IX

And now, by the Queen's command which might not be denied, the talk

flowed through the days of leisure during the absence of the King, while

Caterina strolled with her Cyprian maid of honor through the terraced

gardens in the cool of the evening, or rested in the heat of the day, in

the shaded apartments of the _voto_. The girl-queen listened with

breathless eagerness to the strange revelations, often interrupting with

passionate exclamations, for her short taste of Cyprian life had been so

colored with the glamour of love and happiness and the excitement of her

novel surroundings that the vague forebodings which were beginning to

temper the brilliancy had suggested no serious shadows.

In vain Donna Margherita pleaded that she might be allowed to put the

theme aside, as she told of the disaffection of some of the ancient

nobles of Cyprus who had been despoiled of vast estates because of their

sympathy with Queen Carlotta. "But Janus was ever generous," said

Margherita, "and none of their riches went into the King's treasury, but

always into the hands of those nobles who were loyal to the new

Government."

_The new Government! Queen Carlotta!_ The young Venetian's hot

resentment rose fiercely against the Republic which had left her in such

ignorance of Cyprian matters while she turned her proud young head away

that Margherita might not guess how little the name of Carlotta had

meant for her.

"Tell me more of Carlotta--tell me everything," she commanded, steadied

by her quick resolve to know and endure whatever the past might hold for

her; and Margherita, who had been watching her with strange intuition,

knew that she might hold nothing back, as she also knew that the young

Queen had been kept in absolute ignorance of the complications preceding

the accession of Janus. But it was impossible for Caterina to conceal

the play of her angry emotions as the tale progressed, and she frankly

gave up the attempt. Janus--her beautiful Janus--the idol of the old

King--_not_ the legal heir to the throne! Janus, in his boyhood, hated,

thwarted, intrigued against--living in very fear of his life!

"Nay!" Margherita assured her with glowing eyes, "he knew not the color

of fear, for he had the heart of a King!"

Then Caterina drew her close and gave her a passionate kiss, in seal of

a friendship that was never to be broken.

"He had need to be brave," Margherita went on when she could command her

voice, for the Queen's great eyes were beseeching, "for Queen Elena

cared not how he should be put out of the way so that he might not

interfere with her absolute sway nor with the holding of the Crown by

her daughter Carlotta, when old King Janus should die."

So this was why, by Queen Elena's command, the dashing, masterful boy of

fifteen had been created Archbishop of Cyprus--in the hope that the

honors of the Church might absorb his powers and keep the wish for his

succession out of the thoughts of the people who idolized him! This

holding of the Primacy had been a mystery to Caterina, who, dearly as

she loved her hero, knew him to be no saint. But, whatever the rights of

Carlotta--who had been left Queen by her father's will (and insistent

questions thrust themselves into the thoughts of Caterina while she

listened, zealous to escape no detail)--it was evident that Margherita's

sympathies went out to Janus.

"He hath more the quality of the Lusignans--to whom the De Iblin were

ever loyal," she explained to Caterina, "and Carlotta is like her

mother. Janus was first to offer his homage to his sister, pleading that

as children of one father there might be truce and loving intercourse

between them; but he was refused admittance to the Royal Palace; denied

his right, as Primate of Cyprus, to preside at the coronation and

commanded to remain within his palace during the ceremony, _lest the

love of the people should acclaim him King_. But the crown of Carlotta

fell from her head as she returned in stately procession to the palace,"

Margherita exclaimed, crossing herself devoutly--"so one might know that

her reign should not be happy!"

"And then?" Caterina questioned, impatiently.

"Ah, yes, your Majesty, there was more; for our brave Janus had been

gentle withal, but for ceaseless outrage that forced him to forswear his

oath of loyalty. His revenues were withheld: he was beguiled to a

banquet in the palace of a high officer of the crown where poisoned

meats were set before him, but here, as in many another intrigue, the

watchful love of the beautiful Maria da Patras--his unhappy

mother--saved his life. Poor lady! she watched and prayed for him, and

had no other thought.

"One knows not how--but she always knew--as if some spirit had told

her!" Margherita continued in a tone of awe, after a moment's silence.

"For none but she had dreamed the great Sir Tristan traitor to his

trust, he who came of the noble house of De Giblet and was keeper of the

Episcopal Palace and on guard at night! Yet once it befell that Sir

Tristan came stealthily into the sleeping chamber of the prince, and the

pages of the night who stand at arms beside the couch had fallen to the

pavement, heavy with some strange sleep. But Donna Maria had watched and

warned and our Janus was already stealing far on his way to Alexandria,

when Sir Tristan drew aside the curtains and plunged his dagger deep

into the mass of pillows which in the darkness wore some semblance of a

sleeping form. It was told that he howled with rage at such childish

thwarting, for Donna Maria had men at hand who came running at the

outcry and took Sir Tristan into safe keeping."

"Madre Sanctissima!" Caterina exclaimed in her excitement, and urging

the recital with a quick motion of her hand.

"It was the last time, sweet Lady, that our Janus might feel Carlotta's

power; for soon he returned from Alexandria to take possession of Cyprus

by order of the Sultan, our Suzerain, upheld by his armies and his

treasure. For the charm of the Prince had won their hearts; the

circumstance of his birth and a woman's rights were of small account in

the estimation of the Sultan, and the march of our young King from his

landing to his capital was a victory--the people kneeling in his

pathway--wild with the joy of welcome."

Margherita had told the tale with eloquence, her breath coming quickly,

her color rising, but Caterina was fairly startled by the dramatic ring

in her voice as she told how Carlotta, at the last moment, finding

further resistance impossible, had sent an envoy to Janus to promise him

the revenues of his See, once more, if he would but lay down his arms

and renew his allegiance. But the magnificent ambassador from

Alexandria, whom the Sultan had sent with Janus to see his will

enforced, made reply:

"It is the will of my master--the Sultan of Sultans, the Lord of lords,

the King of kings--that Janus, prince of Cyprus, should reign as King;

and my master, the Sultan of sultans, will acknowledge no other

sovereign."

Then, suddenly, Caterina felt that she could bear no more; she must be

alone to think, and she held up her hand to entreat silence. How tender

she would be to him on whom such cruelty had been wreaked--how

loving--to make amends for all the hatred of the past! How brave he was,

her true knight--how forgiving--to have told her nothing of all this

tragedy! It was not strange that his people loved him so--his people who

had thronged upon his pathway with acclamation and greeting! Her heart

beat high with adoring love and her eyes filled with happy tears.

"My Janus!" she cried, and then again, "my Janus," she whispered softly,

filling the syllables with a wealth of tenderness and sympathy. She felt

that she could not wait until he should come again; these few days had

seemed so long!

But her elation passed and a sense of overwhelming disaster possessed

her. "The Senate had known it all--the Senate had told her

nothing--_nothing about Carlotta_. Why had they not named her--was it

because--because----?"

And then the questionings that had come to her hastily and been lost in

the recital of the perils and escapes of one so beloved came back with

renewed force and would not be quieted, but called out for an answer.

When Janus came she would ask him--in her staunch fair soul, she knew

that she _must_ ask him, though he might be angry and the bare thought

of this made her shrink and quail--it even shadowed a little the

pleasure of his longed-for coming--for he had always been so knightly to

her. But yet, she could not wait! A great horror came over her of the

old Queen, who had been painted as without principle and of wild

passions--shrinking from nothing so that she might gain her will, and

she was glad in her soul that Elena was not the mother of her Janus,

while she struggled with her Venetian pride and promised herself to be

the truer to him for his wrongs. And so the night wore on; and between

her longing and her trouble there was no sleep for her while the day

delayed.

A vague shape of terror seemed to hover between her and her vision of

the future that had been so golden. Where was Carlotta? Might she not

come again and strive to win back her crown? Were the nobles many who

would uphold her?

Nay; but it was Janus whom the people loved--Janus! who had been crowned

their king, with all solemn ceremony in Alexandria, by order of the

Suzerain of Cyprus--to oppose him was rebellion! Janus--her beloved--so

winsome, so masterful! Then, slowly out of the darkness rose the noble

face of Lorenzo the Giustinian, full of quiet and strength--her mother's

face, loving, comforting--both asking her best of her; and the Question

grew in her soul. "Perhaps Carlotta's right was greater--_could it be

greater_ than her husband's?"

X

All day the queen had been restless and depressed, starting at the sound

of a footfall only to drop her eyes again in disappointment and relapse

into unquiet revery; the weight of empire hung heavily upon her girlish

spirit and she was unutterably lonely in the absence of Janus which

seemed so unduly prolonged. It was the latest day that he had named for

his possible absence, and still no courier had come to announce his

return.

The noon had been unusually sultry, the stifling heat of the upper

chambers oppressed her and the ceaseless, rasping whir of the cicala

smote her with weariness, but she resisted the attempt of her ladies to

detain her in the cooler atmosphere of the _voto_, for in these

underground chambers she could have no sight of the great plain beyond

the boundaries of the palace-gardens--and she preferred remaining in the

halls that overlooked the terraces--turning her eyes often in the

direction of the forest.

It was like a pall upon them all to see their young mistress, usually so

gracious and responsive, wholly absorbed in her troubled revery; but

to-day her maidens played their sweetest strains upon their silvery

lutes, without her answering smile; the gentlemen of her court sought in

vain for some diversion to distract her; even the Lady Margherita could

do nothing for her pleasure, while she watched in unobtrusive

tenderness, feeling that quiet, however unsatisfying, was more welcome

than speech.

The pages, at a sign from the Lady Margherita, had dipped their fronds

of feather in the great vases of mountain-snow that stood between the

columns, and waved them about the chamber; the queen followed their

movements with a fleeting smile as this breath of coolness reached her,

then fixed her eyes again, with a despairing look, upon the distant

forest.

"She wearieth for the King," her maidens said low to each other, "and

verily he may come to-night, for the days have already numbered more

than he giveth of wont to the chase."

"She is not like herself," the Lady Ecciva de Montferrat whispered to

her young Venetian companion, Eloisa Contarini, as the company strolled

out upon the terraces at a sign from the Lady Beata Bernardini whose

loving motherly eyes saw that Caterina needed rest and solitude. "She is

strange and pale to-day--like one who hath seen a vision." Lady Ecciva

spoke with deep seriousness, for superstition was a vital part of the

Cyprian nature, belonging alike to peasant and noble.

"How meanest thou--_a vision_?" Eloisa questioned, startled.

The other turned to see that they were not followed and answered in an

awe-struck tone: "_The vision of the Melusina--the fate of the

Lusignans!_ Didst thou not hear her shriek from the Castle of Lusignan

in the dead of night?"

"_The Melusina?_ Ecciva, who is _the_ '_Melusina_?'"

"She is the evil genius of the House of Lusignan," Ecciva explained to

her excited companion, "all Cyprus knoweth that when the Melusina crieth

three times from the towers of the ancient Chateau of Lusignan, in far

France, it meaneth death, or some great misfortune to a ruler of this

house."

"And thou--didst hear this lamentation verily, Ecciva? I should have

died from fear!"

"Yea, thou being from Venice--not knowing that it bodeth not harm for

thee--it is misfortune only for some ruler of their house of Lusignan."

"And that is naught to thee!" the Venetian girl exclaimed in

astonishment. "Thy King--is he nothing to thee?"

"One knoweth not," the other answered nonchalantly. "There is

Carlotta--both of the house of Lusignan; and she might be kinder than

King Janus who seized the fiefs of my father because he came not forth

to do him homage when he landed with his army from Alexandria."

Eloisa drew herself impetuously away from her companion who was watching

her through long, half-closed eyes.

"Thou then--why art thou here?" she exclaimed indignantly, "in service

of my beloved Lady, who is so good and fair, if thou lovest her not--nor

the King!"

The youthful Dama Ecciva laughed lightly:

"Thou art a veritable _turco_ for fierceness, Eloisa! I have naught

against her Majesty, who truly is most fair and gracious--quite other

than Carlotta--whom I love not at all! And if I held some grudge against

the King for seizing of my father's lands (which broke his heart before

he died) one cannot long be churlish in presence of our Janus, who hath

a matchless fashion of grace with him, so that all think to have won his

favor. Verily, that is a King for Cyprus!--he mindeth one of Cinyras. I

must tell thee the tale of our hero of Cyprus some day, Eloisa."

"Aye: but tell me now--how camest thou at Court if the King hath wronged

thy house?"

"Such eyes thou hast!--like a frightened child! I know not if I shall

reach thy comprehension, were I to answer thee--but I, being only

daughter to my father, Gualtier of Montferrat, who had no son--plead

with my mother to send me hither when I came of age, to do homage

loyally to King Janus, and claim our fiefs of him again--I being his

vassal by right of long generations past--there was no other way."

"A vassal so loyal doth honor to him and thee!" the warm-blooded

Venetian maid cried scornfully, with a toss of her dainty head.

Again the Lady Ecciva laughed lightly, but no shadow of discomposure

marred the exquisite outlines of the beautiful, cold face: the skin,

delicate and fine as ivory, showed no flush of color: her eyes and

tresses were dark as night--the eye-brows slender, yet marking a perfect

arc--the eyes beneath them tantalizing, inscrutable--the mouth rosy as

that of a child--the fingers long, sinuous, emphasizing her speech with

movements so unconscious that sometimes they betrayed what her words

left unguessed.

"I do not understand thy vassalship," the Lady Eloisa said with

hesitation--yet eager to know more of her companion's attitude toward

the Queen; they had wandered far down the terrace to the basin where the

swans were floating, opalescent in the sunset light.

Dama Ecciva broke off some oleander blossoms and flung them at the royal

birds with teasing motion, watching them contentedly as, one by one,

they floated away with ruffled plumage and sounds of protest.

"It is a right of our house for many generations," she explained; "being

allied with royalty through the elder branch of the Montferrats, I am a

_dama di maridaggio_ by birth, and since there is no son of our house to

offer homage in return for our fiefs, the duty was mine to do service to

our King and claim our lands of him again. It was a simple ceremony--to

bend the knee and kiss his hand, and make some empty vows--to see my

mother Lady of her lands once more."

"Aye, it were well--if thy vows were not so 'empty,'" Eloisa protested.

"How shouldst thou speak so coldly of thy vision, if thou hadst one

spark of loyalty?"

"It was not _my_ vision," her companion answered nonchalantly; "I slept

the night through, the better to enjoy the day, which, verily, was not

worth taking such trouble for,--so stupid hath it been!"

"But the vision?" Eloisa questioned impatiently--"there was no vision!

Thou hast said it but to frighten me!"

"It is her Majesty who hath had the vision--one can tell it but to look

at her: and for the three fatal shrieks--the shrieks to curdle one's

blood--Josefa told of them but now. _Some_ one hath heard them; but

they hush it in the court for it meaneth disaster."

"I may not stay with thee!" Eloisa cried turning away in hot

displeasure; "not for fear--for I do not believe thy vision: but because

I hate thy mocking spirit and thy so strange loyalty--_dama di

maridaggio_!"

The Lady Ecciva calmly resumed her pastime of swan-teasing as her

impulsive companion, flushed and panting, began to climb the long flight

of marble steps that led back to the palace-plateau.

"I think I am better companioned this heavenly night without thy

preaching," she said serenely, as Eloisa, half repenting her quickness,

turned back to wave her a farewell, "for the breezes are comforting

after the day, and fret me not with questions. And for my

_loyalty_"--she lingered mockingly on the word--"my loyalty will serve

King Janus well enough, unless he seeketh to enforce his rights to my

displeasure."

"How to thy 'displeasure'? What 'rights'?"

"His right of Lord of the fiefs--for our lands are gifts of the

Crown--to choose a husband for his _dama di maridaggio_ who suiteth not

her fancy."

"Nay, verily, Ecciva, he is a noble gentleman--he would not press thee

too hard, thou wouldst protest."

"Aye, I should protest--I _would_ protest. And so he hath no scheme to

marry me with the miserable Neapolitan noble who held our lands while we

were dispossessed, I care not! But it were good to know what fancy might

seize him--our charming Janus! For he is a man of many moods and some

favorite of the Soldan may next be friend to him!"

The evening breezes were slowly waking over the torrid land, bringing

needed refreshment after the long sultriness of the day: the air was

laden with delicious odors--fragrance of rose and jessamine and orange

blooms; birds of brilliant plumage called to each other in jubilant

notes as they flitted hither and thither among the pomegranate blossoms

which burned, like tongues of flame, among the thickets of green.

Back through the long alleys of wonderful trees where many a clinging

vine trailed masses of riotous color, it was pleasant to hear mirthful

voices ringing freely after the dull day's repression, or echoing back

more faintly from adventurous wanderers in the farther shrubberies. This

garden of delights which Janus had made for his bride, environing this

palace of Potamia, was alive with charm--rippling with stolen streams,

more costly than molten silver at the summer's height, which kept it in

such vesture of luxuriant bloom as only a monarch might command.

But Eloisa sped quickly up from terrace to terrace, scarcely pausing to

answer the persiflage with which her companion sought to detain her; she

was overwrought and unhappy, in spite of herself; she had no faith in

the vision of Ecciva; she felt hurt and outraged by her coldness, and

she was hastening back for one look in the true and noble face of the

Lady of the Bernardini, who mothered all these young Venetian maids of

honor in the court of Caterina, craving to express her deep loyalty to

the Queen herself by some immediate act of silent homage.

Only the Lady of the Bernardini and Margherita de Iblin were with

Caterina in the loggia, just without the palace, as Eloisa came flying

up the steps and falling on her knees covered the young Queen's hand

with passionate kisses.

"What is it, _carina mia_?" Caterina asked in alarm; "thou bringest

news? There is a courier?"

"_Niente--niente, Serenissima_--only to be near the one I love!" the

girl cried fervently; and then grew suddenly quiet, in full content

after this needed avowal.

"Poverina, thou art lonely for thy Venice, and thy people," the Queen

murmured in her own soft Italian tongue, while her fingers strayed

caressingly through the glory of red-gold hair which fell unbound about

the maid, in the fashion of those days for one of noble birth and tender

age.

But presently she withdrew her hand and motioned Eloisa to a corner

among the cushions on the curving marble slab, grotesquely wrought with

talismanic symbols, which outlined the end of the loggia where they sat.

"Thou art come a-propos: for the Lady Margherita hath promised us a tale

of ancient Cyprus, and we of Venice wish to know these legends of our

beautiful island."

"Nay, beloved Sovereign Lady;--it is not legend but simple historic

truth, which your Majesty hath granted me permission to narrate--a tale

of love and loyalty of the annals of our house; and out of it hath come

this Cyprian proverb: '_Quel che Iblin e non si puo trovar._' 'Such an

one as Iblin may no man find!'" Dama Margherita, usually so pale and

grave, was flushed and eager; her deep eyes sparkled; her breath came

fast.

The name of Joan of Iblin was revered in Cyprus and the Queen turned

towards Margherita with some comprehension of her pride in the nobility

of this ancestor who had spent himself in loyal service for the early

Kings of Cyprus, touching her hand with a light pressure, smiling her

approbation.

No feast at any court in those days was complete without this diversion

of recitation, when the nation's heroes, or some passage from its

greater classics, furnished the theme; or when some improvisator wove a

tissue of myth and legend, embroidered with fact, which won its way

through confiding ages as historic truth, till the time, growing

sophisticated, laid it heroically aside for a curio. And Cyprus stood

high among the Eastern nations in literary reputation. Was not its poet

Enclos earliest among the Greek prophetic singers? Was not the "Cypria"

celebrated among the epics of antiquity, a precursor to the Iliad

itself? Was any land more fertile than Cyprus in food for poets?

The Cypriotes no longer knew whether Cinyras were god, or man, or myth;

whether he were the son of Apollo, or of Pygmalion and the bewitching

ivory image of the sculptor's dead wife; or, in very truth, that

splendid prince of Agamemnon's time, as sung by Homer in the Iliad,

winning laurels at the siege of Troy. This hero of the "_Cypria_," was

he, in verity the great High Priest of the island and chief of the

stately race of the _Cinyradae_ who had ruled the people long in State

and Sanctuary, and filled their realm with stately temples? The

Cypriotes drew breath in an atmosphere of myth and poetry and felt the

recital of the feats of their heroes to be no less a duty than a

delight.

The improvisatorial faculty so often bestowed upon this imaginative

people was greatly prized, and not infrequently it descended from father

to son, as an inheritance, winning for its possessor something of the

reverence granted to a prophet.

Dama Margherita de Iblin possessed this gift, though only in moments of

deep feeling was she willing to exercise it: but to-night she was

strangely moved out of sympathy for the Queen, whose evident anxiety

filled her with foreboding and whom she eagerly longed to divert.

"Since your Majesty hath graciously commanded the story of Joan of

Iblin, Lord of Beirut and Governor of Jerusalem--a tale of our dear land

when it was young--I will tell it after the fashion of my people," she

said, rising with her sudden resolve, her strong, dark face grown

beautiful from the play of noble emotions.

She stood for a moment, her tall figure in its sweeping folds swaying in

slow rhythmic cadence--her attitude and gesture full of grace and

dignity--irresistibly compelling--as in low, penetrating monotone she

began her chant.

The music-maidens stole noiselessly forth upon the loggia, accompanying

the noble improvisatrice with lute and rhythmic posture; the night

deepened and the stars came out, and still her hearers listened

breathlessly, as in moments of emotion the chant leaped wildly to meet

the urgency of her thought, or deepened in melting tenderness to its

pathos; for such was the intensity of Margherita's emotion and dramatic

quality that she endued each character with an almost startling

vitality--or had she put her auditors under some magic spell with the

compelling gaze of her deep eyes? They felt as if living in that past

time, partakers in its very action, and they surrendered themselves to

her power.

It was the tale of an infant heir of Cyprus, when the realm was young

and the Emperor Frederick was her Suzerain, and with a sweep of her

magnetic fingers Margherita showed the babe lying helpless and appealing

before his uncle the noble Lord of Iblin, to whom the widowed Queen had

confided him during his tutelage. The guardian's faith and devotion were

sketched in rapid strokes; and when the tiny King had been crowned and

his knights and barons of Cyprus and Jerusalem had sworn him fealty, the

souls of her listeners swelled indignant within them as Dama Margherita

thrilled forth the challenge of the Emperor to the Lord of Iblin to lay

down his trust and surrender the child with the customs of Cyprus to

him--their Suzerain--until the boy should be of age.

"_Not so--most gracious Lord and Emperor!_" Joan of Iblin had made

dauntless answer; "_for my tutelage is by order of the Queen, his

mother, who holdeth the regency justly, and by the laws of Cyprus and of

Jerusalem--which, with all courtesy, I will defend. I make appeal unto

the courts for this our right!_"

Her sympathetic auditors verily _heard_ the tramp of armies in the wild

chant of Margherita when the Emperor had replied with scorn and insult,

trampling on the rights of Cyprus; they could have sworn that they saw

the Emperor's hosts gathering on the plains as they watched the

impetuous motions of all those beckoning maiden hands; and then,

advancing in quiet dignity, sure of their right, the old-time knights

and barons of Cyprus and Jerusalem, moving to the measure of a quaint,

Christian psalm: and so fully had her listeners yielded themselves to

her potent spell, that but hearkening to her recital, they quailed and

trembled when she told that the enemies of the Lord of Iblin came by

night and sought to whisper treachery to his staunch soul, while in

tones that scarcely broke the hush, the false words of the tempter

reached their consciousness, quivering through them, as if they

themselves were guilty of this treachery:

"_Ye are more in number than the hosts of the Emperor--kill him while he

sleepeth! For we will see that his guards wake not._"

Then fell a deep, throbbing silence, tingling with a sense of shame,

broken by a sudden discord of the lutes and the wild burst of ringing

scorn.

"_Shall we, Christian men of Cyprus, do this iniquity!_"

Again, the whispered voice of the tempter: "_Aye! for the Emperor is

false; he hath taken thine own sons for hostages and keepeth not his

promise but in his camp entreateth them shamefully; and in the courts,

which shall judge of this thy cause, doth seek to malign thee._"

Once more came the voice of Joan of Iblin, invincible:

"_We have sworn fealty to the Emperor--we are true men--be others

untrue._"

And then in unison--swift, sure, triumphant--the words vibrated on the

air: "_We have sworn fealty to the Emperor--we are true men--be others

untrue._"

The voices in the garden had long since ceased, and one by one the

wanderers had gathered on the terrace, waiting in responsive silence the

conclusion of the tale they loved. Among them the Bernardini stood

entranced. He had been strolling alone, filled with anxious thoughts

which had brought him to a mood easily wrought upon, and from the

silence of the garden to come suddenly upon this scene of picturesque

action was a surprise that gave it added power.

He stood as if fascinated, never moving his gaze from the lithe figure

of Margherita, whose every motion revealed new grace and unsuspected

depths of feeling. Margherita, whom he had thought so grave and cold! So

intently was he watching her that he realized no others in the vivid

pantomime until the music maidens had gathered closely about her with

hushed lutes and a mysterious silence fell--as of night upon the

plain--spreading with the slow movement of the down-turned palms of all

that girlish throng--the graceful, swaying figures scarce advancing, yet

seeming to encompass the plain.

Between these interludes of dramatic rendering, the thread of the story

was held in a quick, clear monotone easily followed. The hushed tramp of

a great army withdrawing in the night--not from fear, but to honor their

vows--the words of Iblin: "_We will not fight our Emperor, for our men

are more than his: which having seen, it will now perchance please him

to accept our terms of honorable peace._" The Emperor's acceptance of

the terms from fear or wile, or because of new wars pressing in his own

lands: his promise to leave the customs of the realm to Cyprus: and

then, as Suzerain, his swift summons to the Lord of Iblin to join him in

Crusade with men and arms. But the friends of the faithful guardian

close round him and the chant of Margherita grows fierce and ominous:

"_Beware! He meaneth treachery. It is no summons--save to entrap thee._"

But the answer rings out loyally in the knightly faith of those early

days, while the deep, contralto tones electrify her audience: "_Shall we

show fear of our Emperor, or fail to bring him aid in holy warfare of

Crusade--we, who are Christian knights? Faith begetteth Faith!_"

Then the Cypriotes fare them forth to do the bidding of their dauntless

leader,--all the knights and nobles of Cyprus and Jerusalem, the

youthful King and the sons of the Lord of Iblin--with interchange of

gifts and feasting and homage as of leal men to their Suzerain: with

much pledging of faith, from each to each, after the manner of those

days--against the background of that noble chorus following from afar in

massive, chanted solemn tones--

"_Faith begetteth Faith._"

But now, to the cities of Cyprus, left destitute of defense while their

nobles were gone to honor the Emperor's command, came a band of

mercenaries of the Emperor's sending, who stole the customs and by

their lawless acts frightened the people who fled for safety to the

convents, denouncing Frederick as false and craven; while the governors

sent by him, in despite of his solemn treaty, made havoc in the land,

proclaiming in every city:

"_Let not the Lord of Iblin set foot in this land of Cyprus--by order of

the Emperor!_"

Suddenly the indignant cries of the whole listening company mingled in

confusion with the inspired voice of the improvisatrice and the

descriptive music of the lutes.

Caterina sprang to her feet, not knowing what she did: "Bring back the

Lord of Iblin!" she cried. "Bring the noble Joan back! Save this people

of Cyprus!"

At the sound of her voice the lords and ladies of her court came

crowding up the steps of the loggia from the terrace, clinging around

her, kissing her hands with fervent words of loyalty and pleasure,

before she realized that she was in the _Now_, or that she had cried out

in her excitement. But this was the Cypriotes' story of stories, and her

unconscious action had bound them to her.

But Dama Margherita, still in her trance of song, waved them to quiet

again as they stood grouped about the Queen, in the very mood of the

closing scene, creating an atmosphere of restrained passion, through

which the voice of the improvisatrice throbbed and pulsated like their

own hear-beats.

But now the tones of the improvisatrice are low and quiet, and her

motions assert the dignity of a life nobly lived. For Joan of Iblin has

returned from Crusade, has conquered the intruders and restored quiet

to the realm. But, thereafter, siege is laid to his own castle and fief

of Beirut, and now, gray-haired and full of honors, his time of service

drawing to a close, his trust fulfilled and the young monarch come to

his majority, he implores his royal ward to assemble his full court, and

kneeling in their presence before the youth whom he had served from

tenderest infancy, he prays:

"_If I have served thee well, my nephew and my monarch--now come to

thine own--because I loved thee well, yet loving honor more:_

"_If I have fought for thee in keeping of my trust, and dared the enmity

of the Emperor our Suzerain,--and for thy sake:_

"_Now, by my love for thee--for I am old and the cities of my fiefs are

doomed;_

"_Send, if it seemeth good to thee and to these, the knights and barons

of thy realm, and save my lands--that they be not wrested from me when

my strength is spent!_"

The true-hearted Prince threw loving arms about him, with words of

comfort and with promises, and would have raised him. But the Lord of

Iblin would bring his speech to its conclusion and have his say before

them all, thus kneeling--as if it were a rendering of his trust, a

fitting close to a so loyal life.

The words of his Swan-Song had been chanted in full, rare, solemn

harmony--the lutes in gracious melody accompanying, like an undertone of

love--slow tears down dropping from the eyes of Margherita.

And one by one, as the chant proceeded, through her strange magnetic

power, her listeners _saw_ a knight step forth from the circle and drop

to his knees, swearing fealty to the King and the Lord of Iblin, until

all were kneeling. Then the chanting voices hushed and the rapid motions

ceased: and under that spell they saw, as in a vision, luminous in the

darkness, the kneeling knights of that early court of Cyprus, and in

their midst, the gray-haired Joan of Iblin and the boyish monarch, in

his young, rosy strength--a vision of love and loyalty!

Aluisi Bernardini breathed a sigh of content as he moved quickly away

with a sense of his responsibility being shared; for it was only now

that he felt that he knew Margherita, and she would be ever near the

Queen, a Cypriote of the Cypriotes, but loyal to her heart's core. He

could have kissed the hem of her trailing robe as it floated towards

him, stirred by the motion of his passing--for in the maiden's tale she

had revealed herself to him: it was not of her grace and talent, nor of

the poem that he thought--but on the surety of her staunchness of

soul--of her consecration: he heard her voice again ringing in the

words:

"_We are true men: be others untrue!_"