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. “Eh via!” she said to herself, “‘t is almost as if it were a revenge upon us for our former churlishness, that he thus now puts us to shame.” The ambassador of Cyprus, swarthy of face and stately in bearing, entered the great hall. With him came his attendant retinue of Cypriote nobles. Kneeling before the doge, the ambassador presented the petition of his master, the King of Cyprus, seeking alliance and friendship with Venice. “And the better to secure this and the more firmly to cement it, Eccellenza,” said the ambassador, “my lord and master the king doth crave from your puissant state the hand, of some high-born damsel of the Republic as that of his loving and acknowledged queen.” The old doge waved his hand toward the fair and anxious seventy-two. “Behold, noble sir,” he said, “the fairest and noblest of our maidens of Venice. Let your eye seek among these a fitting bride for your lord, the King of Cyprus, and it shall be our pleasure to give her to him in such a manner as shall suit the power and dignity of the State of Venice.” Courteous and stately still, but with a shrewd and critical eye, the ambassador of Cyprus slowly passed from candidate to candidate, with here a pleasant word and there a look of admiration; to this one a honeyed compliment upon her beauty, to that one a bit of praise for her elegance of dress. 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.