he had seen him, talked to him freely, face to face, his friend and
favorite, but it seemed years. Visconti had grown in greatness since
then, and Conrad, when his gaze caught the once familiar figure, felt
far away from knowledge of him.
Visconti was standing, his cap in his hand, surveying the crowd. He
looked much older, Conrad thought, his face was dark and somber, hardly
like the face of a man at the summit of his ambition. He came down the
steps slowly, on one side his sister, her bridegroom on the other, and
taking no further notice of the shouting people, gazed down moodily.
Conrad hardly looked at Valentine, whiter than her white dress, gazing
vacantly before her; he did not notice the utter change from her former
brilliancy, he had no eyes for the overdressed, foppish bridegroom--he
was looking at Visconti.
The steps were thickly strewn with flowers; the train of lords and
ladies was one blaze of color and gems, still flowing from the church as
Visconti came to within three steps of the Count, and Conrad sprang
forward before the startled soldier could throw out a hand.
Visconti stopped, and the procession behind him, arrested, stood a
flaming band of movement and color. Conrad threw back his hood with a
sweeping gesture, thrilled by the excitement of the moment to dare
anything. What his motive he could not have told, but it was a fine
moment. He caught one glimpse of Valentine's suddenly illumined face,
and drew the dagger.
"Another wedding gift!" he cried in ringing tones, and struck Visconti
full upon the breast.
Then an utter confusion fell upon Count Conrad. He was seized and
pinioned tight amid wild yells, while the dagger, glancing off the armor
beneath the soft rose-colored velvet, fell on the steps unheeded.
"Count Conrad?" said Visconti clearly through the babble of voices.
"Conrad von Schulembourg?"
"Aye," said Conrad wildly, struggling between the two soldiers who held
him. "Complete your triumph, Visconti. I would have killed you; kill
me--kill me! You tried before and failed. I have tried and I fail. End
it."
He would have added more defiances, but the soldiers hauled him roughly
back, and choked the words back into his throat.
"Count Conrad?" asked Valentine, in a clear tone. "Did he say Count
Conrad?"
Visconti motioned to d'Orleans.
"Take the Duchess on, my lord. I will remain and deal with this crazy
friar."
"Surely he needs but little dealing with!" said the Frenchman. "An
assassin! there is the gallows ready!"
"There is also your wedding procession waiting," returned Visconti
quietly, and he motioned the train onward, and Conrad forward, the eager
people in the street all straining every nerve to know what might have
happened; appeased by the oncoming train, they gave only half a thought
to the little knot pressed round the steps, and what the Duke had paused
for.
Conrad stood between his guards, with a flushed face and a proud
bearing. He would have liked to kiss his hand to Valentine, stepping
into her gorgeous litter, looking back with half-awakened eyes; but his
hands were held firmly, and his feet lashed together.
"Well, Visconti," he said, with a still higher carriage of his head,
"what is it this time--starvation or the rack?"
Visconti made no answer: he was looking down at the flowers on the
steps.
"Take those away," he said to a page, and pointed to a spray of white
roses.
The boy obeyed, and glanced at his companions, wondering.
"Saint Hubert!" cried Conrad, with a sudden laugh. "You are full of
whims as of old! How long must I wait for my death, at your good
pleasure, my lord?"
The Duke turned his eyes on him.
"You are strangely foolish," he said, and hesitated, looking at Conrad
with a moody face.
"Foolish indeed, or I had never been Visconti's friend!" retorted
Conrad. "Foolish--or I had never trusted to this friendship. But call me
also bold, my lord, to be here now, buying with my life the pleasure of
saying so!"
"The impudent German!" murmured a lady in Visconti's ear. "Heaven has
given your lordship even this--to crown your perfect triumph."
The Duke was still silent: he looked from Conrad to the crowd, shouting,
throwing up their hats to see the procession pass, and then to the
soldiers, wondering at this strange hesitation.
"Why did you come to Milan?" he asked at last, fingering the gold
tassels on his sleeve, and speaking slowly.
"To save your unhappy sister," cried Conrad. "To try and kill you,
Visconti!" And he struggled fiercely in the grip of his captors.
"Take him away," said Visconti. "Take him----" He paused a moment.
"To the gibbet, my lord?"
"No--outside the gates. Give him a safe-conduct that will take him out
of my soldiers' lines. And so farewell, Count Conrad; I can waste no
more time on you."
"I will not go!" shrieked Conrad furiously. "I will not have your mercy,
Visconti--I will not accept from you my life!"
Visconti passed on.
"I say I will die!" cried Conrad after him. "Do you quail at another
murder, Visconti? Dare you not kill one more?"
The Duke looked back at him.
"I owe you somewhat, Count. You may remember a certain game of chess you
played in Della Scala's camp. It served me well--it saved my life--and
gave me--Della Scala. Now take yours--as a most unequal recompense."
He smiled most unpleasantly, and Conrad was silent, struck, chilled.
"Put him outside the gates," continued Visconti; "and give him money for
his journey. Maybe he left Della Scala too hastily to bear much away;
maybe Della Scala did not in any case pay well; and we would not have
the noble Count beg his way to Germany."
"Visconti----" Conrad choked on the word. "Visconti----"
"I will spare thy thanks," smiled the Duke. "Farewell."
"Give me a dagger--some one!" yelled Conrad. "That villain shall see I
do not live to profit by his scorn. Give me a dagger--I--you truckling
knaves! you shaveling cowards!"
"When your blood is a little cooler," said the soldier calmly, tying his
hands the tighter, "you'll be giving us a ducat apiece for not taking
you at your word."
"Silence, churl! I will not leave Milan; I will not be put outside the
gates!"
"Just whatever the Duke says, messer, you'll do--just whatever the Duke
says; and thank your guardian saint he was not himself to-day, or you'd
have had your death--but not quite so pleasant as you seem to think it."
And for all he could shriek and threaten and pray, struggle and fight,
Count Conrad was escorted through the crowded streets, between soldiers
with immovable faces, and amid a crowd that laughed in huge enjoyment of
his angry threats and bitter entreaties. A good mile outside the gates
they led him, a fine rabble at his heels. And then they left him, with a
good horse, a sword, and a bag of ducats.
"Now, Count, take those and ride to Germany--or if you must die, try and
get back into Milan." And they rode away, laughing heartily.
Count Conrad seated himself on the roadside, and was silent a long
while. Then he rose, and rubbed his stiff arms, bruised by the soldiers'
grip, looked back toward Milan, looked at the horse and sword, gave one
sigh to the past, mounted and rode away out of the shadow of Milan
toward Novara, the first town on the route to Germany.
* * * * *
There was a great coming and going of brilliant company in the Visconti
palace, a constant spurring of horses through its gates, the riding in
of messengers and soldiers, the riding out of officers and nobles.
The Duke d'Orleans and his wife had left for France, with a splendid
cavalcade of knights and ladies, escorted by the flower and the chivalry
of Milan.
All Valentine's struggles and proud resistance and scorn had come to
this: she left for France, as Visconti had ever said she should--left
Milan dull to craziness, forgetful, with no sign of either joy or
regret.
Visconti thought of this consummation with some satisfaction, then
banished his sister from his mind. There were other matters more
important to Visconti than the subdual of his sister--of Mastino della
Scala and his wife for one.
Mastino had kept his pact: in one week, Pavia, Treviso, Cremona,
Vincenza, and Verona had fallen; company after company of Mastino's
soldiers had passed into the hands of the Milanese. Modena and Ferrara
were left, but so weakened that a few days must see their end, though
the deserted garrisons were fighting desperately, and sending wild
messages to Della Scala, imploring aid.
Julia Gonzaga in Mantua was sore beset. At an urgent appeal from
Mastino, almost every trained man holding the city had been sent to his
assistance, to find themselves surrounded and cut to pieces by the
Milanese, and Mantua left defenceless.
In Novara the Estes were shut up, waiting anxiously for news from
Mastino--waiting in vain.
Isotta d'Este had been removed from Milan, and was lodged in a strong
fort some miles outside Brescia, guarded still by Visconti's soldiers,
but also by some of Della Scala's trusted but still unwitting
Veronese--men who kept watch over her night and day, inspected all she
ate, and allowed no emissary from Visconti to see her alone.
Such were the terms.
The thing had been done secretly. Vague rumors that the Duchess's
release was being negotiated were the utmost that got abroad. The
soldiers guarding her for Mastino thought the privilege bought, or that
the Emperor had wrung it from Visconti. There were none who suspected
the truth. Though for those ten days had been disaster on disaster,
though town after town had fallen, squadron after squadron been
ambushed, and though some whispered treachery and pointed to this
captain and to that, none thought of staining the loftiest name in
Lombardy with even a doubt--Mastino della Scala, the son of Can' Gran'
della Scala, of a race that had never lied or betrayed, the one race in
Lombardy of a lofty honor. Men would have as soon thought the stars
would fall as Mastino della Scala.
Visconti, pacing his palace in a fever of triumph, thought of all this;
thought of the d'Estes in Novara, still trusting--thought of Mastino's
Veronese, their devotion, their sympathy--thought of Mastino's feelings.
It was almost enough to satisfy his hate--but not quite--not quite.
"To-morrow," he said, stopping before de Lana--"to-morrow I shall march
from Milan, and I shall lay in ashes every village, every town that has
favored Della Scala. I will let loose my soldiers to pay themselves
from the wealth of Lombardy, and I will makes the Estes take their
proud banner down from the walls of Novara, and hoist with their own
hands the Viper!"
"Mastino della Scala lies at Brescia," said de Lana, with an uplifting
of his dark eyes. "His army has dwindled almost to a handful of picked
Veronese; so a deserter who rode in tells me. He waits there for his
wife."
"And I," said Visconti, leaning against the table, "have given orders
she is to be sent, de Lana. He has kept his word; I will keep mine. He
has paid dearly enough--he shall have his wife. And to-morrow I march on
Novara."
"I have my orders, my lord."
"I have nothing more to say, de Lana. To-morrow we leave Milan."
The captain was turning in silence, when Visconti spoke again.
"Della Scala is at Brescia, ye say? Then his wife will reach him
to-morrow about the time we reach Novara." He paused and looked at de
Lana steadily. "I have sent orders for her release and forwarding in all
due privacy, but with sufficient state, and I have sent her back her
wedding ring."
De Lana only half understood him, but Visconti had small care for that.
"The Estes--in Novara, de Lana--they are unsuspecting?"
"How can they be otherwise, my lord? they are isolated----"
"Waiting for succors from Della Scala doubtless! How many could their
numbers be?"
"Some thousand--no more. Della Scala called his Veronese out, my lord."
"'Twill be almost too easy a victory," said Visconti, smiling. "And
then, from Piedmont to the Apennines, Italy will be under my rule: and
Della Scala--I wonder what will happen to Della Scala, de Lana?"
"There is nothing but death for Della Scala," returned the soldier,
standing at the door as if anxious to be gone. "Nothing is left for him
but that, my lord."
"Ah--you forget," said Visconti softly. "There is his price--his wife;
there is always his wife." And repeating the words, as if to himself,
Visconti motioned de Lana away, and entered the inner room.
Giannotto was looking out of the window, and at Visconti's sudden
entrance turned with a start.
"Giannotto," said the Duke smoothly, "you will come with me on the march
to-morrow--not for love of your company, my friend, but because I do not
trust you. Still, I keep you."
"There is now no Lady Valentine to outwit me in your absence with some
of her brother's skill, my lord," replied the secretary meekly.
Visconti made no reply, but viewed the secretary sullenly. His words had
brought up unpleasant memories: his palace was free of his rebel sister,
but it was free also of another one who should have been his wife.
All his brilliant, his magical successes could not quite obliterate the
sting of that one failure. Graziosa's name was a forbidden one; the
splendid dwelling where she had shone so brief a while, shut to moulder.
She was a thing of the past, though only ten days dead; but Visconti
could not quite forget.
She had been buried quietly, in the same church as her father, at dead
of night, with no mourners. And was she not gone--forgotten? Yet,
disguise it as he might, it was failure.
"Yet she loved me," thought Visconti; and it roused his wrath that he
must think of her--the house by the western gate--the sweet face, the
white roses.
"Giannotto," he said moodily, "had she lived, I would not have done
it--on my soul I would not have done it!"
"Done what, my lord?" asked the startled secretary, looking up at his
dark, musing face.
"Ah, I forgot," said Visconti. "You do not know."
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE PRIDE OF THE D'ESTES
"No news! So many days, and still no news!"
Ippolito d'Este spoke in an anxious voice, leaning in the wide-cut
window of the watch-tower that rose above the gates of Novara.
"I would we had not sent those last men," said Vincenzo gloomily.
He was seated at the table, his head resting in his hands. The chamber
was large and dark, built of rough stone for strength and defense, fixed
with narrow windows, and set with three doors--one into the narrow
stairs, standing open, one on either side of it, shut. The walls were
bare of arras. Vincenzo's armor lay piled in a corner, and a great
crucifix, a red praying hassock beneath, hung near one of the windows.
"How many have we, my father?" asked Vincenzo, rising.
"Six hundred trained soldiers," was the brief answer.
"And the townsfolk?"
"Are the townsfolk," replied d'Este--"and useless."
Novara had been stormed and taken from Visconti some months ago, and the
Estes, fixing their headquarters there, had foraged the country around
as far as the ramparts of Magenta, a large town held by Visconti's men.
For these last fatal ten days, disaster after disaster had reduced the
Modenese soldiers to a mere handful; and when Mastino, sending word he
was in desperate straits, had called out all of the Veronese that manned
the town, they were left practically defenseless, in the midst of a
country where Visconti's arms were everywhere triumphant.
They dared not leave the town; behind its walls was the only chance of
safety. They knew not what positions Visconti held, nor what positions
Della Scala. Since that last appeal for aid, they had had no message, no
sign from him. Scouts sent out had not returned; one company, advancing
from the walls, to find no sign or trace of Mastino, was surrounded and
cut to pieces--the few who escaped returning to Novara with ghastly
tales. Visconti's arms seemed everywhere victorious. The country was
laid waste--and not by their allies.
But the Estes' hope was still in Della Scala. Urgent messages were sent
to his camp outside Milan, and when neither answer nor messengers
returned, the Duke of Modena grew sick at heart indeed.
He had not mentioned all his fears to his son, though Vincenzo could not
but know their strait desperate.
"If we hear not to-day," said d'Este slowly, "I shall think there is
treachery; not one messenger has returned--treachery, or some misfortune
to Della Scala."
"Then are we lost indeed!" cried Vincenzo. "So far from Modena--so near
Milan--only, what of the army that is with Della Scala--our army, his
and ours?"
"What army we had with us," replied Ippolito, still looking with anxious
eyes on the level country, "I sent to Della Scala--he was in sore need.
What men we had outside the town have melted away like snow."
Vincenzo began to pace the room impulsively--a slender figure in a
scarlet velvet doublet, his great black eyes bright and angry.
"Shall we not make a sortie, my father? Shall we not dash out and fight,
seeing for ourselves what has become of Della Scala?"
Ippolito turned and looked at him, with a yearning love lighting his
dark face.
"I am waiting, Vincenzo. I have sent trusty scouts to Brescia. This
silence cannot last long now; either Mastino or Visconti march this
way--and in either case we shall be ready to receive them, Vincenzo."
The younger d'Este lapsed into silence. Ippolito, too, was quiet, and
the pause was broken by an officer entering.
"The Count von Schulembourg," he began.
"Conrad!" cried Vincenzo, springing up.
"Has he news?" asked his father, eagerly.
"I know not, my lord," replied the soldier. "He is riding unattended,
and craves a passage through the town."
"He is riding away!" said Vincenzo--"away from Milan!"
"I must see him," said d'Este, with a darkening face, "at once."
As the soldier left, Vincenzo looked at his father eagerly.
"What may this mean, that Count Conrad rides away?"
"We lie on the route to the Empire. The German maybe rides home from a
losing cause."
"I never thought such of Conrad," began Vincenzo, when the door opened
and the Count himself stepped into the room, brilliant, gay as ever,
well armed, the double-headed eagle on his breastplate, and the black
and yellow of the Empire floating from his helm.
"Now well met, my good lords," he cried, "and fair fortune smile on you!
I would ask the favor of a good horse--I am on my way to Germany."
"You leave the fight?" asked d'Este.
Conrad nodded.
"For better men--i' faith, I've tried all I know--no man is asked to
break his head against a brick wall for nothing--not while the sun
shines, and there is such a place as his own land to see again!"
"You used not to hold such language, Conrad," said Vincenzo, with some
reproach.
"I have tried everything," cried Conrad, gayly. "I tried to rescue the
Lady Valentine, I tried to kill Visconti, I tried to make him kill me--I
have failed. My Lady Valentine is married, and is set out for France."
"For France!" interrupted d'Este. "Then must the country indeed be in
Visconti's hands if his sister and a wedding-train set out for
France!--what news, Count? surely there is some news?"
"Not much I care to repeat," replied Conrad. "Only rumors--all the
country I rode through, from here to Milan, seems to swarm with
Visconti's men--I saw no sign of Della Scala--there were wild tales
abroad, and wild sights."
"On my honor, Count, you might have come with better information than
this--days have we been waiting with no sign nor word----"
"From Mastino, would you say?" asked Conrad, eagerly.
"From Mastino. Have you not heard or seen aught of him?" cried Ippolito.
Conrad looked at d'Este's intent face, and from him to Vincenzo, waiting
expectantly for his answer.
"I--I cannot say I have," he answered. "But as I tell you, I heard
nothing save rumors----"
"And they----?"
Conrad fingered his yellow sash uneasily.
"One said Modena had fallen----"
Ippolito gave a sudden cry.
"Modena!"
"Aye," said Conrad, regretfully. "And Ferrara and Verona--so I
heard----"
"Mastino is dead!" cried d'Este, and Vincenzo echoed the cry wildly.
"Mastino is dead!"
"I know not," said the Count. "I cannot tell--only this, that Visconti
marches this way--and once more--a good horse. Vincenzo, Saint Hubert
has saved me once--I dare not ask him again!"
"Modena fallen," murmured d'Este, unheeding Conrad's words. "And
Verona--Mastino dead--Visconti marches on Novara!"
"My father, we are lost indeed!" cried Vincenzo, with a white face. "If
Mastino be dead----"
"_If!_" said the elder D'Este, sternly. "There is no if, Vincenzo."
The boy looked round bewildered, and his eye fell on Conrad, waiting by
the door.
"I will give orders for thy horse," he said. "Come with me----" and he
led the way from the room. Conrad paused in the door, but Ippolito waved
him aside sternly.
"Fare you well, Count. Vincenzo will see to your needs; meanwhile I have
other things to think of--" and he strode past them, swiftly ascending
the stairs to the soldiers in the higher chamber of the watch-tower.
Vincenzo, leaning on the stair-rail, with very bright eyes, looked after
his father, and then toward Conrad with a sudden wistful smile. "I
almost would I were to be riding gayly across a summer plain,
away--away--this castle has grown gloomy of late--there is horror in the
air." He shook the feeling off, speaking gayly. "Well, be glad thou art
on thy way, Count Conrad, and in exchange for the horse, take, for my
sake, with thee the little page Vittore. He is very young, and not of
Lombardy."
"Gladly will I," replied Conrad, as they descended the narrow stairs.
"And always shall I keep him for thy sake."
"Aye, do," said Vincenzo wistfully again, "otherwise thou would'st
forget--of a surety, forget."
"Not I--I shall always remember."
Horses were brought to the courtyard, and Vincenzo called his little
page and put him on one.
The sight of him brought memories to both of a certain game of
chess--how fatal it had been: how long ago it seemed!
"I tried to make atonement," he murmured.
"My atonement, methinks, is to come," said Vincenzo. "But Mastino will
never hear of it--Mastino is dead."
Conrad winced. He knew Mastino was not dead, but he would as soon have
stabbed Vincenzo d'Este as told him.
"Fare thee well," he said, holding out his hand.
"Fare thee well."
Vincenzo took his hand, smiled up at him gravely, and re-entered the
castle, mounting to the room he had left.
Visconti was on the march.
Vincenzo caught his breath sharply and went to the window to see the
last of Conrad. Again he wished he was riding away into the sunshine,
away from the dark walls that seemed closing round him forever.
"Farewell!" called back Conrad, gayly waving his mailed hand, and
Vittore, excited at the sudden journey, drew off his cap and waved it
gayly too. "I go to my own land," cried the Count. Vincenzo's lips
trembled, but his words sounded as cheerily as Conrad's.
"And we stay here in ours," he called back.
And in after days, in peaceful days in Germany, when that brilliant,
bloodstained Lombard summer seemed far away and strange as a wild dream,
Conrad remembered; a memory he shared only with the dead.
The spurs jingled, with a trampling of hoofs the horses turned, the
strong sun caught Conrad's plumes and Vittore's bright hair, he looked
back with a laugh, and at a swift trot they passed through the castle
gate.
Down the long paved street they clattered, till that sound too was gone.
Count Conrad had ridden away. Vincenzo stood silent in the great patch
of sunlight that lay along the floor till Conrad's bridle bells were
quite lost in the distance; then he turned, with something like a sigh.
He was not alone long--Ippolito re-entered with a calm face, and yet one
his son was startled by.
"Count Conrad's news has been confirmed," he said; "a messenger has
returned." He paused a moment. "All the country is in Visconti's hands."
"The saints save us!" cried Vincenzo.
"Aye, the saints, for there is no hope in man!"
"We must get arms--and succor into the city----"
Ippolito looked at him with a proud affection.
"Follow me, Vincenzo."
He opened one of the small doors; it led to a twisting flight of steps,
and the two mounted in silence.
At the head of the stairway was a chamber used as an outlook
toward--Milan.
"Gaze yonder," said Ippolito, pointing through the narrow arched window.
Vincenzo obeyed, and looking out over the great wide plain, with its
white campaniles dazzling in the sunlight, at first saw nothing.