Her heavy veil of mourning fell aside as she hastily rose and joined her attendants, disappearing in the crowd.
"Madama da Patras! Could it be Madama da Patras, mother to the King, kneeling on the pavement in the night!"
"Her heart is broken with grief, and she thought not to be seen, poor lady."
Two nobles were wending their way with difficulty across the Piazza, they lingered a moment, arrested by the words of the prayer.
"This night may make the difference between anarchy and peace for Cyprus," one of them said to his companion, as they resumed their struggle.
"Aye—Cyprus for the Cypriotes,—instead of Genoa, or Venice, or Naples."
"Or Queen Carlotta?"
But the challenge was unanswered. The noble who had dared to name aloud the daughter of their last Queen—the sister of their late King—had been lost in the darkness before the trusty guard, sent from Venice, could make sure of him.
"The fellow should be thrust through for his insolence. A Cyprian master is good enough for Cyprus," they confided to each other, as they made pause again, emerging from the crowd at the other end of the piazza, before the gate of the fortress.