Part 28

"The fellow should be thrust through for his insolence. A Cyprian master is good enough for Cyprus," they confided to each other, as they made pause again, emerging from the crowd at the other end of the piazza, before the gate of the fortress.

"What matters it?" his comrade answered him nonchalantly, "for canst thou tell me the color of a Cypriote now? and his native tongue may be liker that of Spain or Venice than of France or Greece. My Lord of Piscopia hath the color of Venice."

"But of the very household of our Queen:--speak soft! Our Queen?--Perchance this night may be her undoing--how runs King Giacomo's will? Yea, for the matter of the fiefs, she hath been royal with her gifts--a matter not so lordly when confiscation cometh thus easily."

"But she hath a royal way with her, as of one born to the throne, and for that matter it were not strange for one of the house of Cornelii--they held their heads proudly enough in Venice, I am told; and her mother was of the blood of a Comnenus--more royal than a Lusignan, if not so well tempered."

"Aye; she is well enough."

"And she hath a grace that hath verily won the people; never was there such a crowd in the time of any other Queen. See how they throng before her gates to-night--poor simple souls--conquered by a smile that costeth naught."

"Nay; it is not strange; for the people entered little into the thought of Queen Carlotta, or Queen Elenà. There is no harm in her; she is a good child, and beautiful enough to be a saint; with too little understanding of the ways of our court: too great a saint for Janus--by every blessed saint of Cyprus! But I had rather she had more earthliness and wile than be the pawn of Venice. A Cyprian for the Cypriotes! Our Janus were better;--a Lusignan--not too much a saint--not a child nor a woman neither--but masterful: less the pawn of Venice."

"As well of Venice with her fleets and commerce, as of Naples--if it be not a Cyprian. How sayest thou? And it was King Janus himself who gave Pelendria--that most royal and bountiful fief of a prince of Lusignan--into the hands of that parvenu of Naples, Rizzo! The King verily guessed not his quality when he named him to such estate! He would outrule monarchs."

"Pace!"

Close to them, in the crowd, they heard the sound of a soldier's lance rasping the pavement as he stood at rest. One not far off seemed to answer his signal.

The storm was growing fiercer; the sullen mutterings of the wind broke into a shriek, with a terrible downpour of rain; but the rushing crowd was stayed by a cry of joy that rose above the tumult--a cry of love from the heart of the people--

"Mater Beatissima! A light in the palace window!"

A candle flamed in a dark window--two--more--a light in every casement!

The gates of the palace were thrown wide and a splendid mounted corps rode forth amidst a flare of torches--white plumes of rejoicing waving from their casques--white banners raised high on the points of their lances--while the herald, in full armor with vizor up, bore proudly before the people the silken banner with the arms of Cyprus blazoned upon it--the white, royal banner of a Prince of Galilee.

The waiting people went wild with joy, for the bells of all the churches of Famagosta were pealing a jubilee, and the night rang with shouts of homage for the Prince of Galilee, the heir to the crown of Cyprus:

For an infant prince had just opened his unconscious eyes upon his troubled earthly heritage.

XVI

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 Nicolò, 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 Nicolò. 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 Troödos 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.