"Heinrich was my bosom friend,White feather and purple cloak:Now that folly's at an end,His the flame and mine the smoke!"
"Heinrich was my bosom friend,White feather and purple cloak:Now that folly's at an end,His the flame and mine the smoke!"
"Heinrich was my bosom friend,White feather and purple cloak:Now that folly's at an end,His the flame and mine the smoke!"
"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!"
"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!"
"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!"
"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.
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, andresolved 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 lookedat 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.
"Whenweshall enter Milan," corrected Carrara. "The sun will be faintly high: these marches are toilsome." And he glanced down proudly at the beautifulgauntlets 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.
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, Iwillgo 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 sunlightseemed 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 deepwindow-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. "Theempty-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, asMastino 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.
"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 herwomen 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 Imustenter. 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 andValentine 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 suggestionoppressed 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 itto 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 staystoolong."
"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," saidde 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 lefthimin 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 returnor 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.
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 thegate, 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, clearyourself 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 Agnolostruggled 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 doyouhere?"
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 upbefore Graziosa could even realize she heard aright. She stared there silent, with a piteous look upon her face. Visconti turned to his prisoners.