They tell me the Visconti's crimes outnumber the stars; but, messer, his shadow has not fallen across my house, and what one does not see one does not fear—but when he returned from Verona, that was a sight, messer. It was late. Our house overlooks the western gate, and all day long the messengers had come and sped, bringing the news the Duke was here. Towards evening—we leaning from the window as did everyone—Alberic, da Salluzzo comes galloping to the walls—red-hot upon some report that the Visconti has been slain—to look to the arming of the citizens. Even as we strain from the window, following the flash of his plumes—back he comes in madder haste—the Visconti is alive! The people shout and yell, and some cry 'tis not the Visconti's army on the road, but della Scala's. Meanwhile a mob, with Napoleone della Torre at their head, begins to agitate, to threaten riot. With a strong hand Alberic puts them down—the streets are cleared, Graziosa and I on the balcony, all is dark, silent, save now and then the clink of the armour of the sentries on the walls. I am too excited for sleep, messer, all so hushed, so subdued, waiting, waiting. All at once it comes. Oh, the rattle, the roar! The great gates clatter back, the streets fill with crowds no man can keep back. The victorious army pelts through them; two men on every horse, great flaring torches throwing their yellow light on the torn banners and the wild faces of the soldiers, and then the cannon, leaping over the rough stones, drawn by the smoke-blackened gunners, all tearing, rushing through the streets, a mass of light and shade, wonderful, wonderful! In the midst, the Visconti, the ragged light streaming over his battered armour, and Isotta d'Este, guarded between two soldiers, swaying on her black horse, and above all the shouts of the frenzied triumph of the Milanese...Ah!'

Agnolo paused now for want of breath, and glanced at his companion.

But Francisco offered no response. His face was turned away, and his hands were clenched. The little painter had a vague sense of having allowed a mere artist's enthusiasm to carry him too far into a dangerous theme.

'Ah, well,' he continued in a deprecating tone, 'a splendid sight truly, and one to fire the blood, but I am a man of peace, and I greatly grieve della Scala should have perished. He was a noble prince.'

The stranger rose abruptly.

'Do not speak of della. Scala,' he said harshly. 'I love to hear his name as little as Visconti's. His was the crime of failure.'

'Failure! Who would not have failed?' said Agnolo gently, for he thought he spoke to one who must have lost his all in the sacked town. 'I know little of such things, but 'twas here and there asserted he fell by craft as well as force, and he was a great soldier and an honourable man, Messer Francisco.'

'He had all the virtues, doubtless,' said Francisco, 'and lost Verona.'

'And his life!' replied the painter. 'Ah, well, these things are grievous! The saints protect my daughter from all share in them,' and he glanced affectionately toward Graziosa, returning through the grey-green willows with lilies in her hands.

'For my pictures,' said the painter, pointing to them. 'I am painting an altar-piece—for the lunettes. I shall have Graziosa as St Catherine, and Ambrogio (her betrothed, messer) as St Michael. These flowers will make the border.'

He took some as he spoke, and began arranging them in wreaths.

Francisco would scarcely have heeded the speaker's words, save that his glance was caught almost involuntarily by the girl's sweet blush at mention of her lover's name.

Thy betrothed,' he murmured, interested a moment in the happiness that was such a contrast to his own feeling. 'And does he paint too?'

Graziosa looked up with sparkling eyes.

'Beautifully,' she said eagerly. 'He is at work now in the Church of Sant'Apollinare in Brescia. We have not seen his painting, the journey is too long; but some of the panel bits he has shown us, and they are noble.'

Francisco smiled faintly at her outspokenness, and her father laughed good-humouredly.

'Thou must not listen to her,' he said. 'She overrates his painting. He paints well, truly, but cold! ah, so cold; no spirit in it! He will sit for hours thinking how the fold of a robe should fall. I, however, have seen Taddeo Gaddi paint! The angels would seem to flow from his brush as if he gave no thought to them!' But Graziosa turned a smiling face from the boat she was unmooring.

'His altar-piece will draw all Lombardy,' she cried.

'Say rather that his altar-piece draws him away from thee,' laughed the painter, 'and thou wilt be nearer to the truth. The altar-piece has all his time; thou but a few meagre hours a week! Still, they love each other, messer, and are happy, so we never care whether Ambrogio paints well or ill.' Graziosa seated herself under the blue sail, and looked up with radiant-eyes.

'I am very happy,' she laughed softly, 'so never mind whether he paint the best or the second best in Italy.'

The painter grasped the oars and pushed out into the stream: 'Good-bye,' he called, and Graziosa waved a hand; then something in the stranger's aspect made the little painter pause again.

'Gladly would we offer our poor hospitality, messer,' he said, 'only the gates are sternly barred to any stranger...' But Graziosa, glancing also at the strong, commanding figure, and the stern set face, checked her father's impulse.

'We are too humble, father,' she said gently, 'but if there were any service we could render, any message—? We live at the sign of Lo Scudo, the armourer's, near to the western gate.'

'I will remember it,' said Francisco simply.

Graziosa drew her blue cloth hood about her smiling face, and, with gentle strokes from the painter's paddle, the boat disappeared.

When Francisco found himself alone again, momentary misgiving seized him that he had lost an opportunity.

Could these folk have been of service? They were of a sort unknown to him; courtiers, soldiers, burghers, merchants, with all such he was at home, but these plebeians of kindly nature and good speech, of humble rank and careless happiness, were new to him. The painter's talk of his craft had had no meaning for Francisco, it had passed from his mind for craziness; but the girl had said they dwelt near the, western gate—could they perchance have been of service? But presently he dismissed the notion; they were too simple for his purpose.

Raging in the pain of rekindled memory and present helplessness, Francisco paced to and fro, waiting for Vittore's figure in the distance.

Suddenly his eyes rested again on the great clump of yellow lichen, and he stopped, arrested.

In the midst of it he had seen something that interested him, something very much its colour, but not quite its kind.

He approached, and thrusting his hand in among the great tufts, touched the rusty iron of a disused bolt.