Part 18

"Mastino! Oh, Mastino!"

Visconti watched her out of sight, then turned again to Graziosa, his hand still on his sister's shoulder.

"Graziosa," he murmured.

But the girl made no answer; she was huddled on the bench that ran along the wall, looking out with frightened eyes.

As he spoke she shuddered, and crouched closer to the wall.

But Agnolo answered, and Visconti, serene in his pride, did not notice the painter's tone.

"My daughter is dazed with her surprise, lord, as who would not be? 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.