His glance caught the words. He looked around with wild eyes.
A huge, black bureau, fitted with many drawers, stood in one corner of the room. Visconti, the parchment in his shaking fingers, went to it, still with glances around, and drew out drawer after drawer, till he had found the thing he sought. It was among neat piles of parchments, annotated in Giannotto's clear, good hand.
Visconti turned them over hastily, till he came upon a document hung with the seals of Verona, a cartel of defiance, neatly endorsed in a clerkly hand, and signed in large, bold writing, "Mastino della Scala."
Eagerly he turned to the cover of the packet, and laid the two writings side by side. They were the same.
Visconti leaned against the black chest, breathing heavily, his face not good to look on in its white devilry.
"He lives! Della Scala lives!" he cried, and struck at himself in his rage. Then his gaze came back to the blood-stained parchment crumpled in his hand.
"And this—? and this—where got he this? The parchment that I read from on the road that day; the parchment that I thought was left at Brescia, in that——"
The words died away on his lips. In a sudden paroxysm of something more than fury, Visconti drove it down among the others within the drawer, and locked and double-locked it in.
The day was fading; in that dull chamber the light fled early and entered late. Visconti glanced again stealthily at the dark arras, faint in the dusk. He strained his ears listening; the air was full of voices, far away, pleading, for the most part, yet some so near and threatening, Visconti held his ears. They died away as they had come, but to Visconti the silence was more terrible.
"Giannotto!" he called. "Lights! It grows dark——"
He listened; he heard those sighs again, then suddenly the sound of flying feet, hurrying, hurrying; with a scream of horror Visconti rushed up the steps, calling wildly for lights.
The huge door swung open at his desperate push, then, falling to behind him, shook the tapestry; as it fell into place again a long sighing filled the empty room.
Tomaso Ligozzi sat in a corner of the ruined hut, with enthralled face, listening to Count Conrad, who lounged against the wooden table opposite. It was five days since Conrad's rescue. He had made a recovery the more rapid that no leech had been there to meddle with him. Left to the simplest nursing, the barest needful nourishment, and the vigor of his own constitution, Conrad had rallied, till now, in almost full health, no trace was left of the hollow-faced, emaciated figure Francisco had carried into safety.
The morning after the rescue, it was decided that the hut was no longer a safe shelter; and, carefully destroying all traces of their habitation, the three, under Francisco's leadership, helping Conrad between them, betook themselves to a thicket near. There, in his solitary prowlings to and fro, Francisco had discovered a deep cave underneath a sand-bank, the entrance well overgrown with boughs and bushes. Here, not without discomfort, they hid till Conrad should be fit to travel, and comforted themselves for the wretched exchange when they heard the shouts of Alberic's men.
Francisco was disappointed in his new ally. Count Conrad showed a levity, a forgetfulness of injury, that chimed badly with his own deep purposes. Tomaso was his chief reliance; his plan was to secure horses, by fair means or foul, and, as soon as Conrad could sit the saddle, to depart for Ferrara. So far Francisco's stealthy and cautious maneuvers to possess himself of what he needed had been unsuccessful; but at last he had come upon the track of something possible, and to-day, with Vittore to help him, he had departed to bring back with him the horses for their flight.
Twice between dawn and noon had Alberic's men scoured their neighborhood. Two, indeed, had come so near the hiding-place that their talk was plain. They spoke of the parchment found the day before and of the Visconti's fury.
It seemed fairly sure that for many hours at least the soldiery would not return, as they could scarce confine their search to the one spot only; so, before Francisco's departure, 'twas arranged between him and Tomaso that their rendezvous at sundown should be the ruined hut where they had first had shelter, there being no means of horsemen treading the thick brushwood around the sand-cave, and the hut affording opportunities of space and movement.
After a weary day and the second visit of the search party, which alarmed them as to the heat of Visconti's pursuit, but reassured them also as to returning to the hut, Tomaso and Conrad reached it an hour before sundown and prepared to wait.
At first keenly anxious, straining for every sound, as time went on, unconsciously they grew more at ease, and Conrad beguiled Tomaso with his talk.
At last, with a sudden sigh, Conrad broke off, and lapsed into silence. Tomaso sat alert, looking through the open door.
"Francisco is long," said Conrad after a while.
He was dressed in the leather doublet of a peasant, coarse and plain, yet very different from the rough attire Francisco wore. He was very handsome, of a sunny, pleasant expression, a quality rarely found among the Italians of Lombardy; and to-day, although prepared for flight, his blond curls were as carefully arranged as though he still shone at the court of Milan.
"Messer Francisco is long," he remarked again, and Tomaso turned with a start.
"He has doubtless met with unexpected difficulty, lord," he said with some reproach. "Horses must be found—somewhere—for our journey to-night. Every hour we stay here is dangerous."
"My heart misgives me that I did not accompany him," said Conrad; "we should all four have kept together."
"Doubtless too many would have hampered him," was the reply.
Tomaso did not add, as he might have done, that Francisco had his doubts of Conrad's discretion, and had left Tomaso charged to see he committed no rashness in his absence.
"Thinkest thou he will get the horses?" continued the Count, twirling his curls through his fingers. "Let us hope he will try naught so mad as that attempt on the walls of Milan we made two days ago! The saints preserve us! but I thought it was all over with us! That was a fine race—tearing through the dark with Visconti's soldiers at our heels!"
Tomaso was hurt at the flippant tone that reflected on Francisco's judgment.
"It was a gallant attempt," he said, "and all but succeeded; once within the town, we might have done much."
"And so might Visconti," remarked Conrad airily. "Thou art young, Tomaso, or thou wouldst see how worse than useless was such a mad escapade."
"Something had to be done," returned Tomaso, "this inaction was maddening Messer Francisco."
Conrad smiled and changed the subject.
"Who is this Francisco, thinkest thou?" he asked. "For a mere servitor at Della Scala's court, he bears a mighty hatred to Visconti."
"He served the Prince, and lost his master and his all in the sack of Verona. It is not strange he should wish to revenge Della Scala's wrongs and his own."
"I think him of better birth and station than he claims," said the Count judicially. "He has the bearing of one gently born."
"I take him for what he calls himself," the boy replied. "I owe him my life. I would die to serve him, nor would I question him."
"But would remind me that I owe him something too?" laughed Conrad. "When the time comes to show it, I shall not prove ungrateful."
He seated himself on the table, and idly swinging his legs, looked around the hut with lazy distaste and seemed to think of dozing.
"Remember we travel to-night, my lord," said Tomaso, annoyed at such indifference.
"If our good friend gets the horses."
"There is no 'if,' unless we wish to perish," flashed Tomaso. "If Francisco gets no horses, we must from here on foot."
"I do not oppose it. Rather than be taken into Milan, I will travel on foot in any other direction till I drop," laughed the Count.
"Thou takest it lightly, my lord," said Tomaso, "thou dost not seem as eager for revenge as thou wert. Think of the death Visconti doomed thee to. Thou hast great wrongs to right—wilt thou not return to Milan to avenge them? Or wilt thou ride away and forget?"
The laugh faded from Count Conrad's face, and his eyes flashed.
"No, Tomaso, I shall not forget," he said; "too well do I recall that night when I crept down the palace steps with my Lady Valentine. Visconti met us; parted us; ah, when I think of her face!—she was forced back to the horror of her life again: I, carried off to die of slow starvation in my own villa. Yes, yes; if his wrongs are like mine, Francisco did well the other night when we dashed on Milan; such wrongs put madness into one. Think of it, Tomaso; bound, gagged, half-crazed at the misfortune, I was hurried hither, secretly, at night, to be left to a dog's death in my own villa. Death was what I expected, but I nerved myself to meet it as a noble should. There is a long low room in yonder villa, with narrow windows I could scarce get my hand through—all of stone, and meant for cool in summer heat; into this I was forced, unbound, left with mock ceremony, and the door locked upon me. Ah! the sound of that key, Tomaso; they seemed to turn it in my heart, for I guessed its meaning. I had heard too often of Visconti letting his prisoners die of hunger, and, as I listened to the soldiers' footsteps fading in the distance, the cold horror of the truth seized my heart. At first it seemed impossible that I could starve in my own dwelling. I mocked my fears; I could force, I could break the window! I laugh now at my own absurdities. I could do neither, I could do nothing! Terrible hours followed, Tomaso, terrible hours and terrible days. Still I would not own the truth, and still, as no one came, I knew it to be true! I thought of the Lady Valentine, and wondered what her fate might be. I thought of Germany, and wept to think I should never see it more! Then one evening, as I lay, I think, half-senseless, I heard the key turn in the lock, and Visconti entered, followed by Giannotto; two white hounds slunk at his heels: well I remember. Dear Lord! I was fallen so low in my misery, I fell at his feet and begged for mercy, for pity, or speedy death! And he—smiled on me, and bade Giannotto bring food!
"I cursed myself for my weakness, but could have kissed his feet. Then what happened I hardly know. As in a dream I saw Giannotto lay a tempting feast; a banquet for one or two, such as I and Visconti had often shared together! I blessed him with uplifted hands! When all was set, he turned to me, still smiling.
"'Thou askedst for food,' he said; 'I would not refuse thy last request, Count Conrad.'
"And he flung one of the hounds a piece of meat: it ate and died! Without a word they turned and left me, the feast still spread, the dead hound by the table. Then methinks I lost my wits, and went mad with rage and agony. When my ravings ceased, I found myself, my hands upon the food, it almost at my lips. But I resisted; I set it from me; and then my eyes wandered round the room in blank despair. I saw—the key still in the lock! I thought it was a vision, a trick of Satan. I crawled toward the door: I dragged myself along. It was no vision: they had gone and left me free!" Conrad paused; Tomaso, an absorbed listener, drew a deep breath.
"What did it mean, lord?" he asked.
"Ask me not, Tomaso," answered Conrad with a lighter air. "They were so certain I should eat and die, it made them careless, or Giannotto had a throb of pity. Many kindnesses the knave has had from me. I know not what it was; such things will happen. I have heard of them when in my native land from prisoners of war. But all I knew and cared for was that I was free! At first, indeed, it seemed to promise little good. I crept, I know not how, into the garden—into the air: the sky was overhead: it gave me strength: let me but get to the water and I would live.... As by a miracle I reached the fountain." Again Conrad paused, shuddering at remembrance of his anguish.
"The fountain?" repeated Tomaso, absorbed in the relation.
"The fountains were poisoned, boy; you know it; it boots not talking of it; it is all past and done with, and I live, a sound, free man, thanks to our brave Veronese; though in sooth how he could have saved me, had he not been a giant, I leave to my good angel to think out"; and Conrad laughed.
Tomaso looked surprised. He could not understand how Conrad could so easily shake off his hatred of Visconti, save when the thought was forced on him.
A silence fell which Conrad was again the first to break.
"The Lady Valentine," he said, following his own train of thought, rather than addressing his companion, "does she ever think of me?"
Tomaso inwardly wondered how much he thought of her. Save when telling his tale to Francisco, this was the only time he had named her. It seemed as if his sufferings and his love alike were to lie lightly on his mind.
"They say in Milan Lady Valentine is to marry the Duke of Orleans," Tomaso ventured presently.
"They say!" echoed Conrad with scorn. "The Frenchman is not even yet in Italy. Much may have happened ere he is."
Tomaso rose and looked from the doorway anxiously.
"It is close on sundown," he said, "it is time Francisco came."
"It is intolerably wearisome," yawned Conrad. "I would I had gone with our friend—'twould have been more enlivening than this."
Tomaso's face ill concealed his scorn.
"'Tis a matter of life and death, Count Conrad; even now the soldiers may at any time return."
With a pleasant smile Von Schulembourg leaped from the table.
"Pardon me, if I vex thee with my seeming carelessness," he said, with the charm of manner that could always win him friends. "I owe too large a debt to all of you, to really be so heedless as I seem; but methinks there is no single thing——"
"Save keep ourselves in readiness, my lord," said Tomaso. "Francisco charged us to be so disposed that we could leap into the saddle without a breath's delay."
"I remember," said Count Conrad, lapsing again into an idle mood. "Methinks our Veronese deliverer issues commands as if well used to it."
The youth made no reply; he was gazing eagerly along the chestnut-bordered path, sorely impatient for Francisco's return.
"Canst thou play chess?" asked Conrad suddenly.
Tomaso looked around at him in surprise. Did the German noble jest?
Von Schulembourg was again seated on the table, admiring his shapely hand, which he held against the light.
"Play chess?" repeated Tomaso. "No, my lord."
Count Conrad crossed his legs daintily and sighed.
"It were a splendid chance to teach thee—had we but the men. Thou hast read old romance, boy? And must remember how the knights and ladies play at chess? 'Tis a royal game."
He sighed again, and glanced with disdain down at his leather doublet.
"Yet 'twere strange to play chess in this garb," he added, and kicked the table with his heels in discontent.
Silence again fell, Tomaso still at the door, unheeding of the Count's complaints, watching anxiously through the gathering dusk.
"By heaven, boy!" Conrad exclaimed suddenly. "Till this moment I had forgot it. Lady Valentine's gift—thinking of the chessmen brought it to my mind—I swore never to leave it—with my life! And 'tis behind me in the villa."
"Behind thee, lord?" cried Tomaso, bewildered and startled at his excited tones. "Where? What?"
Conrad was on his feet, his eyes sparkling with excitement.
"At the villa," he cried. "I know where it is, I will go and fetch it."
"My lord, consider what thou say'st," and Tomaso barred the door with outstretched arms. "We promised Francisco we would not leave the hut—to attempt the villa would be simple madness!"
"Why, boy, the villa is close by," laughed Conrad, "and Francisco may not be back for hours most like; he may hang back till dark. Meanwhile am I to twirl my thumbs in here, and Lady Valentine's love-gift calling to me from beyond that wall? Out of my way, Tomaso. The dagger may be useful, and 'tis beautiful: a handle carved out of a single stone. Lady Valentine will not forgive my losing it!"
"The Lady Valentine will forgive the loss of a dagger, lord, when thou help to rescue her from Milan," he said curtly. "But what use to seek her gift? And give thyself again into the Visconti's power?"
"Tush, Visconti! Visconti!... I have heard the name enough," returned Count Conrad. "I intend to have my lady's gift—it suits neither my honor nor my affection to leave it there to be some mercenary's plunder; and the chessmen too, boy! The set the Emperor gave—ah! you would love them—silver and ivory—I will bring them too. They will while away more weary hours such as these. What was I thinking of to leave them there so long!"
"At any moment Francisco may return, and without thee here time will be lost; moreover, his orders were that we await him."
At Tomaso's words, Conrad raised his arched eyebrows.
"Order? To thee, maybe; thou art a boy, and of humble station. I am Von Schulembourg: orders scarcely tally with that name."
He drew his mantle over his despised doublet, and stepped to the door, putting Tomaso aside and unheeding his entreaties.
"Calm thyself, I shall be back long before the grim Veronese!" he said airily. "Were there light enough, there would be time to learn the game before he comes again."
"I will learn from no one who so little knows his duty," cried Tomaso in hot wrath.
But it was as impossible to anger Conrad as to stop him, and with a smile on his lips and a good-humored wave of his hand, he was gone.
Gone, absolutely gone, out of sight, into the heart of danger and at the crucial moment, for a set of chessmen and for a lady's love-gift.
After an undecided pause of utter vexation, Tomaso could not resist the impulse to start in pursuit after him. But Count Conrad was fleet of foot; he had disappeared, and Tomaso dared follow no farther, for Francisco might return at any moment, and to find them both gone would make bad worse.
And scarcely had he re-entered the hut before he heard the sound of horses ridden cautiously, and in a few moments more Francisco turned into the open.
He was mounted, Vittore in front of him, on a powerful black horse, and leading two others, and his face was animated with his triumph.
"Thou see'st," he said, "we are well provided, though it has taken me all day. Now, to mount, without pause. Where is the Count?"
"The Count," faltered Tomaso, half-crying with vexation, "the Count——"
"Well, what of him?" said Francisco, pausing keenly.
"He has gone back to the villa—to fetch something. Oh, Messer Francisco, prevent him I could not—he left but now——"
"Gone back to the villa!" cried Francisco. "Did he rave? Is he in his senses?"
Tomaso wrung his hands.
"He went to fetch a dagger he remembered and some chessmen."
With a cry of rage Francisco flung himself from his saddle. "Methinks I left a fool to guard a fool," he said. "Did I not tell thee to see Count Conrad kept from folly? Our lives are on it!"
Tomaso paled at his displeasure, and faltered out a recital of what had happened, but Francisco cut him short.
"The thing has happened," he said sternly, "and may cost us dear, but mine the fault to trust the foreign coxcomb." Never had the two boys seen him so moved, and they shrank into silence.
Francisco fumed with anger. "We will ride without him," he said at length; but even while he bade Tomaso mount, and saw to his own girths, he paused irresolute, and Tomaso was thankful. He did not like to think of the gay Conrad left to meet his fate alone. He ventured to speak.
"The dagger was a lady's gift," he said—"the Lady Valentine's. He could not bear to leave it."
"He will have been wishing that he had," said Francisco brusquely; but his face softened, and he added presently: "He must be brought back, we cannot wait, and 'tis too dangerous to abandon him—for him and for ourselves."
He flung the reins to Tomaso, and lifted Vittore to the ground.
"Stretch thy legs the while," he said.
"Shall I go, messer?" asked the boy.
"He will come quicker at my bidding," said Francisco grimly. "Keep open eyes," he added, "the soldiers must come by the road if come again they do. Hold thither once and spy, and then return and wait us here. Tether the horses carefully and water them. They cost me something." He pointed to his roughly bandaged arm.
Half wild with remorseful vexation, Tomaso watched Francisco go the way the Count had gone, till his tall figure was lost to view. Then he and Vittore surveyed each other with anxious eyes.
"Oh, cousin!" cried the boy, "we have had a fearful day!"
"Thou wert fortunate," returned the other bitterly; "Francisco is not vexed with thee."
But Vittore, full of his tale, was eager rather for a listener than to himself give sympathy.
"Till noon we found nothing," he said. "Francisco hung around the farmhouses, but there were naught but sorry jades in every stable that we peered into, every one we tried, Tomaso, and so we roamed farther and farther across the plains——"
"But how didst thou ever get such steeds as these?" asked Tomaso, looking admiringly at the splendid animals, well groomed and well fed, fresh and vigorous.
"We took them," said Vittore proudly. "We came upon a camp of soldiers with horses and to spare, and Francisco asked them would they trade with him, and offered money, but they jeered and shouted and drove us off. Then Francisco stood before me while I crept up to those three and loosened their halters. The soldiers drank and sang; some lay and snored; they thought that we were gone, then suddenly—" his voice sinking with excitement.
"What happened?" asked Tomaso with interest. "I am glad that thou show'st thyself a brave lad, Vittore; what happened?"
"They saw us; three of them rushed out; there was a fight, and Francisco won."
"Won? Against three?" cried Tomaso.
"He scattered them like the wind," said Vittore. "I know not how. He is a giant. He flung me on this black horse here; he mounted, I had the halters of the others in my hand. We rushed away. Of one he broke the head, I think, with his thick staff, and had his arm hit hard, but 'tis not hurt, he says. Some followed awhile, but they drank too deep; we left them like men dazed and mad, some falling by the road. It was a great business, cousin, but I felt no fear; Francisco is a brave, brave man."
"He is a leader of men, methinks," said Tomaso gravely. "I little doubt the Count is right; he is more than he appears. Now we will leave the horses here behind these chestnuts, and step toward the road and reconnoiter."
Gripping Vittore's hand, Tomaso looked cautiously up and down the road.
Crouching back in among the wayside trees, they commanded unseen a view of any who might come or go; and though the days faded fast, it was still light enough to see many paces off.
"No soldiery about to-night," whispered Tomaso; "they have ridden farther afield. We will go back, Vittore."
They had turned to retrace their steps when Vittore clutched his cousin's hand yet tighter, and suppressed an exclamation.
"Look!" he whispered, "a horseman coming toward Milan."
Tomaso looked round nervously, and saw a single rider approaching swiftly, but casting searching glances around.
As the boys watched, mistrustfully waiting, still in hiding, to see him safely pass, to their dismay he slackened pace, and finally drew rein altogether and looked eagerly in their direction.
"Not a movement," breathed Tomaso, and Vittore crouched in silent fright.
None the less, motionless as they thought themselves, some slight movement betrayed them, for the rider dismounted, advanced toward their hiding-place, and softly spoke.
"Who is there? I am a friend," he said.
"He is a Florentine," whispered Vittore joyfully; but Tomaso leaned against the tree in silence, and even through the gathering dusk, as the younger boy looked up, he saw that he was pale and trembling.
"Canst thou direct me?" said the stranger. "I can pay thee for thy services."
"Answer him, Tomaso," Vittore whispered eagerly; "he is a Florentine, he will not hurt us."
Tomaso made a step forward. "It is some one we know," he said chokingly, "or my brain is playing me strange tricks."
As he spoke, he put aside the branches that hid them, and stepped forward. The stranger had guessed their hiding-place unerringly; he stood close by, his horse's bridle across his arm. He was a slight, roughly-dressed, but well-formed man of middle age, light in color and of strong yet delicate features.
"Thou needst not fear me," he began with a smile; then, as the two figures drew nearer, he paused, and in his turn grew pale and trembled.
Tomaso, tossing his hair back from his face, with parted lips, stepped close, followed by Vittore.
"Father! Thou dost not know me!"
"Son! Tomaso!" cried the traveler. He seized him by the shoulders with trembling hands, and scanned eagerly his face.
"Tomaso!" and his voice was shrill with feeling, "Tomaso at last!"
They had not met for many months and years—two at least; the father, absent at a distant court, serving where chance had led him, for fame and fortune; the son, growing from boyhood into man in distant Florence.
Since Verona fell, Tomaso had mourned his father as dead, and he, in his turn, had wandered far, searching for the pair who had started out to find him.
With stifled sobs of joy, Tomaso clung about his father's neck, and was clasped to him in frenzied pleasure.
"They said thou wert dead, father!" broke out the youth at last. "I never thought to see thy face again."
"I thought the same of thee, my son," returned Ligozzi tenderly. "I have been searching for traces of thee long and wearily. I thought thou must have perished on thy long journey, having found out Verona had fallen. But is this Vittore?" He drew to him paternally the boy who, so far, had watched the scene with wide-eyed curiosity.
"And now, what art thou doing—and where staying?"
As if he feared to lose him, Tomaso held his father tightly by the sleeve, over which the bridle had been slipped, and Vittore clinging to the other hand, they drew him forward between them to the place from which they had come.
"I am glad thou art not dead," said Vittore; "Tomaso grieved for thee sorely, and so did I."
Tomaso laughed happily. "Grieve! Aye, did we! But now we can rejoice."
"But why this haste?" Ligozzi asked, "where dost thou hurry me?"
"Back, father, whence we came, for I was left in trust. It is a path thy horse can follow, and I will tell thee what has happened as we go."
Ligozzi followed without further question, too full of joy for speech, and taking so much pleasure in that it was his son who spoke as for the moment not to heed too keenly what he said.
But when Tomaso, beginning, boy-fashion, with the last, and not the first, came to mention of the Visconti's blow, Ligozzi roused to fury.
"Methought I saw a scar across thy face," he said, "yet in this light I could not see too well. It is only one more wrong to set against the Visconti's name, one deed the more to be avenged."
Tomaso took the clenched hand and covered it with kisses.
"I can forgive him now," he said, "since thou were not slain when Verona fell."
"'Twas no fault of the Visconti's that any living soul escaped," returned his father. "Still, go on with thy tale, Tomaso; who is this Francisco, that thou nam'st so oft?"
Tomaso, eager and suddenly light of heart, told all he knew, and ere his recital ended they had reached the open, and found everything as they had left it. The horses safe, nothing seemingly disturbed.
"Francisco will be pleased at a helper such as thou, father," said Tomaso proudly; "thou wilt be of more service in his venture than the German Count."
"And when this Francisco returns presently, the plan is that we set forth at once for Ferrara?" asked Ligozzi.
"And meanwhile rest, father, and I will bring thee food. We have already eaten."
"I, too, my son," answered Ligozzi; but he seated himself on one of the rough wooden stools and watched Tomaso affectionately, as he brought the poor horn lantern from the wall. He lit and set it on the table, where it cast a straggling and wretched light.
"Francisco is surely overlong," he said; "suppose the soldiers think to search again on their way home from some outlying district?"
"Then there will be another fight," said Vittore, "but Francisco will get the best of it."
Ligozzi laughed.
"I owe this Francisco much," he said; "he must be a brave man, an his care saved you both. From Verona, didst thou say?"
"From Verona, father. He said he knew thee, thy name; he is di Coldra; he knew thee, he has said, and the Della Scala also!"
At Della Scala's name Ligozzi's eyes filled with tears, and his voice trembled when he spoke.
"I at least knew Della Scala well," he said, "and loved him too." He paused. "Next to thee, Tomaso," he continued sadly, "his memory has filled my heart during these weary weeks. I hoped, hope against hope, he might have escaped even as I did, but there comes no sign he lives."
"Then thou didst not see him perish?" asked Tomaso softly.
"On that fearful night on which Verona fell," answered Ligozzi, "Della Scala himself defended the gates, fighting like a lion. But he was betrayed, Tomaso, by a dastard in his pay, and the Visconti's soldiers poured in through the breach, secretly, and seized the palace, the Duke unwitting till it was too late and the palace flaming. I had to carry him the news; may I never have to do the like again. The palace was a sheet of fire, the Duchess was within, and the Visconti's soldiers swarming. The Prince rushed like a madman through the streets, a little group of us behind him. Too late! The Duchess was too great a prize, the miscreants had lost no time, and she was gone. A tale had reached the Duke while he still struck about him frantically that Gian Visconti himself had led the onset, and was still within the precincts with his prisoner. But it was a trap, Tomaso, set by a traitor. Della Scala, rushing where the pikeman pointed, was led beneath a burning stairway. It crashed in. I was behind the Duke; a beam struck me down, I thought among the dead, but some friars found me and brought me back to life; of Della Scala they knew nothing." He paused, and hid his eyes a moment in his hands.
"Thou didst care greatly?" said Tomaso, after a painful silence.
"He was a noble prince," replied his father. "I owe him everything; he made a friend of me, and I ever found him brave and generous, as strong as gentle, and most honorable—and he loved the Duchess, aye, he loved her. The Duchess still lives, a prisoner in Milan, but Della Scala——"
He sighed deeply, and rose as if to put from him the memory of the tragedy.
"But to return to thy deliverer," he said, "one Francisco di Coldra, thou say'st; he claims I know him. What manner of a man is he?"
As he spoke he moved with Tomaso to the door, and looked out into the dark. What kept Francisco and the Count?
"He is tall and strong," replied Tomaso, "with thick brown hair and heavy eyes; a handsome face, I think it, father, stern and sad. He is worn—as if from sickness. The Count thinks him better than he gives out; I know not."
Ligozzi was silent; his figure alone was visible.
"Seeing the case is as thou say'st, Tomaso," he remarked at last, "every moment of delay is dangerous, and thy friend is long."
Tomaso stepped into the open, and, to ease his impatience, brought forward the horses.
"I think they come," he cried joyfully in another moment. "It seems a dream, father, that thou shouldst be here to meet Francisco."
Ligozzi was still strangely silent. He drew back within the doorway. Hurried footsteps were heard, the crackling of fallen boughs, the swish of the flowering grass. Ligozzi saw a tall figure looming toward them through the dusk, a slighter one beside him.
Tomaso, from where he stood, eager and excited by the horses, cried out to them. Ligozzi, still farther back, bent down to Vittore, who stood beside him; seen by the dim light of the horn lantern, his face was strangely agitated.
"Has this Francisco half-closed eyes, and a ready, pleasant smile?" he asked.
Vittore looked up in surprise.
"He has such eyes," he answered. "I have not ever seen him smile like that. Thou didst know him then, my uncle?"
"Yes," Ligozzi answered brokenly. "I think—I remember him—at Della Scala's court."
But here Tomaso, calling on him, re-entered the hut, followed by Francisco, whose stately presence seemed to make the mean place smaller still.
"My father," said the boy joyfully; "my father, saved from the taking of Verona, and come a long way in search of us!"
Francisco fell back, uttering a stifled exclamation; the anger cleared from his brow. He looked keenly at the figure in the shadow.
"Ligozzi!" he exclaimed, with shining eyes. "Ligozzi lives!"
"It was a miracle, was it not?" said Tomaso eagerly. "He has come to join us. He owes thee thanks, Messer Francisco, as do we."
And all this time his father had not spoken. Tomaso wondered at it, and now, when Ligozzi came forward shrinkingly, Francisco raised his hand as if to keep him back, or warn him, or restrain.
"No thanks are needed," he said quickly. "I am Francisco di Coldra, from Verona, and ever ready to serve those whom Visconti hates!"
Ligozzi stood bare-headed, as if dazed.
Francisco spoke again, with meaning. "Thy travel hath confused thee, sir," he said; "thou thinkest thou art still at the Duke of Verona's court, that thou standest thus humble?"
At this, Ligozzi roused himself. "Tomaso has told me—" he began. But again Francisco stopped him.
"We must to horse!" he cried. "To horse! Too much time has already been shamelessly wasted," and he strode out, motioning to them to follow.
By the horses stood Conrad Sigismund, bringing them one by one under review, in the scanty gleam of light afforded by the lantern, and that flickered upon them through the space that answered for a window.
"A roan!" he cried gaily, "I ever loved a roan charger. I will have this one, Francisco." He spoke airily, as if ten minutes since Francisco had not lashed him with his tongue, and threatened him even with death, should his foolhardiness endanger them again.
"Thou wilt ride the black," said Francisco coldly.
"Because I love the roan?" asked the other with a laugh.
"Because I say so," returned Francisco.
A mocking answer rose to Conrad's lips, but it was never spoken. With a gesture, Francisco motioned him to silence. He turned and listened.
"Horses! And coming hither!" he said. "Soldiers!"
The others, grouped close by, ready to mount, stopped paralyzed—yes, Francisco's ears had caught the sound aright, the tramp of horsemen, and coming upon them from the road.
Escape with horses any other way there was none, though Conrad madly urged they should mount and fly.
But Francisco turned on him threateningly.
"Am I to run thee through?" he said; "these horses mean more to me than thy life, or my own. Where shall we ride? Into the water? No, go back into the hut." He turned to Ligozzi. "Aid me tether these beasts where they may be unnoticed. These men perchance are only riding through."
It was done in silence and with expedition. The soldiers' voices were now plain, and the jangle of their arms.
"Come, Ligozzi," said Francisco, "thou and I will play at being soldiers, and see how we can overcome Visconti's men. 'Tis a game that thou and I have played before."
He drew his dagger as he spoke, and stepped back with Ligozzi into the hut. The door was closed. Francisco glanced around. By the table stood Conrad, showing even at that moment the silver and ivory chessmen, which he slipped out of his doublet one at a time, and passed them before Vittore's now wandering, now fascinated gaze.
Ligozzi and Tomaso stood beside their leader, one either hand. Tomaso's face was white; the Visconti's scar showed plainly; his breast throbbed with excitement. Ligozzi's gaze was riveted upon Francisco.
A sudden babble of voices outside told the soldiers were in the open. A voice cried: "Halt!"
But ere this Francisco had put out the light. They stood in darkness.
"I know that voice," said Francisco at Ligozzi's ear; "Alberic da Salluzzo. When last I heard it 'twas in Verona, at the burning of the palace. Dost remember?"
Ligozzi nodded. They held their daggers ready. No one stirred. Count Conrad thrust his chessmen back into his doublet. He regretted Francisco had dragged him so furiously away before he had time to find Lady Valentine's dagger with the emerald. It could have been of service now.
There was a lull outside. The soldiers had dismounted, but the captain kept his seat. The horses champed, threw up their heads, and clanked their trappings; but as he talked with the men told off to hold them Alberic's swaggering tones were plainly audible.
Suddenly a shout arose.
"They have found the horses," said Francisco.
Alberic flung himself from the saddle. They could hear that. Torchlight suddenly flared across the opening, high up in the wall, and more faintly through the broken roof. There was a sudden blow upon the door Francisco's giant frame was barricading.
"Who is within here?" cried a harsh voice. "Open!" and there came another blow.
But it scarce had fallen before Francisco, so swiftly no one could foresee his intention, stepped aside and let the door fly open as if the blow had forced it. On the threshold stood Alberic da Salluzzo, resplendent in jeweled armor and waving plumes. In the smoking torchlight, badly held, it seemed as if the place he looked into were empty.
"Who harbors here?" he said, and stepped across the threshold. "Bring thy torch here, Gilliamo."
But Francisco was swift. The door was shut before the soldier heard, and Francisco set once more his giant frame against it. In an instant, by the breathing of the men near him, da Salluzzo knew he had been trapped. He turned to escape, he was about to call, but a hand of iron closed round his throat. In the dim light the place seemed full of threatening forms.
He was trapped indeed! Half-strangling, he ground his teeth at his folly more than his plight, and struggled to get his dagger, but his hands were caught.
In vain he struggled; he was a powerful man, but he who held him was more powerful. In vain he tried to cry aloud to those without; his voice was gripped within his throat. Slowly but irresistibly he was forced back against the farther wall, with a strength he thought could not be man's.
In a moment more, the soldiers without, nonplussed, but only for an instant, by their captain's disappearance, broke in the door. They could scarce believe their senses. Da Salluzzo lay dead upon the floor, and over him there towered a tall figure. They saw naught else. These men had fought with Alberic at the sacking of Verona; they knew that form, they had seen that face before. By their torches' smoky glare it seemed unearthly, and the eyes to flame, the form to fill the hut.
"Come and fetch thy captain!" cried Francisco. But at the voice, at the look of his wild face as he advanced, they dropped their torches and scrambled back across the threshold panic-struck.
"Mastino della Scala!" they cried, "Mastino della Scala!" and dropping the lights they fled in terror.
Della Scala is alive!
The news flew like fire around Milan, rousing even the indifferent to some interest. The rumors then were true? Delia Scala was alive? In the market-place, in the streets, in the houses it was discussed—the name of Della Scala was on every lip. But in the Visconti palace it was not spoken. Silent, somber as ever, the castle frowned over its beautiful gardens, and, only by the companies of horse that spurred out of its side gates to fortify still more strongly the nine cities once held by Della Scala and now the Visconti's, only by this could it be told how much the news meant to the man within.
Giannotto, walking softly through the corridors, paused and looked out into the garden.
Something had caught his keen eye, and he watched, hidden by the curtain of purple silk.
A sea of flowers lay spread beneath him, while beyond a more formal part of the grounds, crowned with white terraces and set with cypress-trees, rose clear against the sapphire sky. To the right lay Isotta d'Este's prison, the western tower, a massive building of huge strength, encircled on three sides with a moat, and guarded by soldiers.
Giannotto's eyes glanced from the silver banner that hung above, lifeless in the summer air, to the soldiers at their posts below.
There was an entrance to the tower near to the palace, guarded, but little used, half-hidden by myrtle that had filled up the dried moat and climbed up the wall; and, as Giannotto still watched, the figure he had seen enter there, hooded and cloaked, passed out again hurriedly, sped between the sentries, who studiously took no heed, and was soon lost to sight along the winding paths.
The movement was quick, the figure gone almost as soon as noticed; a casual observer would have taken little heed, but Giannotto's eyes were trained, and he knew the figure for whose it was: Valentine Visconti.
"She must have bribed high," he thought. "High indeed. Why should she visit the prison of Isotta d'Este?" He followed her figure across the garden with curious, suspicious thoughts.
"She is daring," he mused, "and foolish. Did she think no one's eyes could be on her, when Visconti has spies who are to watch her every movement?"
He turned back into the corridor, twisting the ends of his scarlet robe between his fingers, and smiling to himself.
The secretary was in a better humor than his master; that Mastino della Scala should live to vex Visconti, that he should have snatched von Schulembourg, one of his dearest victims, back from underneath his very hand, pleased Giannotto, as did anything that annoyed Visconti, save when his master's rage was such that his secretary felt its working. The Duke he knew to be alone. The brief audience he accorded was long over. Visconti had no friends; they, who must, sought him in the morning in the audience-room. For the rest, like the others of his tainted race, he lived alone.
He paused outside Visconti's door, and the secretary smoothed a smile from his face, and, tapping slightly, entered with a silent, cringing movement.
The chamber was dark, although it was full noonday. Visconti had no love for the sunlight, and even the narrow windows were obscured and shrouded in dark purple.
The walls were paneled in carved wood, but, apart from the stiff chairs, the sole furniture of the apartment was a long low chest, set open, and showing silver goblets and curious bottles and glasses twisted into strange shapes, and colored. At the farther end were two doors close together, and between them sat Visconti, huddled up against the wall, gazing at the floor with strained, wide-open eyes.
Giannotto, entering softly, noticed in his hand a bracelet, fashioned as a snake, emerald green, of striking workmanship.
"A messenger from the Bologna embassy, my lord," he said, closing the door behind him, "has entreated me to ask thy attention to them."
Visconti looked up quickly, and put out of sight the bracelet with a snap of anger.
"What, do the Bolognese trouble me?" he said fiercely.
"They only follow the example of the Pavians, my lord," returned the secretary smoothly. "They would have thy mediation between the rival factions in their state."
"My mediation! Pavia asked it, as thou say'st, and so did Bergamo; yet do the twain who then appealed to me reign in either city now? The Bolognese are foolish," said Visconti.
Giannotto shrugged his shoulders. "That need not trouble thee, my lord. Bologna is a wealthy town. Thy lordship will think of it?"
The secretary's eyes were on the ground. Gian Galeazzo slipped his bracelet into his doublet and rose.
"Aye, I will think of it," he said, "but for the moment there are more precious things to do even than using the Bolognese against themselves."
Giannotto waited. The Duke paced to and fro a moment, then broke into the subject next his heart.
"Thinkest thou Della Scala will outwit me?" he said eagerly. "Thinkest thou that if he do reach Ferrara he will rouse the Estes to action?"
"He had two good hours' start," returned Giannotto, "and the road to Ferrara offers many chances."
"And those men—who let them escape them? Do they still live?"
"Aye, my lord. They are valuable. It is enough that Alberic da Salluzzo has been lost to us——"
"They shall yet hang for it," said Visconti.
With rapid steps he returned to his seat, flung himself into it, clutching the arms with vice-like grip.
"He cannot do anything, Giannotto," he said. "He cannot rouse the Estes—against me! No; when Della Scala ruled nine cities, and his revenue was equaled only by the kings of France—I stripped him, I routed him. And now!" he smiled and his eyes widened, "he is a beggar. Perhaps it is not so ill that he lives to know it. It is a better revenge than any I could have devised, Delia Scala a beggar, a hanger-on at his kinsman's court, deafening his ears with unwelcome prayers, sinking into contempt before the people who once owned him lord!"
Giannotto was silent. He could not imagine Mastino della Scala a beggar at any prince's court.
But Visconti, blinded and absorbed by hatred, continued unheedingly:
"Carrara also, the Duke of Padua, is too necessary to the Estes. They cannot stand without him. Will he, thinkest thou, ever be won over to side with Mastino? No, Giannotto, I do not fear him. Let Della Scala live robbed of all,—and with Count Conrad as an ally!"
"Shall we then dismiss him, my lord?" ventured Giannotto smoothly; "he who is not worth fearing is not worth considering."
He seated himself at the low table as he spoke, his watchful eyes on Visconti, and drew some papers from the flat bag at his side.
The Duke returned no answer. In truth he heard not what was said, but leaned back in his chair and fell to thinking. The secretary, looking at his brooding face, shuddered a little at what his master's thoughts might be. He wondered also as to that green bracelet that Visconti had concealed.
The silence grew oppressive, and Giannotto moved uneasily. He loved not to sit alone with Visconti when he fell into these musings.
The Duke roused himself.
"Ah," he said, breaking suddenly into a passion of declaim. "A God can do no more than say, 'I have succeeded—in all I have undertaken, I have succeeded!' And I can say as much. I have succeeded. I looked on life and took from it what I wanted, the fairest and the finest things that offered; and the price—others paid it. Truly, I have succeeded!"
Giannotto shrank back at Visconti's outburst, and made no answer.
But the Duke had forgotten him. He was but uttering his thoughts aloud.
"Five years ago," he said exultingly, "I rode outside the gates of Verona and challenged Della Scala to single combat. He sent his lackey out with a refusal, and in my heart I said: 'I will bring that man so low that life shall hold nothing so sweet to him as the thought of meeting me in single fight!' I have succeeded! Isotta d'Este looked past me and laughed, and I said, 'She shall live to feel her life within my hand.' In that also I have succeeded!
"And three years ago, only three years ago, I stood within this very room, four lives between me and the throne of Milan—four lives, all crafty—and two young. But I—I the youngest, took my fate and theirs into my hand. I said: 'It is for me to reign in Milan—I am the Duke.' In that I have succeeded!"
He paused, with dilating eyes and parted lips, intoxicated with pride.
"This ambition is his madness," thought Giannotto; but he still was silent.
"In another thing," continued Visconti, and his voice was changed: he breathed softly, and his eyes sparkled pleasantly. "Last May-day I saw the people in the fields, pulling flowers; I knew they were what poets call happy. Among them were two girls, one dark, one fair, and she with the dark hair had her betrothed beside her. They were happy among the happy, they loved each other—and I rode unseen. The may was thick and white, I watched them through the flowers and vowed: I too will be happy, even as they are happy, though I am Visconti; I will be loved for myself alone; that fair-haired girl shall care for me as her companion for her lover,—life shall give me that as well!"
And he rose, triumphant, smiling, resting his hand on the arras that hid the door behind him.
The secretary gazed upon him fascinated.
Lifting the arras, he paused again, and looked back with a smile that transformed his face.
"In that too have I succeeded!" he said melodiously; and, opening the narrow door, he was gone, as always, noiselessly.
The secretary shook himself.
"Why does he unburden his soul to me?" he murmured. "Does he think, because I sit silent, I have no ears, no memory—that I shall forget? 'In that too have I succeeded!' Aye, thou hast it all thine own way, Visconti, so far."
With a slight shrug of the shoulders Giannotto fell to writing.
When his pages were finished, he put them into his bag for the Duke to sign, and grumbled at his absence, stayed, but dared not follow. Presently he decided to take his own dismissal.
As he rose to go he remembered Valentine Visconti, flying through the garden after her secret visit, and he considered, if she could bribe him to silence heavily enough to make it worth his while to venture an encounter with her.
Visconti did not stint his sister for money, and she might pay well. Still, dare he let her know he spied?
Then his thoughts went to Isotta d'Este, and he wondered, with some interest, what her fate would be.
In open day Isotta d'Este had been captured; all Europe knew she was his prisoner; Tuscany and the Empire already looked with interest on the Duke of Milan's growing power, and that Duke a usurper. Visconti had to step warily.
Still busy with his thoughts, the secretary had reached the door, when it opened and the ancient Luisa, Isotta's prison attendant and spy, entered, glancing expectantly around.
Giannotto looked at her slowly; he hated her—indeed, he hated most people, but she in particular, for she equaled him in servile cunning and surpassed him in greed.
"I would see the Duke," she said, looking at him mistrustfully.
"Thou canst not see him," returned the secretary, "for he is not here."
But old Luisa seated herself calmly on one of the black-backed chairs. "I will not take thy word for what I can or cannot do," she said. "I have important tidings for his ear alone."
Giannotto longingly wondered if it were possible to win her news from her and share in the reward.
"I will get thy news in to the Duke," he said. "Trust it to me, and I will see he does not forget who brought them, but 'tis impossible to see him now."
Luisa smiled.
"I would be my own news-bearer," she said, and made no movement to go.
"Visconti is in his laboratory," said Giannotto angrily. "Whatever thy news, art thou so mad as to think of following him there? Wilt thou not trust it to me?" he added more gently.
She shook her head placidly.
"Have thy way," sneered Giannotto. "Stay and see the Duke, and be dismissed for having left thy post, and remember there are more eyes on the western tower than thou knowest."
The old woman looked uneasy, but stubbornly kept her place. And seizing his bag and papers, Giannotto was gone, and the heavy door closed behind him before she could know what was going to happen.
"Giannotto!" she cried in alarm. "Listen a moment—" And she ran and pushed at the door.
Giannotto opened it a little and showed his smiling, crafty face.
"Wilt thou give me the news or wait till the Duke leaves his laboratory and finds thou hast been absent from thy post an hour, perchance more?"
"Take it then," said Luisa with a cry of vexation. "But I will repay thee, Giannotto."
She thrust into his hands a piece of parchment.
"It was left with me by the Lady Valentine to give Isotta d'Este. Now, make what else of it thou canst," and Luisa shuffled past him, terror overmastering greed. To be locked within that chamber to wait the Visconti was what she had not heart for. Moreover, she could tell the Duke another time—and he would listen—how Giannotto had forestalled her.
She shuffled off, and Giannotto in triumph re-entered the chamber. He read the parchment, one of many: "Della Scala lives."
"And the Lady Valentine conveys it to Isotta d'Este's prison," mused Giannotto. "Now, shall I tell my lord that piece of news or no?"
He regarded the two doors, between which Visconti's chair was set, and gently tried them: one was locked, the other opened to the touch. He dared investigate no further, and returning to his chair, sat down to wait. The minutes dragged on, and he fumed with impatience.
Visconti's laboratory was not altogether a secret place. Giannotto had helped him in his experiments; there was an assistant who tended the fires. But no one followed the Duke into it unbidden.
But, as time went on, Giannotto debated with himself that he would venture. Visconti was long. What was he doing? It was an opportunity to spy. If caught, the secretary could plead anxiety as to his master's safety. Summoning his courage, Giannotto rose and crept to the unlocked door and softly pushed it back.
It opened on a flight of stairs, black marble, carpeted in gold, the high walls hung with tapestry in red.
The steps were few in number, before they twisted abruptly out of sight. Round the bend floated a thin wisp of gray smoke.
Giannotto slowly and cautiously mounted. At the bend the steps still continued, twisting again.
It was very silent, very still, only the lazy floating wreath of smoke moving. Giannotto came within sight of a door, ajar. He marveled at it. It was thus Conrad von Schulembourg had escaped—through an unlocked door. Visconti trusted overmuch to the terror of his name.
Giannotto slowly and cautiously pushed it a little further open. It showed him the outer laboratory, a long low room of gray stone, and lit by a large window set back a man's height in the wall.
Hanging over a clear charcoal fire, burning in a pan, was an elaborate silver pot, seeming to quiver in the vapor that shimmered off the fire underneath.
Around it on the floor stood glasses, vases, jars and goblets, glass, china and gold.
Save this, the vault-like chamber was void of furniture; only on the stove near the window lay a pile of things, curiously mixed. They held Giannotto's eyes. They were not in the laboratory when he worked there.
A man's doublet of white satin, a scent bottle, a spray of roses, a mask, a poniard, two scarfs intertwisted, and, sparkling on an inlaid tray, a massive ring—he knew it, he had seen it on Isotta's hand—her wedding ring; all this thrown among two birds and a hound, stiff and dead.
Giannotto started a step back. Then his eyes fell on the window-seat, and even he could scarce suppress a cry.
For Visconti stood there, erect and motionless, so motionless and so one with the stone beside him, Giannotto had not known him there. From head to foot he was clad in gray. In his right hand he held a pair of gloves, turquoise blue, magnificently worked in pearls, and in the other a small phial filled with a yellow, slow-moving liquid. This he held high against the light, which fell strong and cold upon his upturned face and thick, curling red hair, and as Giannotto gazed, fascinated, on the gleam of his teeth as he smiled with a slow satisfaction. Giannotto had seen enough. His heart beat quickly. He drew the door to again, and crept back down the steps unobserved, gaining the outer chamber, trembling: and there for a moment fell upon his knees, as if in thanks for a most merciful escape. His thanks were not without their reason. Hardly was the secretary in his chair again, before a light foot-fall sounded and Visconti entered.
For one moment Giannotto thrilled with terror, but a covert glance at the Duke's face reassured him.
"I have this to give you, my lord," he began at once. "It was left in the Lady Isotta's prison."
Visconti took the parchment.
"By whom left there?" he asked.
"I know not, my lord," said Giannotto. "Luisa brought it, but dared not leave her post."
His own narrow escape of a moment since had tied up Giannotto's tongue.
"It will not be hard to discover," said Visconti. "Some one who did not bribe Luisa high enough."
"Mastino della Scala lives," he read again. He handed the parchment back to the secretary.
"Let the Lady Isotta have it," he said. "It may keep her alive. It looks to me that she may die, Giannotto, of the bad air and the confinement," and he smiled. "I would certainly not have her death. Give her the parchment." And he handed the parchment back, dismissing Giannotto with the gesture.
Clearly Visconti was in a mood that held neither comment nor reward, but one the secretary was glad to escape from so easily. With a deep obeisance he departed.
"Who bribes the woman to comfort Isotta d'Este? The soldiers are to be trusted," mused Visconti. "Once I know I will remember it."
He drew from his doublet the velvet gloves of turquoise hue and laid them on the table.
They were beautiful in their perfect workmanship, huge gauntlets fringed with pearl and gold, and tasseled at the points with rubies. On the back was a rich design also in pearl and gold, and they were lined with white satin, covered in fine silk lace.
Truly they were a work of art. Visconti raised them delicately by the tassels and looked long at their rich blue, admiringly, and with a curious expression.