The Viper of Milan: A Romance of Lombardy
Visconti--his last and greatest victory!"
"But my uncle--Della Scala's court!" cried the boy distractedly. The old
man drew himself up in his rags and spoke with a mixture of pride and
awe.
"Mastino della Scala perished in the flames of his burning palace; his
wife is a prisoner, yonder in Milan, in the Visconti's hands. Thou hast
not much to look for from Della Scala's court," he said.
"Hold thy peace! Hold thy peace!" cried angry voices. "What hast thou to
do with such as he?" and the old man, whose better intelligence made him
a source of danger to the others, was dragged away.
"But thou wilt not leave me here?" said Vittore, in distress. "Where
shall I go? What shall I do?" But the peasant folk were not much moved
by his misfortunes, too much used to scenes like this.
"We risk our necks by staying by thee," growled one dark-browed man. "As
for thy companion, it is his own mad doing. He is dead, and we may be
dead this time to-morrow, and kicked into the ditch like him."
Even the woman listened blankly to his entreaties, and the throng
sullenly departed on its way.
"Any moment a soldier of the Visconti may come by, or the Visconti
himself may return, then anyone found tending one of his victims will be
in sorry plight." This, mumbled out with curses at the delay, was their
only answer.
The peasants of Lombardy lived in the shadow of an awful name. Gian
Galeazzo Maria Visconti knew neither fear of God nor man, neither pity
nor remorse.
The young Florentine sank down upon the grass, and looked after the
retreating train in mute distress. To seek for help would mean to leave
his cousin, and he could not move him. Tomaso lay in a deep swoon, for
the blow had driven him back upon a stone. Terribly wounded about the
face, Tomaso added to his young cousin's distress by his ghastly
appearance, his head bound in rough bandages, torn from Vittore's
clothing, and now darkly stained with blood. The boy wrung his hands and
looked up and down the road--no one in sight.
It was just after the victory in the long-standing wars between the
cities; Verona had fallen into the Visconti's hands; interchange of
traffic was for the time laid low; the road was likely to be deserted,
and for hours none passed.
The boy dragged Tomaso's head and shoulders as far into the shade as he
could manage, remoistened the bandages about his head, and tried to
force down his throat some of the food and drink they carried. But the
youth muttered between clenched teeth, and lay with wide-staring eyes,
inert and unresponsive. His consciousness had returned, but he was
delirious in fever. As the day wore on, new and sickening terror seized
on Vittore. The Visconti would return to Milan! Hiding his face in his
hands, he sobbed aloud. Since the bright dawn of the morning, what a
change in prospects! Della Scala's court a ruin--and Tomaso's
father--his uncle, the only parent he had ever known--what of him! And
Tomaso too! He must sit there and see him die beside him. As the
noontide waned, he had fallen again into stupor, and the boy looked at
his changed face distractedly.
"He is dead!" he cried, "I know he is dead!" But he dared not leave him;
besides, Milan held a terror, and he would scarcely dare to enter it.
Perhaps when the peasants returned they might have pity on them; if
not--again his sobs filled up the lonely outlook. The long hours dragged
by; a horseman passed, a mercenary laden with some plunder from Verona;
he did not even turn in his saddle. A few peasants slowly came back from
Milan, seeking their huts around the neighboring villas. But they were
as deaf to his cries as before; he could come with them if he liked; but
the other--he was dead and killed by the Visconti; let him lie there.
And now Vittore was in despair; the sun was beginning to drop behind the
trees, the delicate stems of the poplars stretched in long blue shadows,
the faint golden light lay across the primroses, making them fairylike.
Suddenly a step aroused him. Some one along the road. He started to his
feet, and there, still in the distance, but rapidly approaching, was the
figure of a traveler, his shadow thrown before him, his face set toward
Milan.
CHAPTER TWO
"FRANCISCO"
A gleam of hope sent Vittore forward. Here was some one who, alone and
on foot, must know the perils of travel, and might be kind-hearted;
though, with Tomaso dead, what even pity could do for him he scarcely
knew. Then again the boy's heart failed him. Perhaps this was no more
than some wandering robber. He paused, drew back, and the traveler came
on not noticing him, his gaze fixed keenly on the distant city.
By the roadside some boulders, half-hidden in violets and golden with
moss, offered a seat, and half-stumbling over them, the stranger
abruptly withdrew his eyes from Milan and saw for the first time the
boy, who from a few paces off was timorously observing him.
He was a powerful man of gigantic size, clothed in coarse leather,
undressed, patched, slashed, and travel-worn. His legs were bound with
straw and thongs of skin, the feet encased in rough wooden shoes stuffed
with grass.
A battered leathern cap covered his head, and from his shoulder hung a
ragged scarlet cloak. A dagger and a sword were stuck in his belt, a
leather pouch hung at his side. The man's face and bearing belied his
dress. He was not handsome, and a peculiar effect was given to the
expression by the half-shut brown eyes, but he had a grave and stately
bearing, and as he a little unclosed a searching gaze upon Vittore, the
boy felt renewed encouragement.
"Sir," cried the lad advancing, "I am in great distress. My cousin lies
there dead, or dying. Help me to get him to some shelter."
"I am a stranger here," replied the traveler, "and have no shelter for
myself to-night."
His accent, like his bearing, again belied his dress. He spoke in the
refined Tuscan tongue, the language of the better classes, and to
Vittore, who was gently nurtured, more familiar than the rough dialect
of Lombardy, which he and Tomaso could only badly comprehend.
"But what I can find for myself," he added, "thou art welcome to share.
Where is thy cousin?"
Vittore pointed to the recumbent figure half-hidden in the bank; the man
glanced across, then around him. The sun was almost set, a whole flock
of delicate little pink clouds lay trembling over Milan, its noble
outline already half in shadow.
"It will be dark soon," he said, "and perchance--" he broke off
abruptly. "Thy cousin, didst thou say?--what has happened to him?
Wounded in some roadside fray?"
He rose as he spoke and crossed over to the fallen boy. "And what are
you two doing traveling alone?" he demanded sternly.
"Alas, messer, we were going to Verona."
"To Verona, by way of Milan?"
"We had no choice. The company we traveled with were bound hither, but
three days ago we missed them, and came on here alone, lest perhaps they
had preceded us. But for this accident we thought to pass the night in
Milan--but now, what shall we do? and we hear that Verona has been
taken!"
The stranger was bending over Tomaso, and Vittore did not see his face.
"How did this happen?" he asked presently, touching the mark upon
Tomaso's face. And Vittore told him.
The stranger was quiet a long breath.
"So this is _Visconti's_ doing," he said at last. "Thy cousin is a brave
lad."
And he fell again into a silence which Vittore dared not break, while
under the stranger's care Tomaso opened his eyes, and feebly muttered
and tried to rise. But the other bade him wait a while, and turned to
Vittore again.
"And which way did Visconti ride?" he asked.
The boy pointed. "The peasants said it was toward Brescia."
"And he has not yet re-entered Milan?"
"No, messer." By now Vittore felt and showed respect.
"Then we will not enter Milan either," said the stranger, "since
Visconti has not."
The boy gazed on him, struck by his tone, and Tomaso's eyes,
half-closing, reopened and fixed themselves upon the stranger's face.
"Messer, you hate Visconti?" whispered Vittore.
The man laughed shortly. "There are many in Lombardy who hate Visconti,"
he said. "Perhaps I not less than others. Boy," he added, with sudden
intensity, "I have only two things to live for: one is to tell Visconti
to his face what one man's hatred is."
And leaving them half-terrified, he strode into the road, and shading
his eyes looked long and searchingly away from Milan; but the dusk was
settling fast, not a soul in sight, not a sound.
Presently, with an air of relief, born of new-sprung resolution, the
stranger returned to the expectant boys.
Revived by his tendance and by the cool evening air, Tomaso was helped
upon his feet, Vittore clasped his hands in joy to see him move again.
"Messer, how shall we thank thee!" he exclaimed.
"Call me Francisco," said the traveler. "Thou wert journeying to
Verona, didst thou say? What kinsman hast thou there?"
"My father," whispered Tomaso feebly, "Georgio Ligozzi." Leaning against
the stranger, indeed half-carried by him, Tomaso felt him start. "Thou
knewest him, messer?"
"He was put high in favor at Della Scala's court, and sent for us to
share his fortune," put in Vittore eagerly.
"Ah," said Francisco. "Della Scala's court has perished. I am from
Verona. I saw it burned."
Tomaso's head sunk dizzily upon his helper's shoulder. Vittore's young
heart swelled, then seemed to break within him. He choked back his sobs.
"And Della Scala--and my uncle: did they perish too?"
"Who can tell?" replied the stranger sternly. "Who shall say who
perished or who not on such a night as that on which Verona fell?"
"But Della Scala's wife, the Duchess, is yonder, prisoner in Milan."
"And that proves, thou thinkest, Della Scala must be dead! Maybe; who
knows? All the same, thou art a brave lad and a gallant for the
thought."
He paused to rest Tomaso on the boulders that had been his seat. "And
for that speech of thine I'll tell thee something, boy. I am the
Visconti's foe. For the sake of Della Scala, whom I knew, for the sake
of Verona, where I lived, for the sake of something dearer to a man than
life, I am sworn to hunt him down--and now, no more. We will see to
shelter."
Resting Tomaso's head against his knee, Francisco turned a trained and
searching gaze about him.
To the right, on some thickly wooded, slightly rising ground, could be
discerned the unmistakable outline of a great wall, built to a
monstrous height, no doubt the boundary of a villa of unusual size and
magnificence. Beneath the wall, half-hidden by a grove of chestnuts, was
the usual cluster of huts: the dwellings of the hinds and vassals of the
villa's noble owner. But no smoke trailed upward, nor did any sign of
life strike upon the ear.
"We will try those huts yonder," said Francisco. "They are far enough
from the road for security, yet not too far to hamper any return hither.
They seem deserted, but even if inhabited, they are scarce likely to
refuse me shelter for a wounded boy."
And Vittore, looking at his size and stern appearance, thankfully agreed
with him. Almost carrying Tomaso, Francisco led the way, and quickly
reached a footpath which, after many twistings, brought them out into a
turf-grown opening around three sides of which the cottages were built.
The fourth was the wall enclosing the grounds, and along it, bordering a
ditch, ran a pleasant path which, as they subsequently discovered, led
to a small stream, artificially extended, where it passed the villa, to
a lake of some not inconsiderable size.
But, as Francisco had surmised, the whole place stood empty and
deserted, though it could not have been long since the fagots had blazed
on the open hearths. Signs of occupation were too recent.