"It was not worth while bringing to your notice, my lord. A band of the enemy's soldiers have been skirmishing there."
"They were beaten off without harm to anyone within the gates?"
"The gates were not forced, nor anyone injured—or I should have acquainted you, my lord," and he waited for possibly some mark of appreciation; but the Duke motioned curtly to the roll he held, and Giannotto crept out with bowed shoulders. As the tapestry fell into place behind him, Visconti approached the black bureau between the windows, and unlocked one of the long drawers.
In its dusky recess lay a gold box, and Visconti took it out, handling it carefully.
The light fell in a straight shaft from the narrow window, on the delicate chasing of the casket, as Visconti placed it on the table, and as he turned the key and the lid flew back, it gleamed on the emeralds and diamonds of an elaborate coronet, exquisitely enameled and pointed.
Every inch was covered with precious stones: each point tapering into a delicate tracery of gold, as fine as lace.
Visconti drew a chair to the table, and leaned back in it, his eyes upon the jewels; so absorbed was he, he did not heed the opening door nor Tisio's entrance.
And Tisio scarcely saw his brother, for joy at the little coronet, so brilliant in the sun's straight ray.
"How dost thou come here, Tisio?" asked his brother, startled; but at sight of Tisio's vacant, foolish face, he sank back, and noticing his joy, he smiled—for Tisio was crazed, and remembered nothing of even the things that gave him pleasure. "Dost thou like it?" he continued, gratified at the delight in his brother's eyes. "Thy taste in goldsmiths' work is good, Tisio."
"'Tis beautiful, Gian, wondrous beautiful!" cried Tisio in rapt admiration.
"I bought it with the price of half a city," said Gian. "And hold it cheap."
The words had no meaning for Tisio, as his brother knew: he only voiced his own pride in the lovely bauble.
"And wilt thou wear it?" asked Tisio.
The Duke laughed good-humoredly.
"Not I, Tisio; still soon—when Della Scala's crushed—thou shalt see it worn by some one—some one whose face will outshine these stones, Tisio."
"Whose will it be?" asked his brother childishly.
"A lady, Tisio; and when this coronet is on her head, she will be Visconti's wife and the Duchess of Milan!"
He paused on the word, and looked at Tisio; but there was no wonder in his brother's eyes, his gaze held by the flashing stones.
"Now, by Saint Mark!" cried Visconti suddenly. "This is no time to be maundering with a toy and an idiot."
He put the little coronet back and locked the casket.
"How comest thou to be alone, Tisio? Where is thy page?"
As he spoke he returned the casket to the bureau. Tisio, in eager curiosity, looked over his shoulders into the open drawer. There lay the turquoise-colored gloves.
"Oh!" cried Tisio joyously. "The beautiful, beautiful gloves!"
And before Gian could stop him, he had caught them up.
Visconti snatched them from him; at the same moment came a clamoring upon the door. It was Giannotto knocking lustily.
"Now, who beats down the door?" cried the Duke, and waiting for no further summons, Giannotto entered. The Duke, starting, thrust the turquoise gloves into his doublet.
"What is it now, Giannotto? Did I not say that I was coming?"
"My lord, it presses. De Lana would see you—there has been fierce fighting outside the walls—the army clamors for you——"
"Lead the way," said Visconti shortly; and, preceded by his secretary, he returned hastily toward his council chamber.
The anteroom, brilliant in pink stone and gold, the great hall itself, flaring in painted walls and dazzling stained-glass windows, were full of people—courtiers, soldiers, artists, and craftsmen.
Gian Visconti kept neither the open court nor the free table of his father; he was neither lavish in his hospitality, save when it suited his own ends, nor liberal in his rewards; still he loved, encouraged, and jealously exacted the homage of all artists. Woe be to the painter or poet who took his painting or poetry to any other in Milan save the Duke himself!
There were many there to-day, eager-eyed among the throng, among them the German architect of the glorious new church; but to-day Visconti passed unheeding through them. The city was at war.
He stepped into the council chamber unannounced, followed solely by Giannotto.
The great gilt ornate room was full of Milanese and foreigners, allies or guests of Visconti.
"You look grave, my lords," cried Visconti, his gray eyes wide, "and fearful. I had not thought you of so poor a courage. Yet, since you are so faint of heart, I come to tell you from my own lips that I ride against Verona to-day! Have you forgotten, my lords, that a Visconti still rules Milan?"
There was no answer from the splendid throng; they had complained much of late—but not to his face.
"Have you no thanks for so much comfort?" laughed Visconti. "Let all those who may care to follow make them ready, and let those who care not—stay to make us welcome from a victory. Come, De Lana."
He turned away with his hand on his favorite captain's arm.
To a man the crowded assembly flocked to follow.
"Ah!" Visconti turned again.
"A crushed foe is scarcely to be feared! Have I not set my standard in the market-place of Verona? Have I not dragged a hostage from Della Scala's palace? Lords of Milan, am I not Visconti?"
With one voice they broke into loud shouts.
"To the city walls! to the city walls! Down with Della Scala! To the city walls!"
And while the cry still sounded, before the enthusiasm could abate, Visconti, armed and mounted, rode at the head of some thousand mercenaries and Milanese, to the farthest rampart of the city.
D'Orleans had not volunteered. The French duke remained in the well-guarded palace, of which the Lady Valentine was left the governor during the Duke's absence, an office she had often filled before quarrels had sprung up between her and her brother, and while he held Milan against his father and she was his counselor and ally.
For a few brief hours, power again was hers, for Visconti had not weakened her authority yet—outwardly at least. She could do nothing.
She thought of her helplessness with bitterness. All day long she set herself to revolving schemes of escape—some way whereby to avail herself of the confusion into which Milan had been thrown—some means to outwit her brother.
She could not rest for her anxious thoughts. The Visconti palace was near the walls, and Valentine, stepping onto the open balcony, looked through the clustered pillars over the flat house-roofs to the distant country where the advancing army lay.
The air was heavy. From the streets came the sound of tumult, noise, and hurry: the walls were manned.
"There is to be some fighting," murmured Valentine.
She shaded her eyes from the sun that, beating on the red brickwork of the palace, gave back a blinding glare.
"Oh, may God grant that victory may fall," she murmured, "where Count Conrad draws his sword!"
It was evening before Visconti returned, weary from his survey of his men, victorious after a fierce skirmish with some of Verona's mercenaries, led by Mastino's trusted Captain Roccia.
The palace that till then had lain so quiet was suddenly a wild confusion, a babel of noises, shouts, and trampling of horses.
Strange, flaring lights were thrown across the courtyard; the torches flung ragged, straggling rays upon the sides of the palace, falling grotesquely on the griffins that grinned either side the arched door, falling across the long rows of straight windows, and, for a second, on Valentine Visconti's pale face, looking eagerly below.
"Dogs of Veronese!" cried Visconti, turning his wild eyes toward the prisoners. "They have cost us a wild hour!"
And he had been in the thick of it; his rich armor was dented, the embroidered surtout torn to rags: Visconti's blood was up. In a fight, even the Torriani could not say he lacked anything save prudence.
Without alighting, he took from his head his ponderous helmet with the viper crest, and gave it to his page.
"We have given Roccia a taste of our quality!" he laughed, and pulled his gauntlets off. "Where is De Lana?"
"I am here, lord," said Giannotto.
He stood at the Duke's saddle, looking around him in confusion.
"What news, Giannotto?" cried Visconti. "Thy pallid face seems too ready to welcome me. Let me dismount."
"Hear me first," entreated the secretary, "before you dismount—before anything—lord!"
"Quick with thy news then—stand back, De Lana, I must hear this rogue."
Giannotto drew closer.
"My lord, at noon to-day, Rinalta, the Tuscan captain, rode in. While Roccia was engaging you, some mercenaries forced one of the gates, and before they could be driven back, a house was broken into, some prisoners made——"
The Duke fixed his widening eyes upon the speaker, and Giannotto shrank.
"What gate?" he asked. "What house? What prisoners?"
"The western gate, lord, and Agnolo Vistarnini's house!"
With a sound of fury Visconti struck at his secretary violently, with the ends of his bridle.
"And I was not told before!"
"It was held too small a fray, lord," said the secretary. "Could I tell my Lady Valentine one gate was more to you than another? I besought her to send to you—I besought them all—could I tell them why?"
Even as he spoke De Lana rode up resolutely.
"More men are needed at the western gate," he said; "the Germans have returned. I will lead them."
"No!" cried Visconti; "I, De Lana."
The soldier looked surprised.
"You, lord? There is no need——"
"It is my will," Visconti answered fiercely. "At once, to the western gate!"
At his cry the soldiers flung themselves again into the saddle, and those who still sat their horses gathered up their reins.
"Your helmet, lord," cried the startled squire; but Visconti swept him aside and rushed bareheaded forward, De Lana and his troop of horsemen after him in a wild riot of sound and light.
Giannotto stood bewildered in the doorway; nothing left of the wild tumult that had filled the spaces save echoing shouts and tramping hoofs.
"Visconti is mad," he thought. "He has ridden off almost unarmed! Now—I wonder what may happen before he return from the western gate—the night is dark and—dangerous."
And with a thoughtful glance up at the cloudy sky, Giannotto slowly withdrew.
Mastino Della Scala was proving himself. He had come to within fifteen miles of Milan.
Verona was his again; that was in itself enough to justify his allies' confidence.
Of them Julia Gonzaga's force and Ippolito d'Este's army lay at Brescia, ready at any moment to advance.
Della Scala's position lay nearer Milan, and by far the larger half of his support was Carrara, Duke of Padua's contingent, led by the Duke in person.
Between the two forces, a quarter of a mile outside Della Scala's camp, was the castle of Brescia, at one time an occasional residence of Barnabas, Visconti's father, and now a gloomy fortress, with an evil reputation; for Barnabas, driven from Milan by his son, had died there—with his wife—of fever it was said. In a gorgeous tent in the midst of Della Scala's camp sat Conrad von Schulembourg and the younger d'Este.
It was the slumbrous hour after noon; the air heavy with an approaching storm, and Conrad lounged languidly on a low divan, playing with his dagger. The war, although success had fallen to his leader, had already begun to weary this indolent cavalier, and even the sight of Milan in the distance, where Valentine was imprisoned, could not keep him from whining at the hardness of his fate. A parchment lay near him on the seat, and from time to time he made some pretense of looking at it: pretense only.
In Della Scala's force Conrad held third command under the Duke of Padua, who was immediately under Mastino; but Conrad's post was largely a sinecure, for though in the battle the Count's gallant courage roused Della Scala's warmest praise, he recognized that his capacity for generalship was small.
None the less Della Scala trusted him completely. His heart full of his one object, elated by his successes, eagerly keeping his allies together, Della Scala had small leisure to notice Conrad's stifled yawns when the council of war was held, or the fact that he gave more thought to playing cards and chess with Vincenzo than to the discipline and efficiency of the men under his orders.
For the fiftieth time he put the parchment down and turned to Vincenzo, who lay along the floor, eating nuts and hurling the shells at the legs of the sentry visible through the flaps set wide back for coolness. To make the soldier jump at a telling shot was more just then to Vincenzo than the taking of Milan.
"I would there were some one else to read these dispatches," said Conrad. "I love not this part of soldiering. When, think you, will there be another city to be taken, Vincenzo?"
"There was fighting yesterday outside Milan," returned the boy. "Thou shouldst have gone."
"I asked the Prince to let me, but as usual I was bade stay at my post." And Conrad rose with a sigh of outraged virtue and adjusted the points of his rose-colored doublet.
"Asked the Prince!" mocked Vincenzo; "thou shouldst have gone without asking him."
"A dash on the walls," said Conrad, "that is what we need, not this idleness and skirmishing. I long to grasp my sword and fly to my Lady Valentine's rescue—but the Prince——"
"Tell me not," said Vincenzo. "I know Mastino always counsels prudence, and I am weary of it."
"The Prince knows more of it than we, doubtless," admitted Conrad. "Nevertheless these parchments may wait while I have a game of chess with thee."
"May they, Count Conrad? And is chess thy notion truly?" said Mastino's voice without, and unannounced he entered the tent, followed by Tomaso's father, Giorgio Ligozzi.
He was from head to foot in armor.
His eyes fell on Vincenzo, and his face darkened.
"For shame, Vincenzo," he said, with scorn. "Thou art no longer a child, to indulge in these page's tricks, and much I marvel Count Conrad should allow thee such license."
Vincenzo rose sullenly.
"Leave us," continued Della Scala with angry eyes. "And learn from yonder soldiers to play the man, and wear a leathern jacket with more grace than a silken doublet. I am ashamed of thee, Vincenzo."
D'Este's beautiful face flushed crimson.
"'Tis not always the leathern jacket comes out best at time of need, my lord," he said defiantly. "Try me in it in a fight."
Della Scala's glance softened; he laid his hand on the boy's shoulder gently.
"Thou art a d'Este and my brother, Vincenzo. I do not fear thy behavior in battle, only learn the harder part—to bear thyself while waiting."
Vincenzo was melted, but not caring to show it before Conrad, left the tent without reply.
"He hath the makings of a soldier in him for all his willfulness. I pray you pardon his present idleness, my lord, and hold me as the cause," said Conrad. "I should have roused him sooner."
Mastino glanced around. It was the first time he had entered the German's abode, and the lavishness of its appointments were not to his taste.
"This is an hour of great need, Count," he said gravely. "The downfall of Visconti cannot mean to you what it does to me—it cannot mean so much to any man—but am I not right in thinking it means all to you to see the Lady Valentine Visconti free?"
"All! All I care for under heaven. By all the saints, Prince, I will give my right arm to serve your cause, since it serves her," cried Conrad.
Della Scala's brown eyes observed him keenly.
"I will ask a service of you, Count," he said; "not thy right hand, nor any feat of knight-errantry, but something full as difficult to render."
"Even if it be living on roots in a dungeon, I will do it!"
And, excited at the thought of some adventure, Count Conrad waited expectantly, his hand upon his sword.
The Prince smiled sadly.
"I fear it is a harder task than that, Count Conrad, and so distasteful that I would not burden you with it were there any other worthy to entrust with it," he said. "But all the men here are mercenaries—Captain Vanvitelli is a boor; Ligozzi goes with me to Brescia, whither I am instantly bound to confer with Ferrara."
"Prince, I am proud to execute your commands," interrupted Conrad eagerly.
Della Scala turned to Ligozzi, who stood silent behind him.
"See that no one listens," he said; and as Ligozzi disappeared and Mastino drew nearer to him, the Count fell back, impressed by the eagerness of the noble face.
But the Prince took him by the hand affectionately.
"Dost thou remember the huts outside thy villa, Conrad—and Francisco who rescued thee? I am giving thee a trust. For his sake wilt thou be faithful?"
"To the death!" cried Conrad. "Prince, I will be faithful to the death!"
"Count," said Mastino earnestly, "I return from Brescia to-morrow, bringing d'Este up with me to join in an assault on Milan that will make the city ours, I trust, within a week. Of necessity I leave Carrara for these hours in command—almost all the men are his providing—but," his voice sank still lower, "I do not completely trust him—I doubt his loyalty. I have misgivings as to the use he may make of my absence, therefore," he paused and laid his hand on Conrad's shoulder, "I leave you, Count von Schulembourg, privately in charge. Watch him—never leave him out of your sight till my return."
"Good! I understand! I swear!" cried Conrad again.
Mastino Della Scala looked into his eyes.
"I trust thee," he said simply. "Thou knowest how my wife's safety lies on my soul—and if Carrara play false, we are well-nigh ruined. These weeks have I had him under Ligozzi's eyes, day and night, and now thou must take my place." Conrad kissed Mastino's hand in silence, his emotional nature overcome to tears.
"Come, my lord, the time wears," said Ligozzi, and Della Scala turned to leave.
At the entrance he looked back.
"Remember, I trust thee, and thee solely, Conrad," he said. As he dropped the flap behind him, he turned to Ligozzi.
"Will he be worthy of it, Ligozzi?" he said. "But I must perforce trust him when there is no other."
Outside the Duke's tent, his escort was in readiness to start, and his white horse stood waiting, held by Tomaso.
"After all, my lord," whispered Ligozzi, "Carrara may not be false."
Mastino shook his head. "He only waits the opening," he said. "What does console me," he added, "is that I shall be back to-morrow." And he looked toward Milan as he spoke.
"Ligozzi," he continued wistfully, "how long the time seems since I saw her. The last words I heard her speak are forever in my ears: 'While thou livest I fear nothing'; and I live, Ligozzi. Sometimes I am ashamed of it!"
"You live to free her, my lord," said Ligozzi softly.
Mastino mounted in silence. "Yes, I live for that," he said, after the pause.
He turned and saw Tomaso watching him.
"Yes, thou shalt come with us," he smiled; "only mount in haste. The time wears on."
At this moment, foremost among a little group of horsemen, Carrara cantered toward him, black-eyed, smiling, richly dressed, a plumed cap between his smooth white fingers.
"Farewell, Carrara," said Mastino. "Count von Schulembourg is second in command. I leave all to your discretion, subject to my orders already given."
Giacomo bowed, but made no reply other than his smiling eyes. His meditated treasons were ripe for execution, and he could scarce contain himself at the good fortune of it; Visconti's messenger had reached him the same day that Della Scala rode away. There remained only Conrad.
"Till to-morrow at noon," murmured Carrara, repeating Della Scala's last words, as he watched him ride away. "An attack on Milan, in less than a week! You are mad for a woman's silly face—in less than a week I shall have joined Visconti."
Visconti understood the art of bribery, and knew whom to bribe. Carrara, only waiting in the hope of it, had caught eagerly at the bait, and by the returning messenger had agreed to join Visconti and leave Della Scala shorn of more than half his forces. And Mastino, by his absence, had made it child's play. As Carrara returned now to his own tent, thinking and scheming, a captain of mercenaries galloped up.
"The prisoners, my lord, captured by some of Count von Schulembourg's men, in the scuffle outside Milan yesterday, are being brought into the camp—is it to you or to him we bring them?"
Carrara fingered his bridle.
"Take them to the castle," he said at last. "I myself will see them presently."
He glanced over his shoulder at Count Conrad's tent. The embroidered entrance was closed, the black and yellow eagles fluttered idly over it—there was no sign of the young German.
The Duke of Padua smiled.
"Are those the prisoners?" he asked, pointing to a little group of soldiers guarding a few men.
"Yes, my lord. We had almost forced the gates—when a band rushed out and there was a desperate struggle; we were driven back, and these fellows, in the heat of victory, followed too far. Then we turned and had them, and brought them in for ransom. They seemed worth it."
"I will go and view them," said Carrara suddenly, and he cantered his horse toward the little group.
The noise of the prisoners' arrival was spreading, still there was no sign of Count Conrad, and again the treacherous Carrara smiled. But in a moment more the smile had faded. He noticed among the prisoners a face he surely knew.
Prudence was Giacomo Carrara's ruling quality, and helped him now to keep his wits.
"That fellow yonder," he said, pointing, "he with the red hair—who is he? Has he told his quality?"
"'Twas he who led the chase," was the answer, "screaming like a madman. He is the squire of some nobleman, and gave out he thought we had his master captive."
Carrara breathed heavily.
"I know something of him, unless I much mistake; a dangerous rogue and spy—place him apart, well guarded—in a separate compartment. Pinion him. To-night we will put him to the question."
And again he glanced toward the German's tent. Conrad had not appeared, and the prisoners wound away out of sight into what was once Barnabas Visconti's summer residence, and where Barnabas Visconti not long since had died.
The day was wearing into evening when Conrad gave a last look in the little polished mirror hanging on the tapestried walls of his tent, and prepared to set out on a tour of inspection, including a visit to Carrara, who in this moment's interval, he thought, could not have gone astray.
Della Scala had been gone four hours or more, but to the light-hearted German it seemed he had only an instant ago turned from his tent.
He had employed the time in writing some verses (in imitation of the fashionable Petrarch, a production with which he was perfectly satisfied, and put aside to be fair copied by some one, a better adept in spelling than himself), in teaching Vittore to dance, and in changing his doublet.
Count Conrad was very careful of his doublets. He had a great many, and kept them carefully locked in the large coffer that stood at the head of his tent bed.
The one he donned to-day was elegant in the extreme; peacock purple over an under garment of rose, curiously slashed with cream. Vittore, who had become his page, was silent at the magnificence.
Conrad sighed as he smoothed the ruffles at his wrists to think that it might not be the latest mode. He felt far from civilization, though only twice seven miles outside Milan, and secretly regretted that Valentine Visconti had ever dazzled him into the imprudence of losing her brother's favor and with it the joys of a splendid court. Still he had exquisite leathern shoes with points a yard long, caught up and fastened by a chain to his knee; also a cap, garnished with a ruby and a curling feather, and, taking it from Vittore, he stepped out to begin his espionage of Carrara.
"Vittore, follow me," he said. "I have it in trust to see this black-browed duke gets into no mischief. Also," he continued, "'tis in my mind to find Vincenzo. Della Scala was severe this noon. I fear me the boy has gone to practice sword-play."
The camp was quiet and tranquil. It struck Conrad, however, that many of Carrara's men were engaged with their horses and in packing the wagons; but carried on so openly, in broad daylight, it aroused no suspicions on the part of the easy Von Schulembourg, who made toward Carrara's tent, singing gayly.
The air was heavy, the sky black about the horizon.
"There will be a storm to-night, Vittore. Let me see, art thou afraid of thunder?" and as he spoke, the Count passed without ceremony into Carrara's tent.
The Duke was there, but not expecting Conrad, and as he raised his eyes at his sudden entrance, his look would have struck any save the light-hearted fop as strained and anxious; but the German had personally no doubt of Carrara, and the Duke's ready smile deceived him utterly.
"So your men move to-night, my lord?" he said. "The Prince never mentioned it to me."
"It was a final resolve," answered Carrara. "I have my orders here," and he tapped a parchment beside him.
"Ah!" Conrad never even took the parchment up, but glanced through the opening of the tent at the threatening sky. "You move nearer Milan, of course?"
Giacomo kept his black eyes on the floor.
"Nearer Milan," he replied. "Yes; but we do not break camp until the morning, Count. You and the rest remain here to join the Prince." Carrara looked also out into the thunder-laden air, but not at the sky—at the castle, frowning black above the encampment.
"An officer of mine," said Conrad carelessly, "said something to me of some prisoners."
"Yonder at the castle, Count. Will you question them with me?" asked Giacomo smoothly.
"Question them!" laughed the Count. "You may have that task, my lord!—and I shall know then where you are," he added under his breath.
Carrara kept his eyes down, lest even Conrad should see the excitement in them.
"Possibly even I may not question them to-night, Count," he returned with a smile. "I intend to rest now, as we march at dawn."
Conrad rose, with a pleasant feeling of having done his duty, though in his heart a little annoyed that Della Scala had not trusted him with the movement of the army.
"The thought of his wife has made him crazy," he said to himself. "Giving Giacomo credit for treachery, still he entrusts him with orders he withholds even the knowledge of from me." And leaving Carrara, he went in search of Vincenzo.
Giacomo sat silent till the Count's laughter had died away in the distance, then rose with a passionate exclamation at his own luck and Mastino's blindness.
Without a question the Count (left in trust, Carrara knew as plainly as if he had been told) had swallowed his lies, and left him to do as he pleased while he reveled with Vincenzo d'Este. Seeking the entrance once more, Carrara looked out into the heavy evening.
In that great castle Visconti was a prisoner.
Though with his own eyes he had seen Gian Visconti bound between the soldiers, he could not rest for his impatience to see him again and have it confirmed before any other eyes should recognize this rare prize.
To-night Carrara's army was to desert to Milan. That had been already arranged with Visconti's disguised messenger. It should still desert, but Visconti was now a prisoner, his life in Carrara's hands—there must be slightly other terms between them.
To be in a position to dictate to such a man! Giacomo stood in the gathering dusk, waiting for the dark, his eyes on the castle that held Gian Galeazzo Maria Visconti, Duke of Milan—a prisoner.
* * * * *
"The storm nears: how hot, good St. Hubert, how hot!" And Conrad tossed the damp curls back from his forehead. The entrance of his tent was flung open to admit what little air there might be, showing to the soldiers without Conrad and Vincenzo bending over a game of chess; on a table near were flasks of wine and elegant glasses; along the floor Vittore lay, half in a heavy sleep.
The tent was lit by jeweled lamps, and by their dull light Vincenzo's beauty shone with an almost unearthly brilliancy. He was clothed in white, his thick black hair falling about his shoulders.
Evidently Mastino's reproof was already forgotten. He leaned forward with flushed cheeks and parted lips, eager and intent on a victory at chess; war and the price of it far from his thoughts.
"Hark!" said Conrad. "Thunder!"
A low rumble filled the tent, d'Este took no heed.
"I take thy knight," he said, "it ruins thee."
Conrad laughed, he did not take the game so seriously.
"I will visit Carrara," he said, rising, "and go the rounds."
"Thou wilt finish the game," said Vincenzo angrily. "Does it pall the moment thou failest to win?"
"My faith, I fail when it palls. But doubtless thou wilt win yet, if thou dost not grow too hot," and Conrad fanned the boy with the points of his sleeves.
Vincenzo's lustrous eyes flashed.
"Doubtless I shall, Count," he drew from his finger an emerald ring, "and I will stake this on it."
He dropped it on the table with a rattle, and Conrad was animated at once.
"And I this," he cried, "my forfeit if the game is not mine in four moves!"
He placed his pearl thumb-ring beside Vincenzo's emerald.
"Four moves!" cried Vincenzo scornfully, and leaned back with shining eyes. Conrad reached for the glasses with a glance of good humor at the dozing page.
"A night from the infernal regions!" he said, as he poured out the wine. "How does Visconti feel to-night? Methinks some kinsfolk of his from below are abroad."
Vincenzo emptied his glass and moved.
Conrad emptied his and counter-moved. "I hope thy emerald was not a lady's gift," he laughed.
Vincenzo bit his lip, reflected long, and moved again.
Conrad turned to the slender flasks and lifted them, one after the other; empty all.
"Vittore!" he called. "Vittore!"
The boy rose, rubbing his eyes, half-dazed.
"Bring us more wine, Vittore." Conrad turned to the board again and laughed at Vincenzo's intent face. "My move," he said; his plump hand hesitated scarcely a breath. "Check, Messer Vincenzo."
"This is no light to play by," cried Vincenzo, and in annoyance he moved with too little thought.
Conrad waited provokingly till fresh wine had been brought and drunk, patted Vittore's head, and turned to the game again.
"Mate, Messer Vincenzo, in three moves." And he leaned back with the calm air of a conqueror.
Vincenzo rose in a passion, dashing his glass to the ground.
"I question thy fair play," he cried.
"And I thy discretion," returned the Count, and his eyes were suddenly wrathful. "Thou art a child, and canst not play; and so like a child cry out: 'You cheat.'"
"I said no word of cheating," returned Vincenzo. "Is the accusation one you are accustomed to, Count Conrad?"
Conrad crimsoned. "Play another time with thy equals, boy, and take better care not to insult thy betters!"
"Betters!" And Vincenzo laughed in reckless scorn, his hand on his toy-like dagger. "A d'Este demeans himself to play with thee—thou German upstart!"
But Conrad was to be moved no more. With a smile more provoking than any reply he picked up the rings and slipped them on his finger.
But Vincenzo, hot-tempered and passionate, sprang forward with boyish passion.
"Thou shalt not have the emerald," he cried.
"Must I fight for it?" smiled Conrad, and glanced at Vincenzo's little dagger. "The emerald seems worth it—only I should be afraid of hurting thee." And as he spoke he poured out more wine, drinking it gracefully.
"I will fight only with an equal," said Vincenzo.
Conrad turned on him, and for all his smile his blue eyes were dark. "Thou reckless boy!" he said. "The Germans are the lords of Italy. What is thy family but a fief to the Emperor?"
Vittore had watched the scene in terror. Tomaso had let him know Della Scala had left Schulembourg in trust, and he felt his master was hardly acting as the Duke had meant. In childlike fashion, eager to stop the quarrel, he spoke his thoughts.
"My lord," he said, "shall I not accompany you to the Duke of Padua's tent, as the Prince commanded?"
"Commanded!" cried Vincenzo, catching at the words. "Aye, Count Conrad, remember my brother's commands!"
"I remember none," returned the Count haughtily. "What dost thou mean, boy?"
But Vittore lost his courage under the angry glance.
"Only, my lord, what you said," he stammered, "about keeping watch upon the Duke of Padua."
"So you were left as a spy?" sneered Vincenzo, "is that it? Make haste, Count Conrad, hurry to Carrara's tent as you were told, and see what he is doing."
Conrad, flushed with wine, allowed the boyish sneer to goad him into fury.
"I play the spy at no one's bidding," he said. "I do not leave my tent to-night." And he flung himself on the couch.
"But what did the Duke order? It will go ill with you when he hears of disobedience," sneered Vincenzo.
"Let it go well or ill, I will not leave my tent to-night on any errand, save I choose." And Count Conrad's words were heard by another than Vincenzo and Vittore, Giacomo Carrara, who listened outside.
The storm-wind was beginning to howl and the rain to fall in heavy drops, but the Duke of Padua only thanked his good fortune for such propitious weather, as he turned away and made rapidly toward the castle to question the prisoners.
The storm had risen, the low whispering of the wind, the distant rumbles of the thunder, gathering unheeded, burst suddenly into a tempest.
Its very fury spoke it brief, yet many cowered and shrank before it, as if its termination must be the termination of the world. And to no one did it strike more fear than to the solitary prisoner in the castle of Brescia—Gian Visconti. In obedience to Carrara's orders, he had been placed in a separate chamber, as far from the other prisoners as space allowed. His chamber was a circular, vault-like space, once serving as antechamber to a gloomy suite of rooms beyond, in which Barnabas Visconti had chosen to beguile the summer heat. The doors of this suite were locked; Gian Visconti himself had locked them, when he and his father last came there together. This vault-like room was high and ill-lit, and, in the blackness of the storm, pitch dark. Visconti sat underneath one of the windows, whither he had dragged the wooden stool, the sole furniture the place contained; his face was buried in his hands, and he writhed in horror.
The wind howled and tore at the locked doors, making them creak and groan; the thunder shook the building; and at every fresh convulsion Visconti shrieked aloud in unison.
The lightning, flashing blue through the crevices, seemed to play about that inner door, and he cowered from the sight, and bit at his fingers in a fierce endeavor to resist the madness seizing him.
It was not so very long ago that he had turned the great key behind him in that ponderous door, and ridden from the deed he had done, shouting through the midnight. He thought then never to return, and here he was, thrust in alone, and his madness on him. Visconti staggered from his seat, groping blindly.
The blackness seemed to whirl with faces and clutching, tearing fingers; he knew not where he was—he could see nothing—blackness and space—seemingly unbounded.
Another flash revealed to him that he had drawn near that inner door—in the instant it was visible; it seemed to open and shut—quickly.
Visconti fell back against the wall, and wrestled with his terrors as if they were some living thing, and again with savage teeth he bit into his flesh.
But the floor was opening beneath him, opening into gulfs deep and still deeper, bottomless.
"I am mad!" said Visconti, and shrieked and howled with the storm. It did not help him; he heard hurrying feet through all the alarm of the tempest, hurrying to him behind that locked door. Let him not look, for what he feared to see the dark could not conceal—and now they were at the door, and now they were fitting a key.
"Keep away!" he yelled.
Then he stood, hushed, with bated breath, eyes starting into the blackness, listening. And through the dark he heard the creaking and twisting of the key, the slow opening of a heavy door, the groaning of the hinges as it opened, slowly.
The wind howled in a wild gust, and suddenly through the narrow window there showed the black sky torn in two by the lightning flash. As it circled the chamber, Visconti raised his head—the door was open. And through the opening two faces peered—they were not human faces—Visconti knew them when they were.
Utter blackness followed upon the vivid flash, and the thunder crashed and rolled, and at last the rain came with a mighty roar.
"I am in hell!" yelled Visconti. "I am dead, and in hell!" And maniac shrieks rose. He dragged himself to the narrow slit that made the window, and some of the heavy rain-drops were dashed in upon his face.
"I am alive!" he cried, "alive! It does not rain in hell!" He dropped, and lay prone along the ground. After awhile he rose, and began groping for the outer door.
The walls seemed to rock and twist, but on his face and hand was the cold splash of the rain, and Visconti kept a hold upon his self-control, saying between his teeth: "A light; if I can get a light."
He found the door, and struck upon it with the fury of madness.
There was no response: Again he struck and shouted. The worst had gone by, but only to leave his thoughts centered on one idea: to see a human face and in the light.
Suddenly, in the midst of his blows, the door opened, showing a glimmering light, and in the entrance the figure of a soldier, who looked fearfully around the chamber.
"I thought it was the fiend himself who called!" he said, and crossed himself.
Visconti clutched his arm. "It was the fiend," he said. "Legions of them—the place is haunted! Give me a light!"
The soldier shrank back in horror at his words, at his hardly human eyes.
"Santa Maria!" he muttered. "I have heard evil tales of this castle, the storm too is fearful——"
"Give me a light," said Visconti; "give me a light!"
"None of the prisoners have lights—it is forbidden——" began the man, but Gian Maria cut him short.
"A light, I say!" and he put his blood-marked hand upon the other's shoulder.
"Thou heardst the fiend scream—and it was the fiend. Wilt thou give me a light?"
The frightened soldier shrank from him anew.
"Thou art distraught," he cried with a paling face.
Visconti laughed wildly. "Do I not say so? Give me the lantern!" and he held out his finger, on which there blazed a splendid ring. "Would any ordinary prisoner wear a ring like this? I tell thee it is a coal from hell, and I will give it thee—for thy lantern. See, how it shines; try if it will burn thee to the bone," and he stripped it from his finger, dropping it on the pavement at the soldier's feet.
"Truly," gasped the soldier, looking at him, "thou art no ordinary man, and as for thy gems—whether they be coals or no, thou shalt have the lantern."
He stepped across the threshold as he spoke, a little fearfully, and placed the lantern in the niche cut to receive it in the wall.
"Thou wilt be getting it down and firing thyself with it," he remarked. "For thou art clean distraught, methinks."
Visconti made no reply, he had noticed that both the inner doors were shut.
"And as I must answer for thee," continued the soldier, "I will secure thee with this," and stepping back into the passage, he returned with a rope and advanced toward the prisoner.
The Duke rose with flashing eyes.
"Remember thou art the devil, messer," said the soldier soothingly, "and naught can really hold thee."
Visconti felt for the dagger that no longer hung by his side, then showed the soldier his fingers, red and still bleeding.
"The teeth that met there can meet in thine," he snarled, and his eyes were like a wolf's.
The soldier stepped back, then with a sudden thought pointed to the light.
"Stay unbound then, and I will take that away again," he said, and again advanced.
Visconti suffered his arms to be bound together at the elbows, nor did he seem to heed when the soldier left him, and the great door fell to once more in silence.
The storm had sobbed itself away, leaving only the steady patter of the rain. The chamber had light, and the sight of a human face had restored Visconti.
Once more he felt his hold on life and on reality, and he turned from that closed door with its superstitious horror to face real terror and a staggering mischance.
Milan! he had left Milan in an hour of need—and with no one to check Valentine. Only within the last few weeks had he known what she was capable of. What might she not attempt once she realized his absence? Giannotto too, and the Duke d'Orleans! What of their sincerity? He had left not one man within the city whom he could trust implicitly.
Then he considered his own plight. Clearly they did not know him; none the less they had him. He ground his teeth at the thought of Della Scala's triumph.
His art of bribery occurred to him, and he remembered with a savage vexation how he had flung a jewel to his jailer for a light: A jewel that might have purchased freedom. Still, it was in his madness; he might be thankful he had not shouted aloud his name—and his crimes. Suddenly, with a start of recollection, it occurred to him anew that he had been placed apart. Then Carrara had recognized him. The cords around Visconti's arms began now to torture him: he was weak from lack of food and mad excitement. Thoughts of Carrara vanished. He saw the face of the girl on whose account he had risked his dukedom.
"Graziosa!" he cried, but the face looked at him unseeingly. "You know me!" as if in appeal. "Graziosa, you know me!" The face suddenly distorted, as if with horror. Visconti shrank from it—and she was gone.
"What frightened her? Those other faces," Visconti whispered to himself, then roused himself with a harsh laugh. "Will Carrara come?" He fixed his eyes on the lamp, then on the door. And presently he heard the subdued bustle of arrival, the great door clang; the ringing answers of the soldiers; then outside his own door hushed and respectful voices—the door opened, shut, and Visconti saw his visitor.
A man, black-eyed, florid, richly dressed in velvet, well armed, unattended, and carrying the castle keys—Giacomo Carrara. He stood in amazement, and shrank back half-afraid, though the guard had warned him.
"Visconti!" he cried. "What has happened?"
The sickly light of the lantern showed him a white, haggard face, with wild, bloodshot eyes, the hair hanging lank and damp about its forehead, the plain doublet gashed and torn, hands and face smeared with blood.
But, at sight of the man he hoped to buy, Visconti's face took on a more human look.
"You have seen my messenger?"
"Hush!" and Giacomo looked around cautiously. "Yes, I have seen him, and dispatched my answer."
"My offer suits you?" said Visconti grimly.
"It suited me, Visconti, till just now," returned the other. "It suited me to such purpose that my men even now await my orders to desert to Milan."
"Ah!" Visconti said. "And what of it now?" he added, looking around again, the old subduing spirit in his glance.
"What of it? It shall still be done, only," Carrara smiled, "there is an unforeseen addition to the bargain. Not only do you need my men, Visconti; I think, as well, you need your liberty."
"And so the price is higher. Is that what you would say? Unloose my arm. It shall not be forgotten in the bribe," he sneered.
Carrara advanced and undid the rope in silence. He knew Visconti was unarmed.
Visconti gasped with relief as the torture was removed.
"And now," he said, taking at once the mastery, "how do matters stand between us? Be wary; be brief."
Rapidly Giacomo told him how, with the desertion, half Mastino's army would be gone; how Padua was to be given into the hands of Visconti's generals, and how Count Conrad played at chess.
Visconti hated the smooth traitor who was waiting to drive a hard bargain with his necessity—and his freed hand went to his doublet: the turquoise gloves had not been lost.
"And now, your terms?" he said.
The Duke of Padua hesitated a moment—even with Visconti in his power he hesitated.
"Those you refused two years ago," he said. "When we warred with Pavia."
Visconti remembered. Two years ago, when he had been by half not so great as he stood now, he had refused them in scorn—they meant half his dominions—they would place Carrara on a level with himself.
"Well?" he said, "and if I refuse?"
"A prisoner does not refuse—his liberty," smiled Giacomo. He could afford to smile.
Visconti controlled himself.
"And if I accept—you take my word, all I have to give—a prisoner's word?"
"A Visconti's word," corrected Carrara. "Nay, lord, I think I shall need more than that."
"What more can I give?" he asked. "You waste the time, Carrara."
Giacomo was playing with the keys in his hand.
"Yourself, Visconti," he returned calmly. "The army only waits for me to march on Milan, leaving Della Scala stripped of half his force. You will go with it, Visconti, as my prisoner. My army will conduct you into Milan—where I shall not leave you till the terms I offer are fulfilled. Then, Visconti, but not till then, we will together ruin Della Scala."
Visconti was silent.
"Come," continued Carrara, "shall it be so—or will you wait and meet Della Scala and Count Conrad?"
"I accept your terms," said Gian, and rose to his feet. "I accept, Carrara."
Giacomo's eyes shone. With trembling fingers he unbuttoned his long black velvet cloak and flung it on Visconti's shoulders.
"We must hasten; even now the tipsy German may think to visit the castle." And he selected a key from the bunch in his hand, and advanced toward the inner door. Visconti started forward, with staring eyes.
"Not that way!" he cried.
Carrara turned in surprise, the key in the lock.
"'Tis the only way, Visconti. Are you thinking we could pass unnoticed, you and I together?"
Gian, deathly white, sank back obstinately against the wall.
"I will not go that way," he said. "I will not go that way."
"He is in his mad fit again," thought Giacomo; aloud he said soothingly: "Come, lord, this is the only way; will you rather wait to see Verona's face when he discovers you? What is wrong with this way?" he added in vexation as Visconti made no movement. "Quick! the moments fly!"
Gian stepped forward with an effort.
"'Tis my fancy," he said. "Idle, truly, at such a moment. Open the door, Carrara."
The key ground in the lock—as Visconti had heard it once before that night turned on the other side.
Carrara paused, however, and having taken the lamp from the niche, put it down with a smile, and drew a parchment from his belt.
"I had forgotten," he said. "I will leave this, else Verona will miss the point of the jest; we will tell him what a brave catch his lieutenant hath allowed to escape the snare." And with the end of his dagger he drove the paper into the crevice of the stone. "I never loved Verona," he added, with an evil smile.
But Visconti had not heard, nor was he heeding him; his eyes were riveted upon the door.
Again Padua raised the lantern above his head.
The glimmering light fell faintly on a dark chamber, and dimly lit a large black couch from which the tapestry coverlet was half dragged off. Visconti peered an instant over his rescuer's shoulder eagerly, then fell back.
"I cannot," he said sullenly. "I will stay and face Della Scala—I cannot pass that way."
Carrara turned and looked at him keenly.
"What do you know of these chambers, that you are afraid to pass them, Visconti?" he asked.
"'Tis no matter what I know—I will not pass them," cried Visconti, fiercely, and clutched at the rough wall as if to keep himself from being made to enter them even by force. Giacomo looked into the chamber curiously; the lantern showed only parts of it, and that dimly—an empty audience chamber, stiff chairs against the wall, the couch, dust on the floor and shadows in the arras—nothing more; and Carrara turned impatiently.
"I risk my life for this," he said. "What do you think it will mean, Visconti, if I am found helping you escape?"
He stepped across the threshold, and flashed the lantern around.
"Nothing!" he laughed over his shoulder. "Nothing," but as he advanced he paused a moment, and lifted up a corner of the dragged coverlet, "save that this coverlet is riddled as if with dagger-thrusts," he added, "and the floor seems stained"—he sank his voice—"with blood."
He looked back at Visconti, standing in the doorway, and with a sudden fear of him his hand sought his sword.
"Whom did you murder here, Visconti?" he asked, awestruck. "Whoever it was," he added presently, "I would not lose my life for fear of them, seeing they are dead."
In a second Visconti was by his side, gripping his arm, and Carrara, startled, shrank, and kept his hand upon his dagger.
"I do not fear them," whispered Visconti, in his ear. "Nor you."
And he hurried across the chamber, Carrara at his heels.
Room after room they traversed, deserted, gloomy, and unopened since that night.
"Hurry!" breathed Visconti. "Shall we never see the blessed sky again?"
And snatching the keys, he pushed on, taking every door and turning with a certainty that showed he knew them well.
"At last!" he cried, as they stepped out into the air.
They were at the back of the castle, on a ledge overhung with ivy, and overlooking a narrow flight of steps, the masonry half-ruined and overgrown with flowers.
The storm was over, a few great clouds tore across the sky, but the moon was clear and serene, the night calm and peaceful.
The cool air blew around Visconti's damp hair, and stirred the dark ivy leaves, glistening with the rain. Beneath them lay the tents, a large body of men, half the army, silently and swiftly preparing for flight.
"Some have gone already," said Giacomo. "These wait for me and you, Visconti: come," and stepping past him he led the way.
There was no one to observe them save Giacomo's men, that he had been careful to station there; but when they had gained the bottom, and Carrara would have passed on, Visconti caught at his sleeve and drew him behind a clump of elder.
"The German!" he whispered, and they waited, breathless.
A soft voice was gayly singing, and the words of the song came clearly through the night.