he exception of Maestro Gentile, the court physician, strangers to
the patient whom they were called to treat in a critical moment. As a
matter of science the case had a certain value for them, which was not
lessened by the fact of the patient's quality; but to Maestro Gentile
alone was the hopeless condition of the young Queen a matter of deep
personal concern. They came from France, from Greece, from the famous
University of Bologna; the Sultan of Egypt had sent a sage learned in
all the lore of that ancient civilization; and a wise Arab had brought
to this consultation the secrets of every herb that grew; while a holy
man from Persia, steeped in the wisdom of the Zend Avestar and in the
doctrines of Zarathrustra, stood ready to use his mystic comfort in
behalf of the sufferer. The consultation had dragged its slow length
through the hot August afternoon, while the strange faces came and went
about the couch where the young Queen lay moaning and tossing; the
single being under that roof who loved her as her own soul and would
have given her life for hers, was waiting alone in the great
ante-chamber, listening for every footfall, every motion within--filling
each moment with an intensity of prayer.

The great men had barred her from the sick-room while they made their
diagnosis, lest the intricacies of the symptoms should declare
themselves less positively in the presence of a nature without learning
in any method of their art. "There was fever," they said; "it would
excite the patient to have one of her own household so near her in this
extremity; her strength must be carefully treasured."

But all wore faces of gloom, speaking with hushed voices, as, one by
one, they came forth from the darkened chamber, yet with a sense of
relief that all had been done that could be done and the weakness might
now be left to run its course, "For there is no hope," they said.

The Lady Beata had questioned each face silently; but when the last one
passed, bringing the same sense of doom, "Can _nothing_ more be done?"
she asked with clasped hands.

They shook their heads, gravely, with decorous looks of sympathy,
repeating their short refrain, like a knell.

"Then I will go to her," she answered, "that she may see a face of love
when she passes," and pushing them all aside, she resolutely entered the
sick-chamber, signing to Maestro Gentile to follow her; but the protest
from the group of learned men was less than she had feared,