And through the dark he heard the creaking and twisting of the key, the slow opening of a heavy door, the groaning of the hinges as it opened, slowly.

The wind howled in a wild gust, and suddenly through the narrow window there showed the black sky torn in two by the lightning flash. As it circled the chamber, Visconti raised his head—the door was open. And through the opening two faces peered—they were not human faces—Visconti knew them whence they were.

Utter blackness followed upon the vivid flash, and the thunder crashed and rolled, and at last the rain came with a mighty roar.

'I am in hell!' yelled Visconti. 'I am dead, and in hell!' And maniac shrieks rose. He dragged himself to the narrow slit that made the window, and some of the heavy rain-drops were dashed in upon his face.

'I am alive!' he cried, 'alive! It does not rain in hell!' He dropped, and lay prone along the ground. After a while he rose, and began groping for the outer door.

The walls seemed to rock and twist, but on his face and hand was the cold splash of the rain, and Visconti kept a hold upon his self-control, saying between his teeth: 'A light; if I can get a light.'

He found the door, and struck upon it with the fury of madness.

There was no response: again he struck and shouted. The worst had gone by, but only to leave his thoughts centred on one idea: to see a human face and in the light.

Suddenly, in the midst of his blows, the door opened showing a glimmering light, and in the entrance the figure of a soldier, who looked fearfully around the chamber.

'I thought it was the fiend himself who called!' he said, and crossed himself.

Visconti clutched his arm. 'It was the fiend,' he said. 'Legions of them—the place is haunted! Give me a light!'

The soldier shrank back in horror at his words, at his hardly human eyes.

'Santa Maria!' he muttered. 'I have heard evil tales of this castle, the storm too is fearful—'

'Give me a light,' said Visconti; 'give me a light!'

'None of the prisoners have lights—it is forbidden—' began the man, but Gian Maria cut him short.

'A light, I say!' and he put his blood-marked hand upon the other's shoulder.

'Thou heardst the fiend scream—and it was the fiend. Wilt thou give me a light?'

The frightened soldier shrank from him anew.

'Thou art distraught,' he cried with a paling face.

Visconti laughed wildly. 'Do I not say so? Give me the lantern!' and he held out his finger, on which there blazed a splendid ring.

Would any ordinary prisoner wear a ring like this? I tell thee it is a coal from hell, and I will give it thee—for thy lantern. See how it shines; try if it will burn thee to the bone,' and he stripped it from his finger, dropping it on the pavement at the soldier's feet.

'Truly,' gasped the soldier, looking at him, 'thou art no ordinary man, and as for they gems—whether they be coals or no, thou shalt have the lantern.'

He stepped across the threshold as he spoke, a little fearfully, and placed the lantern in the niche cut to receive it in the wall.

'Thou wilt be getting it down and firing thyself with it,' he remarked. Tor thou art clean distraught, methinks.'

Visconti made no reply; he had noticed that both the inner doors were shut.

'And as I must answer for thee,' continued the soldier, 'I will secure thee with this,' and stepping back into the passage, he returned with a rope and advanced toward the prisoner.

The Duke rose with flashing eyes.

'Remember thou art the devil, messer,' said the soldier soothingly, 'and naught can really hold thee'

Visconti felt for the dagger that no longer hung by his side, then showed the soldier his fingers, red and still bleeding.

'The teeth that met there can meet in thine,' he snarled, and his eyes were like a wolf's.

The soldier stepped back, then with a sudden thought pointed to the light.

'Stay unbound then, and I will take that away again,' he said, and again advanced.

Visconti suffered his arms to be bound together at the elbows, nor did he seem to heed when the soldier left him, and the great door fell to once more in silence.

The storm had sobbed itself away, leaving only the steady patter of the rain. The chamber had light, and the sight of a human face had restored Visconti.

Once more he felt his hold on life and on reality, and he turned from that closed door with its superstitious horror to face real terror and a staggering mischance.

Milan! He had left Milan in an hour of need—and with no one to check Valentine. Only within the last few weeks had he known what she was capable of. What might she not attempt once she realized his absence? Giannotto too, and the Duke of Orleans! What of their sincerity? He had left not one man within the city whom he could trust implicitly.

Then he considered his own plight. Clearly they did not know him; none the less they had him. He ground his teeth at the thought of della Scala's triumph.

His act of bribery occurred to him, and he remembered with a savage vexation how he had flung a jewel to his jailer for a light. A jewel that might have purchased freedom. Still, it was in his madness; he might be thankful he had not shouted his name—and his crimes. Suddenly, with a start of recollection, it occurred to him anew that he had been placed apart. Then Carrara had recognized him. The cords around Visconti's arms began now to torture him: he was weak from lack of food and mad excitement. Thoughts of Carrara vanished. He saw the face of the girl on whose account he had risked his dukedom.

'Graziosa!' he cried, but the face looked at him unseeingly. 'You know me!' as if in appeal. 'Graziosa, you know me!' The face suddenly distorted, as if with horror. Visconti shrank from it—and she was gone.

'What frightened her? Those other faces,' Visconti whispered to himself, then roused himself with a harsh laugh. Will Carrara come?' He fixed his eyes on the lamp, then on the door.