It was Giannotto knocking lustily. 'Now, who beats down the door?' cried the Duke, and waiting for no further summons, Giannotto entered. The Duke, starting, thrust the turquoise gloves into his doublet.

'What is it now, Giannotto? Did I not say that I was coming?'

'My lord, it presses. De Lana would see you—there has been fierce fighting outside the walls—the army clamours for you—'

'Lead the way,' said Visconti shortly; and, preceded by his secretary, he returned hastily towards his council chamber.

The anteroom, brilliant in pink stone and gold, the great hall itself, flaring in painted walls and dazzling stained-glass windows, were full of people—courtiers, soldiers, artists, and craftsmen.

Gian Visconti kept neither the open court nor the free table of his father; he was neither lavish in his hospitality, save when it suited his own ends, nor liberal in his rewards; still he loved, encouraged, and jealously exacted the homage of all artists. Woe be to the painter or poet who took his painting or poetry to any other in Milan save the Duke himself!

There were many there today, eager-eyed among the throng, among them the German architect of the glorious new church; but today Visconti passed unheeding through them. The city was at war.

He stepped into the council chamber unannounced, followed solely by Giannotto.

The great gilt ornate room was full of Milanese and foreigners, allies or guests of Visconti.

'You look grave, my lords,' cried Visconti, his grey eyes wide, 'and fearful. I had not thought you of so poor a courage. Yet, since you are so faint of heart, I come to tell you from my own lips that I ride against Verona today! Have you forgotten, my lords, that a Visconti still rules Milan?'

There was no answer from the splendid throng; they had complained much of late—but not to his face.

'Have you no thanks, for so much comfort?' laughed Visconti. 'Let all those who may care to follow make them ready, and let those who care not—stay to make us welcome from a victory. Come, de Lana.'

He turned away with his hand on his favourite captain's arm. To a man the crowded assembly flocked to follow.

'Ah!' Visconti turned again.

'A crushed foe is scarcely to be feared! Have I not set my standard in the market-place of Verona? Have I not dragged a hostage from della Scala's palace? Lords of Milan, am I not Visconti?'

With one voice they broke into loud shouts.

'To the city walls! To the city walls! Down with della Scala! To the city walls!'

And while the cry still sounded, before the enthusiasm could abate, Visconti, armed and mounted, rode at the head of some thousand mercenaries and Milanese to the farthest rampart of the city.

Orleans had not volunteered. The French duke remained in the well-guarded palace, of which the Lady Valentine was left the governor during the Duke's absence, an office she had often filled before quarrels had sprung up between her and her brother, and while he held Milan against his father and she was his counsellor and ally.

For a few brief hours, power again was hers, for Visconti had not weakened her authority yet—outwardly at least. She could do nothing.

She thought of her helplessness with bitterness. All day long she set herself to revolving schemes of escape—some way whereby to avail herself of the confusion into which Milan had been thrown—some means to outwit her brother.

She could not rest for her anxious thoughts. The Visconti palace was near the walls, and Valentine, stepping on to the open balcony, looked through the clustered pillars over the flat house-roofs to the distant country where the advancing army lay.

The air was heavy. From the street came the sound of tumult, noise, and hurry: the walls were manned.

'There is to be some fighting,' murmured Valentine.

She shaded her eyes from the sun that, beating on the red brickwork of the palace, gave back a blinding glare.

'Oh, may God grant that victory may fall,' she murmured, 'where Count Conrad draws his sword!'

It was evening before Visconti returned, weary from his survey of his men, victorious after a fierce skirmish with some of Verona's mercenaries, led by Mastino's trusted Captain Roccia.

The palace that till then had lain so quiet was suddenly a wild confusion, a babel of noises, shouts, and trampling of horses.

Strange, flaring lights were thrown across the courtyard; the torches flung ragged, straggling rays upon the sides of the palace, falling grotesquely on the griffins that grinned either side the arched door, falling across the long rows of straight windows, and, for a second, on Valentine Visconti's pale face, looking eagerly below.

'Dogs of Veronese!' cried Visconti, turning his blazing eyes toward the prisoners. 'They have cost us a wild hour!'

And he had been in the thick of it; his rich armour was dented, the embroidered surtout torn to rags: Visconti's blood was up. In a fight, even the Torriani could not say he lacked anything save prudence.

Without alighting, he took from his head his ponderous helmet with the viper crest, and gave it to his page.

'We have given Roccia a taste of our quality!' he laughed, and pulled his gauntlets off. 'Where is Giannotto?'

'I am here, lord,' said Giannotto.

He stood at the Duke's saddle, looking around him in confusion.

'What news, Giannotto?' cried Visconti. 'Thy pallid face seems too ready to welcome me. Let me dismount.'

'Hear me first,' entreated the secretary, 'before you dismount—before anything—lord!'

'Quick with thy news then—stand back, de Lana, I must hear this rogue.'

Giannotto drew closer.

'My lord, at noon today, Rinalta, the Tuscan captain, rode in. While Roccia was engaging you, some mercenaries forced one of the gates, and before they could be driven back, a house was broken into, some prisoners made—'

The Duke fixed his widening eyes upon the speaker, and Giannotto shrank.

'What gate?' he asked. 'What house? What prisoners?'

'The western gate, lord, and Agnolo Vistarnini's house!'

With a sound of fury Visconti struck at his secretary violently, with the ends of his bridle.

'And I was not told before!'

'It was held too small a fray, lord,' said the secretary. 'Could I tell Lady Valentine one gate was more to you than another? I besought her to send to you—I besought them all—could I tell them why?'

Even as he spoke de Lana rode up resolutely.

'More men are needed at the western gate,' he said; 'the Germans have returned. I will lead them.'

'No!' cried Visconti; 'I, de Lana.'

The soldier looked surprised.

'You, lord? There is no need—'

'It is my will,' Visconti answered fiercely. 'At once, to the western gate!'

At his cry the soldiers flung themselves again into the saddle, and those who still sat their horses gathered up their reins.

'Your helmet, lord,' cried the startled squire; but Visconti swept him aside and rushed bareheaded forward, de Lana and his troop of horsemen after him in a wild riot of sound and light.

Giannotto stood bewildered in the doorway; nothing left of the wild tumult that had filled spaces save echoing shouts and trampling hoofs.

'Visconti is mad,' he thought has ridden off almost unarmed! Now—I wonder what may happen before he return from the western gate—the night is dark and—dangerous.'

And with a thoughtful glance up at the cloudy sky, Giannotto slowly withdrew.

 

Chapter 15. — A Prisoner from Milan

Mastino della Scala was proving himself. He had come to within fifteen miles of Milan.

Verona was his again; that was in itself enough to justify his allies' confidence.

Of them Julia Gonzaga's force and Ippolito d'Este's army lay at Brescia, ready at any moment to advance.

Della Scala's position lay nearer Milan, and by far the larger half of his support was Carrara, Duke of Padua's contingent, led by the Duke in person.

Between the two forces, a quarter of a mile outside della Scala's camp, was the castle of Brescia, at one time an occasional residence of Barnabas, Visconti's father, and now a gloomy fortress, with an evil reputation; for Barnabas, driven from Milan by his son, had died there—with his wife—of fever it was said. In a gorgeous tent in the midst of della Scala's camp sat Conrad von Schulembourg and the younger d'Este.

It was the slumbrous hour after noon, the air heavy with an approaching storm, and Conrad lounged languidly on a low divan, playing with his dagger. The war, although success had fallen to his leader, had already begun to weary this indolent cavalier, and even the sight of Milan in the distance, where Valentine was imprisoned, could not keep him from whining at the hardness of his fate.