The Viper of Milan: A Romance of Lombardy

CHAPTER THREE THE HOSTAGE OF THE ESTES CHAPTER THREE THE HOSTAGE OF THE ESTES "A hundred thousand florins—and no more, even if they refuse the bargain." It was the Visconti who spoke. In a small dark room in the Visconti palace, he and the pale-faced, red-haired man, who had held the bridle of his horse two days before in the procession that had wended toward Brescia, were seated opposite to one another at the table; between them a pile of papers over which the secretary bowed his shoulders. "The demand is a hundred and fifty, my lord," he said, his voice meek, his eyes furtive. "They said two hundred to begin with," was the curt answer. "A hundred thousand florins, or I go elsewhere." The secretary's pen flew nervously across the parchment, filling it with a cramped, mean writing that trailed unevenly along the page. Visconti's secretary wrote a characteristic hand. Visconti leaned back in his chair, watching him in silence. The room was small and circular, hung with leather stamped in gold, and furnished plainly even to bareness. A narrow lancet window, placed low in the wall, admitted a subdued light, which fell upon the only spot of color in the room, the suit of turquoise blue the secretary wore. "A hundred thousand florins, to be paid in gold," repeated Visconti; "and no more, Giannotto." He rose and began to pace the room. Long habit and constant contact had not lessened the secretary's fear of Visconti, nor mitigated the hate, none the less intensified for being forever concealed under the mask of cringing servility. But in Giannotto's dislike there was nothing noble; it was merely mean hate of a sordid soul that grudged the success of the bold crimes itself could never dare to undertake. Had the secretary been in Visconti's place, there would have been as vile a tyrant, of equal cruelty and far less courage. The Duke moved to the window and stood there in observation awhile, then turning, spoke to Giannotto with a smile. His eyes were a beautiful gray, open wide, and just now lighting up a pensive, pleasant face. But the secretary knew it too under a different guise. "My sister's alliance with the Duke of Orleans gratifies my ambition, Giannotto," he said, "and is well worth a hundred thousand florins. So far the Valois have never married out of Royal Houses." "Yet they consider themselves honored by this match, my lord," said the secretary. "They consider themselves well paid," returned Visconti. "Now, if I can find a daughter of the Plantagenets for brother Tisio, behold us firmly placed among the dynasties of Europe!" Early in the fourteenth century, but no more than a meager fifty years ago, before the last Visconti culminated the evil of his race, Matteo Visconti, Gian Galeazzo's grandfather, had first firmly established his family as lords of Milan, supplanting their rival the Toriani, who had long reigned as magistrates-in-chief, and under Martin della Torre risen to some eminence. Every year of the fifty since then had seen some increase of territory, some fresh acquisition of power, till with his last overthrow of Della Scala, the seizure of Verona, and the murder of his father, already miserably deposed, Gian Galeazzo had planted himself upon a level with kings. Almost the whole of Lombardy was under his sway, and that sway extended from Verceli in Piedmont to Feltre and Bellvino. Florence, lately leagued against him in support of his deposed father, had been beaten in battle after battle and was glad to escape, shorn of her fairest possessions, and cherishing only her liberty. All this Giannotto knew. Della Scala, Duke of Verona, had owned fair lands and wide, Verona, Brescia, all now in Visconti's hands. The secretary wondered, as he thought, how long it would be before the triumphant Gian threw away the mere rag of respect, the mere mockery of a title which bound him to the Empire, and became King of Lombardy in name as well as power. "And thou thyself, my lord," he said. "Thou wilt marry a Valois to thy sister! Who will be thy bride?" Visconti smiled. "These marriages are for ambition. Dost thou think I shall marry for ambition? No, Giannotto, I have placed myself above need of that. The alliances that make the Visconti one with the kings of Europe are for Valentine and Tisio; I shall marry——" "For love, my lord?" ventured the secretary, with a hint of sarcasm. "Whom I please," said Visconti. "Which is not what Valentine is doing," he added with a smile. "She may give trouble yet, my lord." Visconti frowned. He thought of Conrad von Schulembourg, the brilliant young German noble, who had been a favorite with him and all his court, and had won the heart of Valentine Visconti; no favorite of his now. "As for my lady sister," he said, "let her dare turn her eyes save where I bid her." His own grew ominous, and Giannotto shuffled uneasily. A noise without broke the sudden silence of reflection. Visconti, responding at once to what it meant, glanced a moment from the window where he still stood, then swept down to the head of the table. He leaned across to Giannotto, not that he valued any response that he could offer—Visconti's secretary was no more to him than the chair on which he sat, valued solely for his skill in letters—but his triumph had to have its vent. "Hark!" he cried. "Listen to it, Giannotto! The wealth of Verona is pouring into Milan! The spoils of Verona, Giannotto, the treasures from Mastino della Scala's palace!" Giannotto winced before Visconti's passionate joy. "'Twas a man I hated, Giannotto—I would he had lived to feel it. The only man I ever hated , because the only man I ever feared, the only man who ever dared to despise me! But he has fallen, he is dead, his wife is in my power, and in his fall he has placed me higher than my highest hopes." Carried away by his transports, he seized Giannotto by the arm and dragged him to the window. The secretary gazed into the courtyard, where a group of soldiers and servants were busy conveying statues, gilt and silver plate, rich tapestry, glass, china, and arms, from carts and mules into the narrow doorways that led into the grim interior of the palace. They were presided over by a major-domo in a black gown, who called out directions in a shrill voice. To one side a few unhappy men, of note enough to have been spared, watched in grim silence the unlading of the spoils that came from the sacking of their palaces. The great gates stood at their widest, and through them wound a long train of soldiers, some driving before them groups of prisoners, tightly chained together, others galloping in laden with plunder of all kinds, art treasures, blackened as if by fire, banners and suits of armor. "Ah, Giannotto, look," cried Visconti, " Della Scala's collection, Della Scala's jewels. How my treasury will be enriched! Only one thing mars it, that he should not be here to see!" He turned from the window. Giannotto followed, cringing. "Still, thou hast his wife, my lord," he said. Gian's eyes flashed afresh. "Isotta d'Este—ah!" He leaned back against the wall in silence. A certain winter morning, five years ago, rose clearly before him; a massive castle, frowning from the rocks above Modena, and on its steps a fair girl who stood there and laughed to see him ride away back to Milan, his offer of the Visconti's friendship scorned and flung in his face by her proud family, the haughty Estes. Visconti's face grew dark as he remembered her; almost more than Della Scala, her dead husband, did he hate Isotta, Della Scala's wife. And she was in his power. Greatly would it have soothed him to know her death was in his power too, but the lust of ambition was greater with this man even than the lust of pride or hate. Isotta d'Este was a valuable hostage to be used against her family, should they think of avenging their fallen kinsman. "Where hast thou finally placed her, my lord?" asked Giannotto, with his stealthy glance. The Duke started from his reverie. "In the West Tower," he smiled. "Every day I go to gaze on the room that holds her to make sure it is not a dream; to see and feel with my eyes and my own hands that her prison is doubly sure. If Isotta d'Este should now escape me—but she will not!" He crossed the room to leave it, but paused at the door. "Be watchful, Giannotto, the Princess Valentine may try to leave the palace. I have spies on her every movement; still, thine eyes upon her also will do no harm—to me !" He laughed an instant. A rustle of the hangings and he was gone. Giannotto sat on silently, looking in front of him. His thoughts were with Valentine Visconti, Gian's unhappy sister, whom he had been told to watch; from her they traveled to the German Count, who, five days ago, had left the palace. "I wonder if she loved him," he mused. "I do not think she did. Dear God, she did not need to wait to love a man, her life was not such that she could pick and choose her way of escaping from it. Conrad offered one and she was ready to take it—now— five days ago! Yes—Count Conrad is dead, and she will marry the Duke of Orleans! Ah, well! The German was a fool, he deserved no better fate than a fool! I do not think she'll break her heart if she can find some other way." He returned to his papers, pausing now and then to glance toward the door, as if to keep himself on the alert for the Duke's noiseless entry. But Gian had bent his steps elsewhere. Plainly dressed, he passed almost unnoticed across an inner courtyard to a dark angle of a wall where a secret door anew admitted him. The whole Visconti palace was a somber and gloomy place; men crept about it on tiptoe, glancing fearfully around them, afraid of their own shadows. Visconti smiled to himself at sight of fear; he loved to be feared, to hold lives in the hollow of his hand, and play with them and death. The door let him into a long narrow passage flagged with stone, and lit by diamond-shaped holes left in the walls; the air was damp and chill, and Visconti drew his cloak around him. Unlocking a second door, he ascended a flight of stone steps, pitch dark, from which he emerged into a large circular chamber with a thick pillar in the middle from which the groined ceiling sprang. Save table and high-backed chair of blackened wood, there was no furniture. This chamber was the outer guard-room of the prison-wing, and a gloomy-faced man leaned against the pillar, his eyes fixed upon the opening door. It could be no other than the Visconti entering thus, and he crouched almost to the ground. "What is thy guard?" said Visconti. "Twenty men in each guard-room my lord, and each one picked for size and trustworthiness, and I myself keep watch upon the door. Escape is impossible." "By so much the more that thy head will answer for it." As he spoke, Visconti flung wide one of a ring of doors opening from the chamber, and stepped into a posse of soldiers. No one spoke. Glancing keenly to the right and left, Visconti passed through their ranks into the room beyond,—a small apartment, dim lit and hung with arras. An old woman sat at a tapestry frame with her back to the door, but at Visconti's entrance she rose, as at something expected, and sank in a deep obeisance. Gian Maria closed the door behind him. "How is she?" he said. "How does she bear her change of prison?" The old woman glanced toward an inner door, massive and iron-clamped. "When I am with her, my lord, she sits in silence, her eyes forever on her missal; indeed she has not spoken since we brought her here; but when she is alone, she weeps. I have heard her through the door; she weeps passionately, and calls wildly upon her husband to save her." "I would I had him, to stand him gagged against the door to hear her," said the Duke. "By the look of her she will die of it," continued the old woman. "But if I know anything of prisoners, and I have seen a few, thou wilt never break her spirit, my lord." "She must be more humbled now," he said to himself. "She must turn and implore me for pity." The huge door creaked and swung on its hinges, and he stood at the top of two low stone steps, looking down into Isotta's prison. It was little better than a dungeon of stone, lofty but dark, with one window deep set, high out of reach, and thickly barred. The walls were hung with faded tapestry, the gloomy, sad-looking folds drooping like torn, captured standards. A huge chest of somber blackness leaned against the wall; above it hung a horn lantern, which after dark gave all the light that was obtained. For the rest, a few high-backed chairs stood stiffly about the room. In his black dress Visconti, pausing at the head of the steps, seemed part of its gloom. His wide-open gray eyes looked straight across at the solitary occupant. Isotta sat in one of the huge black chairs, her delicate hands resting on the faded crimson velvet of the arms, her feet on a wooden footstool. She was of a fair and noble appearance, but her face was marred by sorrow and her eyes red from many tears. Her pale yellow hair was drawn away under a white veil. Her long gray dress clung close about her slender figure. On her knee rested a little book, and on this she kept her eyes. Not by so much as a flutter of her hand did she show she knew of the Visconti's presence. He waited, raging inwardly, but words would not come easily to break that silence. At last he slowly descended into the room, his eyes still on her face. She never stirred, nor raised her own. With his noiseless tread, Visconti paced around the chamber, raising the arras, and testing with his dagger every block of stone. It was a superfluous precaution; any attempt to escape would have been simple madness, and Isotta d'Este was not likely to give way to frenzy. Still it was joy to be sure and doubly sure that she was safe. Every inch was inspected, every crevice searched. Meanwhile from time to time he observed her keenly. But she seemed not to know her solitude was broken, save that once, when he passed her, she swept in the train of her gown, as she might have done had a leper come too near. A simple thing, but it goaded him, and for a moment she was near her death; rage almost overcoming prudence. But as he stood behind her chair, half-inclined to strike, he noticed on her hand a ring. His expression changed; he smiled; his hand dropped down. The ring was of pearl, cut with the arms of Della Scala, and worn on the third finger of her left hand; her wedding ring. Visconti smiled again. Stooping, he raised her hand, and—"Will she bear this in silence?" was his thought. For a moment it seemed as if she might not. The delicate fingers stiffened and half-closed, then, as if remembering anew, she left her hand passive in Visconti's hold, and only by a faint quiver told she knew the ring had been withdrawn. The despoiled hand fell back again on to the velvet arm, her eyes were fixed immovably upon her book, and Visconti, turning away to the door, silent as he came, looked back at her incredulous of such control. She was sitting straight and slender, her delicate head poised high, but—ah yes, he thought it must be so!—he noted with delight that her breast heaved and the firm line of her mouth trembled ever so slightly. For a second he stood thus, a ray of the pale prison light caught by the ring he held, then the door clattered and shook back into its bolts, and he was gone. CHAPTER FOUR VALENTINE Swiftly as he had come, Visconti returned to the palace, and the banqueting hall beyond. He stepped in silently, and softly let the curtains fall behind him. The room was of enormous size, and overawed the gaze. The four large entries, one in each wall, were curtained alike with gloomy purple. The ceiling was domed and of immense height, showing a dim tracery of carved wood, from which hung golden chains, suspending jeweled lamps. The high and narrow windows were wrought with painted saints, splendid in coloring. From domed ceiling to paneled floor the walls were carved with men, women, saints, martyrs, flowers and birds wrought together, in simple-minded joyousness of design, executed with the delicate workmanship of Niccolo Pisano's school. Silk arras, hung from carved gold rods, here and there concealed the carving. A carpet, the work of two men's lives, delicate in purple, brown, and gold, spread across the center, where a long low table of walnut wood, rich and dark, could seat two hundred guests. Purple velvet chairs were set about in the corners, and the light streaming through the colored window saints fell in gold and green across an ivory footstool, inlaid with jewels. As Visconti entered, the hall was empty, yet he stepped stealthily, as if he felt eyes watching him. Seating himself in the window recess, he waited, and presently, as if at an unuttered summons, the curtains at the far end of the room were rustled apart, and a lady entered. She was Valentine Visconti, Gian's sister. Her dress was of red and brown, embroidered with gold, her tawny hair piled high under a golden net upon her well-set head. She had the clear, colorless skin and the wide red lips of the fair-haired Italians, their rich presence; she was of a fine carriage, not easy to overlook; she might have been ten years younger than her brother; she was as tall and as stately. She looked straight toward the window where Visconti sat. Gian returned her gaze, not changing his position. Valentine drew nearer. "Why hast thou set spies upon me?" she demanded. "Why didst thou try to fly Milan with Count Conrad?" he returned. "I was foolish not to spy on thee before." Her gray eyes glinted. "I tried to escape from a life that was grown intolerable," she cried, "and I will try yet again!" Visconti smiled. "My sister, thou art much too precious; I shall not let thee go. Thou art worth a great deal to me. Through thee our family will be united to the Royal House of France. My sister, thy husband will be the Duke of Orleans, and not a German fool." But Valentine was also a Visconti: she advanced with blazing eyes. "I will not marry to serve thy ambitions; I will not help to steady thee upon the throne. Mark me, Gian, sooner than wed a Prince whom thou hast chosen, I will drag thy name into the mire, and sit in rags at thy palace gates." "Only thou hast not the choice," he answered pleasantly. Her anger rose the more as she felt her helplessness. "I will not marry the Duke!" she cried, "I will not walk up to the altar." "Thou canst be carried," said Visconti. She moved up and down, twisting her hands in an agony of impotence. "I will appeal to the Duke of Orleans himself!" she cried. "A bridegroom who is bought for a hundred thousand florins!" sneered her brother. "And how will thy appeal reach him? Come, my sister, be calm; the Duke will make as good a husband as Count Conrad. Bethink thyself, thou mayst live to be crowned Queen of France. Wilt thou not thank me then, that I saved thee from a German Count?" Valentine fell to weeping. "What has become of him?" she sobbed, "the only human being who ever turned to me in pity. The only one who ever cared for me. What has become of him?" "What becomes of a fool when he crosses the path of a Visconti?" asked her brother calmly. Valentine lifted her head. "He is dead, then?" she said. "It matters not to thee. Thy husband will be the Duke of Orleans, and thou art a prisoner in the palace till he takes thee from it." She caught at the arras; Visconti left her, and reached the door, his figure a shadow among the shadows. The girl rushed forward with a cry. "Gian!" she called. He paused, his hand upon the curtain, and looked back at her. "Gian!" she repeated, and stood still gasping, her hand upon her breast. The stiff folds of her dress gleamed richly in the subdued light that fell upon her from the painted window. "I know thee for what thou art," she said; "there are only two of us left, only two. Where are our parents, Gian?" "They were stricken down at Brescia," and Visconti took a quick step toward her. "They are dead," she breathed, "and they died as our brothers died, Filipo and Matteo——" "Did they so! Then take warning by it," and Gian, coming stealthily still nearer, turned a look on her. Valentine quailed, as Francisco well-nigh had done; the hot words of remorse and rebellion died away unuttered, and she hid her face, her high spirit cowed again into a bitter weeping. Visconti left her noiselessly. CHAPTER FIVE THE PAINTER'S DAUGHTER Three days had passed since that futile midnight encounter, and Francisco had found no means to enter Milan. He stood on the banks of the water looking moodily toward the city, watching the figure of Vittore, who trudged along the meadows,—his errand to procure provisions. The three still sheltered in the ruins, to which no owner had returned, nor had any signs of life or occupancy broken the silence within the villa's all-encircling walls. Now, as he watched Vittore out of sight—the boy looking back often to renew his courage—Francisco's brow was furrowed, and his eyes heavy with sleeplessness. The stream, clear, deep and sparkling, here ran darkened with the shadow of the willows that bent over it their long bluish leaves. A path, thickly bordered with reeds, ran beside the water to the head of the small lake into which the stream flowed, whence it continued, a scarcely discernible footway, toward the city. Behind Francisco, separated from him only by the fosse, was the wall of the villa, and, Vittore being lost to view, Francisco withdrew his gaze, always roaming restlessly in quest of something that should aid him, and glanced along it curiously. His eyes rested on a great tuft of yellow lichen, brilliant with scarlet spikes; it was so huge and spreading he could not but stare at it. From the lichen his gaze traveled slowly upward, but not a foothold could he see. Spreading above the wall the topmost boughs of a gigantic view showed a clear-cut black against the sky, and on the broad, fan-like surface brooded a pair of doves, pink, gray and white. The beauty of the scene, its calmness and repose, exasperated the man's inaction. He stamped on the little flowers at his feet, then, with a bitter curse at his folly, threw himself upon the grass to watch for Vittore's return, and ponder, forever ponder, on his purpose. Suddenly there shot into sight upon the stream a little boat, with high curling prow and gaily painted sides. A blue sail was furled above it, and it was impelled lightly forward by a delicate pair of oars. The grounds of the villa formed a promontory, and coming around the brow of it the boat broke upon his gaze and was within hail at one and the same moment. It came rapidly nearer, and the stranger's first impulse was to hide himself from these unexpected and unwelcome intruders; but there was no time; as he rose he was observed, but the genial hand-wave and the merry laughter reassured him. These were simple pleasure-seekers. He reseated himself, and the boat came on. The rower was a dark-haired man of middle age, clothed in a plain brown robe. Lean and vivacious, eager-eyed, he appeared one of those people who are always talking and moving; even seated and rowing he gave the impression of restlessness; of the good humor common to the people too. His companion was a young girl dressed in a simple blue gown. She was a delicate blonde, very young, very slender; the curls of her amber hair were blown across a round dimpled face; eyes of a dancing blue; a sweet small mouth curled in laughter, a fine chin and throat, a slack young figure. This was her principal characteristic, the floating yellow hair like a veil about her. Coming abreast of Francisco, the man paused on his oars with a friendly greeting. "Good day, messer," he called. "So thou hast found our secret haunt. Graziosa and I had thought this place our own," and as he spoke he waved his hand around him at the water. The boat rocked now alongside the path, and Francisco courteously approached. "I am a stranger here," he said. The other glanced at him anew, and with the awakening of a little friendly wonder. "A stranger? Ah, then, this is new to thee—this most beautiful part of Italy. I assure thee," he continued excitedly, "I have been through the fairest parts of Tuscany, I have wandered about Naples, but never have I seen such colors, such lights as here!" Again he waved his all-inclusive hand. "Thou, messer, as a stranger, must see how wonderfully fair it is?" He paddled the boat nearer among the reeds in his eagerness to obtain new sympathy. "I have not been used to judge lands by their beauty," returned Francisco. "Yet methinks I have seen spots as beautiful and easier to hold in time of need." The other twisted his mouth in contempt. The girl leaned forward, laughing. "You forget, father," she said, "everyone is not a painter." But the little man, as if he had found a sudden mission, secured the boat, and, still in silence, stepped ashore, helping his daughter to follow him. Francisco, preoccupied and mistrustful, saw this with uneasiness, and would gladly have withdrawn. Moreover, the smiling face of the happy girl was an added sting to a burning thought. The enthusiast, however, had no idea of giving up a possible convert, and swept aside the other's protestations while he commenced pointing out the beauties of the yellow lichen against the villa wall, the sight of which had restored all his good humor. "See!" he exclaimed. "How bright it is! See the contrast of the yew—so brilliant, yet so in harmony, so—you do not paint?" "No," said Francisco between grimness and scorn. "Do I look as if I did?" The artist glanced anew at his huge frame and tattered attire, and mentally decided he did not. "Ah, then thou dost not understand," he said; "but I, I am a painter. Agnolo Vistarnini is my name, messer, a student of Taddeo Gaddi." He swept off his leather cap with an air of profound respect. "Ah, he could paint! I am far behind him, messer, but I can see! I can see! Which thou canst not," he added with superb pity. "Graziosa," he called, turning to his daughter, "we will stay here awhile." And seating himself on the bank, he produced from his wallet a panel of wood, polished and carefully planed, upon which he began to draw the outline of a corner of the scene, using a dark brown pigment. Francisco fell again to brooding while the painter chattered on, dividing his attention between the panel and his daughter, who was wandering up the stream, filling with flowers a flat basket. "Thou see'st yonder my daughter, messer," he said, pointing to the slender figure in blue. He blew a kiss in her direction. "She is the model for my angels——" "And the model for thy devils?" asked Francisco suddenly. Vistarnini started and looked around at the speaker. "Devils! Messer!" He crossed himself. "God forbid there should be a model for such found anywhere," he said. "Yet methinks thou hast in thy city yonder," said Francisco with a bitter smile, "one who well might sit for the fiend himself: Visconti." "The Duke? Ah, my friend, hush, hush, thou art a stranger, take care! Even in this lonely spot such words are far from safe. Who art thou, messer, who dost not live in Milan and yet speak with such a look of the Visconti?" "Do not all who know the Visconti speak with such a look of him?" The painter gazed at him in silence. "But thou askest for my name," continued the other. "I am Francisco di Coldra, one who has suffered much from the Visconti." "In the sack of Verona, perhaps?" asked Agnolo after a pause. "The sack of Verona was three months ago. The prisoners have been in Milan twenty days!" These words were inscrutable, and the little painter did not even try to understand them; but they kindled a memory that would not be repressed. "Ah, and what a night that was," he cried, "when the Duke re-entered Milan with them! Since I do not hurt thee by the recollection, messer, let me tell thee, it was a splendid sight, that night the Duke returned. I live a quiet life, as an artist may do, even in Milan. I know little, I care little for the wars of princes. They tell me the Visconti's crimes outnumber the stars; but, messer, his shadow has not fallen across my house, and what one does not see one does not fear—but when he returned from Verona! that was a sight, messer. It was late. Our house overlooks the western gates, and all day long the messengers had come and sped, bringing the news the Duke was here. Toward evening—we leaning from the window as did everyone—Alberic da Salluzzo comes galloping to the walls—red-hot upon some report that the Visconti has been slain—to look to the arming of the citizens. Even as we strain from the window, following the flash of his plumes—back he comes in madder haste—the Visconti is alive! The people shout and yell, and some cry 'tis not the Visconti's army on the road, but Della Scala's. Meanwhile a mob, with Napoleone della Torre at their head, begins to agitate, to threaten riot. With a strong hand Alberic puts them down—the streets are cleared, Graziosa and I on the balcony, all is dark, silent, save now and then the clink of the armor of the sentries on the walls. I am too excited for sleep, messer, all so hushed, so subdued, waiting, waiting. All at once it comes. Oh, the rattle, the roar! The great gates clatter back, the streets fill with crowds no man can keep back. The victorious army pelts through them; two men on every horse, great flaring torches throwing their yellow light on the torn banners and the wild faces of the soldiers, and then the cannon, leaping over the rough stones, drawn by the smoke-blackened gunners, all tearing, rushing through the street, a mass of light and shade, wonderful, wonderful! In the midst, the Visconti, the ragged light streaming over his tattered armor, and Isotta d'Este, guarded between two soldiers, swaying on her black horse, and above all the shouts of the frenzied triumph of the Milanese.... Ah!" Agnolo paused now for want of breath, and glanced at his companion. But Francisco offered no response. His face was turned away, and his hands were clenched. The little painter had a vague sense of having allowed a mere artist's enthusiasm to carry him too far into a dangerous theme. "Ah, well," he continued in a deprecating tone, "a splendid sight truly, and one to fire the blood, but I am a man of peace, and I greatly grieve Della Scala should have perished. He was a noble prince." The stranger rose abruptly. "Do not speak of Della Scala," he said harshly. "I love to hear his name as little as Visconti's. His was the crime of failure." "Failure! Who would not have failed?" said Agnolo gently, for he thought he spoke to one who must have lost his all in the sacked town. "I know little of such things, but 'twas here and there asserted he fell by craft as well as force, and he was a great soldier and an honorable man, Messer Francisco." "He had all the virtues, doubtless," said Francisco, "and lost Verona." "And his life!" replied the painter. "Ah, well, these things are grievous! The saints protect my daughter from all share in them," and he glanced affectionately toward Graziosa, returning through the gray-green willows with lilies in her hands. "For my pictures," said the painter, pointing to them. "I am painting an altar-piece—for the lunettes. I shall have Graziosa as St. Katherine, and Ambrogio (her betrothed, messer) as St. Michael. These flowers will make the border." He took some as he spoke, and began arranging them in wreaths. Francisco would scarcely have heeded the speaker's words, save that his glance was caught almost involuntarily by the girl's sweet blush at mention of her lover's name. "Thy betrothed," he murmured, interested a moment in the happiness that was such a contrast to his own feeling. "And does he paint too?" Graziosa looked up with sparkling eyes. "Beautifully," she said eagerly. "He is at work now in the Church of San' Apollinare in Brescia. We have not seen his painting, the journey is too long; but some of the panel bits he has shown us, and they are noble." Francisco smiled faintly at her outspokenness, and her father laughed good-humoredly. "Thou must not listen to her," he said. "She overrates his painting. He paints well, truly, but cold! ah, so cold; no spirit in it! He will sit for hours thinking how the fold of a robe should fall. I, however, have seen Taddeo Gaddi paint! The angels would seem to flow from his brush as if he gave no thought to them!" But Graziosa turned a smiling face from the boat she was unmooring. "His altar-piece will draw all Lombardy," she cried. "Say rather that his altar-piece draws him away from thee," laughed the painter, "and thou wilt be nearer to the truth. The altar-piece has all his time; thou but a few meager hours a week! Still, they love each other, messer, and are happy, so we never care whether Ambrogio paint well or ill." Graziosa seated herself under the blue sail, and looked up with radiant eyes. "I am very happy," she laughed softly, "so never mind whether he paint the best or the second best in Italy." The painter grasped the oars and pushed out into the stream: "Good-bye," he called, and Graziosa waved a hand; then something in the stranger's aspect made the little painter pause again. "Gladly would we offer our poor hospitality, messer," he said, "only the gates are sternly barred to any stranger...." But Graziosa, glancing also at the strong, commanding figure, and the stern set face, checked her father's impulse. "We are too humble, father," she said gently, "but if there were any service we could render, any message—? We live at the sign of Lo Scudo , the armorer's, near to the western gate." "I will remember it," said Francisco simply. Graziosa drew her blue cloth hood about her smiling face, and, with gentle strokes from the painter's paddle, the boat disappeared. When Francisco found himself alone again, momentary misgiving seized him that he had lost an opportunity. Could these folk have been of service? They were of a sort unknown to him; courtiers, soldiers, burghers, merchants, with all such he was at home, but these plebeians of kindly natures and good speech, of humble rank and careless happiness, were new to him. The painter's talk of his craft had had no meaning for Francisco, it had passed from his mind for craziness; but the girl had said they dwelt near the western gate—could they perchance have been of service? But presently he dismissed the notion; they were too simple for his purpose. Raging in the pain of rekindled memory and present helplessness, Francisco paced to and fro, waiting for Vittore's figure in the distance. Suddenly his eyes rested again on the great clump of yellow lichen, and he stopped, arrested. In the midst of it he had seen something that interested him, something very much its color, but not quite its kind. He approached, and thrusting his hand in among the great tufts, touched the rusty iron of a disused bolt. There was a door here, then, that led into the grounds of the deserted villa! Francisco's heart beat strongly. From the finding of the silver goblet in the ruined hut, he had associated with the Visconti's name the darkened dwelling and its silent grounds. There was none to question, for there was none of whom they dared inquire; but more than once Francisco had thought of trying to enforce an entrance, only to find, however, that by whomsoever abandoned, ingress to the villa had been left well nigh impossible. But here was an entrance that had been overlooked, and it was not to be wondered at, for the rusty bolt could have been discerned only by eyes as keen as his, and the door belonging was completely hidden by close-growing ivy, too frail to climb by, but the most effectual of all concealments. Tearing up the lichen from its roots, Francisco set to work upon the ivy. The delicate, ropelike strands clung with their black filaments like fingers bewitched, and little had been accomplished when Francisco, taking cautious survey around him, saw Vittore returning across the meadows. Concealing what he was about, Francisco waited till the lad came up, flushed and triumphant from a successful errand. "What news going in the city?" asked Francisco. "All is quiet. One of the soldiers snatched a leek from me, another bade me tell my sister he was still unwed. They jested finely, but I should not like them to have turned to questioning me. They were so many, and so finely armed." "And the money? Didst thou need to change the pieces that I gave thee?" "Yes, messer, I had not enough! They said that it was Veronese." "Nothing new to them in Milan now—the money of the Veronese," said Francisco, with a flashing glance toward the ramparts. "They told me 'twas no longer taken; that the Duke was having it recast. But a bystander reached forward, and gave me a piece of Milanese. He said that he would keep my piece; it bore the Della Scala arms, he said, and was a curiosity." Francisco muttered something that the lad did not catch. "Well, thou hast faced the soldiers and the market now," he said aloud, "and art safe for other journeys, as I promised thee. Go on to the hut, and give thyself food and Tomaso. Keep close and answer none. I will be with thee presently." The boy went on obediently. These two days with his rescuer had taught him and Tomaso both that what Francisco said he meant, and his word was their law already. But Francisco needed stronger allies. With some half-formed thought the villa might conceal one, he now returned to his attack upon the ivy, and after many a wrench and cut and struggle, the garden door stood bare enough to use. It was stained, discolored, locked and immovable. But this was nothing to Francisco; with knife and dagger he cut the woodwork around the lock, removed it, and thrusting his hand and arm well through the breach, with no great difficulty withdrew the upper and lower bolts. With knee and shoulder then he pressed inward, driving against the weeds and growths that choked it, and presently had forced an aperture that would admit him. After many a cautious glance along the meadow path, fortunately for his purpose little used, he replaced the loose strands of ivy as far as he was able, and slipping through, pushed the door back into its place, filling up the broken lock with green. He was in a garden of great beauty. The yew-tree overhead shaded a patch of velvety green starred with daisies. Before him a straight path led to a marble seat and a belt of cypress-trees. The ring-doves cooed blissfully; the flowering trees stirred; there was no other sound save the distant one of faintly plashing water. Treading softly, Francisco set forward in the direction in which he knew the villa lay. CHAPTER SIX THE RESCUE OF COUNT VON SCHULEMBOURG The house, a low, graceful building of white marble, was approached by a broad flight of steps, flanked by a balustrade almost hidden in early roses, which trailed in great clusters over it and along the velvet turf. Fronting it was a great fountain, and a wide avenue of yew trees, patched with sunshine, led up to the façade. To right and left spread turf-grown paths, edged with orange and lemon trees, and sweet with the scent of the citron and myrtle; around their roots grew violets, primroses, daffodils; and behind, beyond, on all sides, were grass and walks and trees, a sea of moving green. The place was profoundly quiet. The statues, placed here and there, looked out from the foliage smiling; the dainty seats of colored stone were empty, innocent of satin skirt or ruffled cloak. There was no sign of the recent care of man; no wild things stirred; beside the basins of the fountains lay two peacocks, dead. The villa doors were open, showing something of the long corridor that traversed the lower floor, but silent as the scene without. The stillness was unnatural; the beauty of the place, the two dead gorgeous birds, the open doors and lovely sunshine, made an impression that appalled. The day was long past noon when, through the dim corridor, there was the faint flutter of garments. Some one was slowly moving. The sunbeam's slanting ray struck through the doorway on a strange, haggard-looking figure: a man. He was wasted, bent, and shrunken; his limbs tottering under him. Where his blue velvet cloak fell back, it showed a splendid suit of black and gold, embroidered and decked out with ribbons, but the splendor hung upon a hollow frame: a skeleton. Long locks of pale gold hair heightened the ghastly hollowness of the pinched face. Conrad von Schulembourg was paying with this form of death for the favor of Valentine Visconti; as her brother's favorite, he had thought it safe to lift his eyes to her; being something of a gallant fool, very gay to face danger, very incredulous of it ever coming to him in this hideous shape. He was not quick to read character, especially Visconti's character. Could Gian Visconti have seen his victim now, even he might have started, for it is hard to imagine what men who die of hunger look like. The trees, softly moving, made pleasant light and shade; the myrtle blossoms blew and sailed in little clouds of mauve, while the sweet-smelling leaves of the citron hung their rich clusters over opening lilies. Conrad, dragging himself across the grass, with straining eyes and parted lips, thought only of the water in the fountain, and saw only those two dead birds. Poisoned! Visconti had forestalled all chances. The Count had scarcely strength for any definite purpose of self-help. He craved water, and turned to drag himself away in search of some he might dare drink. Ere long, he knew not how, he reached it; a little hollow fringed with fern, in its center a calm and placid pool, the trees mirrored in its peaceful surface. Count Conrad fell beside it, gazing longingly. A statue of a wood-god, the sunlight yellow in the hollow eyes, leaned from among the bushes, and mocked him with its smile. Another effort and he had reached the stone. The water was so cool, so clear, so pure and still, it seemed impossible that it should harm him. He reached his hand out, then convulsively resisting the impulse, drew it back, and sank again upon the grass. At a flutter of white from the boughs near, Count Conrad lifted his eyes, and saw a dove that flew past him to rest upon the rim; he watched it eagerly. The bird preened itself, shook its feathers daintily, stooped and drank. Conrad drew himself a little nearer. Suddenly with a cry the bird whirled up into the air, beat its wings together vainly, and fell back into the water, dead! Poisoned! All the water poisoned! Desperation giving him a moment's strength, Count Conrad rose and regarded the dead dove with greedy eyes, but steeling himself against the impulse to devour his own death, he crawled on with the vague thought to reach the gate. Some instinct of remembrance guiding his stumbling steps, he came upon it. It was twice his height, and all its elaborate tracery offered no single aperture through which a child could thrust his hand. Sick and blind he clung to it; he tried to shout, to scream, his voice died in his throat. In helpless rage, his wild face pressed against the iron, his eyes starting, his tongue lolling out of his dry mouth, he gripped and shook the lock. Two children running by, stopped, gazed, came nearer, and then at what they saw, fled, screaming. No one else approached. The world seemed empty. Twilight began to fall. Then in his half-delirium Count Conrad thought again of the dead bird, and laughed wolfishly to himself, making with tottering steps back toward the hollow. To search coherently for food or drink or succor was now beyond his power. Presently again he sank across the grass and lay there crying like a child, whimpering and whispering. Once or twice he made an effort, snatched at the long grass, fell back again, and lay now in silence. After a time, but while it was still light, he seemed to wake as from a trance, and saw a figure moving down the glade toward him. Was he still living? He could scarcely tell. Was this Visconti come again to mock him? The thought spurred the man, though dying, almost to strive to rise and meet his fate standing. But sky, grass, trees, and stone reeled about him in a chaos of green and blue. He strove to speak, but his tongue refused. The dark figure came nearer, stopped beside him, stooped and spoke, but Count Conrad did not see nor heed. He lay, a woeful spectacle, as if dead indeed. He awoke, as he thought never to wake again, with moistened lips, and water on his forehead, and a face that was not Visconti's bending over him; a dark face with strange brown eyes that looked at him with sombre interest. "Thou comest from the Duke?" gasped Conrad. Francisco shook his head. "I am no emissary of Visconti." "Then thou comest to save me?" whispered Conrad eagerly, hope dawning in his eyes. "I will save thee if I can," replied Francisco. "Thou art alone?" Conrad moved his head. He was too weak for more. Then a sudden thought shot horror into his face, and he struggled to a sitting posture. "The water!" he gasped out. "The water—from the fountain—thou gave me to drink of that?" Francisco followed in surprise the direction of his glance. "No," he said. "I had it with me; 'twas water and wine too." "Oh!" Conrad sank back. "The water is poisoned—all——" "Poisoned—Visconti's doing!" said Francisco. "How didst thou get in?" whispered Conrad feebly. "Visconti barred all entrances." "I found one unknown to any; canst thou, with my help, walk there?" "I think—I can walk—to safety," was the answer, and the love of life lending him strength, he staggered to his feet, and helped by Francisco and invigorated by the wine, made slowly forward. But they had not taken many steps before Francisco well perceived he had rescued a man past helping himself, well-nigh past any help from others. With a sigh Conrad sank speechless into his arms. Francisco looked around him. He had come far from the entrance he had forced, and Conrad, plainly starved and emaciated as he was, was still a man full grown. To leave him and to return to Tomaso would be too dangerous. The place must be under observation. But to seek safety himself and abandon the helpless man was not a thought to occur to Francisco, though, hampered by his dead weight, he would be at any pursuer's mercy, or fall a prey to any ambush; so with stout words of encouragement, and forcing more wine through his lips, he lifted the Count to his shoulder and made as rapidly as he was able to the door beside the lichen. It was a breathless journey, but at last, and unmolested, Francisco gained the wall and laid his burden down. Reconnoitering without, he saw no sign of danger, and, glad of the oncoming dusk, dragged up the man and laid him, at least free, outside the door. The cool air blowing from the water, a few drops more wine, in which Francisco soaked some crumbs of bread he found within his wallet, enabled the rescued man again to move. It was an easy matter now to bring Vittore and Tomaso, who would not be left, and between them Conrad, too spent to put questions, was carried to their shelter and laid on the rough heather couch in the hut, from which one of his own vassals had not long been driven; a poor asylum enough, but one for which he only too gladly exchanged the deadly splendor of his own magnificent abode. "Who is he?" asked Tomaso, in timid surprise. For the first time since their knowledge of him Francisco laughed, and without bitterness. "One of Visconti's victims! It is some poor satisfaction to have rescued two," he said. "I know nothing of him except that it is plainly to be seen he is some person of distinction. We will nurse him to the best of our skill. Tomaso, he may be of use——" Then suddenly Francisco's humor changed. He glanced around him at the boy, the youth, scarcely recovered from his fever, the ghastly figure on the ground over which he bent, and fury shook him. Of what use anything against Visconti? "Oh, terrible to be so helpless!" he cried passionately. "We will leave this place. I break my heart in vain against the walls of Milan. I will to Ferrara, to Della Scala's kinsfolk there." "And they will aid thee?" asked Tomaso trembling. Francisco smiled, but this time grimly. "I can but try," he said. "Della Scala was once known and trusted there. And in no case can we stay here!" He pointed down at Conrad. "The place will not be safe for us, let Visconti once discover his victim has escaped him. We will depart to Ferrara, and fall upon Visconti while he is unsuspecting that I—that anyone lives to still animate the Estes against him...." An hour or two later, while Vittore and Tomaso slept, Francisco keeping watch beside him, Conrad woke from a light doze and felt that he had hold on life again. He tried to murmur thanks to his preserver, but the other checked him. "Thou art not of Italy?" he said. "I am Conrad von Schulembourg." "Conrad von Schulembourg!" echoed Francisco in surprise. "Visconti's trusted friend!" "The trusted friend of him who fastened me within my villa yonder to die a lingering death of hunger, or of poisoned food." The drops started on his forehead, he gasped for breath. Francisco soothed and tended him. "Think not of it; get well," he said, as he had said to Tomaso. "Live and help rid the world of the Visconti. He would have thee die a dog's death. Is not life dear to thee?" "Yes, I will live," said Conrad, "and I will take revenge both for my own wrongs and for a woman's sake." Francisco turned quickly and looked at him keenly. "A woman's sake! Thy motive is the same as mine: I too am living—for a woman's sake." Then, at the other's questioning stare, Francisco continued more quietly: "I am from Verona, Count; that will tell thee much. I belonged to Della Scala's court, and barely escaped with life from the sacking of the town. Thou see'st I can for that and other matters more than equal thee in hatred of Visconti." He rose and moving toward the door, looked out. "Oh, I am impatient!" he cried passionately, "to be riding toward Ferrara!"

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