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.
CHAPTER TWENTY
IN THE DUKE'S ABSENCE
"My chance has come," said Valentine.
A day had passed since Visconti had ridden so wildly to the western
gate, and as yet he had not returned.
The soldiers, weary and wounded, had reeled that night into the palace
courtyards, de Lana at their head, expecting to find Visconti there
before them. They had missed him in the wild fray--the Germans had been
driven back from the walls without their prisoners--had not the Duke
returned?
Neither then nor as yet, near a day after the sortie. Doubtless he,
victorious as ever, was reconnoitering some stronghold of the enemy, or
their encampments outside Milan.
Still, in the palace some were getting anxious; there was no word, no
message. Who, in the Duke's absence, ruled Milan?
The question suggested itself among others to Valentine Visconti.
She put it to herself.
"I rule Milan, and I will give myself my freedom by it, whether Gian be
alive or dead, returning now or never."
It was late afternoon, and Valentine had formed her plan; with courage
and skill she made no doubt of success. To enter her brother's private
room was the first step.
All day Valentine had plotted some means of accomplishing this.
The rooms were locked, and Gian wore the key around his neck.
The Visconti palace was part old, part new; the great circular tower in
which Isotta was confined, the low heavy stone buildings that surrounded
it, were the only remaining portions of the ancient Gothic castle.
The new building, bright in yellow and pink tiles, was supported on low,
horseshoe arches, and gave straightly on the courtyard in front and the
gardens at the rear--the whole encircled by a great wall.
Detached from the palace, standing alone in the grounds, was a high,
square brick tower, the highest building in Milan, and from the summit
there floated night and day the banner of the Viper.
Along the second story of the palace ran the open arcade or corridor, a
wide and pleasant walk, paved with black and white stone, looking on the
garden through the clustered columns that supported it, richly ornate
with carvings.
A private entrance to Visconti's rooms opened onto this corridor.
The banqueting hall gave upon it also, and to Valentine Visconti,
standing between the arches looking from the fair garden back to the
closed doors, a thought occurred.
In her wild intention to escape, she had only one ally, Adrian, her
page, feeble and powerless at best, but devoted to her with an utter
devotion that might be worth much.
Valentine had confided in him, since she must have help, if only the
help of speech; and now, of a sudden, his use appeared.
She had withdrawn from the observation of her women and the court, in
pretense of praying for her brother's safety, and no one was with her.
"Adrian!" she called softly, "Adrian!" She had privately bidden him
follow her, and well she knew he was not far away.
The boy came forward eagerly.
"Hush!" said Valentine. "Do not speak--listen--I have need of thee; wilt
thou serve me even to the death, for it may be that?"
"You know I do not heed death, lady," replied the page with glad pride.
"Anything that may serve you will make me forever happy."
"Follow me," said Valentine, and stepped on to the balcony. "Now walk
behind, and as if I were not speaking to thee. There may be sharp eyes
upon us in the garden."
The sun, late as it was, fell between the pillars in strong bars of
gold, and Valentine raised her ivory fan as if to shield her from the
heat, but in reality to conceal the movement of her lips, in case there
might be watchers.
"I must procure an entrance to my brother's rooms," she said, speaking
low over her shoulder. "They are locked. No key will fit them. I cannot
force the entrance in the palace. Still I _must_ enter. You are
listening, Adrian?"
"With all my soul, lady!"
Valentine kept her eyes upon the garden, there was no one there to see.
The tower was not as yet finished, and so uninhabited; the garden itself
was empty; still Valentine kept her gaze before her and spoke without
turning her head.
"At any moment the Duke may return; or, if he does not, there will be
sore confusion I cannot cope with; it must be done."
They had traversed almost the whole length of the corridor, and
Valentine suddenly stopped.
"There, this door," said Valentine, "into the Duke's rooms, Adrian," and
she rested her hand against it as she spoke.
It was a folding door, opening in the middle, firmly bolted from the
inside, and appeared as hopeless as the great entrance to the suite
within the palace, though unguarded.
Either side of it were deep-set, circular windows, ringed round and
round with carving and ornamentation, placed too high to reach and too
small to gain admission by.
The door itself was of wood, as firm and heavy as iron, clamped with
gilded metal, and immovable to the touch.
"Does it look hopeless?" whispered Valentine.
Adrian would not have said so for his life.
"You would force it?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes, hush!" Valentine leaned through the low arch and looked into the
garden; as before, all was quiet; the life and bustle of the palace came
through the front to-day, waiting news of the absent Duke.
She turned again with glistening eyes.
"Yes, I would force it--and I will show you how, Adrian."
Half-way up the door, deep set in the thin and delicate foliage of the
carving, were two circular windows, one in each panel.
"Can you reach them?" asked Valentine. "I am a hand too short."
By means of standing on the base of one of the side pillars of the door,
Adrian could easily touch the whole span of the glass.
"Now, do I break it?" whispered the page.
"Yes," returned Visconti's sister. "But wait, there may be some soldier
on hidden guard."
She looked around cautiously.
"I see no one," she continued. "Now, only through this one arch canst
thou be noticed from the garden, and there I will stand, with my open
fan; now quick--thy dagger handle."
She turned her back to him and raised her hand against the stonework of
the arch, her mantle so falling over her arm that anyone, looking
thither, could have seen nothing save her figure.
Adrian leaned forward and struck the glass a violent blow with the
handle of his dagger; it was hard, and resisted, but at a second blow
shivered. The page tore away the metal framework, and slipping his arm
through, thrust back the first bolt. But it was fastened in three
places, and the other two were not so easy. Straining up to his full
height, the page forced half his body through the broken window and
succeeded in slipping back the second bolt; the third was almost at the
bottom of the tall door, nor was the opening he had forced large enough
for him to do more than admit his arm and shoulder through. He still
held his dagger in his hand, and grasping at it at the end of the blade,
struck violently downward at the bolt head with the handle. It did not
move the first time, nor the second, nor the third; but at the fourth
blow it suddenly shot back and the door was open. Adrian struggled
through the window, backward, on to his feet, his hand and arm torn in
several places, dizzy with the strain.
Valentine turned with a glad cry.
"Now stand thou in the archway," she said; "and close the door behind me
and keep watch; our one need is haste!"
The page pushed the despoiled door open and Valentine sped through,
closing it carefully after her; the broken window would not be noticed
from the garden, but an open door might. The space she entered seemed so
dark after the bright glare outside that at first she could gather
nothing.
But soon the light sufficed to show Valentine this was not the room she
wanted.
It was gorgeously decorated, frescoes covered the walls, the ceiling was
richly gilt and painted, the floor glass mosaic, the furniture florid
and ornate.
Valentine glanced around hurriedly: at one end was a door, and trying
it, found it open easily, leading into another splendid apartment--still
not containing what she sought.
Hastening on through a door, not only unlocked, but standing ajar, she
found herself in a small, somber room, hung with purple and gold; its
principal furniture the secretary's table, Visconti's chair, and the
imposing black carved bureau.
This was the room she wanted; and on the bureau, flung down in haste, a
bunch of keys.
Valentine seized them with trembling hands; they were the keys of the
drawers, and one by one she flung them open, so possessed with
excitement she could hardly stand. Gian was not in the palace, yet she
seemed to feel his eyes upon her; to hear his step; catch his low
whisper of her name; feel his touch upon her shoulder.
In one drawer were the parchment passports, some of them, for
convenience, already signed with Visconti's name. Hastily Valentine
thrust three into the bosom of her dress. But where were the palace
keys?
She turned over the drawers in reckless haste; she found Visconti's seal
and one of his signet rings, and slipped them both into her gown--still
she could not find the keys. The Duke's pass-keys that unlocked every
door.
The seal and the parchment were much--but the keys would be everything.
They were not within the bureau; she rifled them once again--no, they
were not there.
She turned away in vexation, and stood a second irresolute.
These rooms deserted, yet so full of their owner, were terrifying.
Valentine was sick with fear--still, she must have those keys.
Hastily she turned over every article in the room, left as Visconti had
left them--books, papers, ornaments.
There were no keys there.
She looked into the antechamber, that was bare and empty; she knew it
too well to suppose what she sought could be hidden there.
In desperation she retraced her steps and stood again within the second
room. An impulse made her lift the arras, and she beheld another door;
and another still; they were either side Visconti's empty seat. She
tried one: it opened immediately on a black marble stairway, and she
closed it again with a thrill.
Desperately, she opened the other door; held to her courage desperately,
and crossed the threshold. The room was paneled in black and scarlet,
floor and ceiling inlaid with gold and black.
A great mirror hung opposite the door; either side a table, covered with
a collection of articles left in utter confusion.
Valentine turned them over in frantic haste; there were laces and rings,
jewels and curios, gloves, and strangely carved bottles. She handled the
last carefully--she knew not what they might contain.
Still there were no keys.