"A confidential communication of deep import to Cyprus—so thou come at once, and alone. 'The Prisoner in the Castle.'"

The Signor Aluisi Bernardini read the note a second time with frowning brows, for there was more than one prisoner, even of this recent conspiracy, in the castle, and the hand was disguised or unknown to him, and he could but guess at the identity of the sender of this mysterious message, which had been brought him, quite openly, by one of the castle guards.

The man stood waiting at the door of his study, until he called to him:

"Thou hast a message for me from——?"

"The Dama Ecciva de Montferrat, Eccellentissimo," the messenger answered, readily.

"Deliver it."

"I was to remind your Excellency that the galley will sail to-morrow for Venice—if your Excellency should have despatches—the Dama de Montferrat feared that it might not be known beyond the castle."

"Is this known within the castle and by order of the Castellan?" Bernardini asked quickly, in surprise.

"Eccellentissimo, the word came to me by the Dama de Montferrat, in confidence. I have no other message."

The Bernardini pondered a moment. She had meant him to feel that the case was urgent, for no hint of the immediate sailing of the prisoner's galley for Venetian waters had yet reached him, who was usually foremost in any information that touched upon Venetian interests. It might be a ruse, or a mere plausible excuse to her messenger.

"Is there aught else in which I may serve the Dama de Montferrat?" the Bernardini asked with assumed nonchalance, partly to gain time to decide upon his own course of action, yet hoping to throw some little light upon the mystery.

"It is written in the note. Doth your Excellency bid me return alone?"

The man's manner was insistent: he had been shown a jewel of value that should be his if he brought the Bernardini back with him, and such fidelity as might thus be purchased, Dama Ecciva could count upon.

"Nay: I follow," the Bernardini answered, waving him on before,—"yet not too closely. At the castle wait for me."

"Of deep import to Cyprus," he repeated to himself, as he made his way across the breadth of the city to the citadel: he was alone save for his horse, who often brought him a sense of almost human companionship, and to-day the responsive quiver of the animal, as his master laid a caressing touch upon his arched neck, gave him an assurance of fidelity that was helpful. For the matter of this conspiracy had sorely wrought upon him and he might not ignore such a message, though it came from one so unreliable as Dama Ecciva, for she was surely in touch with the disaffected nobles. It might be a new conspiracy—yet it was more likely a mere whim, or an attempt to get her sentence remitted—poor girl!

But he felt no emotion of compassion towards her, save for her duplicity, as he was conducted to the apartment which the Queen had had prepared in the castle for her young prisoner of State. By the Queen's grace, also, the Countess of Montferrat occupied the royal apartment under the same roof and was permitted at certain hours, to visit her daughter, though never without surveillance. But for one so high in authority as the Bernardini there were no restrictions and he soon stood confronting the Dama Ecciva in a small cabinet, which by the Queen's mercy had little the aspect of a prison; for she had thought of the mother, as she gave her orders for the prisoner's comfort, and of the last days that she and her daughter might spend together in their native land, and her tender heart had overflowed to them; there were even flowers from the royal gardens, and the air was fragrant; but in Dama Ecciva's manner there was no softening change.

"So your Excellency hath even deigned to respond to the request of a prisoner?" she exclaimed by way of greeting, and lingering with a little mocking pretense on the last word.

"If it be within my power——" he began tentatively.

"Promise not too rashly, my Lord Chamberlain, lest I hold thee to thy word," she answered lightly. "For I shall ask naught of thee that is not within thy sole power to grant. If I ask thee aught—yet I know not if I will:—methinks my mood hath changed."

He was dumb as he looked at her—within a few hours of perpetual banishment she stood before him, brilliant, inconsequent, carefully dressed in her usual fanciful garb—the very jessamines in her hair lusciously over-sweet—with no hint of regret in face or manner—her old fire-fly self.

"Our time is short, Dama Ecciva," he reminded her at length, when she had chosen a cushioned corner and sat toying with a bunch of wild orchids—seemingly forgetful of his presence, as of her summons. "We are alone: and if thou hast a confidence to make—'of import to the State'——"

"The time is long enough for our needs, Eccellentissimo," she retorted, with a rippling laugh. "Verily, I like these wild blooms better than Her Majesty's choice favorites—this orchid hath a face well-nigh human—but overwise; I scarce need tell it—as to thee—that the sailing of the galley was my device to bring thee quickly."

He bit his lip to hold back his impatient speech, for she might not be dealt with as other women, by any appeal to trust or reason.

"Wherefore 'quickly'," he answered her, "since there is time?"

She looked up in surprise at having missed the expected reproof for which she was already fashioning a saucy reply, and her mood changed suddenly.

"Nay, nay, there is not time," she cried passionately, stretching out her hands to him. "There is not time! Though it be not to-night, it may be to-morrow—who knoweth? And it is forever—forever and ever! Caro Signore, art thou not a little sorry for me?"

She looked like a child as she made this appeal, and his heart smote him for his coldness, for she was truly suffering. His sudden sympathy brought a new note of tenderness to his voice.

"So sorry," he said, as he took her hand in a compassionate clasp. "So sorry—that only duty to our land of Cyprus stayeth me from seeking that thy weary penance be lightened. If I might, I would help thee."

"Our land of Cyprus! and thou a Venetian!" she cried triumphantly, her rainbow face flashing smiles, "and how, caro Signore—carissimo Signore—if 'duty to our land of Cyprus' should bid thee help me?"

"It is some new intrigue of which thou hast knowledge?" he questioned, striving to hold her thoughts in one direction.

"Is not the one for which I stand here, and which will send me hence, enough," she answered tantalizingly, "that thou wouldst have more?"

"If it be but for whim of speech that thou hast summoned me," he said rising, knowing well that she would yield nothing to persuasion, "I may not linger longer. If there be a way in which I may serve thy mother, the Countess—ere I take my leave——?"

She shook her head for answer, pulling impatiently at the orchids which she had gathered up again; they seemed akin to her—half elfin flowers.

"Or if there be some message of farewell for Her Majesty?"Again she shook her head, in emphatic denial; but she was conscious that the Bernardini still lingered, although he had taken a few steps away from her: and looking up she saw that he was watching her in keen disappointment. Suddenly her cheek flamed, for his look was both compassionate and reproachful, yet despite her anger, she thought him more than ever noble while she struggled to repress the half-conscious feeling within her that dumbly answered to his appeal.

"She hath been merciful and forgiven much," he urged, in a tone that was still compassionate toward Ecciva herself; "she hath suffered much because of the grief for thy mother and thyself—and because she might not lighten the penance. Is there no little word of farewell for her?"

Dama Ecciva tossed away her flowers, and rose indignantly:

"I have a message for Her Majesty," she said in quick, hard tones. "Tell her I thank her for"—she glanced about the chamber as if summing up its comforts and elegance—"for her flowers. Tell her that the de Montferrats come of a noble house, well nigh as old as the Lusignans; that of our elder branch came a queen of Cyprus. Tell her that if I know not how to thank her for that she hath decreed banishment for a noble of our ancient house—she who hath lived in our land of Cyprus these few years of her little life—if I lack the grace to be so good a courtier—yet I humbly thank her for—these orchids—which might have sprung from some mouldering trunk in a forgotten corner of my estates. They mind me of the days before she came to Cyprus."

She crushed them angrily beneath her foot as she spoke, and her words stormed upon him.

As he would have answered her, she broke in with more hot words.

"Tell her that I shall not lose my color in exile; it will not cure me of my crime of loyalty to my people—I cannot change my faith—tell her——"

But he interrupted gravely:

"Thou dost wrong thyself and her: knowing well that thy 'crime' is not 'of loyalty to thy people'; but that thou couldst profess a loyalty which was but pretence to the Queen who held thy vows of fealty."

She was quivering still with anger and she did not answer him.

"Speech is useless," he said, "if it be not reasonable: and none grieveth more than our gentle Lady that the welfare of the State demandeth the exile of one who hath conspired against it. She, of her grace, will have it that others have misled thee;—that of thine own heart thou wouldst not have sought this treachery."

"Treachery!" her eyes flamed. "If that be treachery——Listen! I thought to send thee away without my confidence and leave thee to thy blind struggle to rule our people of Cyprus—thou and the fair little Queen! Yet I will tell thee, for I cannot leave thee so."

She had come nearer. "Will the nobles in their far lands bow at her bidding? Never! They need a man to sway them, for the good of Cyprus—one who knoweth how to rule—of strength and constancy to shape their kingdom and make it great. For such a man the nobles would rise in their might."

"There is none such," he answered coldly, "and talk of treason—except it were a maid's wild dreaming—must be brought before the Council of the Realm. Unless thou hast confession of some real import to the State—or names that we should know—and for the telling much might be forgiven thee—I bid thee farewell. Truly it is hard for thee, my poor Dama Ecciva; but in thy heart thou knowest that the penalty could not be less.—May thy reason and the years soften it to thee."

She had not listened to his last words, but stood irresolute as he took his ceremonious farewell: then suddenly she sprang towards him and caught his hand to detain him. Her face had grown soft and eager.

"It is 'confession'!" she cried, "'of import to the State'—and 'names' that thou shouldst know. There are many nobles whom I could reach—I will name thee all their names when we have spoken together: those who suffer banishment with me are but a few. At word of mine they would kindle into fire and make a glory of Cyprus!" She had drawn herself up proudly, her eyes were flashing; she had clenched her small hands so tightly over his that he could not withdraw it.

"Poor child!" he said compassionately; "shall one woman rule them, and not another!—It is the madness of imprisonment and exile; it shall be forgiven thee."He tried to make his escape, but she clung to his hand yet more closely, so that he could not move without dragging her with him.

"It is not forgiveness that I want," she cried furiously, "but comprehension. Canst thou not see! Have I not said that Cyprus hath need of a man to rule? Who led the people to storm the Fortress of Famagosta? Who ruled the city in quiet through those days of stress?—Thou art the man! Through me, who hold the key, thou shalt rule them well."

"I am a Venetian," he answered coldly; and no longer hesitating to use the needful force to unclasp the clinging, importunate hands. "From compassion have I shown too great patience with thy mad dreaming. I will direct that the Countess of Montferrat be permitted to come to thee now: for the galley must soon sail for Venice.—May the Madonna help thee!"

But as he reached the door a mocking laugh rang out and made him turn in surprise, for it was but a moment since he had instinctively averted his gaze, lest he should read too easily in her mobile face the emotion which she made no effort to conceal.

"Let us at least part with due ceremony, your Excellency," she said, "since we shall both have travelled to other worlds before we meet again: I—who might have been a Queen, hadst thou but believed my 'mad dreaming' and accepted my aid to make thee—that which should have made me thy Queen indeed, and thee a Sovereign of Cyprus!—had I but condescended so far!"

She swept him her most courtly reverence. "Adieu! Thou art a man indeed—like many another—to let a woman outwit thee and befool thee—so that even now thou knowest not within thy soul if she hath spoken truth,—or flattery to beguile thee; or 'mad dreaming'—for which, perforce, she 'may be forgiven,' and render thanks! Thou knowest not whether she hath, in truth, spoken to mislead thee that which should have brought the pride of thy superb Venice low—hadst thou but listened!—So much hath my 'confession' availed thee. O, most astute Venetian!"

She flung the words at him in triumphant tones, while he, in noble pity, stood speechless—having seen her face when she thought he had not seen; and she stood thus—radiant—defiant—until there was no longer an echo of footsteps back through the long vaulted corridor of the castle. Then the mocking smile died on her lips and eyes and she threw herself on her couch in a bitter paroxysm of passion.

"One may dare all, for a man of stone," she cried, "and yet not win! And I would have made him great—great beyond his dreams! O fool!—Fool!"