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The Viper of Milan

"Lovely in the midst of crime,

And yet unlovely through excess of guilt,

He dazzled through that dim-lit time,

And noble blood for a vain shadow spilt."

The Viper of Milan

A ROMANCE OF LOMBARDY

BY MARJORIE BOWEN

[Illustration: Decoration]

NEW YORK

McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.

MCMVI

_Copyright, 1906, by_

McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.

_To My Mother_

PUBLISHERS' PREFACE

So long as man retains his reminiscent interest in the past of which he

is the product, so long will he continue to take possession of that past

for the purposes of imaginative expression. And so long shall we have

the historical as that form of fiction which of all is perhaps the most

potent and the most perennial in its fascination.

It is significant that at this precise moment when the historical novel

shows so much apparent exhaustion, that there should appear such an

example as _The Viper of Milan_, which, while actually the latest of its

class, might almost be the first, so free is it from any trace of

fatigue or affectation. Here is a novel in which the author writes of

the past with as much _sans-gêne_ as though she were writing of the

present. She moves there so perfectly at home in the mind of her period

that she does not need to note all those minor details which are its

outer manifestation. She makes no attempt at an elaborate reconstruction

of an epoch, but surrenders herself rather to that plastic spirit of an

age which molds the souls of its men and women and makes them the

channel of characteristic expression in thought, feeling and action.

Actually, we know of no novel that gives a more concrete, vivid and

brilliant impression of the Italy of the early Renaissance; but as a

matter of fact there is a total absence of that set description which

forms the staple of the ordinary historical novel. The method of the

author is strictly dramatic and narrative, her story is given as

exclusively as possible through dialogue and action. What description

there is is wholly incidental, and there is never any slacking of the

emotional tension, any interruption of the swift course of events for

the sake of mere word-painting which, however gorgeous, is bound to be

obtrusive.

In all this, of course, Miss Bowen receives some assistance, some

inspiration, as it were, from that particular phase of the past with

which she deals. It would be difficult for anyone to write of Italy as

it emerges from the Middle Ages without catching something in the

narrative itself of that swift play of passion and impulse, of that

tense, highly-wrought tendency to dramatic climax, which starts into

life from the pages of the barest records of the period. And what a

period it was! At the moment which Miss Bowen has chosen, Visconti, that

sinister embodiment of the Lombard blend of Gothic vigor and Latin

cruelty, holds the stage in Northern Italy. He has just vanquished

Verona, seized Isotta d'Este and driven her husband, Della Scala, into

exile. From that point we are shown in a series of swift scenes the

coalition of the d'Estes under Della Scala against Visconti, the rapid

triumph of this reaction up to a certain point, and then its equally

rapid wasting under the assaults less of Milanese prowess than of

Milanese treachery. The final isolation of Della Scala from his allies,

and the supreme test to which his fidelity is subjected by the almost

diabolic genius of Visconti, make one of the most superb climaxes with

which we are familiar in romantic drama or in historical fiction.

Nor does the author seem to fall short of the opportunity offered her

for the vivid and moving portrayal of the great passions involved in so

high an action. For many it will constitute the prime marvel of an

extraordinary book that its author, a young girl of fifteen or sixteen,

who knew nothing of Italy, or of the Italian character, save, through

books, could have conceived and written it. But if we grant the

extraordinary precocity of talent implied in the mere writing of such a

book as _The Viper of Milan_, it is, perhaps, less remarkable than it at

first appears that Miss Bowen should have been so successful in grasping

the purely Italian side of her subject, in rendering the Italian

psychology. For is not youth the Italian age of life? Is there not

something in the ardent dreams and in the swift, uncontrollable impulses

of young natures, that finds _itself_ in the spirit of that race which

though the eldest is still the youngest race of Europe? The Italian

soul, complex as it may appear upon the surface, is in essence simple.

It is the soul of desire, of desire for the dream realized. Such is the

desire even of a Visconti, and the soul of such a man makes him as

simple to seize upon as the ogre of a fairy tale.

A fairy tale!--historical novels are all fairy tales, or approximate to

fairy tales, for the same reason, perhaps, that all the fairies, Puck,

Oberon and the rest of them, were once people in history. Under all the

complexity and confusion of man's mental life there lies the invincible

demand for the simple and the absolute in his view of the past as of the

universe. The scholar and the scientific historian seek to build up

stone by stone, from the dust-heap of the ages, the intricate web of the

past; but the historical novelist, closer to the imagination of the

race, seeks rather to reproduce the past in its broad outlines, in its

ideal aspects of sharply defined and sharply opposing forces.

We hear much to-day of the death of the historical novel as a form of

art. And this is because at its best to-day it has seemed a clever

reconstruction of the past, a _pastiche_, as the French call it, a work

of erudition, rather than an appropriation of the past for the purpose

of effecting a romantic release from the uncompromising and prosaic

conditions of the present. It is no wonder that the old romantic form of

Scott and Dumas, being reduced to so lifeless a formula, should

occasionally appear moribund. But it should be remembered that what

proceeds from the mind, and is part of it, can always be renewed from

the mind, and that forms in art are constantly being revitalized by some

fresh creative impulse. And so often as there shall appear a writer like

Miss Bowen capable of properly appraising the past, not as a shop

stuffed with strange articles of attire and antiquities, but as a

splendid stage set for the performance of a moving human drama, just so

often will the historical novel renew its attraction over the minds of

all men in new creations.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. GIAN GALEAZZO MARIA VISCONTI 3

II. "FRANCISCO" 15

III. THE HOSTAGE OF THE ESTES 25

IV. VALENTINE 35

V. THE PAINTER'S DAUGHTER 39

VI. THE RESCUE OF COUNT VON SCHULEMBOURG 51

VII. "GRAZIOSA'S BRACELET" 58

VIII. FOR A LADY'S GIFT 75

IX. THE RETURN OF THE DEAD 88

X. THE TURQUOISE GLOVES 99

XI. MASTINO DELLA SCALA 111

XII. GRAZIOSA'S LOVER 120

XIII. VALENTINE VISCONTI'S TOAST 133

XIV. THE TUMULT AT THE WESTERN GATE 144

XV. A PRISONER FROM MILAN 157

XVI. FOR A GAME OF CHESS 165

XVII. THE TERRORS OF THE NIGHT 172

XVIII. GIACOMO CARRARA'S REWARD 184

XIX. A SIGN FROM HEAVEN 190

XX. IN THE DUKE'S ABSENCE 199

XXI. THE DUKE'S RETURN 214

XXII. THE SECRET PASSAGE 226

XXIII. FOR LOVE OF AMBROGIO 231

XXIV. TREACHERY 238

XXV. IN CLOTH OF GOLD 243

XXVI. IN VISCONTI'S HANDS 255

XXVII. UNEQUAL ODDS 267

XXVIII. THE VIPER 272

XXIX. THE ORDEAL OF MASTINO DELLA SCALA 287

XXX. THE WEDDING 303

XXXI. THE PRIDE OF THE D'ESTES 314

XXXII. THE PRICE OF DISHONOR 327

XXXIII. THE STORM 334

XXXIV. AN INSTRUMENT OF GOD 344

The Viper of Milan

CHAPTER ONE

GIAN GALEAZZO MARIA VISCONTI

It is a day in early summer, as beautiful as such days were in the

Southern lands of 500 years ago. It is Italy steeped in golden sunlight

which lies like a haze over the spreading view; the year 1360, when

cities were beautiful and nature all-pervading. Here is Lombardy, spread

like a garden in the hollow of the hills, ringed about with the purple

Apennines, covered with flowers, white, yellow, purple, and pink. This

wide road, one of the finest in Italy, winds from Milan to Brescia, its

whole length through chestnut woods and plains covered with flowering

myrtle. Primroses in great clusters border its sides, and from the midst

of their delicate blooms spring the slender stems of poplar trees; these

are red-gold, bursting into bloom against a tender sky; tufts of young

green; clumps of wild violets.

But for all its unspoiled beauty, the road was one of common use, for

Milan was within hail. Villas, the summer dwellings of its wealthy

peers, stood back among the trees, surrounded by magnificent grounds.

Behind them beautiful open country spread into the blue distance,

fragrant and glorious with budding trees. And cold and magnificent the

great city itself, with its huge walls and gates, crowned and emphasized

the landscape's beauty. The lines of hundreds of turrets and spires,

bold and delicate, leaped up against the sky. And paramount, catching

the eye with color, weighing on the mind with meaning, were the city's

banners. They floated from the gates and the highest buildings, half a

score of them, all with the same device. Far off could that device be

read: a green Viper on a silver ground: the emblazonment of the

Visconti.

From afar the city was a vision of stately splendor, and the low

dwellings clustered round about her walls, in the shadow of the palaces,

appeared to the nearing traveler but a touch added of the picturesque. A

close survey, however, revealed semi-ruined huts; in their foul neglect

and unsightliness, a blot upon the scene. They were homes of peasants,

who, tattered and miserable, starved and unwashed, seemed their fitting

occupants. Here comes a band of them slowly dragging along the road

toward Milan, men, women, and children, leading a few rough-haired

mules, laden with scanty country produce. It was poor stuff, and a poor

living they made at it. The wealthy grew their own fruit and vegetables,

the poorer could not afford to buy. Crushed by hopeless oppression into

a perpetual dull acceptance, the crowd trudged along, with shuffling

feet and bent heads, unheeding the beauty and the sunshine, unnoticing

the glory of the spring, with dull faces from which all the soul had

been stamped out, and "fear" writ large across the blank. Every movement

showed them slaves, every line in their bent figures told they lived

under a rule of terror, too potent for them to dare even to raise their

eyes to question. A stream of gray and brown monotony along the glorious

road, decked with the fairest beauty of fair Italy, these miserable

peasants were strangely out of keeping, both with the radiant blossoming

country and the magnificent city they drew near.

Keeping close behind them walked a young man and a boy, better attired

than the others, yet travel-worn and weary-looking. The delicate cast of

their features bespoke them of another part of Italy, as did the soft

Latin tongue in which they held their whispering, excited conversation.

The elder, whom his companion called Tomaso, was a fair-haired youth of

about nineteen; the other, like enough to be a relative, a mere child of

ten or twelve. The sun was growing hot, and their stout cloaks of dull

red serge were flung back, showing their leathern doublets, to which the

elder boy wore attached a great pouch of undressed skin, which evidently

bore their day's provisions.

Suddenly, when Milan, clear and gray, was distant barely half a mile,

the group of wretched figures was roused from its shuffling apathy: and

the terror latent in their aspect leaped into life and motion.

Swept back by the others, the two Florentines gazed in amazement to

learn the cause of this panic. In the distance, brilliant between the

dark stone of the gateway of the city, fluttered a banner, blazoned with

the same device as those that blew above the walls. The peasants' eyes,

sharpened by fear, were quicker than Tomaso's: it was some seconds

before he could discern that the banner fluttered from the canopy of a

splendid coach, magnificent in gold and scarlet, issuing from the somber

shadow into the sunshine of the road; and as it drew nearer, he looked

with pleasure not unmixed with wonder at the rich gildings, fine silk,

the beauty of the four black horses, the size and magnificent liveries

of the huge negroes who walked at their heads. To him it was an

interesting sight, an incident of his travels. But to the Milanese

peasants it was the symbol of the dread power that ruled Lombardy with a

grip of blood, the device that kept Milan, the wealthiest, proudest city

in the north, cringing in silent slavery; the banner that had waved from

city after city, added by force or treachery to the dominions of Milan;

the banner of Gian Galeazzo Maria Visconti, Duke.

With trembling hands and muttered threats to their slow beasts, the

hinds dragged their burdens to the roadside, forcing the children back

into the hedges; leaving clear the ways. Cowering and awestruck, in

fascinated expectation, they stared, toward that oncoming banner, and at

the horseman who rode behind.

Still at the same measured pace the coach advanced; a cumbrous

structure, swung high on massive gilded wheels, and open under an

embroidered canopy of scarlet silk. At the head of each black horse

walked a negro, richly dressed in scarlet and gold. The trappings of the

steeds were dazzling, in stamped leather and metal.

But this splendor of array the peasant folk of Lombardy were used to; it

was not that that made them crouch as if they would ask the earth to

hide them, shiver and shudder yet farther back as if the soft green bank

could save them.

In the coach sat two, a man and a woman, but both so old and shrivelled

that the distinguishing characteristics of their sex were well-nigh

lost. Both were richly clad in furs, and half-hidden in satin cushions,

nothing of the old man visible but his wrinkled face, gray beard, and,

loaded with rings, thin yellow hands, the fingers of which were

clutching nervously at his heavy silken robe. The woman, painted and

bedizened under a large red wig, weighed down by a gown of cloth of

gold, and with pearls around her neck, wrung her hands together, and

whispered incoherently below her breath. Both had sunk together among

the cushions in an attitude of despair, the man looking steadily in

front of him with white face, the woman casting terror-stricken eyes

over the wretched spectators in a mute appeal for help, if even from

them.

Behind them rode the single horseman who had struck the terror. His pace

was leisurely, his horse's bridle held by a pale-faced man with long

red hair, of a stealthy bearing, crushed and mean-looking, but

resplendent in a jeweled dress. The rider himself, slight and handsome,

about thirty, plainly attired in green, gave, at a first glance, small

token of the spell he exercised. He rode with ease and surety: in one

hand a half-rolled parchment from which he read aloud in a soft voice,

in the other a long whip with which he flicked and teased the occupants

of the carriage.

The coach and its occupants, the solitary rider, and the red-haired man,

were the whole of the procession.

At the rider's side hung a single dagger, the others were unarmed, yet

the crowd trembled under a spell of fear as if half Italy had backed

that man. No one gave sign of feeling, no one moved, though the wretched

couple looked around keenly and eagerly, with the helpless misery of

those who have fallen below everything save fear, and will stoop to ask

help of the lowest. And the Visconti banner floated out dreamily upon

the light spring breeze, and the rider rode at ease and read from the

parchment with a smiling face.

Suddenly the old man rose, and threw out his hands with a wild gesture

toward the crouching peasants. His frantic cry was stifled on his lips,

and a cut from the whip sent him back to his seat with a snarl of

impotent fury. The woman sobbed aloud, but sat still, for the tease of

the whip followed their slightest movements, though the horseman seemed

to heed nothing but the parchment from which he read.

"Beautiful the Tuscan flowers grew

Around the Florentine----"

The soft lines died away on his smiling lips: he raised his eyes and

looked straight at the old man, who, at the words, had turned in his

seat and was gazing over his shoulder with an intensity of hate.

But on the pause there followed a cold laugh as the old man winced,

faltered, and dropped his eyes from that charmed and steady gaze. Again

the whip circled round them, and the calm voice continued:

"But straight and firm the poplars grew

The Lombard ranks between."

The woman gazed around the crowd, desperate in hopeless misery. Hopeless

indeed. Not a finger was raised, not a word uttered, though, men alone,

they numbered more than fifty.

"Perchance thou wouldst not dare to turn

And draw the veil from off that face,

Fearing what secrets thou might'st learn

Both for thine own and her disgrace,"

read the horseman, and the cavalcade passed on its heavy way, and the

faint hope that had leaped to life within the wretched victims, at sight

of human eyes upon them, died within them.

But on the outside of the crowd, Tomaso and Vittore, kneeling with the

rest, as that banner drew near, now stirred uneasily, and, as the coach

came abreast, the woman made a convulsive movement with her hands. The

elder sprang to his feet and stepped forward impulsively. At sight of

him in the roadway the horseman drew rein, and the terror-stricken crowd

watched breathless, while the youth advanced boldly to his stirrup, hot

words upon his lips, defiance in his eyes. The red-haired man at the

bridle crouched, but before the lad could speak, the rider, leaning

forward, struck him a blow full across the face.

There was no need for a second. With a scream of pain, Tomaso fell back,

and then, as if noticing them for the first time, the horseman sent his

glance on the crowd. No sound or movement: they cowered beneath his eyes

in deprecating silence.

"Drive on," he said, and the dreary procession started again, winding

through the sun and shadow toward Brescia.

So great was the spell upon the peasants, that though the wounded boy

lay moaning in the road, not a man, scarce a child among them stirred

from his place till the banner of the Viper was a silver speck in the

distance.

Then with shaking hands the youth was dragged into the ditch amid a

babble of blame and fear. Vittore, rising from his stricken comrade,

gazed into the distance with horror-stricken eyes.

"Who was it?" he whispered at last to the woman near him. "Who was it?"

She turned a dull face up from the scattered vegetables she was

gathering together.

"Who art thou that thou knowest not?" she asked.

"I come from Florence," said the lad quickly, "traveling to Verona."

"To Verona! Thou art not on thy way to Verona here."

"I know it, but the company we traveled with was bound for Milan. Three

days ago we missed them, and thought to find them in the city where we

looked to spend the night, but now----"

He glanced at his companion and could scarce refrain from weeping.

"To Verona!" said an old peasant, turning sharply at the name. "To

Verona!"

The child dropped again to his knees beside Tomaso.

"Yes," he said, over his shoulder. "My cousin--he is done to death, I

fear me--and I were traveling by way of Milan to Della Scala's

court----"

He broke off, and wrung his hands. "Oh, help me, some one; Tomaso is

dying!"

With a certain dull humanity, kindness it could scarcely be called that

was so inert and full of apathy, one or two of them gave what help they

could.

"Thou art from Florence!" said the old man again. "Aye, indeed, I _know_

thou art from Florence, for thy mate here to have had such daring. Why

camest thou from _Florence_ to anywhere by way of Milan?"

For even to the dull mind of the peasantry, Florence, who alone of the

cities of Italy had preserved her liberty, seemed a country of the free,

a republic of equality.

"Tomaso's father sent for him to come to him in Della Scala's court, and

as last year my father was slain in the wars with Venice, since then I

have resided with my cousin--and so accompany him--having naught else to

do!"

The boy looked up bewildered; he was half-dazed with this sudden

misfortune.

"We go to Verona!" he repeated. "We have food and a little money--if

only this had not happened!"

He turned to his prostrate cousin and burst into tears.

The woman looked at him with pity: the old peasant shrugged his

shoulders.

"Thy cousin was over-bold! As well face the evil one--" he mumbled and

crossed himself, "as step into the path of the--" he stopped abruptly

and cast uneasy glances around him.

"And that?" cried the boy, his tears arrested, "that man on horseback?"

"That was the Visconti! Aye! Gian Galeazzo Maria, Duke of Milan!"

The lad gazed down the road with interest and new terror.

"The Duke of Milan! He who lately warred with Florence!" he cried

breathlessly.

"Aye, and beat her!" There was a touch of pride in the answer, for the

peasant was of Milan. But the boy did not notice the remark, he was too

absorbed in terrified conjecture.

"And they in the carriage--?" he whispered.

A silence fell. The crowd shuffled away from him, and turned their faces

to the city. Used to scenes of horror as they were, the cavalcade that

had just passed them seemed, even to their half hearts, to have chilled

the sunlight with its terror.

A young woman suddenly snatched her child up from the ground and

strained it to her, in a passion of distress.

"Oh, Luigi, Luigi, my little child, it was his father and mother, his

father and mother!"

She grasped the old man's arm. "Marked you how she looked at me?" she

cried.

The peasant checked her outbreak, but looked down the road with gloomy

eyes.

"They will never return from Brescia," he said; "they must be near

seventy--old for such an end. However, hush thee, woman, 'tis no affair

of ours!" Several anxious voices echoed him.

"Why should we care!" said one, "'tis a Visconti the less to crush us."

And Vittore saw the whole band turning off, pushing, driving, and urging

their beasts along. He dragged at his still senseless companion in a

sudden panic.

"Help me!" he said. "We would on; I dare not stay alone."

The old man laughed harshly.

"Where will you on to? Are we to drag you into Milan to be whipped to

death for harboring you; and Verona is in the hands of the

Visconti--his last and greatest victory!"

"But my uncle--Della Scala's court!" cried the boy distractedly. The old

man drew himself up in his rags and spoke with a mixture of pride and

awe.

"Mastino della Scala perished in the flames of his burning palace; his

wife is a prisoner, yonder in Milan, in the Visconti's hands. Thou hast

not much to look for from Della Scala's court," he said.

"Hold thy peace! Hold thy peace!" cried angry voices. "What hast thou to

do with such as he?" and the old man, whose better intelligence made him

a source of danger to the others, was dragged away.

"But thou wilt not leave me here?" said Vittore, in distress. "Where

shall I go? What shall I do?" But the peasant folk were not much moved

by his misfortunes, too much used to scenes like this.

"We risk our necks by staying by thee," growled one dark-browed man. "As

for thy companion, it is his own mad doing. He is dead, and we may be

dead this time to-morrow, and kicked into the ditch like him."

Even the woman listened blankly to his entreaties, and the throng

sullenly departed on its way.

"Any moment a soldier of the Visconti may come by, or the Visconti

himself may return, then anyone found tending one of his victims will be

in sorry plight." This, mumbled out with curses at the delay, was their

only answer.

The peasants of Lombardy lived in the shadow of an awful name. Gian

Galeazzo Maria Visconti knew neither fear of God nor man, neither pity

nor remorse.

The young Florentine sank down upon the grass, and looked after the

retreating train in mute distress. To seek for help would mean to leave

his cousin, and he could not move him. Tomaso lay in a deep swoon, for

the blow had driven him back upon a stone. Terribly wounded about the

face, Tomaso added to his young cousin's distress by his ghastly

appearance, his head bound in rough bandages, torn from Vittore's

clothing, and now darkly stained with blood. The boy wrung his hands and

looked up and down the road--no one in sight.

It was just after the victory in the long-standing wars between the

cities; Verona had fallen into the Visconti's hands; interchange of

traffic was for the time laid low; the road was likely to be deserted,

and for hours none passed.

The boy dragged Tomaso's head and shoulders as far into the shade as he

could manage, remoistened the bandages about his head, and tried to

force down his throat some of the food and drink they carried. But the

youth muttered between clenched teeth, and lay with wide-staring eyes,

inert and unresponsive. His consciousness had returned, but he was

delirious in fever. As the day wore on, new and sickening terror seized

on Vittore. The Visconti would return to Milan! Hiding his face in his

hands, he sobbed aloud. Since the bright dawn of the morning, what a

change in prospects! Della Scala's court a ruin--and Tomaso's

father--his uncle, the only parent he had ever known--what of him! And

Tomaso too! He must sit there and see him die beside him. As the

noontide waned, he had fallen again into stupor, and the boy looked at

his changed face distractedly.

"He is dead!" he cried, "I know he is dead!" But he dared not leave him;

besides, Milan held a terror, and he would scarcely dare to enter it.

Perhaps when the peasants returned they might have pity on them; if

not--again his sobs filled up the lonely outlook. The long hours dragged

by; a horseman passed, a mercenary laden with some plunder from Verona;

he did not even turn in his saddle. A few peasants slowly came back from

Milan, seeking their huts around the neighboring villas. But they were

as deaf to his cries as before; he could come with them if he liked; but

the other--he was dead and killed by the Visconti; let him lie there.

And now Vittore was in despair; the sun was beginning to drop behind the

trees, the delicate stems of the poplars stretched in long blue shadows,

the faint golden light lay across the primroses, making them fairylike.

Suddenly a step aroused him. Some one along the road. He started to his

feet, and there, still in the distance, but rapidly approaching, was the

figure of a traveler, his shadow thrown before him, his face set toward

Milan.

CHAPTER TWO

"FRANCISCO"

A gleam of hope sent Vittore forward. Here was some one who, alone and

on foot, must know the perils of travel, and might be kind-hearted;

though, with Tomaso dead, what even pity could do for him he scarcely

knew. Then again the boy's heart failed him. Perhaps this was no more

than some wandering robber. He paused, drew back, and the traveler came

on not noticing him, his gaze fixed keenly on the distant city.

By the roadside some boulders, half-hidden in violets and golden with

moss, offered a seat, and half-stumbling over them, the stranger

abruptly withdrew his eyes from Milan and saw for the first time the

boy, who from a few paces off was timorously observing him.

He was a powerful man of gigantic size, clothed in coarse leather,

undressed, patched, slashed, and travel-worn. His legs were bound with

straw and thongs of skin, the feet encased in rough wooden shoes stuffed

with grass.

A battered leathern cap covered his head, and from his shoulder hung a

ragged scarlet cloak. A dagger and a sword were stuck in his belt, a

leather pouch hung at his side. The man's face and bearing belied his

dress. He was not handsome, and a peculiar effect was given to the

expression by the half-shut brown eyes, but he had a grave and stately

bearing, and as he a little unclosed a searching gaze upon Vittore, the

boy felt renewed encouragement.

"Sir," cried the lad advancing, "I am in great distress. My cousin lies

there dead, or dying. Help me to get him to some shelter."

"I am a stranger here," replied the traveler, "and have no shelter for

myself to-night."

His accent, like his bearing, again belied his dress. He spoke in the

refined Tuscan tongue, the language of the better classes, and to

Vittore, who was gently nurtured, more familiar than the rough dialect

of Lombardy, which he and Tomaso could only badly comprehend.

"But what I can find for myself," he added, "thou art welcome to share.

Where is thy cousin?"

Vittore pointed to the recumbent figure half-hidden in the bank; the man

glanced across, then around him. The sun was almost set, a whole flock

of delicate little pink clouds lay trembling over Milan, its noble

outline already half in shadow.

"It will be dark soon," he said, "and perchance--" he broke off

abruptly. "Thy cousin, didst thou say?--what has happened to him?

Wounded in some roadside fray?"

He rose as he spoke and crossed over to the fallen boy. "And what are

you two doing traveling alone?" he demanded sternly.

"Alas, messer, we were going to Verona."

"To Verona, by way of Milan?"

"We had no choice. The company we traveled with were bound hither, but

three days ago we missed them, and came on here alone, lest perhaps they

had preceded us. But for this accident we thought to pass the night in

Milan--but now, what shall we do? and we hear that Verona has been

taken!"

The stranger was bending over Tomaso, and Vittore did not see his face.

"How did this happen?" he asked presently, touching the mark upon

Tomaso's face. And Vittore told him.

The stranger was quiet a long breath.

"So this is _Visconti's_ doing," he said at last. "Thy cousin is a brave

lad."

And he fell again into a silence which Vittore dared not break, while

under the stranger's care Tomaso opened his eyes, and feebly muttered

and tried to rise. But the other bade him wait a while, and turned to

Vittore again.

"And which way did Visconti ride?" he asked.

The boy pointed. "The peasants said it was toward Brescia."

"And he has not yet re-entered Milan?"

"No, messer." By now Vittore felt and showed respect.

"Then we will not enter Milan either," said the stranger, "since

Visconti has not."

The boy gazed on him, struck by his tone, and Tomaso's eyes,

half-closing, reopened and fixed themselves upon the stranger's face.

"Messer, you hate Visconti?" whispered Vittore.

The man laughed shortly. "There are many in Lombardy who hate Visconti,"

he said. "Perhaps I not less than others. Boy," he added, with sudden

intensity, "I have only two things to live for: one is to tell Visconti

to his face what one man's hatred is."

And leaving them half-terrified, he strode into the road, and shading

his eyes looked long and searchingly away from Milan; but the dusk was

settling fast, not a soul in sight, not a sound.

Presently, with an air of relief, born of new-sprung resolution, the

stranger returned to the expectant boys.

Revived by his tendance and by the cool evening air, Tomaso was helped

upon his feet, Vittore clasped his hands in joy to see him move again.

"Messer, how shall we thank thee!" he exclaimed.

"Call me Francisco," said the traveler. "Thou wert journeying to

Verona, didst thou say? What kinsman hast thou there?"

"My father," whispered Tomaso feebly, "Georgio Ligozzi." Leaning against

the stranger, indeed half-carried by him, Tomaso felt him start. "Thou

knewest him, messer?"

"He was put high in favor at Della Scala's court, and sent for us to

share his fortune," put in Vittore eagerly.

"Ah," said Francisco. "Della Scala's court has perished. I am from

Verona. I saw it burned."

Tomaso's head sunk dizzily upon his helper's shoulder. Vittore's young

heart swelled, then seemed to break within him. He choked back his sobs.

"And Della Scala--and my uncle: did they perish too?"

"Who can tell?" replied the stranger sternly. "Who shall say who

perished or who not on such a night as that on which Verona fell?"

"But Della Scala's wife, the Duchess, is yonder, prisoner in Milan."

"And that proves, thou thinkest, Della Scala must be dead! Maybe; who

knows? All the same, thou art a brave lad and a gallant for the

thought."

He paused to rest Tomaso on the boulders that had been his seat. "And

for that speech of thine I'll tell thee something, boy. I am the

Visconti's foe. For the sake of Della Scala, whom I knew, for the sake

of Verona, where I lived, for the sake of something dearer to a man than

life, I am sworn to hunt him down--and now, no more. We will see to

shelter."

Resting Tomaso's head against his knee, Francisco turned a trained and

searching gaze about him.

To the right, on some thickly wooded, slightly rising ground, could be

discerned the unmistakable outline of a great wall, built to a

monstrous height, no doubt the boundary of a villa of unusual size and

magnificence. Beneath the wall, half-hidden by a grove of chestnuts, was

the usual cluster of huts: the dwellings of the hinds and vassals of the

villa's noble owner. But no smoke trailed upward, nor did any sign of

life strike upon the ear.

"We will try those huts yonder," said Francisco. "They are far enough

from the road for security, yet not too far to hamper any return hither.

They seem deserted, but even if inhabited, they are scarce likely to

refuse me shelter for a wounded boy."

And Vittore, looking at his size and stern appearance, thankfully agreed

with him. Almost carrying Tomaso, Francisco led the way, and quickly

reached a footpath which, after many twistings, brought them out into a

turf-grown opening around three sides of which the cottages were built.

The fourth was the wall enclosing the grounds, and along it, bordering a

ditch, ran a pleasant path which, as they subsequently discovered, led

to a small stream, artificially extended, where it passed the villa, to

a lake of some not inconsiderable size.

But, as Francisco had surmised, the whole place stood empty and

deserted, though it could not have been long since the fagots had blazed

on the open hearths. Signs of occupation were too recent.

The wayfarers gazed about them wonderingly. It was a place of charm. The

fast-grown grass was thick with flowers; and a wooden bucket hung idly

from its chain above the wooden runnel.

Supporting Tomaso, Francisco turned into the nearest hut, and noted it

was better fashioned and better fitted than many of the like. A low

doorway admitted into the long divisions of the space, each lit by small

square openings in the walls. The light by now had faded, and save that

it was empty of life, little else would have been discernible, but a

portion of the roof had been broken away, as if by some pikeman's

reckless thrust, and through the gap some of the sweet spring dusk

showed them faintly their surroundings. A few stools, a wooden table,

roughly hewn, a broken earthenware bowl, and a rudely painted crucifix,

half-torn from the wall, completed the furniture.

"They fled in haste," said Francisco grimly. "Has Visconti been here

too?"

"See," cried Vittore, and he picked up from his feet a silver goblet.

The other turned from where he had laid Tomaso down and took it from him

eagerly.

The piece was heavily chased, bearing a raised shield wrought with the

German eagle and lettering "C.S."

"German," he said. "Plunder. Possibly from the villa. This may account

for its desertion. Yes--no doubt: the owner of the villa has crossed

Visconti's path."

And his teeth ground over the name as he set the goblet on the table,

where it gleamed with a faint ghostly light.

"Sleep," he said presently to Vittore. "Eat this and then sleep. Thou

canst do so with safety."

The boy, glancing up into his face, believed him, and was soon lost to

everything in the deep sleep of utter weariness of mind and body.

Francisco bent above Tomaso and gave him wine to swallow, and set water

by his side. The youth caught the hand that tended him and kissed it.

"I am grateful," he murmured. "To-morrow I shall be well."

"Aye, get better," said Francisco. "Thou mayst be of some service if

thou wilt. Nay," he added, checking Tomaso's feeble but eager impulse,

"I know not yet what I can do myself. But we have a cause in common,"

and he smiled faintly. "And now sleep. You sought Della Scala's court.

I will not desert thee."

Taking his tattered cloak from his shoulders, he laid it over him, and

Tomaso lay back on the ready spread couch of heather, and watched

peacefully.

There was no light in the hut, but the moonshine began to show across

the open doorway. Francisco pulled a stool to the table, and sitting,

drew out his dagger and carefully examined it; laid it ready. Then he

felt in his wallet as if to reassure himself of something, and then

Tomaso saw him slip something on his hand--it gleamed: a ring!

"Who is he?" thought the youth, not sure he gazed upon reality. "Who is

he?"

Then he dozed unwittingly, and, waking with a start, saw the moonlight

streaming through the broken roof, the faint stars, and near him Vittore

sleeping. The goblet still shone upon the crazy table, but the hut door

had been closed and, save for themselves, the place was empty.

Francisco stepped out into the spring night, fire beating at his

temples: _Visconti was abroad!_

The moon, half-shrouded in a misty vapor, was rising above the fragrant

chestnuts, and brilliant in the semi-dark, like flame behind a veil, the

clumps of wallflowers gave out intoxicating scent.

Francisco noticed them, and thought grimly they were the color of blood

just dry.

The spell of the moon and of the hour lay on everything; a weird

ghostliness seemed to step among the trees; a sighing came from the

great bushes in the garden of the villa: "Visconti is abroad!"

Francisco touched his dagger and went forward. Across his path two white

moths fluttered, white by day, now silver purple, illusive and

mysterious. To the man's fevered mood they seemed an omen; souls of the

dead allowed to take farewell of earth; and with straining eyes he

watched them float away and up, and out of sight. "Who had perchance

just died?"

Francisco's giant sinews tightened. He went forward swiftly to the road,

and strained his eyes and ears along its silver length.

Nothing to be heard! nothing to be seen! Had he lost his chance, had the

Duke re-entered Milan? Or had he gone too far to return that night? He

sat upon the boulders where he had rested previously, his face turned

toward Brescia, his hand upon his dagger.

The soft air was strengthening into a gentle wind; the poplar leaves

were dancing, and darkening clouds began to drive across the moon. But

the man heeded nothing the changing; light or dark, what matter once

Visconti had crossed his path? Long he waited. Not a sound save the

dancing of the leaves, the rising wind, the soft noises of the night. At

length Francisco leaped to his feet, and his breath came short and fast.

He could hear something. The wind was against him. He lay down; he put

his ear to the ground; then he leaped to his feet again, transformed. It

was unmistakable, though still far off; the thud of horses' flying feet.

Francisco waited.

With each second the wind rose; the clouds raced and gathered, and

darkened half the sky, and the man, straining every nerve, thought at

first it was the wind he heard mingling with the trample of the oncoming

hoofs. Then he knew it for screams of fury and wild shouting. "It is the

Visconti," he said, and involuntarily his tense arm sank and his muscles

loosened; those mad shrieks could freeze the marrow.

Nearer came the onset, trampling horse and yelling rider; and Francisco

set himself anew.

"He rides with his own soul for company," he muttered grimly.

Now the furious cries came clearly, terrible, inhuman; and in another

moment, horse and rider were in view.

"Yes. Visconti."

Standing in the stirrups, he lashed at the foaming horse in a blind rage

and horror. His cap was gone, and hair and cloak were blown about him.

He shouted wildly, cursed and shrieked.

For a breath Francisco paused. This could be no human rider; well was it

known in Lombardy that the Visconti trafficked with the fiend, and this

must be he; and the man shrank and turned his eyes, lest he should see

his damning face.

But the next instant his courage and his purpose had returned.

The horse was upon him. Swift as thought, Francisco leaped and clutched

the bridle in a hand of steel.

But the mad impetus defeated him. He was dragged forward like a reed;

only his own great strength for the moment saved him. And now his wild

shouts were added to the rider's. He struck upward with his dagger; he

tore blindly.

"Do you not know me, Visconti?" he called. "Do you not know me?"

But his dagger was dashed from him. The horse's foam blinded him as it

sprang desperately on. He heard Visconti's demon scream, and as the

earth whirled round with him, caught one fleeting glimpse of the white,

distorted, hated face--then, he was prone upon the ground, and Visconti,

spurring on his way, looked back upon him with triumphant yells.

"Fly, fly!" he screamed, "they are after us, but we escape them. Fly!"

The dawn was showing when Francisco, spent with the passion of failure

rather than from any hurt, came slowly back and picked his dagger from

the road. Not far from it he saw a parchment roll tossed from Visconti's

doublet in that frantic forward lunge--Visconti who had safely

disappeared within the walls of Milan!

Francisco picked up the roll.

It was inscribed with poetry and patched with blood.

CHAPTER THREE

THE HOSTAGE OF THE ESTES

"A hundred thousand florins--and no more, even if they refuse the

bargain."

It was the Visconti who spoke. In a small dark room in the Visconti

palace, he and the pale-faced, red-haired man, who had held the bridle

of his horse two days before in the procession that had wended toward

Brescia, were seated opposite to one another at the table; between them

a pile of papers over which the secretary bowed his shoulders.

"The demand is a hundred and fifty, my lord," he said, his voice meek,

his eyes furtive.

"They said two hundred to begin with," was the curt answer. "A hundred

thousand florins, or I go elsewhere."

The secretary's pen flew nervously across the parchment, filling it with

a cramped, mean writing that trailed unevenly along the page. Visconti's

secretary wrote a characteristic hand. Visconti leaned back in his

chair, watching him in silence.

The room was small and circular, hung with leather stamped in gold, and

furnished plainly even to bareness. A narrow lancet window, placed low

in the wall, admitted a subdued light, which fell upon the only spot of

color in the room, the suit of turquoise blue the secretary wore.

"A hundred thousand florins, to be paid in gold," repeated Visconti;

"and no more, Giannotto."

He rose and began to pace the room. Long habit and constant contact had

not lessened the secretary's fear of Visconti, nor mitigated the hate,

none the less intensified for being forever concealed under the mask of

cringing servility. But in Giannotto's dislike there was nothing noble;

it was merely mean hate of a sordid soul that grudged the success of the

bold crimes itself could never dare to undertake. Had the secretary been

in Visconti's place, there would have been as vile a tyrant, of equal

cruelty and far less courage.

The Duke moved to the window and stood there in observation awhile, then

turning, spoke to Giannotto with a smile. His eyes were a beautiful

gray, open wide, and just now lighting up a pensive, pleasant face. But

the secretary knew it too under a different guise.

"My sister's alliance with the Duke of Orleans gratifies my ambition,

Giannotto," he said, "and is well worth a hundred thousand florins. So

far the Valois have never married out of Royal Houses."

"Yet they consider themselves honored by this match, my lord," said the

secretary.

"They consider themselves well paid," returned Visconti. "Now, if I can

find a daughter of the Plantagenets for brother Tisio, behold us firmly

placed among the dynasties of Europe!"

Early in the fourteenth century, but no more than a meager fifty years

ago, before the last Visconti culminated the evil of his race, Matteo

Visconti, Gian Galeazzo's grandfather, had first firmly established his

family as lords of Milan, supplanting their rival the Toriani, who had

long reigned as magistrates-in-chief, and under Martin della Torre risen

to some eminence. Every year of the fifty since then had seen some

increase of territory, some fresh acquisition of power, till with his

last overthrow of Della Scala, the seizure of Verona, and the murder of

his father, already miserably deposed, Gian Galeazzo had planted himself

upon a level with kings.

Almost the whole of Lombardy was under his sway, and that sway extended

from Verceli in Piedmont to Feltre and Bellvino. Florence, lately

leagued against him in support of his deposed father, had been beaten in

battle after battle and was glad to escape, shorn of her fairest

possessions, and cherishing only her liberty.

All this Giannotto knew. Della Scala, Duke of Verona, had owned fair

lands and wide, Verona, Brescia, all now in Visconti's hands. The

secretary wondered, as he thought, how long it would be before the

triumphant Gian threw away the mere rag of respect, the mere mockery of

a title which bound him to the Empire, and became King of Lombardy in

name as well as power.

"And thou thyself, my lord," he said. "Thou wilt marry a Valois to thy

sister! Who will be thy bride?"

Visconti smiled. "These marriages are for ambition. Dost thou think I

shall marry for ambition? No, Giannotto, I have placed myself above need

of that. The alliances that make the Visconti one with the kings of

Europe are for Valentine and Tisio; I shall marry----"

"For love, my lord?" ventured the secretary, with a hint of sarcasm.

"Whom I please," said Visconti. "Which is not what Valentine is doing,"

he added with a smile.

"She may give trouble yet, my lord."

Visconti frowned. He thought of Conrad von Schulembourg, the brilliant

young German noble, who had been a favorite with him and all his court,

and had won the heart of Valentine Visconti; no favorite of his now. "As

for my lady sister," he said, "let her dare turn her eyes save where I

bid her."

His own grew ominous, and Giannotto shuffled uneasily.

A noise without broke the sudden silence of reflection. Visconti,

responding at once to what it meant, glanced a moment from the window

where he still stood, then swept down to the head of the table. He

leaned across to Giannotto, not that he valued any response that he

could offer--Visconti's secretary was no more to him than the chair on

which he sat, valued solely for his skill in letters--but his triumph

had to have its vent. "Hark!" he cried. "Listen to it, Giannotto! The

wealth of Verona is pouring into Milan! The spoils of Verona, Giannotto,

the treasures from Mastino della Scala's palace!"

Giannotto winced before Visconti's passionate joy.

"'Twas a man I hated, Giannotto--I would he had lived to feel it. The

only man I ever _hated_, because the only man I ever feared, the only

man who ever dared to despise me! But he has fallen, he is dead, his

wife is in my power, and in his fall he has placed me higher than my

highest hopes."

Carried away by his transports, he seized Giannotto by the arm and

dragged him to the window.

The secretary gazed into the courtyard, where a group of soldiers and

servants were busy conveying statues, gilt and silver plate, rich

tapestry, glass, china, and arms, from carts and mules into the narrow

doorways that led into the grim interior of the palace. They were

presided over by a major-domo in a black gown, who called out directions

in a shrill voice. To one side a few unhappy men, of note enough to have

been spared, watched in grim silence the unlading of the spoils that

came from the sacking of their palaces. The great gates stood at their

widest, and through them wound a long train of soldiers, some driving

before them groups of prisoners, tightly chained together, others

galloping in laden with plunder of all kinds, art treasures, blackened

as if by fire, banners and suits of armor.

"Ah, Giannotto, look," cried Visconti, "_Della Scala's_ collection,

_Della Scala's_ jewels. How my treasury will be enriched! Only one thing

mars it, that he should not be here to see!"

He turned from the window. Giannotto followed, cringing.

"Still, thou hast his wife, my lord," he said. Gian's eyes flashed

afresh.

"Isotta d'Este--ah!"

He leaned back against the wall in silence. A certain winter morning,

five years ago, rose clearly before him; a massive castle, frowning from

the rocks above Modena, and on its steps a fair girl who stood there and

laughed to see him ride away back to Milan, his offer of the Visconti's

friendship scorned and flung in his face by her proud family, the

haughty Estes. Visconti's face grew dark as he remembered her; almost

more than Della Scala, her dead husband, did he hate Isotta, Della

Scala's wife. And she was in his power. Greatly would it have soothed

him to know her death was in his power too, but the lust of ambition was

greater with this man even than the lust of pride or hate.

Isotta d'Este was a valuable hostage to be used against her family,

should they think of avenging their fallen kinsman.

"Where hast thou finally placed her, my lord?" asked Giannotto, with his

stealthy glance. The Duke started from his reverie.

"In the West Tower," he smiled. "Every day I go to gaze on the room that

holds her to make sure it is not a dream; to see and feel with my eyes

and my own hands that her prison is doubly sure. If Isotta d'Este

should now escape me--but she will not!"

He crossed the room to leave it, but paused at the door.

"Be watchful, Giannotto, the Princess Valentine may try to leave the

palace. I have spies on her every movement; still, thine eyes upon her

also will do no harm--to _me_!"

He laughed an instant. A rustle of the hangings and he was gone.

Giannotto sat on silently, looking in front of him. His thoughts were

with Valentine Visconti, Gian's unhappy sister, whom he had been told to

watch; from her they traveled to the German Count, who, five days ago,

had left the palace.

"I wonder if she loved him," he mused. "I do not think she did. Dear

God, she did not need to wait to love a man, her life was not such that

she could pick and choose her way of escaping from it. Conrad offered

one and she was ready to take it--now--_five days ago!_ Yes--Count

Conrad is dead, and she will marry the Duke of Orleans! Ah, well! The

German was a fool, he deserved no better fate than a fool! I do not

think she'll break her heart if she can find some other way."

He returned to his papers, pausing now and then to glance toward the

door, as if to keep himself on the alert for the Duke's noiseless entry.

But Gian had bent his steps elsewhere. Plainly dressed, he passed almost

unnoticed across an inner courtyard to a dark angle of a wall where a

secret door anew admitted him. The whole Visconti palace was a somber

and gloomy place; men crept about it on tiptoe, glancing fearfully

around them, afraid of their own shadows. Visconti smiled to himself at

sight of fear; he loved to be feared, to hold lives in the hollow of his

hand, and play with them and death.

The door let him into a long narrow passage flagged with stone, and lit

by diamond-shaped holes left in the walls; the air was damp and chill,

and Visconti drew his cloak around him. Unlocking a second door, he

ascended a flight of stone steps, pitch dark, from which he emerged into

a large circular chamber with a thick pillar in the middle from which

the groined ceiling sprang. Save table and high-backed chair of

blackened wood, there was no furniture. This chamber was the outer

guard-room of the prison-wing, and a gloomy-faced man leaned against the

pillar, his eyes fixed upon the opening door. It could be no other than

the Visconti entering thus, and he crouched almost to the ground.

"What is thy guard?" said Visconti.

"Twenty men in each guard-room my lord, and each one picked for size and

trustworthiness, and I myself keep watch upon the door. Escape is

impossible."

"By so much the more that thy head will answer for it."

As he spoke, Visconti flung wide one of a ring of doors opening from the

chamber, and stepped into a posse of soldiers. No one spoke. Glancing

keenly to the right and left, Visconti passed through their ranks into

the room beyond,--a small apartment, dim lit and hung with arras. An old

woman sat at a tapestry frame with her back to the door, but at

Visconti's entrance she rose, as at something expected, and sank in a

deep obeisance.

Gian Maria closed the door behind him.

"How is she?" he said. "How does she bear her change of prison?"

The old woman glanced toward an inner door, massive and iron-clamped.

"When I am with her, my lord, she sits in silence, her eyes forever on

her missal; indeed she has not spoken since we brought her here; but

when she is alone, she weeps. I have heard her through the door; she

weeps passionately, and calls wildly upon her husband to save her."

"I would I had him, to stand him gagged against the door to hear her,"

said the Duke.

"By the look of her she will die of it," continued the old woman. "But

if I know anything of prisoners, and I have seen a few, thou wilt never

break her spirit, my lord."

"She _must_ be more humbled now," he said to himself. "She _must_ turn

and implore me for pity."

The huge door creaked and swung on its hinges, and he stood at the top

of two low stone steps, looking down into Isotta's prison. It was little

better than a dungeon of stone, lofty but dark, with one window deep

set, high out of reach, and thickly barred. The walls were hung with

faded tapestry, the gloomy, sad-looking folds drooping like torn,

captured standards. A huge chest of somber blackness leaned against the

wall; above it hung a horn lantern, which after dark gave all the light

that was obtained. For the rest, a few high-backed chairs stood stiffly

about the room. In his black dress Visconti, pausing at the head of the

steps, seemed part of its gloom. His wide-open gray eyes looked straight

across at the solitary occupant.

Isotta sat in one of the huge black chairs, her delicate hands resting

on the faded crimson velvet of the arms, her feet on a wooden footstool.

She was of a fair and noble appearance, but her face was marred by

sorrow and her eyes red from many tears. Her pale yellow hair was drawn

away under a white veil. Her long gray dress clung close about her

slender figure. On her knee rested a little book, and on this she kept

her eyes. Not by so much as a flutter of her hand did she show she knew

of the Visconti's presence.

He waited, raging inwardly, but words would not come easily to break

that silence. At last he slowly descended into the room, his eyes still

on her face.

She never stirred, nor raised her own. With his noiseless tread,

Visconti paced around the chamber, raising the arras, and testing with

his dagger every block of stone. It was a superfluous precaution; any

attempt to escape would have been simple madness, and Isotta d'Este was

not likely to give way to frenzy. Still it was joy to be sure and doubly

sure that she was safe. Every inch was inspected, every crevice

searched. Meanwhile from time to time he observed her keenly. But she

seemed not to know her solitude was broken, save that once, when he

passed her, she swept in the train of her gown, as she might have done

had a leper come too near. A simple thing, but it goaded him, and for a

moment she was near her death; rage almost overcoming prudence. But as

he stood behind her chair, half-inclined to strike, he noticed on her

hand a ring. His expression changed; he smiled; his hand dropped down.

The ring was of pearl, cut with the arms of Della Scala, and worn on the

third finger of her left hand; her wedding ring.

Visconti smiled again. Stooping, he raised her hand, and--"Will she bear

this in silence?" was his thought. For a moment it seemed as if she

might not. The delicate fingers stiffened and half-closed, then, as if

remembering anew, she left her hand passive in Visconti's hold, and only

by a faint quiver told she knew the ring had been withdrawn. The

despoiled hand fell back again on to the velvet arm, her eyes were fixed

immovably upon her book, and Visconti, turning away to the door, silent

as he came, looked back at her incredulous of such control. She was

sitting straight and slender, her delicate head poised high, but--ah

yes, he thought it must be so!--he noted with delight that her breast

heaved and the firm line of her mouth trembled ever so slightly. For a

second he stood thus, a ray of the pale prison light caught by the ring

he held, then the door clattered and shook back into its bolts, and he

was gone.

CHAPTER FOUR

VALENTINE

Swiftly as he had come, Visconti returned to the palace, and the

banqueting hall beyond. He stepped in silently, and softly let the

curtains fall behind him.

The room was of enormous size, and overawed the gaze. The four large

entries, one in each wall, were curtained alike with gloomy purple. The

ceiling was domed and of immense height, showing a dim tracery of carved

wood, from which hung golden chains, suspending jeweled lamps. The high

and narrow windows were wrought with painted saints, splendid in

coloring. From domed ceiling to paneled floor the walls were carved with

men, women, saints, martyrs, flowers and birds wrought together, in

simple-minded joyousness of design, executed with the delicate

workmanship of Niccolo Pisano's school. Silk arras, hung from carved

gold rods, here and there concealed the carving. A carpet, the work of

two men's lives, delicate in purple, brown, and gold, spread across the

center, where a long low table of walnut wood, rich and dark, could seat

two hundred guests. Purple velvet chairs were set about in the corners,

and the light streaming through the colored window saints fell in gold

and green across an ivory footstool, inlaid with jewels.

As Visconti entered, the hall was empty, yet he stepped stealthily, as

if he felt eyes watching him. Seating himself in the window recess, he

waited, and presently, as if at an unuttered summons, the curtains at

the far end of the room were rustled apart, and a lady entered. She was

Valentine Visconti, Gian's sister. Her dress was of red and brown,

embroidered with gold, her tawny hair piled high under a golden net upon

her well-set head. She had the clear, colorless skin and the wide red

lips of the fair-haired Italians, their rich presence; she was of a fine

carriage, not easy to overlook; she might have been ten years younger

than her brother; she was as tall and as stately.

She looked straight toward the window where Visconti sat. Gian returned

her gaze, not changing his position. Valentine drew nearer.

"Why hast thou set spies upon me?" she demanded.

"Why didst thou try to fly Milan with Count Conrad?" he returned. "I was

foolish not to spy on thee before."

Her gray eyes glinted.

"I tried to escape from a life that was grown intolerable," she cried,

"and I will try yet again!"

Visconti smiled.

"My sister, thou art much too precious; I shall not let thee go. Thou

art worth a great deal to me. Through thee our family will be united to

the Royal House of France. My sister, thy husband will be the Duke of

Orleans, and not a German fool."

But Valentine was also a Visconti: she advanced with blazing eyes.

"I will not marry to serve thy ambitions; I will not help to steady thee

upon the throne. Mark me, Gian, sooner than wed a Prince whom thou hast

chosen, I will drag thy name into the mire, and sit in rags at thy

palace gates."

"Only thou hast not the choice," he answered pleasantly.

Her anger rose the more as she felt her helplessness.

"I will not marry the Duke!" she cried, "I will not walk up to the

altar."

"Thou canst be carried," said Visconti.

She moved up and down, twisting her hands in an agony of impotence.

"I will appeal to the Duke of Orleans himself!" she cried.

"A bridegroom who is bought for a hundred thousand florins!" sneered her

brother. "And how will thy appeal reach him? Come, my sister, be calm;

the Duke will make as good a husband as Count Conrad. Bethink thyself,

thou mayst live to be crowned Queen of France. Wilt thou not thank me

then, that I saved thee from a German Count?"

Valentine fell to weeping.

"What has become of him?" she sobbed, "the only human being who ever

turned to me in pity. The only one who ever cared for me. What has

become of him?"

"What becomes of a fool when he crosses the path of a Visconti?" asked

her brother calmly.

Valentine lifted her head.

"He is dead, then?" she said.

"It matters not to thee. Thy husband will be the Duke of Orleans, and

thou art a prisoner in the palace till he takes thee from it."

She caught at the arras; Visconti left her, and reached the door, his

figure a shadow among the shadows.

The girl rushed forward with a cry. "Gian!" she called.

He paused, his hand upon the curtain, and looked back at her.

"Gian!" she repeated, and stood still gasping, her hand upon her breast.

The stiff folds of her dress gleamed richly in the subdued light that

fell upon her from the painted window. "I know thee for what thou art,"

she said; "there are only two of us left, only two. Where are our

parents, Gian?"

"They were stricken down at Brescia," and Visconti took a quick step

toward her.

"They are dead," she breathed, "and they died as our brothers died,

Filipo and Matteo----"

"Did they so! Then take warning by it," and Gian, coming stealthily

still nearer, turned a look on her. Valentine quailed, as Francisco

well-nigh had done; the hot words of remorse and rebellion died away

unuttered, and she hid her face, her high spirit cowed again into a

bitter weeping.

Visconti left her noiselessly.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE PAINTER'S DAUGHTER

Three days had passed since that futile midnight encounter, and

Francisco had found no means to enter Milan.

He stood on the banks of the water looking moodily toward the city,

watching the figure of Vittore, who trudged along the meadows,--his

errand to procure provisions.

The three still sheltered in the ruins, to which no owner had returned,

nor had any signs of life or occupancy broken the silence within the

villa's all-encircling walls. Now, as he watched Vittore out of

sight--the boy looking back often to renew his courage--Francisco's brow

was furrowed, and his eyes heavy with sleeplessness. The stream, clear,

deep and sparkling, here ran darkened with the shadow of the willows

that bent over it their long bluish leaves. A path, thickly bordered

with reeds, ran beside the water to the head of the small lake into

which the stream flowed, whence it continued, a scarcely discernible

footway, toward the city.

Behind Francisco, separated from him only by the fosse, was the wall of

the villa, and, Vittore being lost to view, Francisco withdrew his gaze,

always roaming restlessly in quest of something that should aid him, and

glanced along it curiously. His eyes rested on a great tuft of yellow

lichen, brilliant with scarlet spikes; it was so huge and spreading he

could not but stare at it. From the lichen his gaze traveled slowly

upward, but not a foothold could he see. Spreading above the wall the

topmost boughs of a gigantic view showed a clear-cut black against the

sky, and on the broad, fan-like surface brooded a pair of doves, pink,

gray and white. The beauty of the scene, its calmness and repose,

exasperated the man's inaction. He stamped on the little flowers at his

feet, then, with a bitter curse at his folly, threw himself upon the

grass to watch for Vittore's return, and ponder, forever ponder, on his

purpose. Suddenly there shot into sight upon the stream a little boat,

with high curling prow and gaily painted sides. A blue sail was furled

above it, and it was impelled lightly forward by a delicate pair of

oars. The grounds of the villa formed a promontory, and coming around

the brow of it the boat broke upon his gaze and was within hail at one

and the same moment. It came rapidly nearer, and the stranger's first

impulse was to hide himself from these unexpected and unwelcome

intruders; but there was no time; as he rose he was observed, but the

genial hand-wave and the merry laughter reassured him. These were simple

pleasure-seekers. He reseated himself, and the boat came on.

The rower was a dark-haired man of middle age, clothed in a plain brown

robe. Lean and vivacious, eager-eyed, he appeared one of those people

who are always talking and moving; even seated and rowing he gave the

impression of restlessness; of the good humor common to the people too.

His companion was a young girl dressed in a simple blue gown. She was a

delicate blonde, very young, very slender; the curls of her amber hair

were blown across a round dimpled face; eyes of a dancing blue; a sweet

small mouth curled in laughter, a fine chin and throat, a slack young

figure. This was her principal characteristic, the floating yellow hair

like a veil about her.

Coming abreast of Francisco, the man paused on his oars with a friendly

greeting.

"Good day, messer," he called. "So thou hast found our secret haunt.

Graziosa and I had thought this place our own," and as he spoke he waved

his hand around him at the water.

The boat rocked now alongside the path, and Francisco courteously

approached.

"I am a stranger here," he said.

The other glanced at him anew, and with the awakening of a little

friendly wonder.

"A stranger? Ah, then, this is new to thee--this most beautiful part of

Italy. I assure thee," he continued excitedly, "I have been through the

fairest parts of Tuscany, I have wandered about Naples, but never have I

seen such colors, such lights as here!" Again he waved his all-inclusive

hand. "Thou, messer, as a stranger, must see how wonderfully fair it

is?"

He paddled the boat nearer among the reeds in his eagerness to obtain

new sympathy.

"I have not been used to judge lands by their beauty," returned

Francisco. "Yet methinks I have seen spots as beautiful and easier to

hold in time of need."

The other twisted his mouth in contempt. The girl leaned forward,

laughing. "You forget, father," she said, "everyone is not a painter."

But the little man, as if he had found a sudden mission, secured the

boat, and, still in silence, stepped ashore, helping his daughter to

follow him. Francisco, preoccupied and mistrustful, saw this with

uneasiness, and would gladly have withdrawn. Moreover, the smiling face

of the happy girl was an added sting to a burning thought.

The enthusiast, however, had no idea of giving up a possible convert,

and swept aside the other's protestations while he commenced pointing

out the beauties of the yellow lichen against the villa wall, the sight

of which had restored all his good humor.

"See!" he exclaimed. "How bright it is! See the contrast of the yew--so

brilliant, yet so in harmony, so--you do not paint?"

"No," said Francisco between grimness and scorn. "Do I look as if I

did?"

The artist glanced anew at his huge frame and tattered attire, and

mentally decided he did not.

"Ah, then thou dost not understand," he said; "but I, I _am_ a painter.

Agnolo Vistarnini is my name, messer, a student of Taddeo Gaddi." He

swept off his leather cap with an air of profound respect.

"Ah, he could paint! I am far behind him, messer, but I can see! I can

see! Which thou canst not," he added with superb pity.

"Graziosa," he called, turning to his daughter, "we will stay here

awhile."

And seating himself on the bank, he produced from his wallet a panel of

wood, polished and carefully planed, upon which he began to draw the

outline of a corner of the scene, using a dark brown pigment.

Francisco fell again to brooding while the painter chattered on,

dividing his attention between the panel and his daughter, who was

wandering up the stream, filling with flowers a flat basket.

"Thou see'st yonder my daughter, messer," he said, pointing to the

slender figure in blue. He blew a kiss in her direction. "She is the

model for my angels----"

"And the model for thy devils?" asked Francisco suddenly.

Vistarnini started and looked around at the speaker.

"Devils! Messer!" He crossed himself. "God forbid there should be a

model for such found anywhere," he said.

"Yet methinks thou hast in thy city yonder," said Francisco with a

bitter smile, "one who well might sit for the fiend himself: Visconti."

"The Duke? Ah, my friend, hush, hush, thou art a stranger, take care!

Even in this lonely spot such words are far from safe. Who art thou,

messer, who dost not live in Milan and yet speak with such a look of the

Visconti?"

"Do not all who know the Visconti speak with such a look of him?"

The painter gazed at him in silence.

"But thou askest for my name," continued the other. "I am Francisco di

Coldra, one who has suffered much from the Visconti."

"In the sack of Verona, perhaps?" asked Agnolo after a pause.

"The sack of Verona was three months ago. The prisoners have been in

Milan twenty days!"

These words were inscrutable, and the little painter did not even try to

understand them; but they kindled a memory that would not be repressed.

"Ah, and what a night that was," he cried, "when the Duke re-entered

Milan with them! Since I do not hurt thee by the recollection, messer,

let me tell thee, it was a splendid sight, that night the Duke returned.

I live a quiet life, as an artist may do, even in Milan. I know little,

I care little for the wars of princes. They tell me the Visconti's

crimes outnumber the stars; but, messer, his shadow has not fallen

across _my_ house, and what one does not see one does not fear--but when

he returned from Verona! that was a sight, messer. It was late. Our

house overlooks the western gates, and all day long the messengers had

come and sped, bringing the news the Duke was here. Toward evening--we

leaning from the window as did everyone--Alberic da Salluzzo comes

galloping to the walls--red-hot upon some report that the Visconti has

been slain--to look to the arming of the citizens. Even as we strain

from the window, following the flash of his plumes--back he comes in

madder haste--the Visconti is alive! The people shout and yell, and some

cry 'tis not the Visconti's army on the road, but Della Scala's.

Meanwhile a mob, with Napoleone della Torre at their head, begins to

agitate, to threaten riot. With a strong hand Alberic puts them

down--the streets are cleared, Graziosa and I on the balcony, all is

dark, silent, save now and then the clink of the armor of the sentries

on the walls. I am too excited for sleep, messer, all so hushed, so

subdued, waiting, waiting. All at once it comes. Oh, the rattle, the

roar! The great gates clatter back, the streets fill with crowds no man

can keep back. The victorious army pelts through them; two men on every

horse, great flaring torches throwing their yellow light on the torn

banners and the wild faces of the soldiers, and then the cannon, leaping

over the rough stones, drawn by the smoke-blackened gunners, all

tearing, rushing through the street, a mass of light and shade,

wonderful, wonderful! In the midst, the Visconti, the ragged light

streaming over his tattered armor, and Isotta d'Este, guarded between

two soldiers, swaying on her black horse, and above all the shouts of

the frenzied triumph of the Milanese.... Ah!"

Agnolo paused now for want of breath, and glanced at his companion.

But Francisco offered no response. His face was turned away, and his

hands were clenched. The little painter had a vague sense of having

allowed a mere artist's enthusiasm to carry him too far into a

dangerous theme.

"Ah, well," he continued in a deprecating tone, "a splendid sight truly,

and one to fire the blood, but I am a man of peace, and I greatly grieve

Della Scala should have perished. He was a noble prince."

The stranger rose abruptly.

"Do not speak of Della Scala," he said harshly. "I love to hear his name

as little as Visconti's. His was the crime of failure."

"Failure! Who would not have failed?" said Agnolo gently, for he thought

he spoke to one who must have lost his all in the sacked town. "I know

little of such things, but 'twas here and there asserted he fell by

craft as well as force, and he was a great soldier and an honorable man,

Messer Francisco."

"He had all the virtues, doubtless," said Francisco, "and lost Verona."

"And his life!" replied the painter. "Ah, well, these things are

grievous! The saints protect my daughter from all share in them," and he

glanced affectionately toward Graziosa, returning through the gray-green

willows with lilies in her hands.

"For my pictures," said the painter, pointing to them. "I am painting an

altar-piece--for the lunettes. I shall have Graziosa as St. Katherine,

and Ambrogio (her betrothed, messer) as St. Michael. These flowers will

make the border."

He took some as he spoke, and began arranging them in wreaths.

Francisco would scarcely have heeded the speaker's words, save that his

glance was caught almost involuntarily by the girl's sweet blush at

mention of her lover's name.

"Thy betrothed," he murmured, interested a moment in the happiness that

was such a contrast to his own feeling. "And does he paint too?"

Graziosa looked up with sparkling eyes.

"Beautifully," she said eagerly. "He is at work now in the Church of

San' Apollinare in Brescia. We have not seen his painting, the journey

is too long; but some of the panel bits he has shown us, and they are

noble."

Francisco smiled faintly at her outspokenness, and her father laughed

good-humoredly.

"Thou must not listen to her," he said. "She overrates his painting. He

paints well, truly, but cold! ah, so cold; no spirit in it! He will sit

for hours thinking how the fold of a robe should fall. I, however, have

seen Taddeo Gaddi paint! The angels would seem to flow from his brush as

if he gave no thought to them!" But Graziosa turned a smiling face from

the boat she was unmooring.

"His altar-piece will draw all Lombardy," she cried.

"Say rather that his altar-piece draws him away from thee," laughed the

painter, "and thou wilt be nearer to the truth. The altar-piece has all

his time; thou but a few meager hours a week! Still, they love each

other, messer, and are happy, so we never care whether Ambrogio paint

well or ill." Graziosa seated herself under the blue sail, and looked up

with radiant eyes.

"I am very happy," she laughed softly, "so never mind whether he paint

the best or the second best in Italy."

The painter grasped the oars and pushed out into the stream: "Good-bye,"

he called, and Graziosa waved a hand; then something in the stranger's

aspect made the little painter pause again.

"Gladly would we offer our poor hospitality, messer," he said, "only the

gates are sternly barred to any stranger...." But Graziosa, glancing

also at the strong, commanding figure, and the stern set face, checked

her father's impulse.

"We are too humble, father," she said gently, "but if there were any

service we could render, any message--? We live at the sign of _Lo

Scudo_, the armorer's, near to the western gate."

"I will remember it," said Francisco simply.

Graziosa drew her blue cloth hood about her smiling face, and, with

gentle strokes from the painter's paddle, the boat disappeared.

When Francisco found himself alone again, momentary misgiving seized him

that he had lost an opportunity.

Could these folk have been of service? They were of a sort unknown to

him; courtiers, soldiers, burghers, merchants, with all such he was at

home, but these plebeians of kindly natures and good speech, of humble

rank and careless happiness, were new to him. The painter's talk of his

craft had had no meaning for Francisco, it had passed from his mind for

craziness; but the girl had said they dwelt near the western gate--could

they perchance have been of service? But presently he dismissed the

notion; they were too simple for his purpose.

Raging in the pain of rekindled memory and present helplessness,

Francisco paced to and fro, waiting for Vittore's figure in the

distance.

Suddenly his eyes rested again on the great clump of yellow lichen, and

he stopped, arrested.

In the midst of it he had seen something that interested him, something

very much its color, but not quite its kind.

He approached, and thrusting his hand in among the great tufts, touched

the rusty iron of a disused bolt. There was a door here, then, that led

into the grounds of the deserted villa!

Francisco's heart beat strongly.

From the finding of the silver goblet in the ruined hut, he had

associated with the Visconti's name the darkened dwelling and its silent

grounds. There was none to question, for there was none of whom they

dared inquire; but more than once Francisco had thought of trying to

enforce an entrance, only to find, however, that by whomsoever

abandoned, ingress to the villa had been left well nigh impossible. But

here was an entrance that had been overlooked, and it was not to be

wondered at, for the rusty bolt could have been discerned only by eyes

as keen as his, and the door belonging was completely hidden by

close-growing ivy, too frail to climb by, but the most effectual of all

concealments. Tearing up the lichen from its roots, Francisco set to

work upon the ivy. The delicate, ropelike strands clung with their black

filaments like fingers bewitched, and little had been accomplished when

Francisco, taking cautious survey around him, saw Vittore returning

across the meadows. Concealing what he was about, Francisco waited till

the lad came up, flushed and triumphant from a successful errand.

"What news going in the city?" asked Francisco.

"All is quiet. One of the soldiers snatched a leek from me, another bade

me tell my sister he was still unwed. They jested finely, but I should

not like them to have turned to questioning me. They were so many, and

so finely armed."

"And the money? Didst thou need to change the pieces that I gave thee?"

"Yes, messer, I had not enough! They said that it was Veronese."

"Nothing new to them in Milan now--the money of the Veronese," said

Francisco, with a flashing glance toward the ramparts.

"They told me 'twas no longer taken; that the Duke was having it recast.

But a bystander reached forward, and gave me a piece of Milanese. He

said that he would keep my piece; it bore the Della Scala arms, he said,

and was a curiosity."

Francisco muttered something that the lad did not catch.

"Well, thou hast faced the soldiers and the market now," he said aloud,

"and art safe for other journeys, as I promised thee. Go on to the hut,

and give thyself food and Tomaso. Keep close and answer none. I will be

with thee presently."

The boy went on obediently. These two days with his rescuer had taught

him and Tomaso both that what Francisco said he meant, and his word was

their law already. But Francisco needed stronger allies.

With some half-formed thought the villa might conceal one, he now

returned to his attack upon the ivy, and after many a wrench and cut and

struggle, the garden door stood bare enough to use. It was stained,

discolored, locked and immovable.

But this was nothing to Francisco; with knife and dagger he cut the

woodwork around the lock, removed it, and thrusting his hand and arm

well through the breach, with no great difficulty withdrew the upper and

lower bolts. With knee and shoulder then he pressed inward, driving

against the weeds and growths that choked it, and presently had forced

an aperture that would admit him.

After many a cautious glance along the meadow path, fortunately for his

purpose little used, he replaced the loose strands of ivy as far as he

was able, and slipping through, pushed the door back into its place,

filling up the broken lock with green.

He was in a garden of great beauty. The yew-tree overhead shaded a

patch of velvety green starred with daisies. Before him a straight path

led to a marble seat and a belt of cypress-trees.

The ring-doves cooed blissfully; the flowering trees stirred; there was

no other sound save the distant one of faintly plashing water. Treading

softly, Francisco set forward in the direction in which he knew the

villa lay.

CHAPTER SIX

THE RESCUE OF COUNT VON SCHULEMBOURG

The house, a low, graceful building of white marble, was approached by a

broad flight of steps, flanked by a balustrade almost hidden in early

roses, which trailed in great clusters over it and along the velvet

turf. Fronting it was a great fountain, and a wide avenue of yew trees,

patched with sunshine, led up to the façade.

To right and left spread turf-grown paths, edged with orange and lemon

trees, and sweet with the scent of the citron and myrtle; around their

roots grew violets, primroses, daffodils; and behind, beyond, on all

sides, were grass and walks and trees, a sea of moving green.

The place was profoundly quiet. The statues, placed here and there,

looked out from the foliage smiling; the dainty seats of colored stone

were empty, innocent of satin skirt or ruffled cloak. There was no sign

of the recent care of man; no wild things stirred; beside the basins of

the fountains lay two peacocks, dead. The villa doors were open, showing

something of the long corridor that traversed the lower floor, but

silent as the scene without. The stillness was unnatural; the beauty of

the place, the two dead gorgeous birds, the open doors and lovely

sunshine, made an impression that appalled.

The day was long past noon when, through the dim corridor, there was the

faint flutter of garments. Some one was slowly moving. The sunbeam's

slanting ray struck through the doorway on a strange, haggard-looking

figure: a man. He was wasted, bent, and shrunken; his limbs tottering

under him. Where his blue velvet cloak fell back, it showed a splendid

suit of black and gold, embroidered and decked out with ribbons, but the

splendor hung upon a hollow frame: a skeleton. Long locks of pale gold

hair heightened the ghastly hollowness of the pinched face. Conrad von

Schulembourg was paying with this form of death for the favor of

Valentine Visconti; as her brother's favorite, he had thought it safe to

lift his eyes to her; being something of a gallant fool, very gay to

face danger, very incredulous of it ever coming to him in this hideous

shape. He was not quick to read character, especially Visconti's

character. Could Gian Visconti have seen his victim now, even he might

have started, for it is hard to imagine what men who die of hunger look

like.

The trees, softly moving, made pleasant light and shade; the myrtle

blossoms blew and sailed in little clouds of mauve, while the

sweet-smelling leaves of the citron hung their rich clusters over

opening lilies. Conrad, dragging himself across the grass, with

straining eyes and parted lips, thought only of the water in the

fountain, and saw only those two dead birds. Poisoned! Visconti had

forestalled all chances.

The Count had scarcely strength for any definite purpose of self-help.

He craved water, and turned to drag himself away in search of some he

might dare drink. Ere long, he knew not how, he reached it; a little

hollow fringed with fern, in its center a calm and placid pool, the

trees mirrored in its peaceful surface. Count Conrad fell beside it,

gazing longingly. A statue of a wood-god, the sunlight yellow in the

hollow eyes, leaned from among the bushes, and mocked him with its

smile.

Another effort and he had reached the stone. The water was so cool, so

clear, so pure and still, it seemed impossible that it should harm him.

He reached his hand out, then convulsively resisting the impulse, drew

it back, and sank again upon the grass. At a flutter of white from the

boughs near, Count Conrad lifted his eyes, and saw a dove that flew past

him to rest upon the rim; he watched it eagerly. The bird preened

itself, shook its feathers daintily, stooped and drank. Conrad drew

himself a little nearer. Suddenly with a cry the bird whirled up into

the air, beat its wings together vainly, and fell back into the water,

dead! Poisoned! All the water poisoned! Desperation giving him a

moment's strength, Count Conrad rose and regarded the dead dove with

greedy eyes, but steeling himself against the impulse to devour his own

death, he crawled on with the vague thought to reach the gate. Some

instinct of remembrance guiding his stumbling steps, he came upon it. It

was twice his height, and all its elaborate tracery offered no single

aperture through which a child could thrust his hand. Sick and blind he

clung to it; he tried to shout, to scream, his voice died in his throat.

In helpless rage, his wild face pressed against the iron, his eyes

starting, his tongue lolling out of his dry mouth, he gripped and shook

the lock.

Two children running by, stopped, gazed, came nearer, and then at what

they saw, fled, screaming. No one else approached. The world seemed

empty. Twilight began to fall. Then in his half-delirium Count Conrad

thought again of the dead bird, and laughed wolfishly to himself, making

with tottering steps back toward the hollow. To search coherently for

food or drink or succor was now beyond his power. Presently again he

sank across the grass and lay there crying like a child, whimpering and

whispering. Once or twice he made an effort, snatched at the long grass,

fell back again, and lay now in silence.

After a time, but while it was still light, he seemed to wake as from a

trance, and saw a figure moving down the glade toward him. Was he still

living? He could scarcely tell. Was this Visconti come again to mock

him? The thought spurred the man, though dying, almost to strive to rise

and meet his fate standing. But sky, grass, trees, and stone reeled

about him in a chaos of green and blue. He strove to speak, but his

tongue refused. The dark figure came nearer, stopped beside him, stooped

and spoke, but Count Conrad did not see nor heed. He lay, a woeful

spectacle, as if dead indeed.

He awoke, as he thought never to wake again, with moistened lips, and

water on his forehead, and a face that was not Visconti's bending over

him; a dark face with strange brown eyes that looked at him with sombre

interest.

"Thou comest from the Duke?" gasped Conrad. Francisco shook his head.

"I am no emissary of Visconti."

"Then thou comest to save me?" whispered Conrad eagerly, hope dawning in

his eyes.

"I will save thee if I can," replied Francisco. "Thou art alone?"

Conrad moved his head. He was too weak for more. Then a sudden thought

shot horror into his face, and he struggled to a sitting posture.

"The water!" he gasped out. "The water--from the fountain--thou gave me

to drink of that?"

Francisco followed in surprise the direction of his glance.

"No," he said. "I had it with me; 'twas water and wine too."

"Oh!" Conrad sank back. "The water is poisoned--all----"

"Poisoned--Visconti's doing!" said Francisco.

"How didst thou get in?" whispered Conrad feebly. "Visconti barred all

entrances."

"I found one unknown to any; canst thou, with my help, walk there?"

"I think--I can walk--to safety," was the answer, and the love of life

lending him strength, he staggered to his feet, and helped by Francisco

and invigorated by the wine, made slowly forward.

But they had not taken many steps before Francisco well perceived he had

rescued a man past helping himself, well-nigh past any help from others.

With a sigh Conrad sank speechless into his arms.

Francisco looked around him. He had come far from the entrance he had

forced, and Conrad, plainly starved and emaciated as he was, was still a

man full grown. To leave him and to return to Tomaso would be too

dangerous. The place must be under observation. But to seek safety

himself and abandon the helpless man was not a thought to occur to

Francisco, though, hampered by his dead weight, he would be at any

pursuer's mercy, or fall a prey to any ambush; so with stout words of

encouragement, and forcing more wine through his lips, he lifted the

Count to his shoulder and made as rapidly as he was able to the door

beside the lichen. It was a breathless journey, but at last, and

unmolested, Francisco gained the wall and laid his burden down.

Reconnoitering without, he saw no sign of danger, and, glad of the

oncoming dusk, dragged up the man and laid him, at least free, outside

the door. The cool air blowing from the water, a few drops more wine, in

which Francisco soaked some crumbs of bread he found within his wallet,

enabled the rescued man again to move.

It was an easy matter now to bring Vittore and Tomaso, who would not be

left, and between them Conrad, too spent to put questions, was carried

to their shelter and laid on the rough heather couch in the hut, from

which one of his own vassals had not long been driven; a poor asylum

enough, but one for which he only too gladly exchanged the deadly

splendor of his own magnificent abode.

"Who is he?" asked Tomaso, in timid surprise. For the first time since

their knowledge of him Francisco laughed, and without bitterness.

"One of Visconti's victims! It is some poor satisfaction to have rescued

two," he said. "I know nothing of him except that it is plainly to be

seen he is some person of distinction. We will nurse him to the best of

our skill. Tomaso, he may be of use----"

Then suddenly Francisco's humor changed. He glanced around him at the

boy, the youth, scarcely recovered from his fever, the ghastly figure on

the ground over which he bent, and fury shook him. Of what use anything

against Visconti? "Oh, terrible to be so helpless!" he cried

passionately. "We will leave this place. I break my heart in vain

against the walls of Milan. I will to Ferrara, to Della Scala's kinsfolk

there."

"And they will aid thee?" asked Tomaso trembling.

Francisco smiled, but this time grimly. "I can but try," he said. "Della

Scala was once known and trusted there. And in no case can we stay

here!" He pointed down at Conrad. "The place will not be safe for us,

let Visconti once discover his victim has escaped him. We will depart to

Ferrara, and fall upon Visconti while he is unsuspecting that I--that

anyone lives to still animate the Estes against him...."

An hour or two later, while Vittore and Tomaso slept, Francisco keeping

watch beside him, Conrad woke from a light doze and felt that he had

hold on life again. He tried to murmur thanks to his preserver, but the

other checked him.

"Thou art not of Italy?" he said.

"I am Conrad von Schulembourg."

"Conrad von Schulembourg!" echoed Francisco in surprise. "Visconti's

trusted friend!"

"The trusted friend of him who fastened me within my villa yonder to die

a lingering death of hunger, or of poisoned food." The drops started on

his forehead, he gasped for breath.

Francisco soothed and tended him.

"Think not of it; get well," he said, as he had said to Tomaso. "Live

and help rid the world of the Visconti. He would have thee die a dog's

death. Is not life dear to thee?"

"Yes, I will live," said Conrad, "and I will take revenge both for my

own wrongs and for a woman's sake."

Francisco turned quickly and looked at him keenly.

"A woman's sake! Thy motive is the same as mine: I too am living--for a

woman's sake."

Then, at the other's questioning stare, Francisco continued more

quietly:

"I am from Verona, Count; that will tell thee much. I belonged to Della

Scala's court, and barely escaped with life from the sacking of the

town. Thou see'st I can for that and other matters more than equal thee

in hatred of Visconti."

He rose and moving toward the door, looked out.

"Oh, I am impatient!" he cried passionately, "to be riding toward

Ferrara!"

CHAPTER SEVEN

"GRAZIOSA'S BRACELET"

Tisio Visconti, mounted on a white palfrey, rode slowly through the

streets of Milan, a lean figure, with a foolish face and vacant eyes.

For the elder Visconti was half-crazed, a fact to which perhaps he owed

his life, Gian Galeazzo not fearing his poor disordered intellect enough

to deprive him of aught, save his birthright--the sovereignty of Milan.

One or two men-at-arms, in splendid livery, rode behind him, and as he

passed the people bowed humbly, respecting him solely as the Duke's

brother, for Tisio was powerless for good or ill. Some few there were

who pitied him.

About the streets of Milan he was a far more familiar figure than his

brother, who was seldom seen, but of whose unscrupulous power Tisio was

the living symbol.

Complete liberty was allowed him; still the soldiers behind were rather

guards than servants, and charged to see he did not leave the gates.

Dropping his loose reins on the palfrey's neck, Tisio Visconti looked

around him with lack-luster eyes and a dull smile. He was riding through

the long, narrow streets, cobbled and overhung with high straight

houses, that lead to the western gate.

Through this gate his father lately, his brothers months ago, had been

driven to their deaths; his father, infamously, his mother beside him,

in the full light of day to Brescia; his brothers, secretly, at dead of

night, to Brescia also, from whence they returned no more.

Yet to Tisio the gate and street had no memory or meaning; he looked

ahead of him at the green trees beyond, and his eyes lit up. It was to

see them he came. To him the world outside Milan was paradise; sometimes

the soul within him rose and chafed at his dull captivity, and then he

longed passionately for those green fields and trees, which he knew only

from within the city gates.

The street was empty now; it was noontide, the hour Tisio preferred,

when there were few abroad. The sun was hot, its rays flashing on the

pikes of the sentinels who paced the walls; and Tisio's followers wiped

their brows and chafed. But he gazed with wistful eyes, unheeding, into

the beauty and the calm, the green and the gold. The sentry took no heed

of him; so many times he had done the same; ridden to the gates, waited,

looking eagerly through, then patiently returned to the gloom of the

Visconti palace.

Either side the massive entrance lay houses, low, of gray stone,

enclosed in square courtyards, entered by doors deep set in the thick

walls.

From one of these, as Tisio turned, a girl emerged in a scarlet robe.

She carried a bunch of lilies, on her arm hung the basket that betokened

her errand. She and the little group of horsemen were the only life in

the silent, sunny street. Tisio's eyes lit upon her, and he smiled. Like

all the Visconti, there was poetry mingled with his madness, and the

sight of beauty touched even his crazy brain.

The girl, starting when she saw the horsemen, paused, as if to retire,

her hand on the door, her brilliant robe gorgeous against the background

of gray wall. The color, and the sunshine falling over her golden hair,

made a picture Tisio was not slow to see; his eyes fixed upon her

eagerly; he drew up his horse and turned to the page who, spy and

attendant in one, invariably accompanied him.

"I would speak to her," he said, with the eagerness of a child.

The girl, seeing she attracted notice, turned, frightened and confused,

to make good her escape, but the page, riding up, stopped her

authoritatively, but with a reassuring smile.

"'Tis the Lord Tisio Visconti, lady; fear nothing; he would only speak

with thee," he said.

But the girl's alarm increased at the mention of that dreaded name.

"He mistakes me for another, sir," she said. "I have never so much as

seen even the Duke himself."

"My lord would speak with thee," repeated the page. "He is not the Duke,

but it is the Duke's pleasure that he be obeyed in matters such as this.

Come, maiden, there is no need to fear: it is an honor."

He turned his rein again, and, indeed, not daring to refuse, the girl

followed and stood timidly by Tisio's side. He looked at her long and

eagerly, at her scarlet dress, her sunny hair, the white and green

lilies in her hands. Still he did not speak, and she raised her head and

looked around questioningly and fearful. But the page only smiled: the

men-at-arms sat silent and indifferent.

"Thou art very beautiful," said Tisio at last. "What is thy name? Whose

daughter art thou?"

"Graziosa Vistarnini, my lord; Agnolo Vistarnini is my father. He is a

painter."

But Tisio's eyes grew vacant, and his gaze wandered to the lilies.

"Did they come from yonder?" he asked, and pointed beyond the gate.

"No, my lord. From a friend's garden. My father thinks to paint them."

Still Tisio did not heed her answer; he laughed foolishly.

"I may go?" asked Graziosa timidly. "I may go, my lord?"

He bent from the saddle and lifted from her shoulder a long lock of her

curling hair, and stroked it, dropping it with a sigh.

"Give me these," he said, pointing to the lilies; "all the flowers I

know grow in Gian's garden,--Gian is the Duke of Milan."

And at his words, and the tone in which he spoke them, Graziosa's pity

overcame her fear.

In silence, tears in her eyes, she handed him the flowers. He took them

eagerly, but before she could withdraw her hand, he grasped her arm with

a childish exclamation and touched the bracelet of fine workmanship she

wore upon the wrist.

"I will have this too," he said, laughing with satisfaction: but the

girl drew her arm back sharply and turned to go.

Tisio fumed. "The bracelet," he said peevishly, and the page motioned to

her harshly to remain.

Graziosa turned to him in confusion and distress.

"I cannot give it him," she said, the tears starting. "I entreat thee,

sir, ask him to let me go."

But the page intimated to her warningly she had best make no to-do.

There was only one law for the citizens of Milan: that was the tyranny

of the Visconti; let the one who encountered it only in the capricious

whim of the crazy Tisio be thankful.

"Hold it good fortune, it is naught but a bauble he demands," said the

page. "Give him the bracelet; he will drop it, forgotten, to-morrow. Ask

for me one day at the palace. I will restore it. But give it now, before

he grows angry. Thou hadst better."

Tisio's face was darkening.

"Make haste, make haste," cried the page impatiently, "or it will be

thee and thy bracelet both that will be carried off."

"My betrothed gave it to me," she murmured. "I cannot part with it."

"I will have it," repeated Tisio imperiously, with outstretched hand.

Graziosa's helpless tears were flowing; slowly she unclasped the

bracelet; the page took her treasure with an easy air, handed it to his

master, and turned the horses' heads toward home.

"Thou wilt be none the worse," he laughed, as they rode away. Tisio,

absorbed in his new toy, gave her neither look nor thought, for jewels,

gold ornaments of rare design, were the craze of this Visconti's crazy

brain.

Graziosa pressed her bare arm to her lips, and looked after them, the

tears of vexation streaming down. She thought of Ambrogio, the

painter-lover, whose gift it was: what would he say to find her bracelet

gone?

"Oh, if only Ambrogio had been here," she cried, "he would not have let

the Duke himself take it from me--but I--what could I do?--if only he is

not angry that I let it go."

She had not much faith in the page's words; besides, how dare she

venture to the Visconti's palace? Her tears flowed afresh; she picked up

the poor discarded lilies, all her pleasure gone. In the distance she

could see Tisio, still handling the bracelet with delight, and she

half-smiled, even through her tears, at so strange and pitiful a thing.

"It makes the poor crazy lord happy," she said softly, "but it breaks

_my_ heart to lose it." She watched Tisio disappear; then, her loss a

certainty, she turned with reluctant feet upon her errand.

Meanwhile Tisio, absorbed in his new spoil, rode toward the palace.

The projecting gables of the houses sent clear-cut shadows across his

path; the strong noonday sun blended the city into brilliant light and

shade, broken only by the vivid color of the drapery fluttering at some

unshaded window, or the sudden flash of pigeon's wings against the

golden air.

As they neared the great gate of the palace, a group of horsemen,

galloping noisily ahead of them, dashed into the vast courtyard and drew

rein with a fine clatter at the entrance steps.

Tisio, following, raised his head, and looked dully at them--a band of

his brother's soldiers, hired mercenaries; it was usual enough to meet

them both within and without the Visconti's abode. As he was

dismounting, the leader of the band addressed him familiarly.

"My lord hears thee not, sir," said the page, "his thoughts are with his

spoils."

The soldier laughed with a grimace.

It was the freedom of one whose services are valuable enough, even when

well paid, to permit him to bear himself with small respect to his

employers. For the mercenaries were a power; the transfer of their

services could ruin states and lose towns, and even Visconti had to pay

them well and concede license to their leaders; for upon them, to a

great extent, his sovereignty rested, and Alberic da Salluzzo could take

more liberties than any. He was a famous captain, noted for his skill in

wars and turbulence in peace, a man with no country and no honor,

endowed with dauntless courage and endurance, of vast rapacity and of

all the cruelty his age allowed.

Making no way for Tisio, and motioning curtly to his men, he strode up

the stairs, a stalwart figure, overdressed in splendid armor, and swung

into the antechamber of the Visconti's audience-room. It was deserted.

Alberic, astonished, paused on the threshold, looking around in

amazement for the crowd--courtiers, servants, seekers, soldiers--wont to

fill it.

Opposite was the closed door of the Visconti's room, but even Alberic

dare not knock there unannounced. He was turning away to seek

enlightenment, when a dark form he had passed unnoticed in the distant

shadows of the great room rose, and he recognized, as it advanced, the

secretary's stooping figure.

"What has happened here?" demanded the soldier.

"Is there need to ask?" answered Giannotto. "The Duke has had the room

cleared. He will see no one." Alberic half-laughed, and shrugged his

shoulders.

"The madness is on him at Count von Schulembourg's escape. Is that it?"

he asked. "But art even thou excluded?" he continued in surprise, for

Giannotto was the one man who could come and go unannounced, unbidden,

the one man who knew Visconti's secrets.

The secretary smiled, the slow smile that men's lips learned in the

Visconti palace.

"It is best for the Duke to be alone, and for me that he should be," he

said. "The news that Count Conrad has escaped hath galled him much; it

came at a bad moment too, following on those parchments twice found

within the grounds"--he paused. "Thou wert sent to find the writer, or

the one who put them there; art thou successful?"

Alberic shook his head. "I return as I went. Beyond finding that doorway

forced in the wall, messer secretary, there is no token whatsoever of

how the Count escaped. But after so long a fast, messer," Alberic showed

his teeth, "it is not likely that it was alone."

"The one who aided him is he who inscribed those parchments?"

"'Twould seem so," answered Alberic. "We have searched anew among the

huts from which we drove Count Conrad's German dogs; on the threshold of

the largest there was--this."

He drew out of his breast a parchment, a long narrow strip, scrawled

across in irregular writing, and handed it to Giannotto.

"What does it say?" he asked.

Giannotto glanced at it hastily, his eyes on the Duke's door.

He read, "Della Scala lives!"

The captain whistled softly. "Now, thou may'st hand that to the Duke

instead of me," he said.

Giannotto searched the writing keenly. "Della Scala cannot live; 'tis

some trick of the Torriani."

Alberic laughed harshly. "Whate'er it be, I say _thou_ shalt have the

pleasure of showing it the Duke!"

"Nay, thou must speak of thy own failures, friend. Besides, the Duke

will need thee for his further orders. Count Conrad must be found, alive

or dead!"

"Was it his ghost attacked the walls last night?" asked Alberic; and not

wholly did he speak in jest.

The secretary cast uneasy looks across his shoulder at the ominously

shut door.

"It angered Visconti strangely," he whispered. "But it was a handful of

madmen. Wandering robbers from the hills! They were four at most, and

they tried to scale the walls of Milan!" He smiled in scorn.

"And yet," said Alberic, "they were almost on the ramparts ere they were

discovered, and when they were pursued, fled back into the night

silently, nor could we find from whence they came, nor any trace of

them."

"However that may be," said Giannotto, "the Duke hath dismissed even me,

and the delivery of this parchment had best wait till his black fit has

left him."

He raised the arras from the entrance that opened on the stairway, and

passed out of sight along the corridor, leaving Alberic standing in the

unguarded entrance of the deserted audience-room, undecided, the

parchment in his hand.

But he did not stand there long alone. One or two servants stole back to

their places, afraid to stay away; and presently, with slow steps and

vacant smile, there passed by him Tisio Visconti, followed by the page

who never left him.

"Thou, my lord?" cried Alberic. "Now, how would it be if I ask him to

hand this parchment over?" and he turned with a swaggering laugh to the

page.

The page shook his head, not comprehending. Tisio, unheeding, seated

himself in one of the great chairs, Graziosa's bracelet still between

his fingers.

"I will wait no longer," cried Alberic suddenly; "let the Duke summon

me."

But the next moment Alberic's swagger dropped, and he swung his plumed

hat low to the lady who, unattended, stole across the threshold.

It was Valentine Visconti.

Her breast was heaving; suppressed excitement showed in every movement;

it was not difficult for Alberic to read she had heard of Count Conrad's

rescue.

With a motion of the hand she bade him wait, and turned to her brother,

huddled in his chair, gazing blankly at the floor.

"Tisio!" she said, and her tone was very gentle. "What dost thou here?"

He looked up, and his dull face lit at sight of her.

"I wait for Gian," he said simply.

Valentine shuddered. "What wouldst thou see him for, Tisio?"

He smiled, and held out the bracelet. "To show him this."

The tears rushed to Valentine's eyes, but she remembered the captain and

turned to him.

"Thou carryest something here to give the Duke?" she asked.

"Another parchment, lady," said the captain. "But I fear my lord is in

no humor for its contents."

Valentine's eyes sparkled lightly. "Thou hast not the courage to present

it?"

"I confess, lady, I am waiting till I am obliged to," answered Alberic.

Valentine held out her hand. "Give me the paper; I will give it to my

brother!"

The captain hesitated.

"Since thou hast not the courage," she added almost with a laugh. All

Gian's orders had not availed to prevent some whisper reaching Valentine

of his evil humor and the cause of it: Conrad's escape, the threatening

parchments; the hint that Della Scala lived. Alberic, glancing at her,

saw a triumph and a malice in the lady's glance that made him doubly

feel he did not care just then to wait Visconti's coming. But still he

hesitated; the Duke might vent on him his fury with his sister.

"This business will not wait," cried Valentine, "give me the parchment

to deliver, or knock at yonder door and hand it to the Duke yourself."

But the captain of the mercenaries bent low, shook his head with a

significant gesture, and, handing over the fatal missive, bowed himself

away. Valentine turned again to Tisio's page.

"Take thy lord away," she said. "The Duke may not be best pleased to see

him here."

But Tisio would not go. Valentine, bending over him, stroked his hands

tenderly, then breaking from him, leaned against the wall in sudden woe.

"All of us crazed," she cried bitterly. "All of us, surely; wretched

people that we are!"

Then, at the sight of the parchment she held, her former mood returned.

Conrad was alive! He had vowed devotion. He would return to her rescue.

She would live to be free; to come and go outside the Visconti palace,

outside Milan, out yonder in the world. She leaned back against the

arras a moment, dizzy at the thought of so much joy, and her courage

rose high, her eyes danced.

"The Duke must have this parchment," she said; "and since Alberic da

Salluzzo does not care to seek an audience for it, why, Tisio, thou

shalt see me give it. The Duke loves not an interruption when he is

angry," she added, with a soft laugh. "But 'tis my duty to show him

this."

And she advanced toward the ominously closed door.

The page looked uneasy. He had no wish to face Visconti in his fury. Yet

well he knew he dared not leave his charge.

Valentine tapped at the door with gentle fingers.

"Gian!" she called.

"Lady, this is madness!" cried the page, startled into speech.

She looked over her shoulder.

"I am also a Visconti, boy," she said. "Why should I fear the Duke?"

"Gian!" she called again, her beautiful head close to the dark panels.

"I have something here of great moment. Why let everyone know thou art

so moved? Gian! Thou makest thyself a mock; dost thou _fear_ Count

Conrad, that his escape moves thee so?"

A pause: then with a smile Valentine stepped back a pace or two into the

chamber.

"The Duke comes!" she said, and the page turned pale.

The inner door opened as smoothly as silently, and Visconti stood there

looking at the trio. He was dressed in purple velvet, but his doublet

was tumbled, the fine lace frills at his wrists were torn to rags, his

eyes strained wide open, and for a moment, as it was with any who

encountered it, his expression gave his sister pause. But again she

remembered Conrad lived, and she held out the parchment. "I thought it

well to give you this," she said.

Gian advanced and took it in silence. But those torn ruffles, that

disordered doublet, had their meanings, and the look in those wide eyes,

as he turned them on her, quelled the mockery in hers, spite of herself.

"Begone!" he said, "and do not usurp another's office again. Leave me."

"With thine own thoughts, brother?" she said softly, facing him.

"Be careful," he answered; "thou shouldst know my humors, and that 'tis

dangerous to cross them. Remember it only suits my purpose that thou

shouldst live!"

At this Tisio, as if half-comprehending the threat, rose, and his

brother's eyes fell on him.

"Thou too! What dost thou about my doors? hast thou come too to dare me

with thy folly?"

His eyes blazed, his hands worked. Tisio, dazed and affrighted, let fall

Graziosa's bracelet.

The page stooped to recover it.

"What hast thou there?" cried Visconti with sudden change of tone; and

the page, quivering for his life, handed the bracelet on bent knee.

Visconti studied it one second, then, with a sound of fury that sent the

boy crouching back against the wall, control left him. His eyes lighted

on Tisio, and in maniacal fury he seized him by the shoulder and shook

him as though he were a rag.

"How camest thou by this?" he yelled. "How came this bracelet in the

Visconti palace? Answer me!"

Tisio whimpered, but had no reply, till, with a shout, Visconti flung

him from him with such force that, save for Valentine, he would have

fallen; then he turned upon the page who knelt by, trembling.

"Answer me!" he cried furiously. "Answer! Where got the fool this?" He

held the bracelet out. And the sight of those torn ruffles around his

long white hands made the boy's hair rise.

"Indeed, my lord," he gasped, "a girl, whom my Lord Tisio--met by the

western gate----"

"Gave it him!" shrieked Visconti. "Ah, the three of thee shall pay

dearly for this hour's trifling with me!"

"My lord took it," cried the page, half-wild with terror. "He took it,

my lord; she wept to give it."

"She wept to give it," said Visconti slowly.

There was a pause. When he spoke again, his tone was calmer.

"Then he shall be slain for taking it," he said, flashing a look on

Tisio, who, huddled in the chair, moaned with distress as he leaned

against his sister.

"Shame! Calm thyself!" cried Valentine. "What has Tisio done? is this

the first ornament he has liked and taken? Have they not orders to let

him have his pleasure?"

"Mark me," returned Visconti. "Take care thou dost not make my dislike

overrule my ambition--the pair of thee hold your lives solely at my

pleasure."

He turned to the page.

"Go, and take thy fool with thee, and keep from my sight."

With a white face the wretched page rose and helped Tisio to his feet.

At a whisper from his sister he went meekly, Visconti's mad eyes on him

the while.

A terrible silence fell.

Valentine steadied herself against the arras. She was thankful to see

Tisio go--alive. To ask why the jewel Tisio had fondled had so angered

Gian was beyond her daring. "He is possessed," she murmured to herself.

With an unpleasant laugh Visconti turned to her.

"Didst thou urge him to flaunt me with this?" he asked.

"Flaunt thee?" said Valentine. "How should I know a toy like that could

rouse such fury?"

The Duke looked at her keenly, and crushed the bracelet together in his

hand.

"As I say, thou darest me far because thou art worth something to my

plans--but I have the power, and I keep it."

She was silent, and he turned to pass back into his own room. But at the

same moment Giannotto spoke. He had entered unobserved, and drew near

his master with an obsequious movement.

But Visconti met him with a snarl.

"I will see no one! Did I not say so? Take care, Giannotto, lest I see

_thee_ too often."

The secretary paled, but kept his composure. He had learned that to

shrink before Visconti only served to arouse him the more.

"I would merely say, my lord," he remarked, "Alberic da Salluzzo awaits

further orders."

"Hath he found the Count?" flashed Visconti.

"My lord, no; nor trace of him, unless these parchments be one."

"Thou hast another there?"

Giannotto, bowing low, handed Visconti a packet. His head was bent, his

eyes downcast, and the smile that flickered over his thin lips unseen.

"This, my lord, was brought in by one of Alberic's men--found an hour

since outside the gates of Count Conrad's villa."

It was sealed, and inscribed with the Visconti's name.

Visconti seized it, and Giannotto, stepping back, watched furtively his

furious face.

Gian looked at the packet. There was no attempt to disguise the writing.

It was the same as that upon the parchment Valentine had given him with

its brief threat: "Della Scala lives," and the seal of it was the Ladder

of the Scaligeri. Long Visconti fingered it in silence, then remembering

he was not alone, glanced wrathfully up to see that Valentine was

watching him with a faint smile of scorn, and that Giannotto, for all

his downcast head, waited with eyes keen with expectation. But Visconti

curbed himself. To have the mastery of others he must keep the mastery

of himself.

"Giannotto," he said, and the secretary started as if a whip had touched

him, "thou wilt see to it that Da Salluzzo searches Milan and all

Lombardy--that he spares neither treasure nor blood--and that he brings

to me dead, or living, Count Conrad von Schulembourg, and the writer of

these parchments."

With an obeisance Giannotto went, in silence, and Visconti slowly broke

the seal of the packet. Then he turned to Valentine.

"Art thou waiting to see if it contains a message from thy Conrad?" he

said fiercely. "Have no fear! Thou shalt see his head ere night."

She shuddered before the taunt, and turned to leave him. It was always

the same; let her meet Visconti with never so high courage, she left him

quelled, discomfited, dismayed.

"Go!" shouted Visconti, in sudden fury, and she stayed no longer to

question or defy.

Carrying the half-opened packet and the parchment, Visconti re-entered

his private room. It was dark and silent; no sound from within or

without broke its deserted gloom.

He was alone, nor was he like to be disturbed. Seating himself, not

without a furtive glance over his shoulder, he looked at the writing

again, the writing and the seal, then opened the packet.

A roll of parchment, close writ, strangely stained in places a reddish

brown, fell with a rattle on the floor. Visconti started back, he stared

at it, uttered a hoarse sound, stooped and picked it up. The parchment

was inscribed with poetry. Here and there among the stains a line was

readable.

"Perchance thou wouldst not dare to turn----"

His glance caught the words. He looked around with wild eyes.

A huge, black bureau, fitted with many drawers, stood in one corner of

the room. Visconti, the parchment in his shaking fingers, went to it,

still with glances around, and drew out drawer after drawer, till he had

found the thing he sought. It was among neat piles of parchments,

annotated in Giannotto's clear, good hand.

Visconti turned them over hastily, till he came upon a document hung

with the seals of Verona, a cartel of defiance, neatly endorsed in a

clerkly hand, and signed in large, bold writing, "Mastino della Scala."

Eagerly he turned to the cover of the packet, and laid the two writings

side by side. They were the same.

Visconti leaned against the black chest, breathing heavily, his face not

good to look on in its white devilry.

"He lives! Della Scala lives!" he cried, and struck at himself in his

rage. Then his gaze came back to the blood-stained parchment crumpled in

his hand.

"And this--? and this--where got he this? The parchment that I read from

on the road that day; the parchment that I thought was left at Brescia,

in that----"

The words died away on his lips. In a sudden paroxysm of something more

than fury, Visconti drove it down among the others within the drawer,

and locked and double-locked it in.

The day was fading; in that dull chamber the light fled early and

entered late. Visconti glanced again stealthily at the dark arras, faint

in the dusk. He strained his ears listening; the air was full of voices,

far away, pleading, for the most part, yet some so near and threatening,

Visconti held his ears. They died away as they had come, but to Visconti

the silence was more terrible.

"Giannotto!" he called. "Lights! It grows dark----"

He listened; he heard those sighs again, then suddenly the sound of

flying feet, hurrying, hurrying; with a scream of horror Visconti rushed

up the steps, calling wildly for lights.

The huge door swung open at his desperate push, then, falling to behind

him, shook the tapestry; as it fell into place again a long sighing

filled the empty room.

CHAPTER EIGHT

FOR A LADY'S GIFT

Tomaso Ligozzi sat in a corner of the ruined hut, with enthralled face,

listening to Count Conrad, who lounged against the wooden table

opposite. It was five days since Conrad's rescue. He had made a recovery

the more rapid that no leech had been there to meddle with him. Left to

the simplest nursing, the barest needful nourishment, and the vigor of

his own constitution, Conrad had rallied, till now, in almost full

health, no trace was left of the hollow-faced, emaciated figure

Francisco had carried into safety.

The morning after the rescue, it was decided that the hut was no longer

a safe shelter; and, carefully destroying all traces of their

habitation, the three, under Francisco's leadership, helping Conrad

between them, betook themselves to a thicket near. There, in his

solitary prowlings to and fro, Francisco had discovered a deep cave

underneath a sand-bank, the entrance well overgrown with boughs and

bushes. Here, not without discomfort, they hid till Conrad should be fit

to travel, and comforted themselves for the wretched exchange when they

heard the shouts of Alberic's men.

Francisco was disappointed in his new ally. Count Conrad showed a

levity, a forgetfulness of injury, that chimed badly with his own deep

purposes. Tomaso was his chief reliance; his plan was to secure horses,

by fair means or foul, and, as soon as Conrad could sit the saddle, to

depart for Ferrara. So far Francisco's stealthy and cautious maneuvers

to possess himself of what he needed had been unsuccessful; but at last

he had come upon the track of something possible, and to-day, with

Vittore to help him, he had departed to bring back with him the horses

for their flight.

Twice between dawn and noon had Alberic's men scoured their

neighborhood. Two, indeed, had come so near the hiding-place that their

talk was plain. They spoke of the parchment found the day before and of

the Visconti's fury.

It seemed fairly sure that for many hours at least the soldiery would

not return, as they could scarce confine their search to the one spot

only; so, before Francisco's departure, 'twas arranged between him and

Tomaso that their rendezvous at sundown should be the ruined hut where

they had first had shelter, there being no means of horsemen treading

the thick brushwood around the sand-cave, and the hut affording

opportunities of space and movement.

After a weary day and the second visit of the search party, which

alarmed them as to the heat of Visconti's pursuit, but reassured them

also as to returning to the hut, Tomaso and Conrad reached it an hour

before sundown and prepared to wait.

At first keenly anxious, straining for every sound, as time went on,

unconsciously they grew more at ease, and Conrad beguiled Tomaso with

his talk.

At last, with a sudden sigh, Conrad broke off, and lapsed into silence.

Tomaso sat alert, looking through the open door.

"Francisco is long," said Conrad after a while.

He was dressed in the leather doublet of a peasant, coarse and plain,

yet very different from the rough attire Francisco wore. He was very

handsome, of a sunny, pleasant expression, a quality rarely found among

the Italians of Lombardy; and to-day, although prepared for flight, his

blond curls were as carefully arranged as though he still shone at the

court of Milan.

"Messer Francisco is long," he remarked again, and Tomaso turned with a

start.

"He has doubtless met with unexpected difficulty, lord," he said with

some reproach. "Horses must be found--somewhere--for our journey

to-night. Every hour we stay here is dangerous."

"My heart misgives me that I did not accompany him," said Conrad; "we

should all four have kept together."

"Doubtless too many would have hampered him," was the reply.

Tomaso did not add, as he might have done, that Francisco had his doubts

of Conrad's discretion, and had left Tomaso charged to see he committed

no rashness in his absence.

"Thinkest thou he will get the horses?" continued the Count, twirling

his curls through his fingers. "Let us hope he will try naught so mad as

that attempt on the walls of Milan we made two days ago! The saints

preserve us! but I thought it was all over with us! That was a fine

race--tearing through the dark with Visconti's soldiers at our heels!"

Tomaso was hurt at the flippant tone that reflected on Francisco's

judgment.

"It was a gallant attempt," he said, "and all but succeeded; once within

the town, we might have done much."

"And so might Visconti," remarked Conrad airily. "Thou art young,

Tomaso, or thou wouldst see how worse than useless was such a mad

escapade."

"Something had to be done," returned Tomaso, "this inaction was

maddening Messer Francisco."

Conrad smiled and changed the subject.

"Who _is_ this Francisco, thinkest thou?" he asked. "For a mere servitor

at Della Scala's court, he bears a mighty hatred to Visconti."

"He served the Prince, and lost his master and his all in the sack of

Verona. It is not strange he should wish to revenge Della Scala's wrongs

and his own."

"I think him of better birth and station than he claims," said the Count

judicially. "He has the bearing of one gently born."

"I take him for what he calls himself," the boy replied. "I owe him my

life. I would die to serve him, nor would I question him."

"But would remind me that I owe him something too?" laughed Conrad.

"When the time comes to show it, I shall not prove ungrateful."

He seated himself on the table, and idly swinging his legs, looked

around the hut with lazy distaste and seemed to think of dozing.

"Remember we travel to-night, my lord," said Tomaso, annoyed at such

indifference.

"If our good friend gets the horses."

"There is no 'if,' unless we wish to perish," flashed Tomaso. "If

Francisco gets no horses, we must from here on foot."

"I do not oppose it. Rather than be taken into Milan, I will travel on

foot in any other direction till I drop," laughed the Count.

"Thou takest it lightly, my lord," said Tomaso, "thou dost not seem as

eager for revenge as thou wert. Think of the death Visconti doomed thee

to. Thou hast great wrongs to right--wilt thou not return to Milan to

avenge them? Or wilt thou ride away and forget?"

The laugh faded from Count Conrad's face, and his eyes flashed.

"No, Tomaso, I shall not forget," he said; "too well do I recall that

night when I crept down the palace steps with my Lady Valentine.

Visconti met us; parted us; ah, when I think of her face!--she was

forced back to the horror of her life again: I, carried off to die of

slow starvation in my own villa. Yes, yes; if his wrongs are like mine,

Francisco did well the other night when we dashed on Milan; such wrongs

put madness into one. Think of it, Tomaso; bound, gagged, half-crazed at

the misfortune, I was hurried hither, secretly, at night, to be left to

a dog's death in my own villa. Death was what I expected, but I nerved

myself to meet it as a noble should. There is a long low room in yonder

villa, with narrow windows I could scarce get my hand through--all of

stone, and meant for cool in summer heat; into this I was forced,

unbound, left with mock ceremony, and the door locked upon me. Ah! the

sound of that key, Tomaso; they seemed to turn it in my heart, for I

guessed its meaning. I had heard too often of Visconti letting his

prisoners die of hunger, and, as I listened to the soldiers' footsteps

fading in the distance, the cold horror of the truth seized my heart. At

first it seemed impossible that I could starve in my own dwelling. I

mocked my fears; I could force, I could break the window! I laugh now at

my own absurdities. I could do neither, I could do nothing! Terrible

hours followed, Tomaso, terrible hours and terrible days. Still I would

not own the truth, and still, as no one came, I knew it to be true! I

thought of the Lady Valentine, and wondered what her fate might be. I

thought of Germany, and wept to think I should never see it more! Then

one evening, as I lay, I think, half-senseless, I heard the key turn in

the lock, and Visconti entered, followed by Giannotto; two white hounds

slunk at his heels: well I remember. Dear Lord! I was fallen so low in

my misery, I fell at his feet and begged for mercy, for pity, or speedy

death! And he--smiled on me, and bade Giannotto bring food!

"I cursed myself for my weakness, but could have kissed his feet. Then

what happened I hardly know. As in a dream I saw Giannotto lay a

tempting feast; a banquet for one or two, such as I and Visconti had

often shared together! I blessed him with uplifted hands! When all was

set, he turned to me, still smiling.

"'Thou askedst for food,' he said; 'I would not refuse thy last request,

Count Conrad.'

"And he flung one of the hounds a piece of meat: it ate and died!

Without a word they turned and left me, the feast still spread, the dead

hound by the table. Then methinks I lost my wits, and went mad with rage

and agony. When my ravings ceased, I found myself, my hands upon the

food, it almost at my lips. But I resisted; I set it from me; and then

my eyes wandered round the room in blank despair. I saw--the key still

in the lock! I thought it was a vision, a trick of Satan. I crawled

toward the door: I dragged myself along. It was no vision: they had gone

and left me free!" Conrad paused; Tomaso, an absorbed listener, drew a

deep breath.

"What did it mean, lord?" he asked.

"Ask me not, Tomaso," answered Conrad with a lighter air. "They were so

certain I should eat and die, it made them careless, or Giannotto had a

throb of pity. Many kindnesses the knave has had from me. I know not

what it was; such things will happen. I have heard of them when in my

native land from prisoners of war. But all I knew and cared for was that

I was free! At first, indeed, it seemed to promise little good. I crept,

I know not how, into the garden--into the air: the sky was overhead: it

gave me strength: let me but get to the water and I would live.... As by

a miracle I reached the fountain." Again Conrad paused, shuddering at

remembrance of his anguish.

"The fountain?" repeated Tomaso, absorbed in the relation.

"The fountains were poisoned, boy; you know it; it boots not talking of

it; it is all past and done with, and I live, a sound, free man, thanks

to our brave Veronese; though in sooth how he could have saved me, had

he not been a giant, I leave to my good angel to think out"; and Conrad

laughed.

Tomaso looked surprised. He could not understand how Conrad could so

easily shake off his hatred of Visconti, save when the thought was

forced on him.

A silence fell which Conrad was again the first to break.

"The Lady Valentine," he said, following his own train of thought,

rather than addressing his companion, "does she ever think of me?"

Tomaso inwardly wondered how much he thought of her. Save when telling

his tale to Francisco, this was the only time he had named her. It

seemed as if his sufferings and his love alike were to lie lightly on

his mind.

"They say in Milan Lady Valentine is to marry the Duke of Orleans,"

Tomaso ventured presently.

"They say!" echoed Conrad with scorn. "The Frenchman is not even yet in

Italy. Much may have happened ere he is."

Tomaso rose and looked from the doorway anxiously.

"It is close on sundown," he said, "it is time Francisco came."

"It is intolerably wearisome," yawned Conrad. "I would I had gone with

our friend--'twould have been more enlivening than this."

Tomaso's face ill concealed his scorn.

"'Tis a matter of life and death, Count Conrad; even now the soldiers

may at any time return."

With a pleasant smile Von Schulembourg leaped from the table.

"Pardon me, if I vex thee with my seeming carelessness," he said, with

the charm of manner that could always win him friends. "I owe too large

a debt to all of you, to really be so heedless as I seem; but methinks

there is no single thing----"

"Save keep ourselves in readiness, my lord," said Tomaso. "Francisco

charged us to be so disposed that we could leap into the saddle without

a breath's delay."

"I remember," said Count Conrad, lapsing again into an idle mood.

"Methinks our Veronese deliverer issues commands as if well used to it."

The youth made no reply; he was gazing eagerly along the

chestnut-bordered path, sorely impatient for Francisco's return.

"Canst thou play chess?" asked Conrad suddenly.

Tomaso looked around at him in surprise. Did the German noble jest?

Von Schulembourg was again seated on the table, admiring his shapely

hand, which he held against the light.

"Play chess?" repeated Tomaso. "No, my lord."

Count Conrad crossed his legs daintily and sighed.

"It were a splendid chance to teach thee--had we but the men. Thou hast

read old romance, boy? And must remember how the knights and ladies play

at chess? 'Tis a royal game."

He sighed again, and glanced with disdain down at his leather doublet.

"Yet 'twere strange to play chess in this garb," he added, and kicked

the table with his heels in discontent.

Silence again fell, Tomaso still at the door, unheeding of the Count's

complaints, watching anxiously through the gathering dusk.

"By heaven, boy!" Conrad exclaimed suddenly. "Till this moment I had

forgot it. Lady Valentine's gift--thinking of the chessmen brought it to

my mind--I swore never to leave it--with my life! And 'tis behind me in

the villa."

"Behind thee, lord?" cried Tomaso, bewildered and startled at his

excited tones. "Where? What?"

Conrad was on his feet, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

"At the villa," he cried. "I know where it is, I will go and fetch it."

"My lord, consider what thou say'st," and Tomaso barred the door with

outstretched arms. "We promised Francisco we would not leave the hut--to

attempt the villa would be simple madness!"

"Why, boy, the villa is close by," laughed Conrad, "and Francisco may

not be back for hours most like; he may hang back till dark. Meanwhile

am I to twirl my thumbs in here, and Lady Valentine's love-gift calling

to me from beyond that wall? Out of my way, Tomaso. The dagger may be

useful, and 'tis beautiful: a handle carved out of a single stone. Lady

Valentine will not forgive my losing it!"

"The Lady Valentine will forgive the loss of a dagger, lord, when thou

help to rescue her from Milan," he said curtly. "But what use to seek

her gift? And give thyself again into the Visconti's power?"

"Tush, Visconti! Visconti!... I have heard the name enough," returned

Count Conrad. "I intend to have my lady's gift--it suits neither my

honor nor my affection to leave it there to be some mercenary's plunder;

and the chessmen too, boy! The set the Emperor gave--ah! you would love

them--silver and ivory--I will bring them too. They will while away more

weary hours such as these. What was I thinking of to leave them there so

long!"

"At any moment Francisco may return, and without thee here time will be

lost; moreover, his orders were that we await him."

At Tomaso's words, Conrad raised his arched eyebrows.

"Order? To thee, maybe; thou art a boy, and of humble station. I am Von

Schulembourg: orders scarcely tally with that name."

He drew his mantle over his despised doublet, and stepped to the door,

putting Tomaso aside and unheeding his entreaties.

"Calm thyself, I shall be back long before the grim Veronese!" he said

airily. "Were there light enough, there would be time to learn the game

before he comes again."

"I will learn from no one who so little knows his duty," cried Tomaso in

hot wrath.

But it was as impossible to anger Conrad as to stop him, and with a

smile on his lips and a good-humored wave of his hand, he was gone.

Gone, absolutely gone, out of sight, into the heart of danger and at the

crucial moment, for a set of chessmen and for a lady's love-gift.

After an undecided pause of utter vexation, Tomaso could not resist the

impulse to start in pursuit after him. But Count Conrad was fleet of

foot; he had disappeared, and Tomaso dared follow no farther, for

Francisco might return at any moment, and to find them both gone would

make bad worse.

And scarcely had he re-entered the hut before he heard the sound of

horses ridden cautiously, and in a few moments more Francisco turned

into the open.

He was mounted, Vittore in front of him, on a powerful black horse, and

leading two others, and his face was animated with his triumph.

"Thou see'st," he said, "we are well provided, though it has taken me

all day. Now, to mount, without pause. Where is the Count?"

"The Count," faltered Tomaso, half-crying with vexation, "the Count----"

"Well, what of him?" said Francisco, pausing keenly.

"He has gone back to the villa--to fetch something. Oh, Messer

Francisco, prevent him I could not--he left but now----"

"Gone back to the villa!" cried Francisco. "Did he rave? Is he in his

senses?"

Tomaso wrung his hands.

"He went to fetch a dagger he remembered and some chessmen."

With a cry of rage Francisco flung himself from his saddle. "Methinks I

left a fool to guard a fool," he said. "Did I not tell thee to see Count

Conrad kept from folly? Our lives are on it!"

Tomaso paled at his displeasure, and faltered out a recital of what had

happened, but Francisco cut him short.

"The thing has happened," he said sternly, "and may cost us dear, but

mine the fault to trust the foreign coxcomb." Never had the two boys

seen him so moved, and they shrank into silence.

Francisco fumed with anger. "We will ride without him," he said at

length; but even while he bade Tomaso mount, and saw to his own girths,

he paused irresolute, and Tomaso was thankful. He did not like to think

of the gay Conrad left to meet his fate alone. He ventured to speak.

"The dagger was a lady's gift," he said--"the Lady Valentine's. He could

not bear to leave it."

"He will have been wishing that he had," said Francisco brusquely; but

his face softened, and he added presently: "He must be brought back, we

cannot wait, and 'tis too dangerous to abandon him--for him and for

ourselves."

He flung the reins to Tomaso, and lifted Vittore to the ground.

"Stretch thy legs the while," he said.

"Shall I go, messer?" asked the boy.

"He will come quicker at my bidding," said Francisco grimly. "Keep open

eyes," he added, "the soldiers must come by the road if come again they

do. Hold thither once and spy, and then return and wait us here. Tether

the horses carefully and water them. They cost me something." He pointed

to his roughly bandaged arm.

Half wild with remorseful vexation, Tomaso watched Francisco go the way

the Count had gone, till his tall figure was lost to view. Then he and

Vittore surveyed each other with anxious eyes.

"Oh, cousin!" cried the boy, "we have had a fearful day!"

"Thou wert fortunate," returned the other bitterly; "Francisco is not

vexed with thee."

But Vittore, full of his tale, was eager rather for a listener than to

himself give sympathy.

"Till noon we found nothing," he said. "Francisco hung around the

farmhouses, but there were naught but sorry jades in every stable that

we peered into, every one we tried, Tomaso, and so we roamed farther and

farther across the plains----"

"But how didst thou ever get such steeds as these?" asked Tomaso,

looking admiringly at the splendid animals, well groomed and well fed,

fresh and vigorous.

"We took them," said Vittore proudly. "We came upon a camp of soldiers

with horses and to spare, and Francisco asked them would they trade with

him, and offered money, but they jeered and shouted and drove us off.

Then Francisco stood before me while I crept up to those three and

loosened their halters. The soldiers drank and sang; some lay and

snored; they thought that we were gone, then suddenly--" his voice

sinking with excitement.

"What happened?" asked Tomaso with interest. "I am glad that thou

show'st thyself a brave lad, Vittore; what happened?"

"They saw us; three of them rushed out; there was a fight, and Francisco

won."

"Won? Against three?" cried Tomaso.

"He scattered them like the wind," said Vittore. "I know not how. He is

a giant. He flung me on this black horse here; he mounted, I had the

halters of the others in my hand. We rushed away. Of one he broke the

head, I think, with his thick staff, and had his arm hit hard, but 'tis

not hurt, he says. Some followed awhile, but they drank too deep; we

left them like men dazed and mad, some falling by the road. It was a

great business, cousin, but I felt no fear; Francisco is a brave, brave

man."

"He is a leader of men, methinks," said Tomaso gravely. "I little doubt

the Count is right; he is more than he appears. Now we will leave the

horses here behind these chestnuts, and step toward the road and

reconnoiter."

CHAPTER NINE

THE RETURN OF THE DEAD

Gripping Vittore's hand, Tomaso looked cautiously up and down the road.

Crouching back in among the wayside trees, they commanded unseen a view

of any who might come or go; and though the days faded fast, it was

still light enough to see many paces off.

"No soldiery about to-night," whispered Tomaso; "they have ridden

farther afield. We will go back, Vittore."

They had turned to retrace their steps when Vittore clutched his

cousin's hand yet tighter, and suppressed an exclamation.

"Look!" he whispered, "a horseman coming toward Milan."

Tomaso looked round nervously, and saw a single rider approaching

swiftly, but casting searching glances around.

As the boys watched, mistrustfully waiting, still in hiding, to see him

safely pass, to their dismay he slackened pace, and finally drew rein

altogether and looked eagerly in their direction.

"Not a movement," breathed Tomaso, and Vittore crouched in silent

fright.

None the less, motionless as they thought themselves, some slight

movement betrayed them, for the rider dismounted, advanced toward their

hiding-place, and softly spoke.

"Who is there? I am a friend," he said.

"He is a Florentine," whispered Vittore joyfully; but Tomaso leaned

against the tree in silence, and even through the gathering dusk, as the

younger boy looked up, he saw that he was pale and trembling.

"Canst thou direct me?" said the stranger. "I can pay thee for thy

services."

"Answer him, Tomaso," Vittore whispered eagerly; "he is a Florentine, he

will not hurt us."

Tomaso made a step forward. "It is some one we know," he said chokingly,

"or my brain is playing me strange tricks."

As he spoke, he put aside the branches that hid them, and stepped

forward. The stranger had guessed their hiding-place unerringly; he

stood close by, his horse's bridle across his arm. He was a slight,

roughly-dressed, but well-formed man of middle age, light in color and

of strong yet delicate features.

"Thou needst not fear me," he began with a smile; then, as the two

figures drew nearer, he paused, and in his turn grew pale and trembled.

Tomaso, tossing his hair back from his face, with parted lips, stepped

close, followed by Vittore.

"Father! Thou dost not know me!"

"Son! Tomaso!" cried the traveler. He seized him by the shoulders with

trembling hands, and scanned eagerly his face.

"Tomaso!" and his voice was shrill with feeling, "Tomaso at last!"

They had not met for many months and years--two at least; the father,

absent at a distant court, serving where chance had led him, for fame

and fortune; the son, growing from boyhood into man in distant Florence.

Since Verona fell, Tomaso had mourned his father as dead, and he, in his

turn, had wandered far, searching for the pair who had started out to

find him.

With stifled sobs of joy, Tomaso clung about his father's neck, and was

clasped to him in frenzied pleasure.

"They said thou wert dead, father!" broke out the youth at last. "I

never thought to see thy face again."

"I thought the same of thee, my son," returned Ligozzi tenderly. "I have

been searching for traces of thee long and wearily. I thought thou must

have perished on thy long journey, having found out Verona had fallen.

But is this Vittore?" He drew to him paternally the boy who, so far, had

watched the scene with wide-eyed curiosity.

"And now, what art thou doing--and where staying?"

As if he feared to lose him, Tomaso held his father tightly by the

sleeve, over which the bridle had been slipped, and Vittore clinging to

the other hand, they drew him forward between them to the place from

which they had come.

"I am glad thou art not dead," said Vittore; "Tomaso grieved for thee

sorely, and so did I."

Tomaso laughed happily. "Grieve! Aye, did we! But now we can rejoice."

"But why this haste?" Ligozzi asked, "where dost thou hurry me?"

"Back, father, whence we came, for I was left in trust. It is a path thy

horse can follow, and I will tell thee what has happened as we go."

Ligozzi followed without further question, too full of joy for speech,

and taking so much pleasure in that it was his son who spoke as for the

moment not to heed too keenly what he said.

But when Tomaso, beginning, boy-fashion, with the last, and not the

first, came to mention of the Visconti's blow, Ligozzi roused to fury.

"Methought I saw a scar across thy face," he said, "yet in this light I

could not see too well. It is only one more wrong to set against the

Visconti's name, one deed the more to be avenged."

Tomaso took the clenched hand and covered it with kisses.

"I can forgive him now," he said, "since thou were not slain when Verona

fell."

"'Twas no fault of the Visconti's that any living soul escaped,"

returned his father. "Still, go on with thy tale, Tomaso; who is this

Francisco, that thou nam'st so oft?"

Tomaso, eager and suddenly light of heart, told all he knew, and ere his

recital ended they had reached the open, and found everything as they

had left it. The horses safe, nothing seemingly disturbed.

"Francisco will be pleased at a helper such as thou, father," said

Tomaso proudly; "thou wilt be of more service in his venture than the

German Count."

"And when this Francisco returns presently, the plan is that we set

forth at once for Ferrara?" asked Ligozzi.

"And meanwhile rest, father, and I will bring thee food. We have already

eaten."

"I, too, my son," answered Ligozzi; but he seated himself on one of the

rough wooden stools and watched Tomaso affectionately, as he brought the

poor horn lantern from the wall. He lit and set it on the table, where

it cast a straggling and wretched light.

"Francisco is surely overlong," he said; "suppose the soldiers think to

search again on their way home from some outlying district?"

"Then there will be another fight," said Vittore, "but Francisco will

get the best of it."

Ligozzi laughed.

"I owe this Francisco much," he said; "he must be a brave man, an his

care saved you both. From Verona, didst thou say?"

"From Verona, father. He said he knew thee, thy name; he is di Coldra;

he knew thee, he has said, and the Della Scala also!"

At Della Scala's name Ligozzi's eyes filled with tears, and his voice

trembled when he spoke.

"_I_ at least knew Della Scala well," he said, "and loved him too." He

paused. "Next to thee, Tomaso," he continued sadly, "his memory has

filled my heart during these weary weeks. I hoped, hope against hope, he

might have escaped even as I did, but there comes no sign he lives."

"Then thou didst not see him perish?" asked Tomaso softly.

"On that fearful night on which Verona fell," answered Ligozzi, "Della

Scala himself defended the gates, fighting like a lion. But he was

betrayed, Tomaso, by a dastard in his pay, and the Visconti's soldiers

poured in through the breach, secretly, and seized the palace, the Duke

unwitting till it was too late and the palace flaming. I had to carry

him the news; may I never have to do the like again. The palace was a

sheet of fire, the Duchess was within, and the Visconti's soldiers

swarming. The Prince rushed like a madman through the streets, a little

group of us behind him. Too late! The Duchess was too great a prize, the

miscreants had lost no time, and she was gone. A tale had reached the

Duke while he still struck about him frantically that Gian Visconti

himself had led the onset, and was still within the precincts with his

prisoner. But it was a trap, Tomaso, set by a traitor. Della Scala,

rushing where the pikeman pointed, was led beneath a burning stairway.

It crashed in. I was behind the Duke; a beam struck me down, I thought

among the dead, but some friars found me and brought me back to life; of

Della Scala they knew nothing." He paused, and hid his eyes a moment in

his hands.

"Thou didst care greatly?" said Tomaso, after a painful silence.

"He was a noble prince," replied his father. "I owe him everything; he

made a friend of me, and I ever found him brave and generous, as strong

as gentle, and most honorable--and he loved the Duchess, aye, he loved

her. The Duchess still lives, a prisoner in Milan, but Della Scala----"

He sighed deeply, and rose as if to put from him the memory of the

tragedy.

"But to return to thy deliverer," he said, "one Francisco di Coldra,

thou say'st; he claims I know him. What manner of a man is he?"

As he spoke he moved with Tomaso to the door, and looked out into the

dark. What kept Francisco and the Count?

"He is tall and strong," replied Tomaso, "with thick brown hair and

heavy eyes; a handsome face, I think it, father, stern and sad. He is

worn--as if from sickness. The Count thinks him better than he gives

out; I know not."

Ligozzi was silent; his figure alone was visible.

"Seeing the case is as thou say'st, Tomaso," he remarked at last, "every

moment of delay is dangerous, and thy friend is long."

Tomaso stepped into the open, and, to ease his impatience, brought

forward the horses.

"I think they come," he cried joyfully in another moment. "It seems a

dream, father, that thou shouldst be here to meet Francisco."

Ligozzi was still strangely silent. He drew back within the doorway.

Hurried footsteps were heard, the crackling of fallen boughs, the swish

of the flowering grass. Ligozzi saw a tall figure looming toward them

through the dusk, a slighter one beside him.

Tomaso, from where he stood, eager and excited by the horses, cried out

to them. Ligozzi, still farther back, bent down to Vittore, who stood

beside him; seen by the dim light of the horn lantern, his face was

strangely agitated.

"Has this Francisco half-closed eyes, and a ready, pleasant smile?" he

asked.

Vittore looked up in surprise.

"He has such eyes," he answered. "I have not ever seen him smile like

that. Thou didst know him then, my uncle?"

"Yes," Ligozzi answered brokenly. "I think--I remember him--at Della

Scala's court."

But here Tomaso, calling on him, re-entered the hut, followed by

Francisco, whose stately presence seemed to make the mean place smaller

still.

"My father," said the boy joyfully; "my father, saved from the taking of

Verona, and come a long way in search of us!"

Francisco fell back, uttering a stifled exclamation; the anger cleared

from his brow. He looked keenly at the figure in the shadow.

"Ligozzi!" he exclaimed, with shining eyes. "Ligozzi lives!"

"It was a miracle, was it not?" said Tomaso eagerly. "He has come to

join us. He owes thee thanks, Messer Francisco, as do we."

And all this time his father had not spoken. Tomaso wondered at it, and

now, when Ligozzi came forward shrinkingly, Francisco raised his hand as

if to keep him back, or warn him, or restrain.

"No thanks are needed," he said quickly. "I am Francisco di Coldra, from

Verona, and ever ready to serve those whom Visconti hates!"

Ligozzi stood bare-headed, as if dazed.

Francisco spoke again, with meaning. "Thy travel hath confused thee,

sir," he said; "thou thinkest thou art still at the Duke of Verona's

court, that thou standest thus humble?"

At this, Ligozzi roused himself. "Tomaso has told me--" he began. But

again Francisco stopped him.

"We must to horse!" he cried. "To horse! Too much time has already been

shamelessly wasted," and he strode out, motioning to them to follow.

By the horses stood Conrad Sigismund, bringing them one by one under

review, in the scanty gleam of light afforded by the lantern, and that

flickered upon them through the space that answered for a window.

"A roan!" he cried gaily, "I ever loved a roan charger. I will have this

one, Francisco." He spoke airily, as if ten minutes since Francisco had

not lashed him with his tongue, and threatened him even with death,

should his foolhardiness endanger them again.

"Thou wilt ride the black," said Francisco coldly.

"Because I love the roan?" asked the other with a laugh.

"Because I say so," returned Francisco.

A mocking answer rose to Conrad's lips, but it was never spoken. With a

gesture, Francisco motioned him to silence. He turned and listened.

"Horses! And coming hither!" he said. "Soldiers!"

The others, grouped close by, ready to mount, stopped paralyzed--yes,

Francisco's ears had caught the sound aright, the tramp of horsemen, and

coming upon them from the road.

Escape with horses any other way there was none, though Conrad madly

urged they should mount and fly.

But Francisco turned on him threateningly.

"Am I to run thee through?" he said; "these horses mean more to me than

thy life, or my own. Where shall we ride? Into the water? No, go back

into the hut." He turned to Ligozzi. "Aid me tether these beasts where

they may be unnoticed. These men perchance are only riding through."

It was done in silence and with expedition. The soldiers' voices were

now plain, and the jangle of their arms.

"Come, Ligozzi," said Francisco, "thou and I will play at being

soldiers, and see how we can overcome Visconti's men. 'Tis a game that

thou and I have played before."

He drew his dagger as he spoke, and stepped back with Ligozzi into the

hut. The door was closed. Francisco glanced around. By the table stood

Conrad, showing even at that moment the silver and ivory chessmen, which

he slipped out of his doublet one at a time, and passed them before

Vittore's now wandering, now fascinated gaze.

Ligozzi and Tomaso stood beside their leader, one either hand. Tomaso's

face was white; the Visconti's scar showed plainly; his breast throbbed

with excitement. Ligozzi's gaze was riveted upon Francisco.

A sudden babble of voices outside told the soldiers were in the open. A

voice cried: "Halt!"

But ere this Francisco had put out the light. They stood in darkness.

"I know that voice," said Francisco at Ligozzi's ear; "Alberic da

Salluzzo. When last I heard it 'twas in Verona, at the burning of the

palace. Dost remember?"

Ligozzi nodded. They held their daggers ready. No one stirred. Count

Conrad thrust his chessmen back into his doublet. He regretted Francisco

had dragged him so furiously away before he had time to find Lady

Valentine's dagger with the emerald. It could have been of service now.

There was a lull outside. The soldiers had dismounted, but the captain

kept his seat. The horses champed, threw up their heads, and clanked

their trappings; but as he talked with the men told off to hold them

Alberic's swaggering tones were plainly audible.

Suddenly a shout arose.

"They have found the horses," said Francisco.

Alberic flung himself from the saddle. They could hear that. Torchlight

suddenly flared across the opening, high up in the wall, and more

faintly through the broken roof. There was a sudden blow upon the door

Francisco's giant frame was barricading.

"Who is within here?" cried a harsh voice. "Open!" and there came

another blow.

But it scarce had fallen before Francisco, so swiftly no one could

foresee his intention, stepped aside and let the door fly open as if the

blow had forced it. On the threshold stood Alberic da Salluzzo,

resplendent in jeweled armor and waving plumes. In the smoking

torchlight, badly held, it seemed as if the place he looked into were

empty.

"Who harbors here?" he said, and stepped across the threshold. "Bring

thy torch here, Gilliamo."

But Francisco was swift. The door was shut before the soldier heard, and

Francisco set once more his giant frame against it. In an instant, by

the breathing of the men near him, da Salluzzo knew he had been trapped.

He turned to escape, he was about to call, but a hand of iron closed

round his throat. In the dim light the place seemed full of threatening

forms.

He was trapped indeed! Half-strangling, he ground his teeth at his folly

more than his plight, and struggled to get his dagger, but his hands

were caught.

In vain he struggled; he was a powerful man, but he who held him was

more powerful. In vain he tried to cry aloud to those without; his

voice was gripped within his throat. Slowly but irresistibly he was

forced back against the farther wall, with a strength he thought could

not be man's.

In a moment more, the soldiers without, nonplussed, but only for an

instant, by their captain's disappearance, broke in the door. They could

scarce believe their senses. Da Salluzzo lay dead upon the floor, and

over him there towered a tall figure. They saw naught else. These men

had fought with Alberic at the sacking of Verona; they knew that form,

they had seen that face before. By their torches' smoky glare it seemed

unearthly, and the eyes to flame, the form to fill the hut.

"Come and fetch thy captain!" cried Francisco. But at the voice, at the

look of his wild face as he advanced, they dropped their torches and

scrambled back across the threshold panic-struck.

"Mastino della Scala!" they cried, "Mastino della Scala!" and dropping

the lights they fled in terror.

CHAPTER TEN

THE TURQUOISE GLOVES

Della Scala is alive!

The news flew like fire around Milan, rousing even the indifferent to

some interest. The rumors then were true? Delia Scala was alive? In the

market-place, in the streets, in the houses it was discussed--the name

of Della Scala was on every lip. But in the Visconti palace it was not

spoken. Silent, somber as ever, the castle frowned over its beautiful

gardens, and, only by the companies of horse that spurred out of its

side gates to fortify still more strongly the nine cities once held by

Della Scala and now the Visconti's, only by this could it be told how

much the news meant to the man within.

Giannotto, walking softly through the corridors, paused and looked out

into the garden.

Something had caught his keen eye, and he watched, hidden by the curtain

of purple silk.

A sea of flowers lay spread beneath him, while beyond a more formal part

of the grounds, crowned with white terraces and set with cypress-trees,

rose clear against the sapphire sky. To the right lay Isotta d'Este's

prison, the western tower, a massive building of huge strength,

encircled on three sides with a moat, and guarded by soldiers.

Giannotto's eyes glanced from the silver banner that hung above,

lifeless in the summer air, to the soldiers at their posts below.

There was an entrance to the tower near to the palace, guarded, but

little used, half-hidden by myrtle that had filled up the dried moat and

climbed up the wall; and, as Giannotto still watched, the figure he had

seen enter there, hooded and cloaked, passed out again hurriedly, sped

between the sentries, who studiously took no heed, and was soon lost to

sight along the winding paths.

The movement was quick, the figure gone almost as soon as noticed; a

casual observer would have taken little heed, but Giannotto's eyes were

trained, and he knew the figure for whose it was: Valentine Visconti.

"She must have bribed high," he thought. "High indeed. Why should she

visit the prison of Isotta d'Este?" He followed her figure across the

garden with curious, suspicious thoughts.

"She is daring," he mused, "and foolish. Did she think no one's eyes

could be on her, when Visconti has spies who are to watch her every

movement?"

He turned back into the corridor, twisting the ends of his scarlet robe

between his fingers, and smiling to himself.

The secretary was in a better humor than his master; that Mastino della

Scala should live to vex Visconti, that he should have snatched von

Schulembourg, one of his dearest victims, back from underneath his very

hand, pleased Giannotto, as did anything that annoyed Visconti, save

when his master's rage was such that his secretary felt its working. The

Duke he knew to be alone. The brief audience he accorded was long over.

Visconti had no friends; they, who must, sought him in the morning in

the audience-room. For the rest, like the others of his tainted race, he

lived alone.

He paused outside Visconti's door, and the secretary smoothed a smile

from his face, and, tapping slightly, entered with a silent, cringing

movement.

The chamber was dark, although it was full noonday. Visconti had no

love for the sunlight, and even the narrow windows were obscured and

shrouded in dark purple.

The walls were paneled in carved wood, but, apart from the stiff chairs,

the sole furniture of the apartment was a long low chest, set open, and

showing silver goblets and curious bottles and glasses twisted into

strange shapes, and colored. At the farther end were two doors close

together, and between them sat Visconti, huddled up against the wall,

gazing at the floor with strained, wide-open eyes.

Giannotto, entering softly, noticed in his hand a bracelet, fashioned as

a snake, emerald green, of striking workmanship.

"A messenger from the Bologna embassy, my lord," he said, closing the

door behind him, "has entreated me to ask thy attention to them."

Visconti looked up quickly, and put out of sight the bracelet with a

snap of anger.

"What, do the Bolognese trouble me?" he said fiercely.

"They only follow the example of the Pavians, my lord," returned the

secretary smoothly. "They would have thy mediation between the rival

factions in their state."

"My mediation! Pavia asked it, as thou say'st, and so did Bergamo; yet

do the twain who then appealed to me reign in either city now? The

Bolognese are foolish," said Visconti.

Giannotto shrugged his shoulders. "That need not trouble thee, my lord.

Bologna is a wealthy town. Thy lordship will think of it?"

The secretary's eyes were on the ground. Gian Galeazzo slipped his

bracelet into his doublet and rose.

"Aye, I will think of it," he said, "but for the moment there are more

precious things to do even than using the Bolognese against themselves."

Giannotto waited. The Duke paced to and fro a moment, then broke into

the subject next his heart.

"Thinkest thou Della Scala will outwit me?" he said eagerly. "Thinkest

thou that if he do reach Ferrara he will rouse the Estes to action?"

"He had two good hours' start," returned Giannotto, "and the road to

Ferrara offers many chances."

"And those men--who let them escape them? Do they still live?"

"Aye, my lord. They are valuable. It is enough that Alberic da Salluzzo

has been lost to us----"

"They shall yet hang for it," said Visconti.

With rapid steps he returned to his seat, flung himself into it,

clutching the arms with vice-like grip.

"He cannot do anything, Giannotto," he said. "He cannot rouse the

Estes--against me! No; when Della Scala ruled nine cities, and his

revenue was equaled only by the kings of France--I stripped him, I

routed him. And now!" he smiled and his eyes widened, "he is a beggar.

Perhaps it is not so ill that he lives to know it. It is a better

revenge than any I could have devised, Delia Scala a beggar, a hanger-on

at his kinsman's court, deafening his ears with unwelcome prayers,

sinking into contempt before the people who once owned him lord!"

Giannotto was silent. He could not imagine Mastino della Scala a beggar

at any prince's court.

But Visconti, blinded and absorbed by hatred, continued unheedingly:

"Carrara also, the Duke of Padua, is too necessary to the Estes. They

cannot stand without him. Will he, thinkest thou, ever be won over to

side with Mastino? No, Giannotto, I do not fear him. Let Della Scala

live robbed of all,--and with Count Conrad as an ally!"

"Shall we then dismiss him, my lord?" ventured Giannotto smoothly; "he

who is not worth fearing is not worth considering."

He seated himself at the low table as he spoke, his watchful eyes on

Visconti, and drew some papers from the flat bag at his side.

The Duke returned no answer. In truth he heard not what was said, but

leaned back in his chair and fell to thinking. The secretary, looking at

his brooding face, shuddered a little at what his master's thoughts

might be. He wondered also as to that green bracelet that Visconti had

concealed.

The silence grew oppressive, and Giannotto moved uneasily. He loved not

to sit alone with Visconti when he fell into these musings.

The Duke roused himself.

"Ah," he said, breaking suddenly into a passion of declaim. "A God can

do no more than say, 'I have succeeded--in all I have undertaken, I have

succeeded!' And I can say as much. I have succeeded. I looked on life

and took from it what I wanted, the fairest and the finest things that

offered; and the price--others paid it. Truly, I have succeeded!"

Giannotto shrank back at Visconti's outburst, and made no answer.

But the Duke had forgotten him. He was but uttering his thoughts aloud.

"Five years ago," he said exultingly, "I rode outside the gates of

Verona and challenged Della Scala to single combat. He sent his lackey

out with a refusal, and in my heart I said: 'I will bring that man so

low that life shall hold nothing so sweet to him as the thought of

meeting me in single fight!' I have succeeded! Isotta d'Este looked

past me and laughed, and I said, 'She shall live to feel her life within

my hand.' In that also I have succeeded!

"And three years ago, only three years ago, I stood within this very

room, four lives between me and the throne of Milan--four lives, all

crafty--and two young. But I--I the youngest, took my fate and theirs

into my hand. I said: 'It is for me to reign in Milan--I am the Duke.'

In that I have succeeded!"

He paused, with dilating eyes and parted lips, intoxicated with pride.

"This ambition is his madness," thought Giannotto; but he still was

silent.

"In another thing," continued Visconti, and his voice was changed: he

breathed softly, and his eyes sparkled pleasantly. "Last May-day I saw

the people in the fields, pulling flowers; I knew they were what poets

call happy. Among them were two girls, one dark, one fair, and she with

the dark hair had her betrothed beside her. They were happy among the

happy, they loved each other--and I rode unseen. The may was thick and

white, I watched them through the flowers and vowed: I too will be

happy, even as they are happy, though I am Visconti; I will be loved for

myself alone; that fair-haired girl shall care for me as her companion

for her lover,--life shall give me that as well!"

And he rose, triumphant, smiling, resting his hand on the arras that hid

the door behind him.

The secretary gazed upon him fascinated.

Lifting the arras, he paused again, and looked back with a smile that

transformed his face.

"In that too have I succeeded!" he said melodiously; and, opening the

narrow door, he was gone, as always, noiselessly.

The secretary shook himself.

"Why does he unburden his soul to me?" he murmured. "Does he think,

because I sit silent, I have no ears, no memory--that I shall forget?

'In that too have I succeeded!' Aye, thou hast it all thine own way,

Visconti, so far."

With a slight shrug of the shoulders Giannotto fell to writing.

When his pages were finished, he put them into his bag for the Duke to

sign, and grumbled at his absence, stayed, but dared not follow.

Presently he decided to take his own dismissal.

As he rose to go he remembered Valentine Visconti, flying through the

garden after her secret visit, and he considered, if she could bribe him

to silence heavily enough to make it worth his while to venture an

encounter with her.

Visconti did not stint his sister for money, and she might pay well.

Still, dare he let her know he spied?

Then his thoughts went to Isotta d'Este, and he wondered, with some

interest, what her fate would be.

In open day Isotta d'Este had been captured; all Europe knew she was his

prisoner; Tuscany and the Empire already looked with interest on the

Duke of Milan's growing power, and that Duke a usurper. Visconti had to

step warily.

Still busy with his thoughts, the secretary had reached the door, when

it opened and the ancient Luisa, Isotta's prison attendant and spy,

entered, glancing expectantly around.

Giannotto looked at her slowly; he hated her--indeed, he hated most

people, but she in particular, for she equaled him in servile cunning

and surpassed him in greed.

"I would see the Duke," she said, looking at him mistrustfully.

"Thou canst not see him," returned the secretary, "for he is not here."

But old Luisa seated herself calmly on one of the black-backed chairs.

"I will not take thy word for what I can or cannot do," she said. "I

have important tidings for his ear alone."

Giannotto longingly wondered if it were possible to win her news from

her and share in the reward.

"I will get thy news in to the Duke," he said. "Trust it to me, and I

will see he does not forget who brought them, but 'tis impossible to see

him now."

Luisa smiled.

"I would be my own news-bearer," she said, and made no movement to go.

"Visconti is in his laboratory," said Giannotto angrily. "Whatever thy

news, art thou so mad as to think of following him there? Wilt thou not

trust it to me?" he added more gently.

She shook her head placidly.

"Have thy way," sneered Giannotto. "Stay and see the Duke, and be

dismissed for having left thy post, and remember there are more eyes on

the western tower than thou knowest."

The old woman looked uneasy, but stubbornly kept her place. And seizing

his bag and papers, Giannotto was gone, and the heavy door closed behind

him before she could know what was going to happen.

"Giannotto!" she cried in alarm. "Listen a moment--" And she ran and

pushed at the door.

Giannotto opened it a little and showed his smiling, crafty face.

"Wilt thou give me the news or wait till the Duke leaves his laboratory

and finds thou hast been absent from thy post an hour, perchance more?"

"Take it then," said Luisa with a cry of vexation. "But I will repay

thee, Giannotto."

She thrust into his hands a piece of parchment.

"It was left with me by the Lady Valentine to give Isotta d'Este. Now,

make what else of it thou canst," and Luisa shuffled past him, terror

overmastering greed. To be locked within that chamber to wait the

Visconti was what she had not heart for. Moreover, she could tell the

Duke another time--and he would listen--how Giannotto had forestalled

her.

She shuffled off, and Giannotto in triumph re-entered the chamber. He

read the parchment, one of many: "Della Scala lives."

"And the Lady Valentine conveys it to Isotta d'Este's prison," mused

Giannotto. "Now, shall I tell my lord that piece of news or no?"

He regarded the two doors, between which Visconti's chair was set, and

gently tried them: one was locked, the other opened to the touch. He

dared investigate no further, and returning to his chair, sat down to

wait. The minutes dragged on, and he fumed with impatience.

Visconti's laboratory was not altogether a secret place. Giannotto had

helped him in his experiments; there was an assistant who tended the

fires. But no one followed the Duke into it unbidden.

But, as time went on, Giannotto debated with himself that he would

venture. Visconti was long. What was he doing? It was an opportunity to

spy. If caught, the secretary could plead anxiety as to his master's

safety. Summoning his courage, Giannotto rose and crept to the unlocked

door and softly pushed it back.

It opened on a flight of stairs, black marble, carpeted in gold, the

high walls hung with tapestry in red.

The steps were few in number, before they twisted abruptly out of

sight. Round the bend floated a thin wisp of gray smoke.

Giannotto slowly and cautiously mounted. At the bend the steps still

continued, twisting again.

It was very silent, very still, only the lazy floating wreath of smoke

moving. Giannotto came within sight of a door, ajar. He marveled at it.

It was thus Conrad von Schulembourg had escaped--through an unlocked

door. Visconti trusted overmuch to the terror of his name.

Giannotto slowly and cautiously pushed it a little further open. It

showed him the outer laboratory, a long low room of gray stone, and lit

by a large window set back a man's height in the wall.

Hanging over a clear charcoal fire, burning in a pan, was an elaborate

silver pot, seeming to quiver in the vapor that shimmered off the fire

underneath.

Around it on the floor stood glasses, vases, jars and goblets, glass,

china and gold.

Save this, the vault-like chamber was void of furniture; only on the

stove near the window lay a pile of things, curiously mixed. They held

Giannotto's eyes. They were not in the laboratory when he worked there.

A man's doublet of white satin, a scent bottle, a spray of roses, a

mask, a poniard, two scarfs intertwisted, and, sparkling on an inlaid

tray, a massive ring--he knew it, he had seen it on Isotta's hand--her

wedding ring; all this thrown among two birds and a hound, stiff and

dead.

Giannotto started a step back. Then his eyes fell on the window-seat,

and even he could scarce suppress a cry.

For Visconti stood there, erect and motionless, so motionless and so one

with the stone beside him, Giannotto had not known him there. From head

to foot he was clad in gray. In his right hand he held a pair of

gloves, turquoise blue, magnificently worked in pearls, and in the other

a small phial filled with a yellow, slow-moving liquid. This he held

high against the light, which fell strong and cold upon his upturned

face and thick, curling red hair, and as Giannotto gazed, fascinated, on

the gleam of his teeth as he smiled with a slow satisfaction. Giannotto

had seen enough. His heart beat quickly. He drew the door to again, and

crept back down the steps unobserved, gaining the outer chamber,

trembling: and there for a moment fell upon his knees, as if in thanks

for a most merciful escape. His thanks were not without their reason.

Hardly was the secretary in his chair again, before a light foot-fall

sounded and Visconti entered.

For one moment Giannotto thrilled with terror, but a covert glance at

the Duke's face reassured him.

"I have this to give you, my lord," he began at once. "It was left in

the Lady Isotta's prison."

Visconti took the parchment.

"By whom left there?" he asked.

"I know not, my lord," said Giannotto. "Luisa brought it, but dared not

leave her post."

His own narrow escape of a moment since had tied up Giannotto's tongue.

"It will not be hard to discover," said Visconti. "Some one who did not

bribe Luisa high enough."

"Mastino della Scala lives," he read again. He handed the parchment back

to the secretary.

"Let the Lady Isotta have it," he said. "It may keep her alive. It looks

to me that she may die, Giannotto, of the bad air and the confinement,"

and he smiled. "I would certainly not have her death. Give her the

parchment." And he handed the parchment back, dismissing Giannotto with

the gesture.

Clearly Visconti was in a mood that held neither comment nor reward,

but one the secretary was glad to escape from so easily. With a deep

obeisance he departed.

"Who bribes the woman to comfort Isotta d'Este? The soldiers are to be

trusted," mused Visconti. "Once I know I will remember it."

He drew from his doublet the velvet gloves of turquoise hue and laid

them on the table.

They were beautiful in their perfect workmanship, huge gauntlets fringed

with pearl and gold, and tasseled at the points with rubies. On the back

was a rich design also in pearl and gold, and they were lined with white

satin, covered in fine silk lace.

Truly they were a work of art. Visconti raised them delicately by the

tassels and looked long at their rich blue, admiringly, and with a

curious expression.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MASTINO DELLA SCALA

In the council chamber of the Estes' summer palace at Ferrara were

gathered the heads of the reigning families of Lombardy.

At a long table, set across one end of the apartment, two men were

seated talking to one another in low voices. They were Ippolito d'Este

and Giacomo Carrara, Duke of Padua. D'Este, a stern, gray-haired man of

fifty or so, with keen eyes and a hard mouth, was talking rapidly,

tapping the while his fingers nervously upon the table.

Carrara, florid, pleasant-mannered, with brilliant black eyes, black

hair, and a ready smile, leaned forward and listened, observing him

keenly. Opposite them, but the length of the table away, a lady with

tired eyes and a patient mouth leaned back in her chair, motionless,

watching the trees seen through the window.

She was Julia Gonzaga, the representative in this gathering in the name

of her infant nephew, of the city of Mantua and its domains, the head of

the fourth and last great family of Lombardy who dared to raise a hand

against the encroachments and the power of Visconti.

But if at this end of the chamber the only sound was low converse, all

subdued and quiet, at the farther end gay voices and bursts of laughter

broke the stillness.

For seated in the broad window-seat, toying with a sprig of myrtle, was

Count Conrad, brilliant and light-hearted, clad in the last extreme of

fashion, resplendent in primrose velvet and mauve silk, with long

scalloped sleeves that swept the ground.

Around his waist was a gold belt suspending, by a jeweled chain, an

orange stuck with cloves and enclosed in a case of silver filigree.

Count Conrad also wore ear-rings, pearl drops that shimmered through his

blond curls, and on each wrist a bracelet; yet even this effeminacy

could not altogether destroy a certain manliness that was the Count's,

spite of an almost seeming wish to disallow it.

Beside him, half-leaning through the window, was a youth of twenty, of

that brilliant beauty too bright to last.

He too was dressed more like an idle courtier of the Valois court than a

fighting noble of the free cities, and the rare charm of his face was

marred by the spoiled affectation of his manner.

"Another war!" laughed Conrad. "I have done naught but fight since I

left Germany. I am on the sick list."

"Not when the war is of thine own seeking," said Vincenzo. "Because thou

needs must fall in love with the Visconti's sister--as if there were not

others as fair and far safer to woo!"

Conrad crossed his legs and glanced critically at the taper points of

his gold shoes.

"'Tis not my wooing of Visconti's sister has caused war," he replied.

"Thy brother-in-law----"

"I beseech thee," cried Vincenzo petulantly, "leave me some little rest

from mention of his name and wrongs! Ever since you rode into Ferrara

some six days ago, there has been naught else talked of but Mastino,

Mastino's wrongs, what we must do for Mastino--till I fair weary at the

name!"

"You would not risk your all to glut his vengeance?" remarked the

Count. "None the less his wife is your sister, and a d'Este."

"No need for the heroics he makes over her, even so. Visconti will not

hurt her, yet we must be hurried into war for it, forsooth!"

"I owe Della Scala my life," returned Conrad airily. "I should be the

last to speak; still, my wrongs are as many and as deep. I love the Lady

Valentine. _I_ have lost my land and my jewels, my house and servants,

yet I am quite ready to settle in some other part of Italy--and forget

Visconti. _I_ do not go about trying to entice other people into _my_

quarrels."

He sniffed at his orange as he spoke, and breaking off the end of the

myrtle, stuck it in his belt.

Vincenzo's beautiful eyes flashed. "Art thou a poltroon then?" he cried

scornfully. "Loved I a lady and she were kept from me, I would not rest

while a stone of the palace that held her remained one on the other."

Conrad raised his eyebrows, startled at the sudden change of front.

"Then you should understand Mastino," he said.

"I hate Mastino. He is wearisome," cried Vincenzo, pettishly. "Still, I

do not love a laggard."

Conrad's reply was checked. Ippolito d'Este had arisen and was calling

them to join him. Reluctantly they rose, Vincenzo with a yawn of

distaste, and approached the table.

Ippolito frowned at Vincenzo's face.

"You would spend all your time in idleness, it seems," he said. "Have

you no interest then in our decision as to the aid Della Scala asks?"

Vincenzo dropped into his seat, seemingly rebuked. "Aid, my father?" he

said. "I knew not it was aid Della Scala asked, methought 'twas all!"

"My proposal is an army," said Giacomo smoothly. "A small army. Let us

see what success Della Scala has with a small army. Our all _is_ much to

ask."

"What say you to that?" asked Ippolito of his son.

"With all my heart," returned Vincenzo. "An army small or large, so long

as it rids us of his gloomy face about court."

"Thou art an insolent boy," interrupted his father sternly. "At thy

sister's wedding thou wert proud that Mastino della Scala stooped to pat

thee on the head. The Duke of Verona was once as much greater than are

we, Vincenzo, than we are higher than a footman. It goes not with

nobility nor with honor to slight the fallen."

Vincenzo blushed under his father's rebuke and sat silent. But Giacomo,

always ready to smooth things over, turned to the Duchess of Mantua.

"And you," he said. "You, lady, what think you of trusting Della Scala

with an army?"

Julia Gonzaga smiled a little wearily.

"Where is he, to speak for himself?" she asked.

"We are waiting for him," Ippolito replied. "He said he would be with

us. He is late," he added testily.

"Doubtless the hour has escaped him," put in Giacomo pleasantly. "The

Duke of Verona will not fail us."

"He will disappoint us--if he turns up," said Vincenzo under his breath.

But Conrad caught the whisper and choked with a suppressed laugh--not

that the remark was funny, but that Count Schulembourg was foolish.

Ippolito's stern eyes were turned on him.

"Is this a council of war?" he asked, "or a gathering of----"

"A council of war," interposed Conrad hastily, with his most winning

smile.

But D'Este looked on him with mistrust; he had no love for the

light-hearted German.

Still Mastino came not, and Giacomo moved with a great show of patience

and forbearance.

"'Tis scarcely the way to treat with us," he said.

"'Tis treatment good enough for those who bear it," breathed Vincenzo,

and Conrad sniffed his orange. Ippolito's brow grew dark; he struck a

gong beside him, and a page appeared.

"Tell my lord of Verona we wait for him." He turned to the others. "'Tis

agreed," he said quickly, "that we furnish Della Scala with a small

army--to be contributed between us."

Carrara moved in silent assent; in Julia Gonzaga's face a faint scorn

showed.

A silence fell, broken only by the tapping of d'Este's fingers on the

polished table.

Then at the farther end of the chamber two pages drew apart the scarlet

curtains and Mastino della Scala entered. Conrad, glancing up, wondered

how even for a moment he could have mistaken him for aught but what he

was, so noble and stately was his bearing.

Conrad and the d'Estes moved at his entrance, but slightly, and kept

their eyes upon him as he walked to the head of the table and there took

his place.

Though by far the plainest in attire, his simple leather doublet in

marked contrast with Conrad's display and Vincenzo's fashion, he took

the head of the council, naturally and unquestioned. So much of the

glory of his former greatness still remained to him.

"And are your councils ended?" he asked. "I would hasten you, my lords.

Still further delay, and Visconti will be first in the field."

He paused, and took his seat in the large black chair, looking keenly at

their faces.

For a moment no one answered, then Giacomo leaned forward with a

deprecating smile.

"My lord of Verona," he said smoothly, "you ask us to venture

everything--and give us five days in which to decide--surely you are not

surprised our answer is not quite ready?"

Mastino della Scala bit his lip to keep back an angry reply.

"Five hours were enough in such a case as this, my lord," he said

quietly.

Now d'Este spoke hastily. "We have come to a resolution, Mastino--one in

which we all agree," and he looked questioningly around upon the others.

No one answered, and, taking silence for consent, Ippolito continued:

"We will aid thee, Mastino, I and Carrara, and the Duchess of

Mantua----"

He paused a little nervously, and Giacomo kept his bright black eyes on

Mastino's face.

"My lord of Ferrara says rightly," he put in smoothly. "I will second

him."

The note of condescension in the Duke of Padua's voice stung Della Scala

sharply; it was only with an effort he controlled himself.

"With what will you aid me?" he asked calmly.

Still d'Este hesitated, for his proposal was mean even in his own eyes,

but Giacomo answered for him in even tones: "We will aid you with an

army of ten thousand men, Lord della Scala, to be recruited from Padua,

Mantua, and Ferrara; well armed and----"

But Della Scala had risen.

"Spare thyself a catalogue of their virtue, my lord of Padua," he said.

"For I refuse thy offer--one well worthy of a Carrara!"

Giacomo paled with anger; his merchant descent was a sore point, and

Mastino's words struck home.

"Refuse!" exclaimed Ippolito. "Ten thousand men!" Della Scala glanced

at him with scorn.

"Ten thousand men!" he echoed. "Yes, I refuse ten thousand men. I

thought thou once loved me, d'Este, and wert too much of a soldier to

dishonor me by such a proposal."

"We can make it more--" began Ippolito.

"Dost thou not think I can see through this?" interrupted Mastino

bitterly. "This offer is but given to get rid of me--a safer way of

dismissing me from the court that once cringed to entertain me than a

plain refusal. Ten thousand men! I thought better of thee, d'Este."

"Then fifty thousand," replied Ippolito, stung by the reproach.

"A royal number," put in Conrad, but Della Scala turned on them in fury.

"No!" he cried. "Not fifty nor a hundred thousand men, to make sport for

Visconti's leisure hours--Visconti who holds nine towns of mine alone,

Visconti who is leagued with France and has the Empire at his heels,

Visconti who has gained Bergamo, Lodi, and Bologna and has half the

mercenaries of Italy in his pay! No, d'Este, I have been too great for

that. Since you so forget what I have been, and who my wife is--I will

leave thee, nor trouble thy peace for men thou canst not give

ungrudgingly. And thou, Carrara, I will leave thee--in thy blind folly,

to wait for Visconti's eye to fall on thee; all thy prudence will not

save thee then. Meanwhile, I will try in the towns of Tuscany if there

be men left in Italy to face a tyrant!"

They sat silent beneath his wrath, and he turned to go, but paused and

looked back to them with a glance they could not meet.

"Only hear this before I go," he said passionately; "there is one thing

thy faint-heartedness shall not touch, one thing I will achieve without

thy aid, though thy meanness leaves me, and that is, at any cost, the

freedom"--his voice trembled--"of Isotta, my wife. I will free her," he

continued sternly. "Before you all I mean it; she shall be saved, even

if mine honor goes to do it."

And he turned away, but Count Conrad rose, roused out of himself by the

excitement Mastino had inspired.

"I will follow thee," he cried.

"What wouldst thou have, Mastino?" cried Ippolito after him,

half-distraught. "What wouldst thou have?"

Della Scala turned in the middle of the chamber, magnificent in his

wrath and pain. "All," he said proudly. "All thou canst give, and above

all, thy trust. I am no boy to be put off with a few soldiers. I need

Modena, Ferrara, Padua, every town of Lombardy that is in thy hands; all

thy money, all thy troops, everything thou canst give--and then I will

crush Visconti. When I fell it was through most foul treachery. I will

league with no half-hearted friends again."

And again he turned to leave, this time Conrad at his heels, when a soft

voice arrested him, Julia Gonzaga's.

"I have this to say before thou leavest us, Della Scala," she said. "All

I have, Mantua and its lands, are at thy disposal, and I am proud so

great a captain as my lord of Verona should command my men."

Mastino turned, his eyes sparkling with joy.

"My greatest thanks for thy gift, lady," he said, "and still more for

the gracious manner of thy giving." And before he could say more

Vincenzo rose impulsively.

"Shall we be outdone by a woman!" he cried, his beautiful face flushed.

"It goes not with our honor, father, we should leave Mantua to fight

Visconti!"

Ippolito no less was roused.

He stepped toward Mastino and held out his hand.

"I ask thy pardon for too much wariness," he said with a faint smile.

"I am as proud now as ever of my relationship to thee, and everything

within my hands is thine to use as thou wilt against Visconti." Mastino

grasped his hand convulsively.

"Thou shalt not repent it," he said, his generous soul melted at once.

"While I live thou shalt not repent."

Meanwhile Giacomo Carrara's prudent brain had rapidly concluded it would

be most to his advantage, at least for the moment, to side openly with

Della Scala, even in this wholesale fashion.

"I too am of the same mind," he said pleasantly and frankly. "All I have

is thine, Della Scala."

"Then in a few days I will march on Verona!" cried Mastino, "and with

thy generous aid I shall recover it! My heart is too full. I cannot

speak my thanks," he continued, "but by my honor and my sword I swear,

thou d'Este, thou Carrara, and thou lady, shall never regret thy trust

in me."

CHAPTER TWELVE

GRAZIOSA'S LOVER

In the courtyard of the painter Agnolo's house in Milan, the sunshine

fell strong and golden, sparkling on the fountain that rose in the

center from its rough stone basin, and throwing the waxen blossoms of

the chestnut into brilliant relief against the sapphire sky.

The courtyard was of stone. Around three sides ran the wall, one with

its door into the street; opposite was a large garden, entered by an

archway, the wicket in which stood always ajar.

The fourth side of the quadrangle was formed by the dwelling-house,

which stood with its back to the ivied walls, itself a long, low

building, the upper half of which, jutting above the lower, was

supported on pillars of carved stone.

Around the bottom wall ran a wide border of plants, some climbing,

others heavy with brilliant blossoms, trailing along the ground, and in

the cool, blue shadows in the recess formed by the projecting story were

large pots of spreading ferns, vivid green, mingled with the spikes of

bright scarlet flowers.

The basin of the fountain in the center was velvet green with moss, and

over the limpid water there spread the flat leaves of water-lilies.

Above the wall rose the sweet-smelling chestnuts, spreading their

fan-like foliage and snowy blossoms, tier upon tier, against the

brilliant sky, and through the low arch, trellised with roses, the

garden stretched, a bewildering mass of color, white, mauve, yellow,

pink, blue and red, into the soft distance, a swaying mass of trees. It

was late afternoon, and the shadows were lengthening, as out of the

house, the door of which stood open, came the little painter. He stepped

into the sunshine, mopping his face and shaking his clothes.

From head to foot he was a mass of green slime, his doublet torn, his

hands scratched, his face hot and perspiring. After a few vain attempts

to remove the dirt that clung to him, he looked around with a rueful

countenance.

"Graziosa!" he called. "Graziosa!"

The lattice of an upper window was thrown open, and Graziosa looked out.

At sight of her father she laughed. "Hast thou been down thy passage

again, father?" she called from the window.

Agnolo made a wry face good-humoredly. "That I have," he returned, "and

fell into a pond at the other end."

"The other end!" echoed his daughter. "Then you got through?"

Vistarnini rubbed his damaged hands together with satisfaction. "Aye,"

he said with a smile, "after tearing my clothes, fighting briers,

stepping on toads, stifling with dust, and pitching on my face in the

dark, I----"

"Fell into a pond!" laughed Graziosa.

"Got to the other end," cried the little painter. "Got to the other

end!" Graziosa disappeared from the window, and came running into the

courtyard, a slender figure in scarlet.

"Got to the other end," repeated Vistarnini breathlessly. "A noble

underground passage, Graziosa, that is what we have discovered, large

enough to admit an army if need were, and with a concealed opening,

leading out through a cave to the midst of----"

"A pond," suggested Graziosa with a glance at his garments.

"A wood--the pond was a mere accessory; a wood, some two miles beyond

the town."

"Then since this end is reached from our house, we are the only ones who

can gain access to it?" said Graziosa.

"We are," returned the painter proudly. "And, Graziosa, we will remain

so."

"Thou mean'st thou wilt tell no one?" asked his daughter.

"No; it will be very useful. I hate to be forever passing the gate,

giving accounts of myself to every saucy soldier. In time of need,

should there be a war, then perchance we can speak of it."

"I think we should speak of it now," said Graziosa thoughtfully. "I

think we should tell the Duke."

"Tell the weathercock!" said Vistarnini. "I tell thee it will be useful;

the tolls nearly ruin me--and now I can bring everything I buy outside

in through the secret passage."

"'Tis scarce honest, father."

Agnolo laughed.

"I discovered it," he said. "No one knew of it, and the Duke can well

spare my tolls."

"Meanwhile change thy dress, father," laughed Graziosa, "and thou always

dost as thou thinkest. I have no more to say."

Then, as Vistarnini moved toward the house, his daughter called after

him softly:

"I may tell Ambrogio, father?"

"Thou may'st do no such thing," returned Agnolo. "His conscience would

prick him--he is overgrave and honest----"

"He is not," said Graziosa indignantly. "I mean--he would not tell--I

am sure he will not tell!"

"And so am I--for he will never know," said Agnolo with a smile. "Now

thy promise, Graziosa, that thou tellest no one, not even thy precious

Ambrogio--and the first thing I smuggle through shall be a new silk gown

for thee!"

Graziosa laughed, and seated herself on the edge of the basin.

"I promise," she called. "But as for the gown, thou couldst have brought

me that in any case!"

Vistarnini turned into the house, and silence again fell on the sunny

courtyard.

Graziosa looked musingly at the gate, then down at her bare arm and

sighed.

Two pet doves whirled down from the chestnuts and strutted across the

courtyard, with a show of white tails.

Graziosa noticed them suddenly, in the midst of her dreaming, and was

rising to get their evening meal, when the little painter, clean and

reclothed, bustled out of the house, carrying a flat dish.

"Here is thy food!" he cried to the birds. "Are ye hungry, little ones?"

And he threw the grain in a golden shower.

"Ambrogio is not here to see thee feed to-day," he continued. "What

makes him late, Graziosa?"

"The way is long," she returned, "from the convent where he works,

father, and the monks grudge him any time away from the altar-piece."

"And the bracelet?" said Agnolo. "He vowed thou shouldst have it back."

"I wish he had not," said the girl in distress. "He will do something

rash, I fear me. How can he get it back from the Visconti palace?"

"He won't get it back," said the little painter cheerfully. "Even a

lover would not be quite so mad as to beard the Visconti for a toy."

"Yet he swore I should have it again. It was rash of me to tell him how

I lost it," replied Graziosa.

"Then he would have thought thou hadst given it to the stone-cutter next

door, and there would have been high words, flashing eyes. 'Ha--ha--come

out and be slain, thou varlet! Skulking dog, thou liest!' then swords

out, and thou lying in a faint--or bewailing the day of thy birth. After

that, thunder and lightning--gore--the brawlers driven into the

street--the soldiers come up--and off we go to prison for disturbing the

streets with our frays."

"You jest too much, father," said Graziosa. "It may be serious if

Ambrogio try to recover the bracelet."

But a light knock on the outer door interrupted her, and with a

heightened color she rose.

"It is he, father!" she whispered. "I knew he would not fail us."

Agnolo hurried forward and drew back the bolts, and truly enough

Ambrogio entered.

Graziosa's lover was of medium height, a slight man, with beautiful gray

eyes. His attire was the plain garb of a student. To-day his right hand

was hanging in a sling, while in the other he carried a roll of

drawings.

"Still alive!" said Agnolo pleasantly. "Graziosa was fearing thou hadst

spitted thyself on Visconti's sword in the recovery of her bracelet."

Ambrogio took little heed of the painter, but closing the door softly

behind him, turned with a tender glance to Graziosa.

"Wert thou grieving for me?" he said gently. "I am safe, my beautiful,

and see, I have kept my word."

As he spoke he drew out the emerald bracelet from his robe, and handed

it with a smile to the girl who stood there, blushing with pleasure and

astonishment.

"Thou hast got it back," she cried; "from the Visconti palace!"

Ambrogio smoothed her bright hair tenderly.

"The bracelet was thine," he said, "therefore I went there for it, and

have brought it back to thee, even from the Visconti palace."

Agnolo was staring at him in amazement.

"How didst thou do it!" he exclaimed.

Ambrogio touched his bandaged arm with a smile.

"With only a small injury," he said, "since 'tis not the hand I paint

with."

And now Graziosa broke in with passionate exclamations of pity for his

wound, or admiration for his courage, covering the injured hand with

caresses.

"Thou hast recovered it--by force?" asked Agnolo again, incredulous.

"Call it by force or what thou wilt," returned Ambrogio. "There is no

need to speak of it more. It is enough you are in no danger. No one will

follow me here to regain it."

Graziosa kissed her recovered treasure and clasped it on her arm again.

"I shall never dare to wear it save within these walls," she said.

Ambrogio took her hand in his, and led toward the house.

"Do not fear, sweet," he returned, looking down at her with a smile.

"Wear it where and how thou wilt. Tisio Visconti will not annoy thee

more."

The girl glanced up, startled by the authority of his manner.

Ambrogio, noticing the questioning look, turned it aside with a pleasant

laugh.

"The Duke is tired of his whims, and is putting him under a closer

watch," he said. "From now on he will not often ride the streets."

"I am sorry for him," said Graziosa impulsively. "I am very sorry for

him."

They were at the house door, and Agnolo, stepping ahead into the dark

entrance, led the way up a flight of shallow wooden stairs.

"This is stirring news, Ambrogio," he called over his shoulder. "About

the Duke of Verona's escape, I mean. Do you think there will be war?"

"I am a man of peace," returned Ambrogio softly, his eyes on Graziosa.

"How should I know? Still, I do not think Della Scala will trouble the

peace of Milan much."

And now Agnolo, at the top of the flight of stairs, was holding open a

wide door through which they passed into Agnolo's workshop, filled with

the pleasant litter of his occupation. "I do not agree with thee," he

said. "Della Scala's is a great name. Were I Visconti, I should not feel

secure."

Graziosa and Ambrogio entered the long room, high and light, its windows

opening wide onto the street.

And Ambrogio, seating himself near one of the large easels, turned to

Agnolo, the while he drew Graziosa gently down beside him.

"What has the Duke of Milan to fear from Della Scala?" he asked.

"Everything," cried Vistarnini excitedly, for keenly did the little

painter love to air his views. "Everything. Mark me, Ambrogio, if the

Duke of Verona do not suddenly fall on one of Visconti's towns."

"He has no army," said the student. "He cannot rouse the d'Estes."

"He will!" cried Agnolo. "He will--he and Count Conrad. Didst thou not

rejoice, Ambrogio, when Count Conrad escaped? We heard of it from the

soldiers. Graziosa was glad at heart, as every man or woman or child

must be. Such a fate! Didst thou not rejoice he had escaped it?"

Ambrogio was mixing colors in a china saucer, and tapped his foot a

little impatiently.

"Why should we talk of Della Scala--and Visconti?" he said.

"Visconti! who wishes to talk of him?" returned the little painter.

"Tales have come to me about him, too terrible to repeat before our

Graziosa," he added, lowering his voice.

"You gossip too much with the soldiers, father," said Graziosa. "I do

not love the soldiers, nor should you listen to their tales about

Visconti."

"They would seem to tell them a little too freely," murmured her lover,

and drew his brows together.

"What dost thou mean, Graziosa?" cried her father, "as if it were only

from the soldiers we hear of the Duke. Lately some fine tales have got

about, and on no soldier's authority."

"Shall we not set to work on the pictures?" interrupted Ambrogio. "You

said, methinks, these tales were not for Graziosa's ears."

"Indeed, 'tis true," and the little painter bustled to the second easel

and drew the curtain that hung before the large panel, revealing an

almost completed picture of St. Catherine in scarlet robes.

"Thy work looks well, Ambrogio," he said, and removing a similar

covering from the easel by which Ambrogio sat, gazed at the companion

panel on which was depicted the archangel Michael. "But mine is better,"

he added, "as it should be: thy work will improve with thy years."

"'Tis as fine work as thy St. Michael, father," said Graziosa, "and a

good likeness."

"Nay, not so fair by half as thou art," murmured Ambrogio. "Thou art not

easy to copy, Graziosa."

Agnolo was studying his picture intently.

"'Twas an idle fancy to take thee as my model for St. Michael," he said

at length. "Thou dost not inspire me as St. Michael, Ambrogio."

"As what then?" asked his daughter, smiling at her father's earnestness.

Agnolo laughed.

"As no saint at all," he said. "He is like nothing but the wicked young

man reclaimed in the legend of St. Francis, and not very reclaimed

either!"

Graziosa smiled still more, but Ambrogio faintly flushed and bit his

lip.

"Thou art welcome to paint me in that character another time," he said.

"Meanwhile, I will work on my St. Catherine's robe."

And he seated himself on a low stool before the easel, Graziosa placing

herself on the floor at his feet.

Agnolo scrutinized the St. Michael once more, but finally drew the

curtain again along the rod, for his day's work was over. Settling

himself in the window-seat, for a while he contentedly watched the other

two; but not for long could the little painter keep his tongue still,

and Ambrogio's visits were a fine opportunity for voluble talk, for the

young man lived in Como, and was he not now shut up in the convent of

St. Joseph, five miles away, painting an altar-piece for avaricious

monks who grudged him even these occasional visits into Milan? What

could he know of the city's news?

"We had a fine procession this morning, Ambrogio," he said. "The Duke of

Orleans' retinue went by, a gay sight. We hoped to see the Duke ride out

to meet him, but my lord Gian Visconti keeps himself close. For all we

live so near the gate, I have never seen him, or only in his helmet; and

yet 'tis said he cares a good deal for sculpture and for painting, and

will make a fine thing of this grand new church he's building. I would

love to see what a tyrant and a painter both may look like."

Ambrogio, bending over his painting, returned no answer; but that made

small difference to the talkative little man, who continued:

"He came not, however, so we contented ourselves with the French Prince,

who is to marry the Lady Valentine. Graziosa did not care for him; I

thought him well-looking enough."

"His air was not a gay one, and he seems foolish," said Graziosa; "and

since he is not marrying for love, I am sorry for the Lady Valentine."

"Thou art always sorrowing for some one," said her father. "A princess

never marries for love."

"Then I am glad I am no princess," smiled Graziosa, looking up at her

betrothed.

Ambrogio raised her hand to his lips and kissed it in silence.

Agnolo continued his recitals, refreshing himself every now and again

with renewed glances from the window.

"A splendid view we have here, only some processions are not so pleasant

as the one that passed to-day. There was one in particular--some weeks

ago--we stayed in the back of the house that day. The old Visconti rode

to Brescia, the soldiers said, his son behind him! Ah, for that day's

work the Duke is a lost soul, Ambrogio."

There was a silence after this; the painter kept his eyes on the

darkening sky.

Ambrogio dropped his brush and rose with a pale face.

"I can paint no more," he said. "I am weary."

His daughter's lover sometimes puzzled him. His history, as he had told

it to them, was a very plain one, his career straightforward, but

Ambrogio's manner strangely varied: sometimes authoritative, strangely

cold and haughty for a poor painter; strident, sometimes curious and

overawing. But to Graziosa he was always tender, and she saw nothing now

but his pale face.

"No wonder thou art weary," she said tenderly. "'Tis a long way from St.

Joseph, thy hand pains thee, and thou hast had no food."

Ambrogio stooped and kissed her upon her upturned face.

"And I cannot stay for it even to take it from thy hands," he said with

a sigh. "I meant not to stay at all, and only came to give thee thy

bracelet, sweet; but soon, soon the altar-piece will be finished, and I

come never to return."

"Finished," murmured the girl, her head against his arm. "When?"

"By midsummer, Graziosa. Is the time so long to thee too?"

"I am so happy, Ambrogio, it does not seem possible I could be happier;

still, I think I shall be when thy altar-piece is finished."

Ambrogio looked at his painting longingly.

"If I could only stay," he said, and kissed her again.

"Surely it is still early, even for St. Joseph?" said Agnolo.

Ambrogio glanced out into the dusky street, where several gayly attired

horsemen were riding.

"The Prior begged my early return," he said. "And so farewell, my

father, for a little while, farewell!"

"Well, if it must be, it must," said Vistarnini cheerfully, "thou wilt

never fail for lack of industry. Still, Graziosa, even if thy lover

goes, there is something left to amuse us. This evening the nobles ride

in to attend the feast Visconti gives to-night to the French Duke.

'Twill be a noble feast, yet I doubt if the Lady Valentine be as happy

as thou art, Graziosa."

But his daughter returned no answer, for she was not there, but at the

top of the dark stairway: she was saying farewell to her betrothed; and

when Agnolo turned from the window, she was leaning on his arm across

the courtyard, for a last word at the gate.

"When comest thou again?" she whispered.

"Thy father jeers me for my industry, yet heaven knows what it costs me

to leave thee, sweet. In two days' time I will again be with thee."

They were at the door, but still he lingered, gazing on her gentle face.

"Farewell," he said at last, with a smile. "For two days, my beautiful

Graziosa." He took her face between his hands and kissed her.

"Farewell," she smiled, and with a sudden effort he was gone.

But once well clear of the house, Graziosa's lover paused as if

undecided, then drew his hood, and wrapped himself closely in his mantle

and walked rapidly into the city, keeping close to the wall. After some

time he drew the bandage from his hand and flung it aside.

His left hand was as whole as his right.

Again he walked on rapidly, until, at the corner of a quiet street, a

man with bent shoulders and dressed in black stepped from the shadow of

a building.

It was Giannotto.

"News, Giannotto?" asked Graziosa's lover in a whisper.

"I am waiting for you, my lord, to tell you they are growing impatient.

Your absence is causing surprise."

Two horsemen passed, and Ambrogio drew his mantle closer around him.

"No one has seen thee waiting here?" he asked.

"No, my lord, I am too careful."

"'Tis well," said the other. "Lead on toward the palace, Giannotto. I

will follow."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

VALENTINE VISCONTI'S TOAST

The Visconti palace was brilliant with lights and gay with the hum of

voices.

Splendidly attired, in all that wealth or taste could desire, the French

guests seemed to diffuse some of their own light-hearted gayety over the

somber abode of the Visconti.

The entrance stairs of fine white marble were spread with a purple silk

carpet, the golden balustrades intertwined with roses emitting their

fragrance, and the long gallery opening from the stairway and lit by

wide windows, deep set in the stone, showed the long, low balcony

smothered in myrtles, lemons, citrons, oranges, and gorgeous flowers,

scented and abundant, filling the corridors with the sense of summer and

mingling their slender trails with the stiff folds of the rare and

costly tapestries that covered the walls and were laid upon the floor.

At intervals stood statues, masterpieces of ancient art, faintly lit by

the golden glimmer of the swinging lamps.

And all the stairs and corridors and gallery were alive and brilliant

with the magnificent guests of the Visconti--lords and ladies, the

finest the dismantled court of France could boast. Yet, used to

splendors as they were, coming from the most refined court of Europe,

the costly display made by an Italian usurper impressed them with

wonder, almost with awe.

Tisio Visconti, most richly dressed and adorned with all his favorite

jewels, mingled in the throng, gay and happy, forgetful of everything

save the lights and the colors, the kindly respectful tones in which he

was addressed, unheeding the silent page that followed him.

The wide, usually so somber, entrance of the palace stood open upon the

street, and the red flare of torches, the gleam of richly-caparisoned

horses, the bustle of pages and men-at-arms, were visible to the

courtiers within, and blended city and palace in one splendor.

"I would the French were always here," cried Tisio, excitedly. "I love

the palace to be light and gay."

The gay flutter of silk and satin, the elegant grace of the strangers,

pleased him, and he smiled like a contented child. But suddenly all the

light was struck out of his face.

"Gian," he said dully.

"The Duke!" the courtiers behind him took up the word, and the tattle of

voices ceased.

Gian Visconti was approaching down the gallery, followed by several

pages in the Viper's silver and green livery.

He passed between the rows of bowing courtiers carelessly; there were

many there of the proud nobility of France who found it hard to stand

silent and respectful before this man, whose crimes alone were his

passport to sovereignty.

To them this marriage was a humiliation, a disgrace to the French crown,

but to Visconti it was a triumph, the successful crowning of ambition.

He was in a genial mood, and as he passed Tisio stopped and smiled,

telling him for to-night he might go where he pleased.

It was not too much to spare to the brother whose possessions he

enjoyed.

And as Visconti passed on, more than one Frenchman raised his eyebrows

and shrugged his shoulders expressively as the sweep of his scarlet

train disappeared.

Among the throng the ever-ready secretary waited for Visconti's eye to

fall on him, and the Duke, dismissing the pages, beckoned him forward.

"No news from Verona, or Mantua?" he asked.

"None, my lord."

"None? The messengers are late. But after all why should they haste?"

said Visconti. "Della Scala will hardly be in the field yet," he added

with a smile.

"If ever, my lord," replied the secretary smoothly.

The two had withdrawn into the embrasure of one of the great open

windows, and Visconti, glancing through it, turned his gaze there where,

clear in the blue summer night, rose the outline of an abutting

building, grim and dark and silent: Isotta's prison.

"See the guards be doubled there," he said. The secretary bowed.

"As to the Lady Valentine, my lord," he said insinuatingly, "she is safe

and well, and at her prayers with her women. I have kept guard upon her

slightest motion."

Visconti drew a ring from his finger. He was in a generous mood

to-night, a rare one enough, as Giannotto thought with bitterness.

"Take this for thy pains," he said. "And now I will relieve thee of thy

watch; she can hardly escape under my very eyes and with her bridegroom

waiting. Let the guests know I bring the bride, Giannotto."

Visconti withdrew the length of one of the corridors, and paused there

at a door before which stood two soldiers, the guard of his sister's

apartments. At his soft approach they stood back, and, opening the

folding doors, Visconti passed through, and quickly threaded the

deserted ante-rooms until he reached the chapel that the lady used.

The place was dim, lit by red lamps that cast more shadow than gave

light, and with high, stained windows, now scarcely showing color, and

seated on the floor under one of them, her head against a carved wall,

her hands listless in her lap, was Valentine.

She wore a dress of flame-colored satin, and her hair was elaborately

dressed with rubies and pearls. She made no movement at her brother's

entrance.

The air was heavy with incense and the perfume of some white roses that

faded across the altar steps.

"We wait for thee, Valentine," said Visconti.

A couple of her women moved forward from the shadows, and whispered to

the Duke they could do nothing with her. He motioned to them to

withdraw.

"Valentine, come! Think of the splendid life that opens before thee from

to-day." Visconti's tone had the gentleness of one who has gained his

point. "Thou may'st be Queen of France." But Valentine Visconti had too

much of her brother's spirit, too much of the ungovernable pride of

will, not to hate this yielding to the force of power. She hated her

brother's tyranny. She hated this marriage. What would life be for her,

with an indifferent husband, in an idle, impoverished court, among

foreigners, strangers, far from her own land? She would not be forced to

it. She rose to her feet, desperate.

Visconti watched her keenly, standing waiting.

"Come," he repeated, "the Duke of Orleans waits. The feast is ready."

For one moment a mad hate of him overmastered her, a wild desire to

refuse to stir, to cling to the altar, dash herself against the floor,

anything rather than obey. She knew his parricide; he was not the elder.

She would not obey.

Words of defiance were on her lips, but glancing at his face, the words

died away, and a sense of the useless folly of resistance, the useless

humiliation of refusal, surged over her. She was in his power. When she

spoke, it was humbly, in a faltering voice, with tears.

"Gian," she whispered. "Gian--I have never asked anything of thee

before. Gian--this marriage is hateful to me--" she paused, then stepped

forward with appealing eyes. "Gian--have consideration--have mercy!"

"The Duke of Orleans waits," smiled Visconti. "Will you not let me lead

you to him?"

Valentine drew back and steadied herself against the wall.

She thought of Conrad with bitterness and shame, of his vows of

devotion, how he had sworn she should never wed the French

Prince--and--he was free--had been so for many days, and never a word or

a sign.

Visconti flung wide the chapel door, and in the adjoining room he

summoned to her side his sister's page. Valentine's eyes fell on him,

and she noted how the blood rushed to his face as he sprang to obey. He

was a fair-haired boy with eager eyes, who worshiped her with a romantic

devotion at which she had often smiled; but now----

He lifted her train, and Visconti held out his hand. Outside her door

soldiers kept their motionless guard, and beyond the gay crowd swept to

and fro. Silently Valentine moved forward, but her heart was burning

with rebellious hate.

"I will still try once more for freedom," was the thought she held to;

and as they traversed the great corridor and her eyes fell, as had her

brother's, on the grim outline of Isotta's prison, "I will free her

too," she added, with a swelling heart.

And Visconti thought her conquered, cowed into complete submission, and

watched her pass ahead of him down the banqueting chamber with a

satisfied smile to see her the fairest and the proudest there.

The brilliant courtiers streamed in, a mass of color and jewels, and

Visconti, seated at the head of the table, glanced at the effeminate

faces and frivolous bearing of the guests with some contempt.

"No news?" he whispered to Giannotto behind his chair. "No news from

Ferrara yet?"

"None as yet, my lord. The messengers are expected at any moment."

The apartment was a blaze of wax candles that threw a thousand dancing

reflections on the elaborate silver and glass that covered the table.

The bright light fell too on the rubies on Valentine Visconti's throat.

She sat at her brother's side, with a pale face and sparkling eyes. On

Visconti's right was her bridegroom, the Duke of Orleans, an elegant

young man with weak eyes and a receding chin. His scanty, fair locks

were carefully arranged with grease and curling irons into stiff curls,

the ends of his mustache were elaborately twisted, and his face was

rouged plentifully on the cheeks.

Valentine looked at him once, then ignoring him utterly, she looked down

the long, glittering table to the great entrance facing her, with a

crowd and press of liveries and hurrying attendants, waiting pages. As

for the French Duke, he conversed with Visconti, ignoring the hardly

hidden contempt that he was either too dull to see or too politic to

resent.

The banqueting hall filled: and the guests in their seats, the

secretary, standing back among the servitors, crept out into the

antechamber. After the glare and splendor of the banquet, the room

seemed dull and somber, and Giannotto stumbled over a crouching figure.

It was Valentine's page, weeping bitterly.

"Poor fool!" muttered the secretary. "Wouldst thou lose thy place as

well as thy heart?" And he passed on with a laugh. But after a pace or

two he paused. Through the palace windows floated a sound as of distant

murmuring and commotion, yet so faint he could scarce be sure of it.

The page had risen, shamefaced at having been discovered. He was very

young, and his grief very real to him. He choked a little, stifling his

sobs.

"Silence!" said Giannotto angrily. "Listen!" The sound grew nearer and

more distinct, and the secretary went to the window nearest and leaned

forward eagerly.

Several horsemen and soldiers came riding swiftly, holding flaming

torches; windows were flung open, people hurried to and fro.

"Some evil news has got abroad," said Giannotto, straining eyes and

ears.

And now the noise of angry shouts and frightened cries became too plain,

and the secretary could see by the flare of some horsemen's torches a

throng of country folk, laden with their possessions, and some men

driving herds of cattle, and soldiers torn and dusty.

"Evil news, indeed, I fear," he muttered, and waited anxiously.

A ray of brilliant light from the banquet hall beyond fell between the

curtains and streamed across the room, there was laughter and clink of

glasses, and a voice singing in French to a lute. The page clenched his

fists and turned to go.

"Stay," said Giannotto, "stay. If thou wouldst end thy days, here comes

a chance, methinks, for some one will have to carry ill news to

Visconti." And even as he spoke a white-faced servant entered.

"My lord," he cried, as Giannotto stepped before him, "there has been

some sore disaster--the country folk are trooping through the

gates--there is a panic in the city."

"The messengers!" cried Giannotto, "the messengers!"

"The messengers have not returned--but there are plenty bringing news

who were not sent for them, my lord." And as the man spoke, a disordered

group, soldiers and servants, pressed into the room behind him.

"Gently, my friends," said Giannotto, checking their agitated outcry and

pointing to the curtains that hid the banqueting hall. "The Duke!"

A man, dusty and white-faced, forced himself out of the crowd, small,

but swelling every moment.

"I bear news the Duke must hear," he said, "and quickly."

"Where hast thou come from?" asked the secretary. "What is thy news?"

"Since daybreak I have been flying for my life--I am a servant in the

garrison at Brescia--it is destroyed," gasped the man.

"Brescia!" The echo of horror. "Has Brescia _fallen_?"

"Aye, fallen--into Della Scala's hands."

Giannotto looked around bewildered, incredulous.

"Della Scala at Brescia?" he said. "You dream!"

But the room was filled now with a wild-faced crowd that would not be

kept back, and from every side echoed the evil tidings.

"Brescia--at dawn to-day Della Scala whirled down on us, flushed with

victory--and in two hours the town fell."

"And Visconti thinks him idle at the d'Este's court!" broke from

Giannotto.

And the crowd filled the chamber with the whisper of dismay and horror,

but from the banqueting room still came the song and the

laughter--Visconti was in blissful ignorance of evil. Who could tell

him? Who would dare?

Well Giannotto knew the fall of Brescia could be only the last of a

series of incredible disasters; so swift as to seem miraculous. Victory

after victory must have fallen to Della Scala before he could have

marched on and taken a place so near Milan; victories following too fast

on one another to have reached Visconti before their culmination. The

news indeed was terrible!

Who would enter the banqueting hall?

All shrank.

"Tis almost certain death," they muttered, and Giannotto smiled.

"The Duke carries deadly weapons."

As he spoke the curtains were pulled aside for a moment as one of the

serving men stepped out, and Giannotto, bending eagerly forward, caught

a glimpse of two faces at the far end of the brilliant table.

Visconti's, laughing, triumphant, insolently handsome, and Valentine's,

set and white, with dangerous eyes.

The curtains fell to again, but Giannotto had a thought.

"Leave it to me, good friends," he said, and passed into the hall.

"The Lady Valentine shall give the news!" That was the secretary's

inspiration. "The Duke dare not touch her, and it will be a pleasure to

her that she may reward." And the crowd, gathering in the anteroom,

waited, bewildered and terrified, to hear the blow had fallen.

"They will stop their song and jest," said the man from Brescia, "let

the Duke once know--" The entry of another, panting and torn,

interrupted him.

"Heaven save Milan!" he gasped. "Verona has fallen!"

* * * * *

The shouts and clatter from the courtyard had penetrated faintly to the

banqueting hall, and Visconti paused a moment, listening.

Valentine listened too, and thought of Conrad.

But the noises died away, and Visconti turned to the Duke of Orleans

with a laugh.

"My soldiers revel in your honor," he said, "and we will drink my

sister's health, my lord."

Valentine's breast heaved. Who was he, to dare to sacrifice her to his

pride and greed? She would not suffer it. Was she not also a Visconti?

As in a dream she heard her health drunk; as in a dream she saw the Duke

of Orleans' foolish look turned toward her in vacant admiration; then

suddenly, with a start, she noticed Giannotto's crafty face. Valentine's

eyes blazed with sudden purpose. She looked down toward the entrance,

and saw, between the curtains, white faces peering and figures

half-thrust forward.

"The Duke of Orleans!" cried Visconti, and the guests again rose.

Valentine rose also, with inspired eyes and crimsoned cheeks.

"The Duke of Orleans!" she cried, lifting her glass, and at the first

words she had spoken they stood silent, in an uneasy expectation. "Will

the Duke of Orleans wait, Visconti, while I give a still nobler toast?"

Her voice rose triumphant. At her words, at the mad defiance of her

bearing, Visconti stood amazed.

"Here is to the one who has taken Brescia and Verona, even from thee,

Visconti; here is to the brave soldier who now marches on Milan--Mastino

della Scala!"

And she raised her glass high, and then turned and flung it at

Visconti's feet.

"The news is true," she said, "and now kill me for it."

And with a stifled cry Visconti's hand was on his dagger, but d'Orleans

flung himself upon him, and caught him by the wrists. Visconti glanced

at him, and at the startled company, not grasping what had happened, and

then the cry, begun no one knew where, went in a growing volume around

the hall.

"Verona has fallen!"

It circled around the table, it passed from lip to lip, from the

white-faced, surging crowd to the brilliant guests, and the company

broke into confusion, and looked into each other's eyes with terror.

"Verona has fallen!"

"A lie!" thundered Visconti. "A lie! my sister has gone mad. Who says

the word again shall die!"

"My lord," said Giannotto, "listen": and into the sudden hush within

came the wild hubbub of the panic-stricken city.

"Verona is fallen! Della Scala marches fast on Milan!"

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE TUMULT AT THE WESTERN GATE

Mastino Della Scala with his army lay at Serio, a hamlet boasting a

small eminence crowned with a strongly built but insignificant castle.

Some ten miles farther Brescia was held by Julia Gonzaga's army. Only a

few weeks had passed since Della Scala, falling first on Verona, and

taking it, had marched on Milan and almost snatched it from Visconti's

unsuspecting hold. But the alarm given at Valentine's wedding-feast had

come in time. With almost superhuman energy, in two hours' time Visconti

armed the walls and put the city in defense. To surprise a victory was

impossible. Still, the Duke of Verona's army was only some fifteen miles

from the walls, and day by day drew nearer.

Visconti, from the height of proud security, was suddenly, by one move,

placed in a position dangerous indeed. The towns and domains behind

Milan, from that city to Turin, were still his, as were Pavia and

Piacenza, but from Brescia to Verona, and from Modena to Lombardy, save

for a few scattered towns and forts held desperately by Visconti's men,

the whole was in the hands of Della Scala and his allies. Still Milan

was not in a state of siege: men and supplies hurried in from Novara,

Vercelli, and other towns in the Visconti's dominions, and powerful aid

was coming to the Duke of Milan's assistance from the Empire.

Yet in Visconti's eyes this aid, needful as it was, was dearly bought,

for Charles IV., though an ignoble ruler and laughed at by his subjects,

was of an honorable, open disposition, and related by marriage to the

Estes, and the one condition on which he was dispatching to Visconti's

service his soldiers stationed in Switzerland and on the borders, was

that Isotta d'Este should be untouched.

In the bitterness of his rage, Visconti wished he had already slain her;

now, in truth, he dare not. It was no question now of gratifying an

ambition, it was simple fear of losing his own throne, fear of being in

his turn reduced to what he had reduced Della Scala, that made him

respect the wishes of the Empire, and the feeling of the French who

thronged his court.

And the thought that he could not play the best card tyrant ever held,

was rendered doubly bitter by the fact that Della Scala knew him to be

helpless and Isotta safe.

Scheming in his crafty soul for means to outwit Mastino, Visconti

thought of Giacomo Carrara, who held Padua, Treviso, Cremona, Vicenza.

He was Della Scala's ally, but a man of no upright soul.

"Could I gain him," thought Visconti, in his musings, "I could stand

without the Empire, without France, and use my captive as I please and

not as they dictate."

To the Estes and Julia Gonzaga he gave no thought; well he knew they

were not likely to desert Mastino--but Carrara----

Meanwhile, he threw his whole strength against the opposing army,

keeping it at bay, gaining time--and planning.

But Mastino della Scala's object was not to lose time in idle

skirmishes. Brilliant success had fallen to his share, not one reverse

had marred his short campaign, and it is not the policy of the victor to

dally with time, rather to seize the chances each day offers, while yet

fortune smiles on him.

But well Della Scala knew that neither honor, nor pity, nor shame, but

fear alone, would restrain Gian Maria Visconti from venting his hatred

on Isotta d'Este.

Still, he kept up a stout heart. Visconti dare not! To make assurance

doubly sure, he used all his influence at the court of Rome to procure

the aid of the Church against the Duke of Milan.

Many a time had he rendered powerful help to the Pope, and, as his

present position stood, might do so yet again; and the result of his

appeal was a grave embassy from the Pope to Visconti, threatening him

with excommunication and the sword of the Church should he dare to touch

Isotta d'Este.

For the first, Visconti cared little; twice had the Church thrown him

out, and each time he had laughed at it and emerged triumphant; but now

his position was more perilous than it had ever been since he mounted

the throne of Milan, and he dare not treat this mandate of the Church as

he had done the others.

The Pope's temporal power too was great; were that once turned against

him, even with the Empire's aid he could hardly stand; so Visconti

answered them with fair words, pledging his honor for the Duchess of

Verona's life.

One bright summer morning, Visconti sat at the open window of his

palace, thinking.

At the other end of the room the Duke d'Orleans and Tisio were playing

at chess; between these two, during the Duke's enforced stay in Milan, a

friendship had sprung up, and Visconti, weary of his foolish guest, was

well pleased a foolish brother should take him off his hands.

The Frenchman was prepared at once to carry out the contract, marry

Valentine, and depart for France, but Visconti's pride would not permit.

The Duke d'Orleans had witnessed a reverse, he should behold a triumph.

Valentine should leave Italy as befitted his sister, not fly from it as

a fugitive; and the French prince, who in a few weeks had yielded to

Gian's subtle influence and learned both to fear and obey Visconti,

assented meekly to delay, and whiled away the time as best he might.

Visconti sat so motionless and silent that the chess-players were

forgetful of his presence, and their voices rose high.

"My move," said Tisio gleefully. "See, the rook take your knight."

"Your rook could take my knight," returned d'Orleans, "if it were your

move, but as it is mine----"

"You are not watching the game," was the angry rejoinder.

"Your pardon, _my_ move," said the Frenchman calmly, and, with a smile

on his vacant face, he swept up one of Tisio's men.

"My move--and--mate, M'sieu."

With a cry of childish rage, Tisio snatched at the board, spilling the

men onto the floor.

"I love not to play with you," he cried. "I would Count Conrad were

here, he was the one to play with."

D'Orleans laughed.

"Because he always let you win, M'sieu?" he said.

Tisio began to whimper with annoyance, calling loudly on Valentine.

Visconti, aroused, drew the curtains aside, and stepped forward.

D'Orleans was, at his appearance, a little flurried. It was impossible

for his weak brain to meet those eyes and not feel flurried.

"Tisio and I are fallen out again," he said feebly.

Visconti looked at him coldly.

"I would remind you, my lord, Tisio, though an infant, is my brother."

"Gian!" cried Tisio, suddenly noticing him. "Gian! it was my move!"

"Whether it was thy move or no, it does not please me thou shouldst be

annoyed--remember it, my Lord Duke"; and he turned into his inner room.

As he closed the door, his long brooding showed in his face. It was

lined and anxious. The position was a dizzy one: a perilous one: his

dark dress concealed the gleam of chain armor.

His enemies were many, and some powerful, and Visconti took no chances.

At his side hung a dagger, long and sharp, and his fingers were often on

the hilt in readiness. At his old place sat Giannotto.

"I have decided," said Visconti. "I will attempt Carrara."

"You think he is to be bought, my lord?"

"I think he is to be bought," responded Visconti. "At any rate we will

try. He and his force are with Della Scala?"

"And fifteen miles outside our walls," said Giannotto; then at the look

on the Duke's face, he was sorry he had spoken, and shrank together.

"Read what is on the parchment," said Visconti; and the secretary, glad

to have been let off so easily, unwrapt the roll.

Therein Visconti's bribe was plainly set forth:

The town of Cologna, near to Padua, and well fortified, the protection

and close alliance of Milan, and the service of ten thousand trained

mercenaries, together with the right to trade free of toll in Visconti's

dominions----

"And a pair of turquoise gloves," added Visconti, with a change of

tone.

Giannotto glanced up.

"Are they not worth three hundred ducats?" said Visconti, smiling. "Did

not the Pope and Emperor both wish to buy them, and fail?"

Giannotto bowed his head over again and studied the scrip in silence.

Visconti watched him keenly.

He thought, "I know he would betray me for a ducat!--if I were not

Visconti."

He turned to the narrow window, and looked out onto the city spreading

beneath him.

"The Empire," he muttered to himself. "The Empire and the French--I will

awe them and humor them while I must--but let me once gain Carrara--as I

shall--I can dispense with them and deal with Della Scala as I list."

He turned from the window to Giannotto, and his face had lost its lines.

"Well?" he asked. "What think you?"

"This is a master-stroke of temptation, my lord. You have always found

craft a good servant."

"It would not serve me well in thee," said Visconti with a sudden

glance. "Now, see to it that parchment is dispatched, Giannotto, and by

a trusty messenger, and with no delay."

"I will give it to Ricardo with my own hands, my lord," said Giannotto.

"He is the best man we have since Filippo was wounded this morning in a

skirmish by the western gate."

"The western gate?" Visconti looked up quickly.

"It was not worth while bringing to your notice, my lord. A band of the

enemy's soldiers have been skirmishing there."

"They were beaten off without harm to anyone within the gates?"

"The gates were not forced, nor anyone injured--or I should have

acquainted you, my lord," and he waited for possibly some mark of

appreciation; but the Duke motioned curtly to the roll he held, and

Giannotto crept out with bowed shoulders. As the tapestry fell into

place behind him, Visconti approached the black bureau between the

windows, and unlocked one of the long drawers.

In its dusky recess lay a gold box, and Visconti took it out, handling

it carefully.

The light fell in a straight shaft from the narrow window, on the

delicate chasing of the casket, as Visconti placed it on the table, and

as he turned the key and the lid flew back, it gleamed on the emeralds

and diamonds of an elaborate coronet, exquisitely enameled and pointed.

Every inch was covered with precious stones: each point tapering into a

delicate tracery of gold, as fine as lace.

Visconti drew a chair to the table, and leaned back in it, his eyes upon

the jewels; so absorbed was he, he did not heed the opening door nor

Tisio's entrance.

And Tisio scarcely saw his brother, for joy at the little coronet, so

brilliant in the sun's straight ray.

"How dost thou come here, Tisio?" asked his brother, startled; but at

sight of Tisio's vacant, foolish face, he sank back, and noticing his

joy, he smiled--for Tisio was crazed, and remembered nothing of even the

things that gave him pleasure. "Dost thou like it?" he continued,

gratified at the delight in his brother's eyes. "Thy taste in

goldsmiths' work is good, Tisio."

"'Tis beautiful, Gian, wondrous beautiful!" cried Tisio in rapt

admiration.

"I bought it with the price of half a city," said Gian. "And hold it

cheap."

The words had no meaning for Tisio, as his brother knew: he only voiced

his own pride in the lovely bauble.

"And wilt thou wear it?" asked Tisio.

The Duke laughed good-humoredly.

"Not I, Tisio; still soon--when Della Scala's crushed--thou shalt see it

worn by some one--some one whose face will outshine these stones,

Tisio."

"Whose will it be?" asked his brother childishly.

"A lady, Tisio; and when this coronet is on her head, she will be

Visconti's wife and the Duchess of Milan!"

He paused on the word, and looked at Tisio; but there was no wonder in

his brother's eyes, his gaze held by the flashing stones.

"Now, by Saint Mark!" cried Visconti suddenly. "This is no time to be

maundering with a toy and an idiot."

He put the little coronet back and locked the casket.

"How comest thou to be alone, Tisio? Where is thy page?"

As he spoke he returned the casket to the bureau. Tisio, in eager

curiosity, looked over his shoulders into the open drawer. There lay the

turquoise-colored gloves.

"Oh!" cried Tisio joyously. "The beautiful, beautiful gloves!"

And before Gian could stop him, he had caught them up.

Visconti snatched them from him; at the same moment came a clamoring

upon the door. It was Giannotto knocking lustily.

"Now, who beats down the door?" cried the Duke, and waiting for no

further summons, Giannotto entered. The Duke, starting, thrust the

turquoise gloves into his doublet.

"What is it now, Giannotto? Did I not say that I was coming?"

"My lord, it presses. De Lana would see you--there has been fierce

fighting outside the walls--the army clamors for you----"

"Lead the way," said Visconti shortly; and, preceded by his secretary,

he returned hastily toward his council chamber.

The anteroom, brilliant in pink stone and gold, the great hall itself,

flaring in painted walls and dazzling stained-glass windows, were full

of people--courtiers, soldiers, artists, and craftsmen.

Gian Visconti kept neither the open court nor the free table of his

father; he was neither lavish in his hospitality, save when it suited

his own ends, nor liberal in his rewards; still he loved, encouraged,

and jealously exacted the homage of all artists. Woe be to the painter

or poet who took his painting or poetry to any other in Milan save the

Duke himself!

There were many there to-day, eager-eyed among the throng, among them

the German architect of the glorious new church; but to-day Visconti

passed unheeding through them. The city was at war.

He stepped into the council chamber unannounced, followed solely by

Giannotto.

The great gilt ornate room was full of Milanese and foreigners, allies

or guests of Visconti.

"You look grave, my lords," cried Visconti, his gray eyes wide, "and

fearful. I had not thought you of so poor a courage. Yet, since you are

so faint of heart, I come to tell you from my own lips that I ride

against Verona to-day! Have you forgotten, my lords, that a Visconti

still rules Milan?"

There was no answer from the splendid throng; they had complained much

of late--but not to his face.

"Have you no thanks for so much comfort?" laughed Visconti. "Let all

those who may care to follow make them ready, and let those who care

not--stay to make us welcome from a victory. Come, De Lana."

He turned away with his hand on his favorite captain's arm.

To a man the crowded assembly flocked to follow.

"Ah!" Visconti turned again.

"A crushed foe is scarcely to be feared! Have I not set my standard in

the market-place of Verona? Have I not dragged a hostage from Della

Scala's palace? Lords of Milan, am I not Visconti?"

With one voice they broke into loud shouts.

"To the city walls! to the city walls! Down with Della Scala! To the

city walls!"

And while the cry still sounded, before the enthusiasm could abate,

Visconti, armed and mounted, rode at the head of some thousand

mercenaries and Milanese, to the farthest rampart of the city.

D'Orleans had not volunteered. The French duke remained in the

well-guarded palace, of which the Lady Valentine was left the governor

during the Duke's absence, an office she had often filled before

quarrels had sprung up between her and her brother, and while he held

Milan against his father and she was his counselor and ally.

For a few brief hours, power again was hers, for Visconti had not

weakened her authority yet--outwardly at least. She could do nothing.

She thought of her helplessness with bitterness. All day long she set

herself to revolving schemes of escape--some way whereby to avail

herself of the confusion into which Milan had been thrown--some means to

outwit her brother.

She could not rest for her anxious thoughts. The Visconti palace was

near the walls, and Valentine, stepping onto the open balcony, looked

through the clustered pillars over the flat house-roofs to the distant

country where the advancing army lay.

The air was heavy. From the streets came the sound of tumult, noise, and

hurry: the walls were manned.

"There is to be some fighting," murmured Valentine.

She shaded her eyes from the sun that, beating on the red brickwork of

the palace, gave back a blinding glare.

"Oh, may God grant that victory may fall," she murmured, "where Count

Conrad draws his sword!"

It was evening before Visconti returned, weary from his survey of his

men, victorious after a fierce skirmish with some of Verona's

mercenaries, led by Mastino's trusted Captain Roccia.

The palace that till then had lain so quiet was suddenly a wild

confusion, a babel of noises, shouts, and trampling of horses.

Strange, flaring lights were thrown across the courtyard; the torches

flung ragged, straggling rays upon the sides of the palace, falling

grotesquely on the griffins that grinned either side the arched door,

falling across the long rows of straight windows, and, for a second, on

Valentine Visconti's pale face, looking eagerly below.

"Dogs of Veronese!" cried Visconti, turning his wild eyes toward the

prisoners. "They have cost us a wild hour!"

And he had been in the thick of it; his rich armor was dented, the

embroidered surtout torn to rags: Visconti's blood was up. In a fight,

even the Torriani could not say he lacked anything save prudence.

Without alighting, he took from his head his ponderous helmet with the

viper crest, and gave it to his page.

"We have given Roccia a taste of our quality!" he laughed, and pulled

his gauntlets off. "Where is De Lana?"

"I am here, lord," said Giannotto.

He stood at the Duke's saddle, looking around him in confusion.

"What news, Giannotto?" cried Visconti. "Thy pallid face seems too ready

to welcome me. Let me dismount."

"Hear me first," entreated the secretary, "before you dismount--before

anything--lord!"

"Quick with thy news then--stand back, De Lana, I must hear this rogue."

Giannotto drew closer.

"My lord, at noon to-day, Rinalta, the Tuscan captain, rode in. While

Roccia was engaging you, some mercenaries forced one of the gates, and

before they could be driven back, a house was broken into, some

prisoners made----"

The Duke fixed his widening eyes upon the speaker, and Giannotto shrank.

"What gate?" he asked. "What house? What prisoners?"

"The western gate, lord, and Agnolo Vistarnini's house!"

With a sound of fury Visconti struck at his secretary violently, with

the ends of his bridle.

"And I was not told before!"

"It was held too small a fray, lord," said the secretary. "Could I tell

my Lady Valentine one gate was more to you than another? I besought her

to send to you--I besought them all--could I tell them why?"

Even as he spoke De Lana rode up resolutely.

"More men are needed at the western gate," he said; "the Germans have

returned. I will lead them."

"No!" cried Visconti; "I, De Lana."

The soldier looked surprised.

"You, lord? There is no need----"

"It is my will," Visconti answered fiercely. "At once, to the western

gate!"

At his cry the soldiers flung themselves again into the saddle, and

those who still sat their horses gathered up their reins.

"Your helmet, lord," cried the startled squire; but Visconti swept him

aside and rushed bareheaded forward, De Lana and his troop of horsemen

after him in a wild riot of sound and light.

Giannotto stood bewildered in the doorway; nothing left of the wild

tumult that had filled the spaces save echoing shouts and tramping

hoofs.

"Visconti is mad," he thought. "He has ridden off almost unarmed! Now--I

wonder what may happen before he return from the western gate--the night

is dark and--dangerous."

And with a thoughtful glance up at the cloudy sky, Giannotto slowly

withdrew.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A PRISONER FROM MILAN

Mastino Della Scala was proving himself. He had come to within fifteen

miles of Milan.

Verona was his again; that was in itself enough to justify his allies'

confidence.

Of them Julia Gonzaga's force and Ippolito d'Este's army lay at Brescia,

ready at any moment to advance.

Della Scala's position lay nearer Milan, and by far the larger half of

his support was Carrara, Duke of Padua's contingent, led by the Duke in

person.

Between the two forces, a quarter of a mile outside Della Scala's camp,

was the castle of Brescia, at one time an occasional residence of

Barnabas, Visconti's father, and now a gloomy fortress, with an evil

reputation; for Barnabas, driven from Milan by his son, had died

there--with his wife--of fever it was said. In a gorgeous tent in the

midst of Della Scala's camp sat Conrad von Schulembourg and the younger

d'Este.

It was the slumbrous hour after noon; the air heavy with an approaching

storm, and Conrad lounged languidly on a low divan, playing with his

dagger. The war, although success had fallen to his leader, had already

begun to weary this indolent cavalier, and even the sight of Milan in

the distance, where Valentine was imprisoned, could not keep him from

whining at the hardness of his fate. A parchment lay near him on the

seat, and from time to time he made some pretense of looking at it:

pretense only.

In Della Scala's force Conrad held third command under the Duke of

Padua, who was immediately under Mastino; but Conrad's post was largely

a sinecure, for though in the battle the Count's gallant courage roused

Della Scala's warmest praise, he recognized that his capacity for

generalship was small.

None the less Della Scala trusted him completely. His heart full of his

one object, elated by his successes, eagerly keeping his allies

together, Della Scala had small leisure to notice Conrad's stifled yawns

when the council of war was held, or the fact that he gave more thought

to playing cards and chess with Vincenzo than to the discipline and

efficiency of the men under his orders.

For the fiftieth time he put the parchment down and turned to Vincenzo,

who lay along the floor, eating nuts and hurling the shells at the legs

of the sentry visible through the flaps set wide back for coolness. To

make the soldier jump at a telling shot was more just then to Vincenzo

than the taking of Milan.

"I would there were some one else to read these dispatches," said

Conrad. "I love not this part of soldiering. When, think you, will there

be another city to be taken, Vincenzo?"

"There was fighting yesterday outside Milan," returned the boy. "Thou

shouldst have gone."

"I asked the Prince to let me, but as usual I was bade stay at my post."

And Conrad rose with a sigh of outraged virtue and adjusted the points

of his rose-colored doublet.

"Asked the Prince!" mocked Vincenzo; "thou shouldst have gone without

asking him."

"A dash on the walls," said Conrad, "that is what we need, not this

idleness and skirmishing. I long to grasp my sword and fly to my Lady

Valentine's rescue--but the Prince----"

"Tell me not," said Vincenzo. "I know Mastino always counsels prudence,

and I am weary of it."

"The Prince knows more of it than we, doubtless," admitted Conrad.

"Nevertheless these parchments may wait while I have a game of chess

with thee."

"May they, Count Conrad? And is chess thy notion truly?" said Mastino's

voice without, and unannounced he entered the tent, followed by Tomaso's

father, Giorgio Ligozzi.

He was from head to foot in armor.

His eyes fell on Vincenzo, and his face darkened.

"For shame, Vincenzo," he said, with scorn. "Thou art no longer a child,

to indulge in these page's tricks, and much I marvel Count Conrad should

allow thee such license."

Vincenzo rose sullenly.

"Leave us," continued Della Scala with angry eyes. "And learn from

yonder soldiers to play the man, and wear a leathern jacket with more

grace than a silken doublet. I am ashamed of thee, Vincenzo."

D'Este's beautiful face flushed crimson.

"'Tis not always the leathern jacket comes out best at time of need, my

lord," he said defiantly. "Try me in it in a fight."

Della Scala's glance softened; he laid his hand on the boy's shoulder

gently.

"Thou art a d'Este and my brother, Vincenzo. I do not fear thy behavior

in battle, only learn the harder part--to bear thyself while waiting."

Vincenzo was melted, but not caring to show it before Conrad, left the

tent without reply.

"He hath the makings of a soldier in him for all his willfulness. I pray

you pardon his present idleness, my lord, and hold me as the cause,"

said Conrad. "I should have roused him sooner."

Mastino glanced around. It was the first time he had entered the

German's abode, and the lavishness of its appointments were not to his

taste.

"This is an hour of great need, Count," he said gravely. "The downfall

of Visconti cannot mean to you what it does to me--it cannot mean so

much to any man--but am I not right in thinking it means all to you to

see the Lady Valentine Visconti free?"

"All! All I care for under heaven. By all the saints, Prince, I will

give my right arm to serve your cause, since it serves her," cried

Conrad.

Della Scala's brown eyes observed him keenly.

"I will ask a service of you, Count," he said; "not thy right hand, nor

any feat of knight-errantry, but something full as difficult to render."

"Even if it be living on roots in a dungeon, I will do it!"

And, excited at the thought of some adventure, Count Conrad waited

expectantly, his hand upon his sword.

The Prince smiled sadly.

"I fear it is a harder task than that, Count Conrad, and so distasteful

that I would not burden you with it were there any other worthy to

entrust with it," he said. "But all the men here are

mercenaries--Captain Vanvitelli is a boor; Ligozzi goes with me to

Brescia, whither I am instantly bound to confer with Ferrara."

"Prince, I am proud to execute your commands," interrupted Conrad

eagerly.

Della Scala turned to Ligozzi, who stood silent behind him.

"See that no one listens," he said; and as Ligozzi disappeared and

Mastino drew nearer to him, the Count fell back, impressed by the

eagerness of the noble face.

But the Prince took him by the hand affectionately.

"Dost thou remember the huts outside thy villa, Conrad--and Francisco

who rescued thee? I am giving thee a trust. For his sake wilt thou be

faithful?"

"To the death!" cried Conrad. "Prince, I will be faithful to the death!"

"Count," said Mastino earnestly, "I return from Brescia to-morrow,

bringing d'Este up with me to join in an assault on Milan that will make

the city ours, I trust, within a week. Of necessity I leave Carrara for

these hours in command--almost all the men are his providing--but," his

voice sank still lower, "I do not completely trust him--I doubt his

loyalty. I have misgivings as to the use he may make of my absence,

therefore," he paused and laid his hand on Conrad's shoulder, "I leave

you, Count von Schulembourg, privately in charge. Watch him--never leave

him out of your sight till my return."

"Good! I understand! I swear!" cried Conrad again.

Mastino Della Scala looked into his eyes.

"I trust thee," he said simply. "Thou knowest how my wife's safety lies

on my soul--and if Carrara play false, we are well-nigh ruined. These

weeks have I had him under Ligozzi's eyes, day and night, and now thou

must take my place." Conrad kissed Mastino's hand in silence, his

emotional nature overcome to tears.

"Come, my lord, the time wears," said Ligozzi, and Della Scala turned to

leave.

At the entrance he looked back.

"Remember, I trust thee, and thee solely, Conrad," he said. As he

dropped the flap behind him, he turned to Ligozzi.

"Will he be worthy of it, Ligozzi?" he said. "But I must perforce trust

him when there is no other."

Outside the Duke's tent, his escort was in readiness to start, and his

white horse stood waiting, held by Tomaso.

"After all, my lord," whispered Ligozzi, "Carrara _may_ not be false."

Mastino shook his head. "He only waits the opening," he said. "What does

console me," he added, "is that I shall be back to-morrow." And he

looked toward Milan as he spoke.

"Ligozzi," he continued wistfully, "how long the time seems since I saw

her. The last words I heard her speak are forever in my ears: 'While

thou livest I fear nothing'; and I live, Ligozzi. Sometimes I am ashamed

of it!"

"You live to free her, my lord," said Ligozzi softly.

Mastino mounted in silence. "Yes, I live for that," he said, after the

pause.

He turned and saw Tomaso watching him.

"Yes, thou shalt come with us," he smiled; "only mount in haste. The

time wears on."

At this moment, foremost among a little group of horsemen, Carrara

cantered toward him, black-eyed, smiling, richly dressed, a plumed cap

between his smooth white fingers.

"Farewell, Carrara," said Mastino. "Count von Schulembourg is second in

command. I leave all to your discretion, subject to my orders already

given."

Giacomo bowed, but made no reply other than his smiling eyes. His

meditated treasons were ripe for execution, and he could scarce contain

himself at the good fortune of it; Visconti's messenger had reached him

the same day that Della Scala rode away. There remained only Conrad.

"Till to-morrow at noon," murmured Carrara, repeating Della Scala's last

words, as he watched him ride away. "An attack on Milan, in less than a

week! You are mad for a woman's silly face--in less than a week I shall

have joined Visconti."

Visconti understood the art of bribery, and knew whom to bribe.

Carrara, only waiting in the hope of it, had caught eagerly at the bait,

and by the returning messenger had agreed to join Visconti and leave

Della Scala shorn of more than half his forces. And Mastino, by his

absence, had made it child's play. As Carrara returned now to his own

tent, thinking and scheming, a captain of mercenaries galloped up.

"The prisoners, my lord, captured by some of Count von Schulembourg's

men, in the scuffle outside Milan yesterday, are being brought into the

camp--is it to you or to him we bring them?"

Carrara fingered his bridle.

"Take them to the castle," he said at last. "I myself will see them

presently."

He glanced over his shoulder at Count Conrad's tent. The embroidered

entrance was closed, the black and yellow eagles fluttered idly over

it--there was no sign of the young German.

The Duke of Padua smiled.

"Are those the prisoners?" he asked, pointing to a little group of

soldiers guarding a few men.

"Yes, my lord. We had almost forced the gates--when a band rushed out

and there was a desperate struggle; we were driven back, and these

fellows, in the heat of victory, followed too far. Then we turned and

had them, and brought them in for ransom. They seemed worth it."

"I will go and view them," said Carrara suddenly, and he cantered his

horse toward the little group.

The noise of the prisoners' arrival was spreading, still there was no

sign of Count Conrad, and again the treacherous Carrara smiled. But in a

moment more the smile had faded. He noticed among the prisoners a face

he surely knew.

Prudence was Giacomo Carrara's ruling quality, and helped him now to

keep his wits.

"That fellow yonder," he said, pointing, "he with the red hair--who is

he? Has he told his quality?"

"'Twas he who led the chase," was the answer, "screaming like a madman.

He is the squire of some nobleman, and gave out he thought we had his

master captive."

Carrara breathed heavily.

"I know something of him, unless I much mistake; a dangerous rogue and

spy--place him apart, well guarded--in a separate compartment. Pinion

him. To-night we will put him to the question."

And again he glanced toward the German's tent. Conrad had not appeared,

and the prisoners wound away out of sight into what was once Barnabas

Visconti's summer residence, and where Barnabas Visconti not long since

had died.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

FOR A GAME OF CHESS

The day was wearing into evening when Conrad gave a last look in the

little polished mirror hanging on the tapestried walls of his tent, and

prepared to set out on a tour of inspection, including a visit to

Carrara, who in this moment's interval, he thought, could not have gone

astray.

Della Scala had been gone four hours or more, but to the light-hearted

German it seemed he had only an instant ago turned from his tent.

He had employed the time in writing some verses (in imitation of the

fashionable Petrarch, a production with which he was perfectly

satisfied, and put aside to be fair copied by some one, a better adept

in spelling than himself), in teaching Vittore to dance, and in changing

his doublet.

Count Conrad was very careful of his doublets. He had a great many, and

kept them carefully locked in the large coffer that stood at the head of

his tent bed.

The one he donned to-day was elegant in the extreme; peacock purple over

an under garment of rose, curiously slashed with cream. Vittore, who had

become his page, was silent at the magnificence.

Conrad sighed as he smoothed the ruffles at his wrists to think that it

might not be the latest mode. He felt far from civilization, though only

twice seven miles outside Milan, and secretly regretted that Valentine

Visconti had ever dazzled him into the imprudence of losing her

brother's favor and with it the joys of a splendid court. Still he had

exquisite leathern shoes with points a yard long, caught up and fastened

by a chain to his knee; also a cap, garnished with a ruby and a curling

feather, and, taking it from Vittore, he stepped out to begin his

espionage of Carrara.

"Vittore, follow me," he said. "I have it in trust to see this

black-browed duke gets into no mischief. Also," he continued, "'tis in

my mind to find Vincenzo. Della Scala was severe this noon. I fear me

the boy has gone to practice sword-play."

The camp was quiet and tranquil. It struck Conrad, however, that many of

Carrara's men were engaged with their horses and in packing the wagons;

but carried on so openly, in broad daylight, it aroused no suspicions on

the part of the easy Von Schulembourg, who made toward Carrara's tent,

singing gayly.

The air was heavy, the sky black about the horizon.

"There will be a storm to-night, Vittore. Let me see, art thou afraid of

thunder?" and as he spoke, the Count passed without ceremony into

Carrara's tent.

The Duke was there, but not expecting Conrad, and as he raised his eyes

at his sudden entrance, his look would have struck any save the

light-hearted fop as strained and anxious; but the German had personally

no doubt of Carrara, and the Duke's ready smile deceived him utterly.

"So your men move to-night, my lord?" he said. "The Prince never

mentioned it to me."

"It was a final resolve," answered Carrara. "I have my orders here," and

he tapped a parchment beside him.

"Ah!" Conrad never even took the parchment up, but glanced through the

opening of the tent at the threatening sky. "You move nearer Milan, of

course?"

Giacomo kept his black eyes on the floor.

"Nearer Milan," he replied. "Yes; but we do not break camp until the

morning, Count. You and the rest remain here to join the Prince."

Carrara looked also out into the thunder-laden air, but not at the

sky--at the castle, frowning black above the encampment.

"An officer of mine," said Conrad carelessly, "said something to me of

some prisoners."

"Yonder at the castle, Count. Will you question them with me?" asked

Giacomo smoothly.

"Question them!" laughed the Count. "You may have that task, my

lord!--and I shall know then where you are," he added under his breath.

Carrara kept his eyes down, lest even Conrad should see the excitement

in them.

"Possibly even I may not question them to-night, Count," he returned

with a smile. "I intend to rest now, as we march at dawn."

Conrad rose, with a pleasant feeling of having done his duty, though in

his heart a little annoyed that Della Scala had not trusted him with the

movement of the army.

"The thought of his wife has made him crazy," he said to himself.

"Giving Giacomo credit for treachery, still he entrusts him with orders

he withholds even the knowledge of from me." And leaving Carrara, he

went in search of Vincenzo.

Giacomo sat silent till the Count's laughter had died away in the

distance, then rose with a passionate exclamation at his own luck and

Mastino's blindness.

Without a question the Count (left in trust, Carrara knew as plainly as

if he had been told) had swallowed his lies, and left him to do as he

pleased while he reveled with Vincenzo d'Este. Seeking the entrance once

more, Carrara looked out into the heavy evening.

In that great castle Visconti was a prisoner.

Though with his own eyes he had seen Gian Visconti bound between the

soldiers, he could not rest for his impatience to see him again and have

it confirmed before any other eyes should recognize this rare prize.

To-night Carrara's army was to desert to Milan. That had been already

arranged with Visconti's disguised messenger. It should still desert,

but Visconti was now a prisoner, his life in Carrara's hands--there must

be slightly other terms between them.

To be in a position to dictate to such a man! Giacomo stood in the

gathering dusk, waiting for the dark, his eyes on the castle that held

Gian Galeazzo Maria Visconti, Duke of Milan--a prisoner.

* * * * *

"The storm nears: how hot, good St. Hubert, how hot!" And Conrad tossed

the damp curls back from his forehead. The entrance of his tent was

flung open to admit what little air there might be, showing to the

soldiers without Conrad and Vincenzo bending over a game of chess; on a

table near were flasks of wine and elegant glasses; along the floor

Vittore lay, half in a heavy sleep.

The tent was lit by jeweled lamps, and by their dull light Vincenzo's

beauty shone with an almost unearthly brilliancy. He was clothed in

white, his thick black hair falling about his shoulders.

Evidently Mastino's reproof was already forgotten. He leaned forward

with flushed cheeks and parted lips, eager and intent on a victory at

chess; war and the price of it far from his thoughts.

"Hark!" said Conrad. "Thunder!"

A low rumble filled the tent, d'Este took no heed.

"I take thy knight," he said, "it ruins thee."

Conrad laughed, he did not take the game so seriously.

"I will visit Carrara," he said, rising, "and go the rounds."

"Thou wilt finish the game," said Vincenzo angrily. "Does it pall the

moment thou failest to win?"

"My faith, I fail when it palls. But doubtless thou wilt win yet, if

thou dost not grow too hot," and Conrad fanned the boy with the points

of his sleeves.

Vincenzo's lustrous eyes flashed.

"Doubtless I shall, Count," he drew from his finger an emerald ring,

"and I will stake this on it."

He dropped it on the table with a rattle, and Conrad was animated at

once.

"And I this," he cried, "my forfeit if the game is not mine in four

moves!"

He placed his pearl thumb-ring beside Vincenzo's emerald.

"Four moves!" cried Vincenzo scornfully, and leaned back with shining

eyes. Conrad reached for the glasses with a glance of good humor at the

dozing page.

"A night from the infernal regions!" he said, as he poured out the wine.

"How does Visconti feel to-night? Methinks some kinsfolk of his from

below are abroad."

Vincenzo emptied his glass and moved.

Conrad emptied his and counter-moved. "I hope thy emerald was not a

lady's gift," he laughed.

Vincenzo bit his lip, reflected long, and moved again.

Conrad turned to the slender flasks and lifted them, one after the

other; empty all.

"Vittore!" he called. "Vittore!"

The boy rose, rubbing his eyes, half-dazed.

"Bring us more wine, Vittore." Conrad turned to the board again and

laughed at Vincenzo's intent face. "My move," he said; his plump hand

hesitated scarcely a breath. "Check, Messer Vincenzo."

"This is no light to play by," cried Vincenzo, and in annoyance he moved

with too little thought.

Conrad waited provokingly till fresh wine had been brought and drunk,

patted Vittore's head, and turned to the game again.

"Mate, Messer Vincenzo, in three moves." And he leaned back with the

calm air of a conqueror.

Vincenzo rose in a passion, dashing his glass to the ground.

"I question thy fair play," he cried.

"And I thy discretion," returned the Count, and his eyes were suddenly

wrathful. "Thou art a child, and canst not play; and so like a child cry

out: 'You cheat.'"

"I said no word of cheating," returned Vincenzo. "Is the accusation one

you are accustomed to, Count Conrad?"

Conrad crimsoned. "Play another time with thy equals, boy, and take

better care not to insult thy betters!"

"Betters!" And Vincenzo laughed in reckless scorn, his hand on his

toy-like dagger. "A d'Este demeans himself to play with thee--thou

German upstart!"

But Conrad was to be moved no more. With a smile more provoking than any

reply he picked up the rings and slipped them on his finger.

But Vincenzo, hot-tempered and passionate, sprang forward with boyish

passion.

"Thou shalt not have the emerald," he cried.

"Must I fight for it?" smiled Conrad, and glanced at Vincenzo's little

dagger. "The emerald seems worth it--only I should be afraid of hurting

thee." And as he spoke he poured out more wine, drinking it gracefully.

"I will fight only with an equal," said Vincenzo.

Conrad turned on him, and for all his smile his blue eyes were dark.

"Thou reckless boy!" he said. "The Germans are the lords of Italy. What

is thy family but a fief to the Emperor?"

Vittore had watched the scene in terror. Tomaso had let him know Della

Scala had left Schulembourg in trust, and he felt his master was hardly

acting as the Duke had meant. In childlike fashion, eager to stop the

quarrel, he spoke his thoughts.

"My lord," he said, "shall I not accompany you to the Duke of Padua's

tent, as the Prince commanded?"

"Commanded!" cried Vincenzo, catching at the words. "Aye, Count Conrad,

remember my brother's commands!"

"I remember none," returned the Count haughtily. "What dost thou mean,

boy?"

But Vittore lost his courage under the angry glance.

"Only, my lord, what you said," he stammered, "about keeping watch upon

the Duke of Padua."

"So you were left as a spy?" sneered Vincenzo, "is that it? Make haste,

Count Conrad, hurry to Carrara's tent as you were told, and see what he

is doing."

Conrad, flushed with wine, allowed the boyish sneer to goad him into

fury.

"I play the spy at no one's bidding," he said. "I do not leave my tent

to-night." And he flung himself on the couch.

"But what did the Duke order? It will go ill with you when he hears of

disobedience," sneered Vincenzo.

"Let it go well or ill, I will not leave my tent to-night on any errand,

save I choose." And Count Conrad's words were heard by another than

Vincenzo and Vittore, Giacomo Carrara, who listened outside.

The storm-wind was beginning to howl and the rain to fall in heavy

drops, but the Duke of Padua only thanked his good fortune for such

propitious weather, as he turned away and made rapidly toward the castle

to question the prisoners.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE TERRORS OF THE NIGHT

The storm had risen, the low whispering of the wind, the distant rumbles

of the thunder, gathering unheeded, burst suddenly into a tempest.

Its very fury spoke it brief, yet many cowered and shrank before it, as

if its termination must be the termination of the world. And to no one

did it strike more fear than to the solitary prisoner in the castle of

Brescia--Gian Visconti. In obedience to Carrara's orders, he had been

placed in a separate chamber, as far from the other prisoners as space

allowed. His chamber was a circular, vault-like space, once serving as

antechamber to a gloomy suite of rooms beyond, in which Barnabas

Visconti had chosen to beguile the summer heat. The doors of this suite

were locked; Gian Visconti himself had locked them, when he and his

father last came there together. This vault-like room was high and

ill-lit, and, in the blackness of the storm, pitch dark. Visconti sat

underneath one of the windows, whither he had dragged the wooden stool,

the sole furniture the place contained; his face was buried in his

hands, and he writhed in horror.

The wind howled and tore at the locked doors, making them creak and

groan; the thunder shook the building; and at every fresh convulsion

Visconti shrieked aloud in unison.

The lightning, flashing blue through the crevices, seemed to play about

that inner door, and he cowered from the sight, and bit at his fingers

in a fierce endeavor to resist the madness seizing him.

It was not so very long ago that he had turned the great key behind him

in that ponderous door, and ridden from the deed he had done, shouting

through the midnight. He thought then never to return, and here he was,

thrust in alone, and his madness on him. Visconti staggered from his

seat, groping blindly.

The blackness seemed to whirl with faces and clutching, tearing fingers;

he knew not where he was--he could see nothing--blackness and

space--seemingly unbounded.

Another flash revealed to him that he had drawn near that inner door--in

the instant it was visible; it seemed to open and shut--quickly.

Visconti fell back against the wall, and wrestled with his terrors as if

they were some living thing, and again with savage teeth he bit into his

flesh.

But the floor was opening beneath him, opening into gulfs deep and still

deeper, bottomless.

"I am mad!" said Visconti, and shrieked and howled with the storm. It

did not help him; he heard hurrying feet through all the alarm of the

tempest, hurrying to him behind that locked door. Let him not look, for

what he feared to see the dark could not conceal--and now they were at

the door, and now they were fitting a key.

"Keep away!" he yelled.

Then he stood, hushed, with bated breath, eyes starting into the

blackness, listening. And through the dark he heard the creaking and

twisting of the key, the slow opening of a heavy door, the groaning of

the hinges as it opened, slowly.

The wind howled in a wild gust, and suddenly through the narrow window

there showed the black sky torn in two by the lightning flash. As it

circled the chamber, Visconti raised his head--the door was open. And

through the opening two faces peered--they were not human

faces--Visconti knew them when they were.

Utter blackness followed upon the vivid flash, and the thunder crashed

and rolled, and at last the rain came with a mighty roar.

"I am in hell!" yelled Visconti. "I am dead, and in hell!" And maniac

shrieks rose. He dragged himself to the narrow slit that made the

window, and some of the heavy rain-drops were dashed in upon his face.

"I am alive!" he cried, "alive! It does not rain in hell!" He dropped,

and lay prone along the ground. After awhile he rose, and began groping

for the outer door.

The walls seemed to rock and twist, but on his face and hand was the

cold splash of the rain, and Visconti kept a hold upon his self-control,

saying between his teeth: "A light; if I can get a light."

He found the door, and struck upon it with the fury of madness.

There was no response: Again he struck and shouted. The worst had gone

by, but only to leave his thoughts centered on one idea: to see a human

face and in the light.

Suddenly, in the midst of his blows, the door opened, showing a

glimmering light, and in the entrance the figure of a soldier, who

looked fearfully around the chamber.

"I thought it was the fiend himself who called!" he said, and crossed

himself.

Visconti clutched his arm. "It was the fiend," he said. "Legions of

them--the place is haunted! Give me a light!"

The soldier shrank back in horror at his words, at his hardly human

eyes.

"Santa Maria!" he muttered. "I have heard evil tales of this castle,

the storm too is fearful----"

"Give me a light," said Visconti; "give me a light!"

"None of the prisoners have lights--it is forbidden----" began the man,

but Gian Maria cut him short.

"A light, I say!" and he put his blood-marked hand upon the other's

shoulder.

"Thou heardst the fiend scream--and it _was_ the fiend. Wilt thou give

me a light?"

The frightened soldier shrank from him anew.

"Thou art distraught," he cried with a paling face.

Visconti laughed wildly. "Do I not say so? Give me the lantern!" and he

held out his finger, on which there blazed a splendid ring. "Would any

ordinary prisoner wear a ring like this? I tell thee it is a coal from

hell, and I will give it thee--for thy lantern. See, how it shines; try

if it will burn thee to the bone," and he stripped it from his finger,

dropping it on the pavement at the soldier's feet.

"Truly," gasped the soldier, looking at him, "thou art no ordinary man,

and as for thy gems--whether they be coals or no, thou shalt have the

lantern."

He stepped across the threshold as he spoke, a little fearfully, and

placed the lantern in the niche cut to receive it in the wall.

"Thou wilt be getting it down and firing thyself with it," he remarked.

"For thou art clean distraught, methinks."

Visconti made no reply, he had noticed that _both_ the inner doors were

shut.

"And as I must answer for thee," continued the soldier, "I will secure

thee with this," and stepping back into the passage, he returned with a

rope and advanced toward the prisoner.

The Duke rose with flashing eyes.

"Remember thou art the devil, messer," said the soldier soothingly,

"and naught can really hold thee."

Visconti felt for the dagger that no longer hung by his side, then

showed the soldier his fingers, red and still bleeding.

"The teeth that met there can meet in thine," he snarled, and his eyes

were like a wolf's.

The soldier stepped back, then with a sudden thought pointed to the

light.

"Stay unbound then, and I will take that away again," he said, and again

advanced.

Visconti suffered his arms to be bound together at the elbows, nor did

he seem to heed when the soldier left him, and the great door fell to

once more in silence.

The storm had sobbed itself away, leaving only the steady patter of the

rain. The chamber had light, and the sight of a human face had restored

Visconti.

Once more he felt his hold on life and on reality, and he turned from

that closed door with its superstitious horror to face real terror and a

staggering mischance.

Milan! he had left Milan in an hour of need--and with no one to check

Valentine. Only within the last few weeks had he known what she was

capable of. What might she not attempt once she realized his absence?

Giannotto too, and the Duke d'Orleans! What of their sincerity? He had

left not one man within the city whom he could trust implicitly.

Then he considered his own plight. Clearly they did not know him; none

the less they had him. He ground his teeth at the thought of Della

Scala's triumph.

His art of bribery occurred to him, and he remembered with a savage

vexation how he had flung a jewel to his jailer for a light: A jewel

that might have purchased freedom. Still, it was in his madness; he

might be thankful he had not shouted aloud his name--and his crimes.

Suddenly, with a start of recollection, it occurred to him anew that he

had been placed apart. Then Carrara _had_ recognized him. The cords

around Visconti's arms began now to torture him: he was weak from lack

of food and mad excitement. Thoughts of Carrara vanished. He saw the

face of the girl on whose account he had risked his dukedom.

"Graziosa!" he cried, but the face looked at him unseeingly. "You know

me!" as if in appeal. "Graziosa, you know me!" The face suddenly

distorted, as if with horror. Visconti shrank from it--and she was gone.

"What frightened her? Those other faces," Visconti whispered to himself,

then roused himself with a harsh laugh. "Will Carrara come?" He fixed

his eyes on the lamp, then on the door. And presently he heard the

subdued bustle of arrival, the great door clang; the ringing answers of

the soldiers; then outside his own door hushed and respectful

voices--the door opened, shut, and Visconti saw his visitor.

A man, black-eyed, florid, richly dressed in velvet, well armed,

unattended, and carrying the castle keys--Giacomo Carrara. He stood in

amazement, and shrank back half-afraid, though the guard had warned him.

"Visconti!" he cried. "What has happened?"

The sickly light of the lantern showed him a white, haggard face, with

wild, bloodshot eyes, the hair hanging lank and damp about its forehead,

the plain doublet gashed and torn, hands and face smeared with blood.

But, at sight of the man he hoped to buy, Visconti's face took on a more

human look.

"You have seen my messenger?"

"Hush!" and Giacomo looked around cautiously. "Yes, I have seen him, and

dispatched my answer."

"My offer suits you?" said Visconti grimly.

"It suited me, Visconti, till just now," returned the other. "It suited

me to such purpose that my men even now await my orders to desert to

Milan."

"Ah!" Visconti said. "And what of it now?" he added, looking around

again, the old subduing spirit in his glance.

"What of it? It shall still be done, only," Carrara smiled, "there is an

unforeseen addition to the bargain. Not only do you need my men,

Visconti; I think, as well, you need your liberty."

"And so the price is higher. Is that what you would say? Unloose my arm.

It shall not be forgotten in the bribe," he sneered.

Carrara advanced and undid the rope in silence. He knew Visconti was

unarmed.

Visconti gasped with relief as the torture was removed.

"And now," he said, taking at once the mastery, "how do matters stand

between us? Be wary; be brief."

Rapidly Giacomo told him how, with the desertion, half Mastino's army

would be gone; how Padua was to be given into the hands of Visconti's

generals, and how Count Conrad played at chess.

Visconti hated the smooth traitor who was waiting to drive a hard

bargain with his necessity--and his freed hand went to his doublet: the

turquoise gloves had not been lost.

"And now, your terms?" he said.

The Duke of Padua hesitated a moment--even with Visconti in his power he

hesitated.

"Those you refused two years ago," he said. "When we warred with Pavia."

Visconti remembered. Two years ago, when he had been by half not so

great as he stood now, he had refused them in scorn--they meant half his

dominions--they would place Carrara on a level with himself.

"Well?" he said, "and if I refuse?"

"A prisoner does not refuse--his liberty," smiled Giacomo. He could

afford to smile.

Visconti controlled himself.

"And if I accept--you take my word, all I have to give--a prisoner's

word?"

"A Visconti's word," corrected Carrara. "Nay, lord, I think I shall need

more than that."

"What more can I give?" he asked. "You waste the time, Carrara."

Giacomo was playing with the keys in his hand.

"Yourself, Visconti," he returned calmly. "The army only waits for me to

march on Milan, leaving Della Scala stripped of half his force. You will

go with it, Visconti, as my prisoner. My army will conduct you into

Milan--where I shall not leave you till the terms I offer are fulfilled.

Then, Visconti, but not till then, we will together ruin Della Scala."

Visconti was silent.

"Come," continued Carrara, "shall it be so--or will you wait and meet

Della Scala and Count Conrad?"

"I accept your terms," said Gian, and rose to his feet. "I accept,

Carrara."

Giacomo's eyes shone. With trembling fingers he unbuttoned his long

black velvet cloak and flung it on Visconti's shoulders.

"We must hasten; even now the tipsy German may think to visit the

castle." And he selected a key from the bunch in his hand, and advanced

toward the inner door. Visconti started forward, with staring eyes.

"Not that way!" he cried.

Carrara turned in surprise, the key in the lock.

"'Tis the only way, Visconti. Are you thinking we could pass unnoticed,

you and I together?"

Gian, deathly white, sank back obstinately against the wall.

"I will not go that way," he said. "I will not go that way."

"He is in his mad fit again," thought Giacomo; aloud he said soothingly:

"Come, lord, this is the only way; will you rather wait to see Verona's

face when he discovers you? What is wrong with this way?" he added in

vexation as Visconti made no movement. "Quick! the moments fly!"

Gian stepped forward with an effort.

"'Tis my fancy," he said. "Idle, truly, at such a moment. Open the door,

Carrara."

The key ground in the lock--as Visconti had heard it once before that

night turned on the other side.

Carrara paused, however, and having taken the lamp from the niche, put

it down with a smile, and drew a parchment from his belt.

"I had forgotten," he said. "I will leave this, else Verona will miss

the point of the jest; we will tell him what a brave catch his

lieutenant hath allowed to escape the snare." And with the end of his

dagger he drove the paper into the crevice of the stone. "I never loved

Verona," he added, with an evil smile.

But Visconti had not heard, nor was he heeding him; his eyes were

riveted upon the door.

Again Padua raised the lantern above his head.

The glimmering light fell faintly on a dark chamber, and dimly lit a

large black couch from which the tapestry coverlet was half dragged off.

Visconti peered an instant over his rescuer's shoulder eagerly, then

fell back.

"I cannot," he said sullenly. "I will stay and face Della Scala--I

cannot pass that way."

Carrara turned and looked at him keenly.

"What do you know of these chambers, that you are afraid to pass them,

Visconti?" he asked.

"'Tis no matter what I know--I will not pass them," cried Visconti,

fiercely, and clutched at the rough wall as if to keep himself from

being made to enter them even by force. Giacomo looked into the chamber

curiously; the lantern showed only parts of it, and that dimly--an empty

audience chamber, stiff chairs against the wall, the couch, dust on the

floor and shadows in the arras--nothing more; and Carrara turned

impatiently.

"I risk my life for this," he said. "What do you think it will mean,

Visconti, if I am found helping you escape?"

He stepped across the threshold, and flashed the lantern around.

"Nothing!" he laughed over his shoulder. "Nothing," but as he advanced

he paused a moment, and lifted up a corner of the dragged coverlet,

"save that this coverlet is riddled as if with dagger-thrusts," he

added, "and the floor seems stained"--he sank his voice--"with blood."

He looked back at Visconti, standing in the doorway, and with a sudden

fear of him his hand sought his sword.

"Whom did you murder here, Visconti?" he asked, awestruck. "Whoever it

was," he added presently, "I would not lose my life for fear of them,

seeing they are dead."

In a second Visconti was by his side, gripping his arm, and Carrara,

startled, shrank, and kept his hand upon his dagger.

"I do not fear them," whispered Visconti, in his ear. "Nor you."

And he hurried across the chamber, Carrara at his heels.

Room after room they traversed, deserted, gloomy, and unopened since

that night.

"Hurry!" breathed Visconti. "Shall we never see the blessed sky again?"

And snatching the keys, he pushed on, taking every door and turning

with a certainty that showed he knew them well.

"At last!" he cried, as they stepped out into the air.

They were at the back of the castle, on a ledge overhung with ivy, and

overlooking a narrow flight of steps, the masonry half-ruined and

overgrown with flowers.

The storm was over, a few great clouds tore across the sky, but the moon

was clear and serene, the night calm and peaceful.

The cool air blew around Visconti's damp hair, and stirred the dark ivy

leaves, glistening with the rain. Beneath them lay the tents, a large

body of men, half the army, silently and swiftly preparing for flight.

"Some have gone already," said Giacomo. "These wait for me and you,

Visconti: come," and stepping past him he led the way.

There was no one to observe them save Giacomo's men, that he had been

careful to station there; but when they had gained the bottom, and

Carrara would have passed on, Visconti caught at his sleeve and drew him

behind a clump of elder.

"The German!" he whispered, and they waited, breathless.

A soft voice was gayly singing, and the words of the song came clearly

through the night.

"Heinrich was my bosom friend,

White feather and purple cloak:

Now that folly's at an end,

His the flame and mine the smoke!"

"He comes this way," said Carrara. "If he takes to questioning where I

am----"

"If he takes to coming nearer," smiled Visconti, "I shall be obliged

to--kill him."

"We parted for a silken knot,

White feather and purple cloak:

Whose fault it was I have forgot,

His the flame and mine the smoke!"

The last words were lost in a burst of laughter, as Conrad and Vincenzo,

each mounted on a white horse, and attended by an escort with torches,

rode past, back to their tents.

So close they came, that Visconti, with gleaming eyes, leaned forward,

longing to strangle the singer with one of those long curls that hung

around his laughing, careless face.

But Carrara was relieved.

"As long as he does not inquire for me," he said. "But even then my

officers understand."

Visconti smiled grimly; he was to pay for that.

"Now!" he said, and as Conrad's German song and Vincenzo's wild laughter

passed, Visconti and Giacomo stepped out from behind the bushes and

looked after them, the freedom of one secured, the treachery of the

other well-nigh accomplished.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

GIACOMO CARRARA'S REWARD

The dawn was breaking, the sky streaked and barred with cold gray light,

and along the winding road to Milan rode the Visconti and Carrara, the

army before them.

It had been accomplished, without demur, openly and completely; behind

them they left the Veronese and Mantuan troops, over whom Giacomo had no

command--and Count Conrad, laughing in his folly.

Quite near to them lay Milan--and Visconti rode in silence, wondering

what had befallen in the city; wondering, and fearing Valentine had

revealed too much of his own spirit; he was afraid of her.

Along the distant horizon the gray walls of the city began to be visible

across the flat plain, and Visconti's eyes lit at sight of his city, and

he turned to Carrara impulsively.

"Give me a sword, Carrara," he said. "'Tis not fitting I should enter

Milan weaponless."

"The Milanese will so rejoice to see you, my lord," returned Padua,

"they will never notice----"

"That I come as a prisoner?" flashed Visconti, but the next moment he

laughed and urged on his horse. "But what care I how, so long as I do

re-enter Milan? Now, with you as my ally, Carrara, I can crush Della

Scala without France or the Empire; and together, as ye say, we will

rule Lombardy."

Carrara rode abreast of him, glancing at him keenly.

"Even now he will try to outwit me," he thought, and resolved he would

not be outdone in cunning for the lack of care.

"How came it you were captured?" he added, "and in this guise?"

"The chances of war," laughed Visconti. "Foolishly I went myself to

defend the gates, and pursued Della Scala's men too far."

But this candor did not deceive Carrara. "Foolish indeed!" he smiled.

"Your hurry excelled your prudence, lord." And he wondered what was the

truth.

"You have cause to thank heaven no one knew you," he continued.

"They were German boors," answered Visconti, "Count Conrad's men, and

there was nothing to tell my degree. Yet, had they looked a little

closer, they might have found one thing that would have told them I was

different from what I seemed--these."

And he drew out of his doublet the turquoise gloves.

Even in that cold, faint light they showed brilliant and beautiful, and

Carrara gazed at them in wonder.

"As I was summoned," continued Visconti, dreamily, "I was looking at

them. Are they not beautiful, Carrara? Two years they took to make, and

cost more than I care to tell. Each turquoise is flawless, and set by

Antonio Fressi himself."

"And is this a gift for some one?" asked Carrara, and he looked keenly

into Visconti's face.

"It was one of my bridal gifts to the Duke d'Orleans. I must honor him,

Carrara, although I love him not," said Visconti simply. "But now I will

offer it to one to whom I owe my life. Take the gloves, a gift from me,

Giacomo." And he turned in the saddle and held them with a winning smile

to Carrara, who, mistrustful, looked at him doubtingly and keenly.

"Thou wilt not refuse my gift?" and Visconti looked at him proudly.

"Let it seal our bargain, Carrara. Take it, for the sake of the goodwill

with which it is offered."

Carrara's ruling quality was prudence, and all Visconti's seeming

guilelessness did not deceive him; still, he hesitated, considering

where the trap lay.

Then, as he glanced down at the gloves, his eyes caught the gleam on the

hilt of his dagger, and a thought struck him.

"He means to make me put them on," he thought, "and snatch the sword

meanwhile"; and he smiled to think Visconti could be so simple.

"Thank thee for thy gift, Visconti, and for the goodwill that offers

it," he said, with an ingenuousness equal to Visconti's, and reaching

out his hand, he took the gloves, meaning to have the gift and outwit

Visconti also.

Gian's manner had lost its gloom and wildness, he seemed light of heart

and in a pleasant mood.

"They are riding-gloves," he cried. "Wear them into Milan, Carrara."

"Ah," thought Giacomo, "I see the plot. Thou wouldst snatch a weapon

while my hands are busy," and, priding himself on his cunning, he deftly

slipped them on his hands, keeping his elbow on his sword-hilt and his

watchful eyes upon Visconti.

"A beautiful dawn," said Gian softly, seeming to take no heed of

Carrara's clever maneuvering; his eyes were fixed on the sunrise behind

Milan. "All pearl and silver, blushing into life anon; about the time

when I shall enter Milan."

And he fixed his eyes on Giacomo with a strange expression.

"When _we_ shall enter Milan," corrected Carrara. "The sun will be

faintly high: these marches are toilsome." And he glanced down proudly

at the beautiful gauntlets on his hands, calculating what the pearls

and turquoises might be worth, picked off, and vain at having outwitted

Visconti.

"The promise of the day!" said Visconti, dreamily and sadly. "Hath it

never struck thee how that promise never is fulfilled? Day after day,

since the world began, something in the mystery of the dawn is

promised--something the sunset smiles to see unfulfilled--something men

have been ever cheated of--something men will never know--the promise of

the dawn!"

The road began now to be fringed with poplars, and in the faint light

the colors of the wayside flowers were visible.

They rode awhile in silence. Carrara looked back at the small rearguard

in the distance, and before him along the road to his army blackening

the plain, and then again at Visconti.

"Either he is always mad or----"

With a sharp exclamation he fell forward on his horse's neck, but

recovered himself instantly. Visconti turned to him, still with that

far-away look in his eyes.

"The road is stony," he said. "Thy horse stumbled?"

"Fool or devil?" Carrara was still wondering, and, looking at Visconti's

face, he almost thought him a fool.

"You and I," cried Visconti, with a sudden change, "together, Carrara!

Lords of Lombardy!"

And he struck his horse into a gallop so unexpectedly that Carrara had

difficulty to keep abreast with him.

"I have been so long away!" he cried. "Haste! I long to be in my city

again. Valentine--and others--will be grieving. Haste!"

And he still urged his horse.

Carrara, galloping at his side, suddenly reeled in the saddle, with a

cry of anguish.

"Faster!" cried Visconti. "Faster!"

With an effort Carrara kept his horse to the pace, but his face was

deathly, his lips set. Visconti never looked at him; his gaze was toward

Milan and the sunrise.

Suddenly Carrara cried aloud. "Not so fast, Visconti, not so fast!"

But Gian flew along the level road.

"Milan!" he cried, "on to Milan!"

Carrara swayed forward to grasp Visconti's cloak, but he shook him off

with a laugh.

"What ails you, Carrara? The army waits, you must ride faster still if

you mean to ride into Milan to-day with me."

But Carrara was clutching at the neck of his doublet with staring eyes.

"My heart!" he gasped. "I suffocate--ah----!"

And he rode on blindly.

"Your heart?" laughed Visconti, drawing rein a little. "Do your

treacheries stop its beating? You suffocate?--Do your lies choke you?"

A cry of mortal agony broke from the unhappy Carrara.

"Stop!" he gasped; "I am--dying--stop----"

Then his glazing eyes fell on the brilliant blue gloves he wore, and he

sat upright with a scream of rage.

"The gloves! the gloves!" And with his remaining strength he tried to

tear them off. "O fool! A Visconti!... I might--have known----"

Frantically he pulled at them, while Visconti, now moving almost at a

walk, looked dreamily ahead at the fast nearing city.

"Fiend!" cried Carrara wildly. "Fiend!"

And he lurched forward, falling heavily onto the road, where he lay,

convulsed, the turquoise gloves still on his hands.

Gian Maria drew rein now, and looked down at him, his face no longer

indifferent, as he looked down into the white and contorted countenance

of the dying man.

"'Whom did you murder here, Visconti?'" he quoted. "'Whoever it be, do

not fear him now, since he is dead'; and I answered, did I not, that I

feared neither him nor you? And now, Carrara, thou mayst tell him what I

said, he whom I murdered in that room we passed."

Giacomo, writhing on the ground, looked up at him with hate equal to his

own, and feebly still tried to pull off the turquoise gloves.

Visconti, leaning low from the saddle, gripped his sword and thrust it

through his belt.

"I shall not ride into Milan swordless," he said; "thou might'st have

spared thy caution, Carrara: I shall ride into Milan with thy army, thy

towns, and thy sword; and I have bought them--with a pair of turquoise

gloves."

He looked curiously at Carrara, who suddenly sat upright; the cold light

fell on his face, his starting eyes looking straight into Visconti's.

"Thou art not human, Visconti," he whispered. "Yet, remember, even

devils meet their punishment, and there will be the bitterest of all for

such as thou art--failure--" And he fell back again among the flowers,

where he lay, white and still.

Visconti looked back at the advancing rearguard, waved to it, pointing

downward, and then before him to Milan, brilliant in the sunrise.

From its turrets still floated the banner of the Viper.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A SIGN FROM HEAVEN

The day had dawned fair and clear after the storm, and the early

sunlight struck across the dark chamber that had held Visconti.

The stamped leather hung before the high window had been torn away and

lay along the ground, but the room was unchanged save that the inner

door was open, and near it, stuck into a crevice of the stone, a

parchment hung.

Before this stood Count Conrad, with a face dazed.

Vincenzo, when he learned the news, had flown like a madman along the

road to Milan, in a fury of rage, with some half-frenzied project of

overtaking the traitor.

Outside the door was a group of soldiers, who peeped through with

curiosity at the motionless figure within.

At last he moved dizzily to a seat. "Saint Hubert, when the Prince

returns!" he gasped, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a

groan of woe.

He looked a somewhat sorry figure, his peacock doublet crumpled, his

hair uncurled, his hands shaking.

Last night, only last night, Visconti had been in this very room, a

prisoner in his power, and he had reveled with a boy and quarreled over

a game! One of the soldiers pushed the door open softly and entered.

"The Prince has returned, my lord," he said.

"So soon!" gasped Conrad. "So soon!"

"The army is moving from Brescia; the intention is to march on

Milan----"

"With the men who are not here!" groaned Conrad.

"The Duke met my lord d'Este. He knows," said the soldier gruffly, and

left the room. It would have pleased him to strangle the foppish

foreigner who had well-nigh ruined them.

Conrad felt half relieved, half sorry; whether Vincenzo's relation had

been as kind to him as his own would have been he doubted--he felt a

wild desire to hide himself till Della Scala's rage had blown a little

over.

As he stood there, miserable, undecided, he heard the salutations of the

soldiers and a heavy tread outside.

He remembered that Mastino was a giant;--he had once found it to his

advantage, he might now find it to his peril; but it was not fear, but

bitter shame, that brought Conrad almost to his knees.

He knew that Della Scala was there, though he did not raise his head.

"Conrad," said Mastino, and his voice was strangely altered. "Conrad."

The Count, with an effort, looked at Mastino, who stood in front of the

door he had closed, with a face from which all color had been struck.

"When did you discover--this?" continued Della Scala, and pointed to the

parchment. All elaborate excuses and appeals for pardon Conrad had

prepared died away on his tongue.

"An hour ago," he replied lamely.

"An hour ago!" Mastino walked across to the parchment hanging on the

wall.

Conrad's eyes followed him; he could find no words to break the silence.

Della Scala first read, then tore the writing down, and crushed it in

his hand; then he looked at the door, standing ajar.

"How many have deserted?" he asked in a hard voice. "Vincenzo said half

the army."

Conrad could not answer the truth.

"How many?" and Mastino turned toward him.

"Carrara has taken all his force," faltered the wretched man.

Mastino crushed the parchment yet tighter in his hand, and walked up to

Conrad, who shrank before his face.

"Your sword, Count," he said. Conrad hesitated, bewildered.

"You are no longer in my service; as my officer you wear that sword; as

what you are, I demand it from you."

And he held out his hand.

In silence Conrad drew the weapon.

Mastino took it, broke it, threw it on the floor.

"And now go," he said.

At last Conrad found his voice.

"Lord!" he cried, "let me stay."

"Go," said Mastino.

"I will stay," faltered Conrad, "and amend my fault."

But Della Scala turned his back on him.

"Go to Visconti," he flashed. "Tisio plays chess as well almost as

Vincenzo."

The taunt made speech come more easily. "No man can ask more than

another's humiliation, that other suing humbly for pardon----"

"I did not ask so much," said Mastino, his back still to him. "You are

unhurt."

And the Count glanced at Della Scala's face, and saw a little of what he

had done; that speech was useless.

He moved to go, murmuring something with bent head; at the door he

turned again. "Della Scala," he began, "I----"

"I will never willingly see your face again," interrupted Mastino. "Go

and join my other allies--in Milan."

Conrad drew himself up.

"God helping me, I _will_ go to Milan," he said. "I will further your

cause in Milan itself--even though I leave with you my sword."

Still Mastino stood motionless, and slowly Conrad passed through the

doors, and down the stairs, through the soldiery that turned their

backs--cast out. As the door clashed to behind the Count, Mastino turned

passionately and strode into the inner room, not knowing what he did, so

great the agony of his helpless fury and despair.

A gloomy window gave a view upon the open country.

Della Scala strode to it; little he heeded the gloomy couch and the

stained floor. He saw only the green plain of Lombardy, and his own

diminished tents, lessened by the better half. He struck his hand

against the window-frame violently--Visconti had triumphed!

This evening had he meant to seize Milan--the evening of this very day;

and, behold, now it was all to be done again, the weary, weary waiting,

the watching, the planning, the soothing his allies, the making good

Carrara's treachery; and meanwhile--Isotta!

Della Scala dropped his head into his hands with a cry wrung from his

heart. "Isotta! Isotta!"

The sunlight fell too on the crumpled parchment on the floor, and

Mastino, raising his head, saw it lying there and ground it beneath his

heel.

"Am I to be forever laughed at and betrayed?" he cried. "Ever served by

traitors and leagued with fools? Shall I never learn I trust too much?"

He looked around the chamber, and thought, with a bitterness beyond

expression, that only a few hours before Visconti had passed through it.

Della Scala leaned against the wall; the very sunlight seemed black,

the very sky hopeless. Yet his spirit rose against his fate.

He drew out and kissed the little locket he wore around his neck, the

pearl locket that always hung there. Then suddenly rousing himself and

walking blindly forward, opening one door in mistake for another, found

himself at the top of two steps, looking down into a chapel. For a

moment, his brain reeling and sick, he stepped back, bewildered,

doubting what he saw.

The place was high and dome-shaped, with plain stone walls, lit by two

windows facing each other, but shrouded in dark hangings that admitted

only a faint, cold light.

The air was damp and vault-like, and the room itself bare of any

furniture or adornment save a purple hassock, and two lamps of rusty

gold that hung by long, blackened chains from the ceiling. Opposite the

entrance hung against the stone wall a purple curtain, and before it a

large crucifix, crudely painted. The dim light just struck its dismal

coloring, and to Mastino's fevered fancy the dead Christ seemed to twist

and writhe along His contorted body.

The lamps were long out, and the sense of incense on the air faint.

Della Scala entered softly, catching his breath painfully, the terror of

religion strong within him.

On the purple hassock he knelt, with clasped hands, before the

disfigured Christ, his heart rising to his lips in passionate prayer.

"Lord, thou understandest! Because I cannot deck thy altars with the

gold of victory, thou wilt not forsake me, thou wilt have mercy on me

and on her!"

And he stretched out his arms to the figure in an exaltation of trust

and hope. "Even as I spare those who betray, so wilt thou spare her, O

Christ!" He flung himself from his knees, face downward on the stones,

in a tumult of hope and trust. Around the folds of Mastino's cloak lay

the leaves of some dead roses that had fluttered at his movement, from

forgotten wreaths, hanging brown against the wall.

Mastino rose, eager for some answer--some assent. But the dead Christ

was silent. Mastino could see the cracking paint on the ribs, the tawdry

gold of the halo, and he came still nearer in a strange desperation.

Half-hidden in shadow, two faces looked down on him--expressionless,

stone, the angels on the wall.

Mastino looked from them to the crucifix, and his fervent faith sank,

chilled.

"Stone," he murmured in his heart. "Stone and paint," and he noticed the

empty lamps that should be blazing with eternal fire, and he cried aloud

in bitterness. "Men keep those alight, and without them the eternal fire

dies! Stone angels and a painted God! What help in them?" And he dropped

again upon the floor. "The lamps burn bright on Visconti's altars, and

his saints smile--for the painter limned them so."

He turned from the dismantled chapel and rushed up the three steps, half

distraught.

In the outer chamber the sunlight dropped strong and golden, and Mastino

shut the door of the dark and gloomy chapel behind him with a shudder.

"Lord!" cried an eager voice. "Lord!"

It was Tomaso and his father.

"Did ye fear for me, Ligozzi?" said Della Scala kindly. "I have been

praying for a patient heart." And the two who loved him looked at him

awhile and could say nothing.

"My lord," began Tomaso again with a timid eagerness, "there is

news----"

"Tomaso," said his father, "thy news can wait."

Mastino picked up his gauntlet from the deep window-seat where he had

laid it down, and fastening it on, looked at Ligozzi.

"What hast thou to say, Ligozzi? Have any of the men returned?"

Ligozzi stood fidgeting with his cap, looking uneasily at the ground.

"Come," and Mastino smiled sadly, "I am used to bad news, Ligozzi."

"Some few men have indeed returned from Giacomo's army, my lord, some

fourscore----"

"Some fourscore!" repeated Della Scala. "Are there so many as fourscore

that will not serve Visconti?"

"They have strange tales, my lord. They say Carrara himself is dead."

"Carrara dead!" cried Mastino with a sudden fierceness, savage as a

bite. "Now, I had promised myself to kill Carrara. Who has forestalled

me?"

"It is said--Visconti himself--they do not know."

"And the traitor dead," broke in Della Scala, "was there not one--not

one to lead the men back to me again? Visconti, single-handed and

unarmed, was allowed to take an army into Milan?"

"Alas, my lord, not only Carrara, his captains too, as it appears, have

all been bought."

"Tell me no more," cried Mastino. "I am alone to blame. I cannot learn

to deal with traitors."

"As for Count Carrara, the wretched German," continued Ligozzi, "he has

left the camp." As he spoke, Ligozzi glanced through the window at the

tents. "He took no one with him, but, ordering his Germans to fight as

one man to the death for you, he rode along the road to Milan."

"Oh!" cried Mastino, with a great cry wrung from his soul. He rested his

hand a moment on Ligozzi's shoulder. "I am well-nigh sick, Ligozzi," he

said. "The empty-headed and the villain prosper, and I--and mine--go to

the wall."

Tomaso stole forward. Della Scala noticed him and turned kindly.

"Something to tell me, sayest thou?" he asked.

Tomaso's eyes were full of tears. For some moments he could not find his

voice.

"He hath discovered some secret passage; useless, I fear me," said his

father.

"Nay, father, I tell thee it leadeth to the city! To-day, lord, as I

explored it, I found stored there some rolls of silk, new and clean;

together with some earths such as I have heard say painters use."

Della Scala started. He found the news not so unimportant as Ligozzi

had.

"Go on, Tomaso," he said, and kept his half-closed eyes upon the ground.

"Indeed, my lord, it must be some old subway into Milan. 'Tis wide

enough to admit six abreast, and recently used, as it opens some mile

and a half outside the city. I have not yet penetrated to the extremity.

Lord, think of it--it must open into Milan!"

Della Scala's worn face flushed involuntarily, his eyes turned to the

closed door of the chapel. Had he belied the stone angels--the

extinguished lamps?

"This seems great news, Tomaso," he said slowly. "I will see into it."

He moved as he spoke. "My other gauntlet, Ligozzi?"

"I cannot see it, lord."

"Ah!" said Mastino suddenly. "I left it in the chapel!"

Tomaso had already departed for the gauntlet. Mastino, following to the

door, saw him stoop and lift it from the ground.

Tomaso handed him the ponderous glove, and, as Mastino took it, he

stifled the cry on his lips, and turned away to clasp it to his heart.

For inside his glove, almost hidden in the velvet lining, lay a soft

white rose: a sign from heaven.

CHAPTER TWENTY

IN THE DUKE'S ABSENCE

"My chance has come," said Valentine.

A day had passed since Visconti had ridden so wildly to the western

gate, and as yet he had not returned.

The soldiers, weary and wounded, had reeled that night into the palace

courtyards, de Lana at their head, expecting to find Visconti there

before them. They had missed him in the wild fray--the Germans had been

driven back from the walls without their prisoners--had not the Duke

returned?

Neither then nor as yet, near a day after the sortie. Doubtless he,

victorious as ever, was reconnoitering some stronghold of the enemy, or

their encampments outside Milan.

Still, in the palace some were getting anxious; there was no word, no

message. Who, in the Duke's absence, ruled Milan?

The question suggested itself among others to Valentine Visconti.

She put it to herself.

"I rule Milan, and I will give myself my freedom by it, whether Gian be

alive or dead, returning now or never."

It was late afternoon, and Valentine had formed her plan; with courage

and skill she made no doubt of success. To enter her brother's private

room was the first step.

All day Valentine had plotted some means of accomplishing this.

The rooms were locked, and Gian wore the key around his neck.

The Visconti palace was part old, part new; the great circular tower in

which Isotta was confined, the low heavy stone buildings that surrounded

it, were the only remaining portions of the ancient Gothic castle.

The new building, bright in yellow and pink tiles, was supported on low,

horseshoe arches, and gave straightly on the courtyard in front and the

gardens at the rear--the whole encircled by a great wall.

Detached from the palace, standing alone in the grounds, was a high,

square brick tower, the highest building in Milan, and from the summit

there floated night and day the banner of the Viper.

Along the second story of the palace ran the open arcade or corridor, a

wide and pleasant walk, paved with black and white stone, looking on the

garden through the clustered columns that supported it, richly ornate

with carvings.

A private entrance to Visconti's rooms opened onto this corridor.

The banqueting hall gave upon it also, and to Valentine Visconti,

standing between the arches looking from the fair garden back to the

closed doors, a thought occurred.

In her wild intention to escape, she had only one ally, Adrian, her

page, feeble and powerless at best, but devoted to her with an utter

devotion that might be worth much.

Valentine had confided in him, since she must have help, if only the

help of speech; and now, of a sudden, his use appeared.

She had withdrawn from the observation of her women and the court, in

pretense of praying for her brother's safety, and no one was with her.

"Adrian!" she called softly, "Adrian!" She had privately bidden him

follow her, and well she knew he was not far away.

The boy came forward eagerly.

"Hush!" said Valentine. "Do not speak--listen--I have need of thee; wilt

thou serve me even to the death, for it may be that?"

"You know I do not heed death, lady," replied the page with glad pride.

"Anything that may serve you will make me forever happy."

"Follow me," said Valentine, and stepped on to the balcony. "Now walk

behind, and as if I were not speaking to thee. There may be sharp eyes

upon us in the garden."

The sun, late as it was, fell between the pillars in strong bars of

gold, and Valentine raised her ivory fan as if to shield her from the

heat, but in reality to conceal the movement of her lips, in case there

might be watchers.

"I must procure an entrance to my brother's rooms," she said, speaking

low over her shoulder. "They are locked. No key will fit them. I cannot

force the entrance in the palace. Still I _must_ enter. You are

listening, Adrian?"

"With all my soul, lady!"

Valentine kept her eyes upon the garden, there was no one there to see.

The tower was not as yet finished, and so uninhabited; the garden itself

was empty; still Valentine kept her gaze before her and spoke without

turning her head.

"At any moment the Duke may return; or, if he does not, there will be

sore confusion I cannot cope with; it must be done."

They had traversed almost the whole length of the corridor, and

Valentine suddenly stopped.

"There, this door," said Valentine, "into the Duke's rooms, Adrian," and

she rested her hand against it as she spoke.

It was a folding door, opening in the middle, firmly bolted from the

inside, and appeared as hopeless as the great entrance to the suite

within the palace, though unguarded.

Either side of it were deep-set, circular windows, ringed round and

round with carving and ornamentation, placed too high to reach and too

small to gain admission by.

The door itself was of wood, as firm and heavy as iron, clamped with

gilded metal, and immovable to the touch.

"Does it look hopeless?" whispered Valentine.

Adrian would not have said so for his life.

"You would force it?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes, hush!" Valentine leaned through the low arch and looked into the

garden; as before, all was quiet; the life and bustle of the palace came

through the front to-day, waiting news of the absent Duke.

She turned again with glistening eyes.

"Yes, I would force it--and I will show you how, Adrian."

Half-way up the door, deep set in the thin and delicate foliage of the

carving, were two circular windows, one in each panel.

"Can you reach them?" asked Valentine. "I am a hand too short."

By means of standing on the base of one of the side pillars of the door,

Adrian could easily touch the whole span of the glass.

"Now, do I break it?" whispered the page.

"Yes," returned Visconti's sister. "But wait, there may be some soldier

on hidden guard."

She looked around cautiously.

"I see no one," she continued. "Now, only through this one arch canst

thou be noticed from the garden, and there I will stand, with my open

fan; now quick--thy dagger handle."

She turned her back to him and raised her hand against the stonework of

the arch, her mantle so falling over her arm that anyone, looking

thither, could have seen nothing save her figure.

Adrian leaned forward and struck the glass a violent blow with the

handle of his dagger; it was hard, and resisted, but at a second blow

shivered. The page tore away the metal framework, and slipping his arm

through, thrust back the first bolt. But it was fastened in three

places, and the other two were not so easy. Straining up to his full

height, the page forced half his body through the broken window and

succeeded in slipping back the second bolt; the third was almost at the

bottom of the tall door, nor was the opening he had forced large enough

for him to do more than admit his arm and shoulder through. He still

held his dagger in his hand, and grasping at it at the end of the blade,

struck violently downward at the bolt head with the handle. It did not

move the first time, nor the second, nor the third; but at the fourth

blow it suddenly shot back and the door was open. Adrian struggled

through the window, backward, on to his feet, his hand and arm torn in

several places, dizzy with the strain.

Valentine turned with a glad cry.

"Now stand thou in the archway," she said; "and close the door behind me

and keep watch; our one need is haste!"

The page pushed the despoiled door open and Valentine sped through,

closing it carefully after her; the broken window would not be noticed

from the garden, but an open door might. The space she entered seemed so

dark after the bright glare outside that at first she could gather

nothing.

But soon the light sufficed to show Valentine this was not the room she

wanted.

It was gorgeously decorated, frescoes covered the walls, the ceiling was

richly gilt and painted, the floor glass mosaic, the furniture florid

and ornate.

Valentine glanced around hurriedly: at one end was a door, and trying

it, found it open easily, leading into another splendid apartment--still

not containing what she sought.

Hastening on through a door, not only unlocked, but standing ajar, she

found herself in a small, somber room, hung with purple and gold; its

principal furniture the secretary's table, Visconti's chair, and the

imposing black carved bureau.

This was the room she wanted; and on the bureau, flung down in haste, a

bunch of keys.

Valentine seized them with trembling hands; they were the keys of the

drawers, and one by one she flung them open, so possessed with

excitement she could hardly stand. Gian was not in the palace, yet she

seemed to feel his eyes upon her; to hear his step; catch his low

whisper of her name; feel his touch upon her shoulder.

In one drawer were the parchment passports, some of them, for

convenience, already signed with Visconti's name. Hastily Valentine

thrust three into the bosom of her dress. But where were the palace

keys?

She turned over the drawers in reckless haste; she found Visconti's seal

and one of his signet rings, and slipped them both into her gown--still

she could not find the keys. The Duke's pass-keys that unlocked every

door.

The seal and the parchment were much--but the keys would be everything.

They were not within the bureau; she rifled them once again--no, they

were not there.

She turned away in vexation, and stood a second irresolute.

These rooms deserted, yet so full of their owner, were terrifying.

Valentine was sick with fear--still, she must have those keys.

Hastily she turned over every article in the room, left as Visconti had

left them--books, papers, ornaments.

There were no keys there.

She looked into the antechamber, that was bare and empty; she knew it

too well to suppose what she sought could be hidden there.

In desperation she retraced her steps and stood again within the second

room. An impulse made her lift the arras, and she beheld another door;

and another still; they were either side Visconti's empty seat. She

tried one: it opened immediately on a black marble stairway, and she

closed it again with a thrill.

Desperately, she opened the other door; held to her courage desperately,

and crossed the threshold. The room was paneled in black and scarlet,

floor and ceiling inlaid with gold and black.

A great mirror hung opposite the door; either side a table, covered with

a collection of articles left in utter confusion.

Valentine turned them over in frantic haste; there were laces and rings,

jewels and curios, gloves, and strangely carved bottles. She handled the

last carefully--she knew not what they might contain.

Still there were no keys.

Valentine, fast losing nerve, felt that she had been in these rooms for

hours, the silence and suggestion oppressed her till she could have

screamed--but she had risked too much to retreat.

There was an inlaid bureau, and a coffer beneath it; she opened the

bureau and sought again; rings, daggers, treasures from Della Scala's

collections, uncut gems, powders, scents, rosaries, charms,

missals--only no hint of what she looked for.

On top of the coffer was a roll of drawings, the plans of the new

church, several parchments, petitions, specimens of marble from the new

quarries, carvings, mail gauntlets--Valentine swept them off on to the

floor, and then threw the coffer open.

It was full of clothes--upon the velvet of the topmost mantle lay the

small bunch of master-keys.

Valentine grasped it, and hid it in the little pocket at her side.

She had all she needed now, and was turning in relief to go, when,

struck by another thought, she bent again over the coffer, lifted the

contents out on to the floor.

Visconti's doublets were mostly too splendid for her purpose, but she

seized the plainest, wrapped it in her mantle, snatched one of the

daggers from the table. Then making rapidly through the rifled room,

with a breathless prayer of gratitude for safety, she stealthily pushed

open the door on to the balcony, and saw the sunlight and her page's

eager face.

"Shut the door," she whispered. "Climb up and shut the top bolt."

The boy obeyed.

"No one has been?"

"No, lady; you have been quick."

"Quick!" gasped Valentine. "I thought I had been years."

She unclasped her mantle and gave it to the boy. "Take that back to my

room--say I was too hot--give it to Costanza--she alone is in my

confidence, as thou knowest; let no one stop thee--and listen--by

to-morrow we shall be outside the gates."

The page turned away with her mantle on his arm, and Valentine leaned

against the wall, and with her hand upon her heart, took a moment to

steady herself; then with excited eyes, but even steps, she too walked

slowly along the balcony toward the banqueting hall.

* * * * *

"The Duke has not returned," said de Lana.

He spoke a little anxiously, and looked around at the others who filled

the council chamber, a few nobles, and the principal captains of the

army and the mercenaries who defended Milan.

"Meanwhile, from whom do I take my orders? Who commands in Milan?"

"I cannot answer you, my lord," said Giannotto. "The Duke left no

orders, at least with me."

"The Duke expected not to be gone so long," said Martin della Torre.

"And ill it will be for him if he stays _too_ long."

"Meanwhile," cried de Lana again, "to whom are we to look?"

The two pages announced the Lady Valentine.

The men glanced at one another.

"The Lady Valentine," repeated Giannotto to de Lana. "She may tell us

what to do."

Not that he did not well know what terms of jeopardy she stood on with

the Duke--but it was a shifting of responsibility that he welcomed.

All in the room rose to their feet to greet Valentine.

She was leaning on d'Orleans' arm, Adrian and her women following.

She looked regal, glorious. There was a fine color in her cheeks.

De Lana kissed her hand. She did not wait for him to speak, her eyes

wandered over the assembled faces.

"I have not come before, my lords," she said, "because I thought the

Duke might at any moment be again among us; but now, hearing you were

gathered here and that there was some question of the Duke's pleasure in

his absence as to who should issue orders for him, I am come to answer

it in person."

She drew nearer the head of the table, d'Orleans dropping a step behind.

"My lords, the Duke left me in power; in any absence he may make,

enforced or at his pleasure, I rule in Milan."

"You, lady!" cried Giannotto, the words forced from him in his great

surprise.

"I," answered Valentine. "Though I am no man--I am a Visconti. Has not

the Duke left me in charge before, de Lana?"

She turned to the captain as she spoke.

"In the late war with Florence--yes, lady."

Valentine smiled.

"Still, I need not ask you to believe me on that only--lest any should

be doubtful, I have proofs."

"Methinks they are needed before we take the law from thee, lady," said

Martin della Torre, roughly.

Valentine looked at him. "What is this, Lord della Torre?" she replied.

And she laid Visconti's signet ring and seal upon the table.

Giannotto choked his wonder back.

"Does the Duke give these to any save those he trusts--and these?" She

showed the keys lying on her open hand: the key of the armory, the

treasury, the prisons: the master-keys of the whole palace.

"He gave them to me--when, Adrian?"

"Yesterday morning, lady."

"Yesterday morning. Had he not left too hastily even for speech, he

would have made it public; doubtless he thought you would accept my

word--and these proofs."

There was silence.

"Are you convinced, lords?" asked Valentine.

"I am," said Giannotto, bowing to hide the twinkle in his ugly eyes; and

the others, each according to his fashion, murmured an assent.

"And now I will take upon me my brother's duties," continued Valentine.

"For you, de Lana, I have no commands; only look well to the arming of

the walls, let not my brother say we were idle in his absence; I would

have the soldiers in readiness to guard against a surprise--and

meanwhile I ask your company."

De Lana bowed.

"On a visit to Della Scala's wife. She is a priceless hostage, and ill

would it suit with our safety even if aught befell her."

"You would visit her yourself, lady?"

"Aye, myself, since with me lies the power and so the responsibility,

and I would not shirk it. Lords," she continued generally, "we can do

little else but wait--only hold yourselves in readiness--for the Duke's

sake and the honor and security of Milan!"

She put her hand on d'Orleans' arm again and left the room, followed by

de Lana and Giannotto.

"Now, I had almost forgot, my lord," she said, pausing with a smile. "My

page, his sister and his brother, would leave Milan to-morrow for

Brescia--what for, Adrian? Indeed, I have forgot--but I have the Duke's

permission, and would only ask your countersign upon this passport."

She spread before the captain a parchment bearing Visconti's signature.

"This is no time to be leaving Milan, boy," said de Lana.

"Our father is sore sick at Brescia," returned Adrian. "Dying, my lord."

De Lana smiled.

"A long and dangerous journey to make for a sick father."

"There is money in the matter for these children, and it is my

pleasure," said Valentine.

De Lana bent over the parchment, and affixed his name, and in that

second, Valentine glancing at Giannotto, their eyes met, and the

secretary understood. He had meant to hasten to Visconti's rooms; he

meant now not to. De Lana gave the parchment back, and Valentine handed

it to Adrian.

"And now, Lord d'Orleans, will you come with us to Isotta's prison?"

"Truly," said de Lana, "the lady is as firmly guarded as at any time. I

have looked to that."

"Desperation is a great sharpener of the wits, my lord," smiled

Valentine Visconti. "When life and liberty are at stake, the weakest

will venture--and accomplish much."

"Indeed, I think with the lady," put in Giannotto, "that too much zeal

cannot be shown for anything so near to the Duke's heart as this."

De Lana shrugged.

"We will go, lady."

Half an hour later Giannotto and the captain waited in the guard-room of

Isotta's prison.

Valentine, one of her women and the page, had entered the prison itself.

The Duke's signet had passed through all the formidable barriers. It was

late, almost dark.

"This shows a malice in the lady I do not like," said de Lana. "What

need she to triumph over her brother's victim?"

"She is a Visconti," returned the secretary. "She has something of the

Duke's temper and his strangeness--there may be in it curiosity also."

"Curiosity?"

"To behold for herself if Isotta d'Este be as fair as she is--to spy

into her brother's treatment of his prisoners."

"Have you seen the lady, my lord?"

"I?--never," replied de Lana. "Nor do I greatly care to."

Giannotto made no reply; he felt unusually placid and content. He saw

plainly enough that Valentine was outwitting her brother, and as he

hated the Duke and admired his sister, he would help her with all his

power as long as he ran no risks. Visconti had not left _him_ in

charge--and for asking no untimely questions, Valentine would reward him

well.

With some excitement he awaited her return.

"She is a long time," said de Lana impatiently.

"She has her brother's daring," thought Giannotto. "And yet--she would

hardly dare that--hardly."

The door of Isotta's prison was opened and Valentine came out, followed

by her attendants--dark-cloaked figures keeping in the shadow. Adrian

closed and bolted the door behind them as she slowly stepped down into

the room.

"The prisoner is sick," said Valentine. "Not dangerously so, I hope; we

would not have her die in my brother's absence. She has fallen asleep

and must not be disturbed. Where is her woman?"

Luisa shuffled forward.

"You will not rouse your prisoner until my return with a physician," she

continued. "She sleeps. I will return or send; till then let no one

pass those doors, nor you yourself."

The page and Valentine's two women still stood on the steps in the

shadow.

"Come," said Valentine suddenly. "Much as I am relieved to see my

brother's hostage in such security, this is gloomy dark--come,

Costanza."

The two ladies moved forward, one weeping sadly, keeping her hands to

and fro her face.

"The poor lady hath unnerved her," said Valentine with a sharp word of

reproof, and she crossed to d'Orleans.

"Now it seems to me," said de Lana to Giannotto, "that only one lady

entered with the Princess."

"Your eyes deceived you," smiled Giannotto. "I am trained to watch; I

saw two enter." De Lana was silent. The two ladies had joined the few

others left by the outer door, the soldier kept his eyes upon the one

who wept.

Valentine was talking gayly to d'Orleans, and led the way across the

garden. "On your life I charge you to guard the prisoner," she said to

the captain and the soldiers. "She means more to the Duke than his own

life almost--more most certainly than any other," she added meaningly.

De Lana, watching keenly, still kept his eyes, as they crossed the

garden, upon that second lady, who puzzled him, and with a soldier's

indiscretion he whispered his fears to Giannotto.

"My Lady Valentine," said the secretary smiling, "my lord here thinks

you entered the prison with one lady and came out with two!"

Valentine laughed.

"And who, think you, was my second woman, then, lord? Isotta d'Este?

Nay, I will satisfy you."

"Indeed, lady," began de Lana hastily, but Valentine cut him short.

"Come here, Costanza."

The girl came forward.

"Now hold the torch higher, Adrian," laughed Valentine.

The light fell on Costanza's face.

"Is that Isotta d'Este, Giannotto?" she asked.

"Nay," smiled the secretary.

"Now, Giuletta, come hither thou," said Valentine. The other lady

stepped forward and threw back her hood.

"Now, my lord, Giannotto shall satisfy you--is this Isotta d'Este?"

The secretary did not flinch.

"My lord," he said, "you must know Della Scala's wife well enough, if by

hearsay only. Look yourself. This is not she."

They moved on again, de Lana uneasily convinced.

"Ma foi," said the silent d'Orleans suddenly. "It is growing very damp.

These Italian nights are most unhealthy." And so they passed into the

palace.

That night a light tap was heard by Giannotto, sitting in his room, and

Adrian entered and put two emerald earrings and a bag of ducats on the

table.

"For the lapse of memory," he whispered, and went as softly and as

swiftly as he had come.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THE DUKE'S RETURN

Having succeeded so far, Valentine had little fear; it was now an almost

easy matter for her to accomplish the remainder of her plan.

She had the palace keys in her possession, and they unlocked secret

doors, and more than one hidden entry and private way, entries and ways

she knew well, and yet otherwise could not have used.

Soon after that dawn that saw Carrara fall by the wayside, Isotta d'Este

and Valentine slipped from the palace; aided by Costanza, and joined by

Adrian in the long gallery, they passed through the secret door that led

through winding passages to the old part of the building, and thence by

another entrance almost beneath the walls themselves.

Valentine wore a page's suit, her upper lip darkened, a heavy cloak,

with a hood such as was worn in traveling, drawn about her, and by her

side Visconti's dagger.

Despite her anxiety, her passionate desire to frustrate her brother's

tyranny, her wild eagerness to be free and outside Milan, Valentine

almost enjoyed the part that she was playing; she swaggered more than

Adrian, and looked with some scorn on the weakness of Mastino's wife,

who wept with her happiness.

The thought of Gian's rage and discomfiture was very sweet to Valentine,

almost as sweet as the thought of Conrad in Della Scala's camp, and the

happy life of freedom coming.

Rapidly they traversed the narrow street that led to the gate,

Valentine erect and joyful, Isotta leaning on her arm, happy too, with a

deeper happiness, but faint and bewildered from her long imprisonment,

nervous and fearful of every sound.

Behind them strode Adrian, with eager eyes and swelling heart--the Lady

Valentine had smiled on him!

But the lady's thoughts were not on the page. With every step to

freedom, Count Conrad's blue eyes and merry laugh rose before her the

more clearly, and she remembered that last time she had essayed escape,

and he had near given her, for all he knew, his life. He was in Della

Scala's camp.

But, hasten as she might, Isotta dragged her on yet faster. Her

eagerness was pitiful to see; Valentine looked down at her white face

and trembling lips, and with a sudden impulse stooped and kissed her.

It was still so early that the streets were empty, save at the gate

where soldiers clustered, but they took small heed, for the three looked

no unusual figures.

"Now the passports," whispered Valentine. "Adrian must show them, but do

ye stand ready, Isotta, to answer if they question. I dare not, lest

they know my face. Remember, Adrian, an escort meets us half a league

away, and 'tis a quiet village that we travel to."

Isotta d'Este steadied herself against the wall, and grasping

Valentine's hand, followed Adrian toward the soldiers on guard.

"Stand to thy part now, Adrian," said Valentine; "remember 'tis our

lives."

A growing knot of men stood outside the guard-room; there seemed to be

some great excitement; ringing orders, loud talk, increasing bustle. No

one took heed of the three, nor even noticed them, and only after a

delay at which Isotta's heart sickened could Adrian find an officer to

whom to show the passports.

He glanced them over hastily. "They seem to be in order," he said, then

suddenly turned to the woman of the three:

"What do ye do leaving Milan, mistress, when the country is in arms,

with no escort save two boys?"

She hesitated, and Valentine stepped forward quietly.

"Our father is sick," she said, "and 'tis a pressing question of

inheritance. Our kinsfolk promise us an escort."

The officer shrugged his shoulders.

"'Tis your own lives," he said. "Later in the day ye can go. Not now.

There is an army coming, and the Duke in front of it."

Valentine stood still and calm.

"Our father is very ill," she said: "if we are not in time, we may be

beggared. Our passports were signed by the Duke himself. We demand to

go."

But the officer had hardly heard her. A fresh detachment of soldiers had

ridden up, and the man's thoughts and eyes were engaged in half a dozen

places.

Half mad, Isotta sprang forward, shaking off Valentine's restraining

hand.

"We must pass, we must through this moment," she cried. "Let us through,

and we'll make it worth thy while."

At the eagerness of her tone the officer turned, surprised.

"Ye are very anxious," he said.

"For the love of Heaven, a matter of life or death!" said Isotta, and in

her despair she would have knelt, only Valentine dragged her back beside

her.

"It is very serious," she said. "After the Duke has entered, we may

leave?" she asked. "Indeed, ye cannot stay us."

"Aye, leave after the Duke has entered, but now, clear yourself away;

my lord comes apace, some allies with him----" and with a wave of his

halberd he swept them back.

Valentine flushed at his tone, yet drew back, her hand on the page's

shoulder.

But Isotta struggled free and again rushed forward.

"I will pass!" she cried wildly. "I will! I have not got so far to be

stopped now!"

"Oh! thy madness!" murmured Valentine.

But Isotta had rushed to the very gate itself, and was only forced back

by the pikes at her breast.

The officer looked at the group with mistrust.

"What is this?" he said. "What means this passion?"

"She is half distraught," said Valentine. "Beggary is no small matter,

messer. We will be quiet, though, I promise you, until the Duke is

past----" And to Isotta at her side she whispered, holding her hand

tight, "Thou wilt ruin all; control thyself."

But the unfortunate Isotta was calm enough now; she followed Valentine

without resistance.

And now Carrara's army had reached the gates, and fell back to await

Visconti. The whole city was in tumult, the streets filling with excited

people; there was mad shouting, the clash of arms. "A Visconti! a

Visconti!"

"We shall be crushed to death," said Adrian. "I must find you shelter,

lady," and he looked around eagerly.

"The Duke--the Duke!" and the great gates began to open.

"It is useless!" cried Valentine, "and as well die this way as another."

"There is a door here," said Isotta; and turning with difficulty, they

saw indeed a door, deep set in the wall and closely shut.

In desperation, Adrian knocked loudly. "A Visconti!" shouted the

soldiers. "A Visconti!"

They were fast being hemmed in by the crowd, soldiers were pouring

through the gates in companies, strange soldiers, the new allies; and as

Valentine beheld them in strength and numbers, and heard them shout her

brother's name, she felt her last desperate throw was lost.

"A Visconti!"

"Knock on the door again," cried Isotta, "knock again."

Cavalry was passing, going at a trot, so close, the hoofs were almost in

their faces, the foam flew over their mantles.

Then in wild confusion they pressed back against the door; passing

close, a host of pennons waved from glittering spears, the tossing of

horses' heads, the champing of their bits, a clamor of noises, deafening

shouts, a hurry of the cavalcade, and then--suddenly a horse drawn up

close to the shrinking group in the shadow of the doorway, and a rider

looking down at them.

Wild with terror, Isotta flung herself against the door, which yielded.

Valentine looked up at the man who had stopped--saw her brother's face.

"Ah, my sister," he said between his teeth; and Valentine, scarce

knowing what she did, fled after Isotta, the page behind, closing the

door upon Visconti.

In the pleasant courtyard was a girl, dressed in scarlet, who rose,

surprised at their disordered aspect.

"'Tis only a moment gained," cried Valentine, hoarsely. "He will

follow!"

Isotta turned to Graziosa in an agony. "For the love of Heaven hide

us--for the love of Heaven, from Visconti!"

"Hide us!" said Valentine bitterly. "Hide us from Visconti!"

And Graziosa thought of the secret passage.

"I will help you," she said. "I and my father do not love Visconti----"

"Quick, maiden," cried the page. "I see the spears are motionless

outside. I will guard the door."

"They will kill thee," cried Isotta. "Thou art too young."

But Valentine turned to the boy and gave him her beautiful hand. "Guard

the door, gain us a moment, Adrian--for me," she said, and hurried

across the sunny courtyard, followed by Graziosa and Isotta.

"For me!" repeated Adrian, and set himself before the door proudly, with

flashing eyes and dagger drawn. He was only a boy, a page, she a

princess, but he could set his life against her smile, and think himself

well paid.

Graziosa, panting with excitement, hurried them into the house, and into

the lower room from which the secret passage opened. The pleasant little

home was still half dismantled from the recent attack of the Germans,

the neat trimness of the cool chambers gone.

At their entrance Agnolo came forward in alarm, but at his daughter's

hurried explanation, turned willingly to the secret door he kept well

concealed. For the little painter took no thought of what it must mean

to shelter any from Visconti's wrath.

"Quick!" cried Valentine imperiously. "How long can one page keep that

door?"

"The poor boy!" moaned Isotta, hanging half lifeless upon Valentine's

arm. "Unhappy boy--they will kill him!"

Valentine looked at her with scorn.

"Canst thou think of a page now?" she cried. "Think of Della Scala.

Quick!"

But the door would not yield, and while Agnolo struggled with the

spring, a crash was heard, a cry, the ring of armor and the tramp of

feet.

"The door is down," said Valentine. "We are lost."

"I cannot move the spring," cried Agnolo.

"Quick! quick!" shrieked Graziosa, but even as she spoke, the chamber

door burst open and a man stepped in; there were others at his heels,

but he entered alone.

Agnolo, starting back, dropped his concealments into place and trembled

for his secret and these poor folk who had not escaped Visconti.

The man who entered was in black, it was all that could be seen in the

dark, disordered chamber, but Valentine needed no light to tell her who

it was. Isotta sank to the ground, shrieking wildly.

"Oh, father, father!" cried Graziosa, agonized, "save them!"

The newcomer laid his hand on Valentine's shoulder, she standing calm

and erect, and turned his face to Graziosa.

"From me?" he said, and his voice was very sweet. "From me, Graziosa?"

"Ambrogio! Ambrogio!" cried the girl. "What do _you_ here?"

Valentine would have spoken scornfully, but Visconti turned his eyes on

her, and she dared not. The courtyard was full of armed men.

"Ambrogio!" repeated the painter in dismay. "What does this mean?"

Visconti laughed pleasantly, but his hand tightened on his sister's

shoulder.

"It means, thy daughter hath found a lover worthy of her in Visconti."

Visconti! As in a flash the little painter saw explained a thousand

things that had perplexed him. Visconti! His quickly working brain had

grasped it and summed it up before Graziosa could even realize she

heard aright. She stared there silent, with a piteous look upon her

face. Visconti turned to his prisoners.

"Take Isotta d'Este back to her prison," he said, curtly, and a group of

soldiers advanced.

Isotta clung to Valentine in an agony.

"At last!" said Visconti, in her ear, "at last thy calm fails thee!"

And then he stood aside watching, while she implored in turn Valentine

and Agnolo to save her, in incoherent words of anguish.

"I cannot bear it!" she cried. "I have borne it too long! O God, have

pity on me! Have pity on me, I have not the courage to face it again. I

have not the courage!"

Visconti turned to her in a savage triumph of hate he scarcely troubled

to conceal.

"Find thy courage again, where thou found'st it before," he said. "Thy

husband is not dead, although he leaves thee to pine in prison. He may

remember thee even yet."

Isotta sprang up at the taunt, wild-eyed.

"Keep thy face away from me!" she shrieked. "Ye have slain him! Kill me

too!"

Then, seeing resistance useless, and those who would have saved her

helpless, Della Scala's unhappy wife surrendered quietly; only, as she

crossed the courtyard with her guard, and saw the tree-tops wave above

the walls and the sky that was outside Milan, a cry rose that made the

hardened soldiers wince.

"Mastino! Oh, Mastino!"

Visconti watched her out of sight, then turned again to Graziosa, his

hand still on his sister's shoulder.

"Graziosa," he murmured.

But the girl made no answer; she was huddled on the bench that ran

along the wall, looking out with frightened eyes.

As he spoke she shuddered, and crouched closer to the wall.

But Agnolo answered, and Visconti, serene in his pride, did not notice

the painter's tone.

"My daughter is dazed with her surprise, lord, as who would not be?

Graziosa, speak to the Duke, speak to thy Ambrogio," and he gripped her

hand fiercely. But Graziosa rose at his touch, and snatching her hand

away, fled from the room, with one wild look toward Visconti.

"Ye see, my lord, she is bewildered, she can scarce believe it true----"

"It matter not for now," said Visconti. "Thy daughter loves _me_,

painter, and none the less, I doubt not, that I am Duke of Milan; and

she shall be my duchess, as I have vowed."

"Truly, the honor is more, I think, than she can bear," and Agnolo bowed

to the ground.

"I have won a wife for myself--a wife who loves me for myself alone."

"Ah, she loves thee for what thou art not," cried Valentine aloud.

But Visconti took no heed of her.

"Think of thy daughter as a precious charge, Agnolo," he continued.

"Meanwhile I leave one of my captains here on guard. That last attack on

thee and thine came near costing me too dear."

"My daughter----" began the painter, but Visconti interrupted him:

"Thy daughter will be my wife, painter; remember it, and heed her

safety. And thou, Valentine, come with me, and I will tell thee in

private how Count Conrad's folly lost Della Scala thy dear brother, and

gave me the day--and an army." He turned to go; Agnolo made an

impulsive movement forward, but checked himself.

"Tell Graziosa," said Visconti, "she is my duchess on the day my sister

weds the Duke d'Orleans."

Visconti crossed the courtyard; the soldiers closed around him and his

captive; Agnolo sprang forward, and drawing the little dagger he wore,

hurled it after him.

It fell unheard, unseen, amid the trampling feet.

"Your hand--hurts me," gasped Valentine, suddenly very white and

trembling.

A soldier was pulling Adrian's dead body from the gate to allow of the

Duke's passing, and she, dragged in his grasp, had almost stepped on

him. This was what it had ended in--Adrian had flung away his life for

nothing.

Visconti's voice broke upon her.

"Take this cloak to hide thy garb; I could not have Milan see thee

thus--even if thou hast lost all shame."

A ring of soldiers kept the crowd back, all the crowd the narrow streets

permitted. The high morning sun sparkled on their halberds, spears, and

armor; the dazzle of scarlet and gold from their trappings was blinding

in its confusion, and Valentine hid her eyes--from that and the dead

boy's face.

"A Visconti! A Visconti!" came the shout. The horses of the Paduans were

champing impatiently, Visconti's charger reared between its holders-in.

"Now, where is my lord?" cried de Lana, riding up breathless through the

noise and glitter--"I have been outwitted----"

"Hush!" said Visconti softly. "I am here, de Lana,--and so is she who

outwitted thee," and he pointed to the cloaked figure beside him. "Take

her ahead in secrecy, and swiftly, to the palace."

The command and the movement were lost in the confusion. The horsemen

were forming up behind Visconti, the walls and street crowded; from

every distant window and house-top shouting spectators gazed on the

gorgeous scene below.

Visconti drew his sword, and held its glittering cross high up against

the sapphire sky.

"Now glory be to God, His angels, and San' Apollinare, my patron saint,

that I am entered into my city again; and for my most miraculous escape,

there shall be an altar of jasper and serpentine in the Lord's new

church--and therein hear my vow!"

He lowered his sword and kissed the hilt, then turning in his saddle to

the men who had followed him as their new leader: "Have I not led you

well, Paduans," he cried, "safe into the fairest city of Lombardy? Do

you repent you of following a Visconti through the proud gates of

Milan--Milan that I have made more beautiful than Ravenna, and stronger

than Rome? I am your leader now, knights of Padua, and Gian Visconti

never yet led to aught but victory or turned against a foe he did not

crush! Once already have I trampled Della Scala to the dust, and ridden

through nine wide cities of his, and spoiled his palaces to pay my

soldiers, with pay that men would die to win!

"I do not pay with ducats, Paduans, or measure my rewards with coin;

follow me, and I will give you cities for your plunder, and nobles to

hold for ransom. Like to the thunder will I circle Lombardy, and city

after city shall surrender me its keys, and the meanest soldier in my

train shall gain him fame and riches from my spreading greatness such as

kings might envy! Now, who but a faint heart would follow Della Scala,

who lost into my hands his very wife? So long as there is a Visconti, he

rules in Italy!"

Shout after shout, deafening, triumphant, greeted his words, the very

air filled with the spirit of victory, the madness of triumph, the

glamour of gold, the flash of scarlet, the high glitter of spears, that

waved to and fro, the mad plunging of a thousand horses blinded with the

dazzle of the sun; and from the throats of the thronging army, from the

throats of the thronging citizens, one wild cry arose: "Visconti!

Visconti! San' Apollinare! Visconti and Milan! The Duke rides the city!"

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE SECRET PASSAGE

Standing on the steps of the old castle, Della Scala looked down on his

diminished army; at least they were purged of traitors, he thought

grimly; what remained were Veronese, and true.

At the news of Carrara's treachery, d'Este had marched aside to Mantua,

whither Vincenzo had been sent.

The sun was dazzling down, a glory of gold, sparkling on the still wet

leaves, and the brilliant colors of the pennons and banners that floated

above the tents.

Della Scala greeted Ligozzi and his son.

Tomaso would have spoken eagerly, but his father hushed him.

"The news is most important, my lord," he said, "best tell it you in

private." Then, unable to restrain himself, he added in a whisper: "Oh,

the saints and angels be praised, I think we have Milan!"

Mastino della Scala, as he led the way back to the castle, trembled,

almost with awe. It was a sign from heaven.

As they gained the chamber, and Ligozzi closed the door, Tomaso burst

out into his tale, half-crazy with delight.

"It seems you have success," said Mastino quietly.

But he seated himself at the extemporized table, and with his hand

shaded his face; it was almost more than he could bear.

"The passage leads into Milan," said Ligozzi breathlessly. "It is large

enough to admit an army, and opens into the house of one who is our

friend. That, my lord, is why we have been so long. The good fortune is

miraculous, for we were brought out into the house of a man mad against

Visconti, and thinking of nothing but revenge. He alone knows of this

passage, and through it will admit your men."

"Ah!" Mastino drew a deep breath and raised his eyes. "God hath heard

me, Ligozzi."

"It was true," cried Ligozzi. "Oh, lord, he was indeed here. Only this

morning he re-entered Milan, Carrara's army behind him; returned in time

to stay his sister, who loathes her enforced marriage, and--and----" he

suddenly faltered in his recital as Tomaso laid his hand upon his

shoulder.

Mastino looked at them keenly.

"And what?" he asked.

"I was going to say, lord, that in his absence, Valentine Visconti,

trying to escape, was recaptured by the Duke himself in this Agnolo's

house."

"Is it for that he hates Visconti?" asked Della Scala.

"Nay, my lord, he hath other wrongs": and Ligozzi proceeded to relate

the tale the little painter had poured into his ears that morning.

"'Not for naught did I conceal that passage!' he cried to me. My lord,

truly it was not for naught, seeing we shall thereby slay Visconti!"

"This man, Agnolo, he is to be trusted?" said Mastino.

"If ever man was! He would see Milan in ashes, an Visconti were among

them."

"And the girl?"

"I did not see the girl, but methinks she has the same cause to hate

Visconti."

"And that no one should know of this passage, it is strange," mused

Della Scala. "Thou art sure there is no trap, Ligozzi? Much

disappointment makes me wary."

"I will stake my life there is no trap, my lord, and that this man,

Agnolo Vistarnini, is dealing with the truth."

"Vistarnini," repeated Mastino. "Methinks I know the name--a painter,

didst thou say?"

"A painter, my lord; the house is near the western gate."

"The western gate! I remember. It was the day I found von Schulembourg.

Truly I think we may trust the man that I remember," and Mastino faintly

smiled. "There is no guile in him--nor in his daughter; poor lady! she

was happy then!"

"Visconti has left a guard of soldiers to protect the house; but not so

many that they will not be easily disposed of. Vistarnini speaks them

fair, they have no suspicion."

Mastino rose and held out his hand. "So thou hast done it, my friend,

thou and thy son. I owe thee much, Ligozzi. A poor man's thanks are but

an halting gift; some day, however, the Duke of Verona shall tell thee

what his gratitude is worth, my friend. I thank God, Ligozzi, for one

friend!"

* * * * *

In a thick wood near Milan, a man on a white horse was slowly picking

his way through the dense undergrowth. The trees were close, and in

their dark shadow the place was nigh as black as night.

Great tufts of flowers grew in the cool shadows. There were no signs of

life, save the birds whirring through the leaves, the plants nodding in

the breeze.

The rider dismounted, and tied his horse to the low bough of a large

beech, flinging himself on the space of cleared ground beneath with a

sigh. He wore a dress of peacock-colored velvet, tumbled and torn, and,

save for a richly-jeweled dagger, more for ornament than use, was

unarmed; but in the fight from which Count Conrad had just engaged,

though a fight with two, weapons had not been needed; persuasion had

done the work, and he had come out victorious.

In a bundle on his saddle hung his spoils, and as he discontentedly

sucked the scratches on his wrist, he looked at them with interest and

triumph.

Presently he fell to fingering his hair, then, sitting suddenly upright,

drew his dagger with fine resolution.

He seized the first of his long curls and severed it.

Grimly, not giving himself time to pause, he proceeded to the next, and

one by one hacked them from his head, his beautiful blond, perfumed

curls.

Conrad sighed as he saw them lying on the grass, and felt his shorn

head. He longed for a mirror in which to see the extent of his

disfigurement, but there was not even a pool near.

Disconsolately he arose, and detaching the bundle from the saddle, he

laid it upon the ground and opened it.

It contained a monk's robe, a rosary, a book, a wallet, and a girdle.

Conrad opened the wallet, and found food therein, and he was growing

hungry; but when he came to consider it, he sickened at its coarseness.

Scraps of fat, sour, hard cakes, mostly soaked in stale wine--the refuse

of farmhouses.

"Have I parleyed with and robbed a begging friar?" cried the Count in

high disgust, and flung the wallet far into the bushes. "Food for hogs!"

Then with many sighs he removed the peacock-colored doublet and hose,

and donned the monk's garb, drawing the hood over his shorn head, tying

the girdle around his waist.

The robe was rather short, and Conrad noticed with dismay that his

laced white shoes showed beneath.

"Saint Dominick, curse him, but I forgot to take his sandals!" he cried

in a passion.

But passion did not avail him; he must go barefoot.

"Bleeding feet will complete the disguise," he thought bitterly, and

flung off his shoes and stockings.

The robe was rather dirty; Count Conrad's fastidious nostrils fancied it

smelled of the roadside, "where the old wretch has often slept, I

warrant," he said, then crossed himself in contrition at the sacrilege.

Next he hung the rosary and crucifix about his neck--it was hatefully

heavy--and the wallet about his shoulder. The strap galled him, and the

wretched Count moaned at his fate.

He was bound to admit he had brought it on himself; he would carry it

through; and with a truly heroic air he strapped the velvet doublet on

the horse, and taking the bridle, made his way back toward the road.

On reaching it he flung the reins over the steed's back, and turned him

adrift toward Brescia; then, with resolution in his heart and tears in

his eyes, Count Conrad von Schulembourg, with feet bare on the stony

road, made painful progress toward Milan.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

FOR LOVE OF AMBROGIO

It was early morning of the second day since Ligozzi had discovered the

secret passage, and Milan lay peaceful, for in those two days there had

been no fighting; but the calm was the lull before the storm.

Agnolo Vistarnini stood in front of the secret door, with shining eyes.

The spring had just slipped back behind Tomaso, the last arrangements

had been made; to-night Della Scala should enter Milan--and he, Agnolo,

would be the means.

Agnolo looked across the courtyard now in shadow to where a soldier kept

his guard. The guard was the Duke's orders, and to the painter's face

the soldiery showed all respect; yet well Agnolo knew they laughed at

Visconti's whim, and shrugged their shoulders at the pale-faced girl who

was to be Duchess of Milan. And the painter had heard their talk among

themselves. "It was likely enough for the Duke to amuse himself in

disguise," they said, "but to marry a painter's daughter!"

"It were more reasonable had he dowered her to wed another, and yet 'tis

of a piece with all his madness!"

"I would sooner see her dead," thought the little painter, "than Duchess

of Milan, the Visconti's wife."

The white agonized face of Isotta rose before him, the fierce rebellious

hate that marred Valentine Visconti's beauty, and Visconti's own

expression as he stooped to mock a woman in his power; the gallant heart

of the little painter throbbed with wrath and honest fury against the

tyrant who played with hearts, who thought the offer of a crown he had

usurped atoned for crimes as black as hell.

"To-night, to-night!" he murmured to himself as he mounted the stair to

seek for his daughter. "To-night we shall both avenge the use of us to

please a whim."

He entered his studio; it was empty, the two pictures stood with their

backs to the room. Agnolo looked at them grimly. How often had Visconti

sat painting that St. Catherine, unarmed! how easy then to have struck

him low! What would Lombardy have said!

"Graziosa!" he called. He was eager to tell her Tomaso had been again.

He never doubted for a moment that her love had turned, as his had done,

to a passion of outraged pride.

"Graziosa!"

But no answer came, and Agnolo mounted the stair and entered her little

chamber in the turret. It was circular, lit by three long windows, and

now ablaze with the morning sun.

The walls were hung with painted linen, faded browns, and in each window

stood a rough stone jar of lilies, drooping neglected in the sun.

Seated on the floor near one of them was Graziosa, her face buried in

her hands, but at her father's entrance she raised her head and looked

out of the window.

"Graziosa," said Agnolo, and there was a boyish triumph in his voice,

"Visconti dies to-night."

She did not move.

"To-night Della Scala enters Milan; there is no chance of failure."

"None?" she asked. Her voice was dull.

"None! Ah, Graziosa, Visconti roused more dangerous foes than he

reckoned on when he played with me and thee."

The girl moved impatiently; her father's words jarred on her senses.

"Father, I am tired," she said wearily, "and my heart is very sore----"

"Never fear, my daughter; to-night, to-night!"

Graziosa turned to him; her face was white and strained.

"But if--he--the Duke--should not be--be slain?" she said. "He has a new

army here in Milan."

"Aye, but a surprise at dead of night is worth two armies to the others.

The palace is near; Visconti will be in their hands even while he

sleeps----"

"In Della Scala's hands----" she breathed. "That means, indeed--he--O

God, it means Ambrogio dies!"

The last words were breathed so low Agnolo did not hear them, but he saw

the pain on his daughter's face and came gently to her side.

"Forgive me if I pain thee, my dearest. God knows, if I speak lightly

'tis but to hide a bitter grief----"

But Graziosa interrupted him with a passionate cry, and seizing his

hands covered them with kisses.

"Take no heed of me!" she cried. "I am half distraught--soon I shall be

better."

"After to-night there will be a shadow gone from off us, Graziosa, and

not from off us alone."

"There is no chance of failure?" asked the girl again.

"Comfort thyself--none."

Graziosa said no more, and Agnolo turned to leave, for there were the

soldiers still to hoodwink, but at the door his daughter called him:

"At what hour do Della Scala's men enter?" she asked, in a low voice,

her head still turned away.

"One hour after midnight," returned the little painter.

"Della Scala leads them?"

"Della Scala himself," said Agnolo, proudly. "He is a noble prince."

His daughter made no answer; long after the little painter had left her

again alone she sat there listless in the sunny, silent chamber,

listless, with her white face, leaning back against the window frame.

"There was no possibility of failure." The words beat upon her heart

till she thought it would break.

"To-morrow he will be dead!"

She sprang to her feet with sudden energy; the sun was rising high--the

time was short.

It was silent, maddeningly silent; Graziosa grew afraid of it--the

silence and the sun; she wished she were dead; it came to her to kill

herself, yet full well she knew that she had not the courage.

She twisted her damp, cold hands together; she wondered if she shut her

eyes and leaped from the window she might die without knowing it, and

nerving herself looked out.

But the stone courtyard seemed far away, hard and cruel, and she winced

back again.

In her own heart she knew she was a coward, and wept to think it was

so--wept to think she could not rise to act, in any way to act.

There was no tinge of greatness in Graziosa's soul; she would have gone

through life, if unmolested, merry, gentle, sweetness and happiness

itself, content to always stand aside for others, eager to do little

kindnesses that came within her compass, never tempted because never

seeing the temptation, happy in utter simplicity and ignorance; but a

great moment found her wanting, a crisis she could not face; as she

tried to think, right and wrong grew strangely confused. She only knew

she loved Visconti, and that he was in danger.

She was too weak to kill herself, although she did not shrink from the

cowardice of it, only from the pain; she was too weak to tell her father

she still loved Visconti; she could not bear to see his face should she

confess it; he would never understand.

"I will lock the door," she said, with wild eyes, "lock the door, and

let no one enter till it is all over--and perhaps my heart will break,"

she added pitifully.

Then she stood a long time, still with hands locked tight. Suddenly she

turned and her robe caught the jar of lilies, throwing them into the

room.

There they lay, faded by the heat, amid the broken jar, and Graziosa

looked with unseeing eyes, and picked them up mechanically.

Opposite hung a mirror, and as she raised her head she saw herself

reflected there.

The lilies dropped from her hands as they had dropped before in the

street, the day Tisio took her bracelet.

"He would have made me Duchess of Milan!"

She drew nearer and surveyed her pale face closely.

"Duchess of Milan! and he had all Italy to choose from!"

The thought brought a flush to her cheek.

"His sister is very, very beautiful. I am not so fair as she, nor as

Della Scala's wife, and yet he thought me fit to share his throne----"

She moved toward the door with faltering steps.

"I must not think," she moaned. "I will lock the door--I will lock the

door----"

But another thought struck her, and she quivered with her agony.

"He trusted me--he trusted us--he never questioned our faith!"

Then her heart rose in rebellion at her own weakness. Let Visconti be

betrayed: why? What did she know of his crimes?

She could hear her father feasting the soldiers below, and thought of

him restless and impatient for nightfall. He had never loved Ambrogio.

She listened and heard his voice in pleasant laughter with a triumphant

ring in it, and a sort of rage rose in her heart.

"Who are we to save Milan from a tyrant?" she thought. "Ambrogio is more

to me than all the Milanese."

She put her hand on the door handle.

"When would he have sent for me?" she wondered dully. "He smiled. His

voice was gentle; Ambrogio's voice! and he is Ambrogio, and--to-night,

to-night----"

Her eyes fell on the long blue hooded cloak hanging on the wall near.

She took it down and paused with it in her hand, looking at it with

fixed eyes.

A bird flew past the window, sending a swift shadow across the floor.

Graziosa opened the door slowly and stepped out onto the stair. It was

almost dark there; silently she closed the door behind her and wrapped

the cloak about her, drawing the hood over her head and face.

Leaning over the stair rail, she saw that the door of the room below was

open, her father's voice was silent: the soldiers had gone elsewhere.

Softly she crept down into that pleasant chamber where Visconti had sat

so often; the sunlight came in from the open door in a great band across

the dark floor, falling on her white face as she moved through it and

out into the yard. She saw there was no soldier by the door into the

street. She opened it, she could see her father and the guard chatting

over wine-cups by the sundial in the garden, they were not looking; she

crossed like the shadow of the bird upon the floor. Her pet doves flew

away at her guilty steps as if they did not know her, and Graziosa knew

herself indeed changed from the one who had last fed them.

The bolt of the door would at first not move for her trembling fingers,

but she did not stay here; in a second more she stood in the street, a

closed door behind her. Graziosa would never see it open more.

The houses stood clear against a brilliant sapphire sky, and above them

moved a silver banner, the banner of the Viper. It floated from the

Visconti palace, and Graziosa, with no glance back, bent her steps in

its direction.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

TREACHERY

The day that was to place Milan in the enemy's hands was wearing to a

close; the sun had almost set in a wide sky, a flare of orange and

purple, against which the chestnuts stood in rich dark.

Mastino della Scala and some few of his officers were standing in the

little wood into which the secret passage opened.

Behind them the army was in readiness.

"I have wrenched success from the hands of failure!" cried Mastino, his

eyes brilliant, a different man. He could have laughed aloud for joy; he

would see Isotta to-night, he would keep his word; Visconti's palace was

near the western gate, they would be up upon him before he knew.

"There is no possibility of failure, Ligozzi; no possibility of

treachery?" he said, eagerly, and pressed his friend's hands in his.

"None, lord; Vistarnini is to be trusted to the death."

"Von Schulembourg's horse returned to camp this morning," said Ligozzi.

"I know not where the Count is."

"When I am in Milan I will find him; he shall wed the Lady Valentine; I

bear him no bitterness. Ah, Ligozzi, the world will be a different place

to-morrow."

And Mastino leaned forward eagerly, waiting for the first sign of the

return of Tomaso, who had been sent ahead to reconnoiter.

The sky flared and blazed through the trees till the whole world seemed

on fire; the red clouds were reflected in Della Scala's polished armor

till it glowed in one bright flame, above which the plumes on his steel

cap floated long and white.

The next second the glory faded and was gone, leaving the world cold and

gray.

The sun had set.

A cold breeze stirred the leaves against the pale sky, but to Mastino,

leaning against the tree trunk, waiting, no foreboding came. It was

success, success--at last!

"Tomaso is long," said Ligozzi.

"The way is long," smiled Mastino. "But not so long that we shall not

enter Milan before dawn!"

The passage opened into the undergrowth from the wide mouth of a cave,

and Della Scala, in his eagerness, stepped forward into the shadow of

its blackness, listening intently.

No sound broke the stillness save the little murmur of the wind, the

occasional clank of the bridles of the idle horses.

"Hark!" cried Mastino. "I hear him!"

He turned with shining eyes to Ligozzi.

"My friend, at last Heaven has heard!"

"He carries no torch," said Ligozzi, wonderingly, for though footsteps

ascended, no ray of light fell across the dark.

"He stayed not for torch," cried Della Scala. "Bring up the men,

Ligozzi!"

As he spoke, a figure forced itself out of the dark, a wild figure, and

yet Tomaso's; his white face was smeared with blood which trickled from

a great gash on his forehead, his doublet was rent and torn, and he

reeled as if hurt and spent.

"O Mother of God!" muttered Mastino. "Mother of God!"

Tomaso sank at his feet with a bitter cry.

"All is over!" he cried. "We are betrayed. Oh, would I were dead before

I had to tell thee!"

"Betrayed?" echoed Della Scala. All the life was struck out of him, he

steadied himself against the cavern wall and looked at the boy dully.

"Betrayed?"

"Betrayed? By whom?" cried Ligozzi. "Ah, thou art hurt!"

"Nothing, nothing. I am in time--Visconti--his men guard the other

entrance--with difficulty I escaped to warn thee," gasped Tomaso.

"Who betrayed us?" demanded his father, his face dark with passion.

"The girl," said Tomaso, bitterly; "the girl who loved Visconti."

"And Heaven favors her love and not mine!" The cry was wrung from

Mastino. "We are betrayed for a girl's love of Visconti. And my wife

waits for me!" He laughed wildly, and drew a faded rose from the folds

of his sash, flinging it on to the ground.

"Look, Ligozzi, a sign from Heaven--a sign I thought had been fulfilled.

But a girl prayed for Visconti, doubtless, and her prayers are heard.

Isotta must perish, but Visconti is saved! To mock, Heaven sends me a

sign."

He ground the rose to powder beneath his heel, and Ligozzi quailed at

the wild anguish of his face.

"I should have known," he cried. "I should have known. I called on God

and this is His answer. I will fight Visconti alone!"

He turned from the cavern to the open, and stepped out among the waiting

officers.

"Back to camp!" he cried wildly. "We are betrayed again, by a woman who

loves Visconti! The Duke of Milan is fortunate; who would do the like

for me?" And he flung himself down upon the bank, and sank to the

ground.

"Leave us," whispered Ligozzi. "Leave us, all is over for to-night, the

Prince and I will follow."

"He is much moved," returned one of the officers.

"All his hopes were on it," said Ligozzi bitterly. "His wife, his God."

In disappointed groups the men moved off, to spread the evil news.

It was now fully dark, but not so dark that the three left by the cave

could not see each other in the faint starlight.

Mastino called to Tomaso. His voice was hoarse and strained.

"Tell me all, boy; tell how it happened."

"My lord," faltered Tomaso, "it is too painful."

"Painful!" And Della Scala laughed harshly. "I am well used to that;

tell me how it happened."

He had risen, and standing in the shadow of the trees, only the outline

of his great figure was visible to Tomaso and Ligozzi, standing a few

paces before him.

"There is not much to tell," said the boy uneasily; he was sick with

disappointment and the pain of his wound and leaned heavily against his

father.

"Agnolo opened the door to me--as had been arranged; he told me, with a

wild face, his daughter was gone. Visconti had carried her off, he

vowed. He was half-crazed, and ah, my lord, even as he spoke, the

courtyard filled with soldiers, Visconti's soldiers. The girl had fled

to the palace, and told the Duke all! We were betrayed!

"They laughed to see me there; vowed I should die a merry death, trusted

you would follow and let them give you a warm welcome. Agnolo they

mocked with talk of pardon, for his daughter's sake, his daughter the

Duchess to be, whom Visconti had proclaimed to all his court, if he

would tell them a little more of what you meant to do! But Vistarnini

met them with defiance.

"'At least Visconti shall not claim us both!' he cried, and then they

laughed and killed him. _That_ was the Duke's word, they said, not

pardon."

Tomaso paused.

"And his daughter lives to be Duchess of Milan!" said Della Scala. "It

is the will of Heaven!" He laughed again, harshly.

"I escaped while they argued over the poor painter's body, and they

dared not follow, being in terror of an ambush. If it had not been for

saving thee, I would I might have died!" And he sank his head upon his

father's shoulder with heart-wrung sobs.

"Take him to the camp," said Mastino, rising. "How can I comfort him or

thee, wanting it so much myself?" And he turned away through the trees.

The air was perfumed and soft, it fanned the heavy hair back from his

face and rustled the flowers around his feet.

He walked fast, in a fury of hate. It came to him to rush into Milan,

and die upon the soldiers' spears, if he might only get his hands upon

Visconti. "I will challenge him to fight, to single combat," he thought

madly. Then his mood changed, he stopped and felt for the locket at his

neck.

"Isotta! Oh, my dear, my dear!" and his voice was full of tears.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

IN CLOTH OF GOLD

Graziosa Vistarnini, the savior of Milan, and the Duke's betrothed, was

lodged with regal state in the magnificent new tower that stood in the

grounds of the Visconti palace. Visconti could be liberal to a fault

where it suited his vanity or his purpose, and Graziosa's new residence

was decorated with a lavishness that made the French stare.

For not only had she saved Milan, but she had done it solely for love of

him, and it gratified Visconti's pride as much as it pleased his

ambition. Save for this girl he had been now even as had been Della

Scala, and Milan humbled as Verona. She had been the means of his once

more outwitting a foe; she had assured his safety and the safety of his

city; and Visconti's proud gratitude showed in the state and splendor

with which he surrounded his chosen wife.

This glorious summer morning she was seated on the side terrace that

surrounded the tower, a terrace of black marble and alabaster, the

delicate balustrade smothered in lemon and myrtle trees and clusters of

white roses.

Graziosa was in the midst of a brilliant company; the best-born dames in

Italy were among her women, and more knights and pages composed her

train than had ever waited on Visconti's sister.

Beneath them the garden, reached by a shallow flight of steps, spread in

perfect loveliness to the palace, above whose pink brick walls and

rugged gray fortifications floated the banner of the Viper.

The air was golden with the brightness of the sun, there was not a

cloud in the purple sky, and Graziosa's heart was singing in pure

happiness.

She rose from her chair impulsively, and walked to the edge of the

terrace, leaning over the balustrade, the ladies behind her.

"'Tis sad to think there should be fighting on such a day as this," said

one, handing Graziosa her fan. "God grant it may soon be peace!"

"God grant it!" repeated the painter's daughter fervently.

"They say the Veronese cannot hold out much longer," said another. "This

very morn there was news. Bassano has fallen----"

Graziosa picked a cluster of roses and buried her face in them.

"How beautiful they are!" she said. "See, they have little hearts all

gold, never showing till they die; a pretty fancy, is it not?" And she

stroked them tenderly.

"Bassano has fallen?" she repeated idly.

"Yes, and 'tis said they cannot fail in getting Reggio."

"Then my lord's arms are everywhere victorious!" cried Graziosa with

sparkling eyes.

"As ever, lady," was the answer.

"And we can hope for peace," continued Graziosa softly.

"And when peace is proclaimed you will be Duchess--almost Queen--of

Lombardy, Gian Visconti's wife!"

There was a note of envy in the speaker's voice at such a splendid

destiny, but Graziosa did not notice it. She even shuddered faintly at

Visconti's name; it had been associated with awe and terror too long for

her to be able to easily shake the fear away.

"Meanwhile, the sun is shining hot, lady," said a third attendant. "Will

you not come into the shelter?"

Graziosa moved away; the white roses at her bosom were not more pure

than her face. Two pages lifted her rich train, and as she crossed the

terrace a third came and spoke to her on bended knee.

"My Lord Giannotto waits your pleasure, lady."

"Tell him I am here," and the color rose in Graziosa's face at so much

honor.

She turned to the steps where Giannotto waited, cap in hand, and

advanced toward him.

"Lady," said the secretary, bowing low, "my lord sent me to say he will

wait on you himself; and meanwhile if you have any commands----"

Graziosa interrupted him.

"Indeed, my lord is too good; what commands should I have?--tell him so,

with my deepest thanks, sir."

Giannotto looked at her curiously, with a mixture of pity and wonder.

"He comes himself, lady, to hear your thanks, and learn your will."

And he stepped aside, joining the group that had been gathered about

Graziosa.

Gian Visconti was coming through the garden, a grave-looking man by his

side, a white hound at his heels, and two boys following, one bearing a

wooden case, the other carrying a roll of drawings.

Visconti was talking to his companion; he was in the best of humors, at

the height of triumph and success, his enemies well under his heel, his

ambitions on the point of being gratified.

Graziosa came to the head of the steps, and Visconti took his gold cap

off and waved it, coming up them gayly.

She stood silent in the glory of the sunshine and held out her hands,

and he kissed them, and looked at her and laughed pleasantly.

"Now art thou happy, _donna mia_?" he said. "Hast thou all that thou

couldst wish?"

"More than I ever dreamed of, my lord," she answered softly. "I did not

know the world could be so beautiful--or so happy."

"'Tis but a small return, Graziosa, my beloved, for what thou hast done

for me," returned Visconti. "And I will make it more--this is but an

earnest of the future. Visconti's wife shall live in such splendor that

men shall not see her for its dazzle."

"What am I, that thou shouldst give me so much joy!" cried Graziosa,

with swimming eyes.

Visconti smiled.

"Thou art thyself--it is enough!"

He turned to his companion, who stood respectfully at some little

distance.

"Come hither, Messer Gambera. Here is a lady who shall often pray within

your church--my betrothed, who saved us Milan."

Messer Gambera bowed low, and kissed the hem of her gown.

Visconti watched his homage with pleased pride, and turned again to

Graziosa.

"Now I have somewhat to show thee. This is the architect of my new

church, which shall be the wonder of Italy. Follow me, messer." And he

led the way into the entrance-hall.

It was low and wide, the walls covered with frescoes, the floor red

sandstone, the windows opening on to the terrace.

In the middle stood a gilt stucco table, and to this Visconti drew a

chair and bade Graziosa seat herself.

"Here is what I will make of Milan, sweet, when the war is ended!" he

said, as the architect unrolled and arranged his drawings.

"And will that be soon?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Aye, I hope so," laughed the Duke. "Mastino della Scala grows weaker

day by day--I have Bassano, and shall have Reggio. He has lost his wits

as well as his fortresses, for he bids me to a single combat: all to

stand or fall by our own swords. He has his answer, and I have his wife.

Now, look at these, Graziosa----" and he took the drawings from the

architect and spread them on the table.

"My new church," he said. "The plans, my well-beloved."

And he looked eagerly at Graziosa.

"Indeed, my lord, I do not understand them--it is no church, surely?"

And she raised a sweet, bewildered face.

"'Tis the plan of one. Messer Gambera will explain it," and he motioned

eagerly to the architect. "Here, messer, this is the porch?" And he laid

his finger on the drawing, absorbed in contemplation.

"Yes, my lord."

"Set on three steps?"

"'Tis so, my lord."

"I do not care for that, messer, and I will have more carving--would you

not, Graziosa?"

"You must not ask me; indeed I do not know," she smiled.

Visconti's face for an instant darkened. "You must learn," he said. "My

duchess must know architecture. Take away the plans, messer; I will look

at them alone."

"Perchance the lady might care for the model, my lord?" returned the

architect. He spoke bad Italian, and was shaking with nervousness.

"Bring the model," replied Visconti, and the page placed the box upon

the table.

Messer Gambera touched a spring and it flew apart, showing an exquisite

little model of white marble, some twelve inches high.

"Oh! it is beautiful!" said Graziosa, and Visconti looked at her with

sparkling eyes.

"You think so? Yes, it will be beautiful--the church of all Lombardy."

"It will be like this, of marble?" she asked, breathless.

"Every inch--from the porch to the pinnacles, and the floor shall be

precious mosaic, and the altars crystal and serpentine, jasper and

amethyst; men shall spend their lives in carving one pillar, and the

price of cities shall pay for the gold that shall be lavished on it. Not

in our life will this be done, nor in the lives of those that reign

after us--or even they that follow, but finished it shall be, and one of

the wonders of the world--and I shall be remembered as he who planned

it--to the glory of God and the house of Visconti!"

He turned with shining eyes to the architect, who gazed on him with

admiration, with a face that reflected the speaker's own fervor.

"Yes, mine will be the glory, though I shall never see the pinnacles

kiss the sky, or hear the mass beneath that marble roof--mine will be

the glory--even though I am not buried there, it will be my monument to

all eternity!"

Graziosa gazed at him in silence: she could not understand. Gian glanced

down at her with a smile.

"Would it not be a worthy tomb, even for a king, Graziosa?"

"For an emperor--but we will not talk of tombs, my lord," she answered,

"but of pleasant things, and--and--of something that I have to ask you."

"What?" smiled Visconti.

The pages had gathered up the drawings, and the architect had removed

his precious model and withdrawn.

They were alone, and Graziosa rose and looked at Visconti a little

timidly.

"I--I mean--there will be peace soon--you think, my lord?"

"I think so--but peace or war, it shall not touch thee, Graziosa."

"Indeed, I do not fear it--but----"

She hesitated a moment, and glanced anxiously at Visconti's smiling

face.

"Prince Mastino's wife--my lord----"

"What of her?" asked Gian, lightly. "How does she trouble thee?"

"I fear she is in sad woe," said Graziosa, encouraged by his tone. "She

will return to Della Scala when the war is ended?"

Visconti laughed.

"The war will not be ended till she does, methinks; yet be comforted,

Graziosa; before our wedding day she shall be in Della Scala's camp--and

the war over: now think of it no more."

"Indeed I am satisfied; and my father, my lord?"

"Now, can I help it an he will not come to the palace? My word on it, he

is safe; think no more of that, Graziosa. My word on it, he is safe! Now

are you content?"

"My dear, dear lord, I am content: I will trouble you no more with

questions. I am content to leave my father's safety in your

hands--content."

She laid her arms about his neck, and Visconti kissed the roses on the

breast that crushed them against his golden doublet, and then her

upturned face.

Through the open window came the distant sound of singing; some one

singing in French, and then a woman's laugh. Graziosa drew herself away,

and Visconti's face darkened.

"Please heaven, she will not annoy me long," he muttered.

He took Graziosa's hand in silence and stepped out on to the terrace.

Seated on the steps was d'Orleans, playing with the red ribbons of his

lute, and standing among the cluster of ladies at the foot of them was

Valentine Visconti.

She looked very brilliant and beautiful, and angry and scornful; her

laughter was bitter, and the veiled brightness of her eyes not pleasant.

The shade of Visconti's face deepened as he looked at her: compared to

his sister, Graziosa was a candle beside the sun; the contrast did not

please Gian.

D'Orleans rose and bowed low to the lady, yet in a way that was not

respectful.

"So there has been a challenge from the enemy," he lisped. "Now I shall

love to see a single meeting of brave swords again."

"Who said so?" asked Visconti. He came slowly down the steps; his manner

had quite changed, and his eyes were on his sister.

"The Lady Valentine," said the Frenchman. "She----"

"The Lady Valentine," interrupted the Duke sternly, "had best

remember--what I have often remembered to her advantage--that she is a

woman, and these affairs are none of hers."

And he gave her a glance that made her wince, as always did that glance,

for all her boldness.

Graziosa, her hand held lightly by the Duke, was following him down the

steps, her pages behind, and Visconti kept his eyes upon his sister.

There was a meaning pause, and d'Orleans grew restless in the silence

and moved away.

Valentine sent after him a look of bitter scorn, then walked slowly up

to Graziosa and saluted her humbly, though her eyes were burning

brightly.

Visconti watched them keenly, and noticed with displeasure how crushed

and silent Graziosa showed before his brilliant sister: she shrank into

herself, as if she divined the scorn Valentine concealed, and could

scarce stammer a few words of greeting in reply.

"I must back to the palace, Graziosa," said Visconti, as they reached

the garden, and his eyes roved over the crowd of attendants for

Giannotto's figure. "Remember these are all at thy commands--and, for

the present, then farewell."

To Valentine he said nothing, but turned away toward the palace with the

secretary.

Graziosa looked after him, a little pained; she had noticed he was

always different when his sister was there. Valentine had noticed it

too, and guessed the cause, and the knowledge gave a triumph to her

beauty that made it dazzling indeed.

"I fear I interrupted your discourse," she said with another curtsey.

"Indeed no, lady," replied Graziosa, timidly. "Will you not come within

with me from the sun?"

"Nay, that were too much of an honor," said Valentine. "Are you not my

brother's promised wife--and the savior of Milan?"

"I pray you, do not speak of it--I--I----" answered Graziosa hurriedly.

Valentine lifted her brows and opened her gray eyes wide.

"Do not speak of it? Why, 'tis a deed to be proud of--even when so well

rewarded, lady."

Graziosa flushed under the mock in her tone, and turned to one of her

ladies.

"We will go in--alone--since the Princess will not come," she said.

"Come and walk in the garden, madama," said Valentine. "At least it

seems like liberty--there will be little enough of that when you are

Duchess of Milan."

Graziosa, looking at her with frightened eyes, joined her meekly, having

not the spirit to refuse.

"Now, bid your ladies back a pace--at least Gian will allow us that,"

and Valentine motioned them away.

"What do you mean?" faltered Graziosa, with a pang of something like

envy, as she noticed the grace and dignity of Valentine's bearing, and

the superb carriage of her queenly head.

Valentine shrugged her white shoulders and laughed bitterly.

"Many things--among them this--get yourself a better tirewoman and you

will keep Visconti longer--learn a little spirit and you will keep him

longer still."

Graziosa glanced down at her dress, the richer of the two, but worn with

no such grace.

"'Tis no question of my dress, lady," she answered, with some

dignity--"nor of beauty--but of love alone."

Valentine looked at her curiously, scornfully. They were passing between

rich bushes of roses and lilies, the air was heavy with scent, and from

the ladies following came gentle laughter.

"You think he loves you?" asked Valentine.

"I know it," answered Graziosa, proudly.

Valentine smiled and looked away. The smile and glance stung Visconti's

betrothed like a whip-stroke.

"What do you mean?" she cried. "You insult me--you insult him!"

"Do you know Gian Visconti so very well?" asked his sister. "Have you

seen him torturing his prisoners with the slow torture of the

mind--worse than any rack? Have you seen him lying and betraying,

stealing and murdering?"

Graziosa looked at her wildly; she looked strangely like her brother

could look, her voice was very like his.

"You know how his father died? How his mother's heart was broken?"

"I know you never raised a hand to save them--I know I love him!" cried

Graziosa.

"Doubtless," smiled Valentine with scorn. "But does he love you? Why, he

is so stained with crime I do not care to touch his hand. Would such a

man love--you?"

"Some tales I have heard, but now I know them false," said Graziosa,

white and trembling. "And I will hear no more."

"She thinks he loves her!" murmured Valentine. "She thinks Gian Visconti

loves her!"

Graziosa was as near hate as was possible for her; her heart was too

full for a reply, she called to her ladies and turned away. But

Valentine followed, and laid her hand on her shoulder with what seemed a

loving gesture.

"Tell Gian what I have said," she whispered. "It will be an office to

suit you, traitress!" and with a smile she turned away.

Graziosa walked slowly toward her tower; somehow the garden had grown

dim, the sky was not so bright, the sun so brilliant; she was looking at

them through a veil of tears, unshed and bitter.

"The Lady Valentine is not a gay companion to-day," remarked one of her

attendants, looking at her.

"No," said Graziosa dully. Valentine's words were rankling in her heart;

all the past came before her, all the tales she had heard of Visconti,

all her father's tenderness, the old, happy time. What if it had all

been a mistake? What if Visconti still played with her and he was what

Valentine had said? The idea was too awful, she crushed it back, she

would not believe.

She thought of her father with a sudden yearning; she had always turned

to him in her little troubles, she felt uneasy about him with a sudden

wave of homesickness. "Can I forget?" she cried in her heart. "Can I

live this life and forget?"

But the next moment she calmed herself. She thought of Visconti leaning

over his cathedral, of his hand in hers, of his earnest voice--and she

had his word for her father's safety.

Smiling to herself, she mounted the steps to her gorgeous dwelling, made

splendid by Visconti's love.

"My father! We shall be happy together again yet!" And she laughed and

kissed the roses Gian had kissed, and the sun seemed bright again.

But Agnolo Vistarnini lay in the little chapel of Santa Maria Nuova,

near to the western gate, with tapers burning at his head and feet, and

five sword-thrusts through his heart.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

IN VISCONTI'S HANDS

Valentine Visconti was praying in the Church of San' Apollinare. It

stood some way from the Visconti palace, a magnificent building, rich

with the Duke's gifts.

That morning thanksgiving rose from every church in Milan; from the

palace to the hut, all showed some sign of rejoicing. The Duke had

ordered public processions and thanksgiving, and none dared disobey.

His Holiness Pope Boniface had deserted the falling cause of Verona;

there was nothing to be feared and little to be gained from Mastino

della Scala, the Duke of Milan had offered his aid against the

rebellious Florentines, and many bribes besides, and to-day had seen the

new league between the powerful tyrant of Lombardy and His Holiness

publicly ratified.

From Rome Visconti had nothing more to fear, Mastino nothing more to

hope.

The country around Padua was Visconti's too; Cologna, which he had

always held, the great seaport of Chioggia, Mestre and Lovigo, betrayed

by Carrara.

Bassano had fallen, and now Reggio; there was cause for thanksgiving in

Milan.

As a last triumph, Valentine had been sent to offer up prayers and gifts

for her brother's success. She was guarded on her errand, practically a

prisoner. Soldiers stood at every door of the church, and a mounted

escort waited without to conduct her back. She was on her knees before

the blazing altar, her head low over her missal, but she was not

offering thanks to heaven for Gian's victories.

She thought of Graziosa with angry hate. But for that girl, Della Scala

had been in Milan, and Count Conrad with him--and in reward for her

treachery Graziosa was to queen it over her! Visconti delighted to

flaunt her with her at every turn.

That morning Visconti had told her the war was drawing to a close--said

it with much meaning, and promised her, smiling, Count Conrad's head as

a wedding gift. He had been closeted long with Giannotto; strangely

elated he had seemed, and Valentine shudderingly wondered what was in

the air.

That there was something she knew full well; Visconti was hatching some

stroke that would complete Della Scala's ruin. For some days she had

seen his purpose in his face, and to-day the alliance with the Pope

confirmed it.

She did not greatly care, she was too crushed with her own failures to

care much for the failure of another. She felt sorry for Isotta d'Este,

and bitter toward Count Conrad.

"But were I either of them, Prince Mastino or Count Conrad," she thought

in hot anger, "I would not _live_ to grace Visconti's triumph."

The sound of bells penetrated even into the hushed interior of the

church. As the service ended and Valentine rose to her feet, she heard

them burst into wild music; the dim, incensed air seemed troubled by

their triumphant throb, the gold tapestry to shake with it.

"Is it another victory?" murmured Valentine. The church had emptied, she

was alone in it save for two ladies kneeling motionless.

The monks swept out, with a swinging of incense and a low chanting. One

only remained, putting out candles about the altar.

Valentine closed her missal and turned to leave. The sun was streaming

through the gold and opal window in a dazzling shaft of light, it fell

over her face and blinded her for a second. The next, she looked round

to see the solitary monk behind her. His head was hidden in his cowl,

his arms folded, he passed her without looking up.

"Count Conrad is in Milan," he said, under his breath, and silently and

swiftly he was gone.

Valentine, hardly believing she had heard aright, gazed after him

wildly, then collecting herself, walked down the aisle, her brain on

fire.

Her ladies rose, in waiting, and under no excuse could she prolong her

stay.

"Count Conrad is in Milan!"

Did that mean that he would rescue her yet--was it Conrad himself who

spoke?

The thought was grateful to her sore, angry heart. She had not much

confidence in Count Conrad's skill nor his chances of success--still, he

was in Milan, he cared enough to have risked that, and she could wait.

After the dim church the sun was blinding, the crash of the bells

deafening. Valentine mounted her horse with a throbbing heart; that

whisper in the church had given her new life.

The soldiers formed up either side, behind and before; it would not have

been possible for her to drop even her glove unnoticed. She was riding

the streets of Milan as her brother's trophy, as his prisoner; every one

of those who bowed so humbly to her as she passed, every peasant her

guards thrust back from her path, was freer than she.

San' Apollinare was far from the palace, and for that reason Visconti

had chosen it. All Milan should see her ride to offer thanksgiving for

his victories.

"Surely there is more good news," said Costanza, as they crossed the

bridge that spanned the canal; "the air is full of rejoicing, and I have

seen many messengers spur past."

Valentine set her teeth, and looked between the spears of her escort at

the bright blue water beneath them. All the craft that covered its

surface were gay with flags, its depth reflected buildings hung with the

banners of the Viper.

"It fills the very air we breathe," shuddered Valentine, "the shadow of

the Viper."

Costanza glanced at her.

"I must confess," she replied, "I should be proud an it were my bearing.

To be a Visconti on such a day as this would please me well; and though

I am your friend, madama, I must say it."

"As do all the others," said Valentine, bitterly. "You are blinded by

splendor and power--you see no deeper than the skin!"

"Maybe," said the other lightly. "Yet am I glad the Duke hath triumphed,

and not Mastino della Scala, who is as sullen as a peasant, and a foe to

all display."

"And his wife?" asked Valentine in a low tone. "Have you no thought for

her?"

Costanza shrugged her shoulders.

"Methinks I have done much to show I have! But she is a prisoner of war,

and must take her chances like another. Were it the Visconti's wife in

such a case--she would not be a prisoner long! Let Mastino della Scala

tear her from his foe himself--let him do as Visconti did when the Lady

Graziosa was in danger."

"Hold thy tongue," returned Valentine angrily. "You talk as a child--you

know not what you say."

"I only know this," retorted the other, "I would _I_ were the Lady

Graziosa," and she looked defiantly at Visconti's angry sister.

"For shame, Costanza," said Valentine. "Remember yourself."

They rode in silence till, at the turn of the street, another splendid

cavalcade crossed theirs. It was the Lady Graziosa and her suite. Tisio

Visconti and d'Orleans were in attendance; she rode a white palfrey.

The sun lay tenderly in her soft hair; her green dress was covered with

pearls, and round her throat she wore the emeralds Visconti had promised

his sister, the first jewels in Italy, robbed from Della Scala.

Valentine noticed them, she noticed Graziosa's happy face, the joy she

took in the homage paid her, in Visconti's success that so galled her,

Visconti's sister, and a sudden purpose rose in her eyes.

She smiled sweetly on Graziosa, and rode up to d'Orleans; the Frenchman

remarked with pleasure how she outshone the Duke's betrothed. The deep

blue of her velvet robe made her skin appear of dazzling fairness, her

hair was like burnished gold, her mouth like a red flower, but her eyes,

for all her smile, as dangerous as Gian Maria's could be, as mad, almost

as wicked.

"We are well met, my lord," she said, smiling. "Have there been even

greater victories?"

"I know not, lady; they say something of Lucca having fallen," returned

d'Orleans. "I have been escorting the Lady Graziosa to view the new

church--by the Duke's orders"; he added in a lower tone, "could I have

chosen my companion, it had not been she."

Valentine listened with downcast eyes, playing with the rubies at her

wrist. Her escort was grouped about her, and Costanza glanced aside at

her curling lips with some mistrust.

"The Lady Graziosa is happier and fair to-day," she whispered to her

companion, and Valentine overheard and smiled the more.

"And my brother, the Duke?" she asked.

"I have not seen the Duke all day," replied the Frenchman. "There is

talk of an embassy to the enemy--confusion and crowds----"

"You have been riding Milan to see the rejoicings?" interrupted

Valentine, and she raised her eyes to Graziosa once--the glance was not

pleasant--then she fell to playing with her bracelet again.

"Yes," said Graziosa innocently. "My lord bade me ride to the new

church."

She was very happy, and affection welled up in her tender heart, even

for the woman who had used her so cruelly--for she was Gian's sister.

With a timid gesture she held out her little hand to Valentine.

"Will you not ride back beside me?" she asked, pleadingly.

But Valentine ignored her hand and her request.

"Have you visited any other churches in your ride?" she asked.

"What other church in Milan should interest the Lady Graziosa?" asked

d'Orleans wearily, fearing to be sent back on some distasteful journey.

"I did not know--I thought there might be one--Santa Maria, close to the

western gate."

And Valentine looked straight at Graziosa, who paled beneath her tone.

"How should that interest me?" she faltered.

Costanza put her hand on Valentine's sleeve.

"Have a care," she whispered. "Not before them all, madama, for pity's

sake!"

But Visconti's sister took no heed; she gathered up her reins and

signed to her escort to move on.

"Of course," she said, "why should it interest thee?--there is nothing

there--it is only a small, mean church, where a poor, obscure traitor

lies on his bier." She looked around the startled faces with a bitter

scorn on her own. "Who has heard of him?--one Agnolo Vistarnini--killed

by the Duke's orders, killed by thy lover's orders, in the very hour

that ye betrayed him to him, Graziosa Vistarnini!"

She flung the words at her as if they had been knives, and if they had

been they could not have been more deadly. Without a word, her hand

catching at her throat, Graziosa sank from her horse, the scene in an

instant one of confusion.

"Dieu! what have you done!" cried d'Orleans, springing from the saddle

and raising Graziosa. "Who will answer for this?"

"She will not die of it," said Valentine, scornfully. "She will take

care to live--to be Duchess of Milan."

"Oh, shame! shame!" cried Costanza, and several echoed the cry.

"'Twas no gentle act," said d'Orleans, lifting Graziosa, "and heaven

save you now, Princess!"

"And our heads may have to pay for it," grumbled the officer who led

Graziosa's escort. "Men, see the Princess does not escape, or there will

no one of us live to save ourselves."

"Shame! shame!" said the Duke again, as Graziosa, white as death, was

laid in a litter. "You have done a mad thing!" And the whole fluttering

cavalcade whirled in startled confusion toward the palace.

Valentine looked after them, and there was no remorse in her face.

"You must answer to the Duke for this, madama," said the officer, "and

at once."

She turned her horse slowly, and at a quiet pace rode toward the

Visconti palace. Costanza began to weep.

"Nothing can save you now, mistress--why did you do it? Oh, why!"

"Count Conrad is in Milan!" was Valentine's answer to herself; and to

Costanza she said, coldly, "Do not fear for me. I am too valuable to be

meddled with. Even a Visconti would not dare to slay his sister before

the Frenchman's eyes."

They entered the courtyard in silence, the soldiers forming up close

around her. The cavalcade had ridden slowly, and there was no trace of

Graziosa's arrival. The palace seemed quiet. Valentine dismounted as

usual, and was mounting the entrance steps when de Lana advanced.

"I have a painful duty to discharge, Princess," he said. "You are my

prisoner."

Valentine went white: she had not expected this so swiftly.

"The Lady Graziosa is in danger of her life," continued de Lana.

"'Tis no fault of mine," said Valentine. "What do you want with me?"

Costanza clung to her, weeping loudly.

"Have done!" said the soldier, sternly. "Follow behind your lady. You

will follow me, Princess."

"Seeing I cannot help it," retorted Valentine, with flaming cheeks.

"Where is my brother? Where is the Duke d'Orleans?" She looked round

once; from somewhere there stepped forward two of de Lana's men and took

their places at her side. She moved up the stair, Costanza with her,

weeping with fear.

The corridors were empty, save for the soldiers at their posts. De Lana

opened the door of the Duke's apartments and stood aside for her to

enter, but Valentine shrank back.

"'Tis the Duke's orders," said de Lana, and he moved Costanza back. "You

will enter alone."

Then Valentine summoned up her courage, and when she had passed the

door, de Lana followed and stood beside it.

Visconti was at the table, behind him Giannotto, and at her entrance he

raised such a white, distorted face of fury, that Valentine quailed and

sank back against the wall.

"Ah!" said Visconti, "I have it in my mind to kill you, my sister. I

have it in my mind to give myself that pleasure--to kill you."

He rose as he spoke, and Giannotto drew farther away from him, glancing

at Valentine with a white amazement; the Duke was bordering on frenzy.

"Oh," cried Visconti again, "so you have no more wits than Tisio: you

think, because it suited me that you should wed with d'Orleans, that you

are free to flout me at your will!"

"Now be silent," breathed de Lana to Valentine, who leaned against the

wall beside him.

"You!" said Visconti, stopping before her. "You!--to meddle with me--let

me lift my finger and I can bring you lower than any slave in Milan!"

"Silence!" breathed de Lana again. But Valentine had too much of her

brother's own spirit. The madness of the Visconti rose into her eyes;

she straightened herself and moved forward defiantly.

"Aye, or you can kill me," she said, "as you have the others; but you

cannot make me humble before your wife out of the streets."

Visconti stood stock still, and Giannotto, glancing at de Lana, wondered

if she were to be murdered before their eyes.

Under the look in her brother's face Valentine stepped back again and

huddled herself against the wall: she saw Visconti draw his dagger--and

she hid her eyes--but motionless and without a sound.

"I have had enough of you," said Visconti, and strode down upon her in a

white madness of fury, forgetful of all else. "I will clear you from my

path--yes, as I did the others." Then he looked at de Lana, and

something in the soldier's face told him he would have to kill him

first.

"And as I will any who oppose me," he cried, furiously. "Am I not the

Duke of Milan? Take thy hand from thy sword, de Lana. Now we will settle

scores, Valentine." His hand was lifted, Giannotto turned his face away,

and de Lana had thrown himself forward, when a light knock on the door

close by broke the moment's silence, and Visconti's hand sank to his

side.

"Open!" he cried. "It is the messenger from the Lady Graziosa," and de

Lana, eagerly seizing the interruption, flung wide the door.

Visconti looked up and met Valentine's eyes, and she knew how near she

was to death.

"My lord," said de Lana, returning, "the Lady Graziosa hath

recovered--there is no fear of her life, my lord."

"Ah!" Visconti returned his dagger to its sheath, and Giannotto gave a

gasp of relief.

"Take my sister to her apartments, de Lana, and guard her well

there--and if any ask for her, say she is under my displeasure----"

The captain turned, glad to take her from the room alive.

"Will you see the messenger, my lord?"

"No," said Visconti, fiercely. "As long as she lives, what care I for

the messenger?"

The soldier seized Valentine's wrist and forced her, still reluctant,

from the room. She was conquered, not subdued.

"If Graziosa dies," said Visconti, turning to Giannotto, "she does not

live either. You have heard me say it.--She and her woman's venom!" he

continued, pacing the room furiously. "I should have swept her away

sooner--I would now but for the French, and the French shall not save

her the next time. He is a fool, Giannotto, who thinks that because a

woman is a prisoner she is powerless--let him remember her tongue."

"My lord, she may have thought the lady knew," faltered Giannotto.

"Silence!" cried Visconti. "She may have thought I wanted to give Isotta

d'Este her liberty! Ah, let her beware! Graziosa, too; why did she not

tell her that she lied? Had I not said he lived? Has she no spirit--no

dignity--to shame me by her silence and her moans!"

The secretary ventured on no reply. He fumbled with the parchments on

the table and drew one forward. Visconti's glance fell on it and his

rage calmed instantly; his eyes flashed with a changed expression.

"These are the terms we sent to Della Scala?" he asked, with a sudden

smile.

"Yes, my lord; terms I think that cannot fail."

The Duke sat silent a while, and the smile deepened to a laugh.

"I disturb myself for a woman's quarrels," he said at last, "and am on

the eve of winning Lombardy!"

"The Estes may already have detached themselves from Della Scala, my

lord," said the secretary.

"We will hope not. They will cling to the losing cause, and Mastino

della Scala, the stainless knight, himself shall betray them!" smiled

Visconti, with such cruel wickedness that Giannotto shrank.

"You stand so strong after your victories, my lord," he said, "you

might well crush them all by force."

"Only I do not choose that way of doing it," replied the Duke, still

smiling. "I will accomplish a bloodless victory. I will spend no

treasure, no time, and no men on this conquest, but I will win from it,

not alone Della Scala's towns, but his honor and his fame."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

UNEQUAL ODDS

For days the sun had risen and set in cloudless splendor, hanging

through the long summer day in a sapphire sky, flooding the beautiful

country with gold, making the air heavy with perfume and sense of

summer.

Mastino della Scala, standing at the door of his tent, hardly saw the

glory and the brightness, the splendor of the great chestnuts, all deep

green and snowy white, the proud beauty of the heaped-up flowers, the

vivid richness of the foliage; for his heart was too sore for the finest

sun that ever shone to ease it.

He had waited long, and waited hopelessly.

In the tent behind him, Tomaso and a page polished his armor. For once

Mastino was without it--yesterday he had donned it, and waited expectant

for the answer to the challenge he could not believe Visconti could

refuse. It was his fault to think the best of men, a fault that had cost

him dear when he had trusted Count Conrad, a fault that had cost him the

insult now of Visconti's answer to his message.

"I have tried everything, and in everything I have been outwitted or

betrayed. I am helpless, powerless. Will it last unto the end?"

The thought burned across Mastino's heart like fire.

"Would it last unto the end?"

The dazzling sun blinded him, the waving of the green made him giddy; he

lifted the flap of the tent and entered.

After the glare the dark and gloom were welcome.

The tent was large and bare, only the two boys in their quiet dresses

and the bright armor strewn over the worn grass, only these and Ligozzi

seated near the entrance watching Mastino with anxious eyes.

Della Scala could not speak to him. He avoided his eyes, he had talked

to him so often on this one theme. He could not meet his friend's eyes,

so often humiliated with failure, with nothing but fresh disaster to

speak of.

In silence he paced up and down the tent, Ligozzi's eyes following him

wistfully. He also did not care to speak.

Mastino had left the entrance half open, and a great shaft of sunlight

fell across the ground like a branch of yellow flowers.

And as Della Scala passed it fell upon him, showing clearly his erect

figure in its leathern doublet, his fine worn face and the unhappiness

in his eyes, his hands locked behind his back.

The next instant he had passed into the shadow again, and Ligozzi leaned

from where he sat and shook the covering into place. Twice Mastino had

passed, twice he had seen the look on his face, and he did not care to

see it again.

The tent was hot.

Tomaso and the page laid the armor down in silence, overawed by the

silent figure pacing to and fro.

Outside it was quiet too, only now and then the gallop past of horses or

the tramp of men as they moved from one part of the field to another.

At last Mastino spoke, stopping before Ligozzi suddenly.

"I have not told thee yet," he said, "but a messenger has arrived from

d'Este. There have been some slight successes with his army, and he

thinks that I should join him."

"And leave Milan?"

"And leave Milan. He thinks it is hopeless, now Rome leagues with

Visconti--he thinks it better to hold what we have nor risk it all by

careless daring--but I--I shall stay here, Ligozzi."

Ligozzi was silent; he knew d'Este's words were true; he knew Mastino

knew it also. There was nothing to be said.

"I shall advance on Milan," continued Della Scala. "If the d'Estes'

troops care not to join me, I will advance alone with my Veronese."

He sat down on the wooden bench, fingering with nervous hands his gold

belt and the dagger that hung there.

"Why dost thou not speak?" he said, after a moment's pause, suddenly

turning to Ligozzi. "Dost thou too think it hopeless?"

There was a wistful eagerness in his voice that struck to Ligozzi's

heart; he could not utter his thought.

"With waiting, my lord," he replied. "With new allies----"

But Della Scala cut him short.

"I see, Ligozzi, I see. I am a man wanting to be persuaded against

himself; yet do I still hope--against myself----"

"To rescue----"

"To rescue my wife, wouldst thou say?" flashed Mastino. "No, I do not

_hope_ that: that I _will_ do--in my soul I know it; but I still hope to

conquer in fair fight. What did the attempt at guile avail us? We were

betrayed; open force were better."

Ligozzi's anger rose at the thought of that betrayal.

"I would I had the slaying of the traitors!" he cried.

Mastino smiled sadly.

"What were we to her? She loved, perchance. I should have done the

same--for Isotta."

"Thou wert ever too gentle, my lord," returned Ligozzi. "Could woman

love _Visconti_?"

"She loved some one of her own creating, I trow," said Della Scala.

"Poor lady! the awakening will be her punishment."

Ligozzi made no reply. Mastino's point of view was not his: in his eyes

Graziosa was a hussy he would have liked to have the hanging of.

"In two days or a little more, when I have had my answer from the

Estes," said Mastino, rising, "I march on Milan."

"But in those two days?" questioned Ligozzi.

"Visconti seems to have ceased all sallies," said Della Scala; "and yet

I know not what this quiet means."

"It means his policy was ever caution," returned Ligozzi. "Of a sudden

he may----"

"He may do anything," cried Mastino; "he hath Milan and Rome and the

Empire to back him. Still do I hold many towns. Verona is strongly

fortified; I lie between him and Mantua. He cannot fall on those."

"He has Padua, Bassano, Mestre, and Chioggia," said Ligozzi.

Mastino struck his hand against the tent impatiently.

"I know!" he cried. "I know the odds are not equal! When I seek to

comfort myself, why wilt thou remind me, Ligozzi? What can I do? Nothing

but what I say: march on Milan. And mark me, Ligozzi; whatever befall,

if all desert me to a man, if d'Este fail me, I will not leave the walls

of Milan--alive, without my wife."

"I will not desert thee," said Ligozzi simply. "I will never desert

thee, my lord."

"I never doubted thee," returned Mastino impulsively. "Ah, forgive me if

I am harsh, for in truth my heart is very heavy; when I think of her--in

Visconti's power--it is terrible! terrible!"

He shuddered and put his hand on Ligozzi's shoulder, speaking eagerly.

"Such things cannot happen, Ligozzi, can they? It cannot be I shall

never see her again! God cannot mean that--though He take all from me,

though He humiliate me before my enemy, He cannot mean that! No!

Visconti is not leagued with Heaven: it cannot be! it cannot be!"

"No," said Ligozzi; "even Visconti would not dare to harm the Duchess.

Ye will see her again, my lord."

Della Scala turned away to the other end of the tent; it was plain to

him Ligozzi's heart was not in the comfort that he gave, that he thought

with the others that they would do well to fall back from Milan, join

the Estes, and hold the towns they had.

"But they do not understand," said Mastino in his heart. "I will never

go back alive--without my wife."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

THE VIPER

The Duke of Milan had sent a secret embassy to Mastino della Scala,

lying crushed outside Milan--a secret embassy he had long been

meditating. The master-stroke of his policy should be the Duke of

Verona's ruin, and his complete triumph.

And the moment of his sending was well chosen. The two days of which

Mastino spoke had passed. The answer from d'Este at Novara had been

unfavorable. His plans, he said, were to march back to Modena and

Ferrara, protecting that part of Lombardy, held now by Julia Gonzaga's

men alone, against Visconti; he would wait for his army to come up; he

would wait for Mastino, but not long; his duty lay inside Modena and

Ferrara, not outside the hopeless walls of Milan.

And Mastino had set his teeth, and taken his answer in silence.

That night there was a wild attack on the walls of Milan, so sudden, so

fierce, that it almost seemed as if the ramparts must fall before the

furious onslaught.

For five hours the Veronese and the defenders had struggled on the

walls. Twice Mastino had wrenched the towers of the western gate from

the enemy's hand; twice he had been driven back, leaving his dead piled

high. A third desperate attempt had also been lost, and Della Scala fell

back toward Brescia with frightfully diminished numbers, and mad with

the agony of final defeat. His cause seemed hopeless. And in the moment

of his hopelessness Visconti's embassy arrived.

"Give Della Scala one day to consider," Visconti said to Giannotto, who

accompanied de Lana on this mission. "An if he mislikes the terms, say

thou art to carry them to Ippolito d'Este."

It was evening, and very still. Visconti stepped onto the balcony, and

looked through the clustered pillars of its arcade into the garden.

The setting sun blended all flowers alike with soft gold; a little

breeze shook the leaves, and stirred the jasmine that clung to the

carved sandstone, fluttering its white stars delicately; the sky was

very clear, as pure as a shell, and tinted like a wild rose.

Visconti was busy with his thoughts. His eyes rested on Isotta's dark

prison with an utter satisfaction in gazing on this evidence of his

power over Della Scala. And then he looked to Graziosa's dwelling, and a

shade crossed his face. Even to himself he would not yet admit it--but

with her it was not perfect success.

Since Valentine's cruel stab, Graziosa had faded, grown silent and dull;

and her beauty had gone with her happiness. She looked no wife for a

Visconti. Torn from its setting, her fresh face lost its charm; the

simplicity that had pleased him in her father's house annoyed the Duke

in his own palace; the meekness and devotion that had flattered his

vanity now angered it--in his eyes she had no more presence than a

serving-maid; she was making his choice a mock before all Milan, with

her white face and timid voice.

Visconti frowned to himself as he thought of her. She had said no word,

she had uttered no reproach; she had remained passive and dull; but she

was grown a mere shadow, a reflection of her former self.

"Maybe her folly will wear away," mused Visconti moodily. "But if

not--if she prefers her father before me--she may follow him."

To-day he had not as yet seen her. This was the first thought he had

spared her; now he had a free moment and he would visit her--see for

himself if her humor should promise of changing--the humor of:

"My Lady Graziosa Vistarnini, who hath not spirit for her destiny, who

hath not the greatness to be proud to be a Duchess of Milan."

Visconti sneered at her scruples, and was inclined to be angry with his

own folly in choosing his wife for a soft heart and true affection; and

with more even than anger he thought of Valentine. He took his way alone

through the sumptuous gardens.

Graziosa was not in her gorgeous residence. "She had gone to the little

summer-house in the garden," he was told, "to see the sun set, and pray

to Santa Teresa, whose name-day it was."

Visconti turned on his heel with an impatient shrug of the shoulders. He

was not attuned to passive virtue or to saintly prayers, nor was his

palace their best background.

He saw Tisio and his pages in the distance--behind them, the white

marble summer-house, standing on a gentle eminence, half hidden in

laurel; and as he advanced through the clustering flowers he saw Tisio

enter the low door, the scarlet liveries of the pages flashing through

the deep green.

The perfect evening was like music in its calm loveliness. Visconti felt

its charm; he was ever alive to obvious beauty, and none of his artist's

perception could have walked this glorious summer garden, at such an

hour, unmoved. His heart softened toward Graziosa: she had saved

Milan--for his sake: in his great triumph he could afford to remember

it, and the affection that prompted it, and set to her credit much else

she might seem to lack.

He picked a white rose from the bush that crossed his path, and stuck it

in his belt; he remembered she had often worn them--there was a bush in

Agnolo's bower, and they reminded him of her. He looked up at the white

summer-house, a square tower, distinct against the sky: the top window

was open wide, then suddenly blew to--and Visconti started at it

curiously and so suddenly that a pang shot through his heart. Then he

advanced with a quicker step toward the marble summer-house.

Graziosa stood in its upper chamber, a circular room, broken by three

large windows--the walls a marvel of serpentine and jasper, the

casements a glory of stained glass, through which there poured the last

rays of the setting sun, flooding everything with a thousand dazzling

colors.

A carved marble bench ran around the wall, and above it shallow niches,

in one of which stood a gilt lamp. On the floor lay a forgotten lute,

tied with a knot of cherry-colored ribbons.

Graziosa unlatched one of the windows; it opened center-wise, and the

girl stood, one hand on either leaf, the sun making her golden bright

from head to foot. Before her lay Milan, the beautiful, with its trees

and gardens, clear in the setting sun, that sunk, a fiery ball, behind

the distant purple hills. Graziosa breathed heavily. The tower looked

toward the western gate; the sun caught the roof of a little house

beside it, the roof of a house and a flock of white doves that flew

around it, as if looking for something they could not find. Near rose

the square tower of a little church, Santa Maria Nuova.

Graziosa stepped back into the room, letting the window fall-to with a

clang. Some one must come soon. With a piteous little gesture she

pulled at the jeweled fastening of her stiff satin robe. For some

moments her trembling fingers could not undo the great pearl clasp. At

last it opened, and the yellow robe fell apart.

A rope of pearls bound her waist: with a hasty movement she undid them,

and let slip the gorgeous dress, that fell stiff and gemmed onto the

marble floor. Beneath was the blue robe she had worn when she first came

to the palace.

With hasty fingers she pulled the ornaments from her hair, throwing them

to the ground. Her long curls fell about her shoulders; a little sob

shook her throat; she looked wistfully around, and sank into the chair.

For a little while she sat silent, with closed eyes, panting.

Suddenly the sun sank, leaving the room dull, all the light and color

gone.

Graziosa opened her eyes with a little cry.

"I am so lonely!" she whispered to herself--"so lonely. I want some

one--to kiss me--good-by."

She rose and fumbled among the folds of her fallen gown; she found

something small she grasped tight in her cold fingers.

"I am not brave--ah, I fear I am not brave!"

She rested her head against the arm of the chair, as if collecting

herself; then, with a little smile, lifted it with a pitiful show of

courage.

The wind blew the unlatched window open, showing the city roofs and the

wall distant and gray; then it fell-to again, leaving the chamber dull,

almost dark, when a little later a footstep fell on the stair and the

door was pushed open.

Tisio stepped in, peering around with vacant eyes. D'Orleans had lost

his lute. Tisio remembered it left here. A heap of shimmering yellow

satin caught his eye--yellow satin and a great rope of pearls. He

marked it with vacant surprise, then, seeing the lute he sought for,

made for it eagerly. He was proud to do these things. It pleased him to

be so useful. He would not risk the page should find it. The lute lay

near the bench against the wall, and, picking it up, Tisio noticed that

some one sat there, some one very still and silent, against the cold

white marble. He dropped the lute and came nearer. The chamber was

utterly silent in the cold light, and the window was blowing to and fro

with a dismal, sullen sound; but Tisio knew no ghostly terrors, he was

not fearful of the dark.

He leaned over the figure eagerly, and when he knew it for Graziosa he

was pleased. He liked her. That morning she had met him and seized his

hands, and talked to him wildly, telling him with sobs something he

could not understand. He thought it had to do with Gian.

Her head lay back against the purple cushion, and Tisio stroked it

tenderly, fondling the beautiful bright curls that fell over the plain

blue dress.

"Pretty thing!" he said gently. "Pretty thing!"

He had no remembrance how he had stroked that hair before, in the

streets of Milan, in the sunshine.

She never moved under his touch, and something in the droop of her

attitude struck him.

"She is sad," he thought, and with a change of tone he lifted one of her

limp hands.

"Poor thing!" he said again. "Poor, pretty thing! Art thou sad, poor,

pretty thing?"

She made no answer, and he laid her hand back on her lap tenderly,

smoothing her dress, and whispering comfort in her unhearing ears.

Suddenly the door swung under an impetuous hand. It was the Duke, but

Tisio was not startled.

"Gian!" he said, "be kind to her; talk to her, poor thing!"

Visconti stepped into the room, looking at Tisio keenly.

"Where is she?" he asked, for in the gloom he could not at once see the

silent figure in the corner. "Where is she, Tisio?"

"The girl with the pretty hair--" began his brother; but Visconti

grasped him by the arm with a cry.

"Bring me a light!" he cried, "a light----"

With trembling hands Tisio lit the lamp and brought it near. Its yellow

light fell over Visconti's green dress and Graziosa's bright hair.

"If it should be so!" muttered Visconti. "If it should be so!"

The light was faint, but it showed him enough. He looked into her face,

and his own changed darkly.

"Tisio," he said, "she's dead! Graziosa! Graziosa!"

He bent closer, eagerly.

"Get help, Tisio! help!"

And Tisio, eager, alert, put the lamp in the window, where it flung

long, ghostly shadows, and sped calling down the stairs.

Visconti had sent for help, yet even while he sent he knew it useless:

she was dead! He stood looking at her. Poison!--she had poisoned

herself. Something was tightly locked in her right hand! he forced the

fingers apart, and looked at it--poison.

"How dared she do it?" he muttered, with an ever-darkening face. "How

dared she?--who gave it her? Who dared to give it her?"

He would never have thought it lay in her to do this. All Milan must

know she had preferred to die rather than be his bride. He had failed in

this, though he had sworn he could not, though he had sworn she should

share his throne before them all--the woman who loved him for himself

alone. He remembered Valentine. Valentine had done this.

At his feet lay the satin garments and the jewels Graziosa had flung

aside: she would not wear them. Not all his power could do that; not all

his pride, all his ambition, could make her wear the crown, without the

love. Gian Visconti stamped his foot. How dared she! How dared she!

Her eyes would never sparkle at his coming nor sadden at his good-by.

And Visconti, coming back to look at her again, was awed; affection

stirred anew, and something like respect at the sight of her still

dignity.

He looked around to find the door full of anxious faces, and Tisio

behind him.

"Finely I am served!" he cried in a transport. "Do you let the Lady

Graziosa go unattended? She hath been murdered, and those who should

have been with her shall die for it!"

Weeping ladies and frightened pages crept in and stood aghast, silent at

what they saw--more silent at his face.

Visconti stood before Graziosa's body and looked at them with mad eyes;

he held a white rose in his fingers. The flickering lamp was just over

his head; its light fell on his face and on hers--her sweet face that

told its own tale.

For some moments Visconti was silent, gazing at them wildly, and it

seemed to more than one of those who crowded there appalled that there

came a new expression to his face, a new look into his widely opened

eyes--not madness and not rage--but fear.

"In a week I would have made her Duchess of Milan," he said at last,

with a sudden break in his voice; and he dropped his white rose at her

dead feet, with a shudder, and turned away, through the crowd that fell

away from him, down the stairs in silence.

It was two hours later, in the hushed, awe-struck, half-expectant

palace, when Visconti opened the door of his inner room and stepped into

the antechamber, where one page kept watch.

To him the Duke beckoned, handing him a glass with milk-white lines

circling it--a slender, flower-like glass with a long stem.

"Fill up with wine," he said.

The page obeyed.

"Now bring the glass and follow me," said Visconti, and left the room,

the boy behind him.

Before his sister's door he paused. Soldiers guarded it: within could be

heard footsteps and anxious, frightened voices, the whispers of the

tragedy. The key was turned: he entered, opening the door quietly,

admitting himself and the page, the guard closing it behind him.

The room was lofty, and, like all Visconti's rooms, ill-lit. A great

crucifix hung at the far end, and before it knelt Valentine. When she

heard the door she turned and started to her feet.

"Put the wine down and go," said Visconti to the page.

"Ah, no!" cried Valentine. "Let the page stay, Gian!"

She stepped forward with imploring eyes upon the boy.

"Go," said Visconti again.

"In the name of mercy, stay!" cried Valentine, in sudden desperate fear,

seeing her brother's face. "Stay!"

The wretched page hesitated, but not for long. Visconti turned once

more, and he tapped on the door to be let out, making no more ado.

Visconti watched him go, then stepped to the inner door and locked it on

the women whispering and quaking within.

Valentine tried to speak; the words died away on her tongue; she fell

back against the tapestry, grasping it in stiff fingers, her eyes on his

face.

Visconti seated himself at the table on which the page had stood the

glass, and, resting his face on his hands, looked at her. The Viper on

his doublet seemed to writhe, alive.

"Graziosa is dead," he said.

Valentine's eyes grew wild with fear.

"I did not kill her!" she cried. "I did not kill her, Gian!"

"I found her dead," said Visconti, still looking at her.

Valentine writhed against the wall, wringing her hands. "She slew

herself," she moaned. "I did not kill her!"

"I shall not kill thee," said Gian.

He looked down at the wine as he spoke, with a smile.

Valentine threw herself on her knees.

"I did not touch her!" she screamed wildly. "I did not lay a hand on

her!"

"I shall not touch thee; I shall not lay a hand on thee," smiled

Visconti.

"Then I shall not die? I shall not die?"

She staggered to her feet, with an effort to be calm.

"Thou wilt not die?" said Visconti, softly, his eyes on her. "Thou wilt

drink--this." And he touched the glass beside him.

"Thou canst not be so cruel," pleaded Valentine. "I am thy sister,

Gian----"

"Do I think so much of family affection?" said Visconti. "Still, she was

to be my wife! Thou wilt drink this."

Valentine flung herself on her knees again, and dragged herself along

the floor toward him. "Have pity!" she cried. "Have pity, I am so

helpless! Spare me, and I will never offend thee again--never!"

"Thou hast strangely lost thy courage," returned her brother. "What is

there in drinking this wine?"

She was at his feet, clinging to him, imploring.

"Let me live till morning!" she pleaded. "Do not kill me here--in this

dark chamber. Oh! I cannot die here, I cannot!"

Visconti looked at her calmly.

"Graziosa died not in a fairer place, she died lonely and alone," he

said. "Thou wilt drink this." He put out his hand and drew the glass

nearer. "Come, thou wilt drink this."

"I am so young," sobbed Valentine. "Think, Gian; I am so young, Gian!"

"Graziosa was no older," he said.

She clung to his hand in agony, beseeching him, calling on him, wildly

trying to move him to let her live until the morning--only until

morning!

"Graziosa died after the sun had set," said Visconti. "Drink the wine,

nor keep me here so long. Thou hast often wished to escape--where is thy

courage gone, not to take this chance?"

"But not to die like this--not like this--give me a priest!"

"Had Graziosa one?"

She cowered down on the floor, her beautiful hair falling over her

shoulders, her face hidden; then suddenly uplifted it again to Visconti,

who sat looking at her, motionless.

"Gian, I loved thee once, when we were little children."

"I have forgotten it, and so hadst thou until this moment--drink!"

Valentine sprang up in a paroxysm of uncontrollable terror.

"I cannot! I cannot! Kill me thyself!"

"With this?" and Visconti touched his dagger. "No; a smoother death for

one so fair."

Valentine flew to the door and clung to it.

"Philippe! Philippe!" she shrieked. "Conrad! Costanza!"

Visconti rose suddenly, with such force as to fling over the chair.

"Cease!" he cried. "Wilt thou drink this? or who dost thou think will

dare to interrupt me now?"

Valentine's wild eyes looked at him in silence a moment, then her glance

dropped.

"Give it me," she whispered.

Visconti did not move.

"Come and take it," he said.

She came slowly, one hand against the wall, her long shadow flickering

before her.

Visconti watched her, motionless. "Make haste," he said. "Make haste."

She came to the table, her eyes down, her breast heaving, past tears or

entreaties.

"Drink!" said Visconti, leaning with narrowing eyes across the space

between them. "Drink in it Della Scala's health, as thou didst once

before."

Valentine raised her head and looked at him, and grew fascinated with

terror. She crouched away from him, and lifted the glass to her lips.

Visconti bent nearer and she drank, putting it down half empty with a

shudder and staring eyes.

Visconti smiled, and brought the evil of his face still nearer.

"Drink the rest," he said. "Drink it, Valentine."

Still in silence she obeyed him.

When the empty glass stood before him, Visconti turned away, taking his

eyes from her with a laugh, and walked toward the door.

Valentine's gaze followed him with a look of utter woe; still she said

nothing, from her parted lips there came no sound.

He looked back over his shoulder at her, standing there with her face

toward him, with all expression gone, with unseeing eyes.

"I will leave thee," he said savagely, "to await--the morning."

She seemed roused by the sound of his voice, and stepped forward with a

cry on her white lips.

But the door closed heavily--the room was in darkness, or was it her

sight failed her? Everything swam before her in a blackening mist; she

grasped at the table and fell across it, senseless.

The dawn was breaking, filling the room with a gray and ghostly light;

the great curtains looked black and gloomy, and the corners of the room

were filled with strange and moving shadows. Through an open window a

cool breeze blew across Valentine's sick forehead: she opened her eyes.

The empty glass met her gaze, the fallen chair was beside her: she

looked at them strangely. She was still alive.

"Gian's poison is slow," she said, and smiled to herself.

After a time she rose and stumbled to the window.

"When the sun rises I shall be dead, or perhaps I shall live till noon,"

she said to herself.

She mounted the estrade and sat beside the open window, resting her head

against the woodwork, singing to herself.

Suddenly the whole gray sky flushed purple: the sun rose above the

horizon.

Valentine looked down into the garden, the sight seemed to awaken

memories.

"Hush!" She laid her finger on her mouth. "Hush, Conrad--if Gian hears

us--hast thou velvet shoes on--hush! He treads warily--ah, but it is no

use--he poisoned me! he poisoned me!"

She rocked herself to and fro.

"In a tall glass with white lines--it was not Gian--it was the Viper

from the Standard--all green and silver--all green and silver--a coiling

viper."

She dropped her head forward, then raised it with trembling lips.

"Conrad! come and save me!" Then she fell to laughing, whispering under

her breath, counting on her fingers the hours she might have to live.

"If to noon--how many?"

The door opened, and she stopped her muttering, turning lackluster eyes

toward it.

"Good-morrow," said Visconti, standing with his back against it and

looking at her keenly. "Good-morrow, Valentine."

She looked at him and put the hair back from her face.

"I thought I saw Count Conrad walking in the garden: I would have called

him up to see me die--how long will it be?"

Visconti advanced with a bitter smile. "Has the lesson tamed thee? It

would have been reality, but ye are pledged to France. I would that I

dare poison thee, thou tiger-cat, but thou art tamed!"

Valentine face did not change. "Hush!" she said, leaning from the

window. "He is back on the tower now--" she pointed to where the silver

banner hung idle against the brightening sky. "What dost thou think?

shall I sit and watch, lest he spy on us, Conrad?"

Visconti looked at her.

"Thou art tamed indeed," he said. "I am not ill-avenged."

Valentine stepped down into the room, her tangled hair hanging about

her, and grasped him by the arm. "I was waiting--" she whispered. "I

feared he would come back before I was dead. Ah! and he did! Count

Conrad could not keep him off; the Viper, green and silver; the Viper,

he has poisoned me." And she sank onto the floor with a sudden scream,

her hands before her eyes.

"Thou art neither poisoned nor dying," said Visconti, roughly. "Call thy

women, and--remember."

She looked at him with vacant eyes.

Visconti turned away. "She is not likely to forget, it seems," he

thought. "Her spirit will not trouble my path more."

Neither his nor anyone's. The brilliant, witty, and daring Valentine

Visconti was to dare, to mock, to laugh no more; her high spirit was

broken, her proud courage gone. From that fearful night she was

timorous, shrinking, like a child, wandering and vacant--like Tisio,

half-crazed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

THE ORDEAL OF MASTINO DELLA SCALA

"A secret embassy from Milan!"

Mastino repeated the words slowly, and looked at Ligozzi who had brought

them. "And to see me alone?"

"With terms from Visconti--so they said," answered Ligozzi. "Terms of

peace."

"From Visconti!"

Mastino looked out through the open entrance into the blinding summer

day, and then back at Ligozzi. "I fear they come with no honorable

terms--from Visconti victorious."

"They would never dare come with dishonorable ones--to thee, my lord,"

returned Ligozzi.

Mastino laughed bitterly.

"Dare! He is Visconti--with near all Italy at his back--he knows no such

words as shame or honor. And I must see his messengers," he added, after

a pause. "I know no such words now as pride or refusal."

Ligozzi turned, but hesitated at the entrance.

"And--alone?" he asked. "They are from Visconti."

"And may be skilful in dagger thrusts and poison," said Mastino. "Nay,

that is not what I fear, Ligozzi." But he unstrapped his sword and laid

it on the table in front of him. "All the same, I will have thee with

me, Ligozzi. I see not why I should humor them too far--I shall have

naught to say thou mayst not hear."

Ligozzi left, and Mastino sat alone, his head in his hands, his elbows

resting on the table.

It was blazing hot, the very crown of summer, languid and golden, with

a haze of purple sky beating down on the swooning trees; noon, the sun

at its height, the stillness of great heat in the air.

Mastino raised his head and looked out on it. What was Gian Visconti

planning now?

He had some faint foreboding--a secret embassy from Milan--and following

so swiftly on that last crushing blow; following so swiftly as to come

upon him still helpless from it--what had it to say, and to his ears

alone? He had some faint foreboding as he sat there. But it was not

long. Ligozzi, exercising due precaution, returned with the two

Milanese.

Giannotto stepped forward with a smooth obeisance, but stopped, a little

surprised at the one occupant of the tent--the tall man with the proud

dark face.

"My lord--the Prince?" he asked.

"I am Della Scala," said Mastino, and he turned to de Lana who looked an

obvious soldier, and the worthier of the two. "Your errand, sir? I would

hear you quickly."

"We have greetings from our lord, the Duke of Milan," replied de Lana,

his speech and bearing uneasy, like one trying to gain time. He had

always disliked his mission, and never more so than now, standing face

to face with Della Scala.

Here was some one very different from the man he had expected, and it

tended to confuse him.

Della Scala's dignity was his own, not that of pomp and splendor, the

terror of crime, or the dazzle of power, that made Visconti feared and

obeyed. As plainly attired as any of his soldiers, Mastino overawed the

Milanese with something new to them--the sense of worth.

They were not trained to dealings with it.

"Greetings from Gian Visconti, Duke of Milan," took up the secretary.

"Moreover, we bring terms of peace for your acceptance, my lord."

Mastino was silent a space, and Ligozzi, standing behind his chair,

looked at them with an ill-concealed abomination that Giannotto's quick

eyes noticed keenly.

"My lord, is the one with you to be trusted even as yourself?" he asked,

submissively. "For our mission, Prince, is secret."

"He is my friend," said Mastino, shortly. "And now these terms of

peace?"

"The Duke is weary of the war," said de Lana. "He hath powerful allies,

my lord."

"And the choice of means to crush me," interposed Mastino, his bright

eyes fell on the speaker, "are in his hands, you would say? Perhaps; and

yet, messer, I ask for no quarter from Gian Visconti." De Lana bowed.

"Nor could he offer it, my noble lord; only terms as between equals."

Mastino smiled bitterly.

"That is generous in Gian Visconti, seeing we are not--equals."

Giannotto wished the Duke could have heard both words and tone.

Visconti's birth was a sore point with him. The secretary wondered if

there might be found a safe way of repeating them. De Lana flushed a

little under Mastino's steady gaze and quiet scorn of the master who had

sent him.

"The Duke of Milan sends by us this," he said, and laid the parchment

before Mastino. "These are his terms, my lord."

But Della Scala did not drop his eyes to it.

"What are these terms?" he said.

"They are set forth there, my lord," began Giannotto.

"So you have forgotten what they are, or did Visconti not tell you?" and

Della Scala handed the roll to the secretary. "When you have read it,

tell me what Gian Visconti says."

He leaned back, his eyes still on them.

Giannotto bit his lips in vexation.

"Spare Visconti's loving greetings. To the point, in a few words,"

continued Della Scala, as the secretary still hesitated.

"Then, my lord, this: the Duke of Milan will leave you Verona, where you

may rule under his protection, provided you now put into his hands every

other town you or your allies now, singly or together, hold."

Mastino flushed and half rose.

"Gian Visconti might have spared these insults," he said sternly, "and

you yourself the relating of them. When have I so shown myself such that

your master should think I could betray Lombardy to keep one town? Get

back, I have no answer save I have left you your lives."

De Lana fingered the parchment nervously.

"That is not all, my lord," he began, and stopped suddenly. "I cannot

say it," he murmured to Giannotto.

Della Scala beat his feet upon the floor impatiently.

"Do you think I am afraid to hear?" he said. "Still, it may be spared. I

see, Gian Visconti's spirit is not peace but insult. On no terms will I

treat with him."

"On no terms?" repeated Giannotto.

"On no terms of insult," said Mastino coldly. "I favor Visconti too much

in listening so long. Leave me and take your lives back for answer."

"Better listen, perchance, my lord, before refusing," said Giannotto.

"It is the Duke's interest to offer you these terms; methinks it will be

no less yours to at least consider them."

De Lana stood silent, his eyes upon the ground. After this, give him

plain soldiering.

"What plot has Visconti hatched now?" asked Della Scala. "What more has

he to say?"

Giannotto's pale eyes twinkled unpleasantly.

"Only this: Visconti bids me tell Della Scala, Duke of Verona, that if

he refuse his terms we take them instantly to my Lord of Este; also he

bids me remind my Lord Della Scala that he hold the Duchess of Verona,

my lord's dear wife."

Ligozzi drew a deep breath and looked at Della Scala; he had not quite

expected this.

But Della Scala rose with a white face and stared at the two

ambassadors, incredulous.

"Surely even Visconti will not use that against me?" he said.

"Visconti must have the towns; Visconti holds your wife. The rest is for

you to reflect upon, my lord: or, since you refuse all terms, we will

take them to my Lord of Este. Perhaps he will give up the towns and save

his daughter." And Giannotto turned toward the entrance.

"Stay!" cried Mastino, in an agony. "Stay! your terms again----"

He dropped back into his seat with wild eyes on Giannotto. All his calm

had fled, his pride was cowed: the secretary noted it, well pleased, but

De Lana shrank from his changed look.

"This is what Visconti offers, my lord," repeated the secretary

smoothly: "Give up all the cities, forts, and soldiers under your

command, and the Duke forthwith makes an honorable return to you of the

Duchess he holds captive, giving you leave to hold Verona under fief to

him, doing yearly homage for it--he garrisoning it. If, however, my

lord, you refuse----"

"If I refuse?" cried Della Scala, leaning forward. "If I refuse?"

"Visconti's prisons are unwholesome; for some weeks the Duchess has

pined; it is feared, without instant liberty----"

Giannotto paused a moment, and lightly shrugged his shoulders.

"In a word, my lord, if you refuse--the Duchess dies."

A terrible silence fell, no one moved or spoke, the lazy flapping of the

tent struggling on its cords was the only sound. Della Scala sat rigid,

looking at Giannotto, all power of thought struck out of him.

"Shall we take these terms to d'Este--shall we offer him his daughter

for his towns?" said Giannotto softly.

D'Este! D'Este was not the man to place his daughter before his

states--Mastino knew it; Visconti knew it.

"No! no!" he cried, with sudden vehemence, "I will."

He put his hand to his forehead with a dazed expression and whispered

something to himself.

Ligozzi, standing erect behind his chair, touched him gently on the

shoulder.

"Send them away, my lord," he whispered. "Let them not remain here--send

them away."

"With a refusal?"

Della Scala lifted his white face. "With a refusal?" he muttered

stupidly.

"With what else?" said Giorgio firmly. "With what else?"

Giannotto moved a little nearer and spoke with a sickly smile.

"Our answer may wait. The Duke of Milan gives a day in which my Lord of

Verona may decide upon his answer."

"Give them their answer now," whispered Ligozzi, eagerly. "Do not let

them imagine for one moment that you hesitate."

Mastino did not heed him; he sat as if frozen.

"Leave me to--" the words died on his lips. "Leave me--to answer--I will

give you my answer--anon."

De Lana and Giannotto moved in silence to the far end of the tent.

"Visconti is a fiend," said de Lana, with a gesture of revolt. "Santa

Maria, I wish I had never seen this Della Scala. His face will haunt

me."

Giannotto smiled.

"Thou hast not been in Visconti's service long," he said, "and what have

these things to do with us?"

"But this is inhuman," returned de Lana. "Della Scala hath a winning

face. I might have been a better man if I had sold my sword to him."

"This way, messers," said Ligozzi. "I will come to you presently." And

the flap of the tent fell-to behind Visconti's messengers. Mastino sat,

his head dropped into his hands.

"My lord----"

Ligozzi put his hand upon his master's arm.

"My lord----"

Mastino raised his head and looked at him; his face was distorted, his

eyes unnaturally bright.

"Give them their answer, my lord," said Ligozzi. "Every moment gives

them a triumph. Send it now."

"Now," cried Mastino, hoarsely. "They gave me till to-night--surely,

Ligozzi, they gave me till to-night."

"Thou dost not need until to-night, my lord. Visconti asked thy honor."

"And offered me," said Della Scala slowly, "Isotta."

Ligozzi looked at him horror-struck; an awful thought was breaking on

him.

The eyes of the two men met; Ligozzi's was steady, but Mastino's

flinched.

Neither spoke for some moments, Ligozzi at last incredulously.

"You cannot mean--to accept?" Mastino was silent. "Oh, no," cried

Ligozzi, passionately. "You are not yourself. For the love of Heaven

let me go and tell them to depart."

And he started forward, but Mastino caught him by the arm.

"Stay, Ligozzi; I command it."

"Then you yourself will tell them? Oh, it is impossible that _thou_

couldst fall!"

"Impossible?" Mastino rose with clenched hands. "I think it is

impossible that I could let her die."

Ligozzi looked at his changed face.

"The cities are not yours, my lord; the soldiers are not yours--would

you be a traitor, Della Scala?"

Mastino winced.

"I would save my wife," he muttered, his face turned aside.

"Your wife! A woman!" cried Ligozzi. "Gian Visconti will burn in hell

for tempting you, but, by all the saints, so will you, my lord, if you

accept such terms."

Mastino was roused. The energy of Ligozzi broke the bonds of his dull

agony. He turned, also passionately.

"Have I not prayed and implored for this--only this--her life and her

return? Have I not sworn and vowed I would recover her--at _any_ cost?

Have I not warned them of it--and she shall not die! She shall not die!

What care I for the cities! Did I not warn them? She shall not die!"

He fell to pacing the tent wildly, but Ligozzi stood in his place,

bitter sorrow, deep anger in his face.

"Think what it means," he said sternly.

"I will not," cried Mastino. "I will be baited and hounded no more. What

has their grudging help done for me? I tell thee I warned them, I would

hold them as nothing when it came to saving her."

"Still, they trust you," returned Ligozzi. "Listen, Della Scala; I

speak in the cause of honor--you _shall_ hear, you _shall_ know what it

means, before you lend yourself to such a thing for love of a woman! It

will give all Lombardy to Visconti, it and hundreds to the sword; it

will mean the burning of cities to the ground; it will mean the misery

of half Italy! It will give a mad tyrant to rule over thousands who are

at present free--it will send d'Este and Vincenzo to prison--to shame,

misery, death perchance--it will strip Julia Gonzaga of everything--and

is she not as young and fair and good as Isotta d'Este--and did she not

trust you with her all? And yourself? What will it make of you? What

triumph will it not give Visconti to see you fall? Have you kept your

name high so long to make it a by-word now? Beyond redemption will you

be dishonored, Della Scala--an outcast, a traitor--to hold a little fief

at Visconti's pleasure, the mirth of your enemies, the scorn of your

one-time friends."

Mastino broke into a wild exclamation. "I will hear no more! I will hear

no more!"

"I must wound you to save you," continued Ligozzi. "Against yourself I

will persuade you; my love cannot see you do this thing. Oh, remember

yourself! A man, a prince; no hothead of a boy. This black offer will be

the turning point and strengthen you. No man's cause is bettered by such

means as this. All Italy will rise to cry shame on Visconti--heaven

itself will turn against him and make you firm to overthrow him!"

"And Isotta!" said Mastino fiercely. "Isotta will be slain!"

"She is one woman--how many as fair and good as she will perish if Della

Scala betrays Lombardy! She is one woman against the fate of half

Italy."

"She is my wife!" cried Della Scala desperately; "that one woman is my

wife! Thou hast forgotten!"

"Forget it too, my lord; for your own honor's sake, forget it too."

"Ligozzi, Ligozzi," whispered Mastino, "thou canst not mean it: deliver

up to die by _Visconti's hands_ the woman I--love!"

"If they hanged her from the ramparts where I must watch her die, they

should not move me," said Ligozzi grimly. "But--by all the saints, I

would take my revenge."

"Aye!" said Della Scala bitterly. "But perchance it would not be given

thee to take revenge--perchance thou wouldst fall lower and lower, and

be crushed after all and have gained nothing! Ah, Ligozzi, is this the

beginning? Have I not pitted courage and high purpose, and honorable

dealing and a righteous cause, against craft and cruelty and force? And

to what end? Visconti triumphs. Always Visconti! What availed honor and

faith when Visconti's cunning and Count Conrad's folly made the plans of

weeks naught! Again, undaunted, I said I will succeed in the face of

failure, I will succeed! What happened? Visconti had a handsome face;

what mattered it his cause was bad? Again we failed! And what since!

Half my men are dead against the walls of Milan! And now, am I to choose

again what thou callest honor, am I to leave Isotta to die by his

dishonoring hands--oh, canst thou think of it!--and then be crushed at

his leisure for all my reward? Am I so tied by tradition as that? Does

not Visconti fling all laws, all humanity, all honor to the winds--can I

fight him within the bounds of a boy's code of honor? The time comes,

Ligozzi, when such things hold one no longer--the soul thrusts them

asunder and does what it must, regardless of the laws of men! I must

save her. Here is my chance and, fair or foul, I take it. I cannot think

of the welfare of unknown thousands; what are they to me? Cities pass

under Visconti's rule and cities are snatched from him--am I

responsible for the fate of Lombardy? Men fight, betray, deceive and lie

for wealth, ambition, and revenge--and common folk pay the price--shall

I consider it too closely if they suffer once in a cause like mine? I

tell thee, Ligozzi, I would hold it cheap to save her from Visconti with

the misery of all Italy."

Ligozzi's eyes did not move from Della Scala's face.

"Thou art striving to blind thyself, Della Scala. Oh, my lord," he

resumed, "because others are dishonorable will ye be so also? And what

do ye say of common folk?--not common folk alone will ye sacrifice, but

d'Este----"

"He has helped me half-heartedly--and is she not his daughter? Yet at a

word from Visconti he would league with him behind my back," cried Della

Scala.

"I do not think so," said Ligozzi, firmly. "But Julia Gonzaga, who

trusted you--what have you to say to her?"

"Naught!" cried Mastino, distracted. "Naught! save that I do not love

her--let he who does look to her--as I will to Isotta!"

"And she!" said Ligozzi, resorting desperately to his last argument,

"will she not turn from the liberty bought at such a price? Is she not

the daughter of a noble house? Has she not been taught to consider death

preferable to dishonor--if she was asked, what would she not choose?"

Mastino's breast heaved.

"Ah--but I cannot ask her. If I could--Ligozzi, if I could go to her and

look into her eyes, and say 'I promised, give me back my promise, for

only on terms thou wouldst spurn can I save thee,' she would

understand--she would die with a smile, as I should--and that I could

do. But to let her die a slow death--a dishonored death! Wilt thou

remember it is Visconti! His lies in her ears--knowing nothing of my

struggles! thinking herself forsaken, yet hoping against hope, and ever

coming to her belief I would not let it be, till one day it was! Ah! I

cannot do it! I cannot do it!"

He threw himself on the chair again and hid his face. "She loves me," he

said brokenly. "It seems strange, Ligozzi--that she should--care--for

me. God knows, I have no charm such as Visconti has. I cannot please, I

am clumsy and uncouth compared to those she had around her--and yet she

chose me. 'While thou art alive I fear nothing,' were the last words I

heard her say, and I shall leave her to curse the day she met and

trusted me to save her from a villain. What commonest foot soldier I

have would leave the woman that he loves to die Visconti's way? Ah,

Heaven have mercy! For what crime is this a punishment!"

"Then you will accept these terms for her release?" said Ligozzi. "I

will plead with you no more, my lord--only, if you do this thing, I, who

am your faithful servant, I, who ever loved and worshiped you, can serve

you no longer--it is too terrible a thing--I cannot stay and see it

done!"

Mastino's head was bent forward, his hands clenched so tightly that the

flesh was broken, his whole attitude so hopeless in its agony that

Ligozzi feared for his reason.

"Oh, my lord!" he cried passionately, and flung himself on his knees by

Mastino's side. "Oh, my dear, dear lord! Thou wilt choose the noble

part, I know! Thou wilt not let Visconti triumph, for this is all a

devilish plot to make thee dishonored, to make thee betray thy

trust--foil him--say no!"

Mastino made no answer, and Ligozzi too lapsed into silence, rising from

his knees softly....

How hot it was, how hot! Ligozzi felt dizzy--he wished the sun would

cease blazing down--he wished Della Scala would move--had he persuaded

him? Mastino raised his head.

"Bring them back," he said slowly, "I will see them now."

Ligozzi's heart beat high. "He has won--over himself at least he has a

victory!" he thought--but looking on Della Scala's haggard face, he

ventured no speech.

Mastino sat erect--his hands on the table in front of him, his eyes on

the floor. Visconti's envoys entered.

Giannotto, glancing at Mastino and then at Ligozzi keenly, saw that

there Visconti had an adverse advocate. But the strained silence on them

all was hard to break. They were uneasy, like men before a great grief,

or in the presence of one about to die--it was difficult to treat the

matter as an ordinary one, or to ask a decision from that tortured man

before them.

Even Giannotto's heart failed him, and he stayed near the entrance,

abashed and afraid, but with a fear different from that with which he

fawned upon Visconti. Visconti's moods and motives he could

understand--to some extent they were his own, on his own level,--but

this man--some things were beyond the Duke of Milan's secretary, and for

the first time in his life he felt it. Mastino himself broke that

hideous silence. He raised his head, and with a little affectionate

movement Ligozzi laid his hand on his master's arm as if to strengthen

him.

"I have considered," said Della Scala, in a hard voice. He paused a

moment, but a moment only. "I have considered, and my answer is: I will

accept Visconti's terms--my wife against the towns."

"Oh, dear lord!" breathed Ligozzi. It was the only sound; the Milanese

were silent, almost as if they too winced to hear the words.

Mastino rose, with defiance in his burning eyes.

"I accept--every city in my hands, every soldier--all--against my

wife--I accept Visconti's terms."

Ligozzi's hand had dropped from his shoulder, the clink of metal was

heard through the heavy silence, without a word he stepped forward and

laid his sword on the table before the Prince, then turned toward the

entrance.

"Ligozzi!" cried Mastino, incredulous. "Not thou, Ligozzi--not thou, my

friend!"

He held out his hand imploringly, regardless of the eyes upon him.

Ligozzi stopped and turned, answering Della Scala's wistful look by one

of bitter scorn and pain.

"I had that sword from an honorable Prince--I go to weep that I should

have to return it to a traitor!"

"Ligozzi!" Mastino staggered back, his extended, rejected hand fell

against his side. "Thou might'st have spared me that before _these_--for

the sake of the old days--Ligozzi--" he said, steadying himself. Ligozzi

did not turn; with a hard face he walked across the tent--without a look

back, without a word or a sign, he was gone.

Mastino watched his only friend depart, with straining eyes, that then

he covered for a moment as if to shut out what they had seen. But the

next moment he turned proudly to the messengers.

Giannotto was alone. The soldier, de Lana, had vanished.

Mastino started forward with a cry, but the secretary interposed: "My

lord," he said smoothly, "our duty is our duty. There is no harm

intended, there shall no harm be done; but of what value is your consent

to my Lord Visconti's terms, if your _friend_ should speak of it?"

Mastino fell back. A swift beginning.

"Your lady's safety, my lord," said Giannotto, "depends on your friend's

silence. He has left his sword. There will be no bloodshed."

There was a silence, then Mastino looked up and spoke hoarsely.

"Begone! and take my answer to Visconti. I accept and will carry out his

terms; my wife against the towns."

"Only remember, my lord," and the secretary smoothed his hands together

nervously, "any attempt on Milan, any movement on your part, and the

offer is null and void and the Duchess dies."

"Begone!" screamed Mastino, "take my answer and begone!"

Giannotto turned and went softly out of the tent.

* * * * *

It was done--it was done--beyond redemption had he fallen; he had

chosen--there was no turning back.

Mastino della Scala sat alone and stared in the face of what he had

done. These few moments were his; then he must go and lie to his

officers, deceive his men, weaken his towns, destroy his forts--prepare

to place them in Visconti's hands. He must send false messages to the

Estes and to Julia Gonzaga--lie and deceive and betray! But he had saved

his wife from Visconti--his wife--Isotta.

Outside he heard familiar voices, officers and men; his Veronese, still

glad to trust his leadership; and he was to betray and trick them into

shame.

"Can I carry it through, can I go forth with a calm face and lie to

them--my soldiers!" he cried in agony. "But her life--her dear life--her

more than life--hangs upon my falsity!"

He thought of the beautiful free towns of Italy: his Verona he had

rescued once; proud Ferrara; Mantua that had never felt any yoke but

that of the Gonzaga's; Pavia; all the haughty fair towns that had

scorned Visconti. What would Visconti's vengeance on them be? Mastino

could hardly believe he had done this thing. Yet were the choice given

again, he would choose the same--he would choose the same!

The sultry breeze blew back the opening, showing the deep blue sky and

near-lying tents; a company of soldiers galloped by carrying the

standard of Verona--the ladder of the Scaligeri.

How soon would that banner be torn from the walls of Verona and the

Viper take its place?

"My city!" cried Mastino, "my city!" and his head sank forward on his

out-thrown arms, while his shoulders heaved with sobs.

CHAPTER THIRTY

THE WEDDING

Seven days had passed.

In Milan there was much rejoicing, in its streets and palaces much

splendor; it was the Lady Valentine's wedding day.

Among the throng outside the church of San' Apollinare, the eager crowd

that fought and battled for a better chance of seeing the splendid

procession, was a monk, seemingly a wandering friar, who pressed his

face against the cold marble walls in the silent vexation of an utter

disappointment. It was Conrad.

He had failed in his mad mission; success from the first had been

hopeless; he had not redeemed himself. He had not helped Della Scala, he

had not rescued Valentine--he had failed.

A dozen different plans had been formed--equally futile and impossible

to carry out. Who could outwit Visconti in his own city? Bitterly Conrad

regretted the false hopes conveyed in that whisper in this very church.

Perhaps she had trusted to them, and here was her wedding day and he was

standing outside helpless!

He knew it pure folly, this risking his life for nothing, and what had

brought him there he could scarcely tell; but under his monk's habit he

had a concealed dagger.

He felt desperate, wounded badly in both heart and pride. It was not so

much for love of Valentine Visconti--that had ever been more fancy than

aught else--it was the sense of failure--of self-humiliation; a bitter

sense of how Visconti laughed at him. Far better a fine, romantic death

than disgrace one side, defeat the other. In fact a fine, romantic death

in a lady's cause would be decidedly gratifying. With this new thought

of it struggling in his mind, Count Conrad suddenly turned from the wall

and forced lustily through the crowd to the church steps.

He was there none too soon. A sudden wild shout from the crowd, a

movement of the soldiers keeping guard, told him they were leaving the

church. The pushing, struggling people were well kept back by the stout

halberds; but Conrad, partly by virtue of his dress, but rather by the

strength of his squared arms, managed to force to the front, where he

stood close behind the stalwart figure of a German mercenary.

Conrad glanced at the blond hair and mild blue eyes. "Friend," he

whispered in German, leaning forward, "have consideration for a German

father who will say many prayers for thee--in his native tongue."

The soldier turned.

"Quick," said Conrad, "a place next thee, my friend."

The soldier smiled at the friar's curiosity, and allowed him vantage;

and Conrad, stationed near the foot of the steps, looked up them eagerly

to the brilliant group issuing from the church doors.