tely patrician robed in black, fought her way through the excited
throng to the steps of the throne, and threw herself at the feet of the
Queen.

"Have mercy!" she cried; "she is too young to die! Take my life for
hers--_she is my child!_"

A messenger was crossing the chamber from the judge's throne, bearing a
parchment tied in black, a portentous seal depending from the ribbon. It
was the first time that a death-warrant had been presented for the
Queen's signature, and she was visibly agitated.

The agonized mother at her feet kept up her passionate entreaties.

Caterina started up pale and trembling, holding out her hand to the
kneeling figure and drawing her forward:

"Counts and Barons of the Realm, Judges of the Court and all ye people
who look to us for protection! We have sworn before you all to uphold
the laws of Cyprus--we will not fail you!" she protested. "Yet, oh I beg
you to remember that together in this Chamber we have prayed to-day that
we might temper judgment with mercy!--_Let us not sign it!_"

A low murmur of sympathy echoed through the assembly, half-assenting,
and Caterina, perceiving it hurried on.

"Let us rule together wisely," she besought them, "and for the honor of
Cyprus! Let it not be told that our first meeting in this noble assembly
hath been darkened by a sentence of death upon one of our own nobles!
Madonna mia! Grant us to be merciful--spare the noble house of
Montferrat; let the penalty be exile!"

There was a confused murmur in the Hall of the Assizes: disjointed words
punctuated the low babel of sounds: "Exile!" "Exile with confiscation!"
"Death!" "Mercy!" "Death and Confiscation."

They scarcely knew whether they prayed for death or mercy, or whether in
their souls they wished for justice or pardon, for the question was too
weighty to be solved by law, since a nation's peace might hang upon it.
They knew not if they saw distinctly, for the mist that seemed to cloud
their vision--a mist enfolding two women like a halo--the one tall,
black-robed, superb in anguish, with pathetic lines of age upon her hair
and brow, and in her eyes, darker than night, such frenzy of
supplication as one may only offer for a dearer than self: the other
young, tender, fair--all compassion, divine in forgiveness and
comprehension--for were they not both mothers, and had she not suffered
the irreparable loss that she might learn to shield grieving
mother-hearts? She held the Countess of Montferr