Hagios Johannes, the holiest man in Cyprus, stood waiting in the vast, empty presence-chamber of the young Queen; for, since the sudden death of Janus, there had been no court-life in this palace of Potamia, and the gloom hung most heavily over the more sumptuous halls of ceremony.

Hagios Johannes—the holy John—they called this prior of the House of Priests from TroÖdos—the Mountain of the Holy Cross—after the name of the earlier Saint who had made the spot famous for the holiness of his living, for his boundless charity and the wisdom of his judgments, so that the people had gone to him in ceaseless procession with their sins and woes in the days of primitive Christianity in Cyprus, and had returned to their peasant homes the stronger to endure and to renounce. Johannes the Lesser, this one called himself—being truly great and devout of heart, so that his vision was wise and true as that of Hagios Johannes the Greater.

A curtain at the further end of the audience-chamber parted to admit a stately figure in mourning-robes, as the Lady Beata of the Bernardini advanced to meet him, bringing the message that the Queen would receive him in an inner cabinet.

"She is very worn and tired, most Reverend Father, and in years so near to childhood that the nobility and strength of her resolve are marvellous. And the comfort that she seeketh of thee she doth most sorely need."The eyes of this strong and faithful friend gleamed with unshed tears as she turned them upon the prior, in tender appeal.

But to Hagios Johannes all courts were strange; the life of his mountain overflowed with possibilities of ministration which busied all his powers, and it was the first time that he had ever entered any of the palaces of the luxurious Kings of Cyprus—of which, perhaps, this summer palace of Potamia was the most sumptuous. The long corridors of precious marbles, with intricate carvings and gleamings of gold and mosaic displeased him, though he had no knowledge of their worth or beauty; but he stood aghast at the magnificence of the audience-chamber, and the huge Assyrian bulls which guarded the entrance gave a hint of pagan power and oppression which instantly angered him.

The appeal of the gracious Lady Beata but roused his indignation.

He was a stern, wild figure with his flowing beard, his long hair falling straight and unkempt about his brown throat; and his sombre monk's garment was wrought on breast and shoulders with a salient cross of natural thorns—the symbol of those monks of TroÖdos—the Mountain of the Holy Cross; and the Lady Beata trembled for the interview that was to be, as he answered her rudely:

"The dwellers in palaces of ivory have naught to do with wild men of the mountains who live close to nature and care only for suffering humanity. I have Christ's work to do; let others bring her rose-leaves and honeyed words."She laid a gentle, detaining hand upon him as he thrust aside the curtain of the inner chamber.

"Most Reverend Father, are not the words of our Lord and Saviour, as well for those who suffer in palaces, as for the wanderers and poor upon the earth?

"Are not the wounds of the spirit as deep in anguish as those of the physical man?

"May not the burdens of rulers be greater than those of the ruled?—Have compassion upon our Queen!"

"Christ knoweth not kings," he answered her, as he shook off her light touch—"save only those who bow to Him: and the mighty among men—aye—even he who calleth himself His Vicar upon earth—are puffed up with pride and know in their hearts no virtue in this—His sacred symbol." He pressed his rough hand hard against the thorns upon his breast as he spoke. "Hath not he—this false and sumptuous Vicar—but now asserted that we, of the Holy Greek Church have no part in the Communion of the Holy Catholic Church on earth? Did Christ call the Latins only?" he ended fiercely.

It was a grievance that rankled; and Hagios Johannes had not learned the gracious art of self-control, being accustomed to feel that whatever he thought or wished was good—his hatred as well as that which appealed to him—since he honestly sought nothing for himself, despising riches and station from the depths of his soul, with an open scorn for the great ones of earth and an imperious assertion of his own methods and judgments which he would have denounced in any earthly ruler, however wise. He never dreamed himself an autocrat over that continuous stream of pilgrims who made their way into the House of Priests on TroÖdos: they were chiefly peasants, rude in ways and understanding, whose accustomedness to absolute methods and short words made their obedience the swifter; and the few more learned ones who came to consult him knew that in his heart he was faithful and seldom treasured the offense against him—though they may have decried his wisdom. But these came more rarely as his absolutism grew upon him, and the prophet of the mountains came down to the cities of the plains only to see the luxury of them—the sin and godliness of them, and to denounce them, in unmeasured words.

Within his soul, although he did not confess it to himself, the generations of men were separated by a wide impassable gulf—the rich and ruling class, the godless, on one side; the poor, the suffering and lowly—the to-be-saved,—on the other, and none ever passed across the deep abyss. He would have challenged any man who counted him, Father Johannes, in his hempen garment studded with thorns, among the rulers of men!

The youthful Queen, weary and worn indeed from the perplexities and struggle of the two long nights and days that had elapsed since she had sent her Councillor on his quest of "the holiest man in Cyprus," rose from her couch as the prior entered and advanced to meet him with a gracious reverence.

But he, unconscious of any rudeness, spoke at once, without turning his eyes upon her, and offering no homage."I am a plain man from the Mountain of the Holy Cross, your Majesty; I know naught of the ways of Courts. The matter should be great that calleth me from my work. Let it be presented, that I may be dismissed."

She was almost too weak to stand, and the rebuff smote her to the quick; her lip trembled slightly, but she only stretched out her hand to her beloved friend, drawing her close and leaning lightly upon her shoulder, that she might feel the support of loving companionship in her great need.

Father Johannes had been vaguely conscious of some movement in the chamber and involuntarily he turned towards this royal lady whom, as yet, he had never seen, but whose urgent summons had roused his indignation.

She looked so young and fair and simple in her heavy folds of mourning—so worn from vigil, with the lines of anguish and of a strange strength written in her white girl-face—that she might have been the vision of some youthful saint, wearing the rough cross of TroÖdos upon her breast, beneath her robe: and for a moment, the holy man was startled—did such heavenly visions, in truth, visit the palaces of the great?

There was a moment of stillness in which his wonder grew.

The breeze blew faintly in through the great arched openings, behind which rose the mountain chain that led to his own TroÖdos; there were the groves of pine, darkly green, below the hills, with their deep solitudes for prayer and meditation between the vast gnarled trunks; and the group of the two noble women before him—severely simple—was a vision of love and womanly grace and spiritual need; the younger one, all pleading and pain, clinging to the elder who closely enfolded her, her face strong in the strength of love. It was not like any life that he had ever seen—this holy man, whose personal life had been solitary and whose knowledge of human love, as it is known in happy homes, had died long years ago with the passing of the mother who had borne him in her heart. It might be that he needed such a vision to redeem his spirit from the harshness which sin and pride in high places, and want and crime and poverty of spirit among ignoble ones, had made him grow to think the whole of life!

He was very weary and his vision was not clear; for the previous day had been a solemn fast, and he had walked far and long since the early morning, that he might be the less delayed. He felt like kneeling where he stood—if perchance it should be a vision!—But he only bowed his head and waited—and his weakness passed.

The younger one—the maiden with that strange mystery of pain and strength in her white face, was coming towards him.

"Father," she said, "hath none offered thee refreshment? Thou must indeed be weary, for the way is long. Zia, let us be served here—in sight of the great forest that will seem like home to our good Padre."

"Nay, nay," he interposed quickly, with an effort to shake off this incomprehensible spell and return to his wonted mood of protest, "for I have never banqueted in the palace of a Queen—your Majesty."

"Let it be brought," Caterina said, turning to the Lady Beata, "a simple meal; for I myself have need, having tasted nothing since the long vigil of the night—being too sore from my great perplexity." For she divined that she must be alone with the prior to melt his mood, which grieved her; but she had not the less faith in his judgment for his hatred of royalty, and at all costs she had the grace to crave for truth in the questions she would ask of him.

"My Father," she said with winning gentleness when they were alone, "we will speak together as father and daughter—it will be better so, for I was not born to Majesty, and I have sent to ask of thee thy counsel, for life is difficult. And for my hospitality—is it not offered to the pilgrim in thy House of Priests of the TroÖdista? Hath not our Lord Himself commanded the giving of the cup of water?"

He was startled at her learning: surely it was rare that women out of holy orders had such knowledge of Christian traditions. He looked at her reverently, still wondering, and would have spoken to excuse his rough speech, but that he knew not how to frame a thought so strange and new.

She motioned him to a seat where a table had been spread under the deep arches that looked toward the forest. There were wines and fruits in tempting chalices of rainbow glass and low baskets of ivory and chiselled silver, cooling with snow from the mountain; figs from Lefcara; caistas, golden and delicious, emitting a fragrance of glorified nectarine that rivalled the perfume of the wine itself; pomegranates—the gift of a goddess to the thirsty Cyprian land, planted, as was well known, by the royal hand of Aphrodite herself, each fruit holding a fair refreshment for a torrid Cyprian day in its sparkling, semilucent, ruby pulp: ortolans from the sea-coast, steeped in wine.

The table was a slab of oriental alabaster, polished like a jewel, upheld by griffins with outthrust tongues curiously contorted and entwined. But beyond the silken curtains of the palace-windows the forest and the hills, with a wandering breath of coolness from the mountain-breeze, drew and welcomed him, with some faint, new perception of the oneness of God's earth.

She had banished with a glance the maiden who stood waiting with her lute to give the customary accompaniment to the meal, and they were quite alone.

He crumbled his bread and swallowed his wine like a hungry man, drawing the wild, purple figs nearer, unconscious of the dainties which she did not press upon him, while he tasted the familiar food—the food which his Lord Christ had blessed to man's uses. So, also, the luxury of the service passed unnoticed, as he fixed his eyes on the distant darks of his own forest, with the "TroÖdista" rising on a peak far, far away—that haven of distressed souls to whom he was a father of consolation. Her fingers toyed with the fruit that lay untasted before her, while the difficulty of speech struggled within her. Yet he felt, subtly, as he kept his eyes upon the hills, that he was in sight of the shadow of a soul in pain, and he waited—for once, oblivious of the distance between a palace and a convent.

"Thou art born a Greek, my Father?" she questioned. "Thou art a priest of the Greek Church—which my people love?"

The commanding habit of a lifetime was strong upon him and again his resentment rose to quench the softer mood which was possessing him, and of which he was afraid.

"I knew not that I had been summoned from my work for Christ to answer of myself," he said sternly. "If thou hast need of counsel, tell it quickly."

Again her lip quivered at the hurt, but she put it aside bravely, as she rose and moved backward for a pace further into the shadow. "I ask it for my people's sake—I being their Queen," she said, "and knowing that my people are rather Greek in feeling, I would do naught to hurt them."

How tenderly the words "my people" fell from the lips of this young, Venetian woman, who seemed almost a child—had their imperious Grecian Queen, ElenÀ PalÉologue ever so uttered them? Had she not named a boy to the highest See in the gift of their church—with no thought of fitness—but solely that he might be put aside lest he come between her and her greed of domination? Had she not plotted murder and whatever else might lie between her and the accomplishment of her will? His heart melted within him, and he rose and followed Caterina into the chamber.

"The most Holy Father of Rome hath of late been prejudiced against the King—my husband—and I sought for one who might give me counsel, unprejudiced."

If she had been a wily diplomat she could not better have wielded the prior's mood than by this unconscious utterance.

"So help me God, I will strive to help thee in counsel," he answered fervently. "But are there not men, set apart as Councillors for the realm, to aid one so young in the ruling of her kingdom?"

"Aye, Father," she admitted sadly, "but it is to steady mine own judgment to judge of theirs—that I have sent for thee. The question is not for Court Councillors, but for one who hath no part nor lot in this matter—who is often in meditation on holy matters, and hath won wisdom."

He made a motion of deprecation, but she went on speaking in her clear, even voice, still questioning: "Thou knowest well the history of the kings of Lusignan?"

He bowed his head in assent.

"And the history of the life of the King—my husband?" She dwelt on the word with inexpressible tenderness—the slight pause that followed it was like unuttered music.

Did she know? Was it possible that she knew? he asked himself.

But the question came again.

"And the provisions of his will—for myself and for—for others?" A wave of color had flushed her cheek and brow.

He looked at her searchingly, seeking for words that might best comfort. "I know them," he said, "the provisions of the will having been told me by your Majesty's messenger: and I, being a Greek, and the friend of the people, that which toucheth them, toucheth me. My daughter, the sins of the race descend from father to son, and are in the blood; and there hath been no loving care of holy women about his childhood—which should be remembered and win forgiveness."

"It is no question of forgiveness," she answered proudly, "of which I would speak with thee—that lieth between our Holy Mother in Heaven and the souls of those who suffer." She seemed to dismiss the subject with an imperious wave of her slight hand. "It is a question of human judgment in which that of a holy man may avail, but in which this knowledge is necessary—else had it not been spoken of."

She paused for a moment to gather strength, while the old man watched her in growing wonder—so young—so wronged—so tender—so brave—so strong to endure!

Hagios Johannes the elder had been known through the long years of his canonization as Lampadisti, the illumined: and as the prior listened, he prayed with fervor that the wisdom of his sainted predecessor might descend upon his soul.

"My Father," she resumed with a great effort, "I knew not of this history of the last of our Kings of Cyprus, until my marriage had been made.... I knew not of any right of Carlotta, being own daughter to the King, the father of my husband"—again that tremulous pause of unuttered music—"to contest the crown with him, until I learned it in Cyprus, these few weeks past."Her head drooped lower, but she went on resolutely. "I knew not, until I came to Cyprus—for they who knew and should have told me, held the knowledge from me—that any might question the right of Janus—my husband—to this kingdom of Cyprus—he being only son to the King. For I knew not that his mother was not the Queen, until I came hither."

She paused again to gather strength, lifting her guileless great eyes to his, in agonized appeal, while he watched her dumbly.

"And now, my Father," she said, throwing back her head with sudden vigor, and with the dignity of a great resolve, "this is my question, which hath come to me in the watches of the night and will not be denied, and for which I have summoned thee. I—being wife to Janus, who hath been crowned King of this people—and I, with him, crowned Queen; and by his will left Queen of Cyprus—with Council, appointed by him, to help me rule; shall I, a Christian woman—a Venetian and not a Cyprian—his widow—hold this kingdom against Carlotta, who is daughter to the King, the father of my husband—and to the rightful Queen, ElenÀ—his father's lawful wife?"

He was dumbfounded and could not answer her at once; but while he sought for words he bowed his head in mute reverence.

"My daughter," he said at length, "hath this question been put to thee by any men of Cyprus?"

"Nay, Father; but it hath come to me in these sad nights, because I fain would do the right—that which is well for my people: and life is very difficult.""My people," again, uttered with the accent of a mother who folds her child to her heart—it was a revelation; but he must probe more deeply before he could answer her.

"And this palace—and all the palaces of this estate?" he asked slowly, as if he could not comprehend her. "Thou wouldst renounce this splendor when none hath asked it of thee?"

"I would even bear the weight of it, if it be right," she said, "though rest were sweeter."

"Thou wouldst be free, perchance, to seek thy home in Venice?"

"Nay, nay!" she exclaimed, shrinking from him—"never Venice again—since she hath sent me hither, knowing all, and told me not. I cannot go back to Venice!"

He pondered gravely.

"Then what is thy will, my daughter?"

"To do the right!" she cried vehemently; "out of my own great sorrow to expiate the wrong! May it not be, my Father, if I shrink not from the right at any cost?"

"I will consider," he said, "since thy will is strong for this sacrifice."

"Sacrifice!" she cried, in her amazement breaking all reserve. "Oh, Father! To call this 'sacrifice,' when the very light of life is gone from me! He was so beautiful and gracious—with such a light in his eyes—and I thought—oh, I thought we were so happy! And now—oh, God, it breaks my heart—I loved him!"

"Daughter——"

"May not the suffering of one atone for another's sin?" she questioned feverishly."Nay—leave that thought, it is too heavy for thee: and not revealed to men, that they may declare it."

"Pray for him, Father! Thou wilt pray for him—thou and all those who come to thee. There will be many, many prayers and God will hear. For his people loved him—none could stay from loving him, he was so winsome. Mother of Mercies, thou wilt take my anguish for his atonement!—Oh I suffer!"

The words came in a low moan, wrung from her unaware. Father Johannes caught the small hands which she had flung out before her clenched, in her passionate struggle for control, and with faltering motions of unaccustomed gentleness, he soothed her until she had grown quieter and he could unclasp them. Then he spoke strange words, out of a great compassion:

"Christ knoweth; for He is Love—and He will save!"

"There is more," she gasped with her spent voice—"but I dare not name it—the thought of it is torture. But it is not true; Madonna mia! it is not true!"

The strong man could bear no more; he groaned in spirit and ground his hands against his breast—his lip curling with scorn at the pain of his own torn flesh. "Tell it!" he commanded; "it cannot be true."

She looked at him, hope dawning in her stricken face. "The words they speak—they who are his enemies—that he had forsworn his faith: it is not true."

"It is the very machination of the Evil One!" he thundered. "I know the slander and the man who fathered it, for spite. And may Heaven forgive its maker—for he hath need—standing high in the holy place of Earth. I know it is not true!"

He looked his faith into her eyes until he had banished her terror, and she put out her wan hand, grateful, for his assurance.

Then he turned from her abruptly and wandered away to weigh her question, looking into the depths of the great forest while he pondered and prayed to be enlightened. He must have sight of his own solitudes if he would keep his judgment free, and though she called to him, timidly, thinking he had forgotten her, he made no answer, being not yet ready. Surely, it could not be God's will that so fine a spirit should resign her claim to their uneasy crown!

It was long before he returned to her side, for the shadows were lengthening and a crimson light flamed in the West.

"Daughter," he said with deep solemnity, "it hath come to me with full light in answer to thy question, that thou, being crowned Queen and consecrated in the Duomo of Nikosia, together with King Janus, thy husband—whom this people loved—and decreed by him to hold this realm, which—for the first time in many years, and by his hand, is now united under one sovereign, that thy duty biddeth thee hold and rule it against all other claimants—were it even Carlotta who hath once been called its Queen.

"Rule thou this people with the fear of Heaven in thy true heart—so God shall make thee wise!"She came slowly, as to a heavy task, and knelt before him, with clasped hands, kissing the crucifix which he held out to her; the red light streamed through the arches with a fierce illumination.

"Father—and Janus!" she cried—"hear my vow!

"To do for my people as Heaven and the Madonna shall teach me: to bear them in my heart and seek their happiness; to live for them alone! And if harm hath been—oh God, if harm hath been done—to nerve me to the more strenuous duty, that wrong may be forgiven!"