed up the long length of the Canal Grande by the side of the Serenissimo, receiving the glad homage of the people of Venice.

"Caterina Veneta! Caterina Regina!"

Venice was outdoing herself in triumph, showering regal honors upon her: the bells of all the Campanili were ringing a jubilee: music greeted her from the shores as they glided by—the portals wreathed with festal garlands, the beautiful city a glory of light and color; for the storm of the evening had passed and the morning had dawned in sunshine, and along the Riva the people were thronging to welcome her—the Queen who had bestowed the gift of her kingdom upon Venice!

Yet how had the Republic kept faith with Cyprus? Step by step, through the years, drawing the velvet clasp closer—closer—until there was scarce life left—smiling the while: gathering in the revenues of the rich land amply, with no care to spend them on the welfare of the island, or for its increase: slowly, strenuously, with deft insinuations of filial duty, striving to dominate the young Queen's moral judgments and press the claims which were of Venice's own creation—jealously watching lest she become too popular, and hampering her action through the very officers sent in guise of help—lest through freedom she should in truth grow strong to rule: Year by year—stealthily—smiling under a cloak of splendor which the Cyprians loved, Venice had grasped at power—a little more, and a little more—until resistance was impossible.

Was it meet to receive her thus? Could she find smiles for the people to-day with the memories of her bridal pageant greeting her at every turn—a woman despoiled of hope—a widowed wife—a childless mother—a queen without kingdom or power?

Before the Palazzo Corner Regina, the long procession came to pause, and with the ceremonies that were meet, Zorzi Cornaro, brother to Caterina, knelt down bareheaded before the Doge and was knighted for his prowess in persuasion—since without his eloquence it might well have been that the Queen of Cyprus would not have given that complete and absolute surrender which was so graciously announced to all the allies of Venice as "of the full and free determination of our most serene and most beloved daughter, Caterina Cornaro."

For the grace of Venice—when her smiling mood was on her, as for the fear of her life-crushing frown, men did her bidding without question, and never dared to fail.

But Venice still claimed a final act of gift and of submission, where the Venetian people might be her witnesses: and when the domes of San Marco flashed in the sunset light, the procession entered in solemn state—the Senate and Signoria and all the Ducal Court, in full attendance—and once more Caterina knelt before the altar and repeated her hard lesson, taught by that imperious ruler who knew how to hold the sea "in true and perpetual dominion," and who would not suffer 'his beloved daughter' to fail in one jot or tittle of her act of renunciation.

The homecoming of the Daughter of Venice was over.

* * * * *

Then, at last, came rest, and the sylvan-shades of Asolo—vine-crowned among the hills, with the sea spreading far below—blue, shimmering, laughing—as if she laved but shores of content, under happy skies.

Whatever of good there remained for Caterina to do in this petty domain which the munificence of the Signoria had bestowed in exchange for Cyprus, she did with a gracious and queenly hand, so that her realm was wider than her territory, for she had won the love of the people wherever she had passed, and in the years of her tried and chequered life, no evil was ever spoken of her. Yet often the gentle Queen slipped away from the modest festivities she had devised for the pleasure of her slender mimic court—the music tourneys—the recitations—the fanciful quibbles in words—which could have had for her great weariness of empty hands but a pale moonlight charm—to the lovely gardens of her hillside castle, to woo sad memories—and sweet as sad—of the far-off terraces of Potamia which Janus had prepared for his girl-bride.

Then once again Venice decreed a pageant for the gentle Lady of Asolo.

It was night, and the skies had clothed themselves in gloom; out on the lagoon the lights in the shipping scarce pierced the mists, and the rain fell in flurries, drifting in gusts under the arcades of the Ducal Palace, and lifting the cloaks of the Senators and Councillors who sought shelter there while the procession was forming. But none turned back for the wildness of the night, for the order of the Senate was imperative that all the State officials and all the embassies must do her honor; and the time had been appointed by a King who bows to no mortal will and brooks no delay. Across the Piazza, down through the Palace Court-yards and through the calle the people were flocking—dark groups over which the lights of the torches flared fitfully: the nobles were waiting in their gondolas—each at his palace portal, to take his place—there were no sounds but the wind and the rain—footsteps plashing over the wet pavements—a whispered order.

And now to strange, solemn music,—the sobbing of the 'cellos, the tenderer melancholy of the flute—the long procession was moving up the Canal Grande—the ducal barge and the gondola of the Patriarch not keeping decorous line, for the roughness of the waters. From the portals of the Palazzo Corner Regina a bridge of boats had been thrown across the Canal Grande to the mouth of the Rio of San Cassan, and out of the blackness of the great Cornaro Palace the bearers met them, bringing in reverent state the form of the gracious Queen for whom all earthly problems were solved—who might never again answer their devotion with smiles or benediction.

Silently each noble stepped up from his gondola, crossing himself devoutly and bowing his head as he joined the long, never-ending procession: like a phantom vision it swept through the mists—each dark figure bearing its torch—as if it were the soul of him above his head, casting a ghostly reflection, in lessening rays, down through the blackness—gliding in air across the water, over the arch of the bridge which was all but invisible in the darkness—and down through the narrow rio to the Church of the Sant'Apostolli—the weird harmonies of the songs of the dead echoing faintly back through the windings of the rio, like half-heard whispers from the spirit land.

When the solemn music of the midnight mass had been chanted over the noble company in the Church of the Sant'Apostolli, they left her lying in state before the altar of the Cappella Cornaro, while in the church, outside the chapel, the Ducal guards kept watch. Very still and pale she was in the light of the tall wax candles burning about her and the torches flaring from the funeral pyre, and strange to look upon in the coarse brown cape and cowl of the habit of St. Francis, with a hempen cord for girdle. But the Lady Margherita had tenderly folded the hood away from the beautiful face and head, and in the pale patrician hands a rose lay lightly clasped, and a wealth of floral tributes heaped her bier—which was crowned with the royal crown of Cyprus.

Now that the gentle Sovereign had put aside forever her robes of royalty and donned for her last vestment the symbol of service and humility, how should Venice fear the unconfessed rivalry of her rare spirit,—a mere woman—conquered by the power of the State and stricken by death?

Now that the slight hands, folded nerveless over the quiet breast, might never more thrill to her emotions of large motherliness, and scatter gladness with gracious flutterings, in swift response to a too-adoring populace—now that the sleeping eyes might never again unclose to smile her loving soul out to her people—the Signoria could be magnanimous in homage: and through the days that the proud city mourned for her, the sable hatchments on church and palace bore the arms of Venice and of Cyprus.



Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Typographical errors corrected in the text: Page 21 spozalizio changed to sposalizio Page 26 tumuluously changed to tumultuously Page 168 Prooveditore changed to Provveditore Page 169 bailo changed to bailo Page 178 unusued changed to unused Page 180 Conaro changed to Cornaro Page 180 Conaro's changed to Cornaro's Page 199 Benardini changed to Bernardini Page 205 dillettissimo changed to dilettissimo Page 234 Revenendissimo changed to Reverendissimo Page 306 dias changed to dais Page 311 dias changed to dais Page 343 Republica changed to Repubblica Page 356 Bucintoro changed to Bucentoro

THE END