The Viper of Milan - Bowen Marjorie

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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. Some one along the road. He started to his feet, and there, still in the distance, but rapidly approaching, was the figure of a traveler, his shadow thrown before him, his face set toward Milan.

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      A gleam of hope sent Vittore forward. Here was some one 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 traveler 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 the expression by the half-shut brown eyes, but he had a grave and stately bearing, and as he a little unclosed 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 traveler, "and have no shelter for myself to-night."

      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 badly comprehend.

      "But what I can 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 traveling alone?" he demanded sternly.

      "Alas, messer, we were going to Verona."

      "To Verona, by way of Milan?"

      "We had no choice. The company we traveled with were 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, reopened and fixed themselves upon the stranger's face.

      "Messer, you hate Visconti?" whispered Vittore.

      The man laughed shortly. "There are many in Lombardy who hate Visconti," he said. "Perhaps I not less than others. Boy," he added, with sudden intensity, "I have only two things to live for: one is to tell Visconti to his face what one man's hatred is."

      And leaving them half-terrified, he strode into the road, and shading his eyes looked long and searchingly away from Milan; but the dusk was settling fast, not a soul in sight, not a sound.

      Presently, with an air of relief, born of new-sprung resolution, the stranger returned to the expectant boys.

      Revived by his tendance and by the cool evening air, Tomaso was helped upon his feet, Vittore clasped his hands in joy to see him move again.

      "Messer, how shall we thank thee!" he exclaimed.

      "Call me Francisco," said the traveler. "Thou wert journeying to Verona, didst thou say? What kinsman hast thou there?"

      "My father," whispered Tomaso feebly, "Georgio Ligozzi." Leaning against the stranger, indeed half-carried by him, Tomaso felt him start. "Thou knewest him, messer?"

      "He was put high in favor at Della Scala's court, and sent for us to share his fortune," put in Vittore eagerly.

      "Ah," said Francisco. "Della Scala's court has perished. I am from Verona. I saw it burned."

      Tomaso's head sunk dizzily upon his helper's shoulder. Vittore's young heart swelled, then seemed to break within him. He choked back his sobs.

      "And Della Scala—and my uncle: did they perish too?"

      "Who can tell?" replied the stranger sternly. "Who shall say who perished or who not on such a night as that on which Verona fell?"

      "But Della Scala's wife, the Duchess, is yonder, prisoner in Milan."

      "And that proves, thou thinkest, Della Scala must be dead! Maybe; who knows? All the same, thou art a brave lad and a gallant for the thought."

      He paused to rest Tomaso on the boulders that had been his seat. "And for that speech of thine I'll tell thee something, boy. I am the Visconti's foe. For the sake of Della Scala, whom I knew, for the sake of Verona, where I lived, for the sake of something dearer to a man than life, I am sworn to hunt him down—and now, no more. We will see to shelter."

      Resting Tomaso's head against his knee, Francisco turned a trained and searching gaze about him.

      To the right, on some thickly wooded, slightly rising ground, could be discerned the unmistakable outline of a great wall, built to a monstrous height, no doubt the boundary of a villa of unusual size and magnificence. Beneath the wall, half-hidden by a grove of chestnuts, was the usual cluster of huts: the dwellings of the hinds and vassals of the villa's noble owner. But no smoke trailed upward, nor did any sign of life strike upon the ear.

      "We will try those huts yonder," said Francisco. "They are far enough from the road for security, yet not too far to hamper any return hither. They seem deserted, but even if inhabited, they are scarce likely to refuse me shelter for a wounded boy."

      And Vittore, looking at his size and stern appearance, thankfully agreed with him. Almost carrying Tomaso, Francisco led the way, and quickly

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