“Indeed,” said Ethel, “all this interests me tremendously. So your ancestor Enguerrand was the creator of women’s rights!”
Ethel and grandma examined the engraving. It represented an octagonal hall of somber and massive aspect. The eight segments of the vaulted roof were separated by stone ribbing that met in a fleuron, from which hung an immense chandelier. The arches rested on eight columns. Between two of these a solid wall had been built; it was covered with vestiges of ancient painting. Stone steps mounted up to this wall, making a platform on which there was a bench of carved wood.
“Let me be your guide,” said the duke. “This large wooden bench against the wall between the two columns is the ducal throne. The stuffs and cushions which cover it were brought from Tyre and Sidon by Enguerrand.”
“That is very beautiful,” Ethel interrupted, “but it is your heroines that interest me most—where are they in all this? Bertha the Horsewoman, where is she?”
“Here—this statue,” the duke replied. “As you see, there are three statues facing each other—first Bertha, then Thilda, the duchess who killed Sultan Murad at Kroja with her own hand, and then Rhodaïs the Slave. The fourth pedestal is still empty.”
“Was there a slave in your ancestry?” Ethel asked. “It is the name you apply to Rhodaïs.”
“She was the daughter of a simple voivode,” said the duke. “She accompanied to Venice the daughter of the King of Hungary, whose kingdom had partly fallen under the power of the Turks. But they were attacked by an Ottoman galley and every one was massacred except Rhodaïs. As she trampled the Crescent under foot they chained her to the rowers’ bench, from which she escaped only by a shipwreck. She came back to Morgania, had the duke buy a galley in Venice, chose a crew of hardy corsairs, and began a war without mercy against the Turks who infested the coast. She put herself at the service of Don Juan of Austria at the battle of Lepanto. My ancestor, Hugh XIII, made her his duchess, and Philip II of Spain, as a recompense of her valor, gave her the hereditary title, unknown till then, of Lady Knight of Malta.”
“That was a woman!” Ethel said. “With a duchess like Rhodaïs a people could not perish! But Morgana, the fairy, the saint, in whose honor the Hall was built—I do not see her?”
“On the contrary, she is everywhere. She lights up the Hall with her rays,” the duke replied. “This engraving does not give the entrance portal which overlooks city and sea and country. This portal was made at Enguerrand’s return. It is like the entrance to an enchanted palace; and by its magnificence and delicate ornamentation contrasts with the general severity of the Hall. As in Gothic churches this portal sets far back into the interior. An immense stained-glass window overlooks it; and from this light falls in floods through one of the sides of the vaulted roof, which was purposely suppressed.”
“I understand,” Ethel said. “Face to face with the ducal throne, your ancestress Morgana dominates everything!”