Rulers of kings: A novelAtherton, Gertrude Franklin Horn
General
Rulers of kings: A novel
Atherton, Gertrude Franklin Horn
Statesmen -- Fiction
Her appearance and her solitary progress between the ranks of bowing
pages in their rich mediæval costumes, was as startling in its historic
naturalness as in its stately and picturesque beauty. The full skirts
of her gown were of a material so fine as to be almost invisible,
covered with embroidery in pearls and silver thread, and flounces of
point-lace. The bodice, sloping outward from waist-line to shoulders,
was of pale blue velvet, half covered with lace, and roped together
across the black tulle of the under-bodice with strands of large
pearls. The court train of blue velvet was lined with lace instead of
ermine--thus increasing the ethereal effect of the whole costume--and
embroidered with black ravens holding a golden ring in the beak--the
emblem of John Hunyadi. Her hair fell to her knees in thick ropes wound
about with strands of pearls, two traversing the front of her figure,
the rest half hidden by the veil which hung from a tiara almost as high
as the Pope’s. On her neck and arms were many pearls. The brilliant
fairness of her skin, the flaming copper of her hair, the intense
blackness of her brows and lashes, the regularity of her features, and
the majestic beauty of her figure, combined with her royal state, the
enchantment of her condescension as a daughter of the coldest house
in Europe, and her bewildering presentment of the daughter of the
Anjous, induced one moment of silence so profound that it was almost
hysterical. Then Zrinyi lifted his kalpag and cried “_Élyen!_” and in
another moment the vast company, from Prince Illehazy, most dignified
of magnates, to the most truculent deputy in the room, were stamping
their feet and shouting “_Élyen!_” until the chandeliers trembled, and
their lights were reflected in the jewels on the waving kalpags. Even
the peasants and gypsies forgot their humble rôle and broke in with
abrupt discordant cries, the Roumanians shouting “_Setreasca!_” And
then all united in one great “_Vivat!_” It was a tribute as portentous
as it was spontaneous, for it had been accomplished by the art without
words.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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