Scala himself defended the gates, fighting like a lion. But he was
betrayed, Tomaso, by a dastard in his pay, and the Visconti's soldiers
poured in through the breach, secretly, and seized the palace, the Duke
unwitting till it was too late and the palace flaming. I had to carry
him the news; may I never have to do the like again. The palace was a
sheet of fire, the Duchess was within, and the Visconti's soldiers
swarming. The Prince rushed like a madman through the streets, a little
group of us behind him. Too late! The Duchess was too great a prize, the
miscreants had lost no time, and she was gone. A tale had reached the
Duke while he still struck about him frantically that Gian Visconti
himself had led the onset, and was still within the precincts with his
prisoner. But it was a trap, Tomaso, set by a traitor. Della Scala,
rushing where the pikeman pointed, was led beneath a burning stairway.
It crashed in. I was behind the Duke; a beam struck me down, I thought
among the dead, but some friars found me and brought me back to life; of
Della Scala they knew nothing." He paused, and hid his eyes a moment in
his hands.
"Thou didst care greatly?" said Tomaso, after a painful silence.
"He was a noble prince," replied his father. "I owe him everything; he
made a friend of me, and I ever found him brave and generous, as strong
as gentle, and most honorable--and he loved the Duchess, aye, he loved
her. The Duchess still lives, a prisoner in Milan, but Della Scala----"
He sighed deeply, and rose as if to put from him the memory of the
tragedy.
"But to return to thy deliverer," he said, "one Francisco di Coldra,
thou say'st; he claims I know him. What manner of a man is he?"
As he spoke he moved with Tomaso to the door, and looked out into the
dark. What kept Francisco and the Count?
"He is tall and strong," replied Tomaso, "with thick brown hair and
heavy eyes; a handsome face, I think it, father, stern and sad. He is
worn--as if from sickness. The Count thinks him better than he gives
out; I know not."
Ligozzi was silent; his figure alone was visible.
"Seeing the case is as thou say'st, Tomaso," he remarked at last, "every
moment of delay is dangerous, and thy friend is long."
Tomaso stepped into the open, and, to ease his impatience, brought
forward the horses.
"I think they come," he cried joyfully in another moment. "It seems a
dream, father, that thou shouldst be here to meet Francisco."
Ligozzi was still strangely silent. He drew back within the doorway.
Hurried footsteps were heard, the crackling of fallen boughs, the swish
of the flowering grass. Ligozzi saw a tall figure looming toward them
through the dusk, a slighter one beside him.
Tomaso, from where he stood, eager and excited by the horses, cried out
to them. Ligozzi, still farther back, bent down to Vittore, who stood
beside him; seen by the dim light of the horn lantern, his face was
strangely agitated.
"Has this Francisco half-closed eyes, and a ready, pleasant smile?" he
asked.
Vittore looked up in surprise.
"He has such eyes," he answered. "I have not ever seen him smile like
that. Thou didst know him then, my uncle?"
"Yes," Ligozzi answered brokenly. "I think--I remember him--at Della
Scala's court."
But here Tomaso, calling on him, re-entered the hut, followed by
Francisco, whose stately presence seemed to make the mean place smaller
still.
"My father," said the boy joyfully; "my father, saved from the taking of
Verona, and come a long way in search of us!"
Francisco fell back, uttering a stifled exclamation; the anger cleared
from his brow. He looked keenly at the figure in the shadow.
"Ligozzi!" he exclaimed, with shining eyes. "Ligozzi lives!"
"It was a miracle, was it not?" said Tomaso eagerly. "He has come to
join us. He owes thee thanks, Messer Francisco, as do we."
And all this time his father had not spoken. Tomaso wondered at it, and
now, when Ligozzi came forward shrinkingly, Francisco raised his hand as
if to keep him back, or warn him, or restrain.
"No thanks are needed," he said quickly. "I am Francisco di Coldra, from
Verona, and ever ready to serve those whom Visconti hates!"
Ligozzi stood bare-headed, as if dazed.
Francisco spoke again, with meaning. "Thy travel hath confused thee,
sir," he said; "thou thinkest thou art still at the Duke of Verona's
court, that thou standest thus humble?"
At this, Ligozzi roused himself. "Tomaso has told me--" he began. But
again Francisco stopped him.
"We must to horse!" he cried. "To horse! Too much time has already been
shamelessly wasted," and he strode out, motioning to them to follow.
By the horses stood Conrad Sigismund, bringing them one by one under
review, in the scanty gleam of light afforded by the lantern, and that
flickered upon them through the space that answered for a window.
"A roan!" he cried gaily, "I ever loved a roan charger. I will have this
one, Francisco." He spoke airily, as if ten minutes since Francisco had
not lashed him with his tongue, and threatened him even with death,
should his foolhardiness endanger them again.
"Thou wilt ride the black," said Francisco coldly.
"Because I love the roan?" asked the other with a laugh.
"Because I say so," returned Francisco.
A mocking answer rose to Conrad's lips, but it was never spoken. With a
gesture, Francisco motioned him to silence. He turned and listened.
"Horses! And coming hither!" he said. "Soldiers!"
The others, grouped close by, ready to mount, stopped paralyzed--yes,
Francisco's ears had caught the sound aright, the tramp of horsemen, and
coming upon them from the road.
Escape with horses any other way there was none, though Conrad madly
urged they should mount and fly.
But Francisco turned on him threateningly.
"Am I to run thee through?" he said; "these horses mean more to me than
thy life, or my own. Where shall we ride? Into the water? No, go back
into the hut." He turned to Ligozzi. "Aid me tether these beasts where
they may be unnoticed. These men perchance are only riding through."
It was done in silence and with expedition. The soldiers' voices were
now plain, and the jangle of their arms.
"Come, Ligozzi," said Francisco, "thou and I will play at being
soldiers, and see how we can overcome Visconti's men. 'Tis a game that
thou and I have played before."
He drew his dagger as he spoke, and stepped back with Ligozzi into the
hut. The door was closed. Francisco glanced around. By the table stood
Conrad, showing even at that moment the silver and ivory chessmen, which
he slipped out of his doublet one at a time, and passed them before
Vittore's now wandering, now fascinated gaze.
Ligozzi and Tomaso stood beside their leader, one either hand. Tomaso's
face was white; the Visconti's scar showed plainly; his breast throbbed
with excitement. Ligozzi's gaze was riveted upon Francisco.
A sudden babble of voices outside told the soldiers were in the open. A
voice cried: "Halt!"
But ere this Francisco had put out the light. They stood in darkness.
"I know that voice," said Francisco at Ligozzi's ear; "Alberic da
Salluzzo. When last I heard it 'twas in Verona, at the burning of the
palace. Dost remember?"
Ligozzi nodded. They held their daggers ready. No one stirred. Count
Conrad thrust his chessmen back into his doublet. He regretted Francisco
had dragged him so furiously away before he had time to find Lady
Valentine's dagger with the emerald. It could have been of service now.
There was a lull outside. The soldiers had dismounted, but the captain
kept his seat. The horses champed, threw up their heads, and clanked
their trappings; but as he talked with the men told off to hold them
Alberic's swaggering tones were plainly audible.
Suddenly a shout arose.
"They have found the horses," said Francisco.
Alberic flung himself from the saddle. They could hear that. Torchlight
suddenly flared across the opening, high up in the wall, and more
faintly through the broken roof. There was a sudden blow upon the door
Francisco's giant frame was barricading.
"Who is within here?" cried a harsh voice. "Open!" and there came
another blow.
But it scarce had fallen before Francisco, so swiftly no one could
foresee his intention, stepped aside and let the door fly open as if the
blow had forced it. On the threshold stood Alberic da Salluzzo,
resplendent in jeweled armor and waving plumes. In the smoking
torchlight, badly held, it seemed as if the place he looked into were
empty.
"Who harbors here?" he said, and stepped across the threshold. "Bring
thy torch here, Gilliamo."
But Francisco was swift. The door was shut before the soldier heard, and
Francisco set once more his giant frame against it. In an instant, by
the breathing of the men near him, da Salluzzo knew he had been trapped.
He turned to escape, he was about to call, but a hand of iron closed
round his throat. In the dim light the place seemed full of threatening
forms.
He was trapped indeed! Half-strangling, he ground his teeth at his folly
more than his plight, and struggled to get his dagger, but his hands
were caught.
In vain he struggled; he was a powerful man, but he who held him was
more powerful. In vain he tried to cry aloud to those without; his
voice was gripped within his throat. Slowly but irresistibly he was
forced back against the farther wall, with a strength he thought could
not be man's.
In a moment more, the soldiers without, nonplussed, but only for an
instant, by their captain's disappearance, broke in the door. They could
scarce believe their senses. Da Salluzzo lay dead upon the floor, and
over him there towered a tall figure. They saw naught else. These men
had fought with Alberic at the sacking of Verona; they knew that form,
they had seen that face before. By their torches' smoky glare it seemed
unearthly, and the eyes to flame, the form to fill the hut.
"Come and fetch thy captain!" cried Francisco. But at the voice, at the
look of his wild face as he advanced, they dropped their torches and
scrambled back across the threshold panic-struck.
"Mastino della Scala!" they cried, "Mastino della Scala!" and dropping
the lights they fled in terror.
CHAPTER TEN
THE TURQUOISE GLOVES
Della Scala is alive!
The news flew like fire around Milan, rousing even the indifferent to
some interest. The rumors then were true? Delia Scala was alive? In the
market-place, in the streets, in the houses it was discussed--the name
of Della Scala was on every lip. But in the Visconti palace it was not
spoken. Silent, somber as ever, the castle frowned over its beautiful
gardens, and, only by the companies of horse that spurred out of its
side gates to fortify still more strongly the nine cities once held by
Della Scala and now the Visconti's, only by this could it be told how
much the news meant to the man within.
Giannotto, walking softly through the corridors, paused and looked out
into the garden.
Something had caught his keen eye, and he watched, hidden by the curtain
of purple silk.
A sea of flowers lay spread beneath him, while beyond a more formal part
of the grounds, crowned with white terraces and set with cypress-trees,
rose clear against the sapphire sky. To the right lay Isotta d'Este's
prison, the western tower, a massive building of huge strength,
encircled on three sides with a moat, and guarded by soldiers.
Giannotto's eyes glanced from the silver banner that hung above,
lifeless in the summer air, to the soldiers at their posts below.
There was an entrance to the tower near to the palace, guarded, but
little used, half-hidden by myrtle that had filled up the dried moat and
climbed up the wall; and, as Giannotto still watched, the figure he had
seen enter there, hooded and cloaked, passed out again hurriedly, sped
between the sentries, who studiously took no heed, and was soon lost to
sight along the winding paths.
The movement was quick, the figure gone almost as soon as noticed; a
casual observer would have taken little heed, but Giannotto's eyes were
trained, and he knew the figure for whose it was: Valentine Visconti.
"She must have bribed high," he thought. "High indeed. Why should she
visit the prison of Isotta d'Este?" He followed her figure across the
garden with curious, suspicious thoughts.
"She is daring," he mused, "and foolish. Did she think no one's eyes
could be on her, when Visconti has spies who are to watch her every
movement?"
He turned back into the corridor, twisting the ends of his scarlet robe
between his fingers, and smiling to himself.
The secretary was in a better humor than his master; that Mastino della
Scala should live to vex Visconti, that he should have snatched von
Schulembourg, one of his dearest victims, back from underneath his very
hand, pleased Giannotto, as did anything that annoyed Visconti, save
when his master's rage was such that his secretary felt its working. The
Duke he knew to be alone. The brief audience he accorded was long over.
Visconti had no friends; they, who must, sought him in the morning in
the audience-room. For the rest, like the others of his tainted race, he
lived alone.
He paused outside Visconti's door, and the secretary smoothed a smile
from his face, and, tapping slightly, entered with a silent, cringing
movement.
The chamber was dark, although it was full noonday. Visconti had no
love for the sunlight, and even the narrow windows were obscured and
shrouded in dark purple.
The walls were paneled in carved wood, but, apart from the stiff chairs,
the sole furniture of the apartment was a long low chest, set open, and
showing silver goblets and curious bottles and glasses twisted into
strange shapes, and colored. At the farther end were two doors close
together, and between them sat Visconti, huddled up against the wall,
gazing at the floor with strained, wide-open eyes.
Giannotto, entering softly, noticed in his hand a bracelet, fashioned as
a snake, emerald green, of striking workmanship.
"A messenger from the Bologna embassy, my lord," he said, closing the
door behind him, "has entreated me to ask thy attention to them."
Visconti looked up quickly, and put out of sight the bracelet with a
snap of anger.
"What, do the Bolognese trouble me?" he said fiercely.
"They only follow the example of the Pavians, my lord," returned the
secretary smoothly. "They would have thy mediation between the rival
factions in their state."
"My mediation! Pavia asked it, as thou say'st, and so did Bergamo; yet
do the twain who then appealed to me reign in either city now? The
Bolognese are foolish," said Visconti.
Giannotto shrugged his shoulders. "That need not trouble thee, my lord.
Bologna is a wealthy town. Thy lordship will think of it?"
The secretary's eyes were on the ground. Gian Galeazzo slipped his
bracelet into his doublet and rose.
"Aye, I will think of it," he said, "but for the moment there are more
precious things to do even than using the Bolognese against themselves."
Giannotto waited. The Duke paced to and fro a moment, then broke into
the subject next his heart.
"Thinkest thou Della Scala will outwit me?" he said eagerly. "Thinkest
thou that if he do reach Ferrara he will rouse the Estes to action?"
"He had two good hours' start," returned Giannotto, "and the road to
Ferrara offers many chances."
"And those men--who let them escape them? Do they still live?"
"Aye, my lord. They are valuable. It is enough that Alberic da Salluzzo
has been lost to us----"
"They shall yet hang for it," said Visconti.
With rapid steps he returned to his seat, flung himself into it,
clutching the arms with vice-like grip.
"He cannot do anything, Giannotto," he said. "He cannot rouse the
Estes--against me! No; when Della Scala ruled nine cities, and his
revenue was equaled only by the kings of France--I stripped him, I
routed him. And now!" he smiled and his eyes widened, "he is a beggar.
Perhaps it is not so ill that he lives to know it. It is a better
revenge than any I could have devised, Delia Scala a beggar, a hanger-on
at his kinsman's court, deafening his ears with unwelcome prayers,
sinking into contempt before the people who once owned him lord!"
Giannotto was silent. He could not imagine Mastino della Scala a beggar
at any prince's court.
But Visconti, blinded and absorbed by hatred, continued unheedingly:
"Carrara also, the Duke of Padua, is too necessary to the Estes. They
cannot stand without him. Will he, thinkest thou, ever be won over to
side with Mastino? No, Giannotto, I do not fear him. Let Della Scala
live robbed of all,--and with Count Conrad as an ally!"
"Shall we then dismiss him, my lord?" ventured Giannotto smoothly; "he
who is not worth fearing is not worth considering."
He seated himself at the low table as he spoke, his watchful eyes on
Visconti, and drew some papers from the flat bag at his side.
The Duke returned no answer. In truth he heard not what was said, but
leaned back in his chair and fell to thinking. The secretary, looking at
his brooding face, shuddered a little at what his master's thoughts
might be. He wondered also as to that green bracelet that Visconti had
concealed.
The silence grew oppressive, and Giannotto moved uneasily. He loved not
to sit alone with Visconti when he fell into these musings.
The Duke roused himself.
"Ah," he said, breaking suddenly into a passion of declaim. "A God can
do no more than say, 'I have succeeded--in all I have undertaken, I have
succeeded!' And I can say as much. I have succeeded. I looked on life
and took from it what I wanted, the fairest and the finest things that
offered; and the price--others paid it. Truly, I have succeeded!"
Giannotto shrank back at Visconti's outburst, and made no answer.
But the Duke had forgotten him. He was but uttering his thoughts aloud.
"Five years ago," he said exultingly, "I rode outside the gates of
Verona and challenged Della Scala to single combat. He sent his lackey
out with a refusal, and in my heart I said: 'I will bring that man so
low that life shall hold nothing so sweet to him as the thought of
meeting me in single fight!' I have succeeded! Isotta d'Este looked
past me and laughed, and I said, 'She shall live to feel her life within
my hand.' In that also I have succeeded!
"And three years ago, only three years ago, I stood within this very
room, four lives between me and the throne of Milan--four lives, all
crafty--and two young. But I--I the youngest, took my fate and theirs
into my hand. I said: 'It is for me to reign in Milan--I am the Duke.'
In that I have succeeded!"
He paused, with dilating eyes and parted lips, intoxicated with pride.
"This ambition is his madness," thought Giannotto; but he still was
silent.
"In another thing," continued Visconti, and his voice was changed: he
breathed softly, and his eyes sparkled pleasantly. "Last May-day I saw
the people in the fields, pulling flowers; I knew they were what poets
call happy. Among them were two girls, one dark, one fair, and she with
the dark hair had her betrothed beside her. They were happy among the
happy, they loved each other--and I rode unseen. The may was thick and
white, I watched them through the flowers and vowed: I too will be
happy, even as they are happy, though I am Visconti; I will be loved for
myself alone; that fair-haired girl shall care for me as her companion
for her lover,--life shall give me that as well!"
And he rose, triumphant, smiling, resting his hand on the arras that hid
the door behind him.
The secretary gazed upon him fascinated.
Lifting the arras, he paused again, and looked back with a smile that
transformed his face.
"In that too have I succeeded!" he said melodiously; and, opening the
narrow door, he was gone, as always, noiselessly.
The secretary shook himself.
"Why does he unburden his soul to me?" he murmured. "Does he think,
because I sit silent, I have no ears, no memory--that I shall forget?
'In that too have I succeeded!' Aye, thou hast it all thine own way,
Visconti, so far."
With a slight shrug of the shoulders Giannotto fell to writing.
When his pages were finished, he put them into his bag for the Duke to
sign, and grumbled at his absence, stayed, but dared not follow.
Presently he decided to take his own dismissal.
As he rose to go he remembered Valentine Visconti, flying through the
garden after her secret visit, and he considered, if she could bribe him
to silence heavily enough to make it worth his while to venture an
encounter with her.
Visconti did not stint his sister for money, and she might pay well.
Still, dare he let her know he spied?
Then his thoughts went to Isotta d'Este, and he wondered, with some
interest, what her fate would be.
In open day Isotta d'Este had been captured; all Europe knew she was his
prisoner; Tuscany and the Empire already looked with interest on the
Duke of Milan's growing power, and that Duke a usurper. Visconti had to
step warily.
Still busy with his thoughts, the secretary had reached the door, when
it opened and the ancient Luisa, Isotta's prison attendant and spy,
entered, glancing expectantly around.
Giannotto looked at her slowly; he hated her--indeed, he hated most
people, but she in particular, for she equaled him in servile cunning
and surpassed him in greed.
"I would see the Duke," she said, looking at him mistrustfully.
"Thou canst not see him," returned the secretary, "for he is not here."
But old Luisa seated herself calmly on one of the black-backed chairs.
"I will not take thy word for what I can or cannot do," she said. "I
have important tidings for his ear alone."
Giannotto longingly wondered if it were possible to win her news from
her and share in the reward.
"I will get thy news in to the Duke," he said. "Trust it to me, and I
will see he does not forget who brought them, but 'tis impossible to see
him now."
Luisa smiled.
"I would be my own news-bearer," she said, and made no movement to go.
"Visconti is in his laboratory," said Giannotto angrily. "Whatever thy
news, art thou so mad as to think of following him there? Wilt thou not
trust it to me?" he added more gently.
She shook her head placidly.
"Have thy way," sneered Giannotto. "Stay and see the Duke, and be
dismissed for having left thy post, and remember there are more eyes on
the western tower than thou knowest."
The old woman looked uneasy, but stubbornly kept her place. And seizing
his bag and papers, Giannotto was gone, and the heavy door closed behind
him before she could know what was going to happen.
"Giannotto!" she cried in alarm. "Listen a moment--" And she ran and
pushed at the door.
Giannotto opened it a little and showed his smiling, crafty face.
"Wilt thou give me the news or wait till the Duke leaves his laboratory
and finds thou hast been absent from thy post an hour, perchance more?"
"Take it then," said Luisa with a cry of vexation. "But I will repay
thee, Giannotto."
She thrust into his hands a piece of parchment.
"It was left with me by the Lady Valentine to give Isotta d'Este. Now,
make what else of it thou canst," and Luisa shuffled past him, terror
overmastering greed. To be locked within that chamber to wait the
Visconti was what she had not heart for. Moreover, she could tell the
Duke another time--and he would listen--how Giannotto had forestalled
her.
She shuffled off, and Giannotto in triumph re-entered the chamber. He
read the parchment, one of many: "Della Scala lives."
"And the Lady Valentine conveys it to Isotta d'Este's prison," mused
Giannotto. "Now, shall I tell my lord that piece of news or no?"
He regarded the two doors, between which Visconti's chair was set, and
gently tried them: one was locked, the other opened to the touch. He
dared investigate no further, and returning to his chair, sat down to
wait. The minutes dragged on, and he fumed with impatience.
Visconti's laboratory was not altogether a secret place. Giannotto had
helped him in his experiments; there was an assistant who tended the
fires. But no one followed the Duke into it unbidden.
But, as time went on, Giannotto debated with himself that he would
venture. Visconti was long. What was he doing? It was an opportunity to
spy. If caught, the secretary could plead anxiety as to his master's
safety. Summoning his courage, Giannotto rose and crept to the unlocked
door and softly pushed it back.
It opened on a flight of stairs, black marble, carpeted in gold, the
high walls hung with tapestry in red.
The steps were few in number, before they twisted abruptly out of
sight. Round the bend floated a thin wisp of gray smoke.
Giannotto slowly and cautiously mounted. At the bend the steps still
continued, twisting again.