Visconti smiled again. Stooping, he raised her hand, and—"Will she bear this in silence?" was his thought. For a moment it seemed as if she might not. The delicate fingers stiffened and half-closed, then, as if remembering anew, she left her hand passive in Visconti's hold, and only by a faint quiver told she knew the ring had been withdrawn. The despoiled hand fell back again on to the velvet arm, her eyes were fixed immovably upon her book, and Visconti, turning away to the door, silent as he came, looked back at her incredulous of such control. She was sitting straight and slender, her delicate head poised high, but—ah yes,he thought it must be so!—he noted with delight that her breast heaved and the firm line of her mouth trembled ever so slightly. For a second he stood thus, a ray of the pale prison light caught by the ring he held, then the door clattered and shook back into its bolts, and he was gone.
Swiftly as he had come, Visconti returned to the palace, and the banqueting hall beyond. He stepped in silently, and softly let the curtains fall behind him.
The room was of enormous size, and overawed the gaze. The four large entries, one in each wall, were curtained alike with gloomy purple. The ceiling was domed and of immense height, showing a dim tracery of carved wood, from which hung golden chains, suspending jeweled lamps. The high and narrow windows were wrought with painted saints, splendid in coloring. From domed ceiling to paneled floor the walls were carved with men, women, saints, martyrs, flowers and birds wrought together, in simple-minded joyousness of design, executed with the delicate workmanship of Niccolo Pisano's school. Silk arras, hung from carved gold rods, here and there concealed the carving. A carpet, the work of two men's lives, delicate in purple, brown, and gold, spread across the center, where a long low table of walnut wood, rich and dark, could seat two hundred guests. Purple velvet chairs were set about in the corners, and the light streaming through the colored window saints fell in gold and green across an ivory footstool, inlaid with jewels.
As Visconti entered, the hall was empty, yet he stepped stealthily, as if he felt eyes watching him. Seating himself in the window recess, he waited, and presently, as if at an unuttered summons, the curtains atthe far end of the room were rustled apart, and a lady entered. She was Valentine Visconti, Gian's sister. Her dress was of red and brown, embroidered with gold, her tawny hair piled high under a golden net upon her well-set head. She had the clear, colorless skin and the wide red lips of the fair-haired Italians, their rich presence; she was of a fine carriage, not easy to overlook; she might have been ten years younger than her brother; she was as tall and as stately.
She looked straight toward the window where Visconti sat. Gian returned her gaze, not changing his position. Valentine drew nearer.
"Why hast thou set spies upon me?" she demanded.
"Why didst thou try to fly Milan with Count Conrad?" he returned. "I was foolish not to spy on thee before."
Her gray eyes glinted.
"I tried to escape from a life that was grown intolerable," she cried, "and I will try yet again!"
Visconti smiled.
"My sister, thou art much too precious; I shall not let thee go. Thou art worth a great deal to me. Through thee our family will be united to the Royal House of France. My sister, thy husband will be the Duke of Orleans, and not a German fool."
But Valentine was also a Visconti: she advanced with blazing eyes.
"I will not marry to serve thy ambitions; I will not help to steady thee upon the throne. Mark me, Gian, sooner than wed a Prince whom thou hast chosen, I will drag thy name into the mire, and sit in rags at thy palace gates."
"Only thou hast not the choice," he answered pleasantly.
Her anger rose the more as she felt her helplessness.
"I will not marry the Duke!" she cried, "I will not walk up to the altar."
"Thou canst be carried," said Visconti.
She moved up and down, twisting her hands in an agony of impotence.
"I will appeal to the Duke of Orleans himself!" she cried.
"A bridegroom who is bought for a hundred thousand florins!" sneered her brother. "And how will thy appeal reach him? Come, my sister, be calm; the Duke will make as good a husband as Count Conrad. Bethink thyself, thou mayst live to be crowned Queen of France. Wilt thou not thank me then, that I saved thee from a German Count?"
Valentine fell to weeping.
"What has become of him?" she sobbed, "the only human being who ever turned to me in pity. The only one who ever cared for me. What has become of him?"
"What becomes of a fool when he crosses the path of a Visconti?" asked her brother calmly.
Valentine lifted her head.
"He is dead, then?" she said.
"It matters not to thee. Thy husband will be the Duke of Orleans, and thou art a prisoner in the palace till he takes thee from it."
She caught at the arras; Visconti left her, and reached the door, his figure a shadow among the shadows.
The girl rushed forward with a cry. "Gian!" she called.
He paused, his hand upon the curtain, and looked back at her.
"Gian!" she repeated, and stood still gasping, her hand upon her breast. The stiff folds of her dress gleamed richly in the subdued light that fell upon her from the painted window. "I know thee for what thouart," she said; "there are only two of us left, only two. Where are our parents, Gian?"
"They were stricken down at Brescia," and Visconti took a quick step toward her.
"They are dead," she breathed, "and they died as our brothers died, Filipo and Matteo——"
"Did they so! Then take warning by it," and Gian, coming stealthily still nearer, turned a look on her. Valentine quailed, as Francisco well-nigh had done; the hot words of remorse and rebellion died away unuttered, and she hid her face, her high spirit cowed again into a bitter weeping.
Visconti left her noiselessly.
Three days had passed since that futile midnight encounter, and Francisco had found no means to enter Milan.
He stood on the banks of the water looking moodily toward the city, watching the figure of Vittore, who trudged along the meadows,—his errand to procure provisions.
The three still sheltered in the ruins, to which no owner had returned, nor had any signs of life or occupancy broken the silence within the villa's all-encircling walls. Now, as he watched Vittore out of sight—the boy looking back often to renew his courage—Francisco's brow was furrowed, and his eyes heavy with sleeplessness. The stream, clear, deep and sparkling, here ran darkened with the shadow of the willows that bent over it their long bluish leaves. A path, thickly bordered with reeds, ran beside the water to the head of the small lake into which the stream flowed, whence it continued, a scarcely discernible footway, toward the city.
Behind Francisco, separated from him only by the fosse, was the wall of the villa, and, Vittore being lost to view, Francisco withdrew his gaze, always roaming restlessly in quest of something that should aid him, and glanced along it curiously. His eyes rested on a great tuft of yellow lichen, brilliant with scarlet spikes; it was so huge and spreading he could not but stareat it. From the lichen his gaze traveled slowly upward, but not a foothold could he see. Spreading above the wall the topmost boughs of a gigantic view showed a clear-cut black against the sky, and on the broad, fan-like surface brooded a pair of doves, pink, gray and white. The beauty of the scene, its calmness and repose, exasperated the man's inaction. He stamped on the little flowers at his feet, then, with a bitter curse at his folly, threw himself upon the grass to watch for Vittore's return, and ponder, forever ponder, on his purpose. Suddenly there shot into sight upon the stream a little boat, with high curling prow and gaily painted sides. A blue sail was furled above it, and it was impelled lightly forward by a delicate pair of oars. The grounds of the villa formed a promontory, and coming around the brow of it the boat broke upon his gaze and was within hail at one and the same moment. It came rapidly nearer, and the stranger's first impulse was to hide himself from these unexpected and unwelcome intruders; but there was no time; as he rose he was observed, but the genial hand-wave and the merry laughter reassured him. These were simple pleasure-seekers. He reseated himself, and the boat came on.
The rower was a dark-haired man of middle age, clothed in a plain brown robe. Lean and vivacious, eager-eyed, he appeared one of those people who are always talking and moving; even seated and rowing he gave the impression of restlessness; of the good humor common to the people too. His companion was a young girl dressed in a simple blue gown. She was a delicate blonde, very young, very slender; the curls of her amber hair were blown across a round dimpled face; eyes of a dancing blue; a sweet small mouth curled in laughter, a fine chin and throat, a slack youngfigure. This was her principal characteristic, the floating yellow hair like a veil about her.
Coming abreast of Francisco, the man paused on his oars with a friendly greeting.
"Good day, messer," he called. "So thou hast found our secret haunt. Graziosa and I had thought this place our own," and as he spoke he waved his hand around him at the water.
The boat rocked now alongside the path, and Francisco courteously approached.
"I am a stranger here," he said.
The other glanced at him anew, and with the awakening of a little friendly wonder.
"A stranger? Ah, then, this is new to thee—this most beautiful part of Italy. I assure thee," he continued excitedly, "I have been through the fairest parts of Tuscany, I have wandered about Naples, but never have I seen such colors, such lights as here!" Again he waved his all-inclusive hand. "Thou, messer, as a stranger, must see how wonderfully fair it is?"
He paddled the boat nearer among the reeds in his eagerness to obtain new sympathy.
"I have not been used to judge lands by their beauty," returned Francisco. "Yet methinks I have seen spots as beautiful and easier to hold in time of need."
The other twisted his mouth in contempt. The girl leaned forward, laughing. "You forget, father," she said, "everyone is not a painter."
But the little man, as if he had found a sudden mission, secured the boat, and, still in silence, stepped ashore, helping his daughter to follow him. Francisco, preoccupied and mistrustful, saw this with uneasiness, and would gladly have withdrawn. Moreover, the smiling face of the happy girl was an added sting to a burning thought.
The enthusiast, however, had no idea of giving up a possible convert, and swept aside the other's protestations while he commenced pointing out the beauties of the yellow lichen against the villa wall, the sight of which had restored all his good humor.
"See!" he exclaimed. "How bright it is! See the contrast of the yew—so brilliant, yet so in harmony, so—you do not paint?"
"No," said Francisco between grimness and scorn. "Do I look as if I did?"
The artist glanced anew at his huge frame and tattered attire, and mentally decided he did not.
"Ah, then thou dost not understand," he said; "but I, Iama painter. Agnolo Vistarnini is my name, messer, a student of Taddeo Gaddi." He swept off his leather cap with an air of profound respect.
"Ah, he could paint! I am far behind him, messer, but I can see! I can see! Which thou canst not," he added with superb pity.
"Graziosa," he called, turning to his daughter, "we will stay here awhile."
And seating himself on the bank, he produced from his wallet a panel of wood, polished and carefully planed, upon which he began to draw the outline of a corner of the scene, using a dark brown pigment.
Francisco fell again to brooding while the painter chattered on, dividing his attention between the panel and his daughter, who was wandering up the stream, filling with flowers a flat basket.
"Thou see'st yonder my daughter, messer," he said, pointing to the slender figure in blue. He blew a kiss in her direction. "She is the model for my angels——"
"And the model for thy devils?" asked Francisco suddenly.
Vistarnini started and looked around at the speaker.
"Devils! Messer!" He crossed himself. "God forbid there should be a model for such found anywhere," he said.
"Yet methinks thou hast in thy city yonder," said Francisco with a bitter smile, "one who well might sit for the fiend himself: Visconti."
"The Duke? Ah, my friend, hush, hush, thou art a stranger, take care! Even in this lonely spot such words are far from safe. Who art thou, messer, who dost not live in Milan and yet speak with such a look of the Visconti?"
"Do not all who know the Visconti speak with such a look of him?"
The painter gazed at him in silence.
"But thou askest for my name," continued the other. "I am Francisco di Coldra, one who has suffered much from the Visconti."
"In the sack of Verona, perhaps?" asked Agnolo after a pause.
"The sack of Verona was three months ago. The prisoners have been in Milan twenty days!"
These words were inscrutable, and the little painter did not even try to understand them; but they kindled a memory that would not be repressed.
"Ah, and what a night that was," he cried, "when the Duke re-entered Milan with them! Since I do not hurt thee by the recollection, messer, let me tell thee, it was a splendid sight, that night the Duke returned. I live a quiet life, as an artist may do, even in Milan. I know little, I care little for the wars of princes. They tell me the Visconti's crimes outnumber the stars; but, messer, his shadow has not fallen acrossmyhouse, and what one does not see one does not fear—but when he returned from Verona! that was a sight, messer. It was late. Our house overlooks the western gates, andall day long the messengers had come and sped, bringing the news the Duke was here. Toward evening—we leaning from the window as did everyone—Alberic da Salluzzo comes galloping to the walls—red-hot upon some report that the Visconti has been slain—to look to the arming of the citizens. Even as we strain from the window, following the flash of his plumes—back he comes in madder haste—the Visconti is alive! The people shout and yell, and some cry 'tis not the Visconti's army on the road, but Della Scala's. Meanwhile a mob, with Napoleone della Torre at their head, begins to agitate, to threaten riot. With a strong hand Alberic puts them down—the streets are cleared, Graziosa and I on the balcony, all is dark, silent, save now and then the clink of the armor of the sentries on the walls. I am too excited for sleep, messer, all so hushed, so subdued, waiting, waiting. All at once it comes. Oh, the rattle, the roar! The great gates clatter back, the streets fill with crowds no man can keep back. The victorious army pelts through them; two men on every horse, great flaring torches throwing their yellow light on the torn banners and the wild faces of the soldiers, and then the cannon, leaping over the rough stones, drawn by the smoke-blackened gunners, all tearing, rushing through the street, a mass of light and shade, wonderful, wonderful! In the midst, the Visconti, the ragged light streaming over his tattered armor, and Isotta d'Este, guarded between two soldiers, swaying on her black horse, and above all the shouts of the frenzied triumph of the Milanese.... Ah!"
Agnolo paused now for want of breath, and glanced at his companion.
But Francisco offered no response. His face was turned away, and his hands were clenched. The little painter had a vague sense of having allowed a mereartist's enthusiasm to carry him too far into a dangerous theme.
"Ah, well," he continued in a deprecating tone, "a splendid sight truly, and one to fire the blood, but I am a man of peace, and I greatly grieve Della Scala should have perished. He was a noble prince."
The stranger rose abruptly.
"Do not speak of Della Scala," he said harshly. "I love to hear his name as little as Visconti's. His was the crime of failure."
"Failure! Who would not have failed?" said Agnolo gently, for he thought he spoke to one who must have lost his all in the sacked town. "I know little of such things, but 'twas here and there asserted he fell by craft as well as force, and he was a great soldier and an honorable man, Messer Francisco."
"He had all the virtues, doubtless," said Francisco, "and lost Verona."
"And his life!" replied the painter. "Ah, well, these things are grievous! The saints protect my daughter from all share in them," and he glanced affectionately toward Graziosa, returning through the gray-green willows with lilies in her hands.
"For my pictures," said the painter, pointing to them. "I am painting an altar-piece—for the lunettes. I shall have Graziosa as St. Katherine, and Ambrogio (her betrothed, messer) as St. Michael. These flowers will make the border."
He took some as he spoke, and began arranging them in wreaths.
Francisco would scarcely have heeded the speaker's words, save that his glance was caught almost involuntarily by the girl's sweet blush at mention of her lover's name.
"Thy betrothed," he murmured, interested a momentin the happiness that was such a contrast to his own feeling. "And does he paint too?"
Graziosa looked up with sparkling eyes.
"Beautifully," she said eagerly. "He is at work now in the Church of San' Apollinare in Brescia. We have not seen his painting, the journey is too long; but some of the panel bits he has shown us, and they are noble."
Francisco smiled faintly at her outspokenness, and her father laughed good-humoredly.
"Thou must not listen to her," he said. "She overrates his painting. He paints well, truly, but cold! ah, so cold; no spirit in it! He will sit for hours thinking how the fold of a robe should fall. I, however, have seen Taddeo Gaddi paint! The angels would seem to flow from his brush as if he gave no thought to them!" But Graziosa turned a smiling face from the boat she was unmooring.
"His altar-piece will draw all Lombardy," she cried.
"Say rather that his altar-piece draws him away from thee," laughed the painter, "and thou wilt be nearer to the truth. The altar-piece has all his time; thou but a few meager hours a week! Still, they love each other, messer, and are happy, so we never care whether Ambrogio paint well or ill." Graziosa seated herself under the blue sail, and looked up with radiant eyes.
"I am very happy," she laughed softly, "so never mind whether he paint the best or the second best in Italy."
The painter grasped the oars and pushed out into the stream: "Good-bye," he called, and Graziosa waved a hand; then something in the stranger's aspect made the little painter pause again.
"Gladly would we offer our poor hospitality, messer," he said, "only the gates are sternly barred toany stranger...." But Graziosa, glancing also at the strong, commanding figure, and the stern set face, checked her father's impulse.
"We are too humble, father," she said gently, "but if there were any service we could render, any message—? We live at the sign ofLo Scudo, the armorer's, near to the western gate."
"I will remember it," said Francisco simply.
Graziosa drew her blue cloth hood about her smiling face, and, with gentle strokes from the painter's paddle, the boat disappeared.
When Francisco found himself alone again, momentary misgiving seized him that he had lost an opportunity.
Could these folk have been of service? They were of a sort unknown to him; courtiers, soldiers, burghers, merchants, with all such he was at home, but these plebeians of kindly natures and good speech, of humble rank and careless happiness, were new to him. The painter's talk of his craft had had no meaning for Francisco, it had passed from his mind for craziness; but the girl had said they dwelt near the western gate—could they perchance have been of service? But presently he dismissed the notion; they were too simple for his purpose.
Raging in the pain of rekindled memory and present helplessness, Francisco paced to and fro, waiting for Vittore's figure in the distance.
Suddenly his eyes rested again on the great clump of yellow lichen, and he stopped, arrested.
In the midst of it he had seen something that interested him, something very much its color, but not quite its kind.
He approached, and thrusting his hand in among the great tufts, touched the rusty iron of a disused bolt.There was a door here, then, that led into the grounds of the deserted villa!
Francisco's heart beat strongly.
From the finding of the silver goblet in the ruined hut, he had associated with the Visconti's name the darkened dwelling and its silent grounds. There was none to question, for there was none of whom they dared inquire; but more than once Francisco had thought of trying to enforce an entrance, only to find, however, that by whomsoever abandoned, ingress to the villa had been left well nigh impossible. But here was an entrance that had been overlooked, and it was not to be wondered at, for the rusty bolt could have been discerned only by eyes as keen as his, and the door belonging was completely hidden by close-growing ivy, too frail to climb by, but the most effectual of all concealments. Tearing up the lichen from its roots, Francisco set to work upon the ivy. The delicate, ropelike strands clung with their black filaments like fingers bewitched, and little had been accomplished when Francisco, taking cautious survey around him, saw Vittore returning across the meadows. Concealing what he was about, Francisco waited till the lad came up, flushed and triumphant from a successful errand.
"What news going in the city?" asked Francisco.
"All is quiet. One of the soldiers snatched a leek from me, another bade me tell my sister he was still unwed. They jested finely, but I should not like them to have turned to questioning me. They were so many, and so finely armed."
"And the money? Didst thou need to change the pieces that I gave thee?"
"Yes, messer, I had not enough! They said that it was Veronese."
"Nothing new to them in Milan now—the money ofthe Veronese," said Francisco, with a flashing glance toward the ramparts.
"They told me 'twas no longer taken; that the Duke was having it recast. But a bystander reached forward, and gave me a piece of Milanese. He said that he would keep my piece; it bore the Della Scala arms, he said, and was a curiosity."
Francisco muttered something that the lad did not catch.
"Well, thou hast faced the soldiers and the market now," he said aloud, "and art safe for other journeys, as I promised thee. Go on to the hut, and give thyself food and Tomaso. Keep close and answer none. I will be with thee presently."
The boy went on obediently. These two days with his rescuer had taught him and Tomaso both that what Francisco said he meant, and his word was their law already. But Francisco needed stronger allies.
With some half-formed thought the villa might conceal one, he now returned to his attack upon the ivy, and after many a wrench and cut and struggle, the garden door stood bare enough to use. It was stained, discolored, locked and immovable.
But this was nothing to Francisco; with knife and dagger he cut the woodwork around the lock, removed it, and thrusting his hand and arm well through the breach, with no great difficulty withdrew the upper and lower bolts. With knee and shoulder then he pressed inward, driving against the weeds and growths that choked it, and presently had forced an aperture that would admit him.
After many a cautious glance along the meadow path, fortunately for his purpose little used, he replaced the loose strands of ivy as far as he was able, and slipping through, pushed the door back into its place, filling up the broken lock with green.
He was in a garden of great beauty. The yew-tree overhead shaded a patch of velvety green starred with daisies. Before him a straight path led to a marble seat and a belt of cypress-trees.
The ring-doves cooed blissfully; the flowering trees stirred; there was no other sound save the distant one of faintly plashing water. Treading softly, Francisco set forward in the direction in which he knew the villa lay.
The house, a low, graceful building of white marble, was approached by a broad flight of steps, flanked by a balustrade almost hidden in early roses, which trailed in great clusters over it and along the velvet turf. Fronting it was a great fountain, and a wide avenue of yew trees, patched with sunshine, led up to the façade.
To right and left spread turf-grown paths, edged with orange and lemon trees, and sweet with the scent of the citron and myrtle; around their roots grew violets, primroses, daffodils; and behind, beyond, on all sides, were grass and walks and trees, a sea of moving green.
The place was profoundly quiet. The statues, placed here and there, looked out from the foliage smiling; the dainty seats of colored stone were empty, innocent of satin skirt or ruffled cloak. There was no sign of the recent care of man; no wild things stirred; beside the basins of the fountains lay two peacocks, dead. The villa doors were open, showing something of the long corridor that traversed the lower floor, but silent as the scene without. The stillness was unnatural; the beauty of the place, the two dead gorgeous birds, the open doors and lovely sunshine, made an impression that appalled.
The day was long past noon when, through the dim corridor, there was the faint flutter of garments. Some one was slowly moving. The sunbeam's slanting ray struck through the doorway on a strange, haggard-looking figure: a man. He was wasted, bent, andshrunken; his limbs tottering under him. Where his blue velvet cloak fell back, it showed a splendid suit of black and gold, embroidered and decked out with ribbons, but the splendor hung upon a hollow frame: a skeleton. Long locks of pale gold hair heightened the ghastly hollowness of the pinched face. Conrad von Schulembourg was paying with this form of death for the favor of Valentine Visconti; as her brother's favorite, he had thought it safe to lift his eyes to her; being something of a gallant fool, very gay to face danger, very incredulous of it ever coming to him in this hideous shape. He was not quick to read character, especially Visconti's character. Could Gian Visconti have seen his victim now, even he might have started, for it is hard to imagine what men who die of hunger look like.
The trees, softly moving, made pleasant light and shade; the myrtle blossoms blew and sailed in little clouds of mauve, while the sweet-smelling leaves of the citron hung their rich clusters over opening lilies. Conrad, dragging himself across the grass, with straining eyes and parted lips, thought only of the water in the fountain, and saw only those two dead birds. Poisoned! Visconti had forestalled all chances.
The Count had scarcely strength for any definite purpose of self-help. He craved water, and turned to drag himself away in search of some he might dare drink. Ere long, he knew not how, he reached it; a little hollow fringed with fern, in its center a calm and placid pool, the trees mirrored in its peaceful surface. Count Conrad fell beside it, gazing longingly. A statue of a wood-god, the sunlight yellow in the hollow eyes, leaned from among the bushes, and mocked him with its smile.
Another effort and he had reached the stone. The water was so cool, so clear, so pure and still, it seemed impossible that it should harm him. He reached his hand out,then convulsively resisting the impulse, drew it back, and sank again upon the grass. At a flutter of white from the boughs near, Count Conrad lifted his eyes, and saw a dove that flew past him to rest upon the rim; he watched it eagerly. The bird preened itself, shook its feathers daintily, stooped and drank. Conrad drew himself a little nearer. Suddenly with a cry the bird whirled up into the air, beat its wings together vainly, and fell back into the water, dead! Poisoned! All the water poisoned! Desperation giving him a moment's strength, Count Conrad rose and regarded the dead dove with greedy eyes, but steeling himself against the impulse to devour his own death, he crawled on with the vague thought to reach the gate. Some instinct of remembrance guiding his stumbling steps, he came upon it. It was twice his height, and all its elaborate tracery offered no single aperture through which a child could thrust his hand. Sick and blind he clung to it; he tried to shout, to scream, his voice died in his throat. In helpless rage, his wild face pressed against the iron, his eyes starting, his tongue lolling out of his dry mouth, he gripped and shook the lock.
Two children running by, stopped, gazed, came nearer, and then at what they saw, fled, screaming. No one else approached. The world seemed empty. Twilight began to fall. Then in his half-delirium Count Conrad thought again of the dead bird, and laughed wolfishly to himself, making with tottering steps back toward the hollow. To search coherently for food or drink or succor was now beyond his power. Presently again he sank across the grass and lay there crying like a child, whimpering and whispering. Once or twice he made an effort, snatched at the long grass, fell back again, and lay now in silence.
After a time, but while it was still light, he seemed to wake as from a trance, and saw a figure moving downthe glade toward him. Was he still living? He could scarcely tell. Was this Visconti come again to mock him? The thought spurred the man, though dying, almost to strive to rise and meet his fate standing. But sky, grass, trees, and stone reeled about him in a chaos of green and blue. He strove to speak, but his tongue refused. The dark figure came nearer, stopped beside him, stooped and spoke, but Count Conrad did not see nor heed. He lay, a woeful spectacle, as if dead indeed.
He awoke, as he thought never to wake again, with moistened lips, and water on his forehead, and a face that was not Visconti's bending over him; a dark face with strange brown eyes that looked at him with sombre interest.
"Thou comest from the Duke?" gasped Conrad. Francisco shook his head.
"I am no emissary of Visconti."
"Then thou comest to save me?" whispered Conrad eagerly, hope dawning in his eyes.
"I will save thee if I can," replied Francisco. "Thou art alone?"
Conrad moved his head. He was too weak for more. Then a sudden thought shot horror into his face, and he struggled to a sitting posture.
"The water!" he gasped out. "The water—from the fountain—thou gave me to drink of that?"
Francisco followed in surprise the direction of his glance.
"No," he said. "I had it with me; 'twas water and wine too."
"Oh!" Conrad sank back. "The water is poisoned—all——"
"Poisoned—Visconti's doing!" said Francisco.
"How didst thou get in?" whispered Conrad feebly. "Visconti barred all entrances."
"I found one unknown to any; canst thou, with my help, walk there?"
"I think—I can walk—to safety," was the answer, and the love of life lending him strength, he staggered to his feet, and helped by Francisco and invigorated by the wine, made slowly forward.
But they had not taken many steps before Francisco well perceived he had rescued a man past helping himself, well-nigh past any help from others.
With a sigh Conrad sank speechless into his arms.
Francisco looked around him. He had come far from the entrance he had forced, and Conrad, plainly starved and emaciated as he was, was still a man full grown. To leave him and to return to Tomaso would be too dangerous. The place must be under observation. But to seek safety himself and abandon the helpless man was not a thought to occur to Francisco, though, hampered by his dead weight, he would be at any pursuer's mercy, or fall a prey to any ambush; so with stout words of encouragement, and forcing more wine through his lips, he lifted the Count to his shoulder and made as rapidly as he was able to the door beside the lichen. It was a breathless journey, but at last, and unmolested, Francisco gained the wall and laid his burden down. Reconnoitering without, he saw no sign of danger, and, glad of the oncoming dusk, dragged up the man and laid him, at least free, outside the door. The cool air blowing from the water, a few drops more wine, in which Francisco soaked some crumbs of bread he found within his wallet, enabled the rescued man again to move.
It was an easy matter now to bring Vittore and Tomaso, who would not be left, and between them Conrad, too spent to put questions, was carried to their shelter and laid on the rough heather couch in the hut, from which one of his own vassals had not long been driven;a poor asylum enough, but one for which he only too gladly exchanged the deadly splendor of his own magnificent abode.
"Who is he?" asked Tomaso, in timid surprise. For the first time since their knowledge of him Francisco laughed, and without bitterness.
"One of Visconti's victims! It is some poor satisfaction to have rescued two," he said. "I know nothing of him except that it is plainly to be seen he is some person of distinction. We will nurse him to the best of our skill. Tomaso, he may be of use——"
Then suddenly Francisco's humor changed. He glanced around him at the boy, the youth, scarcely recovered from his fever, the ghastly figure on the ground over which he bent, and fury shook him. Of what use anything against Visconti? "Oh, terrible to be so helpless!" he cried passionately. "We will leave this place. I break my heart in vain against the walls of Milan. I will to Ferrara, to Della Scala's kinsfolk there."
"And they will aid thee?" asked Tomaso trembling.
Francisco smiled, but this time grimly. "I can but try," he said. "Della Scala was once known and trusted there. And in no case can we stay here!" He pointed down at Conrad. "The place will not be safe for us, let Visconti once discover his victim has escaped him. We will depart to Ferrara, and fall upon Visconti while he is unsuspecting that I—that anyone lives to still animate the Estes against him...."
An hour or two later, while Vittore and Tomaso slept, Francisco keeping watch beside him, Conrad woke from a light doze and felt that he had hold on life again. He tried to murmur thanks to his preserver, but the other checked him.
"Thou art not of Italy?" he said.
"I am Conrad von Schulembourg."
"Conrad von Schulembourg!" echoed Francisco in surprise. "Visconti's trusted friend!"
"The trusted friend of him who fastened me within my villa yonder to die a lingering death of hunger, or of poisoned food." The drops started on his forehead, he gasped for breath.
Francisco soothed and tended him.
"Think not of it; get well," he said, as he had said to Tomaso. "Live and help rid the world of the Visconti. He would have thee die a dog's death. Is not life dear to thee?"
"Yes, I will live," said Conrad, "and I will take revenge both for my own wrongs and for a woman's sake."
Francisco turned quickly and looked at him keenly.
"A woman's sake! Thy motive is the same as mine: I too am living—for a woman's sake."
Then, at the other's questioning stare, Francisco continued more quietly:
"I am from Verona, Count; that will tell thee much. I belonged to Della Scala's court, and barely escaped with life from the sacking of the town. Thou see'st I can for that and other matters more than equal thee in hatred of Visconti."
He rose and moving toward the door, looked out.
"Oh, I am impatient!" he cried passionately, "to be riding toward Ferrara!"
Tisio Visconti, mounted on a white palfrey, rode slowly through the streets of Milan, a lean figure, with a foolish face and vacant eyes.
For the elder Visconti was half-crazed, a fact to which perhaps he owed his life, Gian Galeazzo not fearing his poor disordered intellect enough to deprive him of aught, save his birthright—the sovereignty of Milan.
One or two men-at-arms, in splendid livery, rode behind him, and as he passed the people bowed humbly, respecting him solely as the Duke's brother, for Tisio was powerless for good or ill. Some few there were who pitied him.
About the streets of Milan he was a far more familiar figure than his brother, who was seldom seen, but of whose unscrupulous power Tisio was the living symbol.
Complete liberty was allowed him; still the soldiers behind were rather guards than servants, and charged to see he did not leave the gates. Dropping his loose reins on the palfrey's neck, Tisio Visconti looked around him with lack-luster eyes and a dull smile. He was riding through the long, narrow streets, cobbled and overhung with high straight houses, that lead to the western gate.
Through this gate his father lately, his brothers months ago, had been driven to their deaths; his father, infamously, his mother beside him, in the full light of day to Brescia; his brothers, secretly, at dead of night, to Brescia also, from whence they returned no more.
Yet to Tisio the gate and street had no memory or meaning; he looked ahead of him at the green trees beyond, and his eyes lit up. It was to see them he came. To him the world outside Milan was paradise; sometimes the soul within him rose and chafed at his dull captivity, and then he longed passionately for those green fields and trees, which he knew only from within the city gates.
The street was empty now; it was noontide, the hour Tisio preferred, when there were few abroad. The sun was hot, its rays flashing on the pikes of the sentinels who paced the walls; and Tisio's followers wiped their brows and chafed. But he gazed with wistful eyes, unheeding, into the beauty and the calm, the green and the gold. The sentry took no heed of him; so many times he had done the same; ridden to the gates, waited, looking eagerly through, then patiently returned to the gloom of the Visconti palace.
Either side the massive entrance lay houses, low, of gray stone, enclosed in square courtyards, entered by doors deep set in the thick walls.
From one of these, as Tisio turned, a girl emerged in a scarlet robe. She carried a bunch of lilies, on her arm hung the basket that betokened her errand. She and the little group of horsemen were the only life in the silent, sunny street. Tisio's eyes lit upon her, and he smiled. Like all the Visconti, there was poetry mingled with his madness, and the sight of beauty touched even his crazy brain.
The girl, starting when she saw the horsemen, paused, as if to retire, her hand on the door, her brilliant robe gorgeous against the background of gray wall. The color, and the sunshine falling over her golden hair, made a picture Tisio was not slow to see; his eyes fixed upon her eagerly; he drew up his horse and turned to the page who, spy and attendant in one, invariably accompanied him.
"I would speak to her," he said, with the eagerness of a child.
The girl, seeing she attracted notice, turned, frightened and confused, to make good her escape, but the page, riding up, stopped her authoritatively, but with a reassuring smile.
"'Tis the Lord Tisio Visconti, lady; fear nothing; he would only speak with thee," he said.
But the girl's alarm increased at the mention of that dreaded name.
"He mistakes me for another, sir," she said. "I have never so much as seen even the Duke himself."
"My lord would speak with thee," repeated the page. "He is not the Duke, but it is the Duke's pleasure that he be obeyed in matters such as this. Come, maiden, there is no need to fear: it is an honor."
He turned his rein again, and, indeed, not daring to refuse, the girl followed and stood timidly by Tisio's side. He looked at her long and eagerly, at her scarlet dress, her sunny hair, the white and green lilies in her hands. Still he did not speak, and she raised her head and looked around questioningly and fearful. But the page only smiled: the men-at-arms sat silent and indifferent.
"Thou art very beautiful," said Tisio at last. "What is thy name? Whose daughter art thou?"
"Graziosa Vistarnini, my lord; Agnolo Vistarnini is my father. He is a painter."
But Tisio's eyes grew vacant, and his gaze wandered to the lilies.
"Did they come from yonder?" he asked, and pointed beyond the gate.
"No, my lord. From a friend's garden. My father thinks to paint them."
Still Tisio did not heed her answer; he laughed foolishly.
"I may go?" asked Graziosa timidly. "I may go, my lord?"
He bent from the saddle and lifted from her shoulder a long lock of her curling hair, and stroked it, dropping it with a sigh.
"Give me these," he said, pointing to the lilies; "all the flowers I know grow in Gian's garden,—Gian is the Duke of Milan."
And at his words, and the tone in which he spoke them, Graziosa's pity overcame her fear.
In silence, tears in her eyes, she handed him the flowers. He took them eagerly, but before she could withdraw her hand, he grasped her arm with a childish exclamation and touched the bracelet of fine workmanship she wore upon the wrist.
"I will have this too," he said, laughing with satisfaction: but the girl drew her arm back sharply and turned to go.
Tisio fumed. "The bracelet," he said peevishly, and the page motioned to her harshly to remain.
Graziosa turned to him in confusion and distress.
"I cannot give it him," she said, the tears starting. "I entreat thee, sir, ask him to let me go."
But the page intimated to her warningly she had best make no to-do. There was only one law for the citizens of Milan: that was the tyranny of the Visconti; let the one who encountered it only in the capricious whim of the crazy Tisio be thankful.
"Hold it good fortune, it is naught but a bauble he demands," said the page. "Give him the bracelet; he will drop it, forgotten, to-morrow. Ask for me one day at the palace. I will restore it. But give it now, before he grows angry. Thou hadst better."
Tisio's face was darkening.
"Make haste, make haste," cried the page impatiently,"or it will be thee and thy bracelet both that will be carried off."
"My betrothed gave it to me," she murmured. "I cannot part with it."
"I will have it," repeated Tisio imperiously, with outstretched hand. Graziosa's helpless tears were flowing; slowly she unclasped the bracelet; the page took her treasure with an easy air, handed it to his master, and turned the horses' heads toward home.
"Thou wilt be none the worse," he laughed, as they rode away. Tisio, absorbed in his new toy, gave her neither look nor thought, for jewels, gold ornaments of rare design, were the craze of this Visconti's crazy brain.
Graziosa pressed her bare arm to her lips, and looked after them, the tears of vexation streaming down. She thought of Ambrogio, the painter-lover, whose gift it was: what would he say to find her bracelet gone?
"Oh, if only Ambrogio had been here," she cried, "he would not have let the Duke himself take it from me—but I—what could I do?—if only he is not angry that I let it go."
She had not much faith in the page's words; besides, how dare she venture to the Visconti's palace? Her tears flowed afresh; she picked up the poor discarded lilies, all her pleasure gone. In the distance she could see Tisio, still handling the bracelet with delight, and she half-smiled, even through her tears, at so strange and pitiful a thing. "It makes the poor crazy lord happy," she said softly, "but it breaksmyheart to lose it." She watched Tisio disappear; then, her loss a certainty, she turned with reluctant feet upon her errand.
Meanwhile Tisio, absorbed in his new spoil, rode toward the palace.
The projecting gables of the houses sent clear-cut shadows across his path; the strong noonday sun blendedthe city into brilliant light and shade, broken only by the vivid color of the drapery fluttering at some unshaded window, or the sudden flash of pigeon's wings against the golden air.
As they neared the great gate of the palace, a group of horsemen, galloping noisily ahead of them, dashed into the vast courtyard and drew rein with a fine clatter at the entrance steps.
Tisio, following, raised his head, and looked dully at them—a band of his brother's soldiers, hired mercenaries; it was usual enough to meet them both within and without the Visconti's abode. As he was dismounting, the leader of the band addressed him familiarly.
"My lord hears thee not, sir," said the page, "his thoughts are with his spoils."
The soldier laughed with a grimace.
It was the freedom of one whose services are valuable enough, even when well paid, to permit him to bear himself with small respect to his employers. For the mercenaries were a power; the transfer of their services could ruin states and lose towns, and even Visconti had to pay them well and concede license to their leaders; for upon them, to a great extent, his sovereignty rested, and Alberic da Salluzzo could take more liberties than any. He was a famous captain, noted for his skill in wars and turbulence in peace, a man with no country and no honor, endowed with dauntless courage and endurance, of vast rapacity and of all the cruelty his age allowed.
Making no way for Tisio, and motioning curtly to his men, he strode up the stairs, a stalwart figure, overdressed in splendid armor, and swung into the antechamber of the Visconti's audience-room. It was deserted. Alberic, astonished, paused on the threshold, looking around in amazement for the crowd—courtiers, servants, seekers, soldiers—wont to fill it.
Opposite was the closed door of the Visconti's room, but even Alberic dare not knock there unannounced. He was turning away to seek enlightenment, when a dark form he had passed unnoticed in the distant shadows of the great room rose, and he recognized, as it advanced, the secretary's stooping figure.
"What has happened here?" demanded the soldier.
"Is there need to ask?" answered Giannotto. "The Duke has had the room cleared. He will see no one." Alberic half-laughed, and shrugged his shoulders.
"The madness is on him at Count von Schulembourg's escape. Is that it?" he asked. "But art even thou excluded?" he continued in surprise, for Giannotto was the one man who could come and go unannounced, unbidden, the one man who knew Visconti's secrets.
The secretary smiled, the slow smile that men's lips learned in the Visconti palace.
"It is best for the Duke to be alone, and for me that he should be," he said. "The news that Count Conrad has escaped hath galled him much; it came at a bad moment too, following on those parchments twice found within the grounds"—he paused. "Thou wert sent to find the writer, or the one who put them there; art thou successful?"
Alberic shook his head. "I return as I went. Beyond finding that doorway forced in the wall, messer secretary, there is no token whatsoever of how the Count escaped. But after so long a fast, messer," Alberic showed his teeth, "it is not likely that it was alone."
"The one who aided him is he who inscribed those parchments?"
"'Twould seem so," answered Alberic. "We have searched anew among the huts from which we drove Count Conrad's German dogs; on the threshold of the largest there was—this."
He drew out of his breast a parchment, a long narrow strip, scrawled across in irregular writing, and handed it to Giannotto.
"What does it say?" he asked.
Giannotto glanced at it hastily, his eyes on the Duke's door.
He read, "Della Scala lives!"
The captain whistled softly. "Now, thou may'st hand that to the Duke instead of me," he said.
Giannotto searched the writing keenly. "Della Scala cannot live; 'tis some trick of the Torriani."
Alberic laughed harshly. "Whate'er it be, I saythoushalt have the pleasure of showing it the Duke!"
"Nay, thou must speak of thy own failures, friend. Besides, the Duke will need thee for his further orders. Count Conrad must be found, alive or dead!"
"Was it his ghost attacked the walls last night?" asked Alberic; and not wholly did he speak in jest.
The secretary cast uneasy looks across his shoulder at the ominously shut door.
"It angered Visconti strangely," he whispered. "But it was a handful of madmen. Wandering robbers from the hills! They were four at most, and they tried to scale the walls of Milan!" He smiled in scorn.
"And yet," said Alberic, "they were almost on the ramparts ere they were discovered, and when they were pursued, fled back into the night silently, nor could we find from whence they came, nor any trace of them."
"However that may be," said Giannotto, "the Duke hath dismissed even me, and the delivery of this parchment had best wait till his black fit has left him."
He raised the arras from the entrance that opened on the stairway, and passed out of sight along the corridor, leaving Alberic standing in the unguarded entrance ofthe deserted audience-room, undecided, the parchment in his hand.
But he did not stand there long alone. One or two servants stole back to their places, afraid to stay away; and presently, with slow steps and vacant smile, there passed by him Tisio Visconti, followed by the page who never left him.
"Thou, my lord?" cried Alberic. "Now, how would it be if I ask him to hand this parchment over?" and he turned with a swaggering laugh to the page.
The page shook his head, not comprehending. Tisio, unheeding, seated himself in one of the great chairs, Graziosa's bracelet still between his fingers.
"I will wait no longer," cried Alberic suddenly; "let the Duke summon me."
But the next moment Alberic's swagger dropped, and he swung his plumed hat low to the lady who, unattended, stole across the threshold.
It was Valentine Visconti.
Her breast was heaving; suppressed excitement showed in every movement; it was not difficult for Alberic to read she had heard of Count Conrad's rescue.
With a motion of the hand she bade him wait, and turned to her brother, huddled in his chair, gazing blankly at the floor.
"Tisio!" she said, and her tone was very gentle. "What dost thou here?"
He looked up, and his dull face lit at sight of her.
"I wait for Gian," he said simply.
Valentine shuddered. "What wouldst thou see him for, Tisio?"
He smiled, and held out the bracelet. "To show him this."
The tears rushed to Valentine's eyes, but she remembered the captain and turned to him.
"Thou carryest something here to give the Duke?" she asked.
"Another parchment, lady," said the captain. "But I fear my lord is in no humor for its contents."
Valentine's eyes sparkled lightly. "Thou hast not the courage to present it?"
"I confess, lady, I am waiting till I am obliged to," answered Alberic.
Valentine held out her hand. "Give me the paper; I will give it to my brother!"
The captain hesitated.
"Since thou hast not the courage," she added almost with a laugh. All Gian's orders had not availed to prevent some whisper reaching Valentine of his evil humor and the cause of it: Conrad's escape, the threatening parchments; the hint that Della Scala lived. Alberic, glancing at her, saw a triumph and a malice in the lady's glance that made him doubly feel he did not care just then to wait Visconti's coming. But still he hesitated; the Duke might vent on him his fury with his sister.
"This business will not wait," cried Valentine, "give me the parchment to deliver, or knock at yonder door and hand it to the Duke yourself."
But the captain of the mercenaries bent low, shook his head with a significant gesture, and, handing over the fatal missive, bowed himself away. Valentine turned again to Tisio's page.
"Take thy lord away," she said. "The Duke may not be best pleased to see him here."
But Tisio would not go. Valentine, bending over him, stroked his hands tenderly, then breaking from him, leaned against the wall in sudden woe.
"All of us crazed," she cried bitterly. "All of us, surely; wretched people that we are!"
Then, at the sight of the parchment she held, herformer mood returned. Conrad was alive! He had vowed devotion. He would return to her rescue. She would live to be free; to come and go outside the Visconti palace, outside Milan, out yonder in the world. She leaned back against the arras a moment, dizzy at the thought of so much joy, and her courage rose high, her eyes danced.
"The Duke must have this parchment," she said; "and since Alberic da Salluzzo does not care to seek an audience for it, why, Tisio, thou shalt see me give it. The Duke loves not an interruption when he is angry," she added, with a soft laugh. "But 'tis my duty to show him this."
And she advanced toward the ominously closed door.
The page looked uneasy. He had no wish to face Visconti in his fury. Yet well he knew he dared not leave his charge.
Valentine tapped at the door with gentle fingers.
"Gian!" she called.
"Lady, this is madness!" cried the page, startled into speech.
She looked over her shoulder.
"I am also a Visconti, boy," she said. "Why should I fear the Duke?"
"Gian!" she called again, her beautiful head close to the dark panels. "I have something here of great moment. Why let everyone know thou art so moved? Gian! Thou makest thyself a mock; dost thoufearCount Conrad, that his escape moves thee so?"
A pause: then with a smile Valentine stepped back a pace or two into the chamber.
"The Duke comes!" she said, and the page turned pale.
The inner door opened as smoothly as silently, and Visconti stood there looking at the trio. He was dressed in purple velvet, but his doublet was tumbled, the finelace frills at his wrists were torn to rags, his eyes strained wide open, and for a moment, as it was with any who encountered it, his expression gave his sister pause. But again she remembered Conrad lived, and she held out the parchment. "I thought it well to give you this," she said.
Gian advanced and took it in silence. But those torn ruffles, that disordered doublet, had their meanings, and the look in those wide eyes, as he turned them on her, quelled the mockery in hers, spite of herself.
"Begone!" he said, "and do not usurp another's office again. Leave me."
"With thine own thoughts, brother?" she said softly, facing him.
"Be careful," he answered; "thou shouldst know my humors, and that 'tis dangerous to cross them. Remember it only suits my purpose that thou shouldst live!"
At this Tisio, as if half-comprehending the threat, rose, and his brother's eyes fell on him.
"Thou too! What dost thou about my doors? hast thou come too to dare me with thy folly?"
His eyes blazed, his hands worked. Tisio, dazed and affrighted, let fall Graziosa's bracelet.
The page stooped to recover it.
"What hast thou there?" cried Visconti with sudden change of tone; and the page, quivering for his life, handed the bracelet on bent knee. Visconti studied it one second, then, with a sound of fury that sent the boy crouching back against the wall, control left him. His eyes lighted on Tisio, and in maniacal fury he seized him by the shoulder and shook him as though he were a rag.
"How camest thou by this?" he yelled. "How came this bracelet in the Visconti palace? Answer me!"
Tisio whimpered, but had no reply, till, with a shout,Visconti flung him from him with such force that, save for Valentine, he would have fallen; then he turned upon the page who knelt by, trembling.
"Answer me!" he cried furiously. "Answer! Where got the fool this?" He held the bracelet out. And the sight of those torn ruffles around his long white hands made the boy's hair rise.
"Indeed, my lord," he gasped, "a girl, whom my Lord Tisio—met by the western gate——"
"Gave it him!" shrieked Visconti. "Ah, the three of thee shall pay dearly for this hour's trifling with me!"
"My lord took it," cried the page, half-wild with terror. "He took it, my lord; she wept to give it."
"She wept to give it," said Visconti slowly.
There was a pause. When he spoke again, his tone was calmer.
"Then he shall be slain for taking it," he said, flashing a look on Tisio, who, huddled in the chair, moaned with distress as he leaned against his sister.
"Shame! Calm thyself!" cried Valentine. "What has Tisio done? is this the first ornament he has liked and taken? Have they not orders to let him have his pleasure?"
"Mark me," returned Visconti. "Take care thou dost not make my dislike overrule my ambition—the pair of thee hold your lives solely at my pleasure."
He turned to the page.
"Go, and take thy fool with thee, and keep from my sight."
With a white face the wretched page rose and helped Tisio to his feet. At a whisper from his sister he went meekly, Visconti's mad eyes on him the while.
A terrible silence fell.
Valentine steadied herself against the arras. She was thankful to see Tisio go—alive. To ask why the jewelTisio had fondled had so angered Gian was beyond her daring. "He is possessed," she murmured to herself.
With an unpleasant laugh Visconti turned to her.
"Didst thou urge him to flaunt me with this?" he asked.
"Flaunt thee?" said Valentine. "How should I know a toy like that could rouse such fury?"
The Duke looked at her keenly, and crushed the bracelet together in his hand.
"As I say, thou darest me far because thou art worth something to my plans—but I have the power, and I keep it."
She was silent, and he turned to pass back into his own room. But at the same moment Giannotto spoke. He had entered unobserved, and drew near his master with an obsequious movement.
But Visconti met him with a snarl.
"I will see no one! Did I not say so? Take care, Giannotto, lest I seetheetoo often."
The secretary paled, but kept his composure. He had learned that to shrink before Visconti only served to arouse him the more.
"I would merely say, my lord," he remarked, "Alberic da Salluzzo awaits further orders."
"Hath he found the Count?" flashed Visconti.
"My lord, no; nor trace of him, unless these parchments be one."
"Thou hast another there?"
Giannotto, bowing low, handed Visconti a packet. His head was bent, his eyes downcast, and the smile that flickered over his thin lips unseen.
"This, my lord, was brought in by one of Alberic's men—found an hour since outside the gates of Count Conrad's villa."
It was sealed, and inscribed with the Visconti's name.
Visconti seized it, and Giannotto, stepping back, watched furtively his furious face.
Gian looked at the packet. There was no attempt to disguise the writing. It was the same as that upon the parchment Valentine had given him with its brief threat: "Della Scala lives," and the seal of it was the Ladder of the Scaligeri. Long Visconti fingered it in silence, then remembering he was not alone, glanced wrathfully up to see that Valentine was watching him with a faint smile of scorn, and that Giannotto, for all his downcast head, waited with eyes keen with expectation. But Visconti curbed himself. To have the mastery of others he must keep the mastery of himself.
"Giannotto," he said, and the secretary started as if a whip had touched him, "thou wilt see to it that Da Salluzzo searches Milan and all Lombardy—that he spares neither treasure nor blood—and that he brings to me dead, or living, Count Conrad von Schulembourg, and the writer of these parchments."
With an obeisance Giannotto went, in silence, and Visconti slowly broke the seal of the packet. Then he turned to Valentine.
"Art thou waiting to see if it contains a message from thy Conrad?" he said fiercely. "Have no fear! Thou shalt see his head ere night."
She shuddered before the taunt, and turned to leave him. It was always the same; let her meet Visconti with never so high courage, she left him quelled, discomfited, dismayed.
"Go!" shouted Visconti, in sudden fury, and she stayed no longer to question or defy.
Carrying the half-opened packet and the parchment, Visconti re-entered his private room. It was dark and silent; no sound from within or without broke its deserted gloom.
He was alone, nor was he like to be disturbed. Seating himself, not without a furtive glance over his shoulder, he looked at the writing again, the writing and the seal, then opened the packet.
A roll of parchment, close writ, strangely stained in places a reddish brown, fell with a rattle on the floor. Visconti started back, he stared at it, uttered a hoarse sound, stooped and picked it up. The parchment was inscribed with poetry. Here and there among the stains a line was readable.