imed her baby
boy King of Cyprus, and defied the Great Republic. Venice, surprised
at this rebellion of its adopted "daughter," dispatched embassy after
embassy to demand submission. But the young mother was brave and stood
boldly up for the rights of her son.

But he, too, died. Then Catarina, true to the memory of her husband
and her boy, strove to retain the throne intact. For years she ruled as
Queen of Cyprus, despite the threatenings of her home Republic and the
conspiracies of her enemies. Her one answer to the demands of Venice
was:

"Tell the Republic I have determined never to remarry. When I am dead,
the throne of Cyprus shall go to the State, my heir. But until that day
I am Queen of Cyprus!"

Then her brother Giorgio, the same who in earlier days had looked down
with her from the Cornaro Palace upon the outcast Prince of Cyprus, came
to her as ambassador of the Republic. His entreaties and his assurance
that, unless she complied with the senate's demand, the protection of
Venice would be withdrawn, and the island kingdom left a prey to Saracen
pirates and African robbers, at last carried the day. Worn out with
long contending, fearful, not for herself but for her subjects of
Cyprus,--she yielded to the demands of the senate, and abdicated in
favor of the Republic.

Then she returned to Venice. The same wealth of display and ceremonial
that had attended her departure welcomed the return of this obedient
daughter of the Republic, now no longer a light-hearted young girl, but
a dethroned queen, a widowed and childless woman.

She was allowed to retain her royal title of Queen of Cypus, and a
noble domain was given her for a home in the town of Asola, up among the
northern mountains. Here, in a massive castle, she held her court. It
was a bright and happy company, the home of poetry and music, the arts,
and all the culture and refinement of that age, when learning belonged
to the few and the people were sunk in densest ignorance.

Here Titian, the great artist, painted the portrait of the exiled queen
that has come down to us. Here she lived for years, sad in her memories
of the past, but happy in her helpfulness of others until, on her way
to visit her brother Giorgio in Venice, she was stricken with a sudden
fever, and died in the palace in which she had played as a child.

With pomp and display, as was the wont of the Great Republic, with a
city hung with emblems of mourning, and with the solemn stra