The Viper of Milan: A Romance of Lombardy

"For me!" repeated Adrian, and set himself before the door proudly, with flashing eyes and dagger drawn. He was only a boy, a page, she a princess, but he could set his life against her smile, and think himself well paid. Graziosa, panting with excitement, hurried them into the house, and into the lower room from which the secret passage opened. The pleasant little home was still half dismantled from the recent attack of the Germans, the neat trimness of the cool chambers gone. At their entrance Agnolo came forward in alarm, but at his daughter's hurried explanation, turned willingly to the secret door he kept well concealed. For the little painter took no thought of what it must mean to shelter any from Visconti's wrath. "Quick!" cried Valentine imperiously. "How long can one page keep that door?" "The poor boy!" moaned Isotta, hanging half lifeless upon Valentine's arm. "Unhappy boy--they will kill him!" Valentine looked at her with scorn. "Canst thou think of a page now?" she cried. "Think of Della Scala. Quick!" But the door would not yield, and while Agnolo struggled with the spring, a crash was heard, a cry, the ring of armor and the tramp of feet. "The door is down," said Valentine. "We are lost." "I cannot move the spring," cried Agnolo. "Quick! quick!" shrieked Graziosa, but even as she spoke, the chamber door burst open and a man stepped in; there were others at his heels, but he entered alone. Agnolo, starting back, dropped his concealments into place and trembled for his secret and these poor folk who had not escaped Visconti. The man who entered was in black, it was all that could be seen in the dark, disordered chamber, but Valentine needed no light to tell her who it was. Isotta sank to the ground, shrieking wildly. "Oh, father, father!" cried Graziosa, agonized, "save them!" The newcomer laid his hand on Valentine's shoulder, she standing calm and erect, and turned his face to Graziosa. "From me?" he said, and his voice was very sweet. "From me, Graziosa?" "Ambrogio! Ambrogio!" cried the girl. "What do _you_ here?" Valentine would have spoken scornfully, but Visconti turned his eyes on her, and she dared not. The courtyard was full of armed men. "Ambrogio!" repeated the painter in dismay. "What does this mean?" Visconti laughed pleasantly, but his hand tightened on his sister's shoulder. "It means, thy daughter hath found a lover worthy of her in Visconti." Visconti! As in a flash the little painter saw explained a thousand things that had perplexed him. Visconti! His quickly working brain had grasped it and summed it up before Graziosa could even realize she heard aright. She stared there silent, with a piteous look upon her face. Visconti turned to his prisoners. "Take Isotta d'Este back to her prison," he said, curtly, and a group of soldiers advanced. Isotta clung to Valentine in an agony. "At last!" said Visconti, in her ear, "at last thy calm fails thee!" And then he stood aside watching, while she implored in turn Valentine and Agnolo to save her, in incoherent words of anguish. "I cannot bear it!" she cried. "I have borne it too long! O God, have pity on me! Have pity on me, I have not the courage to face it again. I have not the courage!" Visconti turned to her in a savage triumph of hate he scarcely troubled to conceal. "Find thy courage again, where thou found'st it before," he said. "Thy husband is not dead, although he leaves thee to pine in prison. He may remember thee even yet." Isotta sprang up at the taunt, wild-eyed. "Keep thy face away from me!" she shrieked. "Ye have slain him! Kill me too!" Then, seeing resistance useless, and those who would have saved her helpless, Della Scala's unhappy wife surrendered quietly; only, as she crossed the courtyard with her guard, and saw the tree-tops wave above the walls and the sky that was outside Milan, a cry rose that made the hardened soldiers wince. "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."