The child lay in his cradle in the splendid Sala Regia, under the canopy blazoned with the arms of Cyprus—a little, helpless, smiling child—guarded by the Councillors and Counts of the kingdom; and near him stood the Queen with all her court, who for this day only had put off their mourning that no suggestion of gloom nor any hint of evil omen might shadow the royal baptismal and coronation fêtes. The ladies were dazzling in gems and heirlooms of broideries and brocades; the knights and barons of the realm were glittering with orders—here and there, above his costly armor, one showed the red cross of the Crusade, or wore the emblem of the Knights of San Giovanni. But the people, who never before had entered those palace doors, came surging—not afraid—nor shrinking from the novelty and splendor nor curious for it; they came to pledge their fealty to the baby-prince—a little child like their own—whose gentle mother asked their love—than which no monarch may bring a gift more royal.
XVIII
"Is there aught to fear, Aluisi?—Thou seemest overgrave," the Lady Beata asked anxiously as her son came late, one evening into her private boudoir in their suite in the palace; he looked unusually weary and depressed.
"There is always much to fear," he answered, with no brightening of his anxious face in response to his mother's smile.
"But not now—surely not now! She hath won the heart of the people—these fêtes were a triumph—they almost gladdened her. And now, poor child, she hath the little one to bring her comfort."
"Aye, Madre mia; she hath perchance won the love of the simple folk; but it is a powerless love."
"Aluisi!—thou art not like thyself to scorn it."