The Viper of Milan: A Romance of Lombardy

only on terms thou wouldst spurn can I save thee,' she would understand--she would die with a smile, as I should--and that I could do. But to let her die a slow death--a dishonored death! Wilt thou remember it is Visconti! His lies in her ears--knowing nothing of my struggles! thinking herself forsaken, yet hoping against hope, and ever coming to her belief I would not let it be, till one day it was! Ah! I cannot do it! I cannot do it!" He threw himself on the chair again and hid his face. "She loves me," he said brokenly. "It seems strange, Ligozzi--that she should--care--for me. God knows, I have no charm such as Visconti has. I cannot please, I am clumsy and uncouth compared to those she had around her--and yet she chose me. 'While thou art alive I fear nothing,' were the last words I heard her say, and I shall leave her to curse the day she met and trusted me to save her from a villain. What commonest foot soldier I have would leave the woman that he loves to die Visconti's way? Ah, Heaven have mercy! For what crime is this a punishment!" "Then you will accept these terms for her release?" said Ligozzi. "I will plead with you no more, my lord--only, if you do this thing, I, who am your faithful servant, I, who ever loved and worshiped you, can serve you no longer--it is too terrible a thing--I cannot stay and see it done!" Mastino's head was bent forward, his hands clenched so tightly that the flesh was broken, his whole attitude so hopeless in its agony that Ligozzi feared for his reason. "Oh, my lord!" he cried passionately, and flung himself on his knees by Mastino's side. "Oh, my dear, dear lord! Thou wilt choose the noble part, I know! Thou wilt not let Visconti triumph, for this is all a devilish plot to make thee dishonored, to make thee betray thy trust--foil him--say no!" Mastino made no answer, and Ligozzi too lapsed into silence, rising from his knees softly.... How hot it was, how hot! Ligozzi felt dizzy--he wished the sun would cease blazing down--he wished Della Scala would move--had he persuaded him? Mastino raised his head. "Bring them back," he said slowly, "I will see them now." Ligozzi's heart beat high. "He has won--over himself at least he has a victory!" he thought--but looking on Della Scala's haggard face, he ventured no speech. Mastino sat erect--his hands on the table in front of him, his eyes on the floor. Visconti's envoys entered. Giannotto, glancing at Mastino and then at Ligozzi keenly, saw that there Visconti had an adverse advocate. But the strained silence on them all was hard to break. They were uneasy, like men before a great grief, or in the presence of one about to die--it was difficult to treat the matter as an ordinary one, or to ask a decision from that tortured man before them. Even Giannotto's heart failed him, and he stayed near the entrance, abashed and afraid, but with a fear different from that with which he fawned upon Visconti. Visconti's moods and motives he could understand--to some extent they were his own, on his own level,--but this man--some things were beyond the Duke of Milan's secretary, and for the first time in his life he felt it. Mastino himself broke that hideous silence. He raised his head, and with a little affectionate movement Ligozzi laid his hand on his master's arm as if to strengthen him. "I have considered," said Della Scala, in a hard voice. He paused a moment, but a moment only. "I have considered, and my answer is: I will accept Visconti's terms--my wife against the towns." "Oh, dear lord!" breathed Ligozzi. It was the only sound; the Milanese were silent, almost as if they too winced to hear the words. Mastino rose, with defiance in his burning eyes. "I accept--every city in my hands, every soldier--all--against my wife--I accept Visconti's terms." Ligozzi's hand had dropped from his shoulder, the clink of metal was heard through the heavy silence, without a word he stepped forward and laid his sword on the table before the Prince, then turned toward the entrance. "Ligozzi!" cried Mastino, incredulous. "Not thou, Ligozzi--not thou, my friend!" He held out his hand imploringly, regardless of the eyes upon him. Ligozzi stopped and turned, answering Della Scala's wistful look by one of bitter scorn and pain. "I had that sword from an honorable Prince--I go to weep that I should have to return it to a traitor!" "Ligozzi!" Mastino staggered back, his extended, rejected hand fell against his side. "Thou might'st have spared me that before _these_--for the sake of the old days--Ligozzi--" he said, steadying himself. Ligozzi did not turn; with a hard face he walked across the tent--without a look back, without a word or a sign, he was gone. Mastino watched his only friend depart, with straining eyes, that then he covered for a moment as if to shut out what they had seen. But the next moment he turned proudly to the messengers. Giannotto was alone. The soldier, de Lana, had vanished. Mastino started forward with a cry, but the secretary interposed: "My lord," he said smoothly, "our duty is our duty. There is no harm intended, there shall no harm be done; but of what value is your consent to my Lord Visconti's terms, if your _friend_ should speak of it?" Mastino fell back. A swift beginning. "Your lady's safety, my lord," said Giannotto, "depends on your friend's silence. He has left his sword. There will be no bloodshed." There was a silence, then Mastino looked up and spoke hoarsely. "Begone! and take my answer to Visconti. I accept and will carry out his terms; my wife against the towns." "Only remember, my lord," and the secretary smoothed his hands together nervously, "any attempt on Milan, any movement on your part, and the offer is null and void and the Duchess dies." "Begone!" screamed Mastino, "take my answer and begone!" Giannotto turned and went softly out of the tent. * * * * * It was done--it was done--beyond redemption had he fallen; he had chosen--there was no turning back. Mastino della Scala sat alone and stared in the face of what he had done. These few moments were his; then he must go and lie to his officers, deceive his men, weaken his towns, destroy his forts--prepare to place them in Visconti's hands. He must send false messages to the Estes and to Julia Gonzaga--lie and deceive and betray! But he had saved his wife from Visconti--his wife--Isotta. Outside he heard familiar voices, officers and men; his Veronese, still glad to trust his leadership; and he was to betray and trick them into shame. "Can I carry it through, can I go forth with a calm face and lie to them--my soldiers!" he cried in agony. "But her life--her dear life--her more than life--hangs upon my falsity!" He thought of the beautiful free towns of Italy: his Verona he had rescued once; proud Ferrara; Mantua that had never felt any yoke but that of the Gonzaga's; Pavia; all the haughty fair towns that had scorned Visconti. What would Visconti's vengeance on them be? Mastino could hardly believe he had done this thing. Yet were the choice given again, he would choose the same--he would choose the same! The sultry breeze blew back the opening, showing the deep blue sky and near-lying tents; a company of soldiers galloped by carrying the standard of Verona--the ladder of the Scaligeri. How soon would that banner be torn from the walls of Verona and the Viper take its place? "My city!" cried Mastino, "my city!" and his head sank forward on his out-thrown arms, while his shoulders heaved with sobs. CHAPTER THIRTY THE WEDDING Seven days had passed. In Milan there was much rejoicing, in its streets and palaces much splendor; it was the Lady Valentine's wedding day. Among the throng outside the church of San' Apollinare, the eager crowd that fought and battled for a better chance of seeing the splendid procession, was a monk, seemingly a wandering friar, who pressed his face against the cold marble walls in the silent vexation of an utter disappointment. It was Conrad. He had failed in his mad mission; success from the first had been hopeless; he had not redeemed himself. He had not helped Della Scala, he had not rescued Valentine--he had failed. A dozen different plans had been formed--equally futile and impossible to carry out. Who could outwit Visconti in his own city? Bitterly Conrad regretted the false hopes conveyed in that whisper in this very church. Perhaps she had trusted to them, and here was her wedding day and he was standing outside helpless! He knew it pure folly, this risking his life for nothing, and what had brought him there he could scarcely tell; but under his monk's habit he had a concealed dagger. He felt desperate, wounded badly in both heart and pride. It was not so much for love of Valentine Visconti--that had ever been more fancy than aught else--it was the sense of failure--of self-humiliation; a bitter sense of how Visconti laughed at him. Far better a fine, romantic death than disgrace one side, defeat the other. In fact a fine, romantic death in a lady's cause would be decidedly gratifying. With this new thought of it struggling in his mind, Count Conrad suddenly turned from the wall and forced lustily through the crowd to the church steps. He was there none too soon. A sudden wild shout from the crowd, a movement of the soldiers keeping guard, told him they were leaving the church. The pushing, struggling people were well kept back by the stout halberds; but Conrad, partly by virtue of his dress, but rather by the strength of his squared arms, managed to force to the front, where he stood close behind the stalwart figure of a German mercenary. Conrad glanced at the blond hair and mild blue eyes. "Friend," he whispered in German, leaning forward, "have consideration for a German father who will say many prayers for thee--in his native tongue." The soldier turned. "Quick," said Conrad, "a place next thee, my friend." The soldier smiled at the friar's curiosity, and allowed him vantage; and Conrad, stationed near the foot of the steps, looked up them eagerly to the brilliant group issuing from the church doors. His roving eyes sought out Gian Visconti. It was only four months since he had seen him, talked to him freely, face to face, his friend and favorite, but it seemed years. Visconti had grown in greatness since then, and Conrad, when his gaze caught the once familiar figure, felt far away from knowledge of him. Visconti was standing, his cap in his hand, surveying the crowd. He looked much older, Conrad thought, his face was dark and somber, hardly like the face of a man at the summit of his ambition. He came down the steps slowly, on one side his sister, her bridegroom on the other, and taking no further notice of the shouting people, gazed down moodily. Conrad hardly looked at Valentine, whiter than her white dress, gazing vacantly before her; he did not notice the utter change from her former brilliancy, he had no eyes for the overdressed, foppish bridegroom--he was looking at Visconti. The steps were thickly strewn with flowers; the train of lords and ladies was one blaze of color and gems, still flowing from the church as Visconti came to within three steps of the Count, and Conrad sprang forward before the startled soldier could throw out a hand. Visconti stopped, and the procession behind him, arrested, stood a flaming band of movement and color. Conrad threw back his hood with a sweeping gesture, thrilled by the excitement of the moment to dare anything. What his motive he could not have told, but it was a fine moment. He caught one glimpse of Valentine's suddenly illumined face, and drew the dagger.