Chapter Fifteen

A PRISONER FROM MILAN

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.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

FOR A GAME OF CHESS

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.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE TERRORS OF THE NIGHT

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.

"Heinrich was my bosom friend, White feather and purple cloak: Now that folly's at an end, His the flame and mine the smoke!"

"He comes this way," said Carrara. "If he takes to questioning where I am----"

"If he takes to coming nearer," smiled Visconti, "I shall be obliged to--kill him."

"We parted for a silken knot, White feather and purple cloak: Whose fault it was I have forgot, His the flame and mine the smoke!"

The last words were lost in a burst of laughter, as Conrad and Vincenzo, each mounted on a white horse, and attended by an escort with torches, rode past, back to their tents.

So close they came, that Visconti, with gleaming eyes, leaned forward, longing to strangle the singer with one of those long curls that hung around his laughing, careless face.

But Carrara was relieved.

"As long as he does not inquire for me," he said. "But even then my officers understand."

Visconti smiled grimly; he was to pay for that.

"Now!" he said, and as Conrad's German song and Vincenzo's wild laughter passed, Visconti and Giacomo stepped out from behind the bushes and looked after them, the freedom of one secured, the treachery of the other well-nigh accomplished.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

GIACOMO CARRARA'S REWARD

The dawn was breaking, the sky streaked and barred with cold gray light, and along the winding road to Milan rode the Visconti and Carrara, the army before them.

It had been accomplished, without demur, openly and completely; behind them they left the Veronese and Mantuan troops, over whom Giacomo had no command--and Count Conrad, laughing in his folly.

Quite near to them lay Milan--and Visconti rode in silence, wondering what had befallen in the city; wondering, and fearing Valentine had revealed too much of his own spirit; he was afraid of her.

Along the distant horizon the gray walls of the city began to be visible across the flat plain, and Visconti's eyes lit at sight of his city, and he turned to Carrara impulsively.

"Give me a sword, Carrara," he said. "'Tis not fitting I should enter Milan weaponless."

"The Milanese will so rejoice to see you, my lord," returned Padua, "they will never notice----"

"That I come as a prisoner?" flashed Visconti, but the next moment he laughed and urged on his horse. "But what care I how, so long as I do re-enter Milan? Now, with you as my ally, Carrara, I can crush Della Scala without France or the Empire; and together, as ye say, we will rule Lombardy."

Carrara rode abreast of him, glancing at him keenly.

"Even now he will try to outwit me," he thought, and resolved he would not be outdone in cunning for the lack of care.

"How came it you were captured?" he added, "and in this guise?"

"The chances of war," laughed Visconti. "Foolishly I went myself to defend the gates, and pursued Della Scala's men too far."

But this candor did not deceive Carrara. "Foolish indeed!" he smiled. "Your hurry excelled your prudence, lord." And he wondered what was the truth.

"You have cause to thank heaven no one knew you," he continued.

"They were German boors," answered Visconti, "Count Conrad's men, and there was nothing to tell my degree. Yet, had they looked a little closer, they might have found one thing that would have told them I was different from what I seemed--these."

And he drew out of his doublet the turquoise gloves.

Even in that cold, faint light they showed brilliant and beautiful, and Carrara gazed at them in wonder.

"As I was summoned," continued Visconti, dreamily, "I was looking at them. Are they not beautiful, Carrara? Two years they took to make, and cost more than I care to tell. Each turquoise is flawless, and set by Antonio Fressi himself."

"And is this a gift for some one?" asked Carrara, and he looked keenly into Visconti's face.

"It was one of my bridal gifts to the Duke d'Orleans. I must honor him, Carrara, although I love him not," said Visconti simply. "But now I will offer it to one to whom I owe my life. Take the gloves, a gift from me, Giacomo." And he turned in the saddle and held them with a winning smile to Carrara, who, mistrustful, looked at him doubtingly and keenly.

"Thou wilt not refuse my gift?" and Visconti looked at him proudly. "Let it seal our bargain, Carrara. Take it, for the sake of the goodwill with which it is offered."

Carrara's ruling quality was prudence, and all Visconti's seeming guilelessness did not deceive him; still, he hesitated, considering where the trap lay.

Then, as he glanced down at the gloves, his eyes caught the gleam on the hilt of his dagger, and a thought struck him.

"He means to make me put them on," he thought, "and snatch the sword meanwhile"; and he smiled to think Visconti could be so simple.

"Thank thee for thy gift, Visconti, and for the goodwill that offers it," he said, with an ingenuousness equal to Visconti's, and reaching out his hand, he took the gloves, meaning to have the gift and outwit Visconti also.

Gian's manner had lost its gloom and wildness, he seemed light of heart and in a pleasant mood.

"They are riding-gloves," he cried. "Wear them into Milan, Carrara."

"Ah," thought Giacomo, "I see the plot. Thou wouldst snatch a weapon while my hands are busy," and, priding himself on his cunning, he deftly slipped them on his hands, keeping his elbow on his sword-hilt and his watchful eyes upon Visconti.

"A beautiful dawn," said Gian softly, seeming to take no heed of Carrara's clever maneuvering; his eyes were fixed on the sunrise behind Milan. "All pearl and silver, blushing into life anon; about the time when I shall enter Milan."

And he fixed his eyes on Giacomo with a strange expression.

"When we shall enter Milan," corrected Carrara. "The sun will be faintly high: these marches are toilsome." And he glanced down proudly at the beautiful gauntlets on his hands, calculating what the pearls and turquoises might be worth, picked off, and vain at having outwitted Visconti.

"The promise of the day!" said Visconti, dreamily and sadly. "Hath it never struck thee how that promise never is fulfilled? Day after day, since the world began, something in the mystery of the dawn is promised--something the sunset smiles to see unfulfilled--something men have been ever cheated of--something men will never know--the promise of the dawn!"

The road began now to be fringed with poplars, and in the faint light the colors of the wayside flowers were visible.

They rode awhile in silence. Carrara looked back at the small rearguard in the distance, and before him along the road to his army blackening the plain, and then again at Visconti.

"Either he is always mad or----"

With a sharp exclamation he fell forward on his horse's neck, but recovered himself instantly. Visconti turned to him, still with that far-away look in his eyes.

"The road is stony," he said. "Thy horse stumbled?"

"Fool or devil?" Carrara was still wondering, and, looking at Visconti's face, he almost thought him a fool.

"You and I," cried Visconti, with a sudden change, "together, Carrara! Lords of Lombardy!"

And he struck his horse into a gallop so unexpectedly that Carrara had difficulty to keep abreast with him.

"I have been so long away!" he cried. "Haste! I long to be in my city again. Valentine--and others--will be grieving. Haste!"

And he still urged his horse.

Carrara, galloping at his side, suddenly reeled in the saddle, with a cry of anguish.

"Faster!" cried Visconti. "Faster!"

With an effort Carrara kept his horse to the pace, but his face was deathly, his lips set. Visconti never looked at him; his gaze was toward Milan and the sunrise.

Suddenly Carrara cried aloud. "Not so fast, Visconti, not so fast!"

But Gian flew along the level road.

"Milan!" he cried, "on to Milan!"

Carrara swayed forward to grasp Visconti's cloak, but he shook him off with a laugh.

"What ails you, Carrara? The army waits, you must ride faster still if you mean to ride into Milan to-day with me."

But Carrara was clutching at the neck of his doublet with staring eyes.

"My heart!" he gasped. "I suffocate--ah----!"

And he rode on blindly.

"Your heart?" laughed Visconti, drawing rein a little. "Do your treacheries stop its beating? You suffocate?--Do your lies choke you?"

A cry of mortal agony broke from the unhappy Carrara.

"Stop!" he gasped; "I am--dying--stop----"

Then his glazing eyes fell on the brilliant blue gloves he wore, and he sat upright with a scream of rage.

"The gloves! the gloves!" And with his remaining strength he tried to tear them off. "O fool! A Visconti!... I might--have known----"

Frantically he pulled at them, while Visconti, now moving almost at a walk, looked dreamily ahead at the fast nearing city.

"Fiend!" cried Carrara wildly. "Fiend!"

And he lurched forward, falling heavily onto the road, where he lay, convulsed, the turquoise gloves still on his hands.

Gian Maria drew rein now, and looked down at him, his face no longer indifferent, as he looked down into the white and contorted countenance of the dying man.

"'Whom did you murder here, Visconti?'" he quoted. "'Whoever it be, do not fear him now, since he is dead'; and I answered, did I not, that I feared neither him nor you? And now, Carrara, thou mayst tell him what I said, he whom I murdered in that room we passed."

Giacomo, writhing on the ground, looked up at him with hate equal to his own, and feebly still tried to pull off the turquoise gloves.

Visconti, leaning low from the saddle, gripped his sword and thrust it through his belt.

"I shall not ride into Milan swordless," he said; "thou might'st have spared thy caution, Carrara: I shall ride into Milan with thy army, thy towns, and thy sword; and I have bought them--with a pair of turquoise gloves."

He looked curiously at Carrara, who suddenly sat upright; the cold light fell on his face, his starting eyes looking straight into Visconti's.

"Thou art not human, Visconti," he whispered. "Yet, remember, even devils meet their punishment, and there will be the bitterest of all for such as thou art--failure--" And he fell back again among the flowers, where he lay, white and still.

Visconti looked back at the advancing rearguard, waved to it, pointing downward, and then before him to Milan, brilliant in the sunrise.

From its turrets still floated the banner of the Viper.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A SIGN FROM HEAVEN

The day had dawned fair and clear after the storm, and the early sunlight struck across the dark chamber that had held Visconti.

The stamped leather hung before the high window had been torn away and lay along the ground, but the room was unchanged save that the inner door was open, and near it, stuck into a crevice of the stone, a parchment hung.

Before this stood Count Conrad, with a face dazed.

Vincenzo, when he learned the news, had flown like a madman along the road to Milan, in a fury of rage, with some half-frenzied project of overtaking the traitor.

Outside the door was a group of soldiers, who peeped through with curiosity at the motionless figure within.

At last he moved dizzily to a seat. "Saint Hubert, when the Prince returns!" he gasped, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a groan of woe.

He looked a somewhat sorry figure, his peacock doublet crumpled, his hair uncurled, his hands shaking.

Last night, only last night, Visconti had been in this very room, a prisoner in his power, and he had reveled with a boy and quarreled over a game! One of the soldiers pushed the door open softly and entered.

"The Prince has returned, my lord," he said.

"So soon!" gasped Conrad. "So soon!"

"The army is moving from Brescia; the intention is to march on Milan----"

"With the men who are not here!" groaned Conrad.

"The Duke met my lord d'Este. He knows," said the soldier gruffly, and left the room. It would have pleased him to strangle the foppish foreigner who had well-nigh ruined them.

Conrad felt half relieved, half sorry; whether Vincenzo's relation had been as kind to him as his own would have been he doubted--he felt a wild desire to hide himself till Della Scala's rage had blown a little over.

As he stood there, miserable, undecided, he heard the salutations of the soldiers and a heavy tread outside.

He remembered that Mastino was a giant;--he had once found it to his advantage, he might now find it to his peril; but it was not fear, but bitter shame, that brought Conrad almost to his knees.

He knew that Della Scala was there, though he did not raise his head.

"Conrad," said Mastino, and his voice was strangely altered. "Conrad."

The Count, with an effort, looked at Mastino, who stood in front of the door he had closed, with a face from which all color had been struck.

"When did you discover--this?" continued Della Scala, and pointed to the parchment. All elaborate excuses and appeals for pardon Conrad had prepared died away on his tongue.

"An hour ago," he replied lamely.

"An hour ago!" Mastino walked across to the parchment hanging on the wall.

Conrad's eyes followed him; he could find no words to break the silence.

Della Scala first read, then tore the writing down, and crushed it in his hand; then he looked at the door, standing ajar.

"How many have deserted?" he asked in a hard voice. "Vincenzo said half the army."

Conrad could not answer the truth.

"How many?" and Mastino turned toward him.

"Carrara has taken all his force," faltered the wretched man.

Mastino crushed the parchment yet tighter in his hand, and walked up to Conrad, who shrank before his face.

"Your sword, Count," he said. Conrad hesitated, bewildered.

"You are no longer in my service; as my officer you wear that sword; as what you are, I demand it from you."

And he held out his hand.

In silence Conrad drew the weapon.

Mastino took it, broke it, threw it on the floor.

"And now go," he said.

At last Conrad found his voice.

"Lord!" he cried, "let me stay."

"Go," said Mastino.

"I will stay," faltered Conrad, "and amend my fault."

But Della Scala turned his back on him.

"Go to Visconti," he flashed. "Tisio plays chess as well almost as Vincenzo."

The taunt made speech come more easily. "No man can ask more than another's humiliation, that other suing humbly for pardon----"

"I did not ask so much," said Mastino, his back still to him. "You are unhurt."

And the Count glanced at Della Scala's face, and saw a little of what he had done; that speech was useless.

He moved to go, murmuring something with bent head; at the door he turned again. "Della Scala," he began, "I----"

"I will never willingly see your face again," interrupted Mastino. "Go and join my other allies--in Milan."

Conrad drew himself up.

"God helping me, I will go to Milan," he said. "I will further your cause in Milan itself--even though I leave with you my sword."

Still Mastino stood motionless, and slowly Conrad passed through the doors, and down the stairs, through the soldiery that turned their backs--cast out. As the door clashed to behind the Count, Mastino turned passionately and strode into the inner room, not knowing what he did, so great the agony of his helpless fury and despair.

A gloomy window gave a view upon the open country.

Della Scala strode to it; little he heeded the gloomy couch and the stained floor. He saw only the green plain of Lombardy, and his own diminished tents, lessened by the better half. He struck his hand against the window-frame violently--Visconti had triumphed!

This evening had he meant to seize Milan--the evening of this very day; and, behold, now it was all to be done again, the weary, weary waiting, the watching, the planning, the soothing his allies, the making good Carrara's treachery; and meanwhile--Isotta!

Della Scala dropped his head into his hands with a cry wrung from his heart. "Isotta! Isotta!"

The sunlight fell too on the crumpled parchment on the floor, and Mastino, raising his head, saw it lying there and ground it beneath his heel.

"Am I to be forever laughed at and betrayed?" he cried. "Ever served by traitors and leagued with fools? Shall I never learn I trust too much?" He looked around the chamber, and thought, with a bitterness beyond expression, that only a few hours before Visconti had passed through it.

Della Scala leaned against the wall; the very sunlight seemed black, the very sky hopeless. Yet his spirit rose against his fate.

He drew out and kissed the little locket he wore around his neck, the pearl locket that always hung there. Then suddenly rousing himself and walking blindly forward, opening one door in mistake for another, found himself at the top of two steps, looking down into a chapel. For a moment, his brain reeling and sick, he stepped back, bewildered, doubting what he saw.

The place was high and dome-shaped, with plain stone walls, lit by two windows facing each other, but shrouded in dark hangings that admitted only a faint, cold light.

The air was damp and vault-like, and the room itself bare of any furniture or adornment save a purple hassock, and two lamps of rusty gold that hung by long, blackened chains from the ceiling. Opposite the entrance hung against the stone wall a purple curtain, and before it a large crucifix, crudely painted. The dim light just struck its dismal coloring, and to Mastino's fevered fancy the dead Christ seemed to twist and writhe along His contorted body.

The lamps were long out, and the sense of incense on the air faint.

Della Scala entered softly, catching his breath painfully, the terror of religion strong within him.

On the purple hassock he knelt, with clasped hands, before the disfigured Christ, his heart rising to his lips in passionate prayer.

"Lord, thou understandest! Because I cannot deck thy altars with the gold of victory, thou wilt not forsake me, thou wilt have mercy on me and on her!"

And he stretched out his arms to the figure in an exaltation of trust and hope. "Even as I spare those who betray, so wilt thou spare her, O Christ!" He flung himself from his knees, face downward on the stones, in a tumult of hope and trust. Around the folds of Mastino's cloak lay the leaves of some dead roses that had fluttered at his movement, from forgotten wreaths, hanging brown against the wall.

Mastino rose, eager for some answer--some assent. But the dead Christ was silent. Mastino could see the cracking paint on the ribs, the tawdry gold of the halo, and he came still nearer in a strange desperation.

Half-hidden in shadow, two faces looked down on him--expressionless, stone, the angels on the wall.

Mastino looked from them to the crucifix, and his fervent faith sank, chilled.

"Stone," he murmured in his heart. "Stone and paint," and he noticed the empty lamps that should be blazing with eternal fire, and he cried aloud in bitterness. "Men keep those alight, and without them the eternal fire dies! Stone angels and a painted God! What help in them?" And he dropped again upon the floor. "The lamps burn bright on Visconti's altars, and his saints smile--for the painter limned them so."

He turned from the dismantled chapel and rushed up the three steps, half distraught.

In the outer chamber the sunlight dropped strong and golden, and Mastino shut the door of the dark and gloomy chapel behind him with a shudder.

"Lord!" cried an eager voice. "Lord!"

It was Tomaso and his father.

"Did ye fear for me, Ligozzi?" said Della Scala kindly. "I have been praying for a patient heart." And the two who loved him looked at him awhile and could say nothing.

"My lord," began Tomaso again with a timid eagerness, "there is news----"

"Tomaso," said his father, "thy news can wait."

Mastino picked up his gauntlet from the deep window-seat where he had laid it down, and fastening it on, looked at Ligozzi.

"What hast thou to say, Ligozzi? Have any of the men returned?"

Ligozzi stood fidgeting with his cap, looking uneasily at the ground.

"Come," and Mastino smiled sadly, "I am used to bad news, Ligozzi."

"Some few men have indeed returned from Giacomo's army, my lord, some fourscore----"

"Some fourscore!" repeated Della Scala. "Are there so many as fourscore that will not serve Visconti?"

"They have strange tales, my lord. They say Carrara himself is dead."

"Carrara dead!" cried Mastino with a sudden fierceness, savage as a bite. "Now, I had promised myself to kill Carrara. Who has forestalled me?"

"It is said--Visconti himself--they do not know."

"And the traitor dead," broke in Della Scala, "was there not one--not one to lead the men back to me again? Visconti, single-handed and unarmed, was allowed to take an army into Milan?"

"Alas, my lord, not only Carrara, his captains too, as it appears, have all been bought."

"Tell me no more," cried Mastino. "I am alone to blame. I cannot learn to deal with traitors."

"As for Count Carrara, the wretched German," continued Ligozzi, "he has left the camp." As he spoke, Ligozzi glanced through the window at the tents. "He took no one with him, but, ordering his Germans to fight as one man to the death for you, he rode along the road to Milan."

"Oh!" cried Mastino, with a great cry wrung from his soul. He rested his hand a moment on Ligozzi's shoulder. "I am well-nigh sick, Ligozzi," he said. "The empty-headed and the villain prosper, and I--and mine--go to the wall."

Tomaso stole forward. Della Scala noticed him and turned kindly.

"Something to tell me, sayest thou?" he asked.

Tomaso's eyes were full of tears. For some moments he could not find his voice.

"He hath discovered some secret passage; useless, I fear me," said his father.

"Nay, father, I tell thee it leadeth to the city! To-day, lord, as I explored it, I found stored there some rolls of silk, new and clean; together with some earths such as I have heard say painters use."

Della Scala started. He found the news not so unimportant as Ligozzi had.

"Go on, Tomaso," he said, and kept his half-closed eyes upon the ground.

"Indeed, my lord, it must be some old subway into Milan. 'Tis wide enough to admit six abreast, and recently used, as it opens some mile and a half outside the city. I have not yet penetrated to the extremity. Lord, think of it--it must open into Milan!"

Della Scala's worn face flushed involuntarily, his eyes turned to the closed door of the chapel. Had he belied the stone angels--the extinguished lamps?

"This seems great news, Tomaso," he said slowly. "I will see into it." He moved as he spoke. "My other gauntlet, Ligozzi?"

"I cannot see it, lord."

"Ah!" said Mastino suddenly. "I left it in the chapel!"

Tomaso had already departed for the gauntlet. Mastino, following to the door, saw him stoop and lift it from the ground.

Tomaso handed him the ponderous glove, and, as Mastino took it, he stifled the cry on his lips, and turned away to clasp it to his heart.

For inside his glove, almost hidden in the velvet lining, lay a soft white rose: a sign from heaven.