Part 67

"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."