Part 62

"Nay, beloved Lady; they are but trifles; we will spare you thought of them, that the real matters may help the sooner to win your interest. But it will not be displeasing to your Majesty to see your maidens about you in robes of white--to hold a fairer memory of the infant King, in his innocence and charm, than these robes of woe?" She touched the heavy mourning folds of the Queen's garments, as she spoke.

Caterina started in surprise; but she answered in a moment, with a little effort, "Aye--it will be sweeter--mine also, cara Madama; since never can the grief be less. The Holy Mother, and my figlio dilettissimo--it is enough that they know. And it is for his people!"

Yet in the loneliness of the night, after she had made her last prayer at the tomb of Janus, and lighted the last taper with her own hands for him in the Duomo San Nicolò, and wept her last tears before the altar where, but a few short months ago her little son had been baptized and crowned--kneeling on the slab that bore her baby's name--the sense of desolation overpowered her.

"Even this little comfort I must lose," she cried; "Madonna mia--Janus and my boy seemed nearer here! They leave me nothing--nothing!"

But later in her own chamber, alone in the solemn stillness, deep in her heart an appeal that could not be uttered because of its intensity, her strained gaze fastened on the brilliant, star-lit skies as if she would pierce the mysteries of life and death and surprise some effluence of spirit-love--some smile of tenderness from the angel of her little child--a strange calm came to her--a dim perception of eternal values--of the nothingness of time and place--of the everlastingness of any love that has been true.--Then slowly she sank upon her knees, still looking upward, and the anguish lessened and peace and strength descended upon her soul--a gift from the holiness of the night.

It was in such vigils, since her great sorrows had come to her, that the desolate girl-queen had learned her life-lessons--and she was no longer afraid of their solemnity, coming thus into closer friendship with her own soul and a more implicit faith.

"Dear Father in Heaven!" she cried. "Thou knowest it is because I love them that I leave them, to do their life-work! and Thou wilt grant me wisdom! If but I knew--if but I knew my people's need!"

* * * * *

At that most perfect hour of early evening when the sun was sinking rapidly behind the mountains in a flood of gold and crimson glory, and the air was filled with a delicious wandering breeze, soft and refreshing after the heat of the day and laden with the perfumes of a thousand flowers, the Queen set forth upon her journey.

She was accompanied by her full court of knights and maidens, a guard of infantry and escort of cavalry, with many mounted nobles besides, to do her honor,--a sumptuous cavalcade of at least two hundred horse; with such state had the Council of the Realm thought fit to decree the royal progress. With them came forth the dignitaries of Famagosta and other nobles, as was the custom of those days in bidding a ceremonious farewell--to journey with the royal train a league beyond the city which the Queen was leaving to take up her residence in Nikosia.

And thus the cavalcade proceeded on its way, pausing anon, for the greetings of the villagers who came forth to meet them and offer homage--Caterina slow-pacing on her snow-white palfrey--six knights from among the noblest in the land in constant attendance at her bridle, giving place continually to the new group pressing forward to claim their part of this so honorable service.

They had journeyed thus for an evening and a long day, with but the needful pauses for rest and refreshment, when they saw before them in the distance, embowered in delicious gardens of palms and cypresses and rich masses of bloom, the domes and minarets of the city of Nikosia--slender and white and lace-like against the deep blue sky--and climbing the hillside, high above the city, the turrets and crenellated walls of its far-famed citadel.

The chances of travel had often brought the Signor Bernardini and Dama Margherita together, and there had been much friendly talk between them of things which both held dear and in which their hopes for the quieting of the kingdom had a large share. She was flushed and eager beyond her wont, when they first came in sight of the distant city of Nikosia, and he laid his hand upon her bridle and lowered his voice. "Let us not hasten," he said entreatingly; "the journey hath been so beautiful; and our bourne is all too near."

"Nay--not too near--for Her Majesty may well be weary."

"The Dama Margherita hath ever a thought for others," he answered her. "And for me?--will she not grant me to reach the bourne I covet?"

"How may I help to that of which I know nothing?" she asked inadvertently, her thoughts being full of the problems they had discussed touching the Queen: then suddenly lifting her eyes and meeting his, she turned her head away in confusion.

"Then I will make confession----" he began eagerly.

"Nay; I am no priest," she answered, touching her horse with her whip.

He followed, disconcerted; but she, repenting, soon quieted her pace and turned her face to him again, serene as of wont.

"I would fain tell thee my secret, Margherita," he pleaded.

She lacked the courage to reprove him while he lingered on her name with an accent that turned it to music.

"Nay--if it be a secret, tell it not: for women have tongues."

"Have they also hearts?" he asked.

"Not those who yield them," she said; "but only those who hold them fast."

"Is my secret a secret, Margherita?"

"Your Excellency--a member of the Council of the Realm hath so reported it," she answered, laughing frankly. "Who am I, that I should question his judgment?"

"Thou art thyself," he said half banteringly--half seriously, and watching to see how she would take it. "To none other would I so defer."

"Not to the Queen?" she asked, still playfully.