And when the mother and the child were gone into the shadows of the Duomo, so thronged with noble guests and with all the splendid Hierarchy of Cyprus that there was scarce room for the royal procession to pass to the High-Altar beyond the tomb of Janus, the hearts of the people in the Piazza joined in the chorus of love and benediction of the choirs within, as, with new hints of devotion in their patient faces, they folded their own little ones closer with some vague, struggling, incomprehensible sense of aspiration—they were one with their Royal Lady and the Blessed Madonna, in the sacred mystery of Motherhood.
In the spacious apse the Hierarchy and the Royal Court were ranged for the ceremonial, and back of them a low three-arched opening at one side of the apse, supported on columns of polished porphyry clasped with grotesquely hammered copper, gave glimpses of palms waving in the great Court of the Tombs; gave glimpses also of the Monks of Troödos who had come hither with all their numbers, to witness the solemn services of the dedication of their infant king to his high trust.
And just within the portal, in strange contrast to the pomp of his surroundings, stood Hagios Johannes Lampadisti, "the Illumined"—a wild, stern figure, in his sombre robes—unchanged for any highest festival—with the symbol of solemn sacrifice on his breast, beyond all thought of admiration or of reproach for the splendor about him, his prophetic gaze fastened on the face of the Queen with imperious intensity—one hand slightly extended towards her, holding out his cross of thorns.
When the solemn rites were over and the Queen had received her child again from the arms of the Archbishop of Nikosia, Hagios Johannes, never moving his eyes from her face came forward with slow movements, and Caterina, with a sudden, uncontrollable impulse, lifting her eyes beheld the mystic gaze of Hagios Johannes and knelt down before the altar, straining her baby close to her breast.
"Dear Christ in Heaven!" she cried, in the dialect of the people. "I give him to Thee!—I give my All to Thee! He and I, we will live for Thee; and for this People of Cyprus!—so Thou and the Blessed Mother be our helpers."
The Queen's Councillors in their splendid robes of office, looked in amazement to see their Queen forget her state in such a presence, and outrage every precedent by crying out in the unlearned language of the people, before this stately company; and the face of the dignified Primate flamed with wrath at this unseemliness. But Caterina, noting nothing, turned to receive their homage for the infant King, for whom as by an inspiration, she had publicly offered these vows, from the depths of her heart.
As the procession moved out into the sunshine of the Piazza, she held the child up again to the eager, waiting throng—the light gleaming on the tiny coronet above his baby-cap as she spread out his dimpled hands with a motion of welcome, saying quite simply:
"This is your King. Love him, dear people of Cyprus!"
And she would not give the infant back to the Royal Governess, but carried him herself in her own arms across the Piazza, held up for the people to see—which never before had a queen of Cyprus been known to do. But there was a light in her face which silenced those who would have spoken of ways more seemly, and it was a triumphal procession to the palace. But she paused before the peristyle, turning to face the people again.
"There is welcome for every Cypriote," she said, "men, women and little children, who come this day to pay homage to their infant King; and good cheer in the palace for all," and signing to the attendants that they should be made to enter she passed in, smiling, before them.