Part 21

But the other persisted. "To-morrow--for the Council say that they will not longer wait; it will be read before the Counts of the Chamber, and they would have the Queen take oath of fealty to Cyprus."

"I shall have the strength when to-morrow cometh," Caterina answered wearily, and making a motion to return the parchment.

"There are other clauses; Aluisi thought it might be better to read them here--alone--before--before----" Her face was blanched and pained, and her words came with difficulty.

The young Queen looked at her in surprise, then, after a moment's indecision, dropped her eyes upon the page and read the short clauses through; then once more--as if she did not understand--then again, a scarlet flush growing as she read.

The parchment contained but three short clauses: King Janus left his kingdom to his wife Caterina, who was to reign, with their child, if there should be one; or alone, if the child should die.

He provided a Council of seven to assist her with the Government:

In case of her death and the death of the child, the kingdom should descend to each of the three other children of Janus, in the order named. The unwedded mother of these children was not mentioned and Caterina had never dreamed of their existence.

She stood trembling--her face slowly paling to a marble whiteness. "Mater Dolorosa!" she gasped, with a moan of pain, instantly repressed.

The Lady Beata put her arm around her to steady her; but Caterina drew herself away, standing upright.

"Call back the Chamberlain!" she cried, imperiously; and stood waiting--panting--until he entered the room.

Then she drew up her slight figure in defiance, her eyes flashing in her white, white face--her voice ringing scorn as she pointed to the document which had dropped from her hand.

"How should I believe this--this baseness of my husband--your King?" she cried. "Who hath dared to fashion it?"

"Beloved Sovereign Lady"--he answered her, and for very pity could say no more.

She turned from one to the other with an impatient, questioning, imperious gesture.

They came nearer--slowly--silently turning upon her such faces of love and sorrow and comprehension that the fire in her eyes died in anguish.

A quiver shot through her, but she struggled to stand, motioning them away again when they would have helped her--she must drink this cup of bitterness alone. "How should I believe it?" she repeated brokenly, still studying their faces.--"How should I believe it--ye are not faithless to him--to me----?"

There was no need to answer her: again they looked their unspeakable compassion.

But as Caterina's eyes rested upon the parchment once more, a sudden hope came to her. "The will of the King was written in his own hand," she cried eagerly. "Thou hast said it, Aluisi; this is not the writing of the king!"

"Nay, beloved Sovereign Lady," the Chamberlain made answer, as he picked it up, and held it before her; "this is but a memorandum made for your Majesty's convenience, but attested under the seal of the kingdom. The original Will is in the keeping of the Lord of the Privy Seals, awaiting your command. It was thought that your Majesty would wish to see it before the Council should be assembled."

She understood and bowed her head in silence, while all hope died out of her face.

Aluisi advisedly used the ceremonious form by which he was accustomed to address the Queen in public, hoping to hint to her of some necessary preparation to control the meeting of the Council that could not, in any event, be long deferred.

They lingered wistfully, seeking vainly for words that might not hurt her; but Caterina looked at them beseechingly, with dim eyes--her lips moving without sound.

The Lady Beata understood.

"I go now to pray the dear Christ for thee--the Man of Sorrows," she said with inexpressible tenderness. "And later--Carinissima--I will come again, and thou wilt rest."

So young--so sorely stricken--she knelt in the cold moonlight alone--her hands clasped in passionate repression on her throbbing heart--"Mater Dei!" she moaned: "Death--and then this!--If but it need not have been told me! If I might but have kept the memory of my happiness!"

Only the stars and the pitying angels looked down on the fierce conflict of grief and love and disillusion with which her desolate young soul wrestled alone through the long, midnight vigil. How should she separate these two beautiful faiths which had been enthroned as one in the happy depths of her guileless heart, without perilling her very trust in God!

Yet, as the sad day dawned over the hills and sea, she knew that God was still in His Heaven, behind the clouds--while she clung as a drowning mariner--the more desperately for her weakness--to the spar of this faith in the wreck of her happiness, though the love to which her whole being had moved in rhythmic content was as a lost star, glimmering uncertainly behind the mists.

But through the desolate night-watches the Lady of the Bernardini in the ante-chamber of the Queen had been agonizing in prayer for her until thought was spent; and now she had moved out upon the loggia and stood there waiting for the dawn that seemed long-deferred, in a half-conscious wonder that there were no sorrows great enough to stay Nature's punctual recurrences--that to-day and to-morrow there would still be dawns and sunsets, whatever happened to the souls of men.