When at early morning, the Chamberlain was summoned to the Queen's presence, the change in her beautiful face smote him to the heart: every line had been chiselled by pain—ennobled by a high resolve—by a strong new-born will, rendered selfless; and in her eyes a soul—tried by fire and suddenly grown to a great height—looked forth, luminous.
Instinctively, he dropped his eyes and fell upon his knees, as if in the presence of some heavenly spirit, his hot tears falling upon the fragile hand she held out to him, which he clasped, unconsciously, in both his own, with a grasp so like a vise that it would have smitten her with sharp pain had she been capable at that moment of any physical emotion.
"Beloved Cousin and Queen!" he cried, when he could find his voice, "we love and revere you; we would give our lives to help you!"
She made an effort to speak, but no words came; she could only bow her head to accept his homage, while his asseverations of loyalty and love and impotent help came crowding upon his first utterance—the immoderate outpouring of a deep, knightly soul, unused to confess itself—the barriers of reserve once overcome by the stinging sense of the irreparable wrong of which the revelation to this guileless, confiding girlish nature had suddenly wrenched every memory that once had been happiness, out of her young life—yet, in the very immensity of her anguish, had searched to the inmost truth of her woman's fibre and, in the fierce unfolding, had found it wholly noble.
As he knelt, still protesting, yet out of his great reverence, using no word to wound her—the more compassionate because he might not denounce the one who had wronged her—it was as if he were looking up to a beloved daughter, immeasurably above him, who yet had need of his knightly protection. He did not know that he was speaking—he did not know what passed—only that deep in his soul he prayed to comfort her.
Slowly, with expression, the hot passion melted into a softer mood; his grasp relaxed and she withdrew her hand, seamed and marred with red lines where he had unconsciously tortured it; yet in her misery she was grateful to be reached across the awful gulf of loneliness that separated her from the world by a sense that such loyalty yet remained to her.
She laid her hand lightly on his head, the fingers moving for a moment—half in caress—half in benediction, while he felt her almost imperceptible gesture dismissing this unusual audience where soul had faced soul on the brink of a great catastrophe; and he rose to meet the strange, luminous, unsmiling gaze of the great dark eyes which yesterday had been almost the eyes of a child.
She pointed to the loggia, where the morning breeze came freshly laden with the fragrance of myriad blossoms that were just opening to the gladness of the sunrise—a sunrise over the beautiful, fabled slopes of Cyprus—while shadows still lay on the flower-gemmed plains that stretched between them and the sea. Ah, yes, the cool, blue, restless sea stretched far between her island realm and the proud Venetian home from whence she had sailed a happy girl—one little year before—to meet her radiant visions of the future; and now, in all the splendor of the morning, for her the light of life had died forever on the hills of hope.
It was to this loggia that Janus had first led her when he brought her to this summer palace of Potamia, that she might see what a vision of beauty he had prepared for his bride—the far-reaching terraced gardens with their brilliancy of exotics, rivalling the plumage of the peacocks that proudly flaunted their jewelled eyes among them—the pergolas of precious marbles from which the vines flung out a wealth of bloom, luring the birds to a perpetual feast of song; and behind them, spreading up to the deep groves of varied greens upon the hillsides, the snow of countless blossoms lay whiter than the wings of the swans, floating at leisure in silver pools among the beds of color. It was here that Janus had spoken words she had dreamed eternally and sacredly her own: Mother of Consolation, she must remember them no more!
She had not thought of this when the sense of suffocation had impelled her to seek the air, to rush where it might blow over her and through her, lift her hair about her throbbing temples and help her to forget. Oh God—Omnipotent and Merciful—can one never forget!