Still he did not speak, and she raised her head and looked around questioningly and fearful. But the page only smiled: the men-at-arms sat silent and indifferent.

'Thou art very beautiful,' said Tisio at last. 'What is thy name? Whose daughter art thou?'

'Graziosa Vistarnini, my lord; Agnolo Vistarnini is my father. He is a painter.'

But Tisio's eyes grew vacant, and his gaze wandered to the lilies.

Did they come from yonder?' he asked, and pointed beyond the gate.

'No, my lord. From a friend's garden. My father thinks to paint them.'

Still Tisio did not heed her answer; he laughed foolishly. 'I may go?' asked Graziosa timidly. 'I may go, my lord?'

He bent from the saddle and lifted from her shoulder a long lock of her curling hair, and stroked it, dropping it with a sigh. 'Give me these,' he said, pointing to the lilies; 'all the flowers I know grow in Gian's garden—Gian is the Duke of Milan.'

And at his words, and the tone in which he spoke them, Graziosa's pity overcame her fear.

In silence, tears in her eyes, she handed him the flowers. He took them eagerly, but before she could withdraw her hand, he grasped her arm with a childish exclamation and touched the bracelet of fine workmanship she wore upon the wrist.

'I will have this too,' he said, laughing with satisfaction: but the girl drew her arm back sharply and turned to go.

Tisio fumed. 'The bracelet,' he said peevishly, and the page motioned her harshly to remain.

Graziosa turned to him in confusion and distress.

'I cannot give it him,' she said, the tears starting. 'I entreat thee, sir, ask him to let me go.'

But the page intimated to her warningly she had best make no to-do. There was only one law for the citizens of Milan: that was the tyranny of the Visconti; let the one who encountered it only in the capricious whim of the crazy Tisio be thankful.

'Hold it good fortune, it is naught but a bauble he demands,' said the page. 'Give him the bracelet; he will drop it, forgotten, tomorrow. Ask for me one day at the palace. I will restore it. But give it now, before he grows angry. Thou hadst better.'

Tisio's face was darkening.

'Make haste, make haste,' cried the page impatiently, 'or it will be thou and thy bracelet both that will be carried off.'

'My betrothed gave it to me,' she murmured. 'I cannot part with it.'

'I will have it,' repeated Tisio imperiously, with outstretched hand. Graziosa's helpless tears were flowing; slowly she unclasped the bracelet; the page took her treasure with an easy air, handed it to his master, and turned the horses' heads toward home.

'Thou wilt be none the worse,' he laughed, as they rode away. Tisio, absorbed in his new toy, gave her neither look nor thought, for jewels, gold ornaments of rare design, were the craze of this Visconti's diseased brain.

Graziosa pressed her bare arm to her lips, and looked after them, the tears of vexation streaming down. She thought of Ambrogio, the painter-lover, whose gift it was: what would he say to find her bracelet gone?

'Oh, if only Ambrogio had been here,' she cried, 'he would not have let the Duke himself take it from me—but I—what could I do?—if only he is not angry that I let it go.'

She had not much faith in the page's words besides, how dare she venture to the Visconti's palace? Her tears flowed afresh; she picked up the poor discarded lilies, all her pleasure gone. In the distance she could see Tisio, still handling the bracelet with delight, and she half-smiled, even through her tears, at so strange and pitiful a thing. 'It makes the poor crazy lord happy,' she said softly, 'but it breaks my heart to lose it.' She watched Tisio disappear; then, her loss a certainty, she turned with reluctant feet upon her errand.

Meanwhile Tisio, absorbed in his new spoil, rode toward the palace.

The projecting gables of the houses sent clear-cut shadows across his path; the strong noonday sun blended the city into brilliant light and shade, broken only by the vivid colour of the drapery fluttering at some unshaded window, or the sudden flash of pigeons' wings against the golden air.

As they neared the great gate of the palace, a group of horsemen, galloping noisily ahead of them, dashed into the vast courtyard and drew rein with a fine clatter at the entrance steps. Tisio, following, raised his head, and looked dully at them—a band of his brother's soldiers, hired mercenaries; it was usual enough to meet them both within and without the Visconti's abode. As he was dismounting, the leader of the band addressed him familiarly.

'My lord hears thee not, sir,' said the page, 'his thoughts are with his spoils.'

The soldier laughed with a grimace.

It was the freedom of one whose services are valuable enough, even when well paid, to permit him to bear himself with small respect to his employers. For the mercenaries were a power; the transfer of their services could ruin states and lose towns, and even Visconti had to pay them well and concede licence to their leaders; for upon them, to a great extent, his sovereignty rested, and Alberic da Salluzzo could take more liberties than any. He was a famous captain, noted for his skill in wars and turbulence in peace, a man with no country and no honour, endowed with dauntless courage and endurance, of vast rapacity and of all the cruelty his age allowed.

Making no way for Tisio, and motioning curtly to his men, he strode up the stairs, a stalwart figure, overdressed in splendid armour, and swung into the ante-chamber of the Visconti's audience-room. It was deserted. Alberic, astonished, paused on the threshold, looking round in amazement for the crowd—courtiers, servants, seekers, soldiers—wont to fill it.

Opposite was the closed door of the Visconti's room, but even Alberic dared not knock there unannounced.