"A confidential communication of deep import to Cyprus--so thou come at
once, and alone. 'The Prisoner in the Castle.'"
The Signor Aluisi Bernardini read the note a second time with frowning
brows, for there was more than one prisoner, even of this recent
conspiracy, in the castle, and the hand was disguised or unknown to him,
and he could but guess at the identity of the sender of this mysterious
message, which had been brought him, quite openly, by one of the castle
guards.
The man stood waiting at the door of his study, until he called to him:
"Thou hast a message for me from----?"
"The Dama Ecciva de Montferrat, Eccellentissimo," the messenger
answered, readily.
"Deliver it."
"I was to remind your Excellency that the galley will sail to-morrow for
Venice--if your Excellency should have despatches--the Dama de
Montferrat feared that it might not be known beyond the castle."
"Is this known within the castle and by order of the Castellan?"
Bernardini asked quickly, in surprise.
"Eccellentissimo, the word came to me by the Dama de Montferrat, in
confidence. I have no other message."
The Bernardini pondered a moment. She had meant him to feel that the
case was urgent, for no hint of the immediate sailing of the prisoner's
galley for Venetian waters had yet reached him, who was usually foremost
in any information that touched upon Venetian interests. It might be a
ruse, or a mere plausible excuse to her messenger.
"Is there aught else in which I may serve the Dama de Montferrat?" the
Bernardini asked with assumed nonchalance, partly to gain time to decide
upon his own course of action, yet hoping to throw some little light
upon the mystery.
"It is written in the note. Doth your Excellency bid me return alone?"
The man's manner was insistent: he had been shown a jewel of value that
should be his if he brought the Bernardini back with him, and such
fidelity as might thus be purchased, Dama Ecciva could count upon.
"Nay: I follow," the Bernardini answered, waving him on before,--"yet
not too closely. At the castle wait for me."
"Of deep import to Cyprus," he repeated to himself, as he made his way
across the breadth of the city to the citadel: he was alone save for his
horse, who often brought him a sense of almost human companionship, and
to-day the responsive quiver of the animal, as his master laid a
caressing touch upon his arched neck, gave him an assurance of fidelity
that was helpful. For the matter of this conspiracy had sorely wrought
upon him and he might not ignore such a message, though it came from one
so unreliable as Dama Ecciva, for she was surely in touch with the
disaffected nobles. It might be a new conspiracy--yet it was more likely
a mere whim, or an attempt to get her sentence remitted--poor girl!
But he felt no emotion of compassion towards her, save for her
duplicity, as he was conducted to the apartment which the Queen had had
prepared in the castle for her young prisoner of State. By the Queen's
grace, also, the Countess of Montferrat occupied the royal apartment
under the same roof and was permitted at certain hours, to visit her
daughter, though never without surveillance. But for one so high in
authority as the Bernardini there were no restrictions and he soon stood
confronting the Dama Ecciva in a small cabinet, which by the Queen's
mercy had little the aspect of a prison; for she had thought of the
mother, as she gave her orders for the prisoner's comfort, and of the
last days that she and her daughter might spend together in their native
land, and her tender heart had overflowed to them; there were even
flowers from the royal gardens, and the air was fragrant; but in Dama
Ecciva's manner there was no softening change.
"So your Excellency hath even deigned to respond to the request of a
_prisoner_?" she exclaimed by way of greeting, and lingering with a
little mocking pretense on the last word.
"If it be within my power----" he began tentatively.
"Promise not too rashly, my Lord Chamberlain, lest I hold thee to thy
word," she answered lightly. "For I shall ask naught of thee that is not
within thy sole power to grant. If I ask thee aught--yet I know not if
I will:--methinks my mood hath changed."
He was dumb as he looked at her--within a few hours of perpetual
banishment she stood before him, brilliant, inconsequent, carefully
dressed in her usual fanciful garb--the very jessamines in her hair
lusciously over-sweet--with no hint of regret in face or manner--her old
fire-fly self.
"Our time is short, Dama Ecciva," he reminded her at length, when she
had chosen a cushioned corner and sat toying with a bunch of wild
orchids--seemingly forgetful of his presence, as of her summons. "We are
alone: and if thou hast a confidence to make--'of import to the
State'----"
"The time is long enough for our needs, Eccellentissimo," she retorted,
with a rippling laugh. "Verily, I like these wild blooms better than Her
Majesty's choice favorites--this orchid hath a face well-nigh human--but
overwise; I scarce need tell it--as to thee--that the sailing of the
galley was my device to bring thee quickly."
He bit his lip to hold back his impatient speech, for she might not be
dealt with as other women, by any appeal to trust or reason.
"Wherefore 'quickly'," he answered her, "since there is time?"
She looked up in surprise at having missed the expected reproof for
which she was already fashioning a saucy reply, and her mood changed
suddenly.
"Nay, nay, there is not time," she cried passionately, stretching out
her hands to him. "There is _not_ time! Though it be not to-night, it
may be to-morrow--who knoweth? And it is forever--forever and ever!
Caro Signore, art thou not a little sorry for me?"
She looked like a child as she made this appeal, and his heart smote him
for his coldness, for she was truly suffering. His sudden sympathy
brought a new note of tenderness to his voice.
"So sorry," he said, as he took her hand in a compassionate clasp. "So
sorry--that only duty to our land of Cyprus stayeth me from seeking that
thy weary penance be lightened. If I might, I would help thee."
"_Our land of Cyprus!_ and thou a Venetian!" she cried triumphantly, her
rainbow face flashing smiles, "and how, caro Signore--_carissimo
Signore_--if 'duty to our land of Cyprus' should bid thee help me?"
"It is some new intrigue of which thou hast knowledge?" he questioned,
striving to hold her thoughts in one direction.
"Is not the one for which I stand here, and which will send me hence,
enough," she answered tantalizingly, "that thou wouldst have more?"
"If it be but for whim of speech that thou hast summoned me," he said
rising, knowing well that she would yield nothing to persuasion, "I may
not linger longer. If there be a way in which I may serve thy mother,
the Countess--ere I take my leave----?"
She shook her head for answer, pulling impatiently at the orchids which
she had gathered up again; they seemed akin to her--half elfin flowers.
"Or if there be some message of farewell for Her Majesty?"
Again she shook her head, in emphatic denial; but she was conscious that
the Bernardini still lingered, although he had taken a few steps away
from her: and looking up she saw that he was watching her in keen
disappointment. Suddenly her cheek flamed, for his look was both
compassionate and reproachful, yet despite her anger, she thought him
more than ever noble while she struggled to repress the half-conscious
feeling within her that dumbly answered to his appeal.
"She hath been merciful and forgiven much," he urged, in a tone that was
still compassionate toward Ecciva herself; "she hath suffered much
because of the grief for thy mother and thyself--and because she might
not lighten the penance. Is there no little word of farewell for her?"
Dama Ecciva tossed away her flowers, and rose indignantly:
"I _have_ a message for Her Majesty," she said in quick, hard tones.
"Tell her I thank her for"--she glanced about the chamber as if summing
up its comforts and elegance--"for her flowers. Tell her that the de
Montferrats come of a noble house, well nigh as old as the Lusignans;
that of our elder branch came a queen of Cyprus. Tell her that if I know
not how to thank her for that she hath decreed banishment for a noble of
our ancient house--she who hath lived in our land of Cyprus these _few
years of her little life_--if I lack the grace to be so good a
courtier--yet I humbly thank her for--these orchids--which might have
sprung from some mouldering trunk in a forgotten corner of my estates.
They mind me of the days before _she_ came to Cyprus."
She crushed them angrily beneath her foot as she spoke, and her words
stormed upon him.
As he would have answered her, she broke in with more hot words.
"Tell her that I shall not lose my color in exile; it will not cure me
of my _crime of loyalty_ to my people--I cannot change my faith--tell
her----"
But he interrupted gravely:
"Thou dost wrong thyself and her: knowing well that thy 'crime' is not
'of loyalty to thy people'; but that thou couldst _profess_ a loyalty
which was but pretence to the Queen who held thy vows of fealty."
She was quivering still with anger and she did not answer him.
"Speech is useless," he said, "if it be not reasonable: and none
grieveth more than our gentle Lady that the welfare of the State
demandeth the exile of one who hath conspired against it. She, of her
grace, will have it that others have misled thee;--that of thine own
heart thou wouldst not have sought this treachery."
"_Treachery!_" her eyes flamed. "If that be treachery----Listen! I
thought to send thee away without my confidence and leave thee to thy
blind struggle to rule our people of Cyprus--thou and the fair little
Queen! Yet I _will_ tell thee, for I cannot leave thee so."
She had come nearer. "Will the nobles in their far lands bow at _her_
bidding? _Never!_ They need a _man_ to sway them, for the good of
Cyprus--one who knoweth how to rule--of strength and constancy to shape
their kingdom and make it great. For _such_ a man the nobles would rise
in their might."
"There is none such," he answered coldly, "and talk of treason--except
it were a maid's wild dreaming--must be brought before the Council of
the Realm. Unless thou hast confession of some real import to the
State--or names that we should know--and for the telling much might be
forgiven thee--I bid thee farewell. Truly it is hard for thee, my poor
Dama Ecciva; but in thy heart thou knowest that the penalty could not be
less.--May thy reason and the years soften it to thee."
She had not listened to his last words, but stood irresolute as he took
his ceremonious farewell: then suddenly she sprang towards him and
caught his hand to detain him. Her face had grown soft and eager.
"It _is_ 'confession'!" she cried, "'of import to the State'--and
'names' that thou shouldst know. There are many nobles whom I could
reach--I will name thee all their names when we have spoken together:
those who suffer banishment with me are but a few. At word of mine they
would kindle into fire and make a glory of Cyprus!" She had drawn
herself up proudly, her eyes were flashing; she had clenched her small
hands so tightly over his that he could not withdraw it.
"Poor child!" he said compassionately; "shall one woman rule them, and
not another!--It is the madness of imprisonment and exile; it shall be
forgiven thee."
He tried to make his escape, but she clung to his hand yet more closely,
so that he could not move without dragging her with him.
"It is not forgiveness that I want," she cried furiously, "but
comprehension. Canst thou not see! Have I not said that Cyprus hath need
of a man to rule? _Who_ led the people to storm the Fortress of
Famagosta? _Who_ ruled the city in quiet through those days of
stress?--_Thou_ art the man! _Through me, who hold the key, thou shalt
rule them well._"
"I am a Venetian," he answered coldly; and no longer hesitating to use
the needful force to unclasp the clinging, importunate hands. "From
compassion have I shown too great patience with thy mad dreaming. I will
direct that the Countess of Montferrat be permitted to come to thee now:
for the galley must soon sail for Venice.--May the Madonna help thee!"
But as he reached the door a mocking laugh rang out and made him turn in
surprise, for it was but a moment since he had instinctively averted his
gaze, lest he should read too easily in her mobile face the emotion
which she made no effort to conceal.
"Let us at least part with due ceremony, your Excellency," she said,
"since we shall both have travelled to other worlds before we meet
again: I--who might have been a Queen, hadst thou but believed my 'mad
dreaming' and accepted my aid to make thee--that which should have made
me thy Queen indeed, and thee a Sovereign of Cyprus!--had I but
condescended so far!"
She swept him her most courtly reverence. "Adieu! Thou art a man
indeed--like many another--to let a woman outwit thee and befool
thee--so that even now thou knowest not within thy soul if she hath
spoken truth,--or flattery to beguile thee; or 'mad dreaming'--for
which, perforce, she 'may be forgiven,' and render thanks! Thou knowest
not whether she hath, in truth, spoken _to mislead thee_ that which
should have brought the pride of thy superb Venice low--hadst thou but
listened!--So much hath my 'confession' availed thee. O, most astute
Venetian!"
She flung the words at him in triumphant tones, while he, in noble pity,
stood speechless--having seen her face when she thought he had not seen;
and she stood thus--radiant--defiant--until there was no longer an echo
of footsteps back through the long vaulted corridor of the castle. Then
the mocking smile died on her lips and eyes and she threw herself on her
couch in a bitter paroxysm of passion.
"One may dare all, for a man of stone," she cried, "and yet not win! And
I would have made him great--_great_ beyond his dreams! O
fool!--FOOL!"