It was dawn after that night of tragedy. From sheer exhaustion of passion the turmoil in the streets had subsided; the cries of indignant protest had ceased and the populace accepted their fate in sullen acquiescence, knowing themselves not strong enough to contest without aid those intriguing Councillors of the Realm who were entrenched behind the impregnable fortress of Famagosta where they held close captive the Sovereign they had sworn to defend and obey. The Piazza was deserted: the malcontents who had gathered to mutter at the horror of the moat where the victims of the night had been tossed unburied, had been dispersed by threat of arms; the sentinels nodded at their posts—scarce knowing whose power they were upholding, nor by what name men called their masters. Here and there throughout the city, a little knot of the graver burghers might be found lingering to discuss the situation in attitudes of helpless dejection, and scattering with their problems all unsolved. They were too insignificant to dread, and for the moment the triumphant conspirators were content to leave the city without further imposition or molestation to such rest as a merciful nature might vouchsafe. They were content to yield this lull in the storm, because it gave them needful quiet in which to mature fresh intrigues, to insure their triumph. Those men of Venice of the Queen's household, who For Venice was mightier than Naples—and the password they had so successfully wielded for a night—"À bas Venezia"—might not suffice to hold for the young Alfonso the dignity of Prince of Galilee, which they had proclaimed for him throughout the protesting city; it might even have a baneful ring, when news of the night's murders should reach the Republic. A plausible reason for the death must be contrived and sent forward with letters signed by the Queen's own hand, under the Royal Seal of Cyprus, accompanied with decorous lamentations and condolences on the part of her Councillors—such as one Government is wont to offer to another at the death of any distinguished patrician. For the Chief of Council, Rizzo di Marin and his Grace the Archbishop of Nikosia, no rest was needful: the consciousness of triumph stirred the blood in their veins like strong wine, and with a sense of exhilaration sharpening all their intellectual faculties, they prepared, in a few hours, work that might ordinarily have required the consideration of days. When they closed their conference they had contrived a sheaf of pretty documents which did more honor to their astuteness than to their loyalty, and which, with the signature of the Queen, would His malignant eyes rested fondly on this order for the surrender of the famous stronghold of Cerines to a nephew of General Saplana, the treacherous Commander of Famagosta; with two such fortresses they should command the coast, and their empire in Cyprus was assured. It was a work of genius, this little parchment—he could scarcely bear to fold it out of his sight in the pouch that he wore next to his heart of stone. And this—to the magnificent Lord Admiral Mutio di Costanzo, Vice-Roy of Nikosia and friend to Caterina, who had received her oath of allegiance after the death of Janus—so high he stood among the nobles of Cyprus—Rizzo's eyes fairly gleamed as he gloated over it—this order commanding him to yield up the splendid city of Nikosia, with his fortress of Costanza and the fleets of the island, to those who should present this parchment with the little signature of Caterina Regina. He, Rizzo, would take the governorship of this city of Nikosia—or, perhaps, the command of the fleets—he knew not which—that was a trifle to decide since all would be in his power: and of course he should instantly re-man the galleys. He allowed himself a moment's vision of this stately Knight Mutio de Costanzo, Then he folded the other orders without a glance, they touched upon minor points of vantage and entered properly into his scheme—the cities of Limisso and, perhaps, of Costanzo—but that might be requiring too much of the noble Lord of Costanzo, this could wait; he crumpled it in his hand. As for this Castel Dio d'Amore, it was well. Still another paper he folded in his pouch. That one must go first beneath her signature lest the pretty little Queen should rebel.—But she should not rebel!—By all the saints and devils, it was a good night's work! And for that session he wrote no more. When the pouch, compact and hard, lay closely over the place of his heart, it stirred a thought, and he laughed a short wild laugh, with no melody in it. He did not know his own laugh, and it startled him. "Perhaps," he thought, "when he should have presided over the investiture of these cities and strongholds of Cyprus in the interests of Naples and Alfonso, 'Prince of Galilee'—installing his own creatures in all those places of power—if Naples were not properly subservient and grateful—he, holding the key to the land—perhaps——" It was a vision that pleased him even better than that of the noble Lord Mutio di Costanzo, surrounded by his escort of cavaliers, golden-spurred, These documents had been prepared in the underground Chamber of Conference of the Fortress, where secrets might be freely uttered because of the double walls of massive masonry: where flaring torches fastened high in the chamber, scattered the ghostly shadows, and ample potations of the fine wine of the "Commanderie" sustained their courage. Meanwhile, a slender figure with vizor down, showing a tunic of mail between the folds of a dark mantle, came out from the Fortress, and stepping forth into the gray of the dawn, crossed to the Palazzo Reale, with slow, uncertain footsteps. "Open!—In the name of the Queen's Council!" The words came in muffled tones from behind the vizor—uncertain, like the footsteps, yet impossible to disregard. "The password for this night?" the guard demanded. It was given at once, but with visible repugnance—"À bas Venezia!" "Are ye many?" "But one." The bars were instantly drawn back and the young knight entered the first court of the palace. "Halt! Declare for whom thou standest. That password is already outworn: for they of the Queen's Council be of two minds." As if from a sense of suffocation the cloak was A sudden wrath flamed in her deep eyes. "If they of the Queen's Council be of two minds they are craven, though I, a woman say it! But the Queen's guard, in the Queen's palace, can have but one mind—to uphold her cause!" There was no other voice in all Cyprus so tender, so compelling, so magnetic, so all-convincing; the voice revealed her. "Dama Margherita de Iblin!" was echoed about the court in surprise. The news spread. The men-at-arms came thronging about her with reiterated assurances of loyalty; it was good to confess their faith to her. "We hold this palace for our Queen," they said, "and for no traitorous Council. May the holy Saints in Heaven curse them roundly who forced us to do their bidding, when we thought ourselves serving Her Majesty!" "How came ye so many here?" she asked in astonishment, as they still gathered from the farther courts—a number far greater than the usual Palace-guard—chiefly a company of knights and men entitled to bear arms, but among them many of the more peaceful citizens. "Whom serve ye all?" She looked keenly from face to face: her words seemed a challenge. One, with signs of authority stepped forward to explain. "Eccellenza, we are in command of the Lord Chamberlain Bernardini, who, since he fought his way through the false guard placed before this palace to serve the treachery of the Council, hath not ceased to gather men of metal throughout the city, till enough shall come to claim the Queen's release. For the cries of the women and unarmed weaklings clamoring under the walls of the fortress for her release, are but impotent wails to tickle the pride of those fiends of Naples." "Bring me to the Bernardini, for I must speak with him on matter, it may be, of life, or death." "Eccellentissima, the Lord Chamberlain hath not stayed his foot since this horror began—nor may we see his face until he hath done the possible to gather strength for an uprising to chase these devils of Naples." "Dear men!" she cried, "it is a task!—I speak, not to stay your loyal hands, but to open your eyes that ye be prepared and fail not. The Commander of Famagosta hath men and arms behind those impregnable walls, and all the wicked strength of his cunning Council to direct them,—Rizzo and Fabrici—masters in intrigue—and the men of the galleys of Naples at the tower in the port, commanding land and sea. Without more force it is impossible!" "Dear Lady, the Bernardini lacketh no courage, and he commandeth. He hath sworn that we shall "Dost bring us news of her. How fares it with Her Majesty?" "For that I came!" cried Dama Margherita, her voice ringing through the hall like a leader's call to arms; "to bring news of her to her own! How should it fare with a Queen made captive in her own stronghold?—With a mother whose child hath been stolen from her?—With a woman struggling with such anguish?" "The Prince!—Our King! Sanctissima Maria! San Marco confound the knaves!" Every man's hand sought his sword with a murmured oath of loyalty and vengeance. Questions stormed upon her: but she commanded silence with a gesture. It was news indeed; no hint of it had passed beyond the walls of the Fortress. "Of where he may be hidden, naught is known. Yet the galley of Naples lieth in our port, and one may reach it at low tide over the shallows—a few feet away from the tower of the Fort. It were easy to carry the child there unseen." "Aye; it were easy—and not so hard to find him—if he were there." "Nay, but to hold him when found! Do it not rashly, lest harm come to him. The Bernardini will plan the emprise. Tell him the Lady Margherita She was interrupted by an exclamation. "Margherita!—the Lady de Iblin—thus!" The Bernardini had just entered the court of the Palace. A vivid flush rose to her cheek, but she stood quite still in the place where he had found her, and he came and bent his knee and kissed her hand with the customary homage. "Else might I not have crossed the Piazza," she said, "nor left the gate of the Castle. It is easy to forfeit one's head at a moment of wrath where Rizzo commandeth! And one—a guard within the Fortress, friend to our cause unguessed of the Council—hath lent me this disguise that I might bring thee my so weighty tidings of woe." "'So weighty tidings of woe?'" he echoed startled. "These will tell it thee," she went on hurriedly, "for I must be returned to my chamber ere the change of guard—lest he be called on duty and fail to respond with this full toggery of steel, because he hath shown me this favor." "The Queen?" he gasped. "The Queen still liveth; but—oh, my Lord, Aluisi!"—her voice broke and her lips quivered, she stretched out her hands to him, the nervous fingers interlaced in a passion of pleading—"they have stolen the baby-Prince: she will go mad if they keep him from her!" "They shall not!" he thundered with a terrible oath: he—whose speech was fair as a woman's. With a gesture he included all the company. "Heaven hear us!" they swore in deep, angry, concert. She turned her face to them, a great light shining in her eyes. "I carry Her Majesty the strength of your loyalty, dear friends," she said. "The Madonna be praised—for her need is sore!" Then, quite silently, and as with a solemn act of consecration, she made the sign of the Cross before the Leader who was to save the Queen, and with quick footsteps passed under the peristyle. "Margherita!" She motioned him back as he would have followed her, and he stood and watched her—his heart in his throat—until she had crossed the moat and been admitted to the Fort—the Lady Margherita—alone—in such a guise—fearless and direct as ever. Sunrise was just gilding the sea: it flashed and sparkled as if there were no woe.
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