The Viper of Milan - Bowen Marjorie

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here!" He pointed down at Conrad. "The place will not be safe for us, let Visconti once discover his victim has escaped him. We will depart to Ferrara, and fall upon Visconti while he is unsuspecting that I—that anyone lives to still animate the Estes against him. … "

      An hour or two later, while Vittore and Tomaso slept, Francisco keeping watch beside him, Conrad woke from a light doze and felt that he had hold on life again. He tried to murmur thanks to his preserver, but the other checked him.

      "Thou art not of Italy?" he said.

      "I am Conrad von Schulembourg."

      "Conrad von Schulembourg!" echoed Francisco in surprise. "Visconti's trusted friend!"

      "The trusted friend of him who fastened me within my villa yonder to die a lingering death of hunger, or of poisoned food." The drops started on his forehead, he gasped for breath.

      Francisco soothed and tended him.

      "Think not of it; get well," he said, as he had said to Tomaso. "Live and help rid the world of the Visconti. He would have thee die a dog's death. Is not life dear to thee?"

      "Yes, I will live," said Conrad, "and I will take revenge both for my own wrongs and for a woman's sake."

      Francisco turned quickly and looked at him keenly.

      "A woman's sake! Thy motive is the same as mine: I too am living—for a woman's sake."

      Then, at the other's questioning stare, Francisco continued more quietly:

      "I am from Verona, Count; that will tell thee much. I belonged to Della Scala's court, and barely escaped with life from the sacking of the town. Thou see'st I can for that and other matters more than equal thee in hatred of Visconti."

      He rose and moving toward the door, looked out.

      "Oh, I am impatient!" he cried passionately, "to be riding toward Ferrara!"

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      Tisio Visconti, mounted on a white palfrey, rode slowly through the streets of Milan, a lean figure, with a foolish face and vacant eyes.

      For the elder Visconti was half-crazed, a fact to which perhaps he owed his life, Gian Galeazzo not fearing his poor disordered intellect enough to deprive him of aught, save his birthright—the sovereignty of Milan.

      One or two men-at-arms, in splendid livery, rode behind him, and as he passed the people bowed humbly, respecting him solely as the Duke's brother, for Tisio was powerless for good or ill. Some few there were who pitied him.

      About the streets of Milan he was a far more familiar figure than his brother, who was seldom seen, but of whose unscrupulous power Tisio was the living symbol.

      Complete liberty was allowed him; still the soldiers behind were rather guards than servants, and charged to see he did not leave the gates. Dropping his loose reins on the palfrey's neck, Tisio Visconti looked around him with lack-luster eyes and a dull smile. He was riding through the long, narrow streets, cobbled and overhung with high straight houses, that lead to the western gate.

      Through this gate his father lately, his brothers months ago, had been driven to their deaths; his father, infamously, his mother beside him, in the full light of day to Brescia; his brothers, secretly, at dead of night, to Brescia also, from whence they returned no more.

      Yet to Tisio the gate and street had no memory or meaning; he looked ahead of him at the green trees beyond, and his eyes lit up. It was to see them he came. To him the world outside Milan was paradise; sometimes the soul within him rose and chafed at his dull captivity, and then he longed passionately for those green fields and trees, which he knew only from within the city gates.

      The street was empty now; it was noontide, the hour Tisio preferred, when there were few abroad. The sun was hot, its rays flashing on the pikes of the sentinels who paced the walls; and Tisio's followers wiped their brows and chafed. But he gazed with wistful eyes, unheeding, into the beauty and the calm, the green and the gold. The sentry took no heed of him; so many times he had done the same; ridden to the gates, waited, looking eagerly through, then patiently returned to the gloom of the Visconti palace.

      Either side the massive entrance lay houses, low, of gray stone, enclosed in square courtyards, entered by doors deep set in the thick walls.

      From one of these, as Tisio turned, a girl emerged in a scarlet robe. She carried a bunch of lilies, on her arm hung the basket that betokened her errand. She and the little group of horsemen were the only life in the silent, sunny street. Tisio's eyes lit upon her, and he smiled. Like all the Visconti, there was poetry mingled with his madness, and the sight of beauty touched even his crazy brain.

      The girl, starting when she saw the horsemen, paused, as if to retire, her hand on the door, her brilliant robe gorgeous against the background of gray wall. The color, and the sunshine falling over her golden hair, made a picture Tisio was not slow to see; his eyes fixed upon her eagerly; he drew up his horse and turned to the page who, spy and attendant in one, invariably accompanied him.

      "I would speak to her," he said, with the eagerness of a child.

      The girl, seeing she attracted notice, turned, frightened and confused, to make good her escape, but the page, riding up, stopped her authoritatively, but with a reassuring smile.

      "'Tis the Lord Tisio Visconti, lady; fear nothing; he would only speak with thee," he said.

      But the girl's alarm increased at the mention of that dreaded name.

      "He mistakes me for another, sir," she said. "I have never so much as seen even the Duke himself."

      "My lord would speak with thee," repeated the page. "He is not the Duke, but it is the Duke's pleasure that he be obeyed in matters such as this. Come, maiden, there is no need to fear: it is an honor."

      He turned his rein again, and, indeed, not daring to refuse, the girl followed and stood timidly by Tisio's side. He looked at her long and eagerly, at her scarlet dress, her sunny hair, the white and green lilies in her hands. Still he did not speak, and she raised her head and looked around questioningly and fearful. But the page only smiled: the men-at-arms sat silent and indifferent.

      "Thou art very beautiful," said Tisio at last. "What is thy name? Whose daughter art thou?"

      "Graziosa Vistarnini, my lord; Agnolo Vistarnini is my father. He is a painter."

      But Tisio's eyes grew vacant, and his gaze wandered to the lilies.

      "Did they come from yonder?" he asked, and pointed beyond the gate.

      "No, my lord. From a friend's garden. My father thinks to paint them."

      Still Tisio did not heed her answer; he laughed foolishly.

      "I may go?" asked Graziosa timidly. "I may go, my lord?"

      He bent from the saddle and lifted from her shoulder a long lock of her curling hair, and stroked it, dropping it with a sigh.

      "Give me these," he said, pointing to the lilies; "all the flowers I know grow in Gian's garden—Gian is the Duke of Milan."

      And at his words, and the tone in which he spoke them, Graziosa's pity overcame her fear.

      In silence, tears in her eyes, she handed him the flowers. He took them eagerly, but before she could withdraw her hand, he grasped her arm with a childish exclamation and touched the bracelet of fine workmanship she wore upon the wrist.

      "I will have this too," he said, laughing with satisfaction: but the girl drew her arm back sharply and turned to go.

      Tisio fumed. "The bracelet," he said peevishly, and the page motioned to her harshly to remain.

      Graziosa

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