Up the Scala d'Oro, or Golden Staircase, built only for the use
of the nobles, they came, escorted by the ducal guards, gleaming
in their richest uniforms. The great Council Hall was one mass of
color; the splendid dresses of the ladies, the scarlet robes of
the senators and high officials of the Republic, the imposing
vestments of the old doge, Cristofero Moro, as he sat in state
upon his massive throne, and the bewildering array of the
seventy-two candidates for a king's choice. Seventy-two, I say,
but in all that company of puffed and powdered, coifed and combed
young ladies, standing tall and uncomfortable on their
ridiculously high-heeled shoes, one alone was simply dressed and
apparently unaffected by the gorgeousness of her companions, the
seventy-second and youngest of them all.
She was a girl of fourteen. Face and form were equally beautiful,
and a mass of "dark gold hair" crowned her "queenly head." While
the other girls appeared nervous or anxious, she seemed
unconcerned, and her face wore even a peculiar little smile, as
if she were contrasting the poor badgered young prince of St.
Mark's Day with the present King of Cyprus hunting for a bride.
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