Part 25

"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.

But on the horizon was a silver light, a light that danced and quivered, 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.