There was then a long lapse of years. John Palaeologus succeeded Manuel on the throne, and was in turn succeeded by Constantine, the last of the Byzantine monarchs.
Constantine signalized his advent, the great Greek event of 1448, by numerous acts of clemency, for he was a just man. He opened many prison doors long hopelessly shut. He conferred honors and rewards that had been remorselessly erased from account. He condoned offences against his predecessors, mercifully holding them wanting in evil against himself. So it came to pass that Manuel, the hero of the sea fight off Plati, attained a second release, or, in better speech, a second resurrection. He had been all the years practically buried in certain cells of the convent of St. Irene on the island of Prinkipo, and now he came forth an old man, blind and too enfeebled to walk. Borne into private audience, he was regarded by Constantine with tender sympathy.
"And thou art that Manuel who made the good fight at Plati?"
"Say rather I am he who was that Manuel," the ancient replied. "Death despises me now because he could not call my decease a victory."
The inquisitor, visibly affected, next spoke in an uncertain voice.
"Is what I have heard true, that at thy going into the Monastery thou hadst a family?"
The eyes of the unfortunate were not too far gone for tears; some rolled down his cheeks; others apparently dropped into his throat.
"I had a wife and three children. It is creditable to the feeling called love that they chose to share my fate. One only survives, and"—he paused as if feebly aware of the incoherency—"and she was born a prisoner."
"Born a prisoner!" exclaimed Constantine. "Where is she now?"
"She ought to be here."