The Viper of Milan: A Romance of Lombardy

one, Francisco." He spoke airily, as if ten minutes since Francisco had not lashed him with his tongue, and threatened him even with death, should his foolhardiness endanger them again. "Thou wilt ride the black," said Francisco coldly. "Because I love the roan?" asked the other with a laugh. "Because I say so," returned Francisco. A mocking answer rose to Conrad's lips, but it was never spoken. With a gesture, Francisco motioned him to silence. He turned and listened. "Horses! And coming hither!" he said. "Soldiers!" The others, grouped close by, ready to mount, stopped paralyzed--yes, Francisco's ears had caught the sound aright, the tramp of horsemen, and coming upon them from the road. Escape with horses any other way there was none, though Conrad madly urged they should mount and fly. But Francisco turned on him threateningly. "Am I to run thee through?" he said; "these horses mean more to me than thy life, or my own. Where shall we ride? Into the water? No, go back into the hut." He turned to Ligozzi. "Aid me tether these beasts where they may be unnoticed. These men perchance are only riding through." It was done in silence and with expedition. The soldiers' voices were now plain, and the jangle of their arms. "Come, Ligozzi," said Francisco, "thou and I will play at being soldiers, and see how we can overcome Visconti's men. 'Tis a game that thou and I have played before." He drew his dagger as he spoke, and stepped back with Ligozzi into the hut. The door was closed. Francisco glanced around. By the table stood Conrad, showing even at that moment the silver and ivory chessmen, which he slipped out of his doublet one at a time, and passed them before Vittore's now wandering, now fascinated gaze. Ligozzi and Tomaso stood beside their leader, one either hand. Tomaso's face was white; the Visconti's scar showed plainly; his breast throbbed with excitement. Ligozzi's gaze was riveted upon Francisco. A sudden babble of voices outside told the soldiers were in the open. A voice cried: "Halt!" But ere this Francisco had put out the light. They stood in darkness. "I know that voice," said Francisco at Ligozzi's ear; "Alberic da Salluzzo. When last I heard it 'twas in Verona, at the burning of the palace. Dost remember?" Ligozzi nodded. They held their daggers ready. No one stirred. Count Conrad thrust his chessmen back into his doublet. He regretted Francisco had dragged him so furiously away before he had time to find Lady Valentine's dagger with the emerald. It could have been of service now. There was a lull outside. The soldiers had dismounted, but the captain kept his seat. The horses champed, threw up their heads, and clanked their trappings; but as he talked with the men told off to hold them Alberic's swaggering tones were plainly audible. Suddenly a shout arose. "They have found the horses," said Francisco. Alberic flung himself from the saddle. They could hear that. Torchlight suddenly flared across the opening, high up in the wall, and more faintly through the broken roof. There was a sudden blow upon the door Francisco's giant frame was barricading. "Who is within here?" cried a harsh voice. "Open!" and there came another blow. But it scarce had fallen before Francisco, so swiftly no one could foresee his intention, stepped aside and let the door fly open as if the blow had forced it. On the threshold stood Alberic da Salluzzo, resplendent in jeweled armor and waving plumes. In the smoking torchlight, badly held, it seemed as if the place he looked into were empty. "Who harbors here?" he said, and stepped across the threshold. "Bring thy torch here, Gilliamo." But Francisco was swift. The door was shut before the soldier heard, and Francisco set once more his giant frame against it. In an instant, by the breathing of the men near him, da Salluzzo knew he had been trapped. He turned to escape, he was about to call, but a hand of iron closed round his throat. In the dim light the place seemed full of threatening forms. He was trapped indeed! Half-strangling, he ground his teeth at his folly more than his plight, and struggled to get his dagger, but his hands were caught. In vain he struggled; he was a powerful man, but he who held him was more powerful. In vain he tried to cry aloud to those without; his voice was gripped within his throat. Slowly but irresistibly he was forced back against the farther wall, with a strength he thought could not be man's. In a moment more, the soldiers without, nonplussed, but only for an instant, by their captain's disappearance, broke in the door. They could scarce believe their senses. Da Salluzzo lay dead upon the floor, and over him there towered a tall figure. They saw naught else. These men had fought with Alberic at the sacking of Verona; they knew that form, they had seen that face before. By their torches' smoky glare it seemed unearthly, and the eyes to flame, the form to fill the hut. "Come and fetch thy captain!" cried Francisco. But at the voice, at the look of his wild face as he advanced, they dropped their torches and scrambled back across the threshold panic-struck. "Mastino della Scala!" they cried, "Mastino della Scala!" and dropping the lights they fled in terror. CHAPTER TEN THE TURQUOISE GLOVES Della Scala is alive! The news flew like fire around Milan, rousing even the indifferent to some interest. The rumors then were true? Delia Scala was alive? In the market-place, in the streets, in the houses it was discussed--the name of Della Scala was on every lip. But in the Visconti palace it was not spoken. Silent, somber as ever, the castle frowned over its beautiful gardens, and, only by the companies of horse that spurred out of its side gates to fortify still more strongly the nine cities once held by Della Scala and now the Visconti's, only by this could it be told how much the news meant to the man within. Giannotto, walking softly through the corridors, paused and looked out into the garden. Something had caught his keen eye, and he watched, hidden by the curtain of purple silk. A sea of flowers lay spread beneath him, while beyond a more formal part of the grounds, crowned with white terraces and set with cypress-trees, rose clear against the sapphire sky. To the right lay Isotta d'Este's prison, the western tower, a massive building of huge strength, encircled on three sides with a moat, and guarded by soldiers. Giannotto's eyes glanced from the silver banner that hung above, lifeless in the summer air, to the soldiers at their posts below. There was an entrance to the tower near to the palace, guarded, but little used, half-hidden by myrtle that had filled up the dried moat and climbed up the wall; and, as Giannotto still watched, the figure he had seen enter there, hooded and cloaked, passed out again hurriedly, sped between the sentries, who studiously took no heed, and was soon lost to sight along the winding paths. The movement was quick, the figure gone almost as soon as noticed; a casual observer would have taken little heed, but Giannotto's eyes were trained, and he knew the figure for whose it was: Valentine Visconti. "She must have bribed high," he thought. "High indeed. Why should she visit the prison of Isotta d'Este?" He followed her figure across the garden with curious, suspicious thoughts. "She is daring," he mused, "and foolish. Did she think no one's eyes could be on her, when Visconti has spies who are to watch her every movement?" He turned back into the corridor, twisting the ends of his scarlet robe between his fingers, and smiling to himself. The secretary was in a better humor than his master; that Mastino della Scala should live to vex Visconti, that he should have snatched von Schulembourg, one of his dearest victims, back from underneath his very hand, pleased Giannotto, as did anything that annoyed Visconti, save when his master's rage was such that his secretary felt its working. The Duke he knew to be alone. The brief audience he accorded was long over. Visconti had no friends; they, who must, sought him in the morning in the audience-room. For the rest, like the others of his tainted race, he lived alone. He paused outside Visconti's door, and the secretary smoothed a smile from his face, and, tapping slightly, entered with a silent, cringing movement. The chamber was dark, although it was full noonday. Visconti had no love for the sunlight, and even the narrow windows were obscured and shrouded in dark purple. The walls were paneled in carved wood, but, apart from the stiff chairs, the sole furniture of the apartment was a long low chest, set open, and showing silver goblets and curious bottles and glasses twisted into strange shapes, and colored. At the farther end were two doors close together, and between them sat Visconti, huddled up against the wall, gazing at the floor with strained, wide-open eyes. Giannotto, entering softly, noticed in his hand a bracelet, fashioned as a snake, emerald green, of striking workmanship. "A messenger from the Bologna embassy, my lord," he said, closing the door behind him, "has entreated me to ask thy attention to them." Visconti looked up quickly, and put out of sight the bracelet with a snap of anger. "What, do the Bolognese trouble me?" he said fiercely. "They only follow the example of the Pavians, my lord," returned the secretary smoothly. "They would have thy mediation between the rival factions in their state." "My mediation! Pavia asked it, as thou say'st, and so did Bergamo; yet do the twain who then appealed to me reign in either city now? The Bolognese are foolish," said Visconti. Giannotto shrugged his shoulders. "That need not trouble thee, my lord. Bologna is a wealthy town. Thy lordship will think of it?" The secretary's eyes were on the ground. Gian Galeazzo slipped his bracelet into his doublet and rose. "Aye, I will think of it," he said, "but for the moment there are more precious things to do even than using the Bolognese against themselves." Giannotto waited. The Duke paced to and fro a moment, then broke into the subject next his heart. "Thinkest thou Della Scala will outwit me?" he said eagerly. "Thinkest thou that if he do reach Ferrara he will rouse the Estes to action?" "He had two good hours' start," returned Giannotto, "and the road to Ferrara offers many chances." "And those men--who let them escape them? Do they still live?" "Aye, my lord. They are valuable. It is enough that Alberic da Salluzzo has been lost to us----" "They shall yet hang for it," said Visconti. With rapid steps he returned to his seat, flung himself into it, clutching the arms with vice-like grip. "He cannot do anything, Giannotto," he said. "He cannot rouse the Estes--against me! No; when Della Scala ruled nine cities, and his revenue was equaled only by the kings of France--I stripped him, I routed him. And now!" he smiled and his eyes widened, "he is a beggar. Perhaps it is not so ill that he lives to know it. It is a better revenge than any I could have devised, Delia Scala a beggar, a hanger-on at his kinsman's court, deafening his ears with unwelcome prayers, sinking into contempt before the people who once owned him lord!" Giannotto was silent. He could not imagine Mastino della Scala a beggar at any prince's court. But Visconti, blinded and absorbed by hatred, continued unheedingly: "Carrara also, the Duke of Padua, is too necessary to the Estes. They cannot stand without him. Will he, thinkest thou, ever be won over to side with Mastino? No, Giannotto, I do not fear him. Let Della Scala live robbed of all,--and with Count Conrad as an ally!"