"Oh, my lord!" he cried passionately, and flung himself on his knees by Mastino's side. "Oh, my dear, dear lord! Thou wilt choose the noble part, I know! Thou wilt not let Visconti triumph, for this is all a devilish plot to make thee dishonored, to make thee betray thy trust—foil him—say no!"
Mastino made no answer, and Ligozzi too lapsed into silence, rising from his knees softly....
How hot it was, how hot! Ligozzi felt dizzy—he wished the sun would cease blazing down—he wishedDella Scala would move—had he persuaded him? Mastino raised his head.
"Bring them back," he said slowly, "I will see them now."
Ligozzi's heart beat high. "He has won—over himself at least he has a victory!" he thought—but looking on Della Scala's haggard face, he ventured no speech.
Mastino sat erect—his hands on the table in front of him, his eyes on the floor. Visconti's envoys entered.
Giannotto, glancing at Mastino and then at Ligozzi keenly, saw that there Visconti had an adverse advocate. But the strained silence on them all was hard to break. They were uneasy, like men before a great grief, or in the presence of one about to die—it was difficult to treat the matter as an ordinary one, or to ask a decision from that tortured man before them.
Even Giannotto's heart failed him, and he stayed near the entrance, abashed and afraid, but with a fear different from that with which he fawned upon Visconti. Visconti's moods and motives he could understand—to some extent they were his own, on his own level,—but this man—some things were beyond the Duke of Milan's secretary, and for the first time in his life he felt it. Mastino himself broke that hideous silence. He raised his head, and with a little affectionate movement Ligozzi laid his hand on his master's arm as if to strengthen him.
"I have considered," said Della Scala, in a hard voice. He paused a moment, but a moment only. "I have considered, and my answer is: I will accept Visconti's terms—my wife against the towns."
"Oh, dear lord!" breathed Ligozzi. It was the only sound; the Milanese were silent, almost as if they too winced to hear the words.
Mastino rose, with defiance in his burning eyes.
"I accept—every city in my hands, every soldier—all—against my wife—I accept Visconti's terms."
Ligozzi's hand had dropped from his shoulder, the clink of metal was heard through the heavy silence, without a word he stepped forward and laid his sword on the table before the Prince, then turned toward the entrance.
"Ligozzi!" cried Mastino, incredulous. "Not thou, Ligozzi—not thou, my friend!"
He held out his hand imploringly, regardless of the eyes upon him. Ligozzi stopped and turned, answering Della Scala's wistful look by one of bitter scorn and pain.
"I had that sword from an honorable Prince—I go to weep that I should have to return it to a traitor!"
"Ligozzi!" Mastino staggered back, his extended, rejected hand fell against his side. "Thou might'st have spared me that beforethese—for the sake of the old days—Ligozzi—" he said, steadying himself. Ligozzi did not turn; with a hard face he walked across the tent—without a look back, without a word or a sign, he was gone.
Mastino watched his only friend depart, with straining eyes, that then he covered for a moment as if to shut out what they had seen. But the next moment he turned proudly to the messengers.
Giannotto was alone. The soldier, de Lana, had vanished.
Mastino started forward with a cry, but the secretary interposed: "My lord," he said smoothly, "our duty is our duty. There is no harm intended, there shall no harm be done; but of what value is your consent to my Lord Visconti's terms, if yourfriendshould speak of it?"
Mastino fell back. A swift beginning.
"Your lady's safety, my lord," said Giannotto, "depends on your friend's silence. He has left his sword. There will be no bloodshed."
There was a silence, then Mastino looked up and spoke hoarsely.
"Begone! and take my answer to Visconti. I accept and will carry out his terms; my wife against the towns."
"Only remember, my lord," and the secretary smoothed his hands together nervously, "any attempt on Milan, any movement on your part, and the offer is null and void and the Duchess dies."
"Begone!" screamed Mastino, "take my answer and begone!"
Giannotto turned and went softly out of the tent.
* * * * *
It was done—it was done—beyond redemption had he fallen; he had chosen—there was no turning back.
Mastino della Scala sat alone and stared in the face of what he had done. These few moments were his; then he must go and lie to his officers, deceive his men, weaken his towns, destroy his forts—prepare to place them in Visconti's hands. He must send false messages to the Estes and to Julia Gonzaga—lie and deceive and betray! But he had saved his wife from Visconti—his wife—Isotta.
Outside he heard familiar voices, officers and men; his Veronese, still glad to trust his leadership; and he was to betray and trick them into shame.
"Can I carry it through, can I go forth with a calm face and lie to them—my soldiers!" he cried in agony. "But her life—her dear life—her more than life—hangs upon my falsity!"
He thought of the beautiful free towns of Italy: his Verona he had rescued once; proud Ferrara; Mantua that had never felt any yoke but that of the Gonzaga's; Pavia; all the haughty fair towns that had scorned Visconti. What would Visconti's vengeance on them be? Mastino could hardly believe he had done this thing. Yetwere the choice given again, he would choose the same—he would choose the same!
The sultry breeze blew back the opening, showing the deep blue sky and near-lying tents; a company of soldiers galloped by carrying the standard of Verona—the ladder of the Scaligeri.
How soon would that banner be torn from the walls of Verona and the Viper take its place?
"My city!" cried Mastino, "my city!" and his head sank forward on his out-thrown arms, while his shoulders heaved with sobs.
Seven days had passed.
In Milan there was much rejoicing, in its streets and palaces much splendor; it was the Lady Valentine's wedding day.
Among the throng outside the church of San' Apollinare, the eager crowd that fought and battled for a better chance of seeing the splendid procession, was a monk, seemingly a wandering friar, who pressed his face against the cold marble walls in the silent vexation of an utter disappointment. It was Conrad.
He had failed in his mad mission; success from the first had been hopeless; he had not redeemed himself. He had not helped Della Scala, he had not rescued Valentine—he had failed.
A dozen different plans had been formed—equally futile and impossible to carry out. Who could outwit Visconti in his own city? Bitterly Conrad regretted the false hopes conveyed in that whisper in this very church. Perhaps she had trusted to them, and here was her wedding day and he was standing outside helpless!
He knew it pure folly, this risking his life for nothing, and what had brought him there he could scarcely tell; but under his monk's habit he had a concealed dagger.
He felt desperate, wounded badly in both heart and pride. It was not so much for love of Valentine Visconti—that had ever been more fancy than aught else—it wasthe sense of failure—of self-humiliation; a bitter sense of how Visconti laughed at him. Far better a fine, romantic death than disgrace one side, defeat the other. In fact a fine, romantic death in a lady's cause would be decidedly gratifying. With this new thought of it struggling in his mind, Count Conrad suddenly turned from the wall and forced lustily through the crowd to the church steps.
He was there none too soon. A sudden wild shout from the crowd, a movement of the soldiers keeping guard, told him they were leaving the church. The pushing, struggling people were well kept back by the stout halberds; but Conrad, partly by virtue of his dress, but rather by the strength of his squared arms, managed to force to the front, where he stood close behind the stalwart figure of a German mercenary.
Conrad glanced at the blond hair and mild blue eyes. "Friend," he whispered in German, leaning forward, "have consideration for a German father who will say many prayers for thee—in his native tongue."
The soldier turned.
"Quick," said Conrad, "a place next thee, my friend."
The soldier smiled at the friar's curiosity, and allowed him vantage; and Conrad, stationed near the foot of the steps, looked up them eagerly to the brilliant group issuing from the church doors.
His roving eyes sought out Gian Visconti. It was only four months since he had seen him, talked to him freely, face to face, his friend and favorite, but it seemed years. Visconti had grown in greatness since then, and Conrad, when his gaze caught the once familiar figure, felt far away from knowledge of him.
Visconti was standing, his cap in his hand, surveying the crowd. He looked much older, Conrad thought, his face was dark and somber, hardly like the face of a man at the summit of his ambition. He came down the stepsslowly, on one side his sister, her bridegroom on the other, and taking no further notice of the shouting people, gazed down moodily.
Conrad hardly looked at Valentine, whiter than her white dress, gazing vacantly before her; he did not notice the utter change from her former brilliancy, he had no eyes for the overdressed, foppish bridegroom—he was looking at Visconti.
The steps were thickly strewn with flowers; the train of lords and ladies was one blaze of color and gems, still flowing from the church as Visconti came to within three steps of the Count, and Conrad sprang forward before the startled soldier could throw out a hand.
Visconti stopped, and the procession behind him, arrested, stood a flaming band of movement and color. Conrad threw back his hood with a sweeping gesture, thrilled by the excitement of the moment to dare anything. What his motive he could not have told, but it was a fine moment. He caught one glimpse of Valentine's suddenly illumined face, and drew the dagger.
"Another wedding gift!" he cried in ringing tones, and struck Visconti full upon the breast.
Then an utter confusion fell upon Count Conrad. He was seized and pinioned tight amid wild yells, while the dagger, glancing off the armor beneath the soft rose-colored velvet, fell on the steps unheeded.
"Count Conrad?" said Visconti clearly through the babble of voices. "Conrad von Schulembourg?"
"Aye," said Conrad wildly, struggling between the two soldiers who held him. "Complete your triumph, Visconti. I would have killed you; kill me—kill me! You tried before and failed. I have tried and I fail. End it."
He would have added more defiances, but the soldiers hauled him roughly back, and choked the words back into his throat.
"Count Conrad?" asked Valentine, in a clear tone. "Did he say Count Conrad?"
Visconti motioned to d'Orleans.
"Take the Duchess on, my lord. I will remain and deal with this crazy friar."
"Surely he needs but little dealing with!" said the Frenchman. "An assassin! there is the gallows ready!"
"There is also your wedding procession waiting," returned Visconti quietly, and he motioned the train onward, and Conrad forward, the eager people in the street all straining every nerve to know what might have happened; appeased by the oncoming train, they gave only half a thought to the little knot pressed round the steps, and what the Duke had paused for.
Conrad stood between his guards, with a flushed face and a proud bearing. He would have liked to kiss his hand to Valentine, stepping into her gorgeous litter, looking back with half-awakened eyes; but his hands were held firmly, and his feet lashed together.
"Well, Visconti," he said, with a still higher carriage of his head, "what is it this time—starvation or the rack?"
Visconti made no answer: he was looking down at the flowers on the steps.
"Take those away," he said to a page, and pointed to a spray of white roses.
The boy obeyed, and glanced at his companions, wondering.
"Saint Hubert!" cried Conrad, with a sudden laugh. "You are full of whims as of old! How long must I wait for my death, at your good pleasure, my lord?"
The Duke turned his eyes on him.
"You are strangely foolish," he said, and hesitated, looking at Conrad with a moody face.
"Foolish indeed, or I had never been Visconti'sfriend!" retorted Conrad. "Foolish—or I had never trusted to this friendship. But call me also bold, my lord, to be here now, buying with my life the pleasure of saying so!"
"The impudent German!" murmured a lady in Visconti's ear. "Heaven has given your lordship even this—to crown your perfect triumph."
The Duke was still silent: he looked from Conrad to the crowd, shouting, throwing up their hats to see the procession pass, and then to the soldiers, wondering at this strange hesitation.
"Why did you come to Milan?" he asked at last, fingering the gold tassels on his sleeve, and speaking slowly.
"To save your unhappy sister," cried Conrad. "To try and kill you, Visconti!" And he struggled fiercely in the grip of his captors.
"Take him away," said Visconti. "Take him——" He paused a moment.
"To the gibbet, my lord?"
"No—outside the gates. Give him a safe-conduct that will take him out of my soldiers' lines. And so farewell, Count Conrad; I can waste no more time on you."
"I will not go!" shrieked Conrad furiously. "I will not have your mercy, Visconti—I will not accept from you my life!"
Visconti passed on.
"I say I will die!" cried Conrad after him. "Do you quail at another murder, Visconti? Dare you not kill one more?"
The Duke looked back at him.
"I owe you somewhat, Count. You may remember a certain game of chess you played in Della Scala's camp. It served me well—it saved my life—and gave me—Della Scala. Now take yours—as a most unequal recompense."
He smiled most unpleasantly, and Conrad was silent, struck, chilled.
"Put him outside the gates," continued Visconti; "and give him money for his journey. Maybe he left Della Scala too hastily to bear much away; maybe Della Scala did not in any case pay well; and we would not have the noble Count beg his way to Germany."
"Visconti——" Conrad choked on the word. "Visconti——"
"I will spare thy thanks," smiled the Duke. "Farewell."
"Give me a dagger—some one!" yelled Conrad. "That villain shall see I do not live to profit by his scorn. Give me a dagger—I—you truckling knaves! you shaveling cowards!"
"When your blood is a little cooler," said the soldier calmly, tying his hands the tighter, "you'll be giving us a ducat apiece for not taking you at your word."
"Silence, churl! I will not leave Milan; I will not be put outside the gates!"
"Just whatever the Duke says, messer, you'll do—just whatever the Duke says; and thank your guardian saint he was not himself to-day, or you'd have had your death—but not quite so pleasant as you seem to think it."
And for all he could shriek and threaten and pray, struggle and fight, Count Conrad was escorted through the crowded streets, between soldiers with immovable faces, and amid a crowd that laughed in huge enjoyment of his angry threats and bitter entreaties. A good mile outside the gates they led him, a fine rabble at his heels. And then they left him, with a good horse, a sword, and a bag of ducats.
"Now, Count, take those and ride to Germany—or if you must die, try and get back into Milan." And they rode away, laughing heartily.
Count Conrad seated himself on the roadside, and was silent a long while. Then he rose, and rubbed his stiff arms, bruised by the soldiers' grip, looked back toward Milan, looked at the horse and sword, gave one sigh to the past, mounted and rode away out of the shadow of Milan toward Novara, the first town on the route to Germany.
* * * * *
There was a great coming and going of brilliant company in the Visconti palace, a constant spurring of horses through its gates, the riding in of messengers and soldiers, the riding out of officers and nobles.
The Duke d'Orleans and his wife had left for France, with a splendid cavalcade of knights and ladies, escorted by the flower and the chivalry of Milan.
All Valentine's struggles and proud resistance and scorn had come to this: she left for France, as Visconti had ever said she should—left Milan dull to craziness, forgetful, with no sign of either joy or regret.
Visconti thought of this consummation with some satisfaction, then banished his sister from his mind. There were other matters more important to Visconti than the subdual of his sister—of Mastino della Scala and his wife for one.
Mastino had kept his pact: in one week, Pavia, Treviso, Cremona, Vincenza, and Verona had fallen; company after company of Mastino's soldiers had passed into the hands of the Milanese. Modena and Ferrara were left, but so weakened that a few days must see their end, though the deserted garrisons were fighting desperately, and sending wild messages to Della Scala, imploring aid.
Julia Gonzaga in Mantua was sore beset. At an urgent appeal from Mastino, almost every trained man holding the city had been sent to his assistance, to find themselves surrounded and cut to pieces by the Milanese, and Mantua left defenceless.
In Novara the Estes were shut up, waiting anxiously for news from Mastino—waiting in vain.
Isotta d'Este had been removed from Milan, and was lodged in a strong fort some miles outside Brescia, guarded still by Visconti's soldiers, but also by some of Della Scala's trusted but still unwitting Veronese—men who kept watch over her night and day, inspected all she ate, and allowed no emissary from Visconti to see her alone.
Such were the terms.
The thing had been done secretly. Vague rumors that the Duchess's release was being negotiated were the utmost that got abroad. The soldiers guarding her for Mastino thought the privilege bought, or that the Emperor had wrung it from Visconti. There were none who suspected the truth. Though for those ten days had been disaster on disaster, though town after town had fallen, squadron after squadron been ambushed, and though some whispered treachery and pointed to this captain and to that, none thought of staining the loftiest name in Lombardy with even a doubt—Mastino della Scala, the son of Can' Gran' della Scala, of a race that had never lied or betrayed, the one race in Lombardy of a lofty honor. Men would have as soon thought the stars would fall as Mastino della Scala.
Visconti, pacing his palace in a fever of triumph, thought of all this; thought of the d'Estes in Novara, still trusting—thought of Mastino's Veronese, their devotion, their sympathy—thought of Mastino's feelings. It was almost enough to satisfy his hate—but not quite—not quite.
"To-morrow," he said, stopping before de Lana—"to-morrow I shall march from Milan, and I shall lay in ashes every village, every town that has favored Della Scala. I will let loose my soldiers to pay themselves fromthe wealth of Lombardy, and I will makes the Estes take their proud banner down from the walls of Novara, and hoist with their own hands the Viper!"
"Mastino della Scala lies at Brescia," said de Lana, with an uplifting of his dark eyes. "His army has dwindled almost to a handful of picked Veronese; so a deserter who rode in tells me. He waits there for his wife."
"And I," said Visconti, leaning against the table, "have given orders she is to be sent, de Lana. He has kept his word; I will keep mine. He has paid dearly enough—he shall have his wife. And to-morrow I march on Novara."
"I have my orders, my lord."
"I have nothing more to say, de Lana. To-morrow we leave Milan."
The captain was turning in silence, when Visconti spoke again.
"Della Scala is at Brescia, ye say? Then his wife will reach him to-morrow about the time we reach Novara." He paused and looked at de Lana steadily. "I have sent orders for her release and forwarding in all due privacy, but with sufficient state, and I have sent her back her wedding ring."
De Lana only half understood him, but Visconti had small care for that.
"The Estes—in Novara, de Lana—they are unsuspecting?"
"How can they be otherwise, my lord? they are isolated——"
"Waiting for succors from Della Scala doubtless! How many could their numbers be?"
"Some thousand—no more. Della Scala called his Veronese out, my lord."
"'Twill be almost too easy a victory," said Visconti,smiling. "And then, from Piedmont to the Apennines, Italy will be under my rule: and Della Scala—I wonder what will happen to Della Scala, de Lana?"
"There is nothing but death for Della Scala," returned the soldier, standing at the door as if anxious to be gone. "Nothing is left for him but that, my lord."
"Ah—you forget," said Visconti softly. "There is his price—his wife; there is always his wife." And repeating the words, as if to himself, Visconti motioned de Lana away, and entered the inner room.
Giannotto was looking out of the window, and at Visconti's sudden entrance turned with a start.
"Giannotto," said the Duke smoothly, "you will come with me on the march to-morrow—not for love of your company, my friend, but because I do not trust you. Still, I keep you."
"There is now no Lady Valentine to outwit me in your absence with some of her brother's skill, my lord," replied the secretary meekly.
Visconti made no reply, but viewed the secretary sullenly. His words had brought up unpleasant memories: his palace was free of his rebel sister, but it was free also of another one who should have been his wife.
All his brilliant, his magical successes could not quite obliterate the sting of that one failure. Graziosa's name was a forbidden one; the splendid dwelling where she had shone so brief a while, shut to moulder. She was a thing of the past, though only ten days dead; but Visconti could not quite forget.
She had been buried quietly, in the same church as her father, at dead of night, with no mourners. And was she not gone—forgotten? Yet, disguise it as he might, it was failure.
"Yet she loved me," thought Visconti; and it rousedhis wrath that he must think of her—the house by the western gate—the sweet face, the white roses.
"Giannotto," he said moodily, "had she lived, I would not have done it—on my soul I would not have done it!"
"Done what, my lord?" asked the startled secretary, looking up at his dark, musing face.
"Ah, I forgot," said Visconti. "You do not know."
"No news! So many days, and still no news!"
Ippolito d'Este spoke in an anxious voice, leaning in the wide-cut window of the watch-tower that rose above the gates of Novara.
"I would we had not sent those last men," said Vincenzo gloomily.
He was seated at the table, his head resting in his hands. The chamber was large and dark, built of rough stone for strength and defense, fixed with narrow windows, and set with three doors—one into the narrow stairs, standing open, one on either side of it, shut. The walls were bare of arras. Vincenzo's armor lay piled in a corner, and a great crucifix, a red praying hassock beneath, hung near one of the windows.
"How many have we, my father?" asked Vincenzo, rising.
"Six hundred trained soldiers," was the brief answer.
"And the townsfolk?"
"Are the townsfolk," replied d'Este—"and useless."
Novara had been stormed and taken from Visconti some months ago, and the Estes, fixing their headquarters there, had foraged the country around as far as the ramparts of Magenta, a large town held by Visconti's men.
For these last fatal ten days, disaster after disaster had reduced the Modenese soldiers to a mere handful; and when Mastino, sending word he was in desperate straits, had called out all of the Veronese that manned thetown, they were left practically defenseless, in the midst of a country where Visconti's arms were everywhere triumphant.
They dared not leave the town; behind its walls was the only chance of safety. They knew not what positions Visconti held, nor what positions Della Scala. Since that last appeal for aid, they had had no message, no sign from him. Scouts sent out had not returned; one company, advancing from the walls, to find no sign or trace of Mastino, was surrounded and cut to pieces—the few who escaped returning to Novara with ghastly tales. Visconti's arms seemed everywhere victorious. The country was laid waste—and not by their allies.
But the Estes' hope was still in Della Scala. Urgent messages were sent to his camp outside Milan, and when neither answer nor messengers returned, the Duke of Modena grew sick at heart indeed.
He had not mentioned all his fears to his son, though Vincenzo could not but know their strait desperate.
"If we hear not to-day," said d'Este slowly, "I shall think there is treachery; not one messenger has returned—treachery, or some misfortune to Della Scala."
"Then are we lost indeed!" cried Vincenzo. "So far from Modena—so near Milan—only, what of the army that is with Della Scala—our army, his and ours?"
"What army we had with us," replied Ippolito, still looking with anxious eyes on the level country, "I sent to Della Scala—he was in sore need. What men we had outside the town have melted away like snow."
Vincenzo began to pace the room impulsively—a slender figure in a scarlet velvet doublet, his great black eyes bright and angry.
"Shall we not make a sortie, my father? Shall we not dash out and fight, seeing for ourselves what has become of Della Scala?"
Ippolito turned and looked at him, with a yearning love lighting his dark face.
"I am waiting, Vincenzo. I have sent trusty scouts to Brescia. This silence cannot last long now; either Mastino or Visconti march this way—and in either case we shall be ready to receive them, Vincenzo."
The younger d'Este lapsed into silence. Ippolito, too, was quiet, and the pause was broken by an officer entering.
"The Count von Schulembourg," he began.
"Conrad!" cried Vincenzo, springing up.
"Has he news?" asked his father, eagerly.
"I know not, my lord," replied the soldier. "He is riding unattended, and craves a passage through the town."
"He is riding away!" said Vincenzo—"away from Milan!"
"I must see him," said d'Este, with a darkening face, "at once."
As the soldier left, Vincenzo looked at his father eagerly.
"What may this mean, that Count Conrad rides away?"
"We lie on the route to the Empire. The German maybe rides home from a losing cause."
"I never thought such of Conrad," began Vincenzo, when the door opened and the Count himself stepped into the room, brilliant, gay as ever, well armed, the double-headed eagle on his breastplate, and the black and yellow of the Empire floating from his helm.
"Now well met, my good lords," he cried, "and fair fortune smile on you! I would ask the favor of a good horse—I am on my way to Germany."
"You leave the fight?" asked d'Este.
Conrad nodded.
"For better men—i' faith, I've tried all I know—no man is asked to break his head against a brick wall for nothing—not while the sun shines, and there is such a place as his own land to see again!"
"You used not to hold such language, Conrad," said Vincenzo, with some reproach.
"I have tried everything," cried Conrad, gayly. "I tried to rescue the Lady Valentine, I tried to kill Visconti, I tried to make him kill me—I have failed. My Lady Valentine is married, and is set out for France."
"For France!" interrupted d'Este. "Then must the country indeed be in Visconti's hands if his sister and a wedding-train set out for France!—what news, Count? surely there is some news?"
"Not much I care to repeat," replied Conrad. "Only rumors—all the country I rode through, from here to Milan, seems to swarm with Visconti's men—I saw no sign of Della Scala—there were wild tales abroad, and wild sights."
"On my honor, Count, you might have come with better information than this—days have we been waiting with no sign nor word——"
"From Mastino, would you say?" asked Conrad, eagerly.
"From Mastino. Have you not heard or seen aught of him?" cried Ippolito.
Conrad looked at d'Este's intent face, and from him to Vincenzo, waiting expectantly for his answer.
"I—I cannot say I have," he answered. "But as I tell you, I heard nothing save rumors——"
"And they——?"
Conrad fingered his yellow sash uneasily.
"One said Modena had fallen——"
Ippolito gave a sudden cry.
"Modena!"
"Aye," said Conrad, regretfully. "And Ferrara and Verona—so I heard——"
"Mastino is dead!" cried d'Este, and Vincenzo echoed the cry wildly.
"Mastino is dead!"
"I know not," said the Count. "I cannot tell—only this, that Visconti marches this way—and once more—a good horse. Vincenzo, Saint Hubert has saved me once—I dare not ask him again!"
"Modena fallen," murmured d'Este, unheeding Conrad's words. "And Verona—Mastino dead—Visconti marches on Novara!"
"My father, we are lost indeed!" cried Vincenzo, with a white face. "If Mastino be dead——"
"If!" said the elder D'Este, sternly. "There is no if, Vincenzo."
The boy looked round bewildered, and his eye fell on Conrad, waiting by the door.
"I will give orders for thy horse," he said. "Come with me——" and he led the way from the room. Conrad paused in the door, but Ippolito waved him aside sternly.
"Fare you well, Count. Vincenzo will see to your needs; meanwhile I have other things to think of—" and he strode past them, swiftly ascending the stairs to the soldiers in the higher chamber of the watch-tower.
Vincenzo, leaning on the stair-rail, with very bright eyes, looked after his father, and then toward Conrad with a sudden wistful smile. "I almost would I were to be riding gayly across a summer plain, away—away—this castle has grown gloomy of late—there is horror in the air." He shook the feeling off, speaking gayly. "Well, be glad thou art on thy way, Count Conrad, and in exchange for the horse, take, for my sake, with thee the little page Vittore. He is very young, and not of Lombardy."
"Gladly will I," replied Conrad, as they descended the narrow stairs. "And always shall I keep him for thy sake."
"Aye, do," said Vincenzo wistfully again, "otherwise thou would'st forget—of a surety, forget."
"Not I—I shall always remember."
Horses were brought to the courtyard, and Vincenzo called his little page and put him on one.
The sight of him brought memories to both of a certain game of chess—how fatal it had been: how long ago it seemed!
"I tried to make atonement," he murmured.
"My atonement, methinks, is to come," said Vincenzo. "But Mastino will never hear of it—Mastino is dead."
Conrad winced. He knew Mastino was not dead, but he would as soon have stabbed Vincenzo d'Este as told him.
"Fare thee well," he said, holding out his hand.
"Fare thee well."
Vincenzo took his hand, smiled up at him gravely, and re-entered the castle, mounting to the room he had left.
Visconti was on the march.
Vincenzo caught his breath sharply and went to the window to see the last of Conrad. Again he wished he was riding away into the sunshine, away from the dark walls that seemed closing round him forever.
"Farewell!" called back Conrad, gayly waving his mailed hand, and Vittore, excited at the sudden journey, drew off his cap and waved it gayly too. "I go to my own land," cried the Count. Vincenzo's lips trembled, but his words sounded as cheerily as Conrad's.
"And we stay here in ours," he called back.
And in after days, in peaceful days in Germany, when that brilliant, bloodstained Lombard summer seemed far away and strange as a wild dream, Conrad remembered; a memory he shared only with the dead.
The spurs jingled, with a trampling of hoofs the horses turned, the strong sun caught Conrad's plumes and Vittore's bright hair, he looked back with a laugh, and at a swift trot they passed through the castle gate.
Down the long paved street they clattered, till that sound too was gone.
Count Conrad had ridden away. Vincenzo stood silent in the great patch of sunlight that lay along the floor till Conrad's bridle bells were quite lost in the distance; then he turned, with something like a sigh.
He was not alone long—Ippolito re-entered with a calm face, and yet one his son was startled by.
"Count Conrad's news has been confirmed," he said; "a messenger has returned." He paused a moment. "All the country is in Visconti's hands."
"The saints save us!" cried Vincenzo.
"Aye, the saints, for there is no hope in man!"
"We must get arms—and succor into the city——"
Ippolito looked at him with a proud affection.
"Follow me, Vincenzo."
He opened one of the small doors; it led to a twisting flight of steps, and the two mounted in silence.
At the head of the stairway was a chamber used as an outlook toward—Milan.
"Gaze yonder," said Ippolito, pointing through the narrow arched window.
Vincenzo obeyed, and looking out over the great wide plain, with its white campaniles dazzling in the sunlight, at first saw nothing.
But on the horizon was a silver light, a light that danced and quivered, flecked here and there with red, and dotted about with curious faint smoke wreaths, fires in broad day.
"Visconti's army!" said d'Este. "And those fires the forts and villages Della Scala held—held but yesterday!"
Their doom was in those words and in what they saw; there was no need for more.
"Santa Maria save us!" murmured Vincenzo, with a blanched face. It was all he said—words were poor, there was little enough time for action, none for comment.
Outside could be heard the steady tramp of the sentries, and the hurry of more soldiers to the walls.
"Do they know?" asked Vincenzo, as they descended.
"The soldiers—yes—they are Modenese. The townsfolk—poor wretches—why tell them?"
They watched the other chamber, and after a silence Vincenzo spoke incredulously.
"Conrad said Modena had fallen?"
"It is true," said his father, in a low voice. "And Ferrara—oh!—my cities!"
Vincenzo gave a little gasp of pain.
"And Verona?"
"That too."
The younger d'Este looked out blankly at the sunshine, all hope faded from his face.
"And Mastino, father?"
Ippolito was silent, a silence worse than speech. Vincenzo was awed.
"So we are abandoned—defenseless, resistance hopeless! Oh, my lord! my father! We cannot fall into Visconti's hands! We—the Estes!"
"Hush!" said his father, sternly, yet with sparkling eyes. "I have been considering all—the Viper shall never fly in triumph from the walls from which a living d'Este is turned. Oh! had I never left Modena! See, Vincenzo—as soon as Visconti is within two miles of the gate—this!" He touched the door beside him, pushing it open, and Vincenzo's startled gaze followed the direction of his hand.
In the dark recess were the stone steps leading to thestore beneath; the powder, the rude engines of war, and a vast quantity of wood, stored for winter use, and piled high even to the door. Vincenzo felt his heart grow cold; he looked from his father's proud face to what the steps beyond conveyed, and understood.
He raised his eyes steadily and smiled. He, too, was an Este, and in this moment the proud glory in his birth was plain.
"My son!" cried Ippolito, suddenly, passionately. "My son!"
Vincenzo could not trust his voice to answer; he sat very still, the smile on his lips, his hand on his toy-like dagger.
D'Este turned his head away. From without came the sound of voices and footsteps—sounds of alarm, commands, shouts.
Ippolito turned to the door.
"I go to give the last orders," he said, and left Vincenzo alone with his approaching fate.
He sat very silent.
This, then, was the end, the end of it all!
That one thought beat strongest on his brain—this was the end. What had he not meant life to give him—all he had seen others enjoy, all he had ever dreamed of, honor and fame, power and love, visions there were no words for—the future for him had held all these—and now, a burst bubble!
In the very richness of his youth he had flung away his days and hours, laughing at time, if he ever thought of it, and at life—then were life and time and an unending world before him.
Life! And even while he sported with it as endless, it could have been measured by hours.
A great wave of homesickness rushed over him, homesickness for the world, for the past he had nevertreasured, for Modena, the leaves and roses outside his father's palace, and Conrad riding away into the sunshine—away from this dark chamber he would never leave. Yet he did not for a moment flinch, such a thought never entered his mind, only he could not bear to have to wait; he wished it were done and over—now.
From the street below rose a great uproar; there was some panic among the people; the country folk were pressing through the gates, fire and sword behind them—Visconti was on the march! Wild, frightened screams, and the hurry of feet, rose to the gloomy room, and Vincenzo sprang up; he wished his father had not left him, he wished he were not alone.
For his thoughts were bitter, and hard to bear alone. His life would be different, he thought, if he lived it again: not wasted, flung away. For the first time he felt he loved his father dearly, for the first time he realized how Mastino loved his wife—he understood. Was all knowledge coming to him so late, things to be made clear only to be darkened forever?
Ah, well, it was all over now; there were only a few moments to—what? He shuddered a little—to what? He wished his father would return, passionately he wished it; he did not want to think—for the first time and the last. He stood there with tight-clasped hands, his eyes on the door, holding desperately onto his control.
And at last Ippolito entered, quietly, closing it behind him. He held a missal in his hand, and a parchment. As he laid them on the table, Vincenzo noticed the last was sealed with the seal of Verona, the ladder of the Scaligeri.
"Mastino?" he whispered.
"Mastino is dead," said d'Este, in a calm voice, and he crumpled the parchment in his hand.
On it was written: "I have betrayed you for Isotta'slife," and it was signed with the proudest name in Lombardy—"Mastino Orazio della Scala."
"That shall not destroy the glory of Vincenzo's death," thought d'Este sternly, and he flung it from him, into the room beyond, among the powder—something only fit to be consumed.
The castle within was built largely of wood, and Vincenzo, looking into the darkness with a painful eagerness, watched the powder laid carefully about the walls, extending in a long train to tanks of oil, while fire boughs, dry and leafless, lay scattered thickly. D'Este had not been taken unprepared. Vincenzo's flesh stirred and shrank; he remembered snatching a bat once from the camp fire, and how the pain in his hurt hand had tortured him.
"'Tis a fearful death!" he murmured.
Ippolito turned a drawn face toward him.
"What didst thou say, my son?"
"Naught, father," answered Vincenzo bravely, though his heart was beating hot and thick. "Naught, save thatthatcannot fail us."
"No, Vincenzo; the wind blows eastward across the town," said d'Este, with a calmness that was almost brutal. "There will be none for Visconti to take back to Milan."
"We shall light the sky bravely to-night," said Vincenzo, and bit his lip to keep it steady.
His father's dark face lit with a sudden proud smile that transfigured it.
"Some scouts say Visconti sends men to treat with us, Vincenzo—with us—d'Estes! This will be what he never reckoned on: the flames blowing from the walls shall be our flags of truce!"
The streets, the whole town, were in a panic. The wild terror of the whole country-side had found its voiceinside the gates of Novara; there were six hundred men to defend the walls—and God! how Visconti sacked a town!
The sunlight that had rested along the walls when Conrad said farewell, lay along the floor now, a great square of gold that just tipped the table where Vincenzo's hand rested, and lay lovingly on his scarlet doublet, with its little foolish vanity of ribbons, and that other hand among them, clutched nervously, almost desperately, in the poor crumpled finery.
D'Este took the crucifix from the wall and laid it on the table. Under it burned a candle, and he moved that too, standing it beside him, as he took his seat opposite his son.
Behind him was the open door, in front the symbol of his religion—both meaning one thing, that the crucifix lying there baldly on the rough wood table told more plainly even than the powder kegs.
Vincenzo's eyes were on the missal, but not his thoughts: his ears on the strain for that sound he set his teeth in readiness to hear—the call to the gates.
In the silence of the chamber, the noises from the street sounded distinct, painfully distinct—shrieks and cries. Poor souls! so near eternity, and fighting over a handful of goods! Presently all noises died away into faint murmuring—or had he lost his power to hear? Then all at once it came—the beat of the drums, the summons to the walls! Louder, louder, wild, inspiring, the beat of the drums; and Vincenzo's heart bore them company.
They rose to their feet, the two d'Estes, and clasped hands across the table, the crucifix between them.
"God have mercy on our souls!" said Ippolito, and raised the pale, flaming candle.
"Amen," said Vincenzo, kissing the missal with cold lips.
The drums beat wildly, intoxicatingly, then suddenly stopped.
D'Este pushed back his chair; for a moment there was perfect stillness, then he laid the candle to the powder.... And Vincenzo d'Este was on his knees in the patch of sunlight, its glory full on his beautiful, upturned face.
He who was once the great Lord of Verona and a proud and stainless knight stood without Brescia, awaiting the price of his dishonor. It was mid-day, of a swooning heat, and great purple clouds lay heavily about the horizon, with a somberness that foretold a storm.
Mastino della Scala stood alone on a group of rocks scattered upon the plain, that sent his tall figure up against the deep sky, erect and motionless.
All that was left of his army was behind him in the chestnut wood: half had been betrayed, half had been cut to pieces rather than yield. Some few—the lowest dregs of his camp, the men who cared not where or when they drew their swords, so they had food and drink—remained, to try their luck with him, now no better than one of themselves. Through all the miseries of that weary week his gallant band of Veronese, some two hundred, had stood by him, watching the others ambushed, attacked, surrounded, and destroyed, hearing of town after town that fell, and smiling scornfully at talk of treachery, accepting without question Mastino's silence. Was he not the son of Can' Gran' della Scala, and his name one with honor, the proudest name in Lombardy, the proudest badge in Italy, the ladder of the Scaligeri!
So had they stayed with scorn at thoughts of betrayal whispered among the baser residue, until that morning when he had summoned their leaders and told them, witha strange calmness, he had sold them, Verona and Veronese, for his wife's release—sold Lombardy for Isotta d'Este.
Then leaving them, standing silent and bewildered, Della Scala mounted to these rocks to await his wife—alone. His eyes were on the fields before him; he hardly noticed a slight figure that crept timidly to his feet—Tomaso.
"My lord"—the boy's voice faltered, and he kept his eyes turned away—"the Duchess hath started safely; I saw her mount her litter with glad eyes; they bade me hasten forward and tell thee so."
"Ah!"
Della Scala stepped on to a higher rock and shaded his eyes with his hand. He was in armor, and bore on his arm his shield, across the boss the ladder, the ladder on which the Scaligeri had climbed so high, and from which they had fallen—to this!
Tomaso crouched beside him, silent and dismayed. He had clung to Della Scala spite of his father's loss (that he could not understand), and spite of what was happening now, that began to make plain that and many things.
Tomaso glanced up at the somber figure standing alone above him. Mastino wore no mantle, and the golden circlet was gone from his helmet. Mastino della Scala was no longer Duke of Verona.
No pages or footmen followed; save for this one boy, he was alone, carrying his own shield, holding his own horse, despised of those he once had thought of as beneath even his scorn.
A gallop of horses broke the summer quiet, and spears gleamed through the ruddy chestnuts behind them. The Veronese, thought Tomaso, the Veronese soldiers.
Della Scala neither turned his head nor moved, butstood there with his shield hanging on his arm, his sword hand listless by his side.
Tomaso was right. The riders were a band of Veronese. At a full gallop they flew out of the shade into the sun, in face and movement, fury.
Tomaso shrank back at sight of them, roused from their bewilderment, riding full tilt toward Mastino in a silence that was more deadly than shouts of hate; and Mastino turned at last and faced them with wild eyes.
The foremost man was swiftly on them, his furious face brought close to theirs. As he swept up he drew the dagger at his waist and hurled it full on Mastino's shield.
"That from me!" he cried, and rose in his stirrups with a shout. "That and my scorn, Della Scala!"
But Mastino was prepared; he stood erect and did not flinch.
Another rode by; bending his face close to him, he spat at him; both shattered their daggers on to his shield, those daggers mounted with his arms that they carried as his soldiers. One tore from his neck the collar Mastino had hung there, and flung it at his feet with curses.
"Traitor, where is Ligozzi?" cried one, hurling an imprecation, and Della Scala took a step back with a cry wrung from him; but the man was gone, and the face of another Veronese was looking into his with utter loathing. Without a pause they dashed by, each hurling his dagger, and many some order or sign of Mastino's friendship, full upon that shield that hung on Della Scala's arm.
"That to cheer thee in thy shame!"
"That to make a necklet for Isotta d'Este!"
"This from me, who would have died for thee!"
The taunts were bitter and savage, and hurled in a fury of scorn and hate; but Mastino della Scala, save for that one movement, neither flinched nor stepped out the wayof the onward rush, but bore for a long hour of that summer day that wild ride past of the Veronese and the batter on his shield of the daggers that disdained to slay him.
"Stop! in the name of heaven, stop!" shrieked Tomaso, and held his hands against his ears.
They took no heed of him, in their mad fury did not even see the boy. But to Tomaso it was most terrible that Della Scala made no movement to defend himself; his calm face was awful. "Stop!" Tomaso shrieked again. "Stop!"
How many more, how many more! How many times more that rattle as the daggers struck the shield and then fell to lie bright in the sun? How many more furious faces, how many more bitter curses? How long would Della Scala stand there turned to stone? Tomaso crouched and hid his eyes. At last they came to an end! The last rode by, the standard-bearer, tearing the standard to rags with furious hands.
"Verona is no more!" he yelled. "The Scaligeri are no more, the standard is no more, the standard of Verona!"
He threw the twist of red and gold at Mastino's feet with a sudden wail in his voice. He was an old man, one who had served Mastino and Mastino's father well. He stopped his horse; the first who had done so.
"Mastino della Scala! oh, why didst thou do this thing? Tell me thou repentest!" he cried.
Mastino looked into the old man's wistful face.
"Verona is no more, the Scaligeri are no more. Ride thee to the others, old man," he said.
The standard-bearer wrung his hands.
"I loved thee!" he pleaded. "Save thy soul and say thou dost repent!"
Mastino's proud head was erect.
"And do I live to save my soul? Get thee to the others, I do not repent."
The old man rode away sorrowfully. Della Scala watched him disappear behind the rocks and trees.
He was the last, and silence fell.
"They are gone!" breathed Mastino. "They are gone!"
His eyes fell to his shield; from rim to rim it was defaced and dented, and the ladder of the Scaligeri was beaten from its boss. The ground around was piled with arms, and Mastino put his hand up to his eyes, staggering. The ladder of the Scaligeri was beaten from his shield!
"Some men remain, my lord," said Tomaso timidly, at last, with a boyish effort at some consolation.
But Mastino winced; that they remained was a sorer shame even than the desertion of the others: for they were men, scum of camps, who fought solely for pay and plunder, and laughed at dishonor and admired treachery—they were the men who had stayed.
"Isotta!" cried Mastino, with a sudden wild movement. "Why does she not come?—have I not waited long—have I not paid enough?"
"I think I see her escort coming across the fields," said Tomaso timorously.
Mastino turned and grasped his arm with a sudden change of manner.
"Tomaso," he faltered, "methinks I am changed since last I saw her; perhaps she will—not know me—or will startle at me if she does. Tomaso, she is very fair and I have nothing to offer now—Tomaso, am I very changed?"
He was changed, so changed the boy would scarce have known him; his soft brown hair was streaked with gray, his fine face drawn and white, his eyes, once soft andkind, unnaturally bright, and, like his mouth, strained and hard.
Mastino laughed pitifully as he read the answer in Tomaso's frightened eyes.
"She will not care—she will not care," he said. But his voice was unsteady, and he supported himself against the saddle of his horse.
"The Duchess comes!" said Tomaso, and clutched Mastino's hand.
Out of a little wood of delicate trees, in front of them, the cavalcade was winding: Visconti's soldiers, Veronese soldiers, and a white, curtained litter in the midst.
Mastino's gaze flew to that, and to that only.
"Oh, my heart's desire!" he murmured. "I do not repent!" And he forgot the ladder of the Scaligeri battered from his shield.
The soldiers cantered up and lowered their halberds in a salute to the magnificent figure standing there alone, while the officer read in a high voice from the parchment, that stated that Isotta d'Este, Duchess of Verona, prisoner of war of Gian Galeazzo Maria Visconti, Duke of Milan, was returned to her husband in fulfillment of the league and treaty between them.
"Into your hands we deliver her in safety, my lord, and my lord of Milan offers three months in which to either quit Lombardy or choose some post in his service in Verona."
"My choice is made: I quit Lombardy," said Mastino. "Leave me."
The soldier lightly shrugged his shoulders and gave the word, and, cantering off, Visconti's guards wheeled and followed swift behind him. They had fulfilled their duty: Isotta d'Este's safety was no affair of theirs now.
The Veronese footmen bearing the litter had set theirburden down; the white curtains fluttered—was it the breeze, or Isotta's hand, that stirred them so?
"Tomaso, Tomaso, I have borne much; can I bear this?"
His eyes were sparkling, his tone joyful; he had thrown all his shame from his heart; the miserable past, the miserable future, were alike forgotten; the world had narrowed to this—her welcoming face.
He laid his shield on the ground gently, and walked across the grass softly. The curtains, white in the still blazing sun, dazzled him; his heart was beating so, he thought it must choke him.
"Isotta!"
He called her name so low she could not hear.
"Isotta!"
Still she made no answer.
"Perchance she is very weary," said Mastino to himself, tenderly, and drew the white curtains back. She lay back among silk cushions.
"Isotta, my dear!"
There was a tremor in his voice. Had she fainted?
She lay back, her head away from him, and, bending over her, he saw through her long curls that her eyes were closed, her lips parted, and one hand at her throat—the hand that bore his wedding ring. Oh, heaven!——
He caught her head in his hands and looked at her. She was dead, quite dead. The silk curtains fell-to again, and at Mastino's cry the bearers shrank, appalled. Isotta d'Este was dead.
And Mastino lay along the ground, senseless, his defaced shield near him, bare to the bright glare of the sinking sun.