  The court had been recently thrown into consternation by the discovery of a plot to seize the various citadels of the island and hold them for Carlotta. It was evidently well supported and far advanced, as disclosed by the intercepted letters addressed to some unknown person, which had been laid before the Council; all who were mentioned as partisans or confidants in this intrigue were designated under assumed names, but the knowledge which these papers gave the Council was of immense value, enabling them to provide that all the garrisons of Cyprus should be commanded by men of known loyalty to the Queen. Meanwhile vigorous efforts were being made to discover the identity of the person addressed as "L'Illustrissima, But no light had been thrown upon the matter, although it had been openly discussed in the court-circle. Dama Margherita had noticed with uneasiness that Ecciva de Montferrat, who was usually on the alert for any excitement, had seemed singularly apathetic when this subject had been broached, and she felt that the trust reposed in her by the Admiral required her to mention her suspicions to Madama di ThÉnouris, although she shrank from this duty the more because she knew that Dama Ecciva was "Dear Madama di ThÉnouris," she said appealingly, "it seems so much the more ungracious on my part. Yet it is treachery to our Queen. And if it should be that Dama Ecciva hath been receiving these letters and holding such part in these intrigues—to leave her where she hath free access to the court-circle.—But it cannot be true; she is too young to be so faithless! And if she need not know that I have hinted of my fears? It would seem like some petty revenge—yet I cannot be false to my trust!" "Thank heaven thou canst not, Margherita, since others find it easy! Yet we must watch for our own assurance, and may thy fears prove naught! Comfort thy soul, for some one is guilty, and the finding of the culprit will clear all others of suspicion." "It is most strange about these letters," Madama di ThÉnouris said later, as the young maids of honor sat around her with their embroidery frames. "Tell me, Ecciva——" There was a sudden convulsive movement of the girl's arm and she gave an exclamation of annoyance as the golden thread snapped in her needle; but she did not look up. Madama di ThÉnouris, closely watching, saw that her fingers trembled so that she could scarcely hold her needle. "Tell me," she pursued in her leisurely fashion, after a slight pause, while Ecciva's needle still The girl's alarm grew evidently less; but it was a moment more before she answered: "Why doth your Excellency thus honor me, in calling me in counsel? There are others whose opinion would carry more weight." "Nevertheless, since I have asked thee, give me thy thought." "Madama di Niuna," the young maid of honor exclaimed petulantly, forgetting her deference, "there is no Madama di Niuna!—How should I know?" The silk was hopelessly knotted and twisted about the tiny pearl she had just threaded, requiring close attention; Madama di ThÉnouris also seemed to watch her work with interest. "Thou art right, my child, thou art over-young to have any knowledge of so despicable an intrigue. But the matter is naturally of deep concern for us all," she added, as Ecciva, having recovered her perfect self-control lifted her eyes to Madama di ThÉnouris with a smile that was intended to thank her for her trust, while assuring her that there was no possible ground for supposing that she had any knowledge of this intrigue. But the gray-haired court-lady met her gaze searchingly and with no answering smile—she who could be so gracious. "The Council will follow a clue upon which they have just chanced, and which may lead to the discovery. If Madama di Niuna would come forward to confess," she pursued with quiet emphasis, "it There was a murmur of abhorrence from the young voices about her, but Dama Ecciva was quite silent, although there had been a motion of her blanched lips as if to speak, and Madama di ThÉnouris still held her fascinated gaze. Her eyes had suddenly dilated with a look of terror, yet almost instantly reassumed their long oval shape—the lids closing to more than their narrow wont: her embroidery had slipped to the floor, as she rose, and she was treading it under her feet—bruising and grinding it passionately, as if it were some safe, unnoticed outlet to the fear and anger that might smother her. She had flung out her hands desperately, the dainty tapering fingers working with strenuous, nervous motions—but now they were tightly clenched in the rose-leaf palms, and she stood bracing herself, like a statue of defiance. There was an added pallor on the beautiful ivory face—so still she was she scarcely seemed to breathe—yet all at tension—like some wild thing of the tropical forest, suddenly brought to bay, summoning all her strength for the leap that was to free her. But she might rage in vain against the invisible meshes that held her, although it was but for a brief moment that Madama di ThÉnouris had searched her soul in silent confession.
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