'How does Visconti feel tonight? Methinks some kinsfolk of his from below are abroad.'

Vincenzo emptied his glass and moved.

Conrad emptied his and counter-moved. 'I hope thy emerald was not a lady's gift,' he laughed.

Vincenzo bit his lip, reflected long, and moved again.

Conrad turned to the slender flasks and lifted them, one after the other; empty all.

'Vittore!' he called. 'Vittore!'

The boy rose, rubbing his eyes, half-dazed.

'Bring us more wine, Vittore.' Conrad turned to the board again and laughed at Vincenzo's intent face. 'My move,' he said; his plump hand hesitated scarcely a breath, 'Check, Messer Vincenzo.'

'This is no light to play by,' cried Vincenzo, and in annoyance he moved with too little thought.

Conrad waited provokingly till fresh wine had been brought and drunk, patted Vittore's head, and turned to the game again.

'Mate, Messer Vincenzo, in three moves.' And he leaned back with the calm air of a conqueror.

Vincenzo rose in a passion, dashing his glass to the ground. 'I question thy fair play,' he cried.

'And I thy discretion,' returned the Count, and his eyes were suddenly wrathful. 'Thou art a child, and canst not play; and so like a child cry out: "You cheat."'

'I said no word of cheating,' returned Vincenzo. 'Is the accusation one you are accustomed to, Count Conrad?'

Conrad crimsoned. 'Play another time with thy equals, boy, and take better care not to insult thy betters!'

'Betters!' And Vincenzo laughed in reckless scorn, his hand on his toy-like dagger. 'A d'Este demeans himself to play with thee—thou German upstart!'

But Conrad was to be moved no more. With a smile more provoking than any reply he picked up the rings and slipped them on his finger.

But Vincenzo, hot-tempered and passionate, sprang forward with boyish passion.

'Thou shalt not have the emerald,' he cried.

'Must I fight for it?' smiled Conrad, and glanced at Vincenzo's little dagger. 'The emerald seems worth it—only I should be afraid of hurting thee.' And as he spoke he poured out more wine, drinking it gracefully.

'I will fight only with an equal,' said Vincenzo.

Conrad turned on him, and for all his smile, his blue eyes were dark. 'Thou reckless boy!' he said. 'The Germans are the lords of Italy. What is thy family but a fief to the Emperor?'

Vittore had watched the scene in terror. Tomaso had let him know della Scala had left von Schulembourg in trust, and he felt his master was hardly acting as the Duke had meant. In child-like fashion, eager to stop the quarrel, he spoke his thoughts.

'My lord,' he said, 'shall I not accompany you to the Duke of Padua's tent, as the Prince commanded?'

'Commanded!' cried Vincenzo, catching at the words. 'Aye, Count Conrad, remember my brother's commands!'

'I remember none,' returned the Count haughtily. 'What dost thou mean, boy?'

But Vittore lost his courage under the angry glance.

'Only, my lord, what you said,' he stammered, 'about keeping watch upon the Duke of Padua.'

'So you were left as a spy?' sneered Vincenzo, 'is that it? Make haste, Count Conrad, hurry to Carrara's tent as you were told, and see what he is doing.'

Conrad, flushed with wine, allowed the boyish sneer to goad him into fury.

'I play the spy at no one's bidding,' he said. 'I do not leave my tent tonight.' And he flung himself on the couch.

'But what did the Duke order? It will go ill with you when he hears of disobedience,' sneered Vincenzo.

'Let it go well or ill, I will not leave my tent tonight on any errand, save I choose.' And Count Conrad's words were heard by another than Vincenzo and Vittore, Giacomo Carrara, who listened outside.

The storm-wind was beginning to howl and the rain to fall in heavy drops, but the Duke of Padua only thanked his good fortune for such propitious weather, as he turned away and made rapidly toward the castle to question the prisoners.

 

Chapter 17. — The Terrors of the Night

The storm had risen; the low whispering of the wind, the distant rumbles of the thunder, gathering unheeded, burst suddenly into a tempest.

Its very fury spoke it brief, yet many cowered and shrank before it, as if its termination must be the termination of the world. And to no one did it strike more fear than to the solitary prisoner in the castle of Brescia—Gian Visconti. In obedience to Carrara's orders, he had been placed in a separate chamber, as far from the other prisoners as space allowed. His chamber was a circular, vault-like space, once serving as antechamber to a gloomy suite of rooms beyond, in which Barnabas Visconti had chosen to beguile the summer heat. The doors of this suite were locked; Gian Visconti himself had locked them, when he and his father last came there together. This vault-like room was high and and, in the blackness of the storm, pitch dark. Visconti sat underneath one of the windows, whither he had dragged the wooden stool, the sole furniture the place contained; his face was buried in his hands, and he writhed in horror.

The wind howled and tore at the locked doors, making them creak and groan; the thunder shook the building; and at every fresh convulsion Visconti shrieked aloud in unison.

The lightning, flashing blue through the crevices, seemed to play about that inner door, and he cowered from the sight, and bit at his fingers in a fierce endeavour to resist the madness seizing him.

It was not so very long ago that he had turned the great key behind him in that ponderous door, and ridden from the deed he had done, shouting through the midnight. He thought then never to return, and here he was, thrust in alone, and his madness on him. Visconti staggered from his seat, groping blindly.

The blackness seemed to whirl with faces and clutching, tearing fingers; he knew not where he was—he could see nothing—blackness and space—seemingly unbounded.

Another flash revealed to him that he had drawn near that inner door—in the instant it was visible; it seemed to open and shut—quickly.

Visconti fell back against the wall, and wrestled with his terrors as if they were some living thing, and again with savage teeth he bit into his flesh.

But the floor was opening beneath him, opening into gulfs deep and still deeper, bottomless.

'I am mad!' said Visconti, and shrieked and howled with the storm. It did not help him; he heard hurrying feet through all the alarm of the tempest, hurrying to him behind that locked door. Let him not look, for what he feared to see the dark could not conceal—and now they were at the door, and now they were fitting a key.

'Keep away!' he yelled.

Then he stood, hushed, with bated breath, eyes staring into the blackness, listening.