"Yes," said Graziosa innocently. "My lord bade me ride to the new church."
She was very happy, and affection welled up in her tender heart, even for the woman who had used her so cruelly—for she was Gian's sister.
With a timid gesture she held out her little hand to Valentine.
"Will you not ride back beside me?" she asked, pleadingly.
But Valentine ignored her hand and her request.
"Have you visited any other churches in your ride?" she asked.
"What other church in Milan should interest the Lady Graziosa?" asked d'Orleans wearily, fearing to be sent back on some distasteful journey.
"I did not know—I thought there might be one—Santa Maria, close to the western gate."
And Valentine looked straight at Graziosa, who paled beneath her tone.
"How should that interest me?" she faltered.
Costanza put her hand on Valentine's sleeve.
"Have a care," she whispered. "Not before them all, madama, for pity's sake!"
But Visconti's sister took no heed; she gathered up her reins and signed to her escort to move on.
"Of course," she said, "why should it interest thee?—there is nothing there—it is only a small, mean church, where a poor, obscure traitor lies on his bier." She looked around the startled faces with a bitter scorn on her own. "Who has heard of him?—one Agnolo Vistarnini—killed by the Duke's orders, killed by thy lover's orders, in the very hour that ye betrayed him to him, Graziosa Vistarnini!"
She flung the words at her as if they had been knives, and if they had been they could not have been more deadly. Without a word, her hand catching at her throat, Graziosa sank from her horse, the scene in an instant one of confusion.
"Dieu! what have you done!" cried d'Orleans, springing from the saddle and raising Graziosa. "Who will answer for this?"
"She will not die of it," said Valentine, scornfully. "She will take care to live—to be Duchess of Milan."
"Oh, shame! shame!" cried Costanza, and several echoed the cry.
"'Twas no gentle act," said d'Orleans, lifting Graziosa, "and heaven save you now, Princess!"
"And our heads may have to pay for it," grumbled the officer who led Graziosa's escort. "Men, see the Princess does not escape, or there will no one of us live to save ourselves."
"Shame! shame!" said the Duke again, as Graziosa, white as death, was laid in a litter. "You have done a mad thing!" And the whole fluttering cavalcade whirled in startled confusion toward the palace.
Valentine looked after them, and there was no remorse in her face.
"You must answer to the Duke for this, madama," said the officer, "and at once."
She turned her horse slowly, and at a quiet pace rode toward the Visconti palace. Costanza began to weep.
"Nothing can save you now, mistress—why did you do it? Oh, why!"
"Count Conrad is in Milan!" was Valentine's answer to herself; and to Costanza she said, coldly, "Do not fear for me. I am too valuable to be meddled with. Even a Visconti would not dare to slay his sister before the Frenchman's eyes."
They entered the courtyard in silence, the soldiers forming up close around her. The cavalcade had ridden slowly, and there was no trace of Graziosa's arrival. The palace seemed quiet. Valentine dismounted as usual, and was mounting the entrance steps when de Lana advanced.
"I have a painful duty to discharge, Princess," he said. "You are my prisoner."
Valentine went white: she had not expected this so swiftly.
"The Lady Graziosa is in danger of her life," continued de Lana.
"'Tis no fault of mine," said Valentine. "What do you want with me?"
Costanza clung to her, weeping loudly.
"Have done!" said the soldier, sternly. "Follow behind your lady. You will follow me, Princess."
"Seeing I cannot help it," retorted Valentine, with flaming cheeks. "Where is my brother? Where is the Duke d'Orleans?" She looked round once; from somewhere there stepped forward two of de Lana's men and took their places at her side. She moved up the stair, Costanza with her, weeping with fear.
The corridors were empty, save for the soldiers at their posts. De Lana opened the door of the Duke'sapartments and stood aside for her to enter, but Valentine shrank back.
"'Tis the Duke's orders," said de Lana, and he moved Costanza back. "You will enter alone."
Then Valentine summoned up her courage, and when she had passed the door, de Lana followed and stood beside it.
Visconti was at the table, behind him Giannotto, and at her entrance he raised such a white, distorted face of fury, that Valentine quailed and sank back against the wall.
"Ah!" said Visconti, "I have it in my mind to kill you, my sister. I have it in my mind to give myself that pleasure—to kill you."
He rose as he spoke, and Giannotto drew farther away from him, glancing at Valentine with a white amazement; the Duke was bordering on frenzy.
"Oh," cried Visconti again, "so you have no more wits than Tisio: you think, because it suited me that you should wed with d'Orleans, that you are free to flout me at your will!"
"Now be silent," breathed de Lana to Valentine, who leaned against the wall beside him.
"You!" said Visconti, stopping before her. "You!—to meddle with me—let me lift my finger and I can bring you lower than any slave in Milan!"
"Silence!" breathed de Lana again. But Valentine had too much of her brother's own spirit. The madness of the Visconti rose into her eyes; she straightened herself and moved forward defiantly.
"Aye, or you can kill me," she said, "as you have the others; but you cannot make me humble before your wife out of the streets."
Visconti stood stock still, and Giannotto, glancing at de Lana, wondered if she were to be murdered before their eyes.
Under the look in her brother's face Valentine stepped back again and huddled herself against the wall: she saw Visconti draw his dagger—and she hid her eyes—but motionless and without a sound.
"I have had enough of you," said Visconti, and strode down upon her in a white madness of fury, forgetful of all else. "I will clear you from my path—yes, as I did the others." Then he looked at de Lana, and something in the soldier's face told him he would have to kill him first.
"And as I will any who oppose me," he cried, furiously. "Am I not the Duke of Milan? Take thy hand from thy sword, de Lana. Now we will settle scores, Valentine." His hand was lifted, Giannotto turned his face away, and de Lana had thrown himself forward, when a light knock on the door close by broke the moment's silence, and Visconti's hand sank to his side.
"Open!" he cried. "It is the messenger from the Lady Graziosa," and de Lana, eagerly seizing the interruption, flung wide the door.
Visconti looked up and met Valentine's eyes, and she knew how near she was to death.
"My lord," said de Lana, returning, "the Lady Graziosa hath recovered—there is no fear of her life, my lord."
"Ah!" Visconti returned his dagger to its sheath, and Giannotto gave a gasp of relief.
"Take my sister to her apartments, de Lana, and guard her well there—and if any ask for her, say she is under my displeasure——"
The captain turned, glad to take her from the room alive.
"Will you see the messenger, my lord?"
"No," said Visconti, fiercely. "As long as she lives, what care I for the messenger?"
The soldier seized Valentine's wrist and forced her,still reluctant, from the room. She was conquered, not subdued.
"If Graziosa dies," said Visconti, turning to Giannotto, "she does not live either. You have heard me say it.—She and her woman's venom!" he continued, pacing the room furiously. "I should have swept her away sooner—I would now but for the French, and the French shall not save her the next time. He is a fool, Giannotto, who thinks that because a woman is a prisoner she is powerless—let him remember her tongue."
"My lord, she may have thought the lady knew," faltered Giannotto.
"Silence!" cried Visconti. "She may have thought I wanted to give Isotta d'Este her liberty! Ah, let her beware! Graziosa, too; why did she not tell her that she lied? Had I not said he lived? Has she no spirit—no dignity—to shame me by her silence and her moans!"
The secretary ventured on no reply. He fumbled with the parchments on the table and drew one forward. Visconti's glance fell on it and his rage calmed instantly; his eyes flashed with a changed expression.
"These are the terms we sent to Della Scala?" he asked, with a sudden smile.
"Yes, my lord; terms I think that cannot fail."
The Duke sat silent a while, and the smile deepened to a laugh.
"I disturb myself for a woman's quarrels," he said at last, "and am on the eve of winning Lombardy!"
"The Estes may already have detached themselves from Della Scala, my lord," said the secretary.
"We will hope not. They will cling to the losing cause, and Mastino della Scala, the stainless knight, himself shall betray them!" smiled Visconti, with such cruel wickedness that Giannotto shrank.
"You stand so strong after your victories, my lord," he said, "you might well crush them all by force."
"Only I do not choose that way of doing it," replied the Duke, still smiling. "I will accomplish a bloodless victory. I will spend no treasure, no time, and no men on this conquest, but I will win from it, not alone Della Scala's towns, but his honor and his fame."
For days the sun had risen and set in cloudless splendor, hanging through the long summer day in a sapphire sky, flooding the beautiful country with gold, making the air heavy with perfume and sense of summer.
Mastino della Scala, standing at the door of his tent, hardly saw the glory and the brightness, the splendor of the great chestnuts, all deep green and snowy white, the proud beauty of the heaped-up flowers, the vivid richness of the foliage; for his heart was too sore for the finest sun that ever shone to ease it.
He had waited long, and waited hopelessly.
In the tent behind him, Tomaso and a page polished his armor. For once Mastino was without it—yesterday he had donned it, and waited expectant for the answer to the challenge he could not believe Visconti could refuse. It was his fault to think the best of men, a fault that had cost him dear when he had trusted Count Conrad, a fault that had cost him the insult now of Visconti's answer to his message.
"I have tried everything, and in everything I have been outwitted or betrayed. I am helpless, powerless. Will it last unto the end?"
The thought burned across Mastino's heart like fire.
"Would it last unto the end?"
The dazzling sun blinded him, the waving of the green made him giddy; he lifted the flap of the tent and entered.
After the glare the dark and gloom were welcome.
The tent was large and bare, only the two boys in their quiet dresses and the bright armor strewn over the worn grass, only these and Ligozzi seated near the entrance watching Mastino with anxious eyes.
Della Scala could not speak to him. He avoided his eyes, he had talked to him so often on this one theme. He could not meet his friend's eyes, so often humiliated with failure, with nothing but fresh disaster to speak of.
In silence he paced up and down the tent, Ligozzi's eyes following him wistfully. He also did not care to speak.
Mastino had left the entrance half open, and a great shaft of sunlight fell across the ground like a branch of yellow flowers.
And as Della Scala passed it fell upon him, showing clearly his erect figure in its leathern doublet, his fine worn face and the unhappiness in his eyes, his hands locked behind his back.
The next instant he had passed into the shadow again, and Ligozzi leaned from where he sat and shook the covering into place. Twice Mastino had passed, twice he had seen the look on his face, and he did not care to see it again.
The tent was hot.
Tomaso and the page laid the armor down in silence, overawed by the silent figure pacing to and fro.
Outside it was quiet too, only now and then the gallop past of horses or the tramp of men as they moved from one part of the field to another.
At last Mastino spoke, stopping before Ligozzi suddenly.
"I have not told thee yet," he said, "but a messenger has arrived from d'Este. There have been some slight successes with his army, and he thinks that I should join him."
"And leave Milan?"
"And leave Milan. He thinks it is hopeless, now Rome leagues with Visconti—he thinks it better to hold what we have nor risk it all by careless daring—but I—I shall stay here, Ligozzi."
Ligozzi was silent; he knew d'Este's words were true; he knew Mastino knew it also. There was nothing to be said.
"I shall advance on Milan," continued Della Scala. "If the d'Estes' troops care not to join me, I will advance alone with my Veronese."
He sat down on the wooden bench, fingering with nervous hands his gold belt and the dagger that hung there.
"Why dost thou not speak?" he said, after a moment's pause, suddenly turning to Ligozzi. "Dost thou too think it hopeless?"
There was a wistful eagerness in his voice that struck to Ligozzi's heart; he could not utter his thought.
"With waiting, my lord," he replied. "With new allies——"
But Della Scala cut him short.
"I see, Ligozzi, I see. I am a man wanting to be persuaded against himself; yet do I still hope—against myself——"
"To rescue——"
"To rescue my wife, wouldst thou say?" flashed Mastino. "No, I do nothopethat: that Iwilldo—in my soul I know it; but I still hope to conquer in fair fight. What did the attempt at guile avail us? We were betrayed; open force were better."
Ligozzi's anger rose at the thought of that betrayal.
"I would I had the slaying of the traitors!" he cried.
Mastino smiled sadly.
"What were we to her? She loved, perchance. I should have done the same—for Isotta."
"Thou wert ever too gentle, my lord," returned Ligozzi. "Could woman loveVisconti?"
"She loved some one of her own creating, I trow," said Della Scala. "Poor lady! the awakening will be her punishment."
Ligozzi made no reply. Mastino's point of view was not his: in his eyes Graziosa was a hussy he would have liked to have the hanging of.
"In two days or a little more, when I have had my answer from the Estes," said Mastino, rising, "I march on Milan."
"But in those two days?" questioned Ligozzi.
"Visconti seems to have ceased all sallies," said Della Scala; "and yet I know not what this quiet means."
"It means his policy was ever caution," returned Ligozzi. "Of a sudden he may——"
"He may do anything," cried Mastino; "he hath Milan and Rome and the Empire to back him. Still do I hold many towns. Verona is strongly fortified; I lie between him and Mantua. He cannot fall on those."
"He has Padua, Bassano, Mestre, and Chioggia," said Ligozzi.
Mastino struck his hand against the tent impatiently.
"I know!" he cried. "I know the odds are not equal! When I seek to comfort myself, why wilt thou remind me, Ligozzi? What can I do? Nothing but what I say: march on Milan. And mark me, Ligozzi; whatever befall, if all desert me to a man, if d'Este fail me, I will not leave the walls of Milan—alive, without my wife."
"I will not desert thee," said Ligozzi simply. "I will never desert thee, my lord."
"I never doubted thee," returned Mastino impulsively. "Ah, forgive me if I am harsh, for in truth my heart is very heavy; when I think of her—in Visconti's power—it is terrible! terrible!"
He shuddered and put his hand on Ligozzi's shoulder, speaking eagerly.
"Such things cannot happen, Ligozzi, can they? It cannot be I shall never see her again! God cannot mean that—though He take all from me, though He humiliate me before my enemy, He cannot mean that! No! Visconti is not leagued with Heaven: it cannot be! it cannot be!"
"No," said Ligozzi; "even Visconti would not dare to harm the Duchess. Ye will see her again, my lord."
Della Scala turned away to the other end of the tent; it was plain to him Ligozzi's heart was not in the comfort that he gave, that he thought with the others that they would do well to fall back from Milan, join the Estes, and hold the towns they had.
"But they do not understand," said Mastino in his heart. "I will never go back alive—without my wife."
The Duke of Milan had sent a secret embassy to Mastino della Scala, lying crushed outside Milan—a secret embassy he had long been meditating. The master-stroke of his policy should be the Duke of Verona's ruin, and his complete triumph.
And the moment of his sending was well chosen. The two days of which Mastino spoke had passed. The answer from d'Este at Novara had been unfavorable. His plans, he said, were to march back to Modena and Ferrara, protecting that part of Lombardy, held now by Julia Gonzaga's men alone, against Visconti; he would wait for his army to come up; he would wait for Mastino, but not long; his duty lay inside Modena and Ferrara, not outside the hopeless walls of Milan.
And Mastino had set his teeth, and taken his answer in silence.
That night there was a wild attack on the walls of Milan, so sudden, so fierce, that it almost seemed as if the ramparts must fall before the furious onslaught.
For five hours the Veronese and the defenders had struggled on the walls. Twice Mastino had wrenched the towers of the western gate from the enemy's hand; twice he had been driven back, leaving his dead piled high. A third desperate attempt had also been lost, and Della Scala fell back toward Brescia with frightfully diminished numbers, and mad with the agony of final defeat.His cause seemed hopeless. And in the moment of his hopelessness Visconti's embassy arrived.
"Give Della Scala one day to consider," Visconti said to Giannotto, who accompanied de Lana on this mission. "An if he mislikes the terms, say thou art to carry them to Ippolito d'Este."
It was evening, and very still. Visconti stepped onto the balcony, and looked through the clustered pillars of its arcade into the garden.
The setting sun blended all flowers alike with soft gold; a little breeze shook the leaves, and stirred the jasmine that clung to the carved sandstone, fluttering its white stars delicately; the sky was very clear, as pure as a shell, and tinted like a wild rose.
Visconti was busy with his thoughts. His eyes rested on Isotta's dark prison with an utter satisfaction in gazing on this evidence of his power over Della Scala. And then he looked to Graziosa's dwelling, and a shade crossed his face. Even to himself he would not yet admit it—but with her it was not perfect success.
Since Valentine's cruel stab, Graziosa had faded, grown silent and dull; and her beauty had gone with her happiness. She looked no wife for a Visconti. Torn from its setting, her fresh face lost its charm; the simplicity that had pleased him in her father's house annoyed the Duke in his own palace; the meekness and devotion that had flattered his vanity now angered it—in his eyes she had no more presence than a serving-maid; she was making his choice a mock before all Milan, with her white face and timid voice.
Visconti frowned to himself as he thought of her. She had said no word, she had uttered no reproach; she had remained passive and dull; but she was grown a mere shadow, a reflection of her former self.
"Maybe her folly will wear away," mused Viscontimoodily. "But if not—if she prefers her father before me—she may follow him."
To-day he had not as yet seen her. This was the first thought he had spared her; now he had a free moment and he would visit her—see for himself if her humor should promise of changing—the humor of:
"My Lady Graziosa Vistarnini, who hath not spirit for her destiny, who hath not the greatness to be proud to be a Duchess of Milan."
Visconti sneered at her scruples, and was inclined to be angry with his own folly in choosing his wife for a soft heart and true affection; and with more even than anger he thought of Valentine. He took his way alone through the sumptuous gardens.
Graziosa was not in her gorgeous residence. "She had gone to the little summer-house in the garden," he was told, "to see the sun set, and pray to Santa Teresa, whose name-day it was."
Visconti turned on his heel with an impatient shrug of the shoulders. He was not attuned to passive virtue or to saintly prayers, nor was his palace their best background.
He saw Tisio and his pages in the distance—behind them, the white marble summer-house, standing on a gentle eminence, half hidden in laurel; and as he advanced through the clustering flowers he saw Tisio enter the low door, the scarlet liveries of the pages flashing through the deep green.
The perfect evening was like music in its calm loveliness. Visconti felt its charm; he was ever alive to obvious beauty, and none of his artist's perception could have walked this glorious summer garden, at such an hour, unmoved. His heart softened toward Graziosa: she had saved Milan—for his sake: in his great triumph he could afford to remember it, and the affection thatprompted it, and set to her credit much else she might seem to lack.
He picked a white rose from the bush that crossed his path, and stuck it in his belt; he remembered she had often worn them—there was a bush in Agnolo's bower, and they reminded him of her. He looked up at the white summer-house, a square tower, distinct against the sky: the top window was open wide, then suddenly blew to—and Visconti started at it curiously and so suddenly that a pang shot through his heart. Then he advanced with a quicker step toward the marble summer-house.
Graziosa stood in its upper chamber, a circular room, broken by three large windows—the walls a marvel of serpentine and jasper, the casements a glory of stained glass, through which there poured the last rays of the setting sun, flooding everything with a thousand dazzling colors.
A carved marble bench ran around the wall, and above it shallow niches, in one of which stood a gilt lamp. On the floor lay a forgotten lute, tied with a knot of cherry-colored ribbons.
Graziosa unlatched one of the windows; it opened center-wise, and the girl stood, one hand on either leaf, the sun making her golden bright from head to foot. Before her lay Milan, the beautiful, with its trees and gardens, clear in the setting sun, that sunk, a fiery ball, behind the distant purple hills. Graziosa breathed heavily. The tower looked toward the western gate; the sun caught the roof of a little house beside it, the roof of a house and a flock of white doves that flew around it, as if looking for something they could not find. Near rose the square tower of a little church, Santa Maria Nuova.
Graziosa stepped back into the room, letting the window fall-to with a clang. Some one must come soon.With a piteous little gesture she pulled at the jeweled fastening of her stiff satin robe. For some moments her trembling fingers could not undo the great pearl clasp. At last it opened, and the yellow robe fell apart.
A rope of pearls bound her waist: with a hasty movement she undid them, and let slip the gorgeous dress, that fell stiff and gemmed onto the marble floor. Beneath was the blue robe she had worn when she first came to the palace.
With hasty fingers she pulled the ornaments from her hair, throwing them to the ground. Her long curls fell about her shoulders; a little sob shook her throat; she looked wistfully around, and sank into the chair. For a little while she sat silent, with closed eyes, panting.
Suddenly the sun sank, leaving the room dull, all the light and color gone.
Graziosa opened her eyes with a little cry.
"I am so lonely!" she whispered to herself—"so lonely. I want some one—to kiss me—good-by."
She rose and fumbled among the folds of her fallen gown; she found something small she grasped tight in her cold fingers.
"I am not brave—ah, I fear I am not brave!"
She rested her head against the arm of the chair, as if collecting herself; then, with a little smile, lifted it with a pitiful show of courage.
The wind blew the unlatched window open, showing the city roofs and the wall distant and gray; then it fell-to again, leaving the chamber dull, almost dark, when a little later a footstep fell on the stair and the door was pushed open.
Tisio stepped in, peering around with vacant eyes. D'Orleans had lost his lute. Tisio remembered it left here. A heap of shimmering yellow satin caught his eye—yellow satin and a great rope of pearls. He markedit with vacant surprise, then, seeing the lute he sought for, made for it eagerly. He was proud to do these things. It pleased him to be so useful. He would not risk the page should find it. The lute lay near the bench against the wall, and, picking it up, Tisio noticed that some one sat there, some one very still and silent, against the cold white marble. He dropped the lute and came nearer. The chamber was utterly silent in the cold light, and the window was blowing to and fro with a dismal, sullen sound; but Tisio knew no ghostly terrors, he was not fearful of the dark.
He leaned over the figure eagerly, and when he knew it for Graziosa he was pleased. He liked her. That morning she had met him and seized his hands, and talked to him wildly, telling him with sobs something he could not understand. He thought it had to do with Gian.
Her head lay back against the purple cushion, and Tisio stroked it tenderly, fondling the beautiful bright curls that fell over the plain blue dress.
"Pretty thing!" he said gently. "Pretty thing!"
He had no remembrance how he had stroked that hair before, in the streets of Milan, in the sunshine.
She never moved under his touch, and something in the droop of her attitude struck him.
"She is sad," he thought, and with a change of tone he lifted one of her limp hands.
"Poor thing!" he said again. "Poor, pretty thing! Art thou sad, poor, pretty thing?"
She made no answer, and he laid her hand back on her lap tenderly, smoothing her dress, and whispering comfort in her unhearing ears.
Suddenly the door swung under an impetuous hand. It was the Duke, but Tisio was not startled.
"Gian!" he said, "be kind to her; talk to her, poor thing!"
Visconti stepped into the room, looking at Tisio keenly.
"Where is she?" he asked, for in the gloom he could not at once see the silent figure in the corner. "Where is she, Tisio?"
"The girl with the pretty hair—" began his brother; but Visconti grasped him by the arm with a cry.
"Bring me a light!" he cried, "a light——"
With trembling hands Tisio lit the lamp and brought it near. Its yellow light fell over Visconti's green dress and Graziosa's bright hair.
"If it should be so!" muttered Visconti. "If it should be so!"
The light was faint, but it showed him enough. He looked into her face, and his own changed darkly.
"Tisio," he said, "she's dead! Graziosa! Graziosa!"
He bent closer, eagerly.
"Get help, Tisio! help!"
And Tisio, eager, alert, put the lamp in the window, where it flung long, ghostly shadows, and sped calling down the stairs.
Visconti had sent for help, yet even while he sent he knew it useless: she was dead! He stood looking at her. Poison!—she had poisoned herself. Something was tightly locked in her right hand! he forced the fingers apart, and looked at it—poison.
"How dared she do it?" he muttered, with an ever-darkening face. "How dared she?—who gave it her? Who dared to give it her?"
He would never have thought it lay in her to do this. All Milan must know she had preferred to die rather than be his bride. He had failed in this, though he had sworn he could not, though he had sworn she should share his throne before them all—the woman who loved him for himself alone. He remembered Valentine. Valentine had done this.
At his feet lay the satin garments and the jewels Graziosa had flung aside: she would not wear them. Not all his power could do that; not all his pride, all his ambition, could make her wear the crown, without the love. Gian Visconti stamped his foot. How dared she! How dared she!
Her eyes would never sparkle at his coming nor sadden at his good-by. And Visconti, coming back to look at her again, was awed; affection stirred anew, and something like respect at the sight of her still dignity.
He looked around to find the door full of anxious faces, and Tisio behind him.
"Finely I am served!" he cried in a transport. "Do you let the Lady Graziosa go unattended? She hath been murdered, and those who should have been with her shall die for it!"
Weeping ladies and frightened pages crept in and stood aghast, silent at what they saw—more silent at his face.
Visconti stood before Graziosa's body and looked at them with mad eyes; he held a white rose in his fingers. The flickering lamp was just over his head; its light fell on his face and on hers—her sweet face that told its own tale.
For some moments Visconti was silent, gazing at them wildly, and it seemed to more than one of those who crowded there appalled that there came a new expression to his face, a new look into his widely opened eyes—not madness and not rage—but fear.
"In a week I would have made her Duchess of Milan," he said at last, with a sudden break in his voice; and he dropped his white rose at her dead feet, with a shudder, and turned away, through the crowd that fell away from him, down the stairs in silence.
It was two hours later, in the hushed, awe-struck, half-expectant palace, when Visconti opened the door of his inner room and stepped into the antechamber, where one page kept watch.
To him the Duke beckoned, handing him a glass with milk-white lines circling it—a slender, flower-like glass with a long stem.
"Fill up with wine," he said.
The page obeyed.
"Now bring the glass and follow me," said Visconti, and left the room, the boy behind him.
Before his sister's door he paused. Soldiers guarded it: within could be heard footsteps and anxious, frightened voices, the whispers of the tragedy. The key was turned: he entered, opening the door quietly, admitting himself and the page, the guard closing it behind him.
The room was lofty, and, like all Visconti's rooms, ill-lit. A great crucifix hung at the far end, and before it knelt Valentine. When she heard the door she turned and started to her feet.
"Put the wine down and go," said Visconti to the page.
"Ah, no!" cried Valentine. "Let the page stay, Gian!"
She stepped forward with imploring eyes upon the boy.
"Go," said Visconti again.
"In the name of mercy, stay!" cried Valentine, in sudden desperate fear, seeing her brother's face. "Stay!"
The wretched page hesitated, but not for long. Visconti turned once more, and he tapped on the door to be let out, making no more ado.
Visconti watched him go, then stepped to the inner door and locked it on the women whispering and quaking within.
Valentine tried to speak; the words died away on her tongue; she fell back against the tapestry, grasping it in stiff fingers, her eyes on his face.
Visconti seated himself at the table on which the page had stood the glass, and, resting his face on his hands, looked at her. The Viper on his doublet seemed to writhe, alive.
"Graziosa is dead," he said.
Valentine's eyes grew wild with fear.
"I did not kill her!" she cried. "I did not kill her, Gian!"
"I found her dead," said Visconti, still looking at her.
Valentine writhed against the wall, wringing her hands. "She slew herself," she moaned. "I did not kill her!"
"I shall not kill thee," said Gian.
He looked down at the wine as he spoke, with a smile.
Valentine threw herself on her knees.
"I did not touch her!" she screamed wildly. "I did not lay a hand on her!"
"I shall not touch thee; I shall not lay a hand on thee," smiled Visconti.
"Then I shall not die? I shall not die?"
She staggered to her feet, with an effort to be calm.
"Thou wilt not die?" said Visconti, softly, his eyes on her. "Thou wilt drink—this." And he touched the glass beside him.
"Thou canst not be so cruel," pleaded Valentine. "I am thy sister, Gian——"
"Do I think so much of family affection?" said Visconti. "Still, she was to be my wife! Thou wilt drink this."
Valentine flung herself on her knees again, and dragged herself along the floor toward him. "Have pity!" she cried. "Have pity, I am sohelpless! Spare me, and I will never offend thee again—never!"
"Thou hast strangely lost thy courage," returned her brother. "What is there in drinking this wine?"
She was at his feet, clinging to him, imploring.
"Let me live till morning!" she pleaded. "Do not kill me here—in this dark chamber. Oh! I cannot die here, I cannot!"
Visconti looked at her calmly.
"Graziosa died not in a fairer place, she died lonely and alone," he said. "Thou wilt drink this." He put out his hand and drew the glass nearer. "Come, thou wilt drink this."
"I am so young," sobbed Valentine. "Think, Gian; I am so young, Gian!"
"Graziosa was no older," he said.
She clung to his hand in agony, beseeching him, calling on him, wildly trying to move him to let her live until the morning—only until morning!
"Graziosa died after the sun had set," said Visconti. "Drink the wine, nor keep me here so long. Thou hast often wished to escape—where is thy courage gone, not to take this chance?"
"But not to die like this—not like this—give me a priest!"
"Had Graziosa one?"
She cowered down on the floor, her beautiful hair falling over her shoulders, her face hidden; then suddenly uplifted it again to Visconti, who sat looking at her, motionless.
"Gian, I loved thee once, when we were little children."
"I have forgotten it, and so hadst thou until this moment—drink!"
Valentine sprang up in a paroxysm of uncontrollable terror.
"I cannot! I cannot! Kill me thyself!"
"With this?" and Visconti touched his dagger. "No; a smoother death for one so fair."
Valentine flew to the door and clung to it.
"Philippe! Philippe!" she shrieked. "Conrad! Costanza!"
Visconti rose suddenly, with such force as to fling over the chair. "Cease!" he cried. "Wilt thou drink this? or who dost thou think will dare to interrupt me now?"
Valentine's wild eyes looked at him in silence a moment, then her glance dropped.
"Give it me," she whispered.
Visconti did not move.
"Come and take it," he said.
She came slowly, one hand against the wall, her long shadow flickering before her.
Visconti watched her, motionless. "Make haste," he said. "Make haste."
She came to the table, her eyes down, her breast heaving, past tears or entreaties.
"Drink!" said Visconti, leaning with narrowing eyes across the space between them. "Drink in it Della Scala's health, as thou didst once before."
Valentine raised her head and looked at him, and grew fascinated with terror. She crouched away from him, and lifted the glass to her lips.
Visconti bent nearer and she drank, putting it down half empty with a shudder and staring eyes.
Visconti smiled, and brought the evil of his face still nearer.
"Drink the rest," he said. "Drink it, Valentine."
Still in silence she obeyed him.
When the empty glass stood before him, Visconti turned away, taking his eyes from her with a laugh, and walked toward the door.
Valentine's gaze followed him with a look of utter woe; still she said nothing, from her parted lips there came no sound.
He looked back over his shoulder at her, standing there with her face toward him, with all expression gone, with unseeing eyes.
"I will leave thee," he said savagely, "to await—the morning."
She seemed roused by the sound of his voice, and stepped forward with a cry on her white lips.
But the door closed heavily—the room was in darkness, or was it her sight failed her? Everything swam before her in a blackening mist; she grasped at the table and fell across it, senseless.
The dawn was breaking, filling the room with a gray and ghostly light; the great curtains looked black and gloomy, and the corners of the room were filled with strange and moving shadows. Through an open window a cool breeze blew across Valentine's sick forehead: she opened her eyes. The empty glass met her gaze, the fallen chair was beside her: she looked at them strangely. She was still alive.
"Gian's poison is slow," she said, and smiled to herself.
After a time she rose and stumbled to the window.
"When the sun rises I shall be dead, or perhaps I shall live till noon," she said to herself.
She mounted the estrade and sat beside the open window, resting her head against the woodwork, singing to herself.
Suddenly the whole gray sky flushed purple: the sun rose above the horizon.
Valentine looked down into the garden, the sight seemed to awaken memories.
"Hush!" She laid her finger on her mouth. "Hush, Conrad—if Gian hears us—hast thou velvet shoes on—hush! He treads warily—ah, but it is no use—he poisoned me! he poisoned me!"
She rocked herself to and fro.
"In a tall glass with white lines—it was not Gian—it was the Viper from the Standard—all green and silver—all green and silver—a coiling viper."
She dropped her head forward, then raised it with trembling lips.
"Conrad! come and save me!" Then she fell to laughing, whispering under her breath, counting on her fingers the hours she might have to live. "If to noon—how many?"
The door opened, and she stopped her muttering, turning lackluster eyes toward it.
"Good-morrow," said Visconti, standing with his back against it and looking at her keenly. "Good-morrow, Valentine."
She looked at him and put the hair back from her face.
"I thought I saw Count Conrad walking in the garden: I would have called him up to see me die—how long will it be?"
Visconti advanced with a bitter smile. "Has the lesson tamed thee? It would have been reality, but ye are pledged to France. I would that I dare poison thee, thou tiger-cat, but thou art tamed!"
Valentine face did not change. "Hush!" she said, leaning from the window. "He is back on the tower now—" she pointed to where the silver banner hung idle against the brightening sky. "What dost thou think? shall I sit and watch, lest he spy on us, Conrad?"
Visconti looked at her.
"Thou art tamed indeed," he said. "I am not ill-avenged."
Valentine stepped down into the room, her tangledhair hanging about her, and grasped him by the arm. "I was waiting—" she whispered. "I feared he would come back before I was dead. Ah! and he did! Count Conrad could not keep him off; the Viper, green and silver; the Viper, he has poisoned me." And she sank onto the floor with a sudden scream, her hands before her eyes.
"Thou art neither poisoned nor dying," said Visconti, roughly. "Call thy women, and—remember."
She looked at him with vacant eyes.
Visconti turned away. "She is not likely to forget, it seems," he thought. "Her spirit will not trouble my path more."
Neither his nor anyone's. The brilliant, witty, and daring Valentine Visconti was to dare, to mock, to laugh no more; her high spirit was broken, her proud courage gone. From that fearful night she was timorous, shrinking, like a child, wandering and vacant—like Tisio, half-crazed.
"A secret embassy from Milan!"
Mastino repeated the words slowly, and looked at Ligozzi who had brought them. "And to see me alone?"
"With terms from Visconti—so they said," answered Ligozzi. "Terms of peace."
"From Visconti!"
Mastino looked out through the open entrance into the blinding summer day, and then back at Ligozzi. "I fear they come with no honorable terms—from Visconti victorious."
"They would never dare come with dishonorable ones—to thee, my lord," returned Ligozzi.
Mastino laughed bitterly.
"Dare! He is Visconti—with near all Italy at his back—he knows no such words as shame or honor. And I must see his messengers," he added, after a pause. "I know no such words now as pride or refusal."
Ligozzi turned, but hesitated at the entrance.
"And—alone?" he asked. "They are from Visconti."
"And may be skilful in dagger thrusts and poison," said Mastino. "Nay, that is not what I fear, Ligozzi." But he unstrapped his sword and laid it on the table in front of him. "All the same, I will have thee with me, Ligozzi. I see not why I should humor them too far—I shall have naught to say thou mayst not hear."
Ligozzi left, and Mastino sat alone, his head in his hands, his elbows resting on the table.
It was blazing hot, the very crown of summer, languidand golden, with a haze of purple sky beating down on the swooning trees; noon, the sun at its height, the stillness of great heat in the air.
Mastino raised his head and looked out on it. What was Gian Visconti planning now?
He had some faint foreboding—a secret embassy from Milan—and following so swiftly on that last crushing blow; following so swiftly as to come upon him still helpless from it—what had it to say, and to his ears alone? He had some faint foreboding as he sat there. But it was not long. Ligozzi, exercising due precaution, returned with the two Milanese.
Giannotto stepped forward with a smooth obeisance, but stopped, a little surprised at the one occupant of the tent—the tall man with the proud dark face.
"My lord—the Prince?" he asked.
"I am Della Scala," said Mastino, and he turned to de Lana who looked an obvious soldier, and the worthier of the two. "Your errand, sir? I would hear you quickly."
"We have greetings from our lord, the Duke of Milan," replied de Lana, his speech and bearing uneasy, like one trying to gain time. He had always disliked his mission, and never more so than now, standing face to face with Della Scala.
Here was some one very different from the man he had expected, and it tended to confuse him.
Della Scala's dignity was his own, not that of pomp and splendor, the terror of crime, or the dazzle of power, that made Visconti feared and obeyed. As plainly attired as any of his soldiers, Mastino overawed the Milanese with something new to them—the sense of worth.
They were not trained to dealings with it.
"Greetings from Gian Visconti, Duke of Milan," took up the secretary. "Moreover, we bring terms of peace for your acceptance, my lord."
Mastino was silent a space, and Ligozzi, standing behind his chair, looked at them with an ill-concealed abomination that Giannotto's quick eyes noticed keenly.
"My lord, is the one with you to be trusted even as yourself?" he asked, submissively. "For our mission, Prince, is secret."
"He is my friend," said Mastino, shortly. "And now these terms of peace?"
"The Duke is weary of the war," said de Lana. "He hath powerful allies, my lord."
"And the choice of means to crush me," interposed Mastino, his bright eyes fell on the speaker, "are in his hands, you would say? Perhaps; and yet, messer, I ask for no quarter from Gian Visconti." De Lana bowed.
"Nor could he offer it, my noble lord; only terms as between equals."
Mastino smiled bitterly.
"That is generous in Gian Visconti, seeing we are not—equals."
Giannotto wished the Duke could have heard both words and tone. Visconti's birth was a sore point with him. The secretary wondered if there might be found a safe way of repeating them. De Lana flushed a little under Mastino's steady gaze and quiet scorn of the master who had sent him.
"The Duke of Milan sends by us this," he said, and laid the parchment before Mastino. "These are his terms, my lord."
But Della Scala did not drop his eyes to it.
"What are these terms?" he said.
"They are set forth there, my lord," began Giannotto.
"So you have forgotten what they are, or did Visconti not tell you?" and Della Scala handed the roll to the secretary. "When you have read it, tell me what Gian Visconti says."
He leaned back, his eyes still on them.
Giannotto bit his lips in vexation.
"Spare Visconti's loving greetings. To the point, in a few words," continued Della Scala, as the secretary still hesitated.
"Then, my lord, this: the Duke of Milan will leave you Verona, where you may rule under his protection, provided you now put into his hands every other town you or your allies now, singly or together, hold."
Mastino flushed and half rose.
"Gian Visconti might have spared these insults," he said sternly, "and you yourself the relating of them. When have I so shown myself such that your master should think I could betray Lombardy to keep one town? Get back, I have no answer save I have left you your lives."
De Lana fingered the parchment nervously.
"That is not all, my lord," he began, and stopped suddenly. "I cannot say it," he murmured to Giannotto.
Della Scala beat his feet upon the floor impatiently.
"Do you think I am afraid to hear?" he said. "Still, it may be spared. I see, Gian Visconti's spirit is not peace but insult. On no terms will I treat with him."
"On no terms?" repeated Giannotto.
"On no terms of insult," said Mastino coldly. "I favor Visconti too much in listening so long. Leave me and take your lives back for answer."
"Better listen, perchance, my lord, before refusing," said Giannotto. "It is the Duke's interest to offer you these terms; methinks it will be no less yours to at least consider them."
De Lana stood silent, his eyes upon the ground. After this, give him plain soldiering.
"What plot has Visconti hatched now?" asked Della Scala. "What more has he to say?"
Giannotto's pale eyes twinkled unpleasantly.
"Only this: Visconti bids me tell Della Scala, Duke of Verona, that if he refuse his terms we take them instantly to my Lord of Este; also he bids me remind my Lord Della Scala that he hold the Duchess of Verona, my lord's dear wife."
Ligozzi drew a deep breath and looked at Della Scala; he had not quite expected this.
But Della Scala rose with a white face and stared at the two ambassadors, incredulous.
"Surely even Visconti will not use that against me?" he said.
"Visconti must have the towns; Visconti holds your wife. The rest is for you to reflect upon, my lord: or, since you refuse all terms, we will take them to my Lord of Este. Perhaps he will give up the towns and save his daughter." And Giannotto turned toward the entrance.
"Stay!" cried Mastino, in an agony. "Stay! your terms again——"
He dropped back into his seat with wild eyes on Giannotto. All his calm had fled, his pride was cowed: the secretary noted it, well pleased, but De Lana shrank from his changed look.
"This is what Visconti offers, my lord," repeated the secretary smoothly: "Give up all the cities, forts, and soldiers under your command, and the Duke forthwith makes an honorable return to you of the Duchess he holds captive, giving you leave to hold Verona under fief to him, doing yearly homage for it—he garrisoning it. If, however, my lord, you refuse——"
"If I refuse?" cried Della Scala, leaning forward. "If I refuse?"
"Visconti's prisons are unwholesome; for some weeks the Duchess has pined; it is feared, without instant liberty——"
Giannotto paused a moment, and lightly shrugged his shoulders.
"In a word, my lord, if you refuse—the Duchess dies."
A terrible silence fell, no one moved or spoke, the lazy flapping of the tent struggling on its cords was the only sound. Della Scala sat rigid, looking at Giannotto, all power of thought struck out of him.
"Shall we take these terms to d'Este—shall we offer him his daughter for his towns?" said Giannotto softly.
D'Este! D'Este was not the man to place his daughter before his states—Mastino knew it; Visconti knew it.
"No! no!" he cried, with sudden vehemence, "I will."
He put his hand to his forehead with a dazed expression and whispered something to himself.
Ligozzi, standing erect behind his chair, touched him gently on the shoulder.
"Send them away, my lord," he whispered. "Let them not remain here—send them away."
"With a refusal?"
Della Scala lifted his white face. "With a refusal?" he muttered stupidly.
"With what else?" said Giorgio firmly. "With what else?"
Giannotto moved a little nearer and spoke with a sickly smile.
"Our answer may wait. The Duke of Milan gives a day in which my Lord of Verona may decide upon his answer."
"Give them their answer now," whispered Ligozzi, eagerly. "Do not let them imagine for one moment that you hesitate."
Mastino did not heed him; he sat as if frozen.
"Leave me to—" the words died on his lips. "Leave me—to answer—I will give you my answer—anon."
De Lana and Giannotto moved in silence to the far end of the tent.
"Visconti is a fiend," said de Lana, with a gesture of revolt. "Santa Maria, I wish I had never seen this Della Scala. His face will haunt me."
Giannotto smiled.
"Thou hast not been in Visconti's service long," he said, "and what have these things to do with us?"
"But this is inhuman," returned de Lana. "Della Scala hath a winning face. I might have been a better man if I had sold my sword to him."
"This way, messers," said Ligozzi. "I will come to you presently." And the flap of the tent fell-to behind Visconti's messengers. Mastino sat, his head dropped into his hands.
"My lord——"
Ligozzi put his hand upon his master's arm.
"My lord——"
Mastino raised his head and looked at him; his face was distorted, his eyes unnaturally bright.
"Give them their answer, my lord," said Ligozzi. "Every moment gives them a triumph. Send it now."
"Now," cried Mastino, hoarsely. "They gave me till to-night—surely, Ligozzi, they gave me till to-night."
"Thou dost not need until to-night, my lord. Visconti asked thy honor."
"And offered me," said Della Scala slowly, "Isotta."
Ligozzi looked at him horror-struck; an awful thought was breaking on him.
The eyes of the two men met; Ligozzi's was steady, but Mastino's flinched.
Neither spoke for some moments, Ligozzi at last incredulously.
"You cannot mean—to accept?" Mastino was silent. "Oh, no," cried Ligozzi, passionately. "You are notyourself. For the love of Heaven let me go and tell them to depart."
And he started forward, but Mastino caught him by the arm.
"Stay, Ligozzi; I command it."
"Then you yourself will tell them? Oh, it is impossible thatthoucouldst fall!"
"Impossible?" Mastino rose with clenched hands. "I think it is impossible that I could let her die."
Ligozzi looked at his changed face.
"The cities are not yours, my lord; the soldiers are not yours—would you be a traitor, Della Scala?"
Mastino winced.
"I would save my wife," he muttered, his face turned aside.
"Your wife! A woman!" cried Ligozzi. "Gian Visconti will burn in hell for tempting you, but, by all the saints, so will you, my lord, if you accept such terms."
Mastino was roused. The energy of Ligozzi broke the bonds of his dull agony. He turned, also passionately.
"Have I not prayed and implored for this—only this—her life and her return? Have I not sworn and vowed I would recover her—atanycost? Have I not warned them of it—and she shall not die! She shall not die! What care I for the cities! Did I not warn them? She shall not die!"
He fell to pacing the tent wildly, but Ligozzi stood in his place, bitter sorrow, deep anger in his face.
"Think what it means," he said sternly.
"I will not," cried Mastino. "I will be baited and hounded no more. What has their grudging help done for me? I tell thee I warned them, I would hold them as nothing when it came to saving her."
"Still, they trust you," returned Ligozzi. "Listen,Della Scala; I speak in the cause of honor—youshallhear, youshallknow what it means, before you lend yourself to such a thing for love of a woman! It will give all Lombardy to Visconti, it and hundreds to the sword; it will mean the burning of cities to the ground; it will mean the misery of half Italy! It will give a mad tyrant to rule over thousands who are at present free—it will send d'Este and Vincenzo to prison—to shame, misery, death perchance—it will strip Julia Gonzaga of everything—and is she not as young and fair and good as Isotta d'Este—and did she not trust you with her all? And yourself? What will it make of you? What triumph will it not give Visconti to see you fall? Have you kept your name high so long to make it a by-word now? Beyond redemption will you be dishonored, Della Scala—an outcast, a traitor—to hold a little fief at Visconti's pleasure, the mirth of your enemies, the scorn of your one-time friends."
Mastino broke into a wild exclamation. "I will hear no more! I will hear no more!"
"I must wound you to save you," continued Ligozzi. "Against yourself I will persuade you; my love cannot see you do this thing. Oh, remember yourself! A man, a prince; no hothead of a boy. This black offer will be the turning point and strengthen you. No man's cause is bettered by such means as this. All Italy will rise to cry shame on Visconti—heaven itself will turn against him and make you firm to overthrow him!"
"And Isotta!" said Mastino fiercely. "Isotta will be slain!"
"She is one woman—how many as fair and good as she will perish if Della Scala betrays Lombardy! She is one woman against the fate of half Italy."
"She is my wife!" cried Della Scala desperately; "that one woman is my wife! Thou hast forgotten!"
"Forget it too, my lord; for your own honor's sake, forget it too."
"Ligozzi, Ligozzi," whispered Mastino, "thou canst not mean it: deliver up to die byVisconti's handsthe woman I—love!"
"If they hanged her from the ramparts where I must watch her die, they should not move me," said Ligozzi grimly. "But—by all the saints, I would take my revenge."
"Aye!" said Della Scala bitterly. "But perchance it would not be given thee to take revenge—perchance thou wouldst fall lower and lower, and be crushed after all and have gained nothing! Ah, Ligozzi, is this the beginning? Have I not pitted courage and high purpose, and honorable dealing and a righteous cause, against craft and cruelty and force? And to what end? Visconti triumphs. Always Visconti! What availed honor and faith when Visconti's cunning and Count Conrad's folly made the plans of weeks naught! Again, undaunted, I said I will succeed in the face of failure, I will succeed! What happened? Visconti had a handsome face; what mattered it his cause was bad? Again we failed! And what since! Half my men are dead against the walls of Milan! And now, am I to choose again what thou callest honor, am I to leave Isotta to die by his dishonoring hands—oh, canst thou think of it!—and then be crushed at his leisure for all my reward? Am I so tied by tradition as that? Does not Visconti fling all laws, all humanity, all honor to the winds—can I fight him within the bounds of a boy's code of honor? The time comes, Ligozzi, when such things hold one no longer—the soul thrusts them asunder and does what it must, regardless of the laws of men! I must save her. Here is my chance and, fair or foul, I take it. I cannot think of the welfare of unknown thousands; what are they to me? Cities pass underVisconti's rule and cities are snatched from him—am I responsible for the fate of Lombardy? Men fight, betray, deceive and lie for wealth, ambition, and revenge—and common folk pay the price—shall I consider it too closely if they suffer once in a cause like mine? I tell thee, Ligozzi, I would hold it cheap to save her from Visconti with the misery of all Italy."
Ligozzi's eyes did not move from Della Scala's face.
"Thou art striving to blind thyself, Della Scala. Oh, my lord," he resumed, "because others are dishonorable will ye be so also? And what do ye say of common folk?—not common folk alone will ye sacrifice, but d'Este——"
"He has helped me half-heartedly—and is she not his daughter? Yet at a word from Visconti he would league with him behind my back," cried Della Scala.
"I do not think so," said Ligozzi, firmly. "But Julia Gonzaga, who trusted you—what have you to say to her?"
"Naught!" cried Mastino, distracted. "Naught! save that I do not love her—let he who does look to her—as I will to Isotta!"
"And she!" said Ligozzi, resorting desperately to his last argument, "will she not turn from the liberty bought at such a price? Is she not the daughter of a noble house? Has she not been taught to consider death preferable to dishonor—if she was asked, what would she not choose?"
Mastino's breast heaved.
"Ah—but I cannot ask her. If I could—Ligozzi, if I could go to her and look into her eyes, and say 'I promised, give me back my promise, for only on terms thou wouldst spurn can I save thee,' she would understand—she would die with a smile, as I should—and that I could do. But to let her die a slow death—a dishonored death! Wilt thou remember it is Visconti! His lies in her ears—knowing nothing of my struggles! thinking herself forsaken, yet hoping against hope, and ever coming to her belief I would not let it be, till one day it was! Ah! I cannot do it! I cannot do it!"
He threw himself on the chair again and hid his face. "She loves me," he said brokenly. "It seems strange, Ligozzi—that she should—care—for me. God knows, I have no charm such as Visconti has. I cannot please, I am clumsy and uncouth compared to those she had around her—and yet she chose me. 'While thou art alive I fear nothing,' were the last words I heard her say, and I shall leave her to curse the day she met and trusted me to save her from a villain. What commonest foot soldier I have would leave the woman that he loves to die Visconti's way? Ah, Heaven have mercy! For what crime is this a punishment!"
"Then you will accept these terms for her release?" said Ligozzi. "I will plead with you no more, my lord—only, if you do this thing, I, who am your faithful servant, I, who ever loved and worshiped you, can serve you no longer—it is too terrible a thing—I cannot stay and see it done!"
Mastino's head was bent forward, his hands clenched so tightly that the flesh was broken, his whole attitude so hopeless in its agony that Ligozzi feared for his reason.