The Viper of Milan: A Romance of Lombardy
green and snowy white, the proud beauty of the heaped-up flowers, the
vivid richness of the foliage; for his heart was too sore for the finest
sun that ever shone to ease it.
He had waited long, and waited hopelessly.
In the tent behind him, Tomaso and a page polished his armor. For once
Mastino was without it--yesterday he had donned it, and waited expectant
for the answer to the challenge he could not believe Visconti could
refuse. It was his fault to think the best of men, a fault that had cost
him dear when he had trusted Count Conrad, a fault that had cost him the
insult now of Visconti's answer to his message.
"I have tried everything, and in everything I have been outwitted or
betrayed. I am helpless, powerless. Will it last unto the end?"
The thought burned across Mastino's heart like fire.
"Would it last unto the end?"
The dazzling sun blinded him, the waving of the green made him giddy; he
lifted the flap of the tent and entered.
After the glare the dark and gloom were welcome.
The tent was large and bare, only the two boys in their quiet dresses
and the bright armor strewn over the worn grass, only these and Ligozzi
seated near the entrance watching Mastino with anxious eyes.
Della Scala could not speak to him. He avoided his eyes, he had talked
to him so often on this one theme. He could not meet his friend's eyes,
so often humiliated with failure, with nothing but fresh disaster to
speak of.
In silence he paced up and down the tent, Ligozzi's eyes following him
wistfully. He also did not care to speak.
Mastino had left the entrance half open, and a great shaft of sunlight
fell across the ground like a branch of yellow flowers.
And as Della Scala passed it fell upon him, showing clearly his erect
figure in its leathern doublet, his fine worn face and the unhappiness
in his eyes, his hands locked behind his back.
The next instant he had passed into the shadow again, and Ligozzi leaned
from where he sat and shook the covering into place. Twice Mastino had
passed, twice he had seen the look on his face, and he did not care to
see it again.
The tent was hot.
Tomaso and the page laid the armor down in silence, overawed by the
silent figure pacing to and fro.
Outside it was quiet too, only now and then the gallop past of horses or
the tramp of men as they moved from one part of the field to another.
At last Mastino spoke, stopping before Ligozzi suddenly.
"I have not told thee yet," he said, "but a messenger has arrived from
d'Este. There have been some slight successes with his army, and he
thinks that I should join him."
"And leave Milan?"
"And leave Milan. He thinks it is hopeless, now Rome leagues with
Visconti--he thinks it better to hold what we have nor risk it all by
careless daring--but I--I shall stay here, Ligozzi."
Ligozzi was silent; he knew d'Este's words were true; he knew Mastino
knew it also. There was nothing to be said.
"I shall advance on Milan," continued Della Scala. "If the d'Estes'
troops care not to join me, I will advance alone with my Veronese."
He sat down on the wooden bench, fingering with nervous hands his gold
belt and the dagger that hung there.
"Why dost thou not speak?" he said, after a moment's pause, suddenly
turning to Ligozzi. "Dost thou too think it hopeless?"
There was a wistful eagerness in his voice that struck to Ligozzi's
heart; he could not utter his thought.
"With waiting, my lord," he replied. "With new allies----"
But Della Scala cut him short.
"I see, Ligozzi, I see. I am a man wanting to be persuaded against
himself; yet do I still hope--against myself----"
"To rescue----"
"To rescue my wife, wouldst thou say?" flashed Mastino. "No, I do not
_hope_ that: that I _will_ do--in my soul I know it; but I still hope to
conquer in fair fight. What did the attempt at guile avail us? We were
betrayed; open force were better."
Ligozzi's anger rose at the thought of that betrayal.
"I would I had the slaying of the traitors!" he cried.
Mastino smiled sadly.
"What were we to her? She loved, perchance. I should have done the
same--for Isotta."
"Thou wert ever too gentle, my lord," returned Ligozzi. "Could woman
love _Visconti_?"
"She loved some one of her own creating, I trow," said Della Scala.
"Poor lady! the awakening will be her punishment."
Ligozzi made no reply. Mastino's point of view was not his: in his eyes
Graziosa was a hussy he would have liked to have the hanging of.
"In two days or a little more, when I have had my answer from the
Estes," said Mastino, rising, "I march on Milan."
"But in those two days?" questioned Ligozzi.
"Visconti seems to have ceased all sallies," said Della Scala; "and yet
I know not what this quiet means."
"It means his policy was ever caution," returned Ligozzi. "Of a sudden
he may----"
"He may do anything," cried Mastino; "he hath Milan and Rome and the
Empire to back him. Still do I hold many towns. Verona is strongly
fortified; I lie between him and Mantua. He cannot fall on those."
"He has Padua, Bassano, Mestre, and Chioggia," said Ligozzi.
Mastino struck his hand against the tent impatiently.
"I know!" he cried. "I know the odds are not equal! When I seek to
comfort myself, why wilt thou remind me, Ligozzi? What can I do? Nothing
but what I say: march on Milan. And mark me, Ligozzi; whatever befall,
if all desert me to a man, if d'Este fail me, I will not leave the walls
of Milan--alive, without my wife."
"I will not desert thee," said Ligozzi simply. "I will never desert
thee, my lord."
"I never doubted thee," returned Mastino impulsively. "Ah, forgive me if
I am harsh, for in truth my heart is very heavy; when I think of her--in
Visconti's power--it is terrible! terrible!"
He shuddered and put his hand on Ligozzi's shoulder, speaking eagerly.
"Such things cannot happen, Ligozzi, can they? It cannot be I shall
never see her again! God cannot mean that--though He take all from me,
though He humiliate me before my enemy, He cannot mean that! No!
Visconti is not leagued with Heaven: it cannot be! it cannot be!"
"No," said Ligozzi; "even Visconti would not dare to harm the Duchess.
Ye will see her again, my lord."
Della Scala turned away to the other end of the tent; it was plain to
him Ligozzi's heart was not in the comfort that he gave, that he thought
with the others that they would do well to fall back from Milan, join
the Estes, and hold the towns they had.
"But they do not understand," said Mastino in his heart. "I will never
go back alive--without my wife."
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE VIPER
The Duke of Milan had sent a secret embassy to Mastino della Scala,
lying crushed outside Milan--a secret embassy he had long been
meditating. The master-stroke of his policy should be the Duke of
Verona's ruin, and his complete triumph.
And the moment of his sending was well chosen. The two days of which
Mastino spoke had passed. The answer from d'Este at Novara had been
unfavorable. His plans, he said, were to march back to Modena and
Ferrara, protecting that part of Lombardy, held now by Julia Gonzaga's
men alone, against Visconti; he would wait for his army to come up; he
would wait for Mastino, but not long; his duty lay inside Modena and
Ferrara, not outside the hopeless walls of Milan.
And Mastino had set his teeth, and taken his answer in silence.
That night there was a wild attack on the walls of Milan, so sudden, so
fierce, that it almost seemed as if the ramparts must fall before the
furious onslaught.
For five hours the Veronese and the defenders had struggled on the
walls. Twice Mastino had wrenched the towers of the western gate from
the enemy's hand; twice he had been driven back, leaving his dead piled
high. A third desperate attempt had also been lost, and Della Scala fell
back toward Brescia with frightfully diminished numbers, and mad with
the agony of final defeat. His cause seemed hopeless. And in the moment
of his hopelessness Visconti's embassy arrived.
"Give Della Scala one day to consider," Visconti said to Giannotto, who
accompanied de Lana on this mission. "An if he mislikes the terms, say
thou art to carry them to Ippolito d'Este."
It was evening, and very still. Visconti stepped onto the balcony, and
looked through the clustered pillars of its arcade into the garden.
The setting sun blended all flowers alike with soft gold; a little
breeze shook the leaves, and stirred the jasmine that clung to the
carved sandstone, fluttering its white stars delicately; the sky was
very clear, as pure as a shell, and tinted like a wild rose.
Visconti was busy with his thoughts. His eyes rested on Isotta's dark
prison with an utter satisfaction in gazing on this evidence of his
power over Della Scala. And then he looked to Graziosa's dwelling, and a
shade crossed his face. Even to himself he would not yet admit it--but
with her it was not perfect success.
Since Valentine's cruel stab, Graziosa had faded, grown silent and dull;
and her beauty had gone with her happiness. She looked no wife for a
Visconti. Torn from its setting, her fresh face lost its charm; the
simplicity that had pleased him in her father's house annoyed the Duke
in his own palace; the meekness and devotion that had flattered his
vanity now angered it--in his eyes she had no more presence than a
serving-maid; she was making his choice a mock before all Milan, with
her white face and timid voice.
Visconti frowned to himself as he thought of her. She had said no word,
she had uttered no reproach; she had remained passive and dull; but she
was grown a mere shadow, a reflection of her former self.
"Maybe her folly will wear away," mused Visconti moodily. "But if
not--if she prefers her father before me--she may follow him."
To-day he had not as yet seen her. This was the first thought he had
spared her; now he had a free moment and he would visit her--see for
himself if her humor should promise of changing--the humor of:
"My Lady Graziosa Vistarnini, who hath not spirit for her destiny, who
hath not the greatness to be proud to be a Duchess of Milan."
Visconti sneered at her scruples, and was inclined to be angry with his
own folly in choosing his wife for a soft heart and true affection; and
with more even than anger he thought of Valentine. He took his way alone
through the sumptuous gardens.
Graziosa was not in her gorgeous residence. "She had gone to the little
summer-house in the garden," he was told, "to see the sun set, and pray
to Santa Teresa, whose name-day it was."
Visconti turned on his heel with an impatient shrug of the shoulders. He
was not attuned to passive virtue or to saintly prayers, nor was his
palace their best background.
He saw Tisio and his pages in the distance--behind them, the white
marble summer-house, standing on a gentle eminence, half hidden in
laurel; and as he advanced through the clustering flowers he saw Tisio
enter the low door, the scarlet liveries of the pages flashing through
the deep green.
The perfect evening was like music in its calm loveliness. Visconti felt
its charm; he was ever alive to obvious beauty, and none of his artist's
perception could have walked this glorious summer garden, at such an
hour, unmoved. His heart softened toward Graziosa: she had saved
Milan--for his sake: in his great triumph he could afford to remember
it, and the affection that prompted it, and set to her credit much else
she might seem to lack.
He picked a white rose from the bush that crossed his path, and stuck it
in his belt; he remembered she had often worn them--there was a bush in
Agnolo's bower, and they reminded him of her. He looked up at the white
summer-house, a square tower, distinct against the sky: the top window