of your love and unworthy of your throne."

"You forget, Charles," said the queen, putting out her hand as though to
check his words, "Andre is my husband, and it was my grandfather's will
that he should reign with me."

"Never!" cried the duke indignantly; "he King of Naples! Nay, dream that
the town is shaken to its very foundations, that the people rise as
one man, that our church bells sound a new Sicilian vespers, before the
people of Naples will endure the rule of a handful of wild Hungarian
drunkards, a deformed canting monk, a prince detested by them even as
you are beloved!"

"But why is Andre blamed? What has he done?"

"What has he done? Why is he blamed, madam? The people blame him as
stupid, coarse, a savage; the nobles blame him for ignoring their
privileges and openly supporting men of obscure birth; and I,
madam,"--here he lowered his voice, "I blame him for making you
unhappy."

Joan shuddered as though a wound had been touched by an unkind hand; but
hiding her emotion beneath an appearance of calm, she replied in a voice
of perfect indifference--

"You must be dreaming, Charles; who has given you leave to suppose I am
unhappy?"

"Do not try to excuse him, my dear cousin," replied Charles eagerly;
"you will injure yourself without saving him."