Chapter 6

"But the vision?" Eloisà 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!" Eloisà 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 Eloisà, 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 Eloisà 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 Eloisà 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 Eloisà 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 à-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 è non si può 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 _Cinyradæ_ 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!_"

XI

A Little page who had been leaning on the marble parapet beyond the terrace, came stealthily and beckoned to a comrade on the steps of the loggia.

"A troop of horse were coming across the plain," he explained in low, agitated tones, as the other reached his side, and followed him back to the post where he had been watching. "I saw them all the time Dama Margherita was reciting--Holy Mother, but it was long!--I thought the King was coming, and it was I that should carry the news to her Majesty--I came near crying out! But I could not see his orange plume, and I waited. They came slowly--_Santissima Vergine!_ _He was not there!_"

He clutched his comrade's doublet with a trembling hand and turned an ashen face towards him.

"What ailest thee, Tristan?--thou who art already a damoiseau and shalt be a true knight? Thou art verily dreaming--I see nothing."

"They are gone within--in the first great court of the palace--those who came. They were the King's gentlemen--_all_ the King's gentlemen--Messer Andrea among them. I thought the champing would have roused the Queen who hath been watching all the day. I am not afraid----" he gasped; "but it was so horrible!--Thou knowest, Guido, Messer Andrea never leaveth the King."

The boy's eyes were dark with fear.

"He will come with the others--he will surely, surely come," Guido asseverated.

They clasped each other close and pressed their fresh cheeks together, trembling so that they could scarcely speak, yet struggling to be brave, as became little pages that should be knights.

"They were so long," poor Tristan said in a choking whisper, "and it was so still--_so still_--no music, and they returning from the chase! And--when they came nearer, I thought I saw his horse, but I could not see a rider--and I thought, I thought--perhaps because it _was_ dark--and I ran down the front of the palace to get nearer when they crossed the bridge. Ah, but the tramp was dreadful! And--and--it was his horse, and a squire leading him--and--behind them--oh Guido!--_Then I knew_."

"We will be knights, Tristan mio," Guido whispered, wiping away his comrade's tears while his own were falling; and then, straining each other convulsively, they broke down in sobs together.

* * * * *

Dama Ecciva stole up the steps from the terrace, and catching Eloisà's hand, dragged her forcibly away.

"Come quickly," she whispered, with chattering teeth, "_Santa Maria Vergine!_ I am so frightened. Oh, the poor, poor Queen! That was why she hath been so strange--she hath truly seen the vision. Poverina, it breaks one's heart! And he but a week away! So gay and debonair, and beautiful as a god!"

There was no mistaking her wild eyes.

"Tell me!" Eloisà gasped.

"I was there in the pergola, and I saw them come--the _frati_ from the Troödos in the midst of the troop of horse--with--with IT.--Oh Eloisà, _it was true!_--They are telling her now."

* * * * *

There was a stir in the great audience-chamber back of the loggia where Caterina sat--a sound of hesitant feet, as of many who came unwillingly, unutterably weary from the dull weight of evil tidings.

The muffled footsteps roused her from her revery and she turned her head and saw them coming. Her heart stood still for fear.

Messer Andrea came before the others, falteringly--as if youth had died out of him: he was pale and strange and no words fell from his blanched lips during that long instant while he crossed the interminable stretch between them, and Caterina waited, with all her tortured soul crying out for Janus.

Then the King's favorite, with the cruel story written in his anguished eyes, turned them full upon hers for one moment, that she might _know_--then bowed his head upon his breast and opened his arms, as if he fain would shelter her--

"Caterina----" he said--"Child----"

XII

In the first dazed days that followed, between the necessary adjustment of matters of state, and the many ceremonies incident upon the King's sudden death, there was scant time to discuss the rapid happenings; even in the court-circle they scarcely knew what was passing--still less how it had come about. It was said that Janus had died of malignant fever, due to the terrible malaria of the coasts where he had been hunting. Yet some hinted that there were natural poisons, as of the marshes, and others--more fatal: but this was with bated breath and kept well without the innermost circle of the court, for no one really _knew_. It was easy to talk of poison, but far less easy to make assertions implicating those who might be innocent; and, meanwhile, the complications surrounding the throne of Cyprus demanded infinite wisdom and despatch.

Almost before the Queen could lift her head after the shock of her husband's death, the nobles and barons of the realm had penetrated to her private boudoir and sworn her fealty, with a tenderness and reverence that deeply touched her. By the will which the King had left, Caterina Veneta was now Queen of Cyprus, with a Council of Seven appointed to assist her; and every Venetian who held a post in the Government was restless until the young widow of Janus, who had been crowned with all due ceremony in the Cathedral of Nikosia at the time of her marriage, had publicly received the full seal of her authority.