Part 19

"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!"

"He carries no torch," said Ligozzi, wonderingly, for though footsteps ascended, no ray of light fell across the dark.

"He stayed not for torch," cried Della Scala. "Bring up the men, Ligozzi!"

As he spoke, a figure forced itself out of the dark, a wild figure, and yet Tomaso's; his white face was smeared with blood which trickled from a great gash on his forehead, his doublet was rent and torn, and he reeled as if hurt and spent.

"O Mother of God!" muttered Mastino. "Mother of God!"

Tomaso sank at his feet with a bitter cry.

"All is over!" he cried. "We are betrayed. Oh, would I were dead before I had to tell thee!"

"Betrayed?" echoed Della Scala. All the life was struck out of him, he steadied himself against the cavern wall and looked at the boy dully. "Betrayed?"

"Betrayed? By whom?" cried Ligozzi. "Ah, thou art hurt!"

"Nothing, nothing. I am in time—Visconti—his men guard the other entrance—with difficulty I escaped to warn thee," gasped Tomaso.

"Who betrayed us?" demanded his father, his face dark with passion.

"The girl," said Tomaso, bitterly; "the girl who loved Visconti."

"And Heaven favors her love and not mine!" The cry was wrung from Mastino. "We are betrayed for a girl's love of Visconti. And my wife waits for me!" He laughed wildly, and drew a faded rose from the folds of his sash, flinging it on to the ground.

"Look, Ligozzi, a sign from Heaven—a sign I thought had been fulfilled. But a girl prayed for Visconti, doubtless, and her prayers are heard. Isotta must perish, but Visconti is saved! To mock, Heaven sends me a sign."

He ground the rose to powder beneath his heel, and Ligozzi quailed at the wild anguish of his face.

"I should have known," he cried. "I should have known. I called on God and this is His answer. I will fight Visconti alone!"

He turned from the cavern to the open, and stepped out among the waiting officers.

"Back to camp!" he cried wildly. "We are betrayed again, by a woman who loves Visconti! The Duke of Milan is fortunate; who would do the like for me?" And he flung himself down upon the bank, and sank to the ground.

"Leave us," whispered Ligozzi. "Leave us, all is over for to-night, the Prince and I will follow."

"He is much moved," returned one of the officers.

"All his hopes were on it," said Ligozzi bitterly. "His wife, his God."

In disappointed groups the men moved off, to spread the evil news.

It was now fully dark, but not so dark that the three left by the cave could not see each other in the faint starlight.

Mastino called to Tomaso. His voice was hoarse and strained.

"Tell me all, boy; tell how it happened."

"My lord," faltered Tomaso, "it is too painful."

"Painful!" And Della Scala laughed harshly. "I am well used to that; tell me how it happened."

He had risen, and standing in the shadow of the trees, only the outline of his great figure was visible to Tomaso and Ligozzi, standing a few paces before him.

"There is not much to tell," said the boy uneasily; he was sick with disappointment and the pain of his wound and leaned heavily against his father.

"Agnolo opened the door to me—as had been arranged; he told me, with a wild face, his daughter was gone. Visconti had carried her off, he vowed. He was half-crazed, and ah, my lord, even as he spoke, the courtyard filled with soldiers, Visconti's soldiers. The girl had fled to the palace, and told the Duke all! We were betrayed!

"They laughed to see me there; vowed I should die a merry death, trusted you would follow and let them give you a warm welcome. Agnolo they mocked with talk of pardon, for his daughter's sake, his daughter the Duchess to be, whom Visconti had proclaimed to all his court, if he would tell them a little more of what you meant to do! But Vistarnini met them with defiance.

"'At least Visconti shall not claim us both!' he cried, and then they laughed and killed him. That was the Duke's word, they said, not pardon."

Tomaso paused.

"And his daughter lives to be Duchess of Milan!" said Della Scala. "It is the will of Heaven!" He laughed again, harshly.

"I escaped while they argued over the poor painter's body, and they dared not follow, being in terror of an ambush. If it had not been for saving thee, I would I might have died!" And he sank his head upon his father's shoulder with heart-wrung sobs.

"Take him to the camp," said Mastino, rising. "How can I comfort him or thee, wanting it so much myself?" And he turned away through the trees.

The air was perfumed and soft, it fanned the heavy hair back from his face and rustled the flowers around his feet.

He walked fast, in a fury of hate. It came to him to rush into Milan, and die upon the soldiers' spears, if he might only get his hands upon Visconti. "I will challenge him to fight, to single combat," he thought madly. Then his mood changed, he stopped and felt for the locket at his neck.

"Isotta! Oh, my dear, my dear!" and his voice was full of tears.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

IN CLOTH OF GOLD

Graziosa Vistarnini, the savior of Milan, and the Duke's betrothed, was lodged with regal state in the magnificent new tower that stood in the grounds of the Visconti palace. Visconti could be liberal to a fault where it suited his vanity or his purpose, and Graziosa's new residence was decorated with a lavishness that made the French stare.

For not only had she saved Milan, but she had done it solely for love of him, and it gratified Visconti's pride as much as it pleased his ambition. Save for this girl he had been now even as had been Della Scala, and Milan humbled as Verona. She had been the means of his once more outwitting a foe; she had assured his safety and the safety of his city; and Visconti's proud gratitude showed in the state and splendor with which he surrounded his chosen wife.

This glorious summer morning she was seated on the side terrace that surrounded the tower, a terrace of black marble and alabaster, the delicate balustrade smothered in lemon and myrtle trees and clusters of white roses.

Graziosa was in the midst of a brilliant company; the best-born dames in Italy were among her women, and more knights and pages composed her train than had ever waited on Visconti's sister.

Beneath them the garden, reached by a shallow flight of steps, spread in perfect loveliness to the palace, above whose pink brick walls and rugged gray fortifications floated the banner of the Viper.

The air was golden with the brightness of the sun, there was not a cloud in the purple sky, and Graziosa's heart was singing in pure happiness.

She rose from her chair impulsively, and walked to the edge of the terrace, leaning over the balustrade, the ladies behind her.

"'Tis sad to think there should be fighting on such a day as this," said one, handing Graziosa her fan. "God grant it may soon be peace!"

"God grant it!" repeated the painter's daughter fervently.

"They say the Veronese cannot hold out much longer," said another. "This very morn there was news. Bassano has fallen—"

Graziosa picked a cluster of roses and buried her face in them.

"How beautiful they are!" she said. "See, they have little hearts all gold, never showing till they die; a pretty fancy, is it not?" And she stroked them tenderly.

"Bassano has fallen?" she repeated idly.

"Yes, and 'tis said they cannot fail in getting Reggio."

"Then my lord's arms are everywhere victorious!" cried Graziosa with sparkling eyes.

"As ever, lady," was the answer.

"And we can hope for peace," continued Graziosa softly.

"And when peace is proclaimed you will be Duchess—almost Queen—of Lombardy, Gian Visconti's wife!"

There was a note of envy in the speaker's voice at such a splendid destiny, but Graziosa did not notice it. She even shuddered faintly at Visconti's name; it had been associated with awe and terror too long for her to be able to easily shake the fear away.

"Meanwhile, the sun is shining hot, lady," said a third attendant. "Will you not come into the shelter?"

Graziosa moved away; the white roses at her bosom were not more pure than her face. Two pages lifted her rich train, and as she crossed the terrace a third came and spoke to her on bended knee.

"My Lord Giannotto waits your pleasure, lady."

"Tell him I am here," and the color rose in Graziosa's face at so much honor.

She turned to the steps where Giannotto waited, cap in hand, and advanced toward him.

"Lady," said the secretary, bowing low, "my lord sent me to say he will wait on you himself; and meanwhile if you have any commands—"

Graziosa interrupted him.

"Indeed, my lord is too good; what commands should I have?—tell him so, with my deepest thanks, sir."

Giannotto looked at her curiously, with a mixture of pity and wonder.

"He comes himself, lady, to hear your thanks, and learn your will."

And he stepped aside, joining the group that had been gathered about Graziosa.

Gian Visconti was coming through the garden, a grave-looking man by his side, a white hound at his heels, and two boys following, one bearing a wooden case, the other carrying a roll of drawings.

Visconti was talking to his companion; he was in the best of humors, at the height of triumph and success, his enemies well under his heel, his ambitions on the point of being gratified.

Graziosa came to the head of the steps, and Visconti took his gold cap off and waved it, coming up them gayly.

She stood silent in the glory of the sunshine and held out her hands, and he kissed them, and looked at her and laughed pleasantly.

"Now art thou happy, donna mia?" he said. "Hast thou all that thou couldst wish?"

"More than I ever dreamed of, my lord," she answered softly. "I did not know the world could be so beautiful—or so happy."

"'Tis but a small return, Graziosa, my beloved, for what thou hast done for me," returned Visconti. "And I will make it more—this is but an earnest of the future. Visconti's wife shall live in such splendor that men shall not see her for its dazzle."

"What am I, that thou shouldst give me so much joy!" cried Graziosa, with swimming eyes.

Visconti smiled.

"Thou art thyself—it is enough!"

He turned to his companion, who stood respectfully at some little distance.

"Come hither, Messer Gambera. Here is a lady who shall often pray within your church—my betrothed, who saved us Milan."

Messer Gambera bowed low, and kissed the hem of her gown.

Visconti watched his homage with pleased pride, and turned again to Graziosa.

"Now I have somewhat to show thee. This is the architect of my new church, which shall be the wonder of Italy. Follow me, messer." And he led the way into the entrance-hall.

It was low and wide, the walls covered with frescoes, the floor red sandstone, the windows opening on to the terrace.

In the middle stood a gilt stucco table, and to this Visconti drew a chair and bade Graziosa seat herself.

"Here is what I will make of Milan, sweet, when the war is ended!" he said, as the architect unrolled and arranged his drawings.

"And will that be soon?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Aye, I hope so," laughed the Duke. "Mastino della Scala grows weaker day by day—I have Bassano, and shall have Reggio. He has lost his wits as well as his fortresses, for he bids me to a single combat: all to stand or fall by our own swords. He has his answer, and I have his wife. Now, look at these, Graziosa—" and he took the drawings from the architect and spread them on the table.

"My new church," he said. "The plans, my well-beloved."

And he looked eagerly at Graziosa.

"Indeed, my lord, I do not understand them—it is no church, surely?" And she raised a sweet, bewildered face.

"'Tis the plan of one. Messer Gambera will explain it," and he motioned eagerly to the architect. "Here, messer, this is the porch?" And he laid his finger on the drawing, absorbed in contemplation.

"Yes, my lord."

"Set on three steps?"

"'Tis so, my lord."

"I do not care for that, messer, and I will have more carving—would you not, Graziosa?"

"You must not ask me; indeed I do not know," she smiled.

Visconti's face for an instant darkened. "You must learn," he said. "My duchess must know architecture. Take away the plans, messer; I will look at them alone."

"Perchance the lady might care for the model, my lord?" returned the architect. He spoke bad Italian, and was shaking with nervousness.

"Bring the model," replied Visconti, and the page placed the box upon the table.

Messer Gambera touched a spring and it flew apart, showing an exquisite little model of white marble, some twelve inches high.

"Oh! it is beautiful!" said Graziosa, and Visconti looked at her with sparkling eyes.

"You think so? Yes, it will be beautiful—the church of all Lombardy."

"It will be like this, of marble?" she asked, breathless.

"Every inch—from the porch to the pinnacles, and the floor shall be precious mosaic, and the altars crystal and serpentine, jasper and amethyst; men shall spend their lives in carving one pillar, and the price of cities shall pay for the gold that shall be lavished on it. Not in our life will this be done, nor in the lives of those that reign after us—or even they that follow, but finished it shall be, and one of the wonders of the world—and I shall be remembered as he who planned it—to the glory of God and the house of Visconti!"

He turned with shining eyes to the architect, who gazed on him with admiration, with a face that reflected the speaker's own fervor.

"Yes, mine will be the glory, though I shall never see the pinnacles kiss the sky, or hear the mass beneath that marble roof—mine will be the glory—even though I am not buried there, it will be my monument to all eternity!"

Graziosa gazed at him in silence: she could not understand. Gian glanced down at her with a smile.

"Would it not be a worthy tomb, even for a king, Graziosa?"

"For an emperor—but we will not talk of tombs, my lord," she answered, "but of pleasant things, and—and—of something that I have to ask you."

"What?" smiled Visconti.

The pages had gathered up the drawings, and the architect had removed his precious model and withdrawn.

They were alone, and Graziosa rose and looked at Visconti a little timidly.

"I—I mean—there will be peace soon—you think, my lord?"

"I think so—but peace or war, it shall not touch thee, Graziosa."

"Indeed, I do not fear it—but—"

She hesitated a moment, and glanced anxiously at Visconti's smiling face.