Perhaps when the peasants returned they might have pity on them; if not—again his sobs filled up the lonely outlook. The long hours dragged by; a horseman passed, a mercenary laden with some plunder from Verona; he did not even turn in his saddle. A few peasants slowly came back from Milan, seeking their huts around the neighbouring villas. But they were as deaf to his cries as before; he could come with them if he liked; but the other—he was dead and killed by the Visconti; let him lie there. And now Vittore was in despair; the sun was beginning to drop behind the trees, the delicate stems of the poplars stretched in long blue shadows, the faint golden light lay across the primroses, making them fairylike. Suddenly a step aroused him. Someone along the road. He started to his feet, and there, still in the distance, but rapidly approaching, was the figure of a traveller, his shadow thrown before him, his face set toward Milan.

 

Chapter 2 — 'Francisco'

A gleam of hope sent Vittore forward. Here was someone who, alone and on foot, must know the perils of travel, and might be kind-hearted; though, with Tomaso dead, what even pity could do for him he scarcely knew. Then again the boy's heart failed him. Perhaps this was no more than some wandering robber. He paused, drew back, and the traveller came on not noticing him, his gaze fixed keenly on the distant city.

By the roadside some boulders, half-hidden in violets and golden with moss, offered a seat, and half-stumbling over them, the stranger abruptly withdrew his eyes from Milan and saw for the first time the boy who from a few paces off was timorously observing him.

He was a powerful man of gigantic size, clothed in coarse leather, undressed, patched, slashed, and travel-worn. His legs were bound with straw and thongs of skin, the feet encased in rough wooden shoes stuffed with grass.

A battered leathern cap covered his head, and from his shoulder hung a ragged scarlet cloak. A dagger and a sword were stuck in his belt, a leather pouch hung at his side. The man's face and bearing belied his dress. He was not handsome, and a peculiar effect was given to his expression by the half-shut brown eyes, but he had a grave and stately bearing, and as he bestowed a searching gaze upon Vittore, the boy felt renewed encouragement.

'Sir,' cried the lad advancing, 'I am in great distress. My cousin lies there dead, or dying. Help me to get him to some shelter.'

'I am a stranger here,' replied the traveller, 'and have no shelter for myself tonight.'

His accent, like his bearing, again belied his dress. He spoke in the refined Tuscan tongue, the language of the better classes, and to Vittore, who was gently nurtured, more familiar than the rough dialect of Lombardy, which he and Tomaso could only barely comprehend.

'But what I cart find for myself,' he added, 'thou art welcome to share. Where is thy cousin?'

Vittore pointed to the recumbent figure half-hidden in the bank; the man glanced across, then around him. The sun was almost set, a whole flock of delicate little pink clouds lay trembling over Milan, its noble outline already half in shadow.

'It will be dark soon,' he said, 'and perchance—' he broke off abruptly. 'Thy cousin, didst thou say?—what has happened to him? Wounded in some roadside fray?'

He rose as he spoke and crossed over to the fallen boy. 'And what are you two doing travelling alone?' he demanded sternly. 'Alas, messer, we were going to Verona.'

'To Verona, by way of Milan?'

We had no choice. The company we travelled with wen bound hither, but three days ago we missed them, and came on here alone, lest perhaps they had preceded us. But for this accident we thought to pass the night in Milan—but now, what shall we do? And we hear that Verona has been taken!'

The stranger was bending over Tomaso, and Vittore did not see his face.

'How did this happen?' he asked presently, touching the mark upon Tomaso's face. And Vittore told him.

The stranger was quiet a long breath.

'So this is Visconti's doing,' he said at last. 'Thy cousin is a brave lad.'

And he fell again into a silence which Vittore dared not break, while under the stranger's care Tomaso opened his eyes, and feebly muttered and tried to rise. But the other bade him wait a while, and turned to Vittore again.

'And which way did Visconti ride?' he asked.

The boy pointed. 'The peasants said it was toward Brescia.'

'And he has not yet re-entered Milan?'

'No, messer.' By now Vittore felt and showed respect.

'Then we will not enter Milan either,' said the stranger, 'since Visconti has not.'

The boy gazed on him, struck by his tone, and Tomaso's eyes, half-closing, re-opened and fixed themselves upon the stranger's face.

'Messer, you hate Visconti?' whispered Vittore.

The man laughed shortly.