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, resplendentin 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.Ihave 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.Ido not go about trying to entice other people intomyquarrels."
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 allismuch 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 nottouch, 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."
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 armyif 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 paintercheerfully. "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 hisrobe, 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 CountConrad. 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 amuseus. 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."
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 withall 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 Frenchmanraised 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 uselessfolly 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 himdown 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 folkare 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 Bresciafallen?"
"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 stillcame 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 caughthim 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!"
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, wasdearly 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 thecontract, 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,mymove," 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.