Hagios Johannes, the holiest man in Cyprus, stood waiting in the vast, empty presence-chamber of the young Queen; for, since the sudden death of Janus, there had been no court-life in this palace of Potamia, and the gloom hung most heavily over the more sumptuous halls of ceremony.
Hagios Johannes—the holy John—they called this prior of the House of Priests from Troödos—the Mountain of the Holy Cross—after the name of the earlier Saint who had made the spot famous for the holiness of his living, for his boundless charity and the wisdom of his judgments, so that the people had gone to him in ceaseless procession with their sins and woes in the days of primitive Christianity in Cyprus, and had returned to their peasant homes the stronger to endure and to renounce. Johannes the Lesser, this one called himself—being truly great and devout of heart, so that his vision was wise and true as that of Hagios Johannes the Greater.
A curtain at the further end of the audience-chamber parted to admit a stately figure in mourning-robes, as the Lady Beata of the Bernardini advanced to meet him, bringing the message that the Queen would receive him in an inner cabinet.
"She is very worn and tired, most Reverend Father, and in years so near to childhood that the nobility and strength of her resolve are marvellous. And the comfort that she seeketh of thee she doth most sorely need."
The eyes of this strong and faithful friend gleamed with unshed tears as she turned them upon the prior, in tender appeal.
But to Hagios Johannes all courts were strange; the life of his mountain overflowed with possibilities of ministration which busied all his powers, and it was the first time that he had ever entered any of the palaces of the luxurious Kings of Cyprus—of which, perhaps, this summer palace of Potamia was the most sumptuous. The long corridors of precious marbles, with intricate carvings and gleamings of gold and mosaic displeased him, though he had no knowledge of their worth or beauty; but he stood aghast at the magnificence of the audience-chamber, and the huge Assyrian bulls which guarded the entrance gave a hint of pagan power and oppression which instantly angered him.
The appeal of the gracious Lady Beata but roused his indignation.
He was a stern, wild figure with his flowing beard, his long hair falling straight and unkempt about his brown throat; and his sombre monk's garment was wrought on breast and shoulders with a salient cross of natural thorns—the symbol of those monks of Troödos—the Mountain of the Holy Cross; and the Lady Beata trembled for the interview that was to be, as he answered her rudely:
"The dwellers in palaces of ivory have naught to do with wild men of the mountains who live close to nature and care only for suffering humanity. I have Christ's work to do; let others bring her rose-leaves and honeyed words."
She laid a gentle, detaining hand upon him as he thrust aside the curtain of the inner chamber.
"Most Reverend Father, are not the words of our Lord and Saviour, as well for those who suffer in palaces, as for the wanderers and poor upon the earth?
"Are not the wounds of the spirit as deep in anguish as those of the physical man?
"May not the burdens of rulers be greater than those of the ruled?—Have compassion upon our Queen!"
"Christ knoweth not kings," he answered her, as he shook off her light touch—"save only those who bow to Him: and the mighty among men—aye—even he who calleth himself His Vicar upon earth—are puffed up with pride and know in their hearts no virtue in this—His sacred symbol." He pressed his rough hand hard against the thorns upon his breast as he spoke. "Hath not he—this false and sumptuous Vicar—but now asserted that we, of the Holy Greek Church have no part in the Communion of the Holy Catholic Church on earth? Did Christ call the Latins only?" he ended fiercely.
It was a grievance that rankled; and Hagios Johannes had not learned the gracious art of self-control, being accustomed to feel that whatever he thought or wished was good—his hatred as well as that which appealed to him—since he honestly sought nothing for himself, despising riches and station from the depths of his soul, with an open scorn for the great ones of earth and an imperious assertion of his own methods and judgments which he would have denounced in any earthly ruler,however wise. He never dreamed himself an autocrat over that continuous stream of pilgrims who made their way into the House of Priests on Troödos: they were chiefly peasants, rude in ways and understanding, whose accustomedness to absolute methods and short words made their obedience the swifter; and the few more learned ones who came to consult him knew that in his heart he was faithful and seldom treasured the offense against him—though they may have decried his wisdom. But these came more rarely as his absolutism grew upon him, and the prophet of the mountains came down to the cities of the plains only to see the luxury of them—the sin and godliness of them, and to denounce them, in unmeasured words.
Within his soul, although he did not confess it to himself, the generations of men were separated by a wide impassable gulf—the rich and ruling class, the godless, on one side; the poor, the suffering and lowly—the to-be-saved,—on the other, and none ever passed across the deep abyss. He would have challenged any man who countedhim, Father Johannes, in his hempen garment studded with thorns, among the rulers of men!
The youthful Queen, weary and worn indeed from the perplexities and struggle of the two long nights and days that had elapsed since she had sent her Councillor on his quest of "the holiest man in Cyprus," rose from her couch as the prior entered and advanced to meet him with a gracious reverence.
But he, unconscious of any rudeness, spoke at once, without turning his eyes upon her, and offering no homage.
"I am a plain man from the Mountain of the Holy Cross, your Majesty; I know naught of the ways of Courts. The matter should be great that calleth me from my work. Let it be presented, that I may be dismissed."
She was almost too weak to stand, and the rebuff smote her to the quick; her lip trembled slightly, but she only stretched out her hand to her beloved friend, drawing her close and leaning lightly upon her shoulder, that she might feel the support of loving companionship in her great need.
Father Johannes had been vaguely conscious of some movement in the chamber and involuntarily he turned towards this royal lady whom, as yet, he had never seen, but whose urgent summons had roused his indignation.
She looked so young and fair and simple in her heavy folds of mourning—so worn from vigil, with the lines of anguish and of a strange strength written in her white girl-face—that she might have been the vision of some youthful saint, wearing the rough cross of Troödos upon her breast, beneath her robe: and for a moment, the holy man was startled—did such heavenly visions, in truth, visit the palaces of the great?
There was a moment of stillness in which his wonder grew.
The breeze blew faintly in through the great arched openings, behind which rose the mountain chain that led to his own Troödos; there were the groves of pine, darkly green, below the hills, with their deep solitudes for prayer and meditation between the vast gnarled trunks; and thegroup of the two noble women before him—severely simple—was a vision of love and womanly grace and spiritual need; the younger one, all pleading and pain, clinging to the elder who closely enfolded her, her face strong in the strength of love. It was not like any life that he had ever seen—this holy man, whose personal life had been solitary and whose knowledge of human love, as it is known in happy homes, had died long years ago with the passing of the mother who had borne him in her heart. It might be that he needed such a vision to redeem his spirit from the harshness which sin and pride in high places, and want and crime and poverty of spirit among ignoble ones, had made him grow to think the whole of life!
He was very weary and his vision was not clear; for the previous day had been a solemn fast, and he had walked far and long since the early morning, that he might be the less delayed. He felt like kneeling where he stood—if perchance it should be a vision!—But he only bowed his head and waited—and his weakness passed.
The younger one—the maiden with that strange mystery of pain and strength in her white face, was coming towards him.
"Father," she said, "hath none offered thee refreshment? Thou must indeed be weary, for the way is long. Zia, let us be served here—in sight of the great forest that will seem like home to our good Padre."
"Nay, nay," he interposed quickly, with an effort to shake off this incomprehensible spell and return to his wonted mood of protest, "for I havenever banqueted in the palace of a Queen—your Majesty."
"Let it be brought," Caterina said, turning to the Lady Beata, "a simple meal; for I myself have need, having tasted nothing since the long vigil of the night—being too sore from my great perplexity." For she divined that she must be alone with the prior to melt his mood, which grieved her; but she had not the less faith in his judgment for his hatred of royalty, and at all costs she had the grace to crave for truth in the questions she would ask of him.
"My Father," she said with winning gentleness when they were alone, "we will speak together as father and daughter—it will be better so, for I was not born to Majesty, and I have sent to ask of thee thy counsel, for life is difficult. And for my hospitality—is it not offered to the pilgrim in thy House of Priests of the Troödista? Hath not our Lord Himself commanded the giving of the cup of water?"
He was startled at her learning: surely it was rare that women out of holy orders had such knowledge of Christian traditions. He looked at her reverently, still wondering, and would have spoken to excuse his rough speech, but that he knew not how to frame a thought so strange and new.
She motioned him to a seat where a table had been spread under the deep arches that looked toward the forest. There were wines and fruits in tempting chalices of rainbow glass and low baskets of ivory and chiselled silver, cooling with snow from the mountain; figs from Lefcara;caistas, golden anddelicious, emitting a fragrance of glorified nectarine that rivalled the perfume of the wine itself; pomegranates—the gift of a goddess to the thirsty Cyprian land, planted, as was well known, by the royal hand of Aphrodite herself, each fruit holding a fair refreshment for a torrid Cyprian day in its sparkling, semilucent, ruby pulp: ortolans from the sea-coast, steeped in wine.
The table was a slab of oriental alabaster, polished like a jewel, upheld by griffins with outthrust tongues curiously contorted and entwined. But beyond the silken curtains of the palace-windows the forest and the hills, with a wandering breath of coolness from the mountain-breeze, drew and welcomed him, with some faint, new perception of the oneness of God's earth.
She had banished with a glance the maiden who stood waiting with her lute to give the customary accompaniment to the meal, and they were quite alone.
He crumbled his bread and swallowed his wine like a hungry man, drawing the wild, purple figs nearer, unconscious of the dainties which she did not press upon him, while he tasted the familiar food—the food which his Lord Christ had blessed to man's uses. So, also, the luxury of the service passed unnoticed, as he fixed his eyes on the distant darks of his own forest, with the "Troödista" rising on a peak far, far away—that haven of distressed souls to whom he was a father of consolation. Her fingers toyed with the fruit that lay untasted before her, while the difficulty of speech struggled within her. Yet he felt, subtly, as he kept his eyesupon the hills, that he was in sight of the shadow of a soul in pain, and he waited—for once, oblivious of the distance between a palace and a convent.
"Thou art born a Greek, my Father?" she questioned. "Thou art a priest of the Greek Church—which my people love?"
The commanding habit of a lifetime was strong upon him and again his resentment rose to quench the softer mood which was possessing him, and of which he was afraid.
"I knew not that I had been summoned from my work for Christ to answer of myself," he said sternly. "If thou hast need of counsel, tell it quickly."
Again her lip quivered at the hurt, but she put it aside bravely, as she rose and moved backward for a pace further into the shadow. "I ask it for my people's sake—I being their Queen," she said, "and knowing that my people are rather Greek in feeling, I would do naught to hurt them."
How tenderly the words "my people" fell from the lips of this young, Venetian woman, who seemed almost a child—had their imperious Grecian Queen, Elenà Paléologue ever so uttered them? Had she not named a boy to the highest See in the gift of their church—with no thought of fitness—but solely that he might be put aside lest he come between her and her greed of domination? Had she not plotted murder and whatever else might lie between her and the accomplishment of her will? His heart melted within him, and he rose and followed Caterina into the chamber.
"The most Holy Father of Rome hath of latebeen prejudiced against the King—my husband—and I sought for one who might give me counsel, unprejudiced."
If she had been a wily diplomat she could not better have wielded the prior's mood than by this unconscious utterance.
"So help me God, I will strive to help thee in counsel," he answered fervently. "But are there not men, set apart as Councillors for the realm, to aid one so young in the ruling of her kingdom?"
"Aye, Father," she admitted sadly, "but it is to steady mine own judgmentto judge of theirs—that I have sent for thee. The question is not for Court Councillors, but for one who hath no part nor lot in this matter—who is often in meditation on holy matters, and hath won wisdom."
He made a motion of deprecation, but she went on speaking in her clear, even voice, still questioning: "Thou knowest well the history of the kings of Lusignan?"
He bowed his head in assent.
"And the history of the life of the King—my husband?" She dwelt on the word with inexpressible tenderness—the slight pause that followed it was like unuttered music.
Did she know? Was it possible that she knew? he asked himself.
But the question came again.
"And the provisions of his will—for myself and for—for others?" A wave of color had flushed her cheek and brow.
He looked at her searchingly, seeking for words that might best comfort. "I know them," he said,"the provisions of the will having been told me by your Majesty's messenger: and I, being a Greek, and the friend of the people, that which toucheth them, toucheth me. My daughter, the sins of the race descend from father to son, and are in the blood; and there hath been no loving care of holy women about his childhood—which should be remembered and win forgiveness."
"It is no question of forgiveness," she answered proudly, "of which I would speak with thee—thatlieth between our Holy Mother in Heaven and the souls of those who suffer." She seemed to dismiss the subject with an imperious wave of her slight hand. "It is a question of human judgment in which that of a holy man may avail, but in which this knowledge is necessary—else had it not been spoken of."
She paused for a moment to gather strength, while the old man watched her in growing wonder—so young—so wronged—so tender—so brave—so strong to endure!
Hagios Johannes the elder had been known through the long years of his canonization asLampadisti, theillumined: and as the prior listened, he prayed with fervor that the wisdom of his sainted predecessor might descend upon his soul.
"My Father," she resumed with a great effort, "I knew not of this history of the last of our Kings of Cyprus, until my marriage had been made.... I knew not of any right of Carlotta, beingowndaughter to the King, the father of my husband"—again that tremulous pause of unuttered music—"to contest the crown with him, until I learned it in Cyprus, these few weeks past."
Her head drooped lower, but she went on resolutely. "I knew not, until I came to Cyprus—for they who knew and should have told me, held the knowledge from me—that any might question the right of Janus—my husband—to this kingdom of Cyprus—he being only son to the King. For I knew not that his mother wasnotthe Queen, until I came hither."
She paused again to gather strength, lifting her guileless great eyes to his, in agonized appeal, while he watched her dumbly.
"And now, my Father," she said, throwing back her head with sudden vigor, and with the dignity of a great resolve, "this is my question, which hath come to me in the watches of the night and will not be denied, and for which I have summoned thee. I—being wife to Janus, who hath been crowned King of this people—and I, with him, crowned Queen; and by his will left Queen of Cyprus—with Council, appointed by him, to help me rule; shall I, a Christian woman—a Venetian andnota Cyprian—his widow—hold this kingdom against Carlotta, who is daughter to the King, the father of my husband—and to the rightful Queen, Elenà—his father's lawful wife?"
He was dumbfounded and could not answer her at once; but while he sought for words he bowed his head in mute reverence.
"My daughter," he said at length, "hath this question been put to thee by any men of Cyprus?"
"Nay, Father; but it hath come to me in these sad nights, because I fain would do theright—that which is well for my people: and life is very difficult."
"My people," again, uttered with the accent of a mother who folds her child to her heart—it was a revelation; but he must probe more deeply before he could answer her.
"And this palace—and all the palaces of this estate?" he asked slowly, as if he could not comprehend her. "Thou wouldst renounce this splendor when none hath asked it of thee?"
"I would even bear the weight of it, if it beright," she said, "though rest were sweeter."
"Thou wouldst be free, perchance, to seek thy home in Venice?"
"Nay, nay!" she exclaimed, shrinking from him—"never Venice again—since she hath sent me hither, knowing all, and told me not. I cannot go back to Venice!"
He pondered gravely.
"Then what is thy will, my daughter?"
"To do the right!" she cried vehemently; "out of my own great sorrow to expiate the wrong! May it not be, my Father, if I shrink not from the right at any cost?"
"I will consider," he said, "since thy will is strong for this sacrifice."
"Sacrifice!" she cried, in her amazement breaking all reserve. "Oh, Father! To callthis'sacrifice,' when the very light of life is gone from me! He was so beautiful and gracious—with such a light in his eyes—and I thought—oh, Ithoughtwe were so happy! And now—oh, God, it breaks my heart—Ilovedhim!"
"Daughter——"
"May not the suffering of one atone for another's sin?" she questioned feverishly.
"Nay—leave that thought, it is too heavy for thee: and not revealed to men, that they may declare it."
"Pray for him, Father! Thou wilt pray for him—thou and all those who come to thee. There will be many, many prayers and God will hear. For his people loved him—none could stay from loving him, he was so winsome. Mother of Mercies, thou wilt take my anguish for his atonement!—Oh I suffer!"
The words came in a low moan, wrung from her unaware. Father Johannes caught the small hands which she had flung out before her clenched, in her passionate struggle for control, and with faltering motions of unaccustomed gentleness, he soothed her until she had grown quieter and he could unclasp them. Then he spoke strange words, out of a great compassion:
"Christ knoweth; for He is Love—and He will save!"
"There is more," she gasped with her spent voice—"but I dare not name it—the thought of it is torture. But it is not true; Madonna mia! itis nottrue!"
The strong man could bear no more; he groaned in spirit and ground his hands against his breast—his lip curling with scorn at the pain of his own torn flesh. "Tell it!" he commanded; "itcannotbe true."
She looked at him, hope dawning in her stricken face. "The words they speak—they who are his enemies—that he had forsworn his faith: it is not true."
"It is the very machination of the Evil One!"he thundered. "I know the slander and the man who fathered it, for spite. And may Heaven forgive its maker—for he hath need—standing high in the holy place of Earth. Iknowit is not true!"
He looked his faith into her eyes until he had banished her terror, and she put out her wan hand, grateful, for his assurance.
Then he turned from her abruptly and wandered away to weigh her question, looking into the depths of the great forest while he pondered and prayed to be enlightened. He must have sight of his own solitudes if he would keep his judgment free, and though she called to him, timidly, thinking he had forgotten her, he made no answer, being not yet ready. Surely, it could not be God's will that so fine a spirit should resign her claim to their uneasy crown!
It was long before he returned to her side, for the shadows were lengthening and a crimson light flamed in the West.
"Daughter," he said with deep solemnity, "it hath come to me with full light in answer to thy question, that thou, being crowned Queen and consecrated in the Duomo of Nikosia, together with King Janus, thy husband—whom this people loved—and decreed by him to hold this realm, which—for the first time in many years, and by his hand, is now united under one sovereign, that thy duty biddeth thee hold and rule it against all other claimants—were it even Carlotta who hath once been called its Queen.
"Rule thou this people with the fear of Heaven in thy true heart—so God shall make thee wise!"
She came slowly, as to a heavy task, and knelt before him, with clasped hands, kissing the crucifix which he held out to her; the red light streamed through the arches with a fierce illumination.
"Father—and Janus!" she cried—"hear my vow!
"To do for my people as Heaven and the Madonna shall teach me: to bear them in my heart and seek their happiness; to live for them alone! And if harm hath been—oh God, if harm hath been done—to nerve me to the more strenuous duty, that wrong may be forgiven!"
It was a moonless night in June, with lowering clouds and a threat of distant thunder echoing from the far mountains.
A crowd was gathering, low-voiced and eager, in the Piazza San Nicolò: a crowd chiefly of the people, and the faces and costumes of many races came out grotesquely under the spasmodic glare of the torches which flared about the standard of Cyprus, in the centre of the square—the standard was tied with mourning and wreathed with cypress. There were many women—here and there a peasant with a child slumbering in her arms, or clinging sleepily to the tawny silk scarf woven under her own mulberry trees. Here and there, with the fitful motion of the wind, the light touched the fair hair of a chance peasant from the province ofLa Kythreainto gleams of gold that a Venetian patrician might envy, or brought into sudden relief the smothered passion of some beautiful, dark Greek face. But the women were chiefly of the lower Cypriote peasant-type, heavy-featured and unemotional. There was a sprinkling of monkish cowls and of the red fez from the Turkish village of Afdimou which lay in seeming friendliness of relation close to the village of Ormodos, whose population was wholly Greek.
In front of the long façade of the palace of Famagosta a cordon of soldiers stood motionless,while before them the mounted guard paced slowly to and fro; and across the Piazza, with that impatient, surging crowd between, was faintly heard the steady footfall of the sentinels, measuring and remeasuring with unemotional precision their narrow beat before the entrance to the world-famed fortress of Famagosta.
A group of nobles in eager, low-voiced converse crossed the square, pressed through the cordon of soldiers and gave the password and the great door was opened to admit them and closed again.
Two burghers picked out a face among them, as the torches of their escorts flared.
"That was Marin Rizzo, Counsellor to the Queen; a man of power—unscrupulous."
"And more a friend—I have heard it whispered in Nikosia—to Naples than to Cyprus."
"Hast evidence for thy speech?" the other questioned eagerly in a lower tone.
"It is for that we must watch; the time is threatening."
"But Messer Andrea Cornaro was with him: he will know how to guard the interests of the Queen, having been so great a favorite with our Janus, and one for management, despite his courtly ways! Without our Messer Andrea, his niece had never been our Queen."
"Nay—nor if His Holiness had had his will. I had the tale from a source to trust, though the story was kept hushed. It would take one like our Janus, with his royal ways, to scorn the flattering offers of His Holiness! There were also threats!"
"Nay; threats would never move him, except to see the comedy thereof and make his mood the pleasanter! But I had not dreamed him saint enough for the Holy Father to sue to him for an alliance."
"Ah, friend, the ways of those above us be strange! But it was for this, I take it, that His Holiness—who hath a temper most uncommon earthly—sent none to represent him at the Coronation of the King."
The other shrugged his shoulders. "It lacked for naught in splendor; it was a day for Cyprus and for Nikosia."
"Vanitas Vanitatum," droned a friar of the Latin Church who had been standing near enough to catch echoes of their speech.
Both men glanced towards him and instinctively moved away.
"Aye; little it matters now—coronation honors or splendors for him! But he had a way with him!"
"And he was one for daring!"
They crossed themselves and lapsed into silence, as their eyes sought the banners drooping, shrouded, before the palace-gates, near the statue of their dead King—a very Apollo for beauty—the pedestal heaped high with withered tokens of loyalty and mourning.
But the mass of the waiting crowd were silent, scarcely exchanging a whispered confidence;—so still that the long, low boom of the surf upon the shore reached them distinctly, like a responsive heart-throb. They could hear the storm-wavesoutside the port dashing wildly against the rock-bound coast, with fierce suggestions of strife. But they knew that within their sheltered harbor their waiting galleys rode at anchor, ready to sail at a moment's notice—for Venice, for Rome, for Egypt—though the flags they bore were still at half-mast, with their King but a month dead.
There was a sense of suppressed excitement in the hush of the throng; almost, one might have said, an atmosphere of prayer. For the great bell of San Nicolò—the bell with that wonderful voice of melody—was ringing softly, as for vespers; continuously, as if the people had not answered to the call. Yet many a low-voiced "Ave" responded to the chime as now and again some toil-worn hand lifted the rosary that hung from a girdle, or clasped a rude cross closer.
Restless under the chiming, some simple mother who had fought for her place in the crowd before the palace, deep in her heart besought the blessed Madonna to forgive her because she would not yield it to kneel at the altar in the Duomo; while leaning over the little one slumbering on her breast, she kissed it with a meaning holy as prayer, and did not dream that the angels were watching.
The only steady light in all the square was the soft gleam, as of moonlight, streaming through the windows of the Duomo out into the mist, and here and there among the crowd some face turned towards it and was heartened.
For back of the splendid marble columns of the peristyle, when the light from some torch flashed suddenly upon their polished surfaces, the long linesof palace-windows lay dark; and it was growing late.
"They say that the holy sisters keep vigil this night in the Convent of the Blessed Santa Croce," murmured a woman's voice.
"Aye," another answered her reverently, "for the love of Santa Elenà and the Holy Relic, they will bless our beautiful Lady!"
The theme unsealed their peasant tongues, for this relic brought from the East by the Mother of Constantine, was the glory of Cyprus, and their speech flowed more freely.
"The most Reverend our Archbishop should send for that Santa Croce in procession, to bring it hither—for truly it can do anything!" another woman cried eagerly. She crossed herself and bowed devoutly as she spoke. "For all the world knoweth that once, when it had been lost and the good pater would prove if he had really found it, he held it in the heart of the fire until it glowed like the very flame itself. But when he drew it forth, it was burned not at all—Santissima Vergine!—but wood as before—being too holy to burn. A miracle! And then——"
"I also know the miracle about Queen Alixe," another woman interposed, eager to show her knowledge of the marvel of the Relic, "for my sister dwelleth by the gate of the Convent of the Troödos, and she hath much learning of the most blessed Relic;—how that Queen Alixe laid the bit on her tongue—she who could never speak fairly—more like a blockhead of a stammering peasant than a Royal lady—may Heaven forgive me! And howfor ever after, her speech flowed freely, so that all might understand her. It must be good to be in Cyprus."
"Holy Mother! but it should be lonely in the great palace," a young peasant-mother confided to her nearest neighbor, as she shifted the baby to her other arm and arranged her wrappings tenderly, with hands that looked too rough for such loving ministration. She was thinking of her Gioan who would be waiting for her with a gruff greeting when she returned, but who was good to her, if he often scolded when the porridge was burned. But men were that way about women's work, and never knew that an angel would forget when the baby cried. "Butshe was growing heavy, blessed be the Madonna! Why wasn't there a light?—It would be good if one might sleep!"
A mounted messenger came out from the fort and dashed across the square; the crowd holding breath, parting silently before him, but surging tumultuously back, to wait—though they were very weary and the shifting clouds were dropping rain. But there were yet no lights in the palace windows.
It was growing darker and the wind was rising; a quick flurry of drops extinguished some of the torches, and in the greater gloom the voice of the wind wailed like an evil omen. But still the women would not go—waiting for that sign ofthe light in the palace windows.
Only they pressed closer to each other and crossed themselves in terror, with smothered ejaculations and adjurations, shuddering from the superstitions that enthralled their simple natures; forat this season, in Cyprus rain was most unwonted, surely a sign of Heaven's displeasure! Still they waited in the darkness of the night, with shivering hearts, with the wind growling like angry fiends out beyond the harbor and down from the environing hills—upheld to this costly tribute of devotion by the dumb, dog-like loyalty which their beautiful young Queen had roused within them, by a smile on her wedding-day and the sorrow that had quenched it.
"It is good,va, to see the light in the Duomo! There is many a good candle burning for her at the shrine of Our Lady of Mercy, this night."
"An' there were none for ourselves, we should find one for her!"
"Not a woman of ourcasalbut held a candle in her hand as we came in at the gate of the city; for the silkworms have given us silk and enough to spin this year; and if they had not, we would not grudge it to her. For she hath a smile like an angel. May our Holy Mother bless her for them both."
"And beautiful—beautiful so that it warms the heart! Dost thou remember the day when she came out of the Duomo, beautiful as the Madonna herself—may our Blessed Lady in Heaven forgive me!—with a necklace and a crown flashing fire, that our Holy Mother of Jesus might wear on the Feast of the Annunciation?—and the smile on her face?—and the King beside her——? Ah, but it was a wedding—Holy Saints!—and they ought to be happy—the great ones!"
"Hush then!—But surely 'tis a sin that they left the mourning upon the banner to-night, oneshould have more respect! If I could get into the Duomo for a drop of Holy water—Sancta Maria!"
But the crowd had swelled to hopeless density, and both women threw out their hands with the magical gesture that never failed to exorcise the evil spirits brought near by such an omen. Then they touched each other reassuringly, and crossed themselves and were silent again.
For a beautiful Greek, not of their own class, stepped out from her group of attendants, and knelt on the pavement, stretching out her hands towards the dark palace with a prayer—they could hear her murmuring,—"Forhersake—for the sake of the innocent one who hath been wronged—Holy Mother of Angels, grant us one of her blood to rule this land!"
Her heavy veil of mourning fell aside as she hastily rose and joined her attendants, disappearing in the crowd.
"Madama da Patras! Could it be Madama da Patras, mother to the King, kneeling on the pavement in the night!"
"Her heart is broken with grief, and she thought not to be seen, poor lady."
Two nobles were wending their way with difficulty across the Piazza, they lingered a moment, arrested by the words of the prayer.
"This night may make the difference between anarchy and peace for Cyprus," one of them said to his companion, as they resumed their struggle.
"Aye—Cyprus for the Cypriotes,—instead of Genoa, or Venice, or Naples."
"Or Queen Carlotta?"
"Maledetto!—Who spoke?"
But the challenge was unanswered. The noble who had dared to name aloud the daughter of their last Queen—the sister of their late King—had been lost in the darkness before the trusty guard,sent from Venice, could make sure of him.
"The fellow should be thrust through for his insolence. A Cyprian master is good enough for Cyprus," they confided to each other, as they made pause again, emerging from the crowd at the other end of the piazza, before the gate of the fortress.
"What matters it?" his comrade answered him nonchalantly, "for canst thou tell me the color of a Cypriote now? and his native tongue may be liker that of Spain or Venice than of France or Greece. My Lord of Piscopia hath the color of Venice."
"But of the very household of our Queen:—speak soft! Our Queen?—Perchance this night may be her undoing—how runs King Giacomo's will? Yea, for the matter of the fiefs, she hath been royal with her gifts—a matter not so lordly when confiscation cometh thus easily."
"But she hath a royal way with her, as of one born to the throne, and for that matter it were not strange for one of the house of Cornelii—they held their heads proudly enough in Venice, I am told; and her mother was of the blood of a Comnenus—more royal than a Lusignan, if not so well tempered."
"Aye; she is well enough."
"And she hath a grace that hath verily won the people; never was there such a crowd in the time of any other Queen. See how they throng before hergates to-night—poor simple souls—conquered by a smile that costeth naught."
"Nay; it is not strange; for the people entered little into the thought of Queen Carlotta, or Queen Elenà. There is no harm in her; she is a good child, and beautiful enough to be a saint; with too little understanding of the ways of our court: too great a saint for Janus—by every blessed saint of Cyprus! But I had rather she had more earthliness and wile than be the pawn of Venice. A Cyprian for the Cypriotes! Our Janus were better;—a Lusignan—not too much a saint—not a child nor a woman neither—but masterful: less the pawn of Venice."
"As well of Venice with her fleets and commerce, as of Naples—if it be not a Cyprian. How sayest thou? And it was King Janus himself who gave Pelendria—that most royal and bountiful fief of a prince of Lusignan—into the hands of that parvenu of Naples,Rizzo! The King verily guessed not his quality when he named him to such estate! He would outrule monarchs."
"Pace!"
Close to them, in the crowd, they heard the sound of a soldier's lance rasping the pavement as he stood at rest. One not far off seemed to answer his signal.
The storm was growing fiercer; the sullen mutterings of the wind broke into a shriek, with a terrible downpour of rain; but the rushing crowd was stayed by a cry of joy that rose above the tumult—a cry of love from the heart of the people—
"Mater Beatissima!A light in the palace window!"
A candle flamed in a dark window—two—more—a light in every casement!
The gates of the palace were thrown wide and a splendid mounted corps rode forth amidst a flare of torches—white plumes of rejoicing waving from their casques—white banners raised high on the points of their lances—while the herald, in full armor with vizor up, bore proudly before the people the silken banner with the arms of Cyprus blazoned upon it—the white, royal banner of a Prince of Galilee.
The waiting people went wild with joy, for the bells of all the churches of Famagosta were pealing a jubilee, and the night rang with shouts of homage for the Prince of Galilee, the heir to the crown of Cyprus:
For an infant prince had just opened his unconscious eyes upon his troubled earthly heritage.
White banners of rejoicing floated from every stronghold and palace throughout Cyprus, to publish the birth of the infant prince; but a hush had lain for many days over the city of Famagosta.
In the Cathedral of San Nicolò, the Archbishop of Nikosia, primate of all Cyprus, ministered in solemn state among a throng of lesser dignitaries, priests, and acolytes. His sumptuous robes of office, of cloth of gold broidered with costly pearls, flashed forth a marvellous radiance from the light of countless candles bought with the precious copper bits of the peasants who came from the provinces far and near. As they gathered about the steps of the altar they carefully drew their dingy work-worn garments back, lest their touch should sully the splendid Persian carpet spread for the Reverendissimo, little dreaming that the hint of sorrowing love in their stolid faces robed them with nobility and turned their hard-earned coppercarcieinto a golden gift.
In the many churches throughout the kingdom the humble people were kneeling, praying their unlettered prayers for the beautiful young Queen, with the more faith that the Holy Mother would listen because one so great as the Archbishop of Nikosia ministered in person before their sacred image of San Nicolò. For had it not been the booty of a slaughtered Eastern city, won by Peter the Valiant in most holy warfare of Crusade, which His Holiness of Rome would fain have counted among thetreasures of the One True Church within the Eternal City?
In the grim stone corridors of the impregnable fortress of Famagosta, a crowd of humble pilgrims from the Troödos knelt, breathlessly fingering their rosaries, while the monks of the Holy House upon the Mountain moved among the scattered groups, holding each one his Cross of Thorns, and reciting his low "Ave," that the people might follow in hushed whispers.
But within the little Chapel of the Fortress, Hagios Johannes wrestled alone in prayer; it leaped from his heart with groans and sobs that might not be restrained.
Surely the merciful Father in Heaven would leave this pure spirit to rule the distressed people of Cyprus:—"Were they found too sinful to win so great a boon?—'Let the priests, the ministers of the people, weep between the porch and the altar!'—My God, it is Thy word, spoken by Thy prophet of old!" He pressed his hands against the crosses on his breast and shoulders, lashing himself in a sort of frenzy from the passion of his thought, not knowing that his blood trickled in slow drops upon the very steps of the altar—the blood of man, defiling the purity of that slab of onyx brought from the Temple at Jerusalem by the first of the Kings of Lusignan.
The fortress, not the Palace of Famagosta, had been the birthplace of the little Prince of Galilee; a wise precaution, possibly, in view of the diversities of sympathy to be found among the nobles of Cyprus. In the innermost of the apartments set apartfor the Royal use, a grave assemblage of learned men had gathered—men of many races and tongues, of various schools of science, diverse in doctrines and ideals—all, with the exception of Maestro Gentile, the court physician, strangers to the patient whom they were called to treat in a critical moment. As a matter of science the case had a certain value for them, which was not lessened by the fact of the patient's quality; but to Maestro Gentile alone was the hopeless condition of the young Queen a matter of deep personal concern. They came from France, from Greece, from the famous University of Bologna; the Sultan of Egypt had sent a sage learned in all the lore of that ancient civilization; and a wise Arab had brought to this consultation the secrets of every herb that grew; while a holy man from Persia, steeped in the wisdom of the Zend Avestar and in the doctrines of Zarathrustra, stood ready to use his mystic comfort in behalf of the sufferer. The consultation had dragged its slow length through the hot August afternoon, while the strange faces came and went about the couch where the young Queen lay moaning and tossing; the single being under that roof who loved her as her own soul and would have given her life for hers, was waiting alone in the great ante-chamber, listening for every footfall, every motion within—filling each moment with an intensity of prayer.
The great men had barred her from the sick-room while they made their diagnosis, lest the intricacies of the symptoms should declare themselves less positively in the presence of a nature without learning in any method of their art. "There wasfever," they said; "it would excite the patient to have one of her own household so near her in this extremity; her strength must be carefully treasured."
But all wore faces of gloom, speaking with hushed voices, as, one by one, they came forth from the darkened chamber, yet with a sense of relief that all had been done that could be done and the weakness might now be left to run its course, "For there is no hope," they said.
The Lady Beata had questioned each face silently; but when the last one passed, bringing the same sense of doom, "Cannothingmore be done?" she asked with clasped hands.
They shook their heads, gravely, with decorous looks of sympathy, repeating their short refrain, like a knell.
"Then I will go to her," she answered, "that she may see a face of love when she passes," and pushing them all aside, she resolutely entered the sick-chamber, signing to Maestro Gentile to follow her; but the protest from the group of learned men was less than she had feared, since the Queen was now so ill that nothing could cure or harm.
The fair young mother, fever flushed, with wandering eyes, lay tossing on the silken cushions of her low couch—broken words feebly struggling from the parted lips in pathetic tones, "Madonna—I am so tired—sotired—take me——"
There was no recognition in her eyes, as the Lady Beata leaned over her, startled at the words, her soul wrung with sympathy.
"Why can they do nothing?" she asked in low authoritative tones of the physician.
"The will is gone," he answered sorrowfully; "she hath lost all desire of life; she will not rally, being too weak for the effort, and having no consciousness to help herself."
There was a hunted, frightened look in Caterina's face; the words came again, more faintly—"tired—take me——"
"She shallnotdie until she hath known this joy which Heaven hath sent her!" the Lady Beata cried with conviction and a sudden sense of power. "We will save her—thou, Maestro Gentile—and I—who love her. Give her only some potion for her strengthening, I beseech thee, caro Maestro;—life is flickering—shemustnot die yet."
"There is no hope," he answered her again; but he gave the strengthening draught, for he could not resist her imploring eyes.
The Lady Beata had been moving noiselessly, throwing wide the curtains; a faint, pitying evening breeze stole into the chamber. She came now and knelt beside the couch.
"Bring the little Prince hither with all possible haste, from his chamber," she said without lifting her eyes from Caterina's face. "We must rouse her!"
And now the Maestro went without further question, to do her bidding, although the child, and all that belonged to him had been kept out of sight and sound of the invalid, through these days of danger, lest an emotion should snap the slender thread of life.
"Bring none with thee," she said, "save only the peasant-nurse; for we must be alone."
Quite alone, with death so near, out of themarvellous great strength in her heart, the Lady Beata laid her firm, cool touch on the restless hands, scarcely restraining them—yet the spasmodic movements grew quieter; she smiled into her eyes, until the strain of the frightened gaze relaxed; she folded her close in the arms of her deep tenderness andwilledher back to life with the strenuousness of a great purpose—for was there not the little wailing child to live for, to give her sight of the love and happiness for which she was starving!
Closer and closer yet she folded her, with light caressing motions on hair and brow, calling to her with all sweet names that deep-hearted women know, in tones so like a dream that they caught the wandering consciousness and lighted it with a faint, far hope.
Time is not when such momentous issues are pending. Whether the moments passed into hours, or whether each instant were so fraught with its intensity of hope and fear that every heart-throb seemed an eternity, the yearning watchers never knew. Slowly—or was it swiftly?—Just as hope was dying in despair—a breath of peace, like the wafting of the wings of some heavenly messenger, stirred softly among them, dropping balm on the face of the sleeper.
They bent above her breathlessly; the pale eyelids fluttered and unclosed.
Her breath came gently and broke in a restful sigh; she lay quietly within the shielding arms that had held her back from the dread abyss; the light of recognition was dawning in her eyes.
The Lady Beata trembled for joy; but she scarcedared move or speak; she kept her eyes fixed on the dear, fragile face,—deep in her heart that ceaseless prayer for life.
Maestro Gentile was dumb with awe:—it was a miracle! He stood watching, intent to help—holding his breath lest he should work some harm, while he kept guard over the nurse who held the sleeping child; he was so completely under the spell of that wonder-working will that he needed scarce a sign to work with her.
But the Lady Beata was no thaumaturgist; only a loving woman, standing where science had failed, translating another's desperate need from her own depths of sympathy—arresting the oncoming shadow because of her faith and her great love.
"Now!" she exclaimed under her breath.
She laid the infant on its mother's breast; its dainty breath came and went upon her face with the fragrance of a violet. She uncurled a little crumpled, rose-leaf palm and pressed it close upon the mother's cheek—never moving her gaze, with the will of life strong within it, from the eyes in which recognition had dawned with a strange, sweet surprise. A smile was brooding on lips and eyes. One baby-hand lay clasped in Caterina's—the wee pink fingers closed on hers like the tendrils of a vine.
The Lady Beata's heart throbbed to breaking, but her voice came low and calm—stilled with the passion of her gladness, as Caterina's eyes smiled into hers:
"It is thine own little son, who hath need of thy love:—God's wonderful gift of joy that only mothers know!"