An Embassy from Venice was expected upon important affairs of State, and there was an unusual radiance in the face of the Queen, for it had been announced that the Illustrissimo, the Signor Zorzi Cornaro, brother to Caterina, was chief of the Commission, and it was long since one of her very own had been with her.

"Zia mia," she said eagerly to the elder Lady of the Bernardini. "Thou wilt see that no courtesy of reception shall be omitted—it is to welcome one of my very own!"

She dwelt on the phrase with a pathetic accent of delight, returning to it again as she discussed some details of the welcome that should be offered to her brother, whom, for years she had not seen.

Never had an ambassador been received with higher honors in the Court of Nikosia, or with such glad faces by all the attendant circle—for was not His Excellency of the Queen's own household?—and it had been rare to see such a light of happiness in her beloved eyes.

And well did the Cornaro seem to carry the honors due to his house—being very noble in bearing, as befitted the brother of the Queen; and so eloquent in speech that already before the first day had passed, the scholarly men of the Court were exchanging glances of admiration at the skill with which he parried their compliments; while Caterina, noting their courtesy and the deftness with which he had won them, grew more than ever radiant, with a certain look of restfulness and of heart-satisfaction which, since the death of the child, those who loved her had scarcely seen her wear.

But Aluisi Bernardini grew somewhat graver than his wont, as the banquet proceeded, while he watched his cousin, the newly-arrived Ambassador, less graciously, his lady thought, than he need have done on this first evening when all were hastening to shower honors upon him.

"Whatever cometh," he said to his wife, as they rose at last from the brilliant tables and passed out upon the terraces at the invitation of the Queen; "whatever cometh, leave her not alone with him, though she should urge thee; use thy sweet insistance—as thou knowest how—to keep others about them for this first evening."

"What meanest thou, Aluisi?" she asked in alarm, and moving quickly aside, as the gay company swept by, that he might explain himself. "Surely she might wish to speak with him alone; she is more happy in his presence than she hath been for years. Seest thou not?"

"Aye, my very dear one, I see it well. It is that I would hold this rare happiness for her so long as may be; and there is that in the manner of my cousin, the Cornaro, which pleaseth me not. I would not have him unfold to her the matter of his Embassy, if it may be a little deferred."

"It hath been told thee, already?"

"Not more than to thee. But in all the grace of him I see his head above his heart—a certain quality of his father, the 'Magnifico, Marco Cornaro'—as he was known in Venice. Yet one who standeth watching, somewhat apart, may note a hint of displeasure at the splendor of his welcome and the loyalty of the court for the Queen: and the ready wit with which he answereth concealeth under its sparkle a certain persistent measuring of some purpose which he hath much at heart—as if he were studying meanwhile how best to compass his end."

She laid her hand entreatingly on his arm. "For once, my Aluisi, it may be thou dost o'er-reach thyself. Is he not her brother?"

He smiled at her, unconvinced.

"I have watched so long," he said, "and the life of our Queen-Cousin hath been so sadly thwarted that it may well be my fear for her taketh flame too lightly. But she hath set such store upon his coming, and with such gracious scheming for his pleasure, that if he leave her time she may soften any hard intent. San Marco grant that I have misjudged him, for he is of our house."

"Thou hast much weight with her," the Dama Margherita answered very low. "Stay near me, that we may guard her."

But scarcely had they reached the terraces where all the Court were scattered, than they found the Queen pleading with her brother.

"Not to-night, Zorzi mio! For this one night let us take the pleasure of thy coming as a brother to my home. Thou must know our customs and our people and let them offer thee glad welcome. I have music and song planned for thee:—and our Cyprian gardens—with their delights!—Let us stroll awhile."He made a gesture of dissent.

"The banquet hath been long enough," he said, "nor lacking for sweets. There is meat of stronger quality to digest. Not for feasting I came, but upon an embassy the matter of which we must discuss."

"And now?" she asked, still unwilling.

"Said I not 'now'?" he answered resolutely, advancing toward the arches which admitted to the palace.

But Bernardini stood in his way, arresting his quick pace.

"My cousin, thy 'now' must wait upon the Queen's good pleasure," he said, with due deference. Then, more lightly, "It is the way of our Court in Cyprus—which would do thee honor. Her Majesty hath ordered some festive trifle of music, or other entertainment, which our music-maidens, skilled upon the lute, would fain begin."

At a signal from the Lady Margherita, they came floating out upon the terrace: but the Cornaro turned frowning from them and signed with his hand that his cousin, the Bernardini, should let him pass.

At a glance from the Queen, Bernardini moved courteously aside, but Caterina did not follow: she waited for a moment before she spoke—as if to weigh her speech.

"If it be for matter of the Embassy which may not be delayed," she said, "I will bid our Chamberlain advise our Council of the Realm, that we may receive it with all honor befitting the Court of Venice, so soon as they shall be gathered in the Audience-Chamber. Though the hour be strange, it is of thy choosing; and thou art our dear guest—as, also, our honored Ambassador from the Republic."

The Cornaro stood for a moment as if uncertain what part to play; then, making light of it all, he dismissed his frown and with a whimsical laugh and graceful deprecatory motions, he turned to his sister and offered his hand to lead her in.

"Nay, nay, my sister; I spoke of no formal session of State to receive my Embassy; rather of a friendly talk between us two, touching the matter upon which the Republic hath sent me hither—that we may better understand each other before it be laid before the Council. With thy leave, my cousin."

He passed with a friendly nod and some jesting word, which the Bernardini returned more gravely:

"Thou dost verily surround thyself with state, Caterina!" her brother exclaimed in a tone of stern displeasure, when she had indicated a chamber where they might be alone, and he had carefully assured himself that the quaint Eastern draperies concealed no guards—the while she watched him in amazement.

"It is better for thee that there be no listeners," he said, as he placed a seat before her and sat down, fixing her with his gaze.

"Hearken without speech until I have spoken." His tone was threatening.

She turned white and red, half starting up, but cowed by his manner, fell back into her seat again."Is this my brother," she asked, "or is it the Ambassador?"

"Nay; leave tragedy, Caterina; I am come to bring thee word of a great opportunity."

"For my people?—For Cyprus?" she responded with instant interest.

He laughed, a curious, unmirthful laugh.

"Aye—for 'thy people'—'for Cyprus,' verily. Listen! Thou hast it in thy power, at this moment, to bestow a gift upon the Republic—thou who art the Daughter of Venice—that shall make thee memorable throughout the ages."

She was taken unaware; yet suddenly the happenings of all the past years seemed to converge in her, as their central point, binding her hand and foot so that she might not free herself: an icy bolt shot through her: "I—I fail to understand," she answered faintly, for there was somewhat in his look that interpreted the meaning she would fain have missed.

"Aye: it is hard to understand—that thou, who art one of our Casa Cornaro—a woman—upon whom Venice hath bestowed such fatherly and unceasing care—should have it in thy power so to reward the Republic, who might have seized the throne of Cyprus, without waiting for thy gift! Yet, of her grace, the Serenissima Repubblica doth verily ask it of thee, as a favor—thou who art Daughter to Venice. Thou mayest well find it hard to understand!"

She rose, indignantly.

"Hath the Signoria of Venice broken faith with her ally of Cyprus? Is she not content to wait for the sovereignty of this realm until my death—knowing that by my will Venice hath been created heir to this throne—that she should wish to deprive me now of that which hath come to me through so great sorrow, by the will of my husband, the King?"

He watched her curiously, while the color came and went with her tumultuous emotions, and her troubled breathing; and he changed his tone—being subtle.

"I said that the Signoria would have thanked thee for thy gift of the realm; and that the ages should have decreed thee great honor for thy queenly giving: but it would have been more of their courtesy than of thine. For thou dost verily hold too great a matter this little kingdom of Cyprus—forgetting the nets that have many times been spread for thee; and the disfavor of those Cyprian nobles who would have a man to rule over them and not a woman—young and without power—unless Venice be her ally and defender! Even now, thou mightest have been a slave in the land of the Turk, were it not for thy faithful upholding by the galleys of Venice, which came between thee and the devastators. Where is the generous response of a woman who, without them, were nothing?—I thought thee more noble!"

She was bewildered, and he had cut her to the quick.

"Nay, Zorzi: thou dost not comprehend. A Queen must first be faithful to her people."

"Aye—'to her people!'" he retorted scornfully. "And are thy people of Venice, or of Cyprus?—that thou mayest be faithful neither to one nor to the other! Wilt thou show thy faith to Cyprus by turning thine only helpers and defenders from thee, that thine enemies of the coasts may have free entrance to thine unprotected harbors, while the galleys of Venice no longer waste upon thine ingratitude their unrequited care?"

"It is not true!" she cried; "they would not thus desert me."

"It is like a woman to build a belief without foundation," he answered her—calmly, as one who makes a study at his ease.

"And this is verily thy mission from Venice—and to me?"

"I have spoken," he said, "but the time is short: thou mayest not delay to reply—Venice hath so decreed."

"My people love me," she pleaded, with a gasp. "I have only them to live for!"

"Thou hast only them, if thou wilt perforce give up thine own," he answered readily; "it is of thine own choice."

"What meanest thou?" she questioned, grasping his arm in terror: "Zorzi!"

He shook off her touch and answered her unmoved. "The choice will be thine, between thy people of Cyprus—who love thee, thou sayest—and thy people of Venice—we of the Casa Cornaro and the Signoria, whom thou wilt offend and who have spent themselves upon thee. They will leave thee to thine own devices, withdrawing every galley from thy Cyprian coasts."

She gave a low moan, pressing her trembling hands to her brow, as if brain-weary from perplexity; then she turned to her brother again with the exclamation:

"How shouldst thou so utterly desert me, Zorzi—thou, and my people whom I love!"

"The mercy of the Republic is at an end," he assured her uncompromisingly, "and for the Casa Cornaro—thou dost mistake, which seemeth easy for thee; it is rather thou who wilt disgrace me—thy brother, with his honorable pride in his house and his most noble country. For him and his children there will no longer be honors, nor any favor of the Senate: upon thy brother, who doth so faithfully counsel thee and from his heart, will fall the enmity of the Republic who hath forbidden him to fail in his mission. And what is left for a patrician who hath suffered exile and confiscation, but death and the extinction of his house? This will be thy doing."

She sprang up, attempting to reach a silken cord that swung upon the wall near her; but Cornaro raised his hand above her and lightly tossed it aside.

"No one shall come between us until I have thy promise: it lieth between me and thee."

"I need some one to help me," she implored; "and Aluisi is of our Casa Cornaro,—he would understand."

"Two are enough," he said,—"nay, too much; for where the matter is urgent, one sufficeth."

She sat on mutely, wrestling with her problem.

From the time that she had first known of her royal destiny, problems of rights of governments had never been put before her in unpartisan, clear-cut lines of white and black—as right and wrong: her judgment had been intentionally befogged by those who should have been her teachers, until she found herself Queen by coronation and inheritance, consecrated in her right by the awful seal of the great High-Priest Death—before whose inviolable silence questions cease, and the scroll of the closed life is no longer searched, save with eyes that blur the lines through overflowing mercy.

It had been easy for Venice to retain her ascendency over Caterina by intensifying her dependence, by fostering the distinctively feminine and predominant side of her nature—by insisting upon abnormal claims to her duty, her obedience, her love, her gratitude.

When the eyes of the Queen had finally been opened to see the danger of these claims of Venice, it was already too late, for the freedom of her realm had been inextricably tangled in the toils of Venice. Since then she had struggled with all her soul to govern her recalcitrant people by the only power that she believed in or possessed—the power of love. But it was love with little knowledge of the problems of nations or the measures needful to cope with the disaffected nobles who were numerous enough to create an influence and who cared rather for their own pleasure, than for any duty that they owed to enhance the unity or moral splendor of their land.

"My Husband left me Queen," she said at last, raising her troubled eyes to his. "It was by his Will that I rule. Have I the right to yield this power?"

"Power!"

She recoiled from the irony of the tone.

"They are my people—they love me," she persisted, "and thou canst not know how the care for them doth fill my life. Have I the right to give them to any other?"

He laughed again. "Thou hast a veritable talent for creating problems wherewith to vex thyself, my sister, conscience-tossed! Hath one a right to give that which he can no longer hold? Art thou the first who could not rule, to abdicate in favor of a stronger sceptre?"

"We must ask these questions," she said struggling to be firm, "for duty is not easy to find."

"Nor fortune," he answered coldly. "And one must be wise indeed to know when 'one may grasp it by the hair'—as thou hast the chance with this most gracious proffer of the Signoria before thee to reject."

She turned her head away that he might not read her thoughts, while she dwelt upon the full meaning of the cruel word he had spoken so easily—to abdicate: it meant the disgrace of rulers, the acknowledgment of supreme weakness—unless to the greater power belonged the supreme right.

Was this supreme Right vested with Venice, that she might bow without question? The word smote upon her like a touch of ice and her heart quailed.

Meanwhile Cornaro was watching, urging her decision with further arguments. The Signoria would provide for her; she should retain her title; she should still be styled 'Caterina, Regina;' she should live in royal state.—But—if she did not yield—our Lord himself in heaven would be displeased with her, hating no sin so much for any Christian as base ingratitude;—with much more, to which she made no answer.And thus the night wore on.

At last she rose, weary and heart-broken.

"My brother," she said in trembling tones, "none of thine arguments move me: yet thou knowest I should grieve if thou, because of me, shouldst suffer exile and disgrace, or thy children be held from any honor they might win. But even for this I could not yield. Thy happiness and mine must be as naught in this great crisis, against the welfare of my people. Them only I must consider."

A torrent of imprecation rose to his lips, but he left it unuttered. For as he turned his angry glance upon her and saw her face pallid and distraught by the anguish of her struggle, with the strange gleam of unearthly strength in her sorrowing eyes—it would have seemed like cursing a spirit. He crossed himself unconsciously, drawing a little apart from her, and waited impatiently.

There was a motion of her lips, as if she had more to say: but her strength was spent, so that her voice would not come with her first effort. Cornaro was conscious as he watched her of his fear lest it should fail her utterly before she found her speech. He knew what he had to expect if he did not succeed in his mission, and for him the moment was crucial; others, for a far less bitter thwarting of the will of the Signoria, had suffered death—which had been hinted to him. He had meant to offer this as his supreme argument when all others had failed to coerce her: but instinctively he held it back, fearing to anger her to the point of stubborn refusal, for there was some unexpected power of resistance within the soul of this slight woman.

Just as he was beginning to assure himself that, at all costs he must use further persuasion, her voice came—far away and colorless:

"And if I yield——?"

He went nearer, almost abject in the joy of this sudden reaction, promising her with glowing visions, state, glory, luxury, honor, favor of the Senate, ease, everything that his vivid imagination could seize upon to tempt the fancy of a woman; but she waved her hand impatiently to arrest his quick flow of words.

"Not for myself—but for my people—what for them?"

"Everything!" he answered undaunted; "security, prosperity; they shall be ruled as Venice rules her provinces—ever more wisely than the people rule themselves. Thou knowest that, because of this, foreign States have come to plead that Venice would accept their submission."

She knew that this was true; but her heart was like lead within her as she raised her impotent clasped hands with a sudden, sharp cry of pain. "My God! my God! I am not faithless to my vow—Thou knowest. I must choose their welfare, though my heart should break!"

As the Cornaro gave his hand to lead her to her chamber in the light of the early dawn, she turned to him pitifully imploring his comprehension of her motive: "The Holy Mother knoweth that I am not faithless to my people—since with the favor of the Republic turned from me, I might neither serve nor guard them.—My lot is bitter!"

But the day had dawned for him, if not for her. "Nay; trust me, sweet Sister and Queen, thou hast chosen wisely," he answered with easy gallantry, as he kissed her hand and would have left her where the Lady Margherita stood waiting with troubled eyes and heightened color to receive her—scarcely condescending to notice the Cornaro's homage or his gay, parting words—"your fair Queen hath done this night an act that shall send her name down through coming ages, wreathed with glory."

For words came easily to him, and he had been too well content with his own triumph and escape to weigh the effect of its cost upon Caterina. But now, after the mockery of his conventional salutation—which none knew better than he to make an expression of profound deference—as he turned his bright gaze upon her, the strained pallor of her face with its deep lines of suffering smote upon him, and he addressed Dama Margherita again with some assumption of concern for his sister's welfare.

"I fear she is overwearied; but the long discussion upon business of the Senate hath been needful. Yet now there is only rest before her, and I may leave her, in confidence, in your gracious care."

But the Lady Margherita had turned impatiently from him to busy herself with the Queen before he had finished his speech; then she flashed him a glance which he found it hard to meet.

"We who love her need not your counsel, my Lord, to strive to undo your 'doing of this night. These are the apartments of Her Majesty. We need to be alone."