Part 15

But Visconti had not heard, nor was he heeding him; his eyes were riveted upon the door.

Again Padua raised the lantern above his head.

The glimmering light fell faintly on a dark chamber, and dimly lit a large black couch from which the tapestry coverlet was half dragged off. Visconti peered an instant over his rescuer's shoulder eagerly, then fell back.

"I cannot," he said sullenly. "I will stay and face Della Scala—I cannot pass that way."

Carrara turned and looked at him keenly.

"What do you know of these chambers, that you are afraid to pass them, Visconti?" he asked.

"'Tis no matter what I know—I will not pass them," cried Visconti, fiercely, and clutched at the rough wall as if to keep himself from being made to enter them even by force. Giacomo looked into the chamber curiously; the lantern showed only parts of it, and that dimly—an empty audience chamber, stiff chairs against the wall, the couch, dust on the floor and shadows in the arras—nothing more; and Carrara turned impatiently.

"I risk my life for this," he said. "What do you think it will mean, Visconti, if I am found helping you escape?"

He stepped across the threshold, and flashed the lantern around.

"Nothing!" he laughed over his shoulder. "Nothing," but as he advanced he paused a moment, and lifted up a corner of the dragged coverlet, "save that this coverlet is riddled as if with dagger-thrusts," he added, "and the floor seems stained"—he sank his voice—"with blood."

He looked back at Visconti, standing in the doorway, and with a sudden fear of him his hand sought his sword.

"Whom did you murder here, Visconti?" he asked, awestruck. "Whoever it was," he added presently, "I would not lose my life for fear of them, seeing they are dead."

In a second Visconti was by his side, gripping his arm, and Carrara, startled, shrank, and kept his hand upon his dagger.

"I do not fear them," whispered Visconti, in his ear. "Nor you."

And he hurried across the chamber, Carrara at his heels.

Room after room they traversed, deserted, gloomy, and unopened since that night.

"Hurry!" breathed Visconti. "Shall we never see the blessed sky again?"

And snatching the keys, he pushed on, taking every door and turning with a certainty that showed he knew them well.

"At last!" he cried, as they stepped out into the air.

They were at the back of the castle, on a ledge overhung with ivy, and overlooking a narrow flight of steps, the masonry half-ruined and overgrown with flowers.

The storm was over, a few great clouds tore across the sky, but the moon was clear and serene, the night calm and peaceful.

The cool air blew around Visconti's damp hair, and stirred the dark ivy leaves, glistening with the rain. Beneath them lay the tents, a large body of men, half the army, silently and swiftly preparing for flight.

"Some have gone already," said Giacomo. "These wait for me and you, Visconti: come," and stepping past him he led the way.

There was no one to observe them save Giacomo's men, that he had been careful to station there; but when they had gained the bottom, and Carrara would have passed on, Visconti caught at his sleeve and drew him behind a clump of elder.

"The German!" he whispered, and they waited, breathless.

A soft voice was gayly singing, and the words of the song came clearly through the night.

"Heinrich was my bosom friend, White feather and purple cloak: Now that folly's at an end, His the flame and mine the smoke!"

"He comes this way," said Carrara. "If he takes to questioning where I am—"

"If he takes to coming nearer," smiled Visconti, "I shall be obliged to—kill him."

"We parted for a silken knot, White feather and purple cloak: Whose fault it was I have forgot, His the flame and mine the smoke!"

The last words were lost in a burst of laughter, as Conrad and Vincenzo, each mounted on a white horse, and attended by an escort with torches, rode past, back to their tents.

So close they came, that Visconti, with gleaming eyes, leaned forward, longing to strangle the singer with one of those long curls that hung around his laughing, careless face.

But Carrara was relieved.

"As long as he does not inquire for me," he said. "But even then my officers understand."

Visconti smiled grimly; he was to pay for that.

"Now!" he said, and as Conrad's German song and Vincenzo's wild laughter passed, Visconti and Giacomo stepped out from behind the bushes and looked after them, the freedom of one secured, the treachery of the other well-nigh accomplished.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

GIACOMO CARRARA'S REWARD

The dawn was breaking, the sky streaked and barred with cold gray light, and along the winding road to Milan rode the Visconti and Carrara, the army before them.

It had been accomplished, without demur, openly and completely; behind them they left the Veronese and Mantuan troops, over whom Giacomo had no command—and Count Conrad, laughing in his folly.

Quite near to them lay Milan—and Visconti rode in silence, wondering what had befallen in the city; wondering, and fearing Valentine had revealed too much of his own spirit; he was afraid of her.

Along the distant horizon the gray walls of the city began to be visible across the flat plain, and Visconti's eyes lit at sight of his city, and he turned to Carrara impulsively.

"Give me a sword, Carrara," he said. "'Tis not fitting I should enter Milan weaponless."

"The Milanese will so rejoice to see you, my lord," returned Padua, "they will never notice—"

"That I come as a prisoner?" flashed Visconti, but the next moment he laughed and urged on his horse. "But what care I how, so long as I do re-enter Milan? Now, with you as my ally, Carrara, I can crush Della Scala without France or the Empire; and together, as ye say, we will rule Lombardy."

Carrara rode abreast of him, glancing at him keenly.

"Even now he will try to outwit me," he thought, and resolved he would not be outdone in cunning for the lack of care.

"How came it you were captured?" he added, "and in this guise?"

"The chances of war," laughed Visconti. "Foolishly I went myself to defend the gates, and pursued Della Scala's men too far."

But this candor did not deceive Carrara. "Foolish indeed!" he smiled. "Your hurry excelled your prudence, lord." And he wondered what was the truth.

"You have cause to thank heaven no one knew you," he continued.

"They were German boors," answered Visconti, "Count Conrad's men, and there was nothing to tell my degree. Yet, had they looked a little closer, they might have found one thing that would have told them I was different from what I seemed—these."

And he drew out of his doublet the turquoise gloves.

Even in that cold, faint light they showed brilliant and beautiful, and Carrara gazed at them in wonder.

"As I was summoned," continued Visconti, dreamily, "I was looking at them. Are they not beautiful, Carrara? Two years they took to make, and cost more than I care to tell. Each turquoise is flawless, and set by Antonio Fressi himself."

"And is this a gift for some one?" asked Carrara, and he looked keenly into Visconti's face.

"It was one of my bridal gifts to the Duke d'Orleans. I must honor him, Carrara, although I love him not," said Visconti simply. "But now I will offer it to one to whom I owe my life. Take the gloves, a gift from me, Giacomo." And he turned in the saddle and held them with a winning smile to Carrara, who, mistrustful, looked at him doubtingly and keenly.

"Thou wilt not refuse my gift?" and Visconti looked at him proudly. "Let it seal our bargain, Carrara. Take it, for the sake of the goodwill with which it is offered."

Carrara's ruling quality was prudence, and all Visconti's seeming guilelessness did not deceive him; still, he hesitated, considering where the trap lay.

Then, as he glanced down at the gloves, his eyes caught the gleam on the hilt of his dagger, and a thought struck him.

"He means to make me put them on," he thought, "and snatch the sword meanwhile"; and he smiled to think Visconti could be so simple.

"Thank thee for thy gift, Visconti, and for the goodwill that offers it," he said, with an ingenuousness equal to Visconti's, and reaching out his hand, he took the gloves, meaning to have the gift and outwit Visconti also.

Gian's manner had lost its gloom and wildness, he seemed light of heart and in a pleasant mood.

"They are riding-gloves," he cried. "Wear them into Milan, Carrara."

"Ah," thought Giacomo, "I see the plot. Thou wouldst snatch a weapon while my hands are busy," and, priding himself on his cunning, he deftly slipped them on his hands, keeping his elbow on his sword-hilt and his watchful eyes upon Visconti.

"A beautiful dawn," said Gian softly, seeming to take no heed of Carrara's clever maneuvering; his eyes were fixed on the sunrise behind Milan. "All pearl and silver, blushing into life anon; about the time when I shall enter Milan."

And he fixed his eyes on Giacomo with a strange expression.

"When we shall enter Milan," corrected Carrara. "The sun will be faintly high: these marches are toilsome." And he glanced down proudly at the beautiful gauntlets on his hands, calculating what the pearls and turquoises might be worth, picked off, and vain at having outwitted Visconti.

"The promise of the day!" said Visconti, dreamily and sadly. "Hath it never struck thee how that promise never is fulfilled? Day after day, since the world began, something in the mystery of the dawn is promised—something the sunset smiles to see unfulfilled—something men have been ever cheated of—something men will never know—the promise of the dawn!"

The road began now to be fringed with poplars, and in the faint light the colors of the wayside flowers were visible.

They rode awhile in silence. Carrara looked back at the small rearguard in the distance, and before him along the road to his army blackening the plain, and then again at Visconti.

"Either he is always mad or—"

With a sharp exclamation he fell forward on his horse's neck, but recovered himself instantly. Visconti turned to him, still with that far-away look in his eyes.

"The road is stony," he said. "Thy horse stumbled?"

"Fool or devil?" Carrara was still wondering, and, looking at Visconti's face, he almost thought him a fool.

"You and I," cried Visconti, with a sudden change, "together, Carrara! Lords of Lombardy!"

And he struck his horse into a gallop so unexpectedly that Carrara had difficulty to keep abreast with him.

"I have been so long away!" he cried. "Haste! I long to be in my city again. Valentine—and others—will be grieving. Haste!"

And he still urged his horse.

Carrara, galloping at his side, suddenly reeled in the saddle, with a cry of anguish.

"Faster!" cried Visconti. "Faster!"

With an effort Carrara kept his horse to the pace, but his face was deathly, his lips set. Visconti never looked at him; his gaze was toward Milan and the sunrise.

Suddenly Carrara cried aloud. "Not so fast, Visconti, not so fast!"

But Gian flew along the level road.

"Milan!" he cried, "on to Milan!"

Carrara swayed forward to grasp Visconti's cloak, but he shook him off with a laugh.

"What ails you, Carrara? The army waits, you must ride faster still if you mean to ride into Milan to-day with me."

But Carrara was clutching at the neck of his doublet with staring eyes.

"My heart!" he gasped. "I suffocate—ah—!"

And he rode on blindly.

"Your heart?" laughed Visconti, drawing rein a little. "Do your treacheries stop its beating? You suffocate?—Do your lies choke you?"

A cry of mortal agony broke from the unhappy Carrara.

"Stop!" he gasped; "I am—dying—stop—"

Then his glazing eyes fell on the brilliant blue gloves he wore, and he sat upright with a scream of rage.

"The gloves! the gloves!" And with his remaining strength he tried to tear them off. "O fool! A Visconti!... I might—have known—"

Frantically he pulled at them, while Visconti, now moving almost at a walk, looked dreamily ahead at the fast nearing city.

"Fiend!" cried Carrara wildly. "Fiend!"

And he lurched forward, falling heavily onto the road, where he lay, convulsed, the turquoise gloves still on his hands.

Gian Maria drew rein now, and looked down at him, his face no longer indifferent, as he looked down into the white and contorted countenance of the dying man.

"'Whom did you murder here, Visconti?'" he quoted. "'Whoever it be, do 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.