For the first time since the death of Janus, the magnificent hall of the Upper Court in the Palace of the Assizes was filled with a noble assembly of Cyprian patricians who came in state, each with his train of vassals, who were also privileged to enter the great judgment hall and witness the imposing ceremony of the opening of the Court. Each baron wore at the point of his lance the small square banner with the device and color of his ancestral house and the motto, "Cour, Coin, Justice," which was the privilege of his class, signifying that he was entitled to receive homage and tribute from his vassals—his hommes liges and his serfs, and to render judgment upon their minor causes.

The long arcaded corridors leading out to the court-yards of the palace were thronged with serfs in attendance upon the knights and barons, and with citizens who had no seat of right in the assembly; and beyond, from the court-yards, came the sound of the champing of steeds impatient for the voice of their masters and chafing under the unwelcome restraint of their attendants, who kept up a ceaseless babel of adjuration and coaxing.

Every noble of Cyprus in sympathy with the present Government was waiting with his vassals and suites in splendid array to pay his homage to the young Queen, who now first since the death of her child was to appear among them at a high function; there were others who, uncertain or careless of their sentiments had responded to the urgent invitation of the Council of the Realm, from no stronger motive than a mild curiosity; and possibly a few had come with a wrathful determination to find something to condemn in the bearing of the Queen that might stimulate an organized opposition.

Between the splendid shafts of the monoliths that rose like a Cyprian forest from the polished marble pavement, a vast company of the hierarchy of Cyprus—Greek, Latin, and Armenian, in rich sacerdotal vestments—were waiting to take part in the solemn ceremonial; for the royal white-robed procession had already ascended the steps of the dias where the newly appointed Archbishop of Nikosia would offer his prayer of consecration and receive the pledge of the Queen faithfully to uphold the laws of the Realm.

The majestic martial music to which the procession had moved had diminished to a dim, melodic undertone, over which the prayer of the Primate rose and fell in swift, rhythmic periods—a litany of ascription and petition, to which the people, standing with faces towards the East and with outstretched hands, responded full-voiced.

O Thou, God over all, great in Majesty and power, to Thee we ascribe all praise!

To Thee we ascribe all praise!

O Thou, Lord of lords and King of kings, grant to Caterina, Sovereign of this Realm, grace and wisdom to rule her people.

Grace and wisdom to rule her people!And grant to her, O Giver of all good, Thy benediction, with gladness!

Thy benediction, with gladness!

O Thou, Creator of Life and Immortality, Lord of the living and of the dead, grant that the soul of thy servant Janus may rest in peace!

May rest in peace!

O Thou, Holy and Ineffable, around whose throne the pure souls of sinless little ones float as an effluence of Thy love, grant to the soul of our infant King, Thy joy perpetual.

Thy joy perpetual!

O Thou, supreme in justice, Ruler of all rulers and Judge of all men, grant to the rulers of this Court wisdom, that they may judge righteously!

That they may judge righteously!

Yet, O Eternal Father, Thou who art merciful, grant us to temper judgment with mercy.

Judgment with mercy!

Thou, who art Everlasting Truth, grant us to be true.

Grant us to be true!

And then, while the Archbishop was standing with hands outspread in benediction over the kneeling throng, the music of a wonderful, rhythmic Amen, oft repeated, thrilled and throbbed from arch to arch.

How cruel the changes that had swept the island-kingdom since the last High Court had assembled in this Council-Chamber! Their young and charming monarch, in the very exuberance of life, had been summoned without warning to lay it down. His little child, the hope of the realm, had come and passed as swiftly as some fair vision of the night, leaving scarcely a trace of his short earthly career save in the heart of the mother where its every memory would be cherished deathlessly. And for their fair young Queen, who stood among them widowed and childless—in lieu of the fulfilment of the radiant hopes which had brought her hither, there had been a pitiful record of conspiracy, betrayal and captivity.

These memories smote upon the nobler souls in the throng, moving them to compassion and admiration; for what knight among them could more bravely have borne such suffering and thwarting?

But Caterina, in trailing garments glistening like the snows of TroÖdos, stood like a queenly lily among her white-robed maids of honor, exalted by the solemnity of the service and looking deep into the heart of her life-problems—ignoring self and contests—dreaming only of duty and the achievement that her people's love might render possible.

They had feared to see her in mourning robes, with a woful court about her,—trembling, sorrow-weighted, pitiful and unimpressive; and a low murmur of admiration just stirred the hush of the chamber as she took her place under the royal canopy and turned to confront the great assembly—the strength of suffering and resolve in the beautiful unsmiling face, which yet seemed to promise and crave for love—to plead with them for their allegiance.She stood so for a moment, quite still; then she stretched out both arms to them with a sudden impulse.

"My people!" she said brokenly.

Her voice thrilled them, and they answered with a burst of loyalty warm enough to screen the silence of those who took no part in the grateful chorus.

She only bowed her head in acknowledgment, struggling with her emotion: then moving a little aside, she laid her hand upon the arm of the alabaster seat that Janus had been wont to use,—it was filled with lilies in memory of the infant King and guarded by the group of white-clad pages who should have been his knights. And now, as if the touch gave her courage, her voice came clear and unwavering.

"My people!" she said again, lingering on the words as if the claim were inexpressibly dear to her; "because ye were his people—my husband's—the King's: because ye should have been his—my little, little son's;—because they have left me their work to do."

She paused for a moment to steady her voice, for a sudden desperate sense of loneliness and self-pity had overpowered her as she looked into the sea of faces turned to hers and saw—with the intense spiritual insight granted to the few in crucial moments—the conflicting emotions with which they regarded her.

Then, as swiftly, there flashed into her recollection the memory of the scene in Venice, on the day of her betrothal, when there had been revealed to her the sacredness of the tie possible between a Queen and her people—a vision of the holy, surging, passionate mother-love, adequate to all sacrifice. Surely for these days of her desolation that early vision had been granted; and with the force of a heavenly message its memory now brought her strength.

The appeal in her eyes deepened, and the lines of her mouth grew more tender, while she held herself firmly erect,—as one accustomed to rule,—and the tones of her voice took on the accent of unquestioned authority.

"Dear people of Cyprus," she said quite calmly, "I need your love—that together we may rule wisely."

She had not dreamed that ever again she should taste so dear a joy as came with the sound of this tumultuous response to her appeal; for the hearts of the nobles had warmed to her, and a wave of compunction and loyalty swept the assembly.

As she took her seat upon the throne and gave the signal to open the court, the light in her face was a radiance beautiful to behold.

"Bow down before the Majesty of the Law!" His Grace the Archbishop, solemnly proclaimed, while two priests from Santa Soffia stepped forth from under the arcades, reverently carrying the illuminated MS. of the Evangel which had been the treasure of their monastery from earliest ages; and behind them came others of their brotherhood bearing the quaint, copper casket in which were enshrined those revered Books of the Law known as the "Assizes of Jerusalem," and esteemed among all the codes of the nations for their wisdom and justice.The ancient volumes which bore this title had long since disappeared, in the destruction of Jerusalem; and tradition, prone to assign to well-known authors of illustrious deeds many good feats accomplished by those who remain nameless, had ascribed the compilation of this early masterpiece of judicial wisdom to Godfrey de Bouillon. It had been sacredly kept in the church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem and guarded by a decree ordaining that it should not be opened except in the presence of certain high officials.

Upon the maxims of this ancient work, faithfully digested in the famous law-schools of Nikosia by their greatest scholars, the present volume of Assizes had been founded; and among those most largely concerned in its authorship was Joan of Iblin—the distinguished ancestor of Dama Margherita.

Dama Margherita had never been present when the volume was opened, for like the famous code which had preceded it, it was hedged about with solemn formalities and might not be unsealed save in the presence of the Sovereign and four barons of the realm; and she leaned eagerly forward as the herald, who parted the crowd before the bearers of the sacred chest reiterated again and again the command:

"Bow down before the Majesty of the Law!"

The little procession proceeded slowly through the intricacies of the throng, all heads bowing as they passed, until they brought it under the dome that was raised over the dias where the thrones were set for the Sovereigns, and where, looking upward, one might read in great golden characters, wrought above the frieze, this admonition from the Book of the Law:

Whoever shall appear in this Court and bear false witness, be he the noblest in the land, he shall lose his head.

The Queen, to show her reverence, had risen from her throne as they paused before her, and descending the steps she laid her hand upon the Evangel, where His Grace the Archbishop held open the page for her, and kneeling to kiss the venerated Book of the Assizes, she solemnly swore to uphold the laws and statutes of Cyprus.

But this day was destined to become memorable in the annals of the courts.

There had been some disputes and decrees of minor interest to be passed upon before the matter of the recent conspiracy had been brought forward. This had absorbed the attention of the most learned Cyprian men at law for some time past, and at this first session of the Court of Assizes, the summing up of evidence and the closing arguments were to be laid before the tribunal and sentence would be declared. The revelations of the trial had thus far been kept secret—but it was known from other sources that the identity of many of those implicated had been discovered, and an important prisoner, who was supposed to have had a large share in shaping the plot, was to be brought into court to close her trial.

It was she, they said, who, trusted near the person of Her Majesty, having full opportunity of access to those highest in authority and of friendly intercourse with all the ancient Cyprian nobility, had been chosen by the chiefs of the conspiracy to receive and transmit their orders covertly; to win converts for the scheme, wherever there might be hope of partisans, and to protect their plans from suspicion. The charge was "High Treason," for it was whispered that the seizure of the strongholds was but to have been a step toward the seizure of the Crown, and this leader came of an ambitious race, than which no family of Cyprus could boast a more ancient lineage.

In the innermost circle about the Queen, whatever the suspicions of the maids and knights might have been, the name of this arch-offender was not even whispered: for their dear Queen herself, with eyes that were dark with emotion, had pleaded with them.

"For love of me, seek not to know until her innocence or guilt shall be declared. If she should be innocent—which may our Blessed Lady grant!—let us save her from dishonor in thought and name."

But one of their number had been long absent, on a visit, it had been declared, to her distant estates; and if some who came less frequently to court, named the name of "Madama di Niuna" over-curiously, the courtiers turned their faces from each other, lest their eyes should betray the request of their beloved Sovereign Lady—for so had her misfortunes and her graces and high demeanor won their loyalty.

The prisoner stood before her judges, when they led her into the Hall of the Assizes, mercifully swathed from head to foot in the filmy silken veil usually worn by the women of Nikosia; but through the snowy folds which concealed the features, there came the gleam of the fantastic jewelled garb, and the lines of the pose—proudly defiant—were plainly discernible—it could be none other than the young and beautiful and high-born Dama Ecciva de Montferrat.

The young maids of honor turned sad eyes upon each other, each seeking to touch the hand of her nearest companion, by way of assurance, while all waited, in a stress of suspense that was near despair.

Throughout the trial, the splendid assembly followed every phase with breathless attention, yet with conflicting emotions,—for the prisoner was one of their peers and all felt the case to be momentous; while, as the masterly arguments proceeded, and the evidence seemed irrefutable, perhaps few among them could have determined how it should be most wisely decided, in view of the waverings and discontent which had threatened to undermine the Government.

And now the judges and the learned men had withdrawn for private consultation, and the assembly waited for the verdict in a hush through which one might have counted the heart-beats sounding in tumultuous rhythm; but the girlish prisoner still kept her defiant attitude—tapping the pavement impatiently with her tiny booted foot—as making light of any crime that might be imputed to Dama Ecciva de Montferrat.

Then, more swiftly than one might tell it, a blaze of irrepressible human passion broke upon the decorous quiet of the Chamber; the nobles sprang to their feet, struggling for expression; for the awful announcement "Guilty," although they had awaited it, brought a sudden desperate realization of the fearful consequences, as, almost without pause, the penalty was declared and a piercing shriek rent the air.

"Not death!—Holy Saints—Not Death!"

They could see the sinuous figure writhing and panting convulsively under her wrappings, then tearing her veil like a frenzied woman, as she sank fainting upon the pavement; and the crowd made way in awe-struck silence for the Lady Beata with the maidens of the court who closed about the tortured figure in shielding ministration.

A stately patrician robed in black, fought her way through the excited throng to the steps of the throne, and threw herself at the feet of the Queen.

"Have mercy!" she cried; "she is too young to die! Take my life for hers—she is my child!"

A messenger was crossing the chamber from the judge's throne, bearing a parchment tied in black, a portentous seal depending from the ribbon. It was the first time that a death-warrant had been presented for the Queen's signature, and she was visibly agitated.

The agonized mother at her feet kept up her passionate entreaties.

Caterina started up pale and trembling, holding out her hand to the kneeling figure and drawing her forward:

"Counts and Barons of the Realm, Judges of the Court and all ye people who look to us for protection! We have sworn before you all to uphold the laws of Cyprus—we will not fail you!" she protested. "Yet, oh I beg you to remember that together in this Chamber we have prayed to-day that we might temper judgment with mercy!—Let us not sign it!"

A low murmur of sympathy echoed through the assembly, half-assenting, and Caterina, perceiving it hurried on.

"Let us rule together wisely," she besought them, "and for the honor of Cyprus! Let it not be told that our first meeting in this noble assembly hath been darkened by a sentence of death upon one of our own nobles! Madonna mia! Grant us to be merciful—spare the noble house of Montferrat; let the penalty be exile!"

There was a confused murmur in the Hall of the Assizes: disjointed words punctuated the low babel of sounds: "Exile!" "Exile with confiscation!" "Death!" "Mercy!" "Death and Confiscation."

They scarcely knew whether they prayed for death or mercy, or whether in their souls they wished for justice or pardon, for the question was too weighty to be solved by law, since a nation's peace might hang upon it. They knew not if they saw distinctly, for the mist that seemed to cloud their vision—a mist enfolding two women like a halo—the one tall, black-robed, superb in anguish, with pathetic lines of age upon her hair and brow, and in her eyes, darker than night, such frenzy of supplication as one may only offer for a dearer than self: the other young, tender, fair—all compassion, divine in forgiveness and comprehension—for were they not both mothers, and had she not suffered the irreparable loss that she might learn to shield grieving mother-hearts? She held the Countess of Montferrat closely clasped as if she would sustain her in her trouble.

"Not confiscation!" she pleaded. "Hath not this mother enough to suffer in knowing that her child hath missed the highest trust? Shall we add this also to her pain, and take from her the estates which have been the home of her people for long ages? Shall she not take the vow of fealty to the State, instead of her child? And for the Dama Ecciva—we grieve that it must be exile—yet the safety of the Crown demandeth it. Be merciful—dear people!"

It was a woman's reason—but a woman's heart, stronger than law or precedent, had won the day.