But now--at last--the hour was the people's once more, for the Serenissimo stood on the balcony above the portal of San Marco, between the great golden horses, with the Daughter of Venice beside him--the sunlight irradiating her white robes and beautiful, girlish face.

"Caterina--Regina--_Figlia di Venezia_--_Nostra Venezia_!" A great cry rent the air; it came from thousands of hearts and thrilled her own to its core, and the first, great emotion of her young life swept through her, transforming and wholly possessing her.

A mist swam before her and her heart throbbed as if it would break: she dimly saw innumerable faces leaning to her from roofs and balconies and windows, and below in the great Piazza, the dense ma.s.s of the people with faces offering love and homage, lifting their children to clap their tiny hands for her--it was wonderful--beautiful--had the Madonna, indeed, given her so much!

The mist cleared before her eyes and each face, to the remotest corners of the Piazza stood out individualized, while a sudden great love of humanity was born within her. "She would pray to make her people happy--she would be something to the poor and suffering ones of her distant land of Cyprus--the Holy Mother would teach her----"

It was the supreme moment that does not come to all, yet when it comes holds the making or the marring of a life--as the lightning gleams for an instant only through a rift of cloud, awe-inspiring and too luminous to be forgotten. To Caterina, on the verge of womanhood, it came with the force of a prophetic vision, giving her sight of the tie between a queen and her people--it was like the strong mother-love of a great woman--all-embracing; the splendor of the pageant, the personal homage had no longer part in the exaltation of that great moment--it was the _real_ beneath it all that stirred her soul. She lost herself in the emotion, seeking only for expression; she opened her arms wide to them as if she would embrace them all, turning on every side to smile her heart out to them--tossing kisses to the children who clapped their eager hands for her--scattering sunshine with that rare magnetic power which is the most wondrous gift that Heaven can bestow.

"_Simpatica!_" the responsive people cried with glowing faces.

"_Angiola!_--_Tanto Simpatica!_"

The Lady Fiorenza standing where she could see the face of her child gave thanks for the vision, with joyful tears.

"This hast thou granted her, _Madonna mia Beatissima_, for a wedding gift!"

IV

Now that the brilliant pageant of the Betrothal had taken place, life went on serenely in the Palazzo Cornaro in San Ca.s.san, while the seasons came and went and Caterina developed into a charming maiden of seventeen--expanding in the gracious atmosphere and the wonderful new joys that it brought her, as a rose matures to its most radiant perfection in the sunshine. Her eager mind which had hitherto known only the meagre culture bestowed upon young Venetian maids of her time and estate, awoke with ardent response, growing with leaps and bounds to meet the new demands--yet always deepening because the spring of her will had its impulse in n.o.ble emotions.

Her thin, restricted life had suddenly overflowed with interests: the boundaries of her vision had opened far beyond the narrow confines of the lagoons of Venice and the Euganean hills, as the consciousness dawned upon her of a world that had been rich in beauty and vital memories before Venice began to be. Life was beginning to pulsate tumultuously in her veins; her heart was awaking. All the fulness and delight of this germinal spring-time she owed to the lord and lover who was waiting for her across the shimmering, beckoning sea. What wonder that her maiden heart should cling to him with a pa.s.sionate trust, while all her sweet self grew in shy loveliness out of the dream that she was fashioning, and the deepening currents of her being flowed purely about this vision of her betrothed, enthroning her love with her religion in one centre.

The mimic court in the Palazzo Cornaro, under the supervision of her monitors of Venice, was already attracting distinguished strangers--for the element of romance in her position made the salon of the future Queen of Cyprus the feature of Venetian social life; and long hours of eager study with masters of the many tongues spoken in the Cyprian court--alternating with the teachings of her mother's n.o.ble friend, the Patriarch, as he sought to familiarize her with the early Christian story of her distant island, proved the quick grasp of her mind--giving dangerous hints of strength which, if disregarded, might thwart the moulding purpose of the Signoria. So it seemed wise to forestall her questionings with such historic glimpses as should fascinate her with her realm to be, while Venice was silently smoothing out the crumples of that distant Cyprian sh.o.r.e; and it was fitting that the bride of Ja.n.u.s should make acquaintance with the literary and legendary treasures of this fabled isle of poets, for the house of Lusignan had been known for its taste in literature. But of a certain proverb current in Cyprus in the days of the Lusignans, the watchful Senate took care that she should be left in ignorance, _Ce n'est pas Minerve qui est nee en Chypre_! and that Chief of the Ten whose difficult duty it had become to supervise the education of Caterina was giving peremptory instruction to the newly-created Historical Secretary to the Queen-elect:

"Begin with thy narration far back in the days of the Greek myths--she hath much poetry in her soul. Take her carefully over the early Christian traditions--she doth most seriously incline to venerate the Church:--there is food in these matters to consume much time."

"And then, Eccellentissimo, one may venture to tell the story of the House of Lusignan?"

The research of the learned Secretary had brought him in contact with Cyprus, but it had not inclined him to make fancy pictures of its kings.

"Of Guy--the founder--and of the Crusades; it is a tale a maid may hear," the Capo responded grimly. "Of gleanings, now and again, through the pages of the chronicle, as it may be wise. She hath not the judgment to endure it all, being yet scarce more than a child--and with leanings rather toward Church than State, being over-much under the influence of the Lady Fiorenza--_over-much_."

The words came with pauses which lent them force, and the new Secretary, being Senate-trained, lost none of their significance.

"Thine office doth demand discretion," the Chief continued, fixing the other with his piercing gaze. "One should choose the tale that may best please--that she may go glad-hearted and with a maiden's fancy."

"Aye, your Excellency--for maids and women are not as men; and facts not over-gentle may be best untold."

"Nay--not that--not that: but there is time--much time--and for the present the care shall be to delight."

"It is the office of a courtier, Eccellentissimo; it befools a scholar,"

the Historical Secretary exclaimed with indignation. "There be poets and romancers who would do it honor, rather than I--who have spent long years among the records searching for truth, that I may leave a chronicle to trust."

"And most unworthily, Signor Segretario, if thou hast found no least trace of the great philosopher Zeno in the ancient city of Cition that was his birthplace; nor of Homer, that maker of literature, who hath, perchance, won s.p.a.ce enough in the estimate of mankind to be worthy the brief thought of a child--even of thine--a scholar seeking for truth--he being the pride of Salamis.

"But the Signoria have never learned the backward step that they should withdraw an appointment which conferreth unwilling honor," the Chief concluded coldly. "Thou shalt find some beauty in the legends of the Cinyradae, or the myths of Aphrodite, in this land of Cyprus where the G.o.ddess rose from the foam of the sea!"

"Were not substance better than froth to train a maid to rule, your Excellency?"

"Nay, but to _obey_; to _rule_ needeth not teaching."

"But--your Excellency----"

"Signore, foam shall suffice to teach obedience--thou hast heard the most gracious will of the Senate."

The eyes of the scholar who loved truth better than fortune dropped baffled; for he could not afford to surrender the favor of the Senate which promised him means to achieve in his own special field; and he groaned in spirit while the wide halls of the Frari, with their treasure of ancient MSS. rose before his mental vision as the most tempting spot on earth, with his own _magnum opus_ lying there unfinished, yet far toward completion. And for one who had meant to chronicle the complete history of a _movement_, who had sought ever to weigh and sift in the interests of truth alone, to surrender the freedom of his mind to the Senate--to come down to the teaching of a child--to be commanded what he should speak--it was maddening!

"My own work," he murmured in a last appeal:--"I have so little time."

"The time of a Venetian is his best gift to the State," the Capo made answer icily.

There was a pause during which the unwilling Secretary _felt_ the eyes of the Capo upon him, forcing him to lift his own. For an instant he met the strange fixed gaze which conveyed to him without words that what had pa.s.sed between them was to be held inviolate; then, with a courteous salute, the man of power spoke:

"The interview is dismissed." And the Segretario Reale went out from the presence, his soul revolting at the absolutism that forced him to accept; and he despised himself.

Meanwhile the soul of the maiden was thrilling to the Patriarch's tales of early Christian conquests in her islands--at Paphos--at Salamis--of the miracles of the great Paulus, saint and bishop and leader--as her eyes followed along the red-lettered parchment page of the rare volume which the holy man had brought from the treasures of the "Marciana" for her teaching--translating the story from the Greek, which was yet hard for her, into her own softer tongue.

Cyprus had indeed been a favored land in those early days; for the Holy Spirit had commanded by a revelation that Barnabas and Paulus should set sail for Cyprus to preach the new faith at Salamis; and they had taken with them Marcus--their own San Marco!--it was so written in this strange, old book.

"Tell me about him!" Caterina cried, clasping her hands eagerly: "what did he do in my land?"

Every Venetian was familiar with the Patron-Saint of Venice in his symbolic guise, with his terrible, flashing jewelled eyes--as a power who would guard them and confound their enemies, rather than as an Evangelist--although the paw of the fierce Venetian lion rested always on the open gospel-page. But to hear of him as a man, before he was known as saint--young--'sister's son to Barnabas,' setting forth on this mission to Cyprus, made him strangely real to the young Venetian girl; it even brought Cyprus nearer with a tender home claim, to hear of the wanderings of San Marco among those temples of Aphrodite; and his scorn of the unholy worship kindled her soul as the Patriarch told how the young Evangelist had not feared to curse the G.o.dless Cyprian city for its idolatry--of the tumult that had been raised by his followers, as they hurled the images of the Pagan G.o.ds from their pedestals, ruining portions of the huge, unholy structure as they fell and killing some of those who were taking part in the games. She would visit these vast ruins in the ancient grove of Aphrodite, where giant-trees had grown among the fallen columns, and wonderful vases of gold and silver and alabaster, wrought like finest cameos, had been disinterred from mounds of rubbish to decorate the palaces of patricians.

Of these, antique goblets, some flashing with an indescribable rainbow l.u.s.tre, delicate as an opal, had already been sent her among the rich gifts of Ja.n.u.s. And so life took on new color for her--historic memories and trifles of the day crossing each other at many points, linking the old to the new, in unsuspected continuity.

"Our San Marco was a hero even then!" she cried; "an early Crusader fighting for his faith!"

"Aye, daughter--as thou and I must fight," the Patriarch answered her with tender approval in his eyes, a shadow of apprehension dimming them before he withdrew his gaze--for of such tender stuff had martyrs been made. "The story of those early days is for our guidance. If trials should come," he added, "cleave but to thy faith and Heaven shall show thee a way."

"I never thought before that one might _love_ San Marco!" Caterina said, as she turned her glowing face frankly to the old man; "he was never a person, but just a grotesque image to me."

"Symbols are for our race in its childhood, for with primitive peoples imagination dominates reason," he answered her; "later we weave a more enduring fabric out of the truth of history--still cherishing the myth--the earlier impulse."

But it was Barnabas who was the true hero-saint of Cyprus; for he had owned estates in his native island and had sold them and given all for the propagation of the new faith; and when, after his cruel martyrdom the fierce spirit of persecution had cooled, and his remains were found interred in a grotto near the city--the divine revelation of St. Peter clasped to his breast--the possession of so sacred a relic sufficed to win great privileges among the hierarchy for the island of Cyprus, in perpetuity--the proud t.i.tle of Archbishop of Salamis--the imperial staff with the golden apple at top--the cap with the red cross, and many other honors and immunities. It was a long way from the primitive simplicity of the fruitful ministration of Jose Barnabas, the Son of Consolation, as he had fought for souls in the splendid vigor of his youth and consecration!

"I am glad of these sacred bonds between my two homes!" the young girl exclaimed with a little wistful sigh.

"There are yet other links in the history of our Church; for Sant'Elena, the Mother of Constantine--whose tomb thou knowest on our fair island of Sant'Elena--hath enriched thy favored land of Cyprus with its most sacred relic, bestowing there the portions of the Holy Cross which she had brought from Orient, and thou shalt find them still revered in the Chapel of Santa Croce on the Mountain of the Troodos."

"Thou perchance, most Reverend Father, wilt come some day in pilgrimage to this blessed shrine in my new land!" Caterina cried hopefully.

"Nay, dear daughter; for my work lieth in Venice. But thou seest that where our Holy Church hath planted her banner, one may call no land strange."