How oddly this all sounds to us with our modern ideas of
propriety and good taste! It seems a sort of Prize Girl Show,
does it not? Or, it is like a competitive examination for a royal
bride.
But, like too many such examinations, this one had already been
settled beforehand. The King had decided to whom the prize of his
crown should go, and so, at the proper time, the critical
ambassador stopped before a slight girl of fourteen, dressed in a
robe of simple white.
"Donzella mia," he said courteously, but in a low tone; "are not
you the daughter of Messer. Marco Cornaro, the noble merchant of
the Via Merceria?"
"I am, my lord," the girl replied.
"My royal master greets you through me," he said. "He recalls the
day when you did give him shelter, and he invites you to share
with him the throne of Cyprus. Shall this be as he wishes?"
And the girl, with a deep courtesy in acknowledgment of the
stately obeisance of the ambassador, said simply, "That shall be,
my lord, as my father and his Excellency shall say."
The ambassador of Cyprus took the young girl's hand, and,
conducting her through all that splendid company, presented her
before the doge's throne.
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