'But I must perforce trust him when there is no other.'

Outside the Duke's tent, his escort was in readiness to start, and his white horse waiting, held by Tomaso.

'After all, my lord,' whispered Ligozzi, 'Carrara may not be false.'

Mastino shook his head. 'He only awaits the opening,' he said.

'What does console me,' he added, 'is that I shall be back tomorrow.' And he looked toward Milan as he spoke. 'Ligozzi,' he continued wistfully, 'how long the time seems since I saw her. The last words I heard her speak are for ever in my ears: "While thou livest I fear nothing"; and I live, Ligozzi. Sometimes I am ashamed of it!'

'You live to free her, my lord,' said Ligozzi softly.

Mastino mounted in silence. 'Yes, I live for that,' he said, after a pause.

He turned and saw Tomaso watching him.

'Yes, thou shalt come with us,' he smiled; 'only mount in haste. The time wears on.'

At this moment, foremost among a little group of horsemen, Carrara cantered toward him, black-eyed, smiling, richly dressed, a plumed cap between his smooth white fingers.

'Farewell, Carrara,' said Mastino. 'Count von Schulembourg is second in command. I leave all to your discretion, subject to my orders already given.'

Giacomo bowed, but made no reply other than his smiling eyes. His meditated treasons were ripe for execution, and he could scarce contain himself at the good fortune of it; Visconti's messenger had reached him the same day that della Scala rode away. There remained only Conrad.

'Till tomorrow at noon,' murmured Carrara, repeating della Scala's last words, as he watched him ride away. 'An attack on Milan, in less than a week! You are mad for a woman's silly face—in less than a week I shall have joined Visconti.'

Visconti understood the art of bribery, and knew whom to bribe. Carrara, only waiting in the hope of it, had caught eagerly at the bait, and by the returning messenger had agreed to join Visconti and leave della Scala shorn of more than half his forces. And Mastino, by his absence, had made it child's play. As Carrara returned now to his own tent, thinking and scheming, a captain of mercenaries galloped up.

'The prisoners, my lord, captured by some of Count von Schulembourg's men, in the scuffle outside Milan yesterday, are being brought into the camp—is it to you or to him we bring them?'

Carrara fingered his bridle.

'Take them to the castle,' he said at last. 'I myself will see them presently.'

He glanced over his shoulder at Count Conrad's tent. The embroidered entrance was dosed, the black and yellow eagles fluttered idly over it—there was no sign of the young German. The Duke of Padua smiled.

'Are those the prisoners?' he asked, pointing to a little group of soldiers guarding a few men.

'Yes, my lord. We had almost forced the gates—when a band rushed out and there was a desperate struggle; we were driven back, and these fellows, in the heat of the victory, followed too far. Then we turned and had them, and brought them in for ransom. They seemed worth it.'

'I will go and view them,' said Carrara suddenly, and he cantered his horse toward the little group.

The noise of the prisoners' arrival was spreading, still there was no sign of Count Conrad, and again the treacherous Carrara smiled. But in a moment more the smile had faded. He noticed among the prisoners a face he surely knew.

Prudence was Giacomo Carrara's ruling quality, and helped him now to keep his wits.

'That fellow yonder,' he said, pointing, 'he with the red hair—who is he? Has he told his quality?'

''Twas he who led the chase,' was the answer, 'screaming like a madman. He is the squire of some nobleman, and gave out he thought we had his master captive.'

Carrara breathed heavily.

'I know something of him, unless I much mistake; a dangerous rogue and spy—place him apart, well guarded—in a separate compartment. Pinion him. Tonight we will put him to the question.'

And again he glanced toward the German's tent. Conrad had not appeared, and the prisoners wound away out of sight into what was once Barnabas Visconti's summer residence, and where Barnabas Visconti not long since had died.

 

Chapter 16. — For a Game of Chess

The day was wearing into evening when Conrad gave a last look in the little polished mirror hanging on the tapestried walls of his tent, and prepared to set out on a tour of inspection, including a visit to Carrara, who in this moment's interval, he thought could not have gone astray.

Della Scala had been gone four hours or more, but to the light-hearted German it seemed he had only an instant ago turned from his tent.

He had employed the time in writing some verses (in imitation of the fashionable Petrarch, a production with which he was perfectly satisfied, and put aside to be fair copied by someone, a better adept in spelling than himself), in teaching Vittore to dance, and in changing his doublet.

Count Conrad was very careful of his doublets. He had a great many, and kept them carefully locked in the large coffer that stood at the head of his tent bed.

The one he donned today was elegant in the extreme; peacock purple over a under-garment of rose, curiously slashed with cream. Vittore, who had become his page, was silent at the magnificence.

Conrad sighed as he smoothed the ruffles at his wrists to think that it might not be the latest mode.