Graziosa, speak to the Duke, speak to thy Ambrogio," and he gripped her
hand fiercely. But Graziosa rose at his touch, and snatching her hand
away, fled from the room, with one wild look toward Visconti.
"Ye see, my lord, she is bewildered, she can scarce believe it true----"
"It matter not for now," said Visconti. "Thy daughter loves _me_,
painter, and none the less, I doubt not, that I am Duke of Milan; and
she shall be my duchess, as I have vowed."
"Truly, the honor is more, I think, than she can bear," and Agnolo bowed
to the ground.
"I have won a wife for myself--a wife who loves me for myself alone."
"Ah, she loves thee for what thou art not," cried Valentine aloud.
But Visconti took no heed of her.
"Think of thy daughter as a precious charge, Agnolo," he continued.
"Meanwhile I leave one of my captains here on guard. That last attack on
thee and thine came near costing me too dear."
"My daughter----" began the painter, but Visconti interrupted him:
"Thy daughter will be my wife, painter; remember it, and heed her
safety. And thou, Valentine, come with me, and I will tell thee in
private how Count Conrad's folly lost Della Scala thy dear brother, and
gave me the day--and an army." He turned to go; Agnolo made an
impulsive movement forward, but checked himself.
"Tell Graziosa," said Visconti, "she is my duchess on the day my sister
weds the Duke d'Orleans."
Visconti crossed the courtyard; the soldiers closed around him and his
captive; Agnolo sprang forward, and drawing the little dagger he wore,
hurled it after him.
It fell unheard, unseen, amid the trampling feet.
"Your hand--hurts me," gasped Valentine, suddenly very white and
trembling.
A soldier was pulling Adrian's dead body from the gate to allow of the
Duke's passing, and she, dragged in his grasp, had almost stepped on
him. This was what it had ended in--Adrian had flung away his life for
nothing.
Visconti's voice broke upon her.
"Take this cloak to hide thy garb; I could not have Milan see thee
thus--even if thou hast lost all shame."
A ring of soldiers kept the crowd back, all the crowd the narrow streets
permitted. The high morning sun sparkled on their halberds, spears, and
armor; the dazzle of scarlet and gold from their trappings was blinding
in its confusion, and Valentine hid her eyes--from that and the dead
boy's face.
"A Visconti! A Visconti!" came the shout. The horses of the Paduans were
champing impatiently, Visconti's charger reared between its holders-in.
"Now, where is my lord?" cried de Lana, riding up breathless through the
noise and glitter--"I have been outwitted----"
"Hush!" said Visconti softly. "I am here, de Lana,--and so is she who
outwitted thee," and he pointed to the cloaked figure beside him. "Take
her ahead in secrecy, and swiftly, to the palace."
The command and the movement were lost in the confusion. The horsemen
were forming up behind Visconti, the walls and street crowded; from
every distant window and house-top shouting spectators gazed on the
gorgeous scene below.
Visconti drew his sword, and held its glittering cross high up against
the sapphire sky.
"Now glory be to God, His angels, and San' Apollinare, my patron saint,
that I am entered into my city again; and for my most miraculous escape,
there shall be an altar of jasper and serpentine in the Lord's new
church--and therein hear my vow!"
He lowered his sword and kissed the hilt, then turning in his saddle to
the men who had followed him as their new leader: "Have I not led you
well, Paduans," he cried, "safe into the fairest city of Lombardy? Do
you repent you of following a Visconti through the proud gates of
Milan--Milan that I have made more beautiful than Ravenna, and stronger
than Rome? I am your leader now, knights of Padua, and Gian Visconti
never yet led to aught but victory or turned against a foe he did not
crush! Once already have I trampled Della Scala to the dust, and ridden
through nine wide cities of his, and spoiled his palaces to pay my
soldiers, with pay that men would die to win!
"I do not pay with ducats, Paduans, or measure my rewards with coin;
follow me, and I will give you cities for your plunder, and nobles to
hold for ransom. Like to the thunder will I circle Lombardy, and city
after city shall surrender me its keys, and the meanest soldier in my
train shall gain him fame and riches from my spreading greatness such as
kings might envy! Now, who but a faint heart would follow Della Scala,
who lost into my hands his very wife? So long as there is a Visconti, he
rules in Italy!"
Shout after shout, deafening, triumphant, greeted his words, the very
air filled with the spirit of victory, the madness of triumph, the
glamour of gold, the flash of scarlet, the high glitter of spears, that
waved to and fro, the mad plunging of a thousand horses blinded with the
dazzle of the sun; and from the throats of the thronging army, from the
throats of the thronging citizens, one wild cry arose: "Visconti!
Visconti! San' Apollinare! Visconti and Milan! The Duke rides the city!"
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE SECRET PASSAGE
Standing on the steps of the old castle, Della Scala looked down on his
diminished army; at least they were purged of traitors, he thought
grimly; what remained were Veronese, and true.
At the news of Carrara's treachery, d'Este had marched aside to Mantua,
whither Vincenzo had been sent.
The sun was dazzling down, a glory of gold, sparkling on the still wet
leaves, and the brilliant colors of the pennons and banners that floated
above the tents.
Della Scala greeted Ligozzi and his son.
Tomaso would have spoken eagerly, but his father hushed him.
"The news is most important, my lord," he said, "best tell it you in
private." Then, unable to restrain himself, he added in a whisper: "Oh,
the saints and angels be praised, I think we have Milan!"
Mastino della Scala, as he led the way back to the castle, trembled,
almost with awe. It was a sign from heaven.
As they gained the chamber, and Ligozzi closed the door, Tomaso burst
out into his tale, half-crazy with delight.
"It seems you have success," said Mastino quietly.
But he seated himself at the extemporized table, and with his hand
shaded his face; it was almost more than he could bear.
"The passage leads into Milan," said Ligozzi breathlessly. "It is large
enough to admit an army, and opens into the house of one who is our
friend. That, my lord, is why we have been so long. The good fortune is
miraculous, for we were brought out into the house of a man mad against
Visconti, and thinking of nothing but revenge. He alone knows of this
passage, and through it will admit your men."
"Ah!" Mastino drew a deep breath and raised his eyes. "God hath heard
me, Ligozzi."
"It was true," cried Ligozzi. "Oh, lord, he was indeed here. Only this
morning he re-entered Milan, Carrara's army behind him; returned in time
to stay his sister, who loathes her enforced marriage, and--and----" he
suddenly faltered in his recital as Tomaso laid his hand upon his
shoulder.
Mastino looked at them keenly.
"And what?" he asked.
"I was going to say, lord, that in his absence, Valentine Visconti,
trying to escape, was recaptured by the Duke himself in this Agnolo's
house."
"Is it for that he hates Visconti?" asked Della Scala.
"Nay, my lord, he hath other wrongs": and Ligozzi proceeded to relate
the tale the little painter had poured into his ears that morning.
"'Not for naught did I conceal that passage!' he cried to me. My lord,
truly it was not for naught, seeing we shall thereby slay Visconti!"
"This man, Agnolo, he is to be trusted?" said Mastino.
"If ever man was! He would see Milan in ashes, an Visconti were among
them."
"And the girl?"
"I did not see the girl, but methinks she has the same cause to hate
Visconti."
"And that no one should know of this passage, it is strange," mused
Della Scala. "Thou art sure there is no trap, Ligozzi? Much
disappointment makes me wary."
"I will stake my life there is no trap, my lord, and that this man,
Agnolo Vistarnini, is dealing with the truth."
"Vistarnini," repeated Mastino. "Methinks I know the name--a painter,
didst thou say?"
"A painter, my lord; the house is near the western gate."
"The western gate! I remember. It was the day I found von Schulembourg.
Truly I think we may trust the man that I remember," and Mastino faintly
smiled. "There is no guile in him--nor in his daughter; poor lady! she
was happy then!"
"Visconti has left a guard of soldiers to protect the house; but not so
many that they will not be easily disposed of. Vistarnini speaks them
fair, they have no suspicion."
Mastino rose and held out his hand. "So thou hast done it, my friend,
thou and thy son. I owe thee much, Ligozzi. A poor man's thanks are but
an halting gift; some day, however, the Duke of Verona shall tell thee
what his gratitude is worth, my friend. I thank God, Ligozzi, for one
friend!"
* * * * *
In a thick wood near Milan, a man on a white horse was slowly picking
his way through the dense undergrowth. The trees were close, and in
their dark shadow the place was nigh as black as night.
Great tufts of flowers grew in the cool shadows. There were no signs of
life, save the birds whirring through the leaves, the plants nodding in
the breeze.
The rider dismounted, and tied his horse to the low bough of a large
beech, flinging himself on the space of cleared ground beneath with a
sigh. He wore a dress of peacock-colored velvet, tumbled and torn, and,
save for a richly-jeweled dagger, more for ornament than use, was
unarmed; but in the fight from which Count Conrad had just engaged,
though a fight with two, weapons had not been needed; persuasion had
done the work, and he had come out victorious.
In a bundle on his saddle hung his spoils, and as he discontentedly
sucked the scratches on his wrist, he looked at them with interest and
triumph.
Presently he fell to fingering his hair, then, sitting suddenly upright,
drew his dagger with fine resolution.
He seized the first of his long curls and severed it.
Grimly, not giving himself time to pause, he proceeded to the next, and
one by one hacked them from his head, his beautiful blond, perfumed
curls.
Conrad sighed as he saw them lying on the grass, and felt his shorn
head. He longed for a mirror in which to see the extent of his
disfigurement, but there was not even a pool near.
Disconsolately he arose, and detaching the bundle from the saddle, he
laid it upon the ground and opened it.
It contained a monk's robe, a rosary, a book, a wallet, and a girdle.
Conrad opened the wallet, and found food therein, and he was growing
hungry; but when he came to consider it, he sickened at its coarseness.
Scraps of fat, sour, hard cakes, mostly soaked in stale wine--the refuse
of farmhouses.
"Have I parleyed with and robbed a begging friar?" cried the Count in
high disgust, and flung the wallet far into the bushes. "Food for hogs!"
Then with many sighs he removed the peacock-colored doublet and hose,
and donned the monk's garb, drawing the hood over his shorn head, tying
the girdle around his waist.
The robe was rather short, and Conrad noticed with dismay that his
laced white shoes showed beneath.
"Saint Dominick, curse him, but I forgot to take his sandals!" he cried
in a passion.
But passion did not avail him; he must go barefoot.
"Bleeding feet will complete the disguise," he thought bitterly, and
flung off his shoes and stockings.
The robe was rather dirty; Count Conrad's fastidious nostrils fancied it
smelled of the roadside, "where the old wretch has often slept, I
warrant," he said, then crossed himself in contrition at the sacrilege.
Next he hung the rosary and crucifix about his neck--it was hatefully
heavy--and the wallet about his shoulder. The strap galled him, and the
wretched Count moaned at his fate.
He was bound to admit he had brought it on himself; he would carry it
through; and with a truly heroic air he strapped the velvet doublet on
the horse, and taking the bridle, made his way back toward the road.
On reaching it he flung the reins over the steed's back, and turned him
adrift toward Brescia; then, with resolution in his heart and tears in
his eyes, Count Conrad von Schulembourg, with feet bare on the stony
road, made painful progress toward Milan.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
FOR LOVE OF AMBROGIO
It was early morning of the second day since Ligozzi had discovered the
secret passage, and Milan lay peaceful, for in those two days there had
been no fighting; but the calm was the lull before the storm.
Agnolo Vistarnini stood in front of the secret door, with shining eyes.
The spring had just slipped back behind Tomaso, the last arrangements
had been made; to-night Della Scala should enter Milan--and he, Agnolo,
would be the means.
Agnolo looked across the courtyard now in shadow to where a soldier kept
his guard. The guard was the Duke's orders, and to the painter's face
the soldiery showed all respect; yet well Agnolo knew they laughed at
Visconti's whim, and shrugged their shoulders at the pale-faced girl who
was to be Duchess of Milan. And the painter had heard their talk among
themselves. "It was likely enough for the Duke to amuse himself in
disguise," they said, "but to marry a painter's daughter!"
"It were more reasonable had he dowered her to wed another, and yet 'tis
of a piece with all his madness!"
"I would sooner see her dead," thought the little painter, "than Duchess
of Milan, the Visconti's wife."
The white agonized face of Isotta rose before him, the fierce rebellious
hate that marred Valentine Visconti's beauty, and Visconti's own
expression as he stooped to mock a woman in his power; the gallant heart
of the little painter throbbed with wrath and honest fury against the
tyrant who played with hearts, who thought the offer of a crown he had
usurped atoned for crimes as black as hell.
"To-night, to-night!" he murmured to himself as he mounted the stair to
seek for his daughter. "To-night we shall both avenge the use of us to
please a whim."
He entered his studio; it was empty, the two pictures stood with their
backs to the room. Agnolo looked at them grimly. How often had Visconti
sat painting that St. Catherine, unarmed! how easy then to have struck
him low! What would Lombardy have said!
"Graziosa!" he called. He was eager to tell her Tomaso had been again.
He never doubted for a moment that her love had turned, as his had done,
to a passion of outraged pride.
"Graziosa!"
But no answer came, and Agnolo mounted the stair and entered her little
chamber in the turret. It was circular, lit by three long windows, and
now ablaze with the morning sun.
The walls were hung with painted linen, faded browns, and in each window
stood a rough stone jar of lilies, drooping neglected in the sun.
Seated on the floor near one of them was Graziosa, her face buried in
her hands, but at her father's entrance she raised her head and looked
out of the window.
"Graziosa," said Agnolo, and there was a boyish triumph in his voice,
"Visconti dies to-night."
She did not move.
"To-night Della Scala enters Milan; there is no chance of failure."
"None?" she asked. Her voice was dull.
"None! Ah, Graziosa, Visconti roused more dangerous foes than he
reckoned on when he played with me and thee."
The girl moved impatiently; her father's words jarred on her senses.
"Father, I am tired," she said wearily, "and my heart is very sore----"
"Never fear, my daughter; to-night, to-night!"
Graziosa turned to him; her face was white and strained.
"But if--he--the Duke--should not be--be slain?" she said. "He has a new
army here in Milan."
"Aye, but a surprise at dead of night is worth two armies to the others.
The palace is near; Visconti will be in their hands even while he
sleeps----"
"In Della Scala's hands----" she breathed. "That means, indeed--he--O
God, it means Ambrogio dies!"
The last words were breathed so low Agnolo did not hear them, but he saw
the pain on his daughter's face and came gently to her side.
"Forgive me if I pain thee, my dearest. God knows, if I speak lightly
'tis but to hide a bitter grief----"
But Graziosa interrupted him with a passionate cry, and seizing his
hands covered them with kisses.
"Take no heed of me!" she cried. "I am half distraught--soon I shall be
better."
"After to-night there will be a shadow gone from off us, Graziosa, and
not from off us alone."
"There is no chance of failure?" asked the girl again.
"Comfort thyself--none."
Graziosa said no more, and Agnolo turned to leave, for there were the
soldiers still to hoodwink, but at the door his daughter called him:
"At what hour do Della Scala's men enter?" she asked, in a low voice,
her head still turned away.
"One hour after midnight," returned the little painter.
"Della Scala leads them?"
"Della Scala himself," said Agnolo, proudly. "He is a noble prince."
His daughter made no answer; long after the little painter had left her
again alone she sat there listless in the sunny, silent chamber,
listless, with her white face, leaning back against the window frame.
"There was no possibility of failure." The words beat upon her heart
till she thought it would break.
"To-morrow he will be dead!"
She sprang to her feet with sudden energy; the sun was rising high--the
time was short.
It was silent, maddeningly silent; Graziosa grew afraid of it--the
silence and the sun; she wished she were dead; it came to her to kill
herself, yet full well she knew that she had not the courage.
She twisted her damp, cold hands together; she wondered if she shut her
eyes and leaped from the window she might die without knowing it, and
nerving herself looked out.
But the stone courtyard seemed far away, hard and cruel, and she winced
back again.
In her own heart she knew she was a coward, and wept to think it was
so--wept to think she could not rise to act, in any way to act.
There was no tinge of greatness in Graziosa's soul; she would have gone
through life, if unmolested, merry, gentle, sweetness and happiness
itself, content to always stand aside for others, eager to do little
kindnesses that came within her compass, never tempted because never
seeing the temptation, happy in utter simplicity and ignorance; but a
great moment found her wanting, a crisis she could not face; as she
tried to think, right and wrong grew strangely confused. She only knew
she loved Visconti, and that he was in danger.
She was too weak to kill herself, although she did not shrink from the
cowardice of it, only from the pain; she was too weak to tell her father
she still loved Visconti; she could not bear to see his face should she
confess it; he would never understand.
"I will lock the door," she said, with wild eyes, "lock the door, and
let no one enter till it is all over--and perhaps my heart will break,"
she added pitifully.
Then she stood a long time, still with hands locked tight. Suddenly she
turned and her robe caught the jar of lilies, throwing them into the
room.
There they lay, faded by the heat, amid the broken jar, and Graziosa
looked with unseeing eyes, and picked them up mechanically.
Opposite hung a mirror, and as she raised her head she saw herself
reflected there.
The lilies dropped from her hands as they had dropped before in the
street, the day Tisio took her bracelet.
"He would have made me Duchess of Milan!"
She drew nearer and surveyed her pale face closely.
"Duchess of Milan! and he had all Italy to choose from!"
The thought brought a flush to her cheek.
"His sister is very, very beautiful. I am not so fair as she, nor as
Della Scala's wife, and yet he thought me fit to share his throne----"
She moved toward the door with faltering steps.
"I must not think," she moaned. "I will lock the door--I will lock the
door----"
But another thought struck her, and she quivered with her agony.
"He trusted me--he trusted us--he never questioned our faith!"
Then her heart rose in rebellion at her own weakness. Let Visconti be
betrayed: why? What did she know of his crimes?
She could hear her father feasting the soldiers below, and thought of
him restless and impatient for nightfall. He had never loved Ambrogio.
She listened and heard his voice in pleasant laughter with a triumphant
ring in it, and a sort of rage rose in her heart.
"Who are we to save Milan from a tyrant?" she thought. "Ambrogio is more
to me than all the Milanese."
She put her hand on the door handle.
"When would he have sent for me?" she wondered dully. "He smiled. His
voice was gentle; Ambrogio's voice! and he is Ambrogio, and--to-night,
to-night----"
Her eyes fell on the long blue hooded cloak hanging on the wall near.
She took it down and paused with it in her hand, looking at it with
fixed eyes.
A bird flew past the window, sending a swift shadow across the floor.
Graziosa opened the door slowly and stepped out onto the stair. It was
almost dark there; silently she closed the door behind her and wrapped
the cloak about her, drawing the hood over her head and face.
Leaning over the stair rail, she saw that the door of the room below was
open, her father's voice was silent: the soldiers had gone elsewhere.
Softly she crept down into that pleasant chamber where Visconti had sat
so often; the sunlight came in from the open door in a great band across
the dark floor, falling on her white face as she moved through it and
out into the yard. She saw there was no soldier by the door into the
street. She opened it, she could see her father and the guard chatting
over wine-cups by the sundial in the garden, they were not looking; she
crossed like the shadow of the bird upon the floor. Her pet doves flew
away at her guilty steps as if they did not know her, and Graziosa knew
herself indeed changed from the one who had last fed them.
The bolt of the door would at first not move for her trembling fingers,
but she did not stay here; in a second more she stood in the street, a
closed door behind her. Graziosa would never see it open more.
The houses stood clear against a brilliant sapphire sky, and above them
moved a silver banner, the banner of the Viper. It floated from the
Visconti palace, and Graziosa, with no glance back, bent her steps in
its direction.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
TREACHERY
The day that was to place Milan in the enemy's hands was wearing to a
close; the sun had almost set in a wide sky, a flare of orange and
purple, against which the chestnuts stood in rich dark.
Mastino della Scala and some few of his officers were standing in the
little wood into which the secret passage opened.
Behind them the army was in readiness.
"I have wrenched success from the hands of failure!" cried Mastino, his
eyes brilliant, a different man. He could have laughed aloud for joy; he
would see Isotta to-night, he would keep his word; Visconti's palace was
near the western gate, they would be up upon him before he knew.
"There is no possibility of failure, Ligozzi; no possibility of
treachery?" he said, eagerly, and pressed his friend's hands in his.
"None, lord; Vistarnini is to be trusted to the death."
"Von Schulembourg's horse returned to camp this morning," said Ligozzi.
"I know not where the Count is."
"When I am in Milan I will find him; he shall wed the Lady Valentine; I
bear him no bitterness. Ah, Ligozzi, the world will be a different place
to-morrow."
And Mastino leaned forward eagerly, waiting for the first sign of the
return of Tomaso, who had been sent ahead to reconnoiter.
The sky flared and blazed through the trees till the whole world seemed
on fire; the red clouds were reflected in Della Scala's polished armor
till it glowed in one bright flame, above which the plumes on his steel
cap floated long and white.
The next second the glory faded and was gone, leaving the world cold and
gray.
The sun had set.
A cold breeze stirred the leaves against the pale sky, but to Mastino,
leaning against the tree trunk, waiting, no foreboding came. It was
success, success--at last!
"Tomaso is long," said Ligozzi.
"The way is long," smiled Mastino. "But not so long that we shall not
enter Milan before dawn!"
The passage opened into the undergrowth from the wide mouth of a cave,
and Della Scala, in his eagerness, stepped forward into the shadow of
its blackness, listening intently.
No sound broke the stillness save the little murmur of the wind, the
occasional clank of the bridles of the idle horses.
"Hark!" cried Mastino. "I hear him!"
He turned with shining eyes to Ligozzi.
"My friend, at last Heaven has heard!"