XVI
White banners of rejoicing floated from every stronghold and palacethroughout Cyprus, to publish the birth of the infant prince; but a hushhad lain for many days over the city of Famagosta.
In the Cathedral of San Nicolo, the Archbishop of Nikosia, primate ofall Cyprus, ministered in solemn state among a throng of lesserdignitaries, priests, and acolytes. His sumptuous robes of office, ofcloth of gold broidered with costly pearls, flashed forth a marvellousradiance from the light of countless candles bought with the preciouscopper bits of the peasants who came from the provinces far and near. Asthey gathered about the steps of the altar they carefully drew theirdingy work-worn garments back, lest their touch should sully thesplendid Persian carpet spread for the Reverendissimo, little dreamingthat the hint of sorrowing love in their stolid faces robed them withnobility and turned their hard-earned copper _carcie_ into a goldengift.
In the many churches throughout the kingdom the humble people werekneeling, praying their unlettered prayers for the beautiful youngQueen, with the more faith that the Holy Mother would listen because oneso great as the Archbishop of Nikosia ministered in person before theirsacred image of San Nicolo. For had it not been the booty of aslaughtered Eastern city, won by Peter the Valiant in most holy warfareof Crusade, which His Holiness of Rome would fain have counted among thetreasures of the One True Church within the Eternal City?
In the grim stone corridors of the impregnable fortress of Famagosta, acrowd of humble pilgrims from the Troodos knelt, breathlessly fingeringtheir rosaries, while the monks of the Holy House upon the Mountainmoved among the scattered groups, holding each one his Cross of Thorns,and reciting his low "Ave," that the people might follow in hushedwhispers.
But within the little Chapel of the Fortress, Hagios Johannes wrestledalone in prayer; it leaped from his heart with groans and sobs thatmight not be restrained.
Surely the merciful Father in Heaven would leave this pure spirit torule the distressed people of Cyprus:--"Were they found too sinful towin so great a boon?--'_Let the priests, the ministers of the people,weep between the porch and the altar!_'--My God, it is Thy word, spokenby Thy prophet of old!" He pressed his hands against the crosses on hisbreast and shoulders, lashing himself in a sort of frenzy from thepassion of his thought, not knowing that his blood trickled in slowdrops upon the very steps of the altar--the blood of man, defiling thepurity of that slab of onyx brought from the Temple at Jerusalem by thefirst of the Kings of Lusignan.
The fortress, not the Palace of Famagosta, had been the birthplace ofthe little Prince of Galilee; a wise precaution, possibly, in view ofthe diversities of sympathy to be found among the nobles of Cyprus. Inthe innermost of the apartments set apart for the Royal use, a graveassemblage of learned men had gathered--men of many races and tongues,of various schools of science, diverse in doctrines and ideals--all,with the exception of Maestro Gentile, the court physician, strangers tothe patient whom they were called to treat in a critical moment. As amatter of science the case had a certain value for them, which was notlessened by the fact of the patient's quality; but to Maestro Gentilealone was the hopeless condition of the young Queen a matter of deeppersonal concern. They came from France, from Greece, from the famousUniversity of Bologna; the Sultan of Egypt had sent a sage learned inall the lore of that ancient civilization; and a wise Arab had broughtto this consultation the secrets of every herb that grew; while a holyman from Persia, steeped in the wisdom of the Zend Avestar and in thedoctrines of Zarathrustra, stood ready to use his mystic comfort inbehalf of the sufferer. The consultation had dragged its slow lengththrough the hot August afternoon, while the strange faces came and wentabout the couch where the young Queen lay moaning and tossing; thesingle being under that roof who loved her as her own soul and wouldhave given her life for hers, was waiting alone in the greatante-chamber, listening for every footfall, every motion within--fillingeach moment with an intensity of prayer.
The great men had barred her from the sick-room while they made theirdiagnosis, lest the intricacies of the symptoms should declarethemselves less positively in the presence of a nature without learningin any method of their art. "There was fever," they said; "it wouldexcite the patient to have one of her own household so near her in thisextremity; her strength must be carefully treasured."
But all wore faces of gloom, speaking with hushed voices, as, one byone, they came forth from the darkened chamber, yet with a sense ofrelief that all had been done that could be done and the weakness mightnow be left to run its course, "For there is no hope," they said.
The Lady Beata had questioned each face silently; but when the last onepassed, bringing the same sense of doom, "Can _nothing_ more be done?"she asked with clasped hands.
They shook their heads, gravely, with decorous looks of sympathy,repeating their short refrain, like a knell.
"Then I will go to her," she answered, "that she may see a face of lovewhen she passes," and pushing them all aside, she resolutely entered thesick-chamber, signing to Maestro Gentile to follow her; but the protestfrom the group of learned men was less than she had feared, since theQueen was now so ill that nothing could cure or harm.
The fair young mother, fever flushed, with wandering eyes, lay tossingon the silken cushions of her low couch--broken words feebly strugglingfrom the parted lips in pathetic tones, "Madonna--I am so tired--_so_tired--take me----"
There was no recognition in her eyes, as the Lady Beata leaned over her,startled at the words, her soul wrung with sympathy.
"Why can they do nothing?" she asked in low authoritative tones of thephysician.
"The will is gone," he answered sorrowfully; "she hath lost all desireof life; she will not rally, being too weak for the effort, and havingno consciousness to help herself."
There was a hunted, frightened look in Caterina's face; the words cameagain, more faintly--"tired--take me----"
"She shall _not_ die until she hath known this joy which Heaven hathsent her!" the Lady Beata cried with conviction and a sudden sense ofpower. "We will save her--thou, Maestro Gentile--and I--who love her.Give her only some potion for her strengthening, I beseech thee, caroMaestro;--life is flickering--she _must_ not die yet."
"There is no hope," he answered her again; but he gave the strengtheningdraught, for he could not resist her imploring eyes.
The Lady Beata had been moving noiselessly, throwing wide the curtains;a faint, pitying evening breeze stole into the chamber. She came now andknelt beside the couch.
"Bring the little Prince hither with all possible haste, from hischamber," she said without lifting her eyes from Caterina's face. "Wemust rouse her!"
And now the Maestro went without further question, to do her bidding,although the child, and all that belonged to him had been kept out ofsight and sound of the invalid, through these days of danger, lest anemotion should snap the slender thread of life.
"Bring none with thee," she said, "save only the peasant-nurse; for wemust be alone."
Quite alone, with death so near, out of the marvellous great strengthin her heart, the Lady Beata laid her firm, cool touch on the restlesshands, scarcely restraining them--yet the spasmodic movements grewquieter; she smiled into her eyes, until the strain of the frightenedgaze relaxed; she folded her close in the arms of her deep tendernessand _willed_ her back to life with the strenuousness of a greatpurpose--for was there not the little wailing child to live for, to giveher sight of the love and happiness for which she was starving!
Closer and closer yet she folded her, with light caressing motions onhair and brow, calling to her with all sweet names that deep-heartedwomen know, in tones so like a dream that they caught the wanderingconsciousness and lighted it with a faint, far hope.
Time is not when such momentous issues are pending. Whether the momentspassed into hours, or whether each instant were so fraught with itsintensity of hope and fear that every heart-throb seemed an eternity,the yearning watchers never knew. Slowly--or was it swiftly?--Just ashope was
dying in despair--a breath of peace, like the wafting of thewings of some heavenly messenger, stirred softly among them, droppingbalm on the face of the sleeper.
They bent above her breathlessly; the pale eyelids fluttered andunclosed.
Her breath came gently and broke in a restful sigh; she lay quietlywithin the shielding arms that had held her back from the dread abyss;the light of recognition was dawning in her eyes.
The Lady Beata trembled for joy; but she scarce dared move or speak;she kept her eyes fixed on the dear, fragile face,--deep in her heartthat ceaseless prayer for life.
Maestro Gentile was dumb with awe:--it was a miracle! He stood watching,intent to help--holding his breath lest he should work some harm, whilehe kept guard over the nurse who held the sleeping child; he was socompletely under the spell of that wonder-working will that he neededscarce a sign to work with her.
But the Lady Beata was no thaumaturgist; only a loving woman, standingwhere science had failed, translating another's desperate need from herown depths of sympathy--arresting the oncoming shadow because of herfaith and her great love.
"Now!" she exclaimed under her breath.
She laid the infant on its mother's breast; its dainty breath came andwent upon her face with the fragrance of a violet. She uncurled a littlecrumpled, rose-leaf palm and pressed it close upon the mother'scheek--never moving her gaze, with the will of life strong within it,from the eyes in which recognition had dawned with a strange, sweetsurprise. A smile was brooding on lips and eyes. One baby-hand layclasped in Caterina's--the wee pink fingers closed on hers like thetendrils of a vine.
The Lady Beata's heart throbbed to breaking, but her voice came low andcalm--stilled with the passion of her gladness, as Caterina's eyessmiled into hers:
"It is thine own little son, who hath need of thy love:--God's wonderfulgift of joy that only mothers know!"
The Royal Pawn of Venice Page 16