But Caterina struggled into quiet speech again, as in a confessional—sorely needing some comfort of human sympathy after her long, silent conflict.
"I thought it might have been the will of the Blessed Mother that I should rest; but Hagios Johannes hath shown me that it might not be; I have taken my vows again to serve my people—to live for them; the padre hath promised me that strength shall come."
Her lip quivered, but she bore herself bravely. "Thou wilt help me, Zia," she continued, in pathetic appeal, "and thou, my Margherita; for life is difficult. And Aluisi—he will think what must be done for the people until my strength returneth—for I have forgotten how to think." She pressed her hands tightly against her forehead as if to compel the resistant brain-power.
Then suddenly she laid her hot, trembling hand on that of her compassionate, motherly friend, her voice rising into a wail—"Father Johannes hath said that I must give the people all the love I gave my baby—but not yet—I cannot do it yet!—Mother of Sorrows forgive me!—he doth not know."
She fell back on her pillows exhausted by her emotion, while in a low, crooning voice the name she loved to utter broke from her longing lips again, like a threnody:
"Figlio dilettissimo!"
The Lady Beata's heart was wrung with pity.
"Nay, nay, Carinissima," she said, stooping over the couch and speaking with tender decision, "Hagios Johannes could not know what mothers feel! This holy love for thy little one shall bide ever with thee and grow with thy life. It is thy breath of Heaven! It shall nerve thee to do the work of thy child—to live for the people he would have ruled. Him thou shalt love forever—it is the will of the Madre Beatissima:—but after thy child shall come his people."
A change passed over the strained, worn face of the young Queen, like a faint breath of comfort.
"Zia mia," she murmured, laying her thin white hand in the warm, restful clasp: and so passed into the first quiet sleep that she had known for days.