“Yes,” continued the duke; “at eventide the setting sun enters the interior of the Hall through this window, which represents the glorious martyrdom of Morgana. You would say that her blood threw crimson stains upon the throne itself and the glow of her miracle lighted up the whole hall.”
“What about the fresco which has left traces on the wall behind the throne? Was it, too, of some warlike deed?” Ethel asked.
“No; this one represented the legend of Morgana rising from the sea and bringing in her arms what should be the fortune of Morgania. What was it she was bringing in her arms? I know not. Morgana, it appears, was represented in the fresco issuing from the sea, and covered with seaweed.”
“Just as in the picture of Monsieur Phil,” remarked Ethel.
“Exactly so,” said the duke. “It was the moment I chose; and your fellow-countryman has reconstructed it. In my next trip to Morgania Monsieur Phil is to come to the castle and finish his picture on the spot. Before then I shall have time to search through the archives, and perhaps I shall find what it was Morgana was bringing in her arms.”
Thereupon Miss Rowrer and grandma went away. The duke remained alone. He retired to his study—a den plastered with sporting photographs—and sinking on a sofa lighted a cigarette and began dreaming as he followed the light smoke with his eye.
“Morgana—she who was to come forth from the sea bringing fortune and happiness in her arms—is it not Miss Rowrer landing in her yacht before the castle? She, too, comes from the setting sun. She, too, brings fortune. She, too, would be adored by the people. What a strange coincidence! The old sorceress is not so crazy after all,” the duke said to himself, “and there is nothing impossible in it! Whatever may be the personal qualities and fabulous fortune of Miss Rowrer, a Duke Tagliaferro is her equal. Through me she would be Duchess of Morgania, Protectress of the Skipetars, Lady Knight of Malta, Princess of Kroja, Queen of Antioch in the Holy Land, allied to the court of Prussia, and cousin of the Hapsburgs. There is not an older nor a nobler house in Europe.”
It made the duke’s head swim only to think of it. He was a descendant of Hugh, the Frankish chief to whom Theodosius had given one of his twelve duchies of the West, and since that time nothing—not even Attila’s torrent, nor the Turks, nor Charles the V, nor so many famines, nor so many wars—nothing had ever struck the sword from the hands of his ancestors—nothing save the anger of the people against Duke Adhemar, who was driven from the throne because he had delivered up Morgana!
I will maintain by the sword! This proud device had never proved false, as the old iron-bound archives could witness. The duke felt weary—weary with all the weariness and old with all the age of all his ancestors; and his fingers had scarcely the strength to knock the ashes from his cigarette.
What a youth his inheritance of glory had won for him! How he had envied in other days the little peasants who ran barefoot along the beach, whereas he, brought up by sad-faced priests in the old feudal castle, was less free than a slave. Then came his marriage, which had been settled for him for reasons of state, and the death of his father, which gave him the administration of the duchy—an ungrateful task. No! He had not lived! Enough of the gloomy palace and rude peasants! He wished to live and to be amused—to be young for once in his life. He would know happiness, at least!