Yet how had the Republic kept faith with Cyprus? Step by step, through the years, drawing the velvet clasp closer—closer—until there was scarce life left—smiling the while: gathering in the revenues of the rich land amply, with no care to spend them on the welfare of the island, or for its increase: slowly, strenuously, with deft insinuations of filial duty, striving to dominate the young Queen's moral judgments and press the claims which were of Venice's own creation—jealously watching lest she become too popular, and hampering her action through the very officers sent in guise of help—lest through freedom she should in truth grow strong to rule: Year by year—stealthily—smiling under a cloak of splendor which the Cyprians loved, Venice had grasped at power—a little more, and a little more—until resistance was impossible.
Was it meet to receive her thus? Could she find smiles for the people to-day with the memories of her bridal pageant greeting her at every turn—a woman despoiled of hope—a widowed wife—a childless mother—a queen without kingdom or power?
Before the Palazzo Corner Regina, the long procession came to pause, and with the ceremonies that were meet, Zorzi Cornaro, brother to Caterina, knelt down bareheaded before the Doge and was knighted for his prowess in persuasion—since without his eloquence it might well have been that the Queen of Cyprus would not have given that complete and absolute surrender which was so graciously announced to all the allies of Venice as "of the full and free determination of our most serene and most beloved daughter, Caterina Cornaro."
For the grace of Venice—when her smiling mood was on her, as for the fear of her life-crushing frown, men did her bidding without question, and never dared to fail.
But Venice still claimed a final act of gift and of submission, where the Venetian people might be her witnesses: and when the domes of San Marco flashed in the sunset light, the procession entered in solemn state—the Senate and Signoria and all the Ducal Court, in full attendance—and once more Caterina knelt before the altar and repeated her hard lesson, taught by that imperious ruler who knew how to hold the sea "in true and perpetual dominion," and who would not suffer 'his beloved daughter' to fail in one jot or tittle of her act of renunciation.
The homecoming of the Daughter of Venice was over.
Then, at last, came rest, and the sylvan-shades of Asolo—vine-crowned among the hills, with the sea spreading far below—blue, shimmering, laughing—as if she laved but shores of content, under happy skies.
Whatever of good there remained for Caterina to do in this petty domain which the munificence of the Signoria had bestowed in exchange for Cyprus, she did with a gracious and queenly hand, so that her realm was wider than her territory, for she had won the love of the people wherever she had passed, and in the years of her tried and chequered life, no evil was ever spoken of her. Yet often the gentle Queen slipped away from the modest festivities she had devised for the pleasure of her slender mimic court—the music tourneys—the recitations—the fanciful quibbles in words—which could have had for her great weariness of empty hands but a pale moonlight charm—to the lovely gardens of her hillside castle, to woo sad memories—and sweet as sad—of the far-off terraces of Potamia which Janus had prepared for his girl-bride.
Then once again Venice decreed a pageant for the gentle Lady of Asolo.