The new Queen had come to Naples to claim and hold the kingdom for her husband, and she made up her mind that she would try every expedient to that end, cost what it might. To steal and to borrow were not lines of conduct that appealed to her, but she could beg, and beg she did. Upon this circumstance historians have fastened, and have written more or less eloquently in praise of a dauntless Queen. After making up her mind to this course of action, Isabelle at once put it into operation, and an immense sensation was created in the city when their beautiful and virtuous Queen, clothed simply in native Neapolitan garb, without jewels or marks of royalty, took her place morning by morning outside the palace, in the open square, a macaroni basket in her fair, white, ringless hands, and there pleaded eloquently, in her sweet and musical voice, for contributions for the honour of the King and for the defence of the city. By her side, clad in Neapolitan costumes, were her three little children--innocent, fresh, and comely. “It was,” wrote a chronicler, “a spectacle to move the heart and soul of a marble statue--if such it hath. A Queen of high degree and impeccability humbling herself for her new country’s good. Looking upon her and her children, one conjured up the base contrast offered to our outraged nature by the late Queen, of infamous memory.” Money flowed in fast and full, and the wicker cash-box daily carried almost more weight of copper and silver, and of articles of jewellery, than the fine strength of the virago Queen could support. Isabelle set about a thorough overhauling of the resources of the national exchequer. She personally rallied troops, and inspected militarily her recruits; arrears of pay were forthcoming, and the better-disposed men of affairs she intuitively selected, and thus purged the seats of government. The King of Aragon, amazed at Isabelle’s courage and ability, refrained from attacking Naples. “I’ll fight with men,” he said, “not with a woman!” he exclaimed. “Let us see what she will do.” The state of Naples in general, and of the Court in particular, was worse than that of any Augean stable. Indeed, of Court, strictly speaking, there was none, for the less disreputable nobles had long ago gone away to their country estates, taking the seeds of corruption with them to sow among their tenantry. The coteries which gathered around the abandoned Queen like eagles round a carcass were split up into murderous, lustful parties, and divided among evil-conditioned brothels. Every man was every woman’s prey, and every woman at the mercy of a libertine. The whole city was a colossal orgie, and its inhabitants sunk in the slough of unmitigated filth. The turpitude of Pompeii found a parallel in the unrighteousness of Naples. To pull aside the veil which merciful Time has placed over those years of banality and crime would be a sacrilege. “Down among the dead men let them lie!”