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!"
CHAPTER SEVEN
"GRAZIOSA'S BRACELET"
Tisio Visconti, mounted on a white palfrey, rode slowly through the
streets of Milan, a lean figure, with a foolish face and vacant eyes.
For the elder Visconti was half-crazed, a fact to which perhaps he owed
his life, Gian Galeazzo not fearing his poor disordered intellect enough
to deprive him of aught, save his birthright--the sovereignty of Milan.
One or two men-at-arms, in splendid livery, rode behind him, and as he
passed the people bowed humbly, respecting him solely as the Duke's
brother, for Tisio was powerless for good or ill. Some few there were
who pitied him.
About the streets of Milan he was a far more familiar figure than his
brother, who was seldom seen, but of whose unscrupulous power Tisio was
the living symbol.
Complete liberty was allowed him; still the soldiers behind were rather
guards than servants, and charged to see he did not leave the gates.
Dropping his loose reins on the palfrey's neck, Tisio Visconti looked
around him with lack-luster eyes and a dull smile. He was riding through
the long, narrow streets, cobbled and overhung with high straight
houses, that lead to the western gate.
Through this gate his father lately, his brothers months ago, had been
driven to their deaths; his father, infamously, his mother beside him,
in the full light of day to Brescia; his brothers, secretly, at dead of
night, to Brescia also, from whence they returned no more.
Yet to Tisio the gate and street had no memory or meaning; he looked
ahead of him at the green trees beyond, and his eyes lit up. It was to
see them he came. To him the world outside Milan was paradise; sometimes
the soul within him rose and chafed at his dull captivity, and then he
longed passionately for those green fields and trees, which he knew only
from within the city gates.
The street was empty now; it was noontide, the hour Tisio preferred,
when there were few abroad. The sun was hot, its rays flashing on the
pikes of the sentinels who paced the walls; and Tisio's followers wiped
their brows and chafed. But he gazed with wistful eyes, unheeding, into
the beauty and the calm, the green and the gold. The sentry took no heed
of him; so many times he had done the same; ridden to the gates, waited,
looking eagerly through, then patiently returned to the gloom of the
Visconti palace.
Either side the massive entrance lay houses, low, of gray stone,
enclosed in square courtyards, entered by doors deep set in the thick
walls.
From one of these, as Tisio turned, a girl emerged in a scarlet robe.
She carried a bunch of lilies, on her arm hung the basket that betokened
her errand. She and the little group of horsemen were the only life in
the silent, sunny street. Tisio's eyes lit upon her, and he smiled. Like
all the Visconti, there was poetry mingled with his madness, and the
sight of beauty touched even his crazy brain.
The girl, starting when she saw the horsemen, paused, as if to retire,
her hand on the door, her brilliant robe gorgeous against the background
of gray wall. The color, and the sunshine falling over her golden hair,
made a picture Tisio was not slow to see; his eyes fixed upon her
eagerly; he drew up his horse and turned to the page who, spy and
attendant in one, invariably accompanied him.
"I would speak to her," he said, with the eagerness of a child.
The girl, seeing she attracted notice, turned, frightened and confused,
to make good her escape, but the page, riding up, stopped her
authoritatively, but with a reassuring smile.
"'Tis the Lord Tisio Visconti, lady; fear nothing; he would only speak
with thee," he said.
But the girl's alarm increased at the mention of that dreaded name.
"He mistakes me for another, sir," she said. "I have never so much as
seen even the Duke himself."
"My lord would speak with thee," repeated the page. "He is not the Duke,
but it is the Duke's pleasure that he be obeyed in matters such as this.
Come, maiden, there is no need to fear: it is an honor."
He turned his rein again, and, indeed, not daring to refuse, the girl
followed and stood timidly by Tisio's side. He looked at her long and
eagerly, at her scarlet dress, her sunny hair, the white and green
lilies in her hands. Still he did not speak, and she raised her head and
looked around questioningly and fearful. But the page only smiled: the
men-at-arms sat silent and indifferent.
"Thou art very beautiful," said Tisio at last. "What is thy name? Whose
daughter art thou?"
"Graziosa Vistarnini, my lord; Agnolo Vistarnini is my father. He is a
painter."
But Tisio's eyes grew vacant, and his gaze wandered to the lilies.
"Did they come from yonder?" he asked, and pointed beyond the gate.
"No, my lord. From a friend's garden. My father thinks to paint them."
Still Tisio did not heed her answer; he laughed foolishly.
"I may go?" asked Graziosa timidly. "I may go, my lord?"
He bent from the saddle and lifted from her shoulder a long lock of her
curling hair, and stroked it, dropping it with a sigh.
"Give me these," he said, pointing to the lilies; "all the flowers I
know grow in Gian's garden,--Gian is the Duke of Milan."
And at his words, and the tone in which he spoke them, Graziosa's pity
overcame her fear.
In silence, tears in her eyes, she handed him the flowers. He took them
eagerly, but before she could withdraw her hand, he grasped her arm with
a childish exclamation and touched the bracelet of fine workmanship she
wore upon the wrist.
"I will have this too," he said, laughing with satisfaction: but the
girl drew her arm back sharply and turned to go.
Tisio fumed. "The bracelet," he said peevishly, and the page motioned to
her harshly to remain.