All day the queen had been restless and depressed, starting at the sound of a footfall only to drop her eyes again in disappointment and relapse into unquiet revery; the weight of empire hung heavily upon her girlish spirit and she was unutterably lonely in the absence of Janus which seemed so unduly prolonged. It was the latest day that he had named for his possible absence, and still no courier had come to announce his return.

The noon had been unusually sultry, the stifling heat of the upper chambers oppressed her and the ceaseless, rasping whir of the cicala smote her with weariness, but she resisted the attempt of her ladies to detain her in the cooler atmosphere of the voto, for in these underground chambers she could have no sight of the great plain beyond the boundaries of the palace-gardens—and she preferred remaining in the halls that overlooked the terraces—turning her eyes often in the direction of the forest.

It was like a pall upon them all to see their young mistress, usually so gracious and responsive, wholly absorbed in her troubled revery; but to-day her maidens played their sweetest strains upon their silvery lutes, without her answering smile; the gentlemen of her court sought in vain for some diversion to distract her; even the Lady Margherita could do nothing for her pleasure, while she watched in unobtrusive tenderness, feeling that quiet, however unsatisfying, was more welcome than speech.

The pages, at a sign from the Lady Margherita, had dipped their fronds of feather in the great vases of mountain-snow that stood between the columns, and waved them about the chamber; the queen followed their movements with a fleeting smile as this breath of coolness reached her, then fixed her eyes again, with a despairing look, upon the distant forest.

"She wearieth for the King," her maidens said low to each other, "and verily he may come to-night, for the days have already numbered more than he giveth of wont to the chase."

"She is not like herself," the Lady Ecciva de Montferrat whispered to her young Venetian companion, EloisÀ Contarini, as the company strolled out upon the terraces at a sign from the Lady Beata Bernardini whose loving motherly eyes saw that Caterina needed rest and solitude. "She is strange and pale to-day—like one who hath seen a vision." Lady Ecciva spoke with deep seriousness, for superstition was a vital part of the Cyprian nature, belonging alike to peasant and noble.

"How meanest thou—a vision?" EloisÀ questioned, startled.

The other turned to see that they were not followed and answered in an awe-struck tone: "The vision of the Melusina—the fate of the Lusignans! Didst thou not hear her shriek from the Castle of Lusignan in the dead of night?"

"The Melusina? Ecciva, who is the 'Melusina?'"

"She is the evil genius of the House of Lusignan," Ecciva explained to her excited companion, "all Cyprus knoweth that when the Melusina crieth three times from the towers of the ancient ChÂteau of Lusignan, in far France, it meaneth death, or some great misfortune to a ruler of this house."

"And thou—didst hear this lamentation verily, Ecciva? I should have died from fear!"

"Yea, thou being from Venice—not knowing that it bodeth not harm for thee—it is misfortune only for some ruler of their house of Lusignan."

"And that is naught to thee!" the Venetian girl exclaimed in astonishment. "Thy King—is he nothing to thee?"

"One knoweth not," the other answered nonchalantly. "There is Carlotta—both of the house of Lusignan; and she might be kinder than King Janus who seized the fiefs of my father because he came not forth to do him homage when he landed with his army from Alexandria."

EloisÀ drew herself impetuously away from her companion who was watching her through long, half-closed eyes.

"Thou then—why art thou here?" she exclaimed indignantly, "in service of my beloved Lady, who is so good and fair, if thou lovest her not—nor the King!"

The youthful Dama Ecciva laughed lightly:

"Thou art a veritable turco for fierceness, EloisÀ! I have naught against her Majesty, who truly is most fair and gracious—quite other than Carlotta—whom I love not at all! And if I held some grudge against the King for seizing of my father's lands (which broke his heart before he died) one cannot long be churlish in presence of our Janus, who hath a matchless fashion of grace with him, so that all think to have won his favor. Verily, that is a King for Cyprus!—he mindeth one of Cinyras. I must tell thee the tale of our hero of Cyprus some day, EloisÀ."

"Aye: but tell me now—how camest thou at Court if the King hath wronged thy house?"

"Such eyes thou hast!—like a frightened child! I know not if I shall reach thy comprehension, were I to answer thee—but I, being only daughter to my father, Gualtier of Montferrat, who had no son—plead with my mother to send me hither when I came of age, to do homage loyally to King Janus, and claim our fiefs of him again—I being his vassal by right of long generations past—there was no other way."

"A vassal so loyal doth honor to him and thee!" the warm-blooded Venetian maid cried scornfully, with a toss of her dainty head.

Again the Lady Ecciva laughed lightly, but no shadow of discomposure marred the exquisite outlines of the beautiful, cold face: the skin, delicate and fine as ivory, showed no flush of color: her eyes and tresses were dark as night—the eye-brows slender, yet marking a perfect arc—the eyes beneath them tantalizing, inscrutable—the mouth rosy as that of a child—the fingers long, sinuous, emphasizing her speech with movements so unconscious that sometimes they betrayed what her words left unguessed.

"I do not understand thy vassalship," the Lady EloisÀ said with hesitation—yet eager to know more of her companion's attitude toward the Queen; they had wandered far down the terrace to the basin where the swans were floating, opalescent in the sunset light.

Dama Ecciva broke off some oleander blossoms and flung them at the royal birds with teasing motion, watching them contentedly as, one by one, they floated away with ruffled plumage and sounds of protest.

"It is a right of our house for many generations," she explained; "being allied with royalty through the elder branch of the Montferrats, I am a dama di maridaggio by birth, and since there is no son of our house to offer homage in return for our fiefs, the duty was mine to do service to our King and claim our lands of him again. It was a simple ceremony—to bend the knee and kiss his hand, and make some empty vows—to see my mother Lady of her lands once more."

"Aye, it were well—if thy vows were not so 'empty,'" EloisÀ protested. "How shouldst thou speak so coldly of thy vision, if thou hadst one spark of loyalty?"

"It was not my vision," her companion answered nonchalantly; "I slept the night through, the better to enjoy the day, which, verily, was not worth taking such trouble for,—so stupid hath it been!"

"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!"

---