  The moon had waned and the night was starless when the chimes of San NicolÒ told three of the morning in low melodious tones like a voice from dreamland, breaking no slumber. Suddenly the sharp wild clangor of the great alarum-bell of Famagosta crashed through the silence. The citizens sprang from their sleep with cries of terror and rushed to the windows; but, alas, they had not dreamed that dreaded danger signal which kept up its fateful toll. Already men, fully armed, were hurrying through the streets that led to the Piazza; whence came echoes of voices talking in quick, awe-struck tones—the flash of torches—a horseman dashing down from the castle to the walls at the port—sounds of excited action ringing back from the ramparts—the quick gallop of a cavalier rushing to join his command. What might it mean! Commander Saplana moved calmly out among his mounted suite, fully equipped, from the Castle into the Piazza; yet there had not been many moments in which to make ready since the first notes of that wild alarum had sounded! Those among the citizens entitled to bear arms were quickly accoutred and dashed out to mingle with the throng. "What is it?" men questioned of each other—but no one knew. Were the Turks upon them? Was it some intrigue of Ferdinand of Naples? Was it treason? Was it Carlotta come from Rhodes, with men-at-arms, to surprise them? There was stealthy talk of a foreign galley in the port. Some one had noted strange sailors in the throng: one might not be sure of the letters on their caps, because of the darkness: but they were Christians—not Turks—thanks be to the Madonna! "But the Queen is safe, Sanctissima Vergine! The Queen is in the Castle." "There is His Excellency, Maestro Gentle, physician to Her Majesty, he passeth but now, the glimmer of his mail beneath his cloak! Holy saints! A gray-haired man, rushing out into the night—thinking first of the Queen and of her safety! The Madonna will be good to her!" The old court physician gave the password at the castle-gate and entered. The Signor Andrea Cornaro rode forth from his palace, fully armed, and with him Marco Bembo, cousin to the Queen—surely, they would know! The citizens called to them urgently for some explanation of the tumult, but they passed swiftly by to the palace of the BailÒ, the Venetian Resident. But the BailÒ gave them no comfort. "I know naught of the trouble," he answered them, "save that warning hath been sent me by His "Then art thou the more needed!" burst from the lips of Cornaro, made desperate by this coolness; "for it well may be that the Count of Tripoli is a traitor set high in trust!" But the BailÒ listened to their importunate pleadings as if it were a trifle. "Come with us swiftly to the Queen! By all the saints in heaven!—she should have her own about her in this danger—whate'er it be!" "Nay," he said, and would not move. "This is a place of intrigue—and warning hath been sent me. It is, perchance, some one who seeketh my life." There was no time to parley. "Haste thee to the royal palace," the elder man said to his nephew, as they galloped away, "and bring from thence, with all speed, the Queen's Chamberlain, the Bernardini—there is none more loyal. Let none hinder thee." "I serve our house and our honor!" young Marco called back to him, as he put his horse to the spur. "I go at once to Caterina," his uncle answered reassuringly, turning the head of his good steed towards the castle—a place of security indeed—a fortress famed as impregnable. The Royal Palace was doubly guarded—as never before, and Marco when he reached it, plead in vain for admission. "By order of the Council of the Realm, no man might enter." A golden coin, with the head of Janus stamped upon it, glittered in his palm. The valiant guard received the gift and refused the message. "No man shall enter, nor leave this palace to-night: by order of the Council of the Realm." "I bring an order from His Excellency, Andrea Cornaro, Auditor of Her Majesty, and member of the Council of the Realm," Marco pleaded desperately. "Our orders are of the Chief of Council, the Signor Marin Rizzo—whom to disobey this night is death." The foremost guard of the line had led the defense: and among them all there was no motion to favor this young cousin of their Queen. He was a knight, and brave at arms—but to have fought that band meant certain death; and at the castle, one might, perchance, help the Queen! "There are some with Caterina to help her," he thought in his loyal heart, as baffled at the palace, he pushed his way across the Piazza and reached the entrance to the castle, "and here she is surely safe." The Count of Zaffo, her aged Councillor and friend, had risen from a sick-bed to go to her; he had been first to enter the castle-court. "So ill, that he scarce could hold himself upon his palfrey," some one told the young knight in the crowd, in answer to his question. "The old Councillor scarce could strike a blow He drew breath more freely for this gleam of comfort, as he gave the usual password. But the guard was obdurate. "It is not the password for this night, my Lord." "I pray thee—I am cousin to Her Majesty, and must have speech with her." "Eccellenza; by order of the castellan, none may pass, save those who give the word." "Then call me hither the castellan." "The password hath been given by the Chief of the Council of the Realm; and without it, the gates may not be opened," the castellan answered without preamble, when he appeared for an instant before the slide in the great gate—as quickly closed, though he had recognized a member of the Queen's family. "Had his uncle known the password and forgotten to give it to him?" Marco questioned in some anxiety, as he made his way, baffled again, through the crowd in the Piazza, which was growing denser and more excited. "And if he had not known it——?" He quickened his pace—his horse alert to obey his will, fretting with dilated nostril and pawing hoof at their frequent interruptions. The citizens had gathered in force, but no one of them knew the cause of the commotion, and they were not immediately formidable in the midst of this armed body of knights and soldiers who kept secret council and obeyed the slightest word of their His brain was in a whirl—he could think of nothing that was best, every moment might count—yet he crossed and recrossed his steps, turning down dark streets and back again into the Piazza; he was no longer sure of the safety of the castle; he was growing desperate. But Visconti's men did not reveal themselves, and Marco worked his way out of the Piazza—since they surely were not there, and since no hint of what was passing within the fortress came from behind the porte-cullis—the single opening upon the square. Little did he dream that Visconti's men, because they were Venetians and known to be in sympathy with the Queen were kept that night, by order of the Council of the Realm, in close detention. The troop of horse stood impassible before the entrance and the sentry as tranquilly kept guard upon the turrets, as Marco passed them on his way to a small gate upon the seaward side which he had once noticed and now hoped had been forgotten, and where, in truth he entered when he reached it; for it had not been thought important by the planners of this night's strange revel—possibly because few knew of it, or perhaps, because there were none from the port who would not be welcome, for the fleets of Venice were known to be at anchor off the coasts of Turkey, having sailed thither in glad and It chanced that it was through this same small, unguarded doorway that Andrea Cornaro had passed when—unaware of the new password for the night and zealously kept in ignorance thereof by his colleagues in office—he had been denied admission at the great gate upon the Piazza. As all persuasion brought him the more strenuous denial, he felt sure of some perfidy and the more bent upon reaching his niece at all hazards—for he was not one to be easily overcome by obstacles. Meanwhile, Messer Andrea, Auditor to the Queen and Member of the Council of the Realm, had meant to scale the walls by the seaside and fight his way, hand to hand if need be, to the Queen's side, when he had chanced upon this little gate upon the moat so long unused that its rusty bolt yielded without over-much persuasion to his pressure from without. The first court upon which it gave entrance—being the farthest from the Piazza—was dark and deserted, and he passed, without resistance into the second court, finding it also empty, except for the sentry passing to and fro on his monotonous duty. The man saluted as he offered the usual password, then, recognizing one of the Queen's Council, presented arms. Here, at least, all was tranquil—possibly his fears had been too great. But from the third court—the one first entered from the Piazza, there came as he neared the arched As he drew back into the shadow to make some farther plan, the Count of Tripoli, with Rizzo di Marin, Chief of Council, came through, from the first court, followed by one or two mounted nobles, questioning the sentry as to whether anyone had passed that way, and he heard the man give his name. "Sua Eccellenza, Messer Andrea Cornaro." The Count of Tripoli repeated this answer, with an accent of surprise. "He gave the password?" he questioned, sternly. "Eccellenza, si—come sempre." Andrea Cornaro, to whom fear was unknown, thinking himself called, immediately responded, coming forward into the light. "I have somewhat to discuss with thee," Rizzo said nonchalantly. "Wilt have a mount? We will go forth upon the ramparts and see whether all be in order." "I have but left my horse," Cornaro answered, calling the animal to him with a motion of his hand, "but I would first know of this tumult." He kept his hand upon the bridle and remained standing, while he looked searchingly from Rizzo to Tripoli, the Governor of Famagosta. "What is this tumult?" he repeated angrily, seeing them not quick to answer. "'Rations,' and 'pay,'" Cornaro answered scornfully, "to rouse the city and 'put it down'—at dead of night!" "Aye: since they chose this time for their own deed of darkness, we men-at-arms may not be dainty about the hour of retribution." "The Queen—my niece," said Andrea, taking a sudden resolution and throwing the reins across his horse's neck; "I will first go to her. Later I wait thy pleasure, Signor Rizzo; on the ramparts, or where thou wilt.—This is no lightsome night for a woman—a mere girl." "'A woman'—'a mere girl'!"—the Chief of Council began tauntingly. Cornaro's hand was upon his sword. "Scusi!" Rizzo said, suavely, being not yet ready for the break. "I meant no disrespect—but she is young to rule. If thou wilt take thy horse, we will first seek the Queen, who would speak with thee. Nay—not by that court—the winding mount is quieter." The Count of Tripoli and his companions had already left them and passed into the first court, in eager converse; but Cornaro was scarcely in the saddle before a sudden great uproar in the streets of the city beyond the fort arrested them. Cries, as of many men in concert, proclaiming Alfonso, son of Then again the traitorous cries, passing off through the more distant streets of the city: "Viva Alfonso—Prince of Galilee and Heir to the Crown of Cyprus!" "What meaneth this insolence!" Cornaro cried, white with passion and instantly drawing his sword. The Neapolitan was not braver than the Venetian—but with an infinitely cooler brain, well-skilled in villany and intrigue and troubled by no sense of honor, he seized his opportunity, and when his victim's arm was raised, he dealt him a desperate blow on the head which hurled him, with stunning force from his horse. And then, upon the pavement of the castle-court, having him at disadvantage and senseless from the blow, the valiant Chief of Council, cruelly and like no loyal knight, summoned his mercenaries to his aid and dispatched his enemy with quick sword-thrusts, bidding them toss the lifeless body into the moat that circled the castle walls. The faithful horse was the solitary mourner who watched his unconscious master while life was ebbing and sought to comfort him with mournful whinnies of almost human affection. Had the young knight Marco Bembo but known of his uncle's barbarous murder, and that the white-haired Councillor Zaffo lay foully slaughtered in the The young Venetian had reached the second court without molestation, when he turned to silence the cry that came from a swaggering band of sailors who had followed him and were shouting for "Alfonso—Prince of Galilee!" They fell upon him at the signal from Rizzo which marked him guilty—for was he not a Venetian? "E tu, traditor!" The words rang out unanswered, save by his desperate sword. They were but six, and he was standing against treason, for the Queen and the honor of his house! He fought them all, without a groan, until his strength was spent; and they, eager to do the will of this ruffianly king-maker, who was winning a fresh coronet for their Prince of Naples—this man of force who would make much booty possible—fought six to one, and spared not. And then, by bidding of their Chief, they flung the palpitating, tortured, lifeless remnant of what—one little hour before—had been a loyal, noble, winsome man, dreaming of duty and high achievement—into the horror of the moat by the pitiful wreck of Andrea Cornaro—the two murdered for the double crimes of relationship and loyalty to the trembling girl-Queen.
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