flecked here and there with red, and dotted about with curious faint
smoke wreaths, fires in broad day.
"Visconti's army!" said d'Este. "And those fires the forts and villages
Della Scala held--held but yesterday!"
Their doom was in those words and in what they saw; there was no need
for more.
"Santa Maria save us!" murmured Vincenzo, with a blanched face. It was
all he said--words were poor, there was little enough time for action,
none for comment.
Outside could be heard the steady tramp of the sentries, and the hurry
of more soldiers to the walls.
"Do they know?" asked Vincenzo, as they descended.
"The soldiers--yes--they are Modenese. The townsfolk--poor wretches--why
tell them?"
They watched the other chamber, and after a silence Vincenzo spoke
incredulously.
"Conrad said Modena had fallen?"
"It is true," said his father, in a low voice. "And Ferrara--oh!--my
cities!"
Vincenzo gave a little gasp of pain.
"And Verona?"
"That too."
The younger d'Este looked out blankly at the sunshine, all hope faded
from his face.
"And Mastino, father?"
Ippolito was silent, a silence worse than speech. Vincenzo was awed.
"So we are abandoned--defenseless, resistance hopeless! Oh, my lord! my
father! We cannot fall into Visconti's hands! We--the Estes!"
"Hush!" said his father, sternly, yet with sparkling eyes. "I have been
considering all--the Viper shall never fly in triumph from the walls
from which a living d'Este is turned. Oh! had I never left Modena! See,
Vincenzo--as soon as Visconti is within two miles of the gate--this!" He
touched the door beside him, pushing it open, and Vincenzo's startled
gaze followed the direction of his hand.
In the dark recess were the stone steps leading to the store beneath;
the powder, the rude engines of war, and a vast quantity of wood, stored
for winter use, and piled high even to the door. Vincenzo felt his heart
grow cold; he looked from his father's proud face to what the steps
beyond conveyed, and understood.
He raised his eyes steadily and smiled. He, too, was an Este, and in
this moment the proud glory in his birth was plain.
"My son!" cried Ippolito, suddenly, passionately. "My son!"
Vincenzo could not trust his voice to answer; he sat very still, the
smile on his lips, his hand on his toy-like dagger.
D'Este turned his head away. From without came the sound of voices and
footsteps--sounds of alarm, commands, shouts.
Ippolito turned to the door.
"I go to give the last orders," he said, and left Vincenzo alone with
his approaching fate.
He sat very silent.
This, then, was the end, the end of it all!
That one thought beat strongest on his brain--this was the end. What had
he not meant life to give him--all he had seen others enjoy, all he had
ever dreamed of, honor and fame, power and love, visions there were no
words for--the future for him had held all these--and now, a burst
bubble!
In the very richness of his youth he had flung away his days and hours,
laughing at time, if he ever thought of it, and at life--then were life
and time and an unending world before him.
Life! And even while he sported with it as endless, it could have been
measured by hours.
A great wave of homesickness rushed over him, homesickness for the
world, for the past he had never treasured, for Modena, the leaves and
roses outside his father's palace, and Conrad riding away into the
sunshine--away from this dark chamber he would never leave. Yet he did
not for a moment flinch, such a thought never entered his mind, only he
could not bear to have to wait; he wished it were done and over--now.
From the street below rose a great uproar; there was some panic among
the people; the country folk were pressing through the gates, fire and
sword behind them--Visconti was on the march! Wild, frightened screams,
and the hurry of feet, rose to the gloomy room, and Vincenzo sprang up;
he wished his father had not left him, he wished he were not alone.
For his thoughts were bitter, and hard to bear alone. His life would be
different, he thought, if he lived it again: not wasted, flung away. For
the first time he felt he loved his father dearly, for the first time he
realized how Mastino loved his wife--he understood. Was all knowledge
coming to him so late, things to be made clear only to be darkened
forever?
Ah, well, it was all over now; there were only a few moments to--what?
He shuddered a little--to what? He wished his father would return,
passionately he wished it; he did not want to think--for the first time
and the last. He stood there with tight-clasped hands, his eyes on the
door, holding desperately onto his control.
And at last Ippolito entered, quietly, closing it behind him. He held a
missal in his hand, and a parchment. As he laid them on the table,
Vincenzo noticed the last was sealed with the seal of Verona, the ladder
of the Scaligeri.
"Mastino?" he whispered.
"Mastino is dead," said d'Este, in a calm voice, and he crumpled the
parchment in his hand.
On it was written: "I have betrayed you for Isotta's life," and it was
signed with the proudest name in Lombardy--"Mastino Orazio della Scala."
"That shall not destroy the glory of Vincenzo's death," thought d'Este
sternly, and he flung it from him, into the room beyond, among the
powder--something only fit to be consumed.
The castle within was built largely of wood, and Vincenzo, looking into
the darkness with a painful eagerness, watched the powder laid carefully
about the walls, extending in a long train to tanks of oil, while fire
boughs, dry and leafless, lay scattered thickly. D'Este had not been
taken unprepared. Vincenzo's flesh stirred and shrank; he remembered
snatching a bat once from the camp fire, and how the pain in his hurt
hand had tortured him.
"'Tis a fearful death!" he murmured.
Ippolito turned a drawn face toward him.
"What didst thou say, my son?"
"Naught, father," answered Vincenzo bravely, though his heart was
beating hot and thick. "Naught, save that _that_ cannot fail us."
"No, Vincenzo; the wind blows eastward across the town," said d'Este,
with a calmness that was almost brutal. "There will be none for Visconti
to take back to Milan."
"We shall light the sky bravely to-night," said Vincenzo, and bit his
lip to keep it steady.
His father's dark face lit with a sudden proud smile that transfigured
it.
"Some scouts say Visconti sends men to treat with us, Vincenzo--with
us--d'Estes! This will be what he never reckoned on: the flames blowing
from the walls shall be our flags of truce!"
The streets, the whole town, were in a panic. The wild terror of the
whole country-side had found its voice inside the gates of Novara;
there were six hundred men to defend the walls--and God! how Visconti
sacked a town!
The sunlight that had rested along the walls when Conrad said farewell,
lay along the floor now, a great square of gold that just tipped the
table where Vincenzo's hand rested, and lay lovingly on his scarlet
doublet, with its little foolish vanity of ribbons, and that other hand
among them, clutched nervously, almost desperately, in the poor crumpled
finery.
D'Este took the crucifix from the wall and laid it on the table. Under
it burned a candle, and he moved that too, standing it beside him, as he
took his seat opposite his son.
Behind him was the open door, in front the symbol of his religion--both
meaning one thing, that the crucifix lying there baldly on the rough
wood table told more plainly even than the powder kegs.
Vincenzo's eyes were on the missal, but not his thoughts: his ears on
the strain for that sound he set his teeth in readiness to hear--the
call to the gates.
In the silence of the chamber, the noises from the street sounded
distinct, painfully distinct--shrieks and cries. Poor souls! so near
eternity, and fighting over a handful of goods! Presently all noises
died away into faint murmuring--or had he lost his power to hear? Then
all at once it came--the beat of the drums, the summons to the walls!
Louder, louder, wild, inspiring, the beat of the drums; and Vincenzo's
heart bore them company.
They rose to their feet, the two d'Estes, and clasped hands across the
table, the crucifix between them.
"God have mercy on our souls!" said Ippolito, and raised the pale,
flaming candle.
"Amen," said Vincenzo, kissing the missal with cold lips.
The drums beat wildly, intoxicatingly, then suddenly stopped.
D'Este pushed back his chair; for a moment there was perfect stillness,
then he laid the candle to the powder.... And Vincenzo d'Este was on his
knees in the patch of sunlight, its glory full on his beautiful,
upturned face.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
THE PRICE OF DISHONOR
He who was once the great Lord of Verona and a proud and stainless
knight stood without Brescia, awaiting the price of his dishonor. It was
mid-day, of a swooning heat, and great purple clouds lay heavily about
the horizon, with a somberness that foretold a storm.
Mastino della Scala stood alone on a group of rocks scattered upon the
plain, that sent his tall figure up against the deep sky, erect and
motionless.
All that was left of his army was behind him in the chestnut wood: half
had been betrayed, half had been cut to pieces rather than yield. Some
few--the lowest dregs of his camp, the men who cared not where or when
they drew their swords, so they had food and drink--remained, to try
their luck with him, now no better than one of themselves. Through all
the miseries of that weary week his gallant band of Veronese, some two
hundred, had stood by him, watching the others ambushed, attacked,
surrounded, and destroyed, hearing of town after town that fell, and
smiling scornfully at talk of treachery, accepting without question
Mastino's silence. Was he not the son of Can' Gran' della Scala, and his
name one with honor, the proudest name in Lombardy, the proudest badge
in Italy, the ladder of the Scaligeri!
So had they stayed with scorn at thoughts of betrayal whispered among
the baser residue, until that morning when he had summoned their leaders
and told them, with a strange calmness, he had sold them, Verona and
Veronese, for his wife's release--sold Lombardy for Isotta d'Este.
Then leaving them, standing silent and bewildered, Della Scala mounted
to these rocks to await his wife--alone. His eyes were on the fields
before him; he hardly noticed a slight figure that crept timidly to his
feet--Tomaso.
"My lord"--the boy's voice faltered, and he kept his eyes turned
away--"the Duchess hath started safely; I saw her mount her litter with
glad eyes; they bade me hasten forward and tell thee so."
"Ah!"
Della Scala stepped on to a higher rock and shaded his eyes with his
hand. He was in armor, and bore on his arm his shield, across the boss
the ladder, the ladder on which the Scaligeri had climbed so high, and
from which they had fallen--to this!
Tomaso crouched beside him, silent and dismayed. He had clung to Della
Scala spite of his father's loss (that he could not understand), and
spite of what was happening now, that began to make plain that and many
things.
Tomaso glanced up at the somber figure standing alone above him. Mastino
wore no mantle, and the golden circlet was gone from his helmet. Mastino
della Scala was no longer Duke of Verona.
No pages or footmen followed; save for this one boy, he was alone,
carrying his own shield, holding his own horse, despised of those he
once had thought of as beneath even his scorn.
A gallop of horses broke the summer quiet, and spears gleamed through
the ruddy chestnuts behind them. The Veronese, thought Tomaso, the
Veronese soldiers.
Della Scala neither turned his head nor moved, but stood there with his
shield hanging on his arm, his sword hand listless by his side.
Tomaso was right. The riders were a band of Veronese. At a full gallop
they flew out of the shade into the sun, in face and movement, fury.
Tomaso shrank back at sight of them, roused from their bewilderment,
riding full tilt toward Mastino in a silence that was more deadly than
shouts of hate; and Mastino turned at last and faced them with wild
eyes.
The foremost man was swiftly on them, his furious face brought close to
theirs. As he swept up he drew the dagger at his waist and hurled it
full on Mastino's shield.
"That from me!" he cried, and rose in his stirrups with a shout. "That
and my scorn, Della Scala!"
But Mastino was prepared; he stood erect and did not flinch.
Another rode by; bending his face close to him, he spat at him; both
shattered their daggers on to his shield, those daggers mounted with his
arms that they carried as his soldiers. One tore from his neck the
collar Mastino had hung there, and flung it at his feet with curses.
"Traitor, where is Ligozzi?" cried one, hurling an imprecation, and
Della Scala took a step back with a cry wrung from him; but the man was
gone, and the face of another Veronese was looking into his with utter
loathing. Without a pause they dashed by, each hurling his dagger, and
many some order or sign of Mastino's friendship, full upon that shield
that hung on Della Scala's arm.
"That to cheer thee in thy shame!"
"That to make a necklet for Isotta d'Este!"
"This from me, who would have died for thee!"
The taunts were bitter and savage, and hurled in a fury of scorn and
hate; but Mastino della Scala, save for that one movement, neither
flinched nor stepped out the way of the onward rush, but bore for a
long hour of that summer day that wild ride past of the Veronese and the
batter on his shield of the daggers that disdained to slay him.
"Stop! in the name of heaven, stop!" shrieked Tomaso, and held his hands
against his ears.
They took no heed of him, in their mad fury did not even see the boy.
But to Tomaso it was most terrible that Della Scala made no movement to
defend himself; his calm face was awful. "Stop!" Tomaso shrieked again.
"Stop!"
How many more, how many more! How many times more that rattle as the
daggers struck the shield and then fell to lie bright in the sun? How
many more furious faces, how many more bitter curses? How long would
Della Scala stand there turned to stone? Tomaso crouched and hid his
eyes. At last they came to an end! The last rode by, the
standard-bearer, tearing the standard to rags with furious hands.
"Verona is no more!" he yelled. "The Scaligeri are no more, the standard
is no more, the standard of Verona!"
He threw the twist of red and gold at Mastino's feet with a sudden wail
in his voice. He was an old man, one who had served Mastino and
Mastino's father well. He stopped his horse; the first who had done so.
"Mastino della Scala! oh, why didst thou do this thing? Tell me thou
repentest!" he cried.
Mastino looked into the old man's wistful face.
"Verona is no more, the Scaligeri are no more. Ride thee to the others,
old man," he said.
The standard-bearer wrung his hands.
"I loved thee!" he pleaded. "Save thy soul and say thou dost repent!"
Mastino's proud head was erect.
"And do I live to save my soul? Get thee to the others, I do not
repent."
The old man rode away sorrowfully. Della Scala watched him disappear
behind the rocks and trees.
He was the last, and silence fell.
"They are gone!" breathed Mastino. "They are gone!"
His eyes fell to his shield; from rim to rim it was defaced and dented,
and the ladder of the Scaligeri was beaten from its boss. The ground
around was piled with arms, and Mastino put his hand up to his eyes,
staggering. The ladder of the Scaligeri was beaten from his shield!
"Some men remain, my lord," said Tomaso timidly, at last, with a boyish
effort at some consolation.
But Mastino winced; that they remained was a sorer shame even than the
desertion of the others: for they were men, scum of camps, who fought
solely for pay and plunder, and laughed at dishonor and admired
treachery--they were the men who had stayed.
"Isotta!" cried Mastino, with a sudden wild movement. "Why does she not
come?--have I not waited long--have I not paid enough?"
"I think I see her escort coming across the fields," said Tomaso
timorously.
Mastino turned and grasped his arm with a sudden change of manner.
"Tomaso," he faltered, "methinks I am changed since last I saw her;
perhaps she will--not know me--or will startle at me if she does.
Tomaso, she is very fair and I have nothing to offer now--Tomaso, am I
very changed?"
He was changed, so changed the boy would scarce have known him; his soft
brown hair was streaked with gray, his fine face drawn and white, his
eyes, once soft and kind, unnaturally bright, and, like his mouth,
strained and hard.
Mastino laughed pitifully as he read the answer in Tomaso's frightened
eyes.
"She will not care--she will not care," he said. But his voice was
unsteady, and he supported himself against the saddle of his horse.
"The Duchess comes!" said Tomaso, and clutched Mastino's hand.
Out of a little wood of delicate trees, in front of them, the cavalcade
was winding: Visconti's soldiers, Veronese soldiers, and a white,
curtained litter in the midst.
Mastino's gaze flew to that, and to that only.
"Oh, my heart's desire!" he murmured. "I do not repent!" And he forgot
the ladder of the Scaligeri battered from his shield.
The soldiers cantered up and lowered their halberds in a salute to the
magnificent figure standing there alone, while the officer read in a
high voice from the parchment, that stated that Isotta d'Este, Duchess
of Verona, prisoner of war of Gian Galeazzo Maria Visconti, Duke of
Milan, was returned to her husband in fulfillment of the league and
treaty between them.
"Into your hands we deliver her in safety, my lord, and my lord of Milan
offers three months in which to either quit Lombardy or choose some post
in his service in Verona."
"My choice is made: I quit Lombardy," said Mastino. "Leave me."
The soldier lightly shrugged his shoulders and gave the word, and,
cantering off, Visconti's guards wheeled and followed swift behind him.
They had fulfilled their duty: Isotta d'Este's safety was no affair of
theirs now.
The Veronese footmen bearing the litter had set their burden down; the
white curtains fluttered--was it the breeze, or Isotta's hand, that
stirred them so?
"Tomaso, Tomaso, I have borne much; can I bear this?"
His eyes were sparkling, his tone joyful; he had thrown all his shame
from his heart; the miserable past, the miserable future, were alike
forgotten; the world had narrowed to this--her welcoming face.
He laid his shield on the ground gently, and walked across the grass
softly. The curtains, white in the still blazing sun, dazzled him; his
heart was beating so, he thought it must choke him.
"Isotta!"
He called her name so low she could not hear.
"Isotta!"
Still she made no answer.
"Perchance she is very weary," said Mastino to himself, tenderly, and
drew the white curtains back. She lay back among silk cushions.
"Isotta, my dear!"
There was a tremor in his voice. Had she fainted?
She lay back, her head away from him, and, bending over her, he saw
through her long curls that her eyes were closed, her lips parted, and
one hand at her throat--the hand that bore his wedding ring. Oh,
heaven!----
He caught her head in his hands and looked at her. She was dead, quite
dead. The silk curtains fell-to again, and at Mastino's cry the bearers
shrank, appalled. Isotta d'Este was dead.
And Mastino lay along the ground, senseless, his defaced shield near
him, bare to the bright glare of the sinking sun.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE STORM
The storm had gathered and burst; rain fell in great drops that did not
allay the heat; the sky was covered with clouds that dragged across the
moon in a slow procession, dark and mysterious.
In one or two tents, thrown open to catch the breeze that stirred the
chestnuts, sat the little handful of soldiers left to Mastino. Rude and
coarse, still were they awed, by the horror that had befallen, to a
whispering quiet.
Like a patch of white showing dimly through the gloom, the curtains of a
litter were to be seen. At thought of who sat within alone there in the
rain and dark, the men shuddered and drew nearer together.
"The Prince?" one whispered.
"I have been to the tent, but further than the door I dare not."
"What was there to see?"
"The boy--alone, weeping like a woman. Santa Maria! I should not like
the watch he keeps!"
"The Prince is mad, think you?"
"The Prince is mad, or--hush!--possessed."
The men fell again to a silence, broken only by the patter of the rain.
At last another spoke, one drawn further back into the tent.
"How came it about, think you?"
"Visconti----"
"Ah, yes, Visconti, of a surety; but how?"
"The wedding ring, Petio--it was handed to her as she entered the
litter--it was poisoned! She put it on, poor soul--kissed it, no
doubt:--well, it was poisoned, Petio!"
"And so she started alive, and now lies there dead--poor soul!"
The men muttered and crossed themselves; a few sat in moody thought.
"The sun--we need the sun," said one at last.
"And a little wind, not these stifling puffs--a little wind from heaven.
'Tis hot as hell!"
"Hush!"
How it rained! And a wind rose, but it scarcely seemed from heaven. The
chestnuts moaned, tossing their branches.
"Hush!" said some one suddenly. "The dear Lord forgive my sins!--who
comes?"
They heard a footstep; a hand was fumbling at the entrance of their
tent.
"The Prince!"
And the next instant the men sprang to their feet in affright at what
was before them, at the livid face looking at them--Mastino della Scala.
"My wife!" he cried hoarsely. "Give me my wife!"
They looked on one another, helpless, and made no answer. But Mastino,
striding forward, seized the foremost by the throat and shook him like a
rag.
"Where is she? What have you done with her? Is she not bought and paid
for? Where is she?"
Tomaso sprang into the tent, a piteous young figure, wet to the skin.
"Oh, my lord!--I will take thee to her. Come away! Come with me!"
His voice broke into a passion of sobs, and Mastino dropped his hands
and paused.
"Your lady lies still in her litter," said a soldier.
"Out yonder in the rain, you rascal!" cried Della Scala. "What is she
doing there?"
He flung from the tent, and Tomaso after him, the bitter sobs catching
at his throat.
"I cannot bear it," he cried. "It is doom itself. Oh, my master! my dear
master!"
The soldiers crowded together and watched.
"Look!" gasped one, pointing through the dark. "He hath got her--he hath
got her!"
And they huddled back, half falling over one another, as Mastino came
into view--a slender thing in white and purple in his arms. Close by, he
paused, and laid it tenderly across the saddle of his white horse,
whinnying low and waiting.
"Jesu, protect us!" cried the men. "Where is he going?"
"Stop him! stop him!" shrieked Tomaso, running to them. "He goes to
find--Visconti!"
"Then no one of us had best dare meddle," was the answer. "Keep away
from him, boy; he is mad, possessed--maybe by the devil!"
"I care not!" cried Tomaso in an agony of sorrow. "He shall not ride so;
he has no armor on--it will be to his death. He shall not go--my lord!
my dear lord!"
He sprang forward to the white horse, which Mastino had mounted, and
clung to the stirrup.
"Not to-night, my lord; wait till the morn--till the storm is over; thou
art unarmed!"
Mastino drew Isotta close to him, till her head rested on his shoulder,
and looked down wildly at Tomaso.
"Visconti lies outside Novara--I know the way!" he said.
"Take some of us with thee!" implored Tomaso. "Oh, my lord----"
But Della Scala spurred the horse into a sudden leap, that threw Tomaso
to the ground.
"I know the way!" he said.
The white horse plunged forward into the storm, and the dark closed
round the rider and his burden.
* * * * *
For hours had Della Scala ridden with his wife across his horse and
against his breast, but riding always toward Novara; and now he had
ridden suddenly into a wild red glare that lit the sky.
Mastino's thoughts were centered on one thing--Visconti. There was no
reflection in them; neither the past nor present had meaning. He was
riding in a nightmare: he knew he carried Isotta, and that she was dead;
he knew too he was riding to find Visconti--nothing more.
The red glare rose into the sky in pointed flames.
"'Tis a burning city," said Mastino; but the words had no meaning. Here
was light, however, had he needed it whereby to find Visconti.