"Thou dost verily surround thyself with state, Caterina!" her brother exclaimed in a tone of stern displeasure, when she had indicated a chamber where they might be alone, and he had carefully assured himself that the quaint Eastern draperies concealed no guards—the while she watched him in amazement.
"It is better for thee that there be no listeners," he said, as he placed a seat before her and sat down, fixing her with his gaze.
"Hearken without speech until I have spoken." His tone was threatening.
She turned white and red, half starting up, but cowed by his manner, fell back into her seat again.
"Is this my brother," she asked, "or is it the Ambassador?"
"Nay; leave tragedy, Caterina; I am come to bring thee word of a great opportunity."
"For my people?—For Cyprus?" she responded with instant interest.
He laughed, a curious, unmirthful laugh.
"Aye—for 'thy people'—'for Cyprus,' verily. Listen! Thou hast it in thy power, at this moment, to bestow a gift upon the Republic—thou who art the Daughter of Venice—that shall make thee memorable throughout the ages."
She was taken unaware; yet suddenly the happenings of all the past years seemed to converge in her, as their central point, binding her hand and foot so that she might not free herself: an icy bolt shot through her: "I—I fail to understand," she answered faintly, for there was somewhat in his look that interpreted the meaning she would fain have missed.