"There is no Queen Carlotta!" a chorus of indignant young voices answered her. "If the Lady of the Bernardini were here——"
"Aye—but she is not." Ecciva returned placidly: "The Madonna be praised for a moment's liberty to utter one's thought! She and the Dama Margherita who knoweth more surely to tie one's honest speech than even the great Lady of the Bernardini, are gone to the Sala Regia to represent Her Majesty and receive the splendid gifts which His Excellency the Ambassador hath brought from Alexandria. And this am I sent to tell you, by the Lady of the Bernardini—who is a gracious tyrant and would save a bit of pleasure for our childish souls out of the dulness of the days. And when we hear the champing of horses in the great court of the palace—but there is already a tumult below—fly then!"
She had dashed out under the arcades and was leaning between the columns, making her quick eager comments to the bevy of maidens who had followed her, as the little train of slaves bearing the royal gifts passed through the court-yard of the palace.
"A regal mantle of cloth of gold, with its gleam of jewels for her lorn Majesty—who will never again wear aught but trappings of woe, if she might have her will—it is a waste of treasure!"
"For shame, Ecciva!"
"Nay; for we are only we—not the Dama Margherita; nor the Lady of the Bernardini.—Will the mourning bring back the child?—One may weep one's life away in vain."
"Thou hast no heart, Ecciva: how should we not grieve with her!"
"So it pleaseth one to grieve, I am well content. But the way of weeping is strange to me. Methinks it would be kinder to cheer her soul with some revelry—or a race on that splendid Arab steed, stepping so daintily, with its great dark eyes and quivering nostrils, where the red color comes! The Sultan himself hath chosen this beauty for Her Majesty—she who perchance will never mount him, scorning to do aught that would make the blood flow warmer through the veins;—going daily to San Nicolò with her taper and knowing naught of pleasure in life; unless it verily pleaseth her to grieve! What availeth it to her that she is Queen!"
"What availeth it to her to win the love of the people as none hath ever done before!" Eloisà cried hotly, moved from her timidity by her indignation. "That wilt thou never know, Ecciva, who dost so belie thy heart with thy unkind speech. But verily"—she pursued, relenting—"thou art far gentler than thy speech—not untrue, as thou wouldst have us believe!"
"What is 'untrue'?" Dama Ecciva asked, undisturbed. "How may one know? Shall one ask Carlotta?—Or Queen Caterina? Or—if he might but answer us now—the charming Janus?—My brain is too little to unravel the mystery."