THE SWORD DECIDES

CHAPTER ONE. THE LETTER

The hard, perfect turquoise of the summer sky was fading into the glowing purple of evening and the first stars glittered golden above the vast calm of the Adriatic Sea; silver olives were changing into gray, and the white foam of wild cherry trees was slowly dimmed by the encroaching dusk; a few late swallows were abroad, and over the grass and flowers of the meadows faint butterflies chased each other.

There, under the shade of the chestnut trees, within close distance of the coast, were a number of tents, men, horses and baggage; a small but splendid encampment.

It was the night of June 3, 1343, and this the train of Andreas of Hungary, on his way to Naples to join his unseen wife, Giovanna, granddaughter of the King.

They had been traveling many days, and now, near the end of their journey and among surroundings more beautiful than any their sterner land could show, were taking their ease here on the shores of the Adriatic.

The Hungarians walked under the trees in couples and whispered together; a little overawed by the magnificence of these meadows and the wonder of the sea, and the Italians, their guides and escorts, lounged along the grass, laughing, jesting, and cursing the increasing heat.

As the night closed in, and the scattered groups became lost in the gathering shadows, a man made his way through the confusion of the camp to the tent lying in the center, above which the royal banner of Hungary fluttered lazily in the Italian night.

A soldier kept guard at the entrance, but he saluted and moved aside, for the newcomer was Konrad of Gottif, and the Prince’s dearest friend.

Brusquely and without ceremony, Konrad lifted the tent flap and entered; a couple of pages were polishing a huge gilt and steel helmet, and a white hound slept beside them; beyond this heavy curtains concealed the rest.

“Is the Prince within?” demanded Konrad; he was a large, rough man, and his voice deep and uncouth.

The pages sprang up, between them dropping the helmet, which rolled glittering to Konrad’s feet.

“Ah, careless fools!” he scowled, and pushing past them, without waiting for their speech, he raised the curtain at one corner; he stood silent a moment, staring at the scene within.

The tent was hung with tapestry of a peacock-green gold, and from the center of the roof a bronze lamp was suspended by a heavy chain; this gave a dull yellow light, and showed coffers, rugs, armor, and weapons piled against the sides; it showed also a young man lying along a low couch covered with lynx and bear skins, resting his head in his hands and gazing at a girl who sat in the center of the silk rug that was spread over the floor.

He was not above twenty, and of a large, powerful make; his regular features wore an expression cold and haughty, his smooth, heavy, fair hair was cut straight above his hard blue eyes and hung on to his purple velvet coat behind; on his head was a gold net cap that bore in front a great tuft of the breast plumage and two trailing tail feathers of the golden eagle.

His huge limbs, stretched along the bear skins, were clothed in hose of a parti-colored, dull pink and white; a cluster of wild roses was pinned into the embroidery at his breast, and the hands that showed above the sumptuous fantasy of his sleeves were singularly well-shaped and white.

The girl sitting doubled up under the lamp was slight and slender as a child; she wore the faded clothes of the peasantry of the Marches, and by her side was a great basket of oranges and lemons, many of which had rolled across the floor.

Konrad dropped the curtain behind him and advanced into the tent; Andreas of Hungary looked up and the golden plumage on his brow shimmered as he raised his head.

“Good even, Prince,” said Konrad, with a scowl at the girl. “I have to speak with you——”

Andreas slowly sat up on the couch.

“On what matter?” he said, and there was a shade of annoyance in his cold eyes. “Hippolyta—” he looked in the direction of the girl indifferently, “is helping me to better my Italian—and telling me of Naples—and of Giovanna.”

“I also,” answered Konrad, “have to speak of Naples—and of Giovanna.”

He pronounced the last word with so much quiet meaning that Andreas looked at him curiously; Hippolyta, the peasant girl, sat motionless and smiled from one to the other.

“Of Giovanna, my wife?” asked Andreas slowly.

Konrad crossed the tent and flung himself on to a carved chest at the far end.

“Send the girl away,” he said briefly, with his eyes on the floor.

Andreas frowned, and hesitated, looked from the man to the maid and said at length:

“Get thee gone, Hippolyta.”

She rose instantly, emptied the fruit on to the floor, and picked up the basket.

“Come to-morrow,” said Andreas sullenly. “And I will pay thee.”

She looked at him and laughed, flinging back the black hair from her eyes; then she came lightly to his couch and kissed his hand; he moved heavily and watched her erect figure disappear through the dark curtains, then he glanced at Konrad with a slow impatience.

“You could have spoken before the little fruit-seller,” he said in his curious unanimated way. “She amuses me.”

Konrad looked the Prince straight in the eyes. “And I have not come to amuse you, Andreas.”

The Prince stared sullenly.

“You have something to say of Giovanna?”

“Yes,” said Konrad earnestly. “But, first, because I am so much older, and your friend, and your brother’s friend, I will be plain and honest with you—this marriage of yours is pure policy—is it not?”

“What else? I have not seen my wife,” answered Andreas heavily.

“And it is not Giovanna you desire, but the throne of Naples?”

The Prince’s eyes flashed a little.

“By Christ, I am the nearer heir,” he said, and clenched his hand beside him. “I am of the elder branch, and she, my cousin and my wife, is but the grandchild of a usurper—you know this, Konrad?”

“And the King, her grandfather, knows it—and as some atonement for his stolen throne, he brings about this match—to give you back your right and heal the rift and bring all differences within the circle of a wedding ring——”

“Yes,” answered Andreas slowly.

“The King,” said Konrad, impatiently, “is crazy with age—to think to reconcile himself with Heaven in this manner——”

Andreas moved on his couch.

“Why?” he demanded. “He, King Roberto, is dying, they said, and the sole heir he leaves, this Giovanna—well, she is a child and my wife—I shall be King of Naples and Sicily—Jerusalem and Provence.”

Konrad looked at him curiously.

“And she?”

Andreas raised his blue-gray eyes haughtily.

“The woman, Giovanna?”

“Yes,” said Konrad briefly.

“Why, if I care for her, she can be my Queen—if I dislike her, I shall send her to Hungary or into a convent and rule alone.” He glanced at his friend under lowering brows. “She will do well to please me; I do not love my uncle’s race.”

“And you think she would take that meekly, Prince?”

“She is a woman,” he answered scornfully. “What should she oppose to me?”

Konrad straightened himself on his seat.

“By Christ, Prince, take care,” he said. “For you walk into that you do not dream of—” he drew a thick folded letter from his pocket—“I intercepted this package—it was being taken by a peasant to Giovanna at Naples—it is sent by this San Severino who is escorting you to Naples—it shows how much you may trust the Italian witch.”

Andreas stared at him with the bewilderment of a slow-witted man struggling to comprehend something unexpected and sudden.

“A letter to Giovanna?” he said frowning.

“From San Severino—evidently her spy—Andreas, listen.” Konrad unfolded the letter.

“Her spy?” echoed Andreas.

Konrad nodded laconically.

“It is inscribed to Madonna Giovanna, Duchess of Calabria, at the Castel Nuovo, Naples, and it is dated to-day.”

Andreas drew his scowling brows yet closer together.

“Well, read it,” he said heavily.

Konrad of Gottif spread the letter out in the red lamplight and commenced:

Madonna: As the Prince will enter Naples so soon, this is the end of the letters I shall write you. I have told you all I could gather of the Prince, and my first verdict needs no amending; he is rough, rude, cold and brutal; he may, I think, give trouble. For all the pains that have been taken to educate him befitting his destiny, teaching him the Italian and the polite arts, he remains uncouth and sullen, and though you dislike him upon report, you will dislike him more upon acquaintance. Believe me, Madonna, far from being fit to be your lord and the sharer of your throne, he is hardly worthy to be your lackey.…

A fierce exclamation from Andreas interrupted the reader.

“Hear the rest,” said Konrad grimly, and he continued:

In your last letter you say that you already dislike and despise him—but, Madonna, you should fear him also; he comes with full intent to seize your throne; both he and his Hungarians boast of his greater right and make much of the fact that he is of the elder branch, and that his grandfather was the just heir to the throne your grandfather holds; King Roberto’s act in bringing about this marriage has in no way pacified him, he intends to make himself sole and undisputed master of Sicily and Naples; this, Madonna, is the temper of the Prince, and he is supported and upheld by his brother, the King of Hungary; you ask me how the matter lies with regard to King Roberto’s wishes as to your sister Maria’s marriage with this King. I think neither the King nor his subjects are desirous of it, though he pretends to consider it.

Madonna, as last words, I can but say that Andreas, your husband, comes to rob you of your rights, that on the death of the King, he and his faction will hasten to make themselves supreme in the kingdom and consign you to obscurity or the convent. But, Madonna, you have what he can never gain; the love of the people, so be of good cheer, having faith in Raymond de Cabane, and

Your servant, Octavio San Severino.

Konrad dropped the paper and gazed at the Prince. “What do you make of that?” he asked in a low voice.

Andreas sat motionless; his face was flushed, the veins in his forehead swollen; his eyes fixed on the letter in Konrad’s hand; he grasped tightly the bearskin on the couch.

“Will you go?” said Konrad earnestly. “Will you—not—even now—turn back to Hungary?”

“Turn back?” repeated the Prince, and under his scowling brows his eyes burned fiercely.

“Yes—turn back—you walk into a trap—you see the nature of this woman and the temper of her friends.”

Andreas tossed the golden plumes on his brow.

“Do you think that I am afraid of these Italians? I?”

Konrad straightened himself on his seat.

“I think, Andreas,” he said earnestly, “that you will be a fool if you go to Naples.”

Andreas was silent; there was nothing to be gathered from his sullen face.

“You have with you three hundred men,” continued Konrad. “You will be a foreigner—Giovanna is in her own land—every man will be against you; when the King dies you will stand alone—you will sink to the position of her subject——”

“Silence!” cried Andreas suddenly. “I am going to Naples.”

Konrad rose.

“Then you go to play a game where the odds are so against you that you can never win.”

The Prince’s breast heaved; the color darkened in his face.

“No Neapolitan witch shall keep me from my kingdom,” he said thickly.

“She has the country behind her,” said Konrad.

Andreas of Hungary rose from his couch, showing the splendid make and strength of his great figure; he began pacing the room with something of the slow, heavy movements of the tiger; his head hung forward on his breast and the lamplight caused his hair to glisten like threads of gold.

Thunderously, under his breath, he began venting his wrath.

“By God’s Heaven!” his chest heaved with rage; his words came unsteadily—“By Christ, they write so of me—she sets her spies on me—she of the usurper’s brood—but I will win my crown in spite of her—she—a sly Italian wench—” He stopped suddenly before Konrad. “Who is Raymond de Cabane?”

“Plainly your enemy,” was the grim answer. “More I do not know.”

“I will sweep him from Naples—I will clear the land of them,” he lifted his hard, angry eyes. “I will be the King and she shall know it.”

He paused a moment, struggling with slow utterance, then he flung himself along the couch again. “Where is San Severino?” he demanded.

“Somewhere in the camp, Prince.”

Andreas drew his dagger and laid it along the bear skin.

“Send him to me,” he said briefly.

Konrad eyed him curiously and made no movement to obey.

“To what purpose?” he asked.

“To prove I am the master,” answered Andreas heavily. “Send him to me.”

“Andreas,” said Konrad. “Ye are violent and headstrong. Think a moment before you see this man now.”

Andreas swore heavily.

“Am I your prince? Are you not bound to obey me?” he raised himself, thundering wrath. “Send this Italian to me—and bring my guards up without my tent.”

Konrad lifted his shoulders.

“You are resolved?” he asked, and his eyes dwelt with a curious half-tenderness on the splendid youth.

“On what?” said Andreas fiercely.

“Oh, going on to Naples—to what awaits you.”

The Prince glanced at his dagger lying beside him. “If it were Hell’s mouth,” he answered sullenly.

Konrad folded the letter and put it in his doublet. “To each his fate,” he said, and lifted his shoulders.

“Send me San Severino!” cried Andreas violently, “or by God’s Heaven, Konrad, I will go and find him.”

“You are master,” was the answer. “But remember afterwards I told you it was folly.”

And the Lord of Gottif left the tent.

When he was alone, the Prince shouted for his pages, then flung himself along the couch again, with his head in his hands and his blue eyes staring at the bare dagger lying between his elbows.

Lying so, he ordered the pages to bring more lights and clear away the lemons and oranges strewn over the floor.

“And bring me my sword,” he commanded fiercely, “and put it behind that coffer—and wait without, not entering, whatever happens—until I call.”

They had lit two other swinging lamps, and the tent was bright with light; they brought the Prince’s sword and laid it carefully behind the coffer; between them they could barely carry it, so massive and heavy a weapon it was. Andreas watched them moodily and, when they had gone he stared at a golden orange left on the gorgeous carpet, and frowned.

Octavio San Severino, entering with a light step and observant eyes, found him so, and paused with his hand on the arras.

“Good even, Prince,” he said.

Andreas turned a slow glance on him; saw him quite alert, a blaze of blue satin and silver, and was silent.

San Severino marked everything—the naked dagger on the bearskin; the sullen flushed face of the boy lounging on the couch, the expression of the clear blue-gray eyes staring at him furiously.

He smiled and shifted his girdle carelessly so that his dagger lay nearer his thin fingers.

“How do you like our Italian nights?” he said.

“Sit down,” answered Andreas heavily.

Octavio San Severino obeyed; he sank into a carved chair under a lamp and the light ran in and out of his blue clothes like a golden liquid; both his teeth and his eyes gleamed overmuch, and he had the air of keeping a constant watch upon himself.

Andreas of Hungary fondled the bare weapon before him; he took his gaze from the man to whom he spoke. “I want to ask you of my wife, San Severino,” he said awkwardly.

San Severino laughed, and at the sound of it the young Prince sat upright on his couch and the eagle plumes danced angrily.

“By God’s Heaven, why do you laugh, San Severino?” he cried thickly.

The Italian was sober in an instant.

“For pure idleness,” he said. “Now what shall I tell you of Giovanna d’Anjou?”

Andreas was still staring at him intently, angrily. “Tell me with what thought she waits me,” he demanded.

San Severino made the slightest movement of his hand on the arm of his chair and his eyes narrowed.

“Why, how should I know?” he said. “How I, Prince?”

Andreas leaned slightly forward. “Tell me what her welcome will be to me in Naples?”

San Severino answered easily:

“What should her welcome be to her cousin and her lord?”

“So she is meek and tender?” sneered Andreas. The other man looked at him straightly.

“She is very beautiful and Italian—she is of royal blood—she does not lack for pride,” for a second his voice was touched with scorn, “she is well loved in Naples.”

A tense silence fell. San Severino was sitting on the alert for all his easy appearance. The Prince appeared to have sunk into a moody self-absorption, then suddenly he spoke:

“Who is Raymond de Cabane?”

Again the Italian’s hand tightened on his chair, for he knew now that Andreas had seen his letter. Very quietly he answered:

“The Conte d’Eboli—the Captain of the King’s Guard in Naples.”

“And what else?” demanded Andreas.

“A favorite of the old King—a powerful man.”

“A noble—of a fine family?” questioned the Prince.

San Severino laughed again.

“His father was a negro slave,” he said, “who rose to Major Domo to the King, and his mother was a Catanian washerwoman who nursed Madonna Giovanna’s father.”

Andreas scowled. “And is such scum among her friends?” he cried.

San Severino rose.

“Who told you that much?” he asked quietly.

“You!” flung out Andreas. “By God’s Heaven—you!”

There was no change in San Severino’s face. “You have seen my letter,” he said. “Well, it told you the truth——”

Andreas rose heavily to his feet and picked up the dagger from the bearskin.

“We are too near Naples, my lord,” cried the Italian, quick and scornful. “This should have been in Austria.”

“You insolent spy,” muttered the Prince, and his chest heaved with passion.

San Severino smoothed his glittering blue sleeve. “You are not in your brother’s kingdom,” he remarked. “So take care, Prince.”

“I’m master here,” said Andreas passionately. “Master enough to have you hanged——”

San Severino lifted his dark brows.

“This is boy’s talk,” he mocked, “all your Hungarian boors would not dare to touch me, and you are foolish, Prince, to insult me—in Naples you may be glad of a friend.”

Andreas reddened furiously.

“Hound, I shall be King in Naples.”

San Severino looked at him gently. “I do not think so; if you were wise you would not go to Naples.”

The Prince clutched his dagger until it seemed that he must break it in his grip.

“Why do you dare say that to me?” he cried.

San Severino moved slowly toward the entry. There he turned and looked at the magnificent, furious figure by the couch. “Because of Giovanna,” he said. Then, as he despised this barbarous foreigner and held himself safe under the protection of Naples, and as he was by nature, malicious, he added: “And because of Raymond de Cabane——”

In his ponderous way Andreas came a little nearer, a splendid figure in the purple color with the golden hair and golden plumes.

“Why do you use that name to me?” he asked, and he spoke with more dignity than the Italian had yet seen him use.

“Because you will do well to beware of him,” smiled San Severino, amused at this boy fumbling in his ignorance.

The Prince flung away his dagger and folded his arms over his great chest. The Italian felt easier, though the blue satin concealed armor.

“Tell me,” said Andreas slowly, “more of this man.”

“You will soon know,” laughed San Severino. “By Christ, I am sorry for you, Prince.”

Andreas looked at him out of narrowed eyes. “Tell me,” he said, “of this man.” His self-control was small; he struggled painfully and obviously with surging fury; his breath came in short pants, his face flushed and paled. To San Severino, who knew of no passion he could not control, this was amusing. He emphasized his mockery.

“Raymond de Cabane is a great man—a very great man. He will most likely marry the Queen’s sister, Madonna Maria.”

Andreas of Hungary became red in the face, and his eyes were extraordinarily bewildered.

“Maria?” he asked clumsily, “why do you insult me—my cousin to wed a negro’s son——”

“If he is useful to Madonna Giovanna,” said San Severino quietly. “If this is the reward he asks for—all perhaps he cares to ask for—why not?”

“She is my brother’s betrothed!” cried Andreas, flushing and panting. “Do you make a mock of me—do you wish to goad me?”

“Prince, neither—therefore I will suffer the Conte d’Eboli to speak for himself.”

Andreas was striding about with clenched fists.

“By God’s Heaven, you had better leave me,” he broke off, muttering under his breath.

San Severino smiled, lifted his shoulders and noiselessly slipped out of the tent.

The Prince, sore and stung, came to the entrance, caught back the arras with an angry hand, and gazed after him.

And without to the starlit Adriatic the soldiers toasted:

“Giovanna! Giovanna of Naples!”

CHAPTER TWO. HIPPOLYTA’S AMULET

Andreas of Hungary stared on the floor. In a vague manner his untaught mind felt the tragedy and pity of it all. He was not given to reflection, and his short life had taught him neither philosophy nor worldly wisdom, but he had a fierce sense of being entrapped, enmeshed by circumstances. He felt the world mocking at him, and a great bitterness arose in his soul.

He told himself that he loathed the Italians and hated Italy. He thought of Hungary and his adored brother with wild longing, yet at the same time he clenched his hands and swore thickly that he would not turn back, he would be King in Naples yet. Rightfully it was his heritage, as his brother, succeeding to the crown of Hungary through his mother, had forfeited his claim. On that point Andreas was fixed and stubborn. He was King, even now, of Naples, Sicily, and Jerusalem; not this Italian girl. He cursed King Roberto for his schemes of atonement. He cursed this dishonoring alliance. He wished he might have come to his kingdom by the sword, not by this loathsome marriage.

“Go back.” His friend and his enemy had said that, both with a note of warning. “Go back.”

For a moment he contemplated it. Why should he remain to be mocked, insulted by such as San Severino and his mistress?

Yet he was the King, before God the King. He had set out to take possession of his throne, and he would not return beaten to Hungary—no, not if all Naples stood against him.

He swore it passionately, finding a rough comfort in the resolve. The old King was still living, the power was not yet in the woman’s hands. He would go to Naples and claim his rights, flouting her and her minions.

Angrily he rose to his feet and went moodily back to the other part of the tent with his great head hanging.

Back to her old place crept Hippolyta, the peasant girl. She was laughing and throwing the solitary orange up in the air and catching it in nimble brown hands.

“I have been singing to your soldiers,” she said. “And now I must go home, but I came first for my money, as I cannot be here to-morrow.”

Andreas sank on to the couch. She laughed and threw up the orange until it struck against the lamp, and sent it quivering on its chain.

Andreas looked at her awkwardly and pushed the thick fair hair off his forehead.

“What is Raymond de Cabane like?” he demanded abruptly. “You have seen him?”

“Oh, yes! In processions in Naples. He is the Captain of the Guard, so he always rides with the two princesses. He is a large man and always finely dressed.”

He longed to ask her something of Giovanna and what the people said of her, but shame tied his tongue, so he stared in a troubled manner on the floor.

Outside some of his Hungarians were playing a wild native melody, and the low music floating in from the night filled the tent.

“It is very sad,” said Hippolyta, listening, and she sighed, and her head dropped on her bosom.

Andreas rose like a goaded man and paced to and fro, the eagle feathers fluttering on his brow. Thoughts of home and of a future wild and stormy rose with the music to disturb him. He struggled with tears and loneliness, curses and exceeding bitterness.

Hippolyta, the peasant, rose also, forgotten by him, and standing erect in her faded brown clothes, listened to the Hungarian melody.

“It is terrible,” she said under her breath, and put her hand over her heart.

The Prince walked to and fro, unheeding, and his jewels flashed somberly.

Presently, as the music faded into a pause, he sank into the chair under the lamp and put his hand over his eyes.

Hippolyta, very pale, with all the laughter gone from her, crossed to him and stood a little away from the chair, looking at him intently. The music rose into a wild dance measure. She threw herself on her knees before Andreas and caught his beautiful hand.

He glanced at her with bewildered blue-gray eyes.

“Do not go to Naples,” she said under her breath.

He started, and the color left his face.

“Why do you say that?” he asked fearfully.

“I do not know,” she gazed at him earnestly. “I heard it in the music—it is terrible—do not go to Naples!”

Andreas broke from her and shouted for his page.

“Curse the music!” he cried. “Why will they play to-night?”

No one came in answer, but Hippolyta, cowering by the chair, repeated: “Do not go to Naples.”

Andreas of Hungary laughed in a wild, unhappy way.

“Some one—Henryk—Konrad—told you to say that to me.”

The girl rose, trembling.

“By Christ, they did not—by Christ, I know not why I spoke—it came to me to say it—when I heard the music and looked at you. I grew full of horror and I heard those words——”

Andreas lifted his hand.

“Do not repeat them,” he said, suddenly gloomy again. “I am going to Naples—God’s Heaven! am I a coward? And what should I fear in Naples?”

Hippolyta glanced at him curiously.

“This Raymond de Cabane,” she began timidly, “will not be your friend——”

He swung round on her fiercely and thundered out:

“God’s name—why?” so passionately that she shrank before him.

“Because he holds the power you come to take,” she murmured.

“Oh, get you gone,” cried Andreas, still angry. “When I am in Naples I will manage this man—yea, and all of them—get you gone.”

She fell to silence. He stared at her and his eyes grew troubled.

“You are a good wench,” he said awkwardly. “Call the page and I will give you your money.”

“Prince,” she answered, “you do not know what they are in Naples—Christ! what they are!”

He turned away from her.

“What do you know of them?” he asked.

“My brother is a soldier at the palace. Sometimes I go there—” She broke off. “But you are a strong man and you have your Hungarians.”

“I shall rule Naples,” said Andreas grandly. “I shall be King.”

The peasant girl looked at him with admiration. “Will you?” she whispered.

“Yes,” answered the Prince vehemently. “I shall be King when Robert dies.”

Hippolyta looked troubled and dissatisfied. She knew something of Giovanna, Duchess of Calabria, even though it was by vague report. She knew something, too, of Raymond de Cabane and the fierce court the old saintly King kept in check, and she gazed wistfully at Andreas of Hungary, who was the most splendid thing she had ever seen, not excepting the blazing Raymond, or Giovanna’s magnificent cousin, Carlo di Durazzo.

“I wish you would not go to Naples,” she repeated simply and earnestly.

Andreas was sullen again. He paced about heavily and would not answer.

Hippolyta, watching him timidly, was startled by the entrance of one of the pages.

He knelt to the Prince, and handed him a little roll of parchment. A runner from Naples, he said, had brought it with orders that it was to be given secretly to Andreas.

The Prince took it quietly.

“Give the girl a gold piece,” said Andreas. And as the boy left the tent he broke the seal of the parchment.

It was inscribed with but one line. He stared at it a moment, then with a shaking hand crumpled it up.

“What news from Naples?” asked Hippolyta, eagerly watching him.

He gave her a strange look.

“Go back to your home, girl,” he said a little wildly. “It is late.”

He took the money the page brought him and gave it her. In silence she knotted it into the end of her kerchief; in silence and timidly she made toward the entry.

Andreas roused himself from his absorption. “Good night, Hippolyta.”

She turned and saw him standing lonely in his splendor, with the flickering light over his brooding face, and she gave a quick sound.

“Prince,” she hesitated a second, then drew from her bosom a little cross of ashwood, hanging on a gold ribbon—“this is an amulet—my grandmother made it—it is a good amulet—will you wear it—in Naples?”

She held it out to him, and her brows met in an eager frown.

“Neither poison nor sword can touch you if you wear this,” she said. “There were two. My brother lost his and wanted this, but my grandmother gave it me for my sweetheart when I have one—and as I have no sweetheart, I’ll give it to you, Prince.”

“Think you that I am in danger from sword or poison?” asked Andreas.

She turned her head away.

“Oh, take it, Prince.”

Their hands touched as he took it from her palm. He thanked her gravely and hung the gold ribbon round his neck.

“Wear it always,” murmured Hippolyta, “and the Saints guard you in Naples.”

Without looking round at him, she was gone, and the arras had fallen into place behind her. Presently, still with the parchment in his hand, Andreas went to the entrance of his tent and looked out again upon the night.

Moonlight and torchlight mingled showed the white blossoms of the chestnut among their great leaves and the gorgeous tents against the background of the sea.

Close by a little group of men, Italians, lay along the grass, their bright dresses appeared curiously dim, color behind the veil of the moonlight. One was singing. Andreas in the shadow of his tent, listened, and between the song was always the low murmur of the Adriatic.

Through the pearl-hued meadow came the ragged gold of torchlight; a party of horsemen were approaching from the further tents. The singer continued softly, and the ivory neck of his lute gleamed as it fell from his fingers beside him.

The singer broke off abruptly. The horsemen were passing the little group under the chestnuts, and the Italians lazily stared after them and lazily laughed.

The newcomers were Hungarians. They swept up to the Prince’s tent with a clink of the harness of man and horse. Henryk of Belgrade, who led them, pulled off his velvet cap at the sight of Andreas. “How long is this to last, Prince?” he asked, drawing up his massive horse. “We have been three days resting in these meadows.”

The torchlight showed them Andreas from head to foot. He raised his eyes.

“March for Naples when you please, Henryk of Belgrade,” he said sullenly.

“I have your permission, Prince? It would be wiser—they say the old King is dying.”

Andreas of Hungary glanced down the line of his countrymen, and his eyes flashed under his frowning brows, his young breast heaved as he answered: “To Naples, by God’s Heaven, with the dawn to Naples!”

With glittering, mailed hands raised in salute, filling the blue night with light and motion, the Hungarians galloped away across the meadow.

And the Prince smoothed out the crumpled parchment and stared at it again in the moonlight.

It bore these words:

Do not come to Naples.

Maria d’Anjou.

CHAPTER THREE. THE ENTRY INTO NAPLES

The midday sun burned in the blazing white streets of splendid Naples, and on the air, heavy with the perfume of the orange groves of Sorrento, fell the tolling of the bells from all her three hundred churches, summoning the people to recite the prayers for the dying, for the old King was upon his death-bed.

And to the sound of those bells Andreas of Hungary entered Naples.

“A bad omen,” said Henryk of Belgrade, as they rode through the gates of the city. “They should be triumphal bells, my lord.”

“They should be,” answered Andreas, “for I am come into my kingdom.”

He rode a little ahead of the others, and as he spoke glanced haughtily round on the surging people who filled the streets, all making their way to the Castel Nuovo to learn the news of their dying King.

No one had been sent to meet the Prince, and San Severino and his Italians, having in the confusion fallen behind, Andreas drew up at the corner of the street impeded by the crowd and uncertain of his way. The Hungarians behind him scowled at the throng and complained loudly of their reception.

“They do us honor!” cried Konrad of Gottif. “Is this the way their future King is received?”

The Italians turned to gaze at and gather round the cavalcade of strangers blocked in the narrow street, and Andreas on his great white war horse with scarlet and leopard skin over his chain armor and fluttering red plumes above his closed visor, overawed them by the splendor of his appointments and the magnificent pomp of his carriage.

He, reining in his struggling horse, raged inwardly with fierce mortification. This his entry into Naples! They could not even keep the streets clear for him or notify the people of his approach, and San Severino’s malice had made him lag behind.

“They can think of nothing but the old King,” said Henryk of Belgrade, leaning forward to speak to the Prince, “but we must make our way to the palace, or Giovanna will be proclaimed alone.”

The street was rapidly becoming impassable. The swarming citizens mingled with the Hungarians, and men and horses were blocked together between the white houses.

Andreas tried in vain to force a passage through the crowd. His rearing animal knocked a man down, and there rose a wild angry shout answered by curses from the Hungarians.

The Prince’s fury broke beyond control.

“Let me pass, churls,” he said heavily. “Do you not know me—by God, do you not know me?” He lifted his visor, and his fair, regular face with the sullen blue-gray eyes gazed down haughtily upon the crowd.

“I am Andreas of Hungary, and when the breath is out of the old man’s body I shall be your King—make way for me or, by God’s heaven, I will ride you down.”

They shrank against the houses to right and left, making way for him in silence, but when he had passed they muttered insults and jeers at his soldiers, amply repaid by the Hungarians, and saying little for the good feeling with which the Neapolitans regarded the foreigners.

Konrad of Gottif shouted above the press of men and horses:

“The Castel del Nuovo! Show us the way, dogs!” and he leaned from his rearing steed and struck the man nearest him with his gauntlet.

A muffled, angry cry rose from the crowd. They swayed to and fro and women leaning from the windows cursed and cried out against the Hungarians.

The heat was terrible. The glare of the white houses, the golden glitter of the sea showing between them, here and there the burnished sweep of the turquoise sky, was unendurable, blending. The armor of the horsemen blazed like fire where the sun caught it, and the steel plates on the horses’ harness grew too hot to touch.

“I have never known such heat in Buda,” said Henryk as they made slow confused progress.

They struggled into a wider street, still with the surging crowd about them and the tolling bells of the three hundred churches in their ears. To the right was a street sloping to the shore, and they caught a glimpse of the bay, too dazzling to be looked upon; the coast beyond, and the huge Vesuvius clad in the purple haze of heat.

Through the crowd came a monk in a black robe. Andreas leaned sideways from his horse and clutched him by the shoulder.

“Which way to the palace?” he demanded.

“The way the crowd goes,” said the monk. “The other side of the palazzo,” and he shook himself free.

The Hungarians groaned under the weight of their armor and the blaze of the sheer sun on their helms. Only Andreas appeared not to heed it, but with raised visor and steady eyes guided the superb white horse through crowded Naples. They passed a market under the beautiful front of Santa Chiara which rose glittering into the blue. The fruit-sellers had abandoned their wares, and golden oranges from Pausilippo, lemons lying in their leaves, olives, cherries, and grapes lay neglected on the stalls in the shadows of the church whose bells were clanging the wild dirges of the dying.

Andreas raised his eyes to the steeple whence the sound came and shuddered.

“Jesu!” he murmured, and his mailed hand traced the sign of the cross on his breastplate. They made easier progress now, for the streets were wider and the crowd scattered before them. Andreas urged his horse, and at a hand-gallop dashed into the Grand’ Palazzo on the far side of which rose the towers of the Castel Nuovo with the flaunting fleur-de-lis banner of Anjou waving above its ramparts.

Many people were assembled here. The drawbridge of the palace was down, but the walls and the gates were crowded with soldiers, and a thin but constant stream of people was passing into the palace; the officers of the crown and the nobles of the Kingdom summoned to attend the death-bed of Roberto d’Anjou.

The Hungarians thundered across the great square and drew up their panting horses before the gates of the Castel Nuovo to the murmured wonder of the crowd.

The guard challenged them.

“A fine welcome this to Naples,” said Andreas bitterly. “I am Hungary.”

The Italian officer stared at him.

“Madonna Giovanna’s husband?” he asked.

“Your King,” answered Andreas with a flushed face. “Stand aside——”

Konrad of Gottif galloped up to the Prince’s side. “Fool!” he cried furiously. “This is Andreas of Hungary, whom you should have been at the gates to meet.”

The soldier lifted his shoulders.

“The King is dying—it is all in confusion.” He swore it. “Per Bacco, all in confusion. Perhaps you were not expected so soon, Prince.”

“My herald arrived here last night,” said Andreas, and the angry red in his face deepened.

The Italian was indifferent. He told the Prince and a few of his friends to enter, but informed the Hungarians that they must go to the Castel del Obo, where the soldiery were quartered.

Andreas, with an angry heart, submitted to what he could not help, and after some further parleying in the glaring sun, he and a handful of his men were allowed to enter the palace.

As they crossed the shadowed waters of the moat the Prince spoke.

“Konrad of Gottif,” he said thickly, “they wish to humiliate me, to insult me.” He struck his hand on the saddle and his breast heaved. “By God’s Heaven, I am the King,” he added.

They rode into the courtyard, where they were unnoticed among the assembled horsemen, and no heed was taken of their shouts for the seneschal and his servants.

Every one was absorbed in his own affairs. It was clear that the Prince was neither expected nor remembered in the general confusion.

Andreas leaped from his horse, and flinging the reins to one of his own men, ascended the crowded steps that led into the palace. Konrad of Gottif and Henryk of Belgrade accompanied him. They entered the great hall, where the nobles forming the council of the Kingdom were gathered and men whispered together in little groups.

After the dazzle without, the darkness here was difficult to pierce. The high placed windows admitted little light, and the rich somber painted walls, the gloomy arched ceiling, the subdued converse and quiet movements, all offered a contrast to the brilliant, noisy sunlit streets.

Andreas took off his helmet and leaned against the wall within the door as if he were faint.

A page came out of the throng and asked him his business.

The Prince put his hand to his forehead, where the helmet had left a red mark, and answered in a low voice:

“I am Andreas of Hungary; take me to the King.”

The boy stared, and Konrad of Gottif repeated the demand in rougher tones. By now many had turned to stare at the splendid young knight in the scarlet and leopard skin.

“My lord, you cannot see the King,” faltered the page.

Andreas lifted his blue-gray eyes.

“Take me, then,” he said firmly, “to the Duchess Giovanna, my wife.”

“I will go and seek her,” answered the page.

“Their insolence!” frowned Henryk, then at sight of the Prince’s face, “what is the matter, my lord?”

“Nought, Henryk—I—I feel sick—it is the sun, I think—on my helmet,” and he put his hand to his forehead again.

The whisper had circled the hall that this was the future Queen’s husband who stood so quietly against the wall, but they were Giovanna’s courtiers, and they made no movement to welcome the Prince who had arrived with so little state. As he stood alone, ignored with his two Hungarians, only one man crossed the hall to speak to him.

This gentleman was resplendently dressed in black and silver, and of a pleasant, soft appearance.

“You are the Prince of Hungary?” he said in a lazy voice. “You arrive at a critical time, my lord, but welcome to Naples! I am Carlo di Durazzo, Madonna Giovanna’s cousin and your own.”

“Yours is the first welcome I have had, my lord,” answered Andreas, glancing round the hall, “and seems to be the only one.”

The Duke di Duras smiled.

“The King will not last the day,” he said as if he had not heard. “At least they say so.” And he turned into the crowd again.

Andreas stood silent, with downcast eyes until the page returned.

“Will you come with me, good my lord?” said the boy.

“Well,” answered Andreas heavily, “well—” He glanced at Konrad of Gottif, and there was a sick look in his face; then he turned and followed the page through the whispering, staring crowd.

They ascended a quiet stairway, traversed a short corridor, and paused before a closed door.

The boy opened it softly and Andreas entered. It was a large dark room with a low ceiling beamed and painted, a quiet room of the rich color of smooth wood with a fine carved chimney-piece. There was little furniture, and that very simple. To the right was a window bearing in the center of its diamond panes the blue and gold of the Anjou lilies; the sun shining through them made them flame like jewels and cast their doubles in yellow and azure on the polished floor. Seated on a chair by the window was a lady who turned her head sharply as Andreas entered.

“The Prince of Hungary, Madonna,” said the page, and crept out.

Andreas paused, staring across the silent room at the woman, who rose slowly and looked at him.

She made an impression on him of glowing color; in the strands of her rich chestnut hair, in the light of her blue eyes, in the curves of her full mouth, in her proud carriage was magnificence and splendor. She wore a gown of wine-colored velvet that fitted close to her slender figure, and over her breast that heaved behind her lawn chemise lay the reflection of the golden lilies in the window.

“So you are Andreas of Hungary,” she said, and her voice was low and gentle.

“Yes,” he answered abruptly. “And you—” he frowned, “you are Giovanna,” he said sullenly.

Her glowing eyes considered him.

“No. I am Maria d’Anjou, her sister.”

Andreas slowly flushed.

“Her sister!—then you—sent me—” he began awkwardly.

“Hush!” she raised her hand, and the quivering of the reflections on her breast showed that she trembled. “I sent you a warning, yes; but do not speak of it. If I had seen you, I should not have sent it. You are not the manner of man to be politic.”

“Should I then have been politic to have stayed outside Naples?” demanded Andreas.

Maria d’Anjou lifted her grave, troubled eyes.

“By Jesu, yes,” she said softly.

Andreas came toward her, his mailed tread ringing in the quiet.

“Oh, hush!” she whispered. “The King is dying within,” her slender pearl-decked hand pointed to a closed door opposite. “Presently we will go to him, but now he will have none with him but the priests and Giovanna.”

Andreas gazed at the door.

“Giovanna is in there?” he said.

“Yes, she was always the King’s favorite. She reads to him his Latin prayers.”

The Prince folded his arms and stared moodily at Maria.

“Madonna, why did you send me that warning?” She sank into her chair and her head drooped into her hand.

“Because Naples hates this marriage, because Giovanna hates it. Do you not understand?”

“So my reception told me,” he interrupted hotly.

“And because your coming makes for war and misery—and woe,” finished Maria slowly.

“But I am the King,” said Andreas.

She raised her splendid head and looked at him mournfully. Her jeweled hands glittered in her velvet lap and the sunlight played in her gorgeous burnished hair. He, looking on her beauty and being unused to speaking to women, grew abashed and moved away. Then it occurred to him that she was to be his brother’s wife, and he looked at her anew, jealously, to see if she was worthy.

“You are to marry Ludovic?” he said bluntly.

“God knows,” she answered quietly. “They talk of it.”

“You should be proud,” flashed Andreas.

“I am unhappy,” she said. “I cannot be proud when my heart aches,” and she gave a little sigh.

“Why are you sad, Madonna?” he asked curiously.

“Oh, so many things.” The tears started to her beautiful eyes. “If you have a heart and live long in the court of Naples, you will know. I have no one to talk with—I—I—see terrible things.” She rose to her feet and her wet eyes flashed. “Yesterday the Conte Raymond flogged his footboy to death—out there in the courtyard—because he had stolen from him. He was a little boy and he cried bitterly. I could not sleep for the thought of it, and I am very tired to-day.”

“It was a vile deed,” said Andreas fiercely.

Maria leaned her head against the mullions.

“Such things are common. Last week they burned a woman in the Palazzo. From my chamber I could see the smoke and the people hurrying. What can I do? Prayers take so long to reach Heaven. I think God is very far away. I wish I was dead.”

She said this so simply and quietly, so much as if a commonplace expression of a commonplace thought that Andreas gave a little start of horror.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Eighteen,” said Maria d’Anjou. “And in all my life I have had no pleasure.”

“When I am King,” answered Andreas, “I will rule well in Naples. They shall not do these things.”

“You?” she said mournfully. “You will have no power. They—will prevent you interfering——”

“Of whom do you speak?” asked Andreas proudly.

“Of Giovanna,” she answered in a low tone. “Of Giovanna, and the Conte Raymond and Carlo, and Luigi of Taranto—” Her beautiful blue eyes lifted with an expression of terror. “I am afraid of them.”

“Afraid?” echoed Andreas.

Maria d’Anjou looked fearfully round.

“I want to die,” she said slowly. “But I do not wish to be—murdered—do you understand? I am a coward—I could not face dying in the dark—or being mangled—” She paled, and with trembling fingers crossed herself. “Jesu save me from murder,” she murmured.

Andreas gazed at her in horror. She was so regally, proudly splendid, so young, so soft and fair, that the hideous incongruity of her words made him think that she was mad.

“God preserve us!” he cried. “It is a vile place where maids live in dread—of—of murder——”

She laughed in an infinitely sad manner.

“Murder!” she said in her lovely, faint voice. “But there is worse—yea, even than that.”

The young man paled and drew a little away from her.

“Of what are you afraid?”

A look of weary loathing crossed her face.

“Of Raymond de Cabane,” she said slowly. “I pray God to give me to Ludovic of Hungary that I may be free of him——”

She made a passionate movement of her hand to her bosom and turned her head away sharply.

“Oh, my heart,” she said brokenly, bitterly. “My tired heart.”

Andreas was stammering some words, when the inner door softly opened and a tall Franciscan appeared.

Maria d’Anjou rose with a pale, composed face.

“The King’s soul passes,” said the monk, “and he would see you.”

In silence Andreas of Hungary and Maria d’Anjou crossed the threshold of the King’s chamber.

CHAPTER FOUR. GIOVANNA

It was a small room, carefully shrouded from the daylight by a velvet curtain. Before the window an alabaster lamp cast a faint glow, making golden fleur-de-lis that were powdered over the dark purple wall hangings to glitter dully, and throwing a great shadow round the canopied bed that occupied the center of the chamber.

Andreas turned his eyes there and crossed himself. The old King lay stiff and straight on the heavy embroidered coverlet. He wore the garb of a Franciscan, round his waist was rope, and on his breast a large silver crucifix. A doctor and a monk supported him up on the tasseled pillows, so that his head was raised and he could gaze round the room.

The atmosphere was close, stifling, with incense and lack of air. To Andreas the strange glimmering light, and heavy perfume, the silence, brought a sense of awe and bewilderment.

There were three other people in the room. One, a huge man who stood erect and motionless by the head of the bed with folded arms and composed face. Andreas knew him. There was no mistaking the coarse, dark, blunt features, the fierce bloodshot eyes, the powerful figure, the Oriental’s immobility.

This was Raymond de Cabane, of whom San Severino had spoken, and Hippolyta, and Maria d’Anjou. Andreas advanced to the foot of the bed with a sense of confusion upon him, as if the incense had drugged him, and then he noticed a girl seated on a stool at Conte Raymond’s feet, leaning forward with her face hidden in the bedclothes.

She wore a gown of primrose-colored velvet, and where it fell away at the arms and throat it showed a vest of brilliant turquoise. Her hair, very long and curly and of a soft auburn tint, hung over her shoulders and the coverlet. In her lap lay an open missal of gorgeous tints. Standing behind her was a man of noble appearance, very plainly attired. His self-contained face bore some likeness to the girl, and his close hair was of the same auburn hue.

Maria d’Anjou crept to the opposite side of the bed and sank on her knees. Andreas clasped one of the wooden angels that uplifted the canopy and stared at the dying man.

Complete silence, only the distant tolling of the bells reaching this chamber like a muffled echo.

Then the King opened his faded blue eyes.

“Giovanna,” he whispered.

The girl in the primrose velvet raised her head and turned her eyes toward the dying man. Andreas had felt his breath catch at the sound of the name, and he gazed at her eagerly, but he could only see a pure delicate profile. She appeared to be unaware that he had entered.

“My lord?” she said softly.

“Did you finish the prayers?” murmured the King.

“I have read from cover to cover,” answered Giovanna, in a faint melodious voice. “Shall I read them again, my dear lord?”

He shook his head feebly.

“I wrote them, did I not?” he asked.

“For your brother, the Bishop of Toulouse,” said Giovanna.

The King muttered something under his breath:

“Everything is very strange… there is a lamp burning in a great darkness… and lilies, little glimmering lilies of Anjou… Giovanna, I have been a good King, I have ruled well and wisely,” he put out his hand and clutched her arm. “Where is your husband? … there is a wrong to be righted there… Anjou, Anjou, I die in penitence, Jesu!—Jesu!”

His head sank to one side and his eyes closed.

“You have been a saintly King,” said Giovanna.

He opened his eyes again. He could hardly breathe for the weight of the crucifix on his breast. “I founded churches,” he muttered, “and hospitals, dear Lord, and convents, and I forgave my enemies, take me to Heaven, O God”—he beat his breast feebly—“I have not sinned, lo, I die in humility—” He suddenly paused and struggled up. “Who is that at the end of my bed?” he said, and his voice was like that of a healthy man, “in scarlet and a leopard skin?”

All eyes were turned to Andreas.

“Charles Martel!” cried the King. The crucifix slipped from his breast on to the coverlet. He clutched at his monk’s robe with trembling hands as if it stifled him. “My brother, Charles Martel!”

Maria sprang up and put her arms about the old man, but Giovanna gazed at her husband.

“The grandson of Charles Martel, my good lord,” said Andreas, uplifting his noble head.

“Andreas of Hungary!” cried Giovanna.

The old King lay helpless in Maria’s arms.

“I am a usurper,” he mumbled fearfully. “It was Charles’s kingdom, it belonged to him and his sons; it was sin—Jesu forgive it——”

Andreas heard him.

“I am my father’s heir,” he said in his splendid young voice. “And by God his grace King of this realm. God remember to you, Roberto of Anjou, that you at last made reparation.” And he bent his head and crossed himself.

Roberto of Anjou writhed under the Franciscan garb. “He is right—he is right,” he murmured. “He is the King—holy Virgin, forgive, Jesu forgive me, I am a miserable sinner—a usurper——”

Giovanna rose and leaned across the bed.

“Have a heed what you say,” she whispered. “Think of me, am I not your heir—am I not the Queen to be?”

“As his wife,” gasped the King. “Have I not… seen to that?”

“In my own right,” flashed Giovanna. “My lord, you wrong me——”

The King caught her hand.

“Andreas,” he called faintly, “Andreas——”

The young man came slowly to the bed beside Giovanna.

“Call the court, Raymond,” whispered the King, “for I am surely near the end.”

The Conte Raymond left the chamber, and the doctor raised up the dying man still higher and forced a draught down his throat, while the monk sprinkled him with holy water. Andreas turned to the woman beside him. He saw a pale, soft face and a pair of brilliant violet eyes gazing at him with pride and aversion.

“This late reparation,” muttered the King, “this just reparation—but I have righted the wrong—God will remember that to me.… Andreas, give me your hand——”

The Prince obeyed in silence, and the King’s thin fingers clasped his hand with that of Giovanna.

“Husband and wife,” the King said. “King and Queen—Anjou, Anjou… love one another—so is the rift healed… the elder branch… Charles was the elder branch…”

His faint voice died away. He sank back into the pillows.

Andreas felt Giovanna’s hand in his, cold, unresponsive, lifeless. The touch of her was strange and curious. He shuddered to feel her limp fingers in his while her violet eyes were the eyes of an enemy. He turned his head from her and gazed at the King in his miserable garb of penitence, muttering remorse for that usurpation of thirty-three years ago, crying out to God and his Saints to forgive.

The door was opened softly, a splendid silent crowd entered, as many as the chamber would hold, and Raymond de Cabane came back to his place.

The oppressive heat, the heavy incense, the silence and the gloomy light gave the scene an air of terror and unreality. The gorgeous dresses of the courtiers appeared grotesque, and the lilies glittered unnaturally on the dark walls.

The vice-chancellor of the Kingdom came to the front of the crowd and advanced into the center of the room. The lamplight fell over his embroidered robe, and the great seals of the parchment he carried shook with the trembling of his hands.

He bowed to the dying King, who was muttering prayers, and commenced to read the will of Roberto of Anjou. His voice sounded hard and abrupt through the hush:

“Roberto of Anjou, by God his grace, King of Naples, Sicily, Jerusalem, Provence, Alba, Grati, Giordano, and Forcalquier, declares as his successors to all his Kingdoms, his illustrious nephew, Andreas of Hungary, and his wife, Giovanna, Duchess of Calabria.”

The vice-chancellor paused and the old King muttered in satisfaction: “So is the wrong righted… I have done well.”

But Giovanna withdrew her hand from that of Andreas of Hungary.

“And moreover,” continued the passionless voice, “he names Maria d’Anjou, youngest sister of the Duchess of Calabria, his heir in the county of Calabria, Grati, and Giordano, to be held in direct fief from the King and Queen.

“He also wills for private reasons that the above-mentioned Maria shall contract marriage with the illustrious Prince Ludovic, called the Triumphant, reigning King of Hungary. These things are for the glory of God and the peace of the Kingdom.”

In the silence that fell, the King’s voice was heard faintly from the great bed.

“Have I not made amends? Andreas of Hungary, have I not made amends?”

The young man turned slowly: “God take you to himself, Roberto of Anjou, for you have made reparation, even if it come late.”

“Giovanna,” murmured the King, “obey and love your lord as you have swore… peace… for Naples… Maria you… shall bind the factions closer… now, let them take the oath to Andreas and Giovanna…”

One after another the magnificent nobles came to the bedside. The Bishop of Cavaillon, vice-chancellor; Philip de Sanguineto, Seneschal of Provence; Godfrey of Marsan; the Count Squillace, admiral of the Kingdom; Charles d’Artois, the Count of Arie; Carlo di Durazzo, Duke de Duras, the barons and officers of the kingdoms knelt and took the oaths of homage and fealty.

Andreas and Giovanna stood motionless by the bed of the dying King, he grave and troubled, she with lowered lids, very pale.

It was the turn of Raymond de Cabane. Slowly he came from his place to the bedside. Andreas watched him. San Severino’s words rang in his ears. He instinctively moved a step back. The whole place became horrible, loathsome. He conceived a wild desire to break away into the daylight, to escape from this atmosphere of gloom and death.

Raymond de Cabane passed him where he stood, obviously and with contempt, and sank on one knee before Giovanna.

The color rushed into the Prince’s face. He stared, slow to catch the full meaning of the action. And Raymond de Cabane, glancing round, said in a loud voice:

“To you alone, Madonna, I pay my homage.”

There was a moment of terror, of expectancy. Maria rose from the other side of the bed. “The King!” she cried. “Shall he die in anguish because of your insolence?” And her fierce blue eyes cast scorn on Raymond.

But Giovanna was bending over the bed.

“The King is dead,” she said in a shaking voice.

The Franciscan bent his head.

“The King is dead,” he assented.

Giovanna turned and looked at Raymond de Cabane. “Now,” she whispered, as if she gave a signal.

In a moment the silence was broken into a riot of sound. All the passions repressed by the presence of the dying man burst forth now that he was dead.

“Long live Giovanna, Queen of Naples!” shouted the Conte Raymond, and the cry was echoed round the room: “Long live the Queen of Naples!”

Maria d’Anjou, flushed and gorgeous, came out from the dark shadows of the bed.

“My lords,” she said, her sweet voice very cold, “do you forget already the will of the King. You must also say long live Andreas of Hungary!”

There was no response, nor did they take any heed of her. Raymond de Cabane tore roughly aside the velvet curtain that shrouded the window, and a broad shaft of sunlight fell across the chamber and over the dead old man on the great bed. Andreas fell back against the wall and put his hand over his eyes as if the glare blinded him, but Giovanna stood revealed brilliant in vivid color, erect in the center of the chamber. Conte Raymond de Cabane took her by the hand and led her on to the balcony. An immense crowd filled the public square below, a sea of upturned faces gazed at the palace.

“People of Naples, the King is dead!” shouted Raymond. “Long live the Queen!”

He pointed as he spoke to the slender figure of Giovanna, who stood with her shadow behind her on the white wall of the palace, and her auburn hair fluttering back from her face.

A thousand throats shouted:

“Giovanna, Queen of Naples!”

She stared down on the dazzling town and the shouting people, then she shrank away into the window.

“Take me from this chamber, Conte,” she said.

She laid her long fair hand on his satin sleeve and went with him from the room. The courtiers rushed after, and the sound of their feet was heard in the corridors without like thunder.

Andreas of Hungary and Maria were left alone with the dead man and the monk.

“Alas! Alas!”

Maria d’Anjou looked at the Prince with wide, frightened eyes. He stood quite still. It had all happened so suddenly. In the shaft of sunlight the Italians had swept past him like a train of colored fire. He had had but a glimpse of Giovanna’s white bosom and auburn hair among the press before she had gone, clinging to the Conte Raymond’s arm. He stared stupidly before him.

“What are you going to do?” asked Maria. “You see what they mean to do——”

He started. His glance fell on the dead King beside him.

“By God’s Heaven, old man,” he muttered bitterly, “your atonement was too late.”

“He is dead,” said Maria. “But we are living and we have to deal with—Giovanna.”

The name roused him.

“Where is she gone—my wife?” he looked vaguely round.

“Oh, command yourself,” said Maria, seeing his bewildered look. “You stand alone… Think how you must act——”

She turned away abruptly and entered the next room. Andreas followed her.

“Princess,” he implored, “speak to me—for I know not what to do.”

She looked over her shoulder at him as he closed the door on the dead King.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she said brokenly. “Do something—do something.” She dropped into her old place by the window and wrung her hands in her lap.

The King’s slow passions were roused to fury. He began to grasp, to realize in its full purport what had occurred. He paced about fiercely.

“I will appeal to the Pope at Avignon,” he said. “I will write to my brother.”

“Do something, do anything,” entreated Maria d’Anjou in a tone of such sorrow and despair that he stayed his wrath to look at her.

“How does it touch you, Madonna?” he asked.

“It means,” she answered, “everything to me—the Conte Raymond——”

He caught at the name savagely. “Ah, the Conte Raymond—I’ll have the Conte Raymond strangled.” He looked at her, the reflection of the golden lilies burned in his waving fair hair. She returned his gaze with an expression of anguish, of hopelessness.

“Don’t you understand?” she said with an effort. She clenched her hands in the velvet folds of her gown. “He is serving for me——”

“I know,” said Andreas. “I heard.”

She bent her head.

“For me and my possessions… Giovanna has promised me to him. He can serve her—he is powerful—the day she is crowned Queen, alone,” her eyes lifted as she stressed the word—“he takes his wretched reward——”

“She shall never be crowned Queen save as my wife,” vowed Andreas.

“God save me from the Conte Raymond,” said Maria earnestly. “I say that prayer every night, even though my heart mocks—fool, it must be!” She pressed her handkerchief to her lips. Andreas gazed at her in horror.

“He has served the Queen well,” she said hurriedly. “Therefore some say he loves her—it is a lie—latterly I have had some hope in your coming, but I saw how powerless you would be, and then—I grew afraid for you—as I have been afraid so long for myself, and I warned you.”

“My wife,” cried Andreas. “I must see my wife.” He beat his brow with his clenched fist and strode up and down the room. “I will appeal to the Pope—to Ludovic—but first I will see my wife——”

Maria watched the scarlet and leopard skin in and out of the shadow as he paced to and fro, and her face was pale and weary.

“They will not let me go to Hungary—they laugh at the King’s will,” she said.

“Giovanna—where is Giovanna?” cried Andreas, unheeding. “By God’s Heaven—does she think I am to be insulted so?”

He strode to the door and wrenched it open.

“She will not see you,” cried Maria.

“She shall,” he replied. “She shall.”

CHAPTER FIVE. THE CONTE RAYMOND

He made his way through the thronging courtiers, thrust aside the servants, and struck himself upon her chamber door.

One of her women opened to him, and without a word he passed her.

“Where is the Queen?” he demanded.

From the inner room came her low voice: “Who is it, Sancia?”

“The King,” he answered, and entered the chamber where she sat. She was alone, seated by the foot of her bed, with sunshine strong over her primrose velvet gown. She had an ivory mirror on her lap and a comb in her hand. On a table beside her was an open casket of pearls and a heap of white roses.

She looked up when he entered and slightly flushed. “Why, this is mannerly,” she said.

Her quiet, her words, the fact that this was her bedchamber, abashed him for a moment. He stood awkwardly by the door.

“What do you want with me?” asked Giovanna, laying down the comb. “If you had waited I would have seen you presently—now, as you see, I am dressing my hair.”

He stared at her sullenly.

“If my welcome and your behavior had been of another kind,” he said, “you had been spared this——”

Her violet eyes gave him a sidelong glance.

“You should have looked for your welcome, Lord Andreas, to those who invited you.”

She picked up the white roses and began twisting them together; his blood fired at her tone; he came heavily into the room.

“I am your husband,” he said. “Before God and man your husband, and King of this realm of Naples.” He stood by the post of her bed and his eyes challenged hers. “You defied the King’s will,” he continued, “you insulted me before your minions—I have had a cur’s welcome to Naples—by God, there must be an end of it!”

She would not look at him; her head was bent over the roses she played with; he could only see the white lines of her neck and the waves of her undressed auburn hair, that shone with a thousand threads of gold.

“You were a fool to come,” she said quietly.

“I came for my heritage,” he answered stormily.

“The saints know, for no love of you or yours.”

She laughed a little, still without looking up.

“No man could say we were wedded for love,” she said. “Certainly I did not think you came for that—” The way she spoke was to him a profanation of a sacred and unknown thing.

“I have not come to talk of love,” he said roughly.

She turned now and looked him up and down with mocking violet eyes.

“No?” she said, in a very scornful manner. “What have you come to speak of?”

Her face dimpled into a contemptuous smile. Her beauty and her self-possession were as goads to Andreas. He raged to have a man to deal with.

“You have treated me badly,” he said confusedly, and bit the ends of his thick yellow hair.

She was fixing two of the white roses on to the bosom of her blue vest.

“What do you want, my cousin?” she asked carelessly, and she glanced at him again with a contained amusement—as if she thought him a fool who might be humored into submission.

“My kingdom,” he answered heavily.

The violet eyes darkened. “Ah, yes,” said Giovanna, “you wedded me for that—I was to be your footstool to the throne of Naples—I understand——”

“And I,” interrupted Andreas; “I read San Severino’s last letter to you.”

She gave a little start, but her clear gaze did not falter.

“Well,” she answered. “Well, then you know, cousin, that I shall hold what I have—that I am Queen here, with no man’s hand over me.”

“I know you are an usurper—the heiress of the younger branch——”

Giovanna smiled. Her fair white hands fingered the pearls in the case beside her.

“You must say that to my council, cousin, and to the people of Naples.”

The air of indifferent disdain brought the color to his cheeks. “I shall not go there for justice,” he cried, with blazing eyes. “Nor will I tamely bear the wrong—I shall appeal even to the Pope at Avignon and to Ludovic my brother.”

Giovanna gave him a quick look; the name of Ludovic the Triumphant carried terror.

“You will do that?” she said.

At this, the first sign of flinching she had shown, his awe of her fled; he came up to the table standing between her and the sunlight.

“I am Charles Martel’s grandson,” he said, “and the son of Carobert of Hungary—and my house, by God’s Heaven, is not one to be ruled by women.”

She sat very still, but her narrowed eyes gave him hate for hate, scorn for scorn.

“Why, you are but a foolish woman,” said Andreas, with a heaving breast, “and of what use are women to rule? I am King of Naples, by God His Grace, and if you or your minions do dispute it—I will bring the arms of Ludovic like a thunderbolt into your midst—yea, I will make Naples the vassal of Hungary, and cool your pride within a cloister.”

Giovanna, very pale, laughed bitterly.

“You are gallant, cousin.” She was breathing hard, and the slender fingers clutched tightly at the strings of pearls. “You are very chivalrous—this is a knightly manner in which to speak—to—me.”

“To you!” repeated Andreas, frowning. “Have I not reason to speak so to you, who have given me this welcome to my kingdom and my home—you—my wife?”

“Leave that word alone,” answered Giovanna, speaking very quietly. “Between you—and me—it has no meaning, no, nor ever will have; sweet Virgin! I will never be a wife to you—I will not put my head under your yoke—I do not need you beside me—I can live alone, rule alone—husband! you will never be that to me, cousin.”

Red in the face, he passionately answered her: “You might go down the wind for me…” He trembled in his utterance. “By God’s Heaven, I do not want you… you are not desirable to me—I want no wife,” he struck his hand fiercely against the post of the bed, “you need not fear that I shall woo you. I come for my Kingdom.”

Her pride was strong. White-lipped she answered him: “Oh, I am fair enough to break your heart an’ I cared to try——”

He strode away from her, tossing the hair out of his eyes.

“I would not lift my hand to touch you, so indifferent you are to me—but, if you thwart me, I will bring you to your knees, proud witch.”

Giovanna’s violet eyes were blazing like stars.

“Leave my chamber,” she said hoarsely. “I am Queen—yea, if you had a thousand armies at your back, I am Queen.”

Andreas swung round to look at her.

“Do you defy me?” he asked.

She rose. She had infinitely more control than he, and she exercised it now, though it cost her an effort.

“You—and all you can do,” she said quietly. “I also have my friends.”

“Yea, such as Raymond de Cabane!” he cried. “To whom you pay a shameful price, and San Severino.”

“So you have been speaking to Maria,” said Giovanna. “She, of course, will champion you—she will be the Conte Raymond’s wife.”

“She is my brother’s betrothed, by the King’s will, and I will not see her marry another man.”

“Let King Ludovic come for her,” returned Giovanna. “And you, cousin, leave me.”

His blue-gray eyes were dark with wrath; the leopard’s skin rose and fell with his angry breathing.

“My messengers shall ride to-day to Avignon. I’ll rouse the world. I’ll see Naples ashes and this palace with not one stone upon the other before I forego my rights——”

Giovanna broke into sudden passion. “Leave my presence—do you wish me to have you put without my doors?”

Andreas of Hungary laughed magnificently, in the confidence of his pride and strength. “You have no men would dare to touch me,” he said. “But as I have no more to say, I will go—you will not see me here again.”

He went from her chamber, and Giovanna sank into the chair, trembling. “Sancia!” she called. “Sancia!”

The waiting-woman entered with a soft step. She was a golden-haired Italian, with a lovely arch face.

“You may finish my hair now,” said Giovanna faintly. “I must see Conte Raymond.”

“Madonna, he is waiting without.”

Sancia was arranging the white roses in the coils of the Queen’s auburn hair.

“Sweetheart,” asked Giovanna, suddenly, “what do you think of Andreas?” She picked up the mirror as she spoke and gazed into it.

“Madonna, I think he is splendid.”

“Taller than the Conte, is he not?” said Giovanna musingly. “He has beautiful hands—I should like to see him out of his armor.”

“Why doth he wear a leopard’s skin?” asked Sancia, curiously. “It is a strange fashion.”

“Yes,” assented the Queen, moodily. “He is a fine knight, but he does not know much about women. Sancia, he might have won me despite them all—to be his friend, at least—if he had been wise enough to be foolish and a little flattering.” She smiled, and put the mirror down. “But now he has made of me a very bitter enemy—tell the Conte I am coming, Sancia.”

A little after, with her face as pale as the roses in her hair, she entered the antechamber. Raymond de Cabane was there, standing before the wide-open fireplace, his arms crossed on his breast, his face, save for the restless glitter of his black eyes, calm and passionless.

Giovanna went slowly to the table in the center of the room and seated herself there.

“I have seen Andreas,” she said briefly. “If we bring things to an open rupture, he will appeal to Avignon—what shall we do?”

“It is no matter,” answered Raymond, in a deep, unmoved voice. “We have more friends than he at Avignon. I think he is a fool, too.”

The Queen laid her slender hands along the table and gazed at them. “I think so,” she said quietly, and turned her heavy wedding ring about on her finger.

“And I have won the first move,” remarked Raymond de Cabane. “You have been proclaimed throughout Naples, despite the will.”

“Yes,” answered Giovanna.

“I come nearer my reward,” said the Conte, and his eyes flashed.

The Queen looked at him curiously. “You are very steady in your desire,” she answered. “Conte—are you so fond of her?”

“My feelings are no part of the bargain, Madonna—you are to give her to me, and Alba, and Giordano.”

Giovanna shrugged her shoulders.

“Conte, I was merely curious. One hears so much of love—in the poets—sometimes one wonders—” She looked at him sideways—“if one has ever met it or ever will—or ever will!”

“Maybe you will find it in your own heart one day, Madonna,” said Raymond de Cabane.

Queen Giovanna looked at him steadily, rather mournfully.

“Why, it would be as impossible as the stars stooping to the meadows, for me to love any man I have ever seen,” she answered. “I am in love with power, and glory, and this splendid crown of Naples, Conte—but Maria! I risk something to give her to you—she is promised to this Ludovic of Hungary.”

Raymond de Cabane lifted his head a little. “I think he is not eager for the alliance,” he said quietly. “In any case, what does it matter? She is mine!”

She watched him curiously. “Maria desires it,” she replied, “and Ludovic might fight.”

“Well,” he said stubbornly, “I could fight Ludovic of Hungary for her—or any man, king or commoner.” Fire flashed for a moment into his black eyes, and the dusky color came into his swarthy cheek. “Stand you but my friend, Madonna,” he added, “as you have sworn.” He breathed heavily.

“When you have fulfilled your promise,” she put in quickly, “I am not yet safely Queen. The day that I am crowned in Santa Chiara, you may draw up your marriage contract.”

He swore it, with a great passion underlying his quiet: “You shall be crowned.”

“Despite of Andreas?” she asked him.

“Despite of everything!”

At that the Queen suddenly laughed. “You are curious,” she said; “I do not think you love her.”

He gave her no pleasant glance. “Love her?” he echoed. “Hath she not Alba and Giordano?”

“Yet,” smiled Giovanna, “you made this bargain with me before the King’s will was known—and always has the bourne of your desires and the height of your rewards been Maria, Maria——”

His heavy eyes flashed under the light mockery of her tone.

“I always knew that she would be an heiress,” he answered.

Giovanna leaned back in her chair; the white rose above her brow shone against the carved wood; her white hands lay idly among the folds of her vivid gown, over her bosom the azure vest rose and fell evenly and her full lids were lowered till the bronze lashes touched her cheek.

“Maria hates you,” she said.

Raymond de Cabane stood very still. “I know,” he answered abruptly.

“It makes no difference?” asked Giovanna.

He came a step into the room. “Madonna! have we come to talk of these things? I serve for my reward—like every man; let it end at that.”

She suddenly rose and pushed back her chair; her violet eyes swept over him.

“Very well,” she said; “it is a question of policy, is it not? And you will manage the council, my cousin Carlo—the people, this Hungarian faction——”

“And your husband,” finished the Conte Raymond.

“My husband,” she repeated, steadily. “And you will send an ambassador to Avignon to win the Pope?”

“All this,” said Raymond, “for the hand of Maria d’Anjou.”

Queen Giovanna’s look was one of mingled contempt and half-admiring wonder; she crossed slowly to her chamber door.

“There is no more, Conte; I have trust in you.”

Raymond glanced at her abruptly.

“You shall be crowned within a month, Madonna.”

With an air of resolution and that veiled fierceness that was his usual bearing, he left the room.

Queen Giovanna stood with her hand on the door-handle, staring after him with disdainful violet eyes.

CHAPTER SIX. MARIA

“There is a moral in everything,” said the dwarf, “and the moral of a garden is, ‘don’t build a house.’ ” And he blinked up at the blue sky, tempered by the thousand blossoms of an acacia tree.

It was mid August, and the gardens of the Castel del Nuovo were flowering from end to end; everywhere roses, lilies, gladiolas, myrtle, citron, chestnuts, the dark line of cedars and the gray-green of poplars.

There, under a trellis covered with vines and white and purple roses, was a marble seat, set against the low wall that looked over the town and Bay of Naples; a marble pavement was underfoot, beautifully checked with the waving, delicate shadows of the grapes and roses and strong flecks of pure sunlight. The dwarf, dressed in a becoming purple, sat with crossed legs and ate great red plums with relish. Carlo di Durazzo, Duke di Duras, lounged on the marble seat and gazed from the shade into the sunlight. He was clothed in satin of a golden color and his shoes were the hue of rubies. He looked at Naples, the white houses with the sloping pink and blue roofs, with the palms between, then the bay shimmering from purple in the front where the boats were drawn along the beach, to opal by the distant line of Sorrento, and he said, without turning his head:

“With your leave, messer, if there is a moral in everything, what is the moral of the marriage of the Queen?”

“That the man who marries without seeing his wife will die without seeing his funeral,” answered the dwarf.

The Duke turned his pretty face.

“Certainly, Andreas is a fool,” he assented. “But he is troublesome, perhaps dangerous, and I propound to you, messer, what will the Queen do with him?”

A little breeze wafted some of the acacia blossoms on to the dwarf’s lap; he played with them as he answered:

“Can the Queen do anything with nothing?” he asked. “Surely he is but—as one might express it—a cipher—even the figure nought.” And he sucked a plum with great gravity.

“Nevertheless,” said the Duke, “he has his envoys at Avignon, and there is always Hungary.”

The dwarf’s little red eyes twinkled.

“The illustrious and mighty Conte Raymond has also his envoys at Avignon,” he answered. “And I have a presentiment that His Holiness will decide for the cause that is uppermost.”

“You are a gentleman of exceeding wisdom,” said the Duke. “But I wish you would not eat so many plums; they are very bad for you.”

The dwarf selected another.

“They are really very nice,” he remarked, “will not your magnificence try one? But as I was saying, the Pope——”

“The Pope,” said Duras, “would certainly call this gluttony, which is one of the seven deadly sins.”

“Well,” answered the dwarf, “when I am sick, I will practice patience, which is one of the seven deadly virtues, and so I shall be equally balanced between Hell and the Angels—as I was saying, the Pope is not likely to decide for Andreas, our illustrious and unfortunate King——”

The Duke laid an elegant hand on the warm marble wall and watched how the sun struck fire out of the emerald ring he wore.

“I am sorry for Andreas,” he remarked. “My cousin Giovanna humiliates him very cruelly.”

The dwarf nodded.

“Silvestro, the King’s page, told me that the other day when the Queen revoked his order to free a Hungarian prisoner and shut the council doors in his face when he came to protest, he went to his room and sobbed in a helpless agony of rage, cried like a child, Silvestro said.”

“It is remarkably foolish to take things so heavily,” said Duras. “But, after all, he is only a barbarian.”

The dwarf lifted his hunched shoulders. “But a barbarian has feelings, magnificence. They say that he and the Queen have not spoken together since the day of his arrival. I saw them meet yesterday; he was going hunting——”

“He always is—the poor youth has nothing else to do,” interrupted the Duke.

“Well, he was going hunting, he was waiting in the hall, and there was Konrad of Gottif with him and a couple of dogs; they were talking together when of a sudden in came the Queen with a great company of ladies. Andreas grew red in the face and made as if he would avoid them, but they were upon him before he could leave the room. The Queen stopped and her eyes just traveled over him, and ‘Going hunting, my lord?’ she said, and the ladies behind her stared at him as if he had been a boor from the fields.

“ ‘Yes,’ he answered, and he colored more fiercely up to the roots of his hair.

“The Queen laughed, making it plain she despised him for an awkward boy.

“ ‘An’ you are not more successful in the hunt than you are in politics—or love, my lord,’ she said, ‘we need not weep the prey you chase,’ and she laughed again, throwing her arm around the Countess Terliggi’s neck, who said: ‘But herons are more easily caught than thrones or hearts, my Queen.’ And at this all the ladies laughed and swept out of the room. The King stood silent until they had gone (though he showed in his face how he had been struck), then he burst out to his friend:

“ ‘Konrad, is this bearable?’

“ ‘Go back to Hungary,’ was the answer. And then the King flung from the room wildly, saying: ‘God, no! I bide my time!’ ”

The Duke stretched his limbs.

“It would be curious,” he remarked, “if the Pope did recognize his claims, for, considering Naples is his fief, if he was to send a bull of coronation the nobles would desert my fair cousin—the positions would be reversed.”

“And he would take a terrible revenge, therefore hedge, magnificence, until the answer comes from Avignon.”

The Duke yawned. “Saints’ name, messer, I would rather see you eat more plums than see you suck the stones,” he said.

“Unfortunately, as there are no more plums, I have no choice,” sighed the dwarf. “Does your magnificence object to my cracking the stones and abstracting the kernels?”

“Immensely,” answered the Duke. “And you are quite sufficiently like a monkey.”

“It is generous of you to say so,” grinned the dwarf. “I wish I could find your magnificence sufficiently like a man.”

“What is your idea of a man?” asked the Duke, pleasantly.

“Raymond de Cabane,” said the dwarf.

“Maria! the son of a slave and a washerwoman!”

The dwarf rose and put his plum stones in his pocket. “I will take my leave.” He bowed his squat body and moved away into the sunlight; the Duke yawned and looked across the bay.

The sheer dazzle of the sunlight was as a veil over everything. On the marble pavement swayed the faint blue shadows of the roses and the vine. The acacia tree whispered continually in the breeze blowing from Capri, and tall lilies growing without tapped at the trellis work. Against the burnished turquoise sky the cedars showed black and the poplars a shuddering silver-gray. Two flashing white doves flew across the arbor.

Putting the flowers aside, came Maria d’Anjou in a long mauve gown. She carried a zither of tortoise-shell and ivory, and her bright chestnut hair lay heavy in the nape of her slender neck.

She seated herself beside the Duke, who gazed at her tenderly.

“They are going hunting, Carlo,” she said. “Will you not go with them? It looks as if you stayed away to flout the King as the others do.”

Duras smiled.

“You are sorry for Andreas, cousin?”

“For all of us,” she said, and drew a sharp breath. “And I think the King is served shamefully. What has he had but mortification and insult? Yea, and from the servants.”

“I wonder,” pondered the Duke, smiling at her; “I wonder if it had been different if he had wooed the Queen——”

“She is cold as ice,” said Maria.

“Yet I think it had been different. Where do they hunt to-day?”

“Toward Capua—Melito, I think.”

“Sweet cousin, I am too lazy to go. I would sit here and have you sing.”

Her blue eyes became pleading.

“Carlo, he is so wretched; he has no one but his Hungarians to go with. Conte Raymond lords it over him. If you would go, gentle cousin, it would give me pleasure.”

“Why, then it will be a pleasure to me,” he answered, rising. “If I do not go, at least I will offer him my best falcon before them all. Is that enough?”

She turned her beautiful head to look at him.

“I am very grateful, sweet cousin,” she said, and gave him her hand.

He kissed it and turned reluctantly away from her. She watched his gold clothes glitter into the distance, then, resting her elbows on the marble walls, looked over Naples and sighed.

Presently she took up the zither and tuned it. Music and the garden were the best company she knew. All her peace and happiness had come to her when she sat alone in the sunlight under the trees with the flowers to right and left.

With an absorbed, dreaming face, she began to sing. Her low, sweet voice rose exquisitely through the stillness:

Her head bent over the zither till a loose strand of hair swept the strings.

Maria d’Anjou sighed, her voice was trembling on the next notes:

The zither dropped from her hands; her soft mournful eyes gazed vacantly across the distant town. She was wrapped in her own dreaming thoughts. She sighed, looked round, and in an instant was back in reality, the color in her cheeks.

Holding back the vines that impeded him stood the Conte Raymond looking at her.

“Good-morrow,” she said gravely; she had not that day seen him before.

He came with his slow, heavy step toward the marble seat. As always, he was composed and lowering in manner.

“I have been hoping to find you, Madonna, alone.”

Hate of him showed in quivering nostrils and lowered lids as she turned her head away.

“What is your wish with me?” she asked wearily.

His deep-set eyes flashed to her averted face. “The Queen has told ye, perchance”—his swarthy hand fingered the roses on the balustrade—“that she will be crowned in mid-September?”

She would not look round; her foot tapped the marble impatiently.

“Scorn me as you like, Maria,” he said quietly; “by then our marriage contract will be signed—I shall not wait for my reward.”

Her shoulders heaved a little.

“Conte, your presence is unendurable to me—and your talk wild.” She lifted her face now, and showed it pale with anger. “I will wed with the King of Hungary or with no man.”

“Why,” he scowled. “We waste words. Do you think ye will be freer to choose your husband than your sister was?”

She rose so suddenly that he fell back a pace.

“Ye are a bold man,” she said, with her slim hand to her side. “But I, as well as Giovanna, am of Anjou—and ye have forgot, perchance, the King?”

His wrath rose to meet hers, but he had himself well in hand. It showed only in the pale swarthiness of his cheek.

“I am a fool to speak to ye,” he said somberly. “Ye cannot thwart my designs, and the King——”

“Well?” she said, smiling splendidly; “the King—my betrothed’s brother—what if the Pope decided in his favor? Then there would be neither victory nor reward for you, Conte.”

An extraordinary look darkened his eyes.

“Do ye think that would stop me?” he asked; then checked himself as if he had disclosed too much. “But I mistake to talk of politics,” he said, and smiled unpleasantly. “Amuse yourself with your songs and flowers, Maria, September will come apace.” He raised his velvet cap and was gone, heavily, through the vines.

“When Andreas is King indeed,” said Maria under her breath, “when Ludovic of Hungary comes for me, that man”—she bit her lip—“that man shall answer for this talk to me!”

Yet even while she spoke she was afraid.

CHAPTER SEVEN. THE QUEEN MOVES

Sancia di Renato, the Queen’s Paduan waiting-woman, held up a corner of the crimson canopy between her face and the sun. Her white dress was glowing in the rosy reflection as she laughed a whisper to one of the squires standing below her on the steps.

Before them were the clean, sanded lists, prepared for the jousts, with the snowy tents at either end flaunting emblazonments to the blue, the tiers of seats filled with a glittering throng of noble spectators, and, beyond, the red rope and the line of halberdiers that checked the surging crowd.

The Queen under her canopy, on her raised throne embroidered thickly with the Angevin lilies, made a gracious picture of slim fairness. As was her manner always, she bent forward slightly, stooping it seemed, yet gracefully and in a fashion well suited to her girlish slenderness. The stiff folds of her brocaded skirts swept from out the warm shadow that enveloped her and shone on the sunlit steps of her throne. There on the confines of her robe sat the dwarf in blatant scarlet. Couched there, too, was a long white hound wearing a gold collar.