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 Nicolo, 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 copper _carcie_ into 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 Nicolo. 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 the
treasures 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 Troodos 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 apart for 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 was fever," 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, "Can _nothing_ more 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--_so_
tired--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 shall _not_ die 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--she _must_ not 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 the marvellous 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
and _willed_ her 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 scarce dared 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!"