‘A secret embassy from Milan!’

Mastino repeated the words slowly, and looked at Ligozzi, who had brought them. ‘And to see me alone?’

‘With terms from Visconti — so they said,’ answered Ligozzi. ‘Terms of peace.’

‘From Visconti!’

Mastino looked out through the open entrance into the blinding summer day, and then back at Ligozzi. ‘I fear they come with no honourable terms — from Visconti victorious.’

‘They would never dare come with dishonourable ones — to thee, my lord,’ returned Ligozzi.

Mastino laughed bitterly.

‘Dare! He is Visconti — with near all Italy at his back — he knows no such words as shame or honour. And I must see his messengers,’ he added, after a pause. ‘I know no such words now as pride or refusal.’

Ligozzi turned, but hesitated at the entrance.

‘And — alone?’ he asked. ‘They are from Visconti’

‘And may be skilful in dagger thrusts and poison,’ said Mastino. ‘Nay, that is not what I fear, Ligozzi.’ But he unstrapped his sword and laid it on the table in front of him. ‘All the same, I will have thee with me, Ligozzi. I see not why I should humour them too far — I shall have naught to say thou mayst not hear.’

Ligozzi left, and Mastino sat alone, his head in his hands, his elbows resting on the table.

It was blazing hot, the very crown of summer, languid and golden, with a haze of purple sky beating down on the swooning trees; noon, the sun at its height, the stillness of great heat in the air.

Mastino raised his head and looked out on it. What was Gian Visconti planning now?

He had some faint foreboding — a secret embassy from Milan — and following so swiftly on that last crushing blow; following so swiftly as to come upon him helpless from it — what had it to say, and to his ears alone? He had some premonition as he sat there. But it was not long. Ligozzi, exercising due precaution, returned with the two Milanese.

Giannotto stepped forward with a smooth obeisance, but stopped, a little surprised at the one occupant of the tent — the tall man with the proud dark face.

‘My lord — the Prince?’ he asked.

‘I am della Scala,’ said Mastino, and he turned to de Lana who looked an obvious soldier, and the worthier of the two. ‘Your errand, sir? I would hear you quickly.’

‘We have greetings from our lord, the Duke of Milan,’ replied de Lana, his speech and bearing uneasy, like one trying to gain time. He had always disliked his mission, and never more so than now, standing face to face with della Scala.

Here was someone very different from the man he had expected, and it tended to confuse him.

Della Scala’s dignity was his own, not that of pomp and splendour, the terror of crime, or the dazzle of power, that made Visconti feared and obeyed. As plainly attired as any of his soldiers, Mastino overawed the Milanese with something new to them — the sense of worth.

They were not trained to dealings with it.

‘Greetings from Gian Visconti, Duke of Milan,’ took up the secretary. ‘Moreover, we bring terms of peace for your acceptance, my lord.’

Mastino was silent a space, and Ligozzi, standing behind his chair, looked at them with an ill-concealed abomination that Giannotto’s quick eyes noticed keenly.

‘My lord, is the one with you to be trusted even as yourself?’ he asked, submissively. Tor our mission, Prince, is secret.’

‘He is my friend,’ said Mastino, shortly. ‘And now these terms of peace?’

‘The Duke is weary of the war,’ said de Lana. ‘He hath powerful allies, my lord.’

‘And the choice of means to crush me,’ interposed Mastino, his bright eyes full on the speaker, ‘are in his hands, you would say? Perhaps; and yet, messer, I ask for no quarter ‘from Gian Visconti.’ De Lana bowed.

Nor could he offer it, my noble lord; only terms as between equals.’

Mastino smiled bitterly.

‘That is generous in Gian Visconti, seeing we are not — equals’

Giannotto wished the Duke could have heard both words and tone. Visconti’s birth was a sore point with him. The secretary wondered if there might be found a ‘safe way of repeating them. De Lana flushed a little under Mastino’s steady gaze and quiet scorn of the master who had sent him.

‘The Duke of Milan sends by us this,’ he said, and laid the parchment before Mastino. ‘These are his terms, my lord.’ But della Scala did not drop his eyes to it.

‘What are these terms?’ he said.

‘They are set forth there, my lord,’ began Giannotto.

‘So you have forgotten what they are, or did Visconti not tell you?’ and della Scala handed the roll to the secretary. When you have read it, tell me what Gian Visconti says.’

He leaned back, his eyes still on them.

Giannotto bit his lips in vexation.

‘Spare Visconti’s loving greetings. To the point, in a few words,’ continued della Scala, as the secretary still hesitated. ‘Then, my lord, this: the Duke of Milan will leave you Verona, where you may rule under his protection, provided you now put into his hands every other town you or your allies now, singly or together, hold.’

Mastino flushed and half rose.

‘Gian Visconti might have spared these insults,’ he said sternly, ‘and you yourself the relating of them. When have I shown myself such that your master should think I could betray Lombardy to keep one town? Get back, I have no answer save I have left you your lives.’

De Lana fingered the parchment nervously.

‘That is not all, my lord,’ he began, and stopped suddenly. ‘I cannot say it,’ he murmured to Giannotto.

Della Scala beat his feet upon the floor impatiently.

‘Do you think I am afraid to hear?’ he said. ‘Still, it may be spared. I see, Gian Visconti’s spirit is not peace but insult. On no terms will I treat with him.’

‘On no terms?’ repeated Giannotto.

‘On no terms of insult,’ said Mastino coldly. ‘I favour Visconti too much in listening so long. Leave me and take your lives back for answer.’

‘Better listen, perchance, my lord, before refusing,’ said Giannotto. ‘It is the Duke’s interest to offer you these terms; methinks it will be no less yours at least to consider them.’

De Lana stood silent, his eyes upon the ground. After this, give him plain soldiering.

‘What plot has Visconti hatched now?’ asked della Scala. ‘What more has he to say?’

Giannotto’s pale eyes twinkled unpleasantly.

‘Only this: Visconti bids me tell della Scala, Duke of Verona, that if he refuse his terms we take them instantly to my Lord of Este; also he bids me remind my Lord della Scala that he holds the Duchess of Verona, my lord’s dear wife.’

Ligozzi drew a deep breath and looked at della Scala; he had not quite expected this.

But della Scala rose with a white face and stared at the two ambassadors, incredulous.

‘Surely even Visconti will not use that against me?’ he said.

‘Visconti must have the towns; Visconti holds your wife. The rest is for you to reflect upon, my lord: or, since you refuse all terms, we will take them to my Lord of Este. Perhaps he will give up the towns and save his daughter.’ And Giannotto turned toward the entrance.

‘Stay!’ cried Mastino, in an agony. ‘Stay! Your terms again —’ He dropped back into his seat with wild eyes on Giannotto. All his calm had fled, his pride was cowed: the secretary noted it, well pleased, but de Lana shrank from his changed look.

‘This is what Visconti offers, my lord,’ repeated the secretary smoothly: ‘Give up all the cities, forts, and soldiers under your command, and the Duke forthwith makes an honourable return to you of the Duchess he holds captive, giving you leave to hold Verona under fief to him, doing yearly homage for it — he garrisoning it. If, however, my lord, you refuse —’

‘If I refuse?’ cried della Scala, leaning forward. ‘If I refuse?’

‘Visconti’s prisons are unwholesome; for some weeks the Duchess has pined; it is feared, without instant liberty —’

Giannotto paused a moment, and lightly shrugged his shoulders.

‘In a word, my lord, if you refuse — the Duchess dies’

A terrible silence fell, no one moved or spoke, the lazy flapping of the tent struggling on its cords was the only sound. Della Scala sat rigid, looking at Giannotto, all power of thought struck out of him.

‘Shall we take these terms to d’Este — shall we offer him his daughter for his towns?’ said Giannotto softly.

D’Este! D’Este was not the man to place his daughter before states — Mastino knew it; Visconti knew it.

‘No! No!’ he cried, with sudden vehemence, ‘I will.’

He put his hand to his forehead with a dazed expression and whispered something to himself.

Ligozzi, standing erect behind his chair, touched him gently on the shoulder.

‘Send them away, my lord,’ he whispered. ‘Let them not remain here — send them away.’

‘With a refusal?’

Della Scala lifted his white face. ‘With a refusal?’ he muttered stupidly.

‘With what else?’ said Giorgio firmly. ‘With what else?’ Giannotto moved a little nearer and spoke with a sickly smile.

‘Our answer may wait. The Duke of Milan gives a day in which my Lord of Verona may decide upon his answer.’

‘Give them their answer now,’ whispered Ligozzi eagerly. ‘Do not let them imagine for one moment that you hesitate.’

Mastino did not heed him; he sat as if frozen.

‘Leave me to 2 the words died on his lips. ‘Leave me — to answer — I will give you my answer — anon.’

De Lana and Giannotto moved in silence to the far end of the tent.

‘Visconti is a fiend,’ said de Lana, with a gesture of revolt.

‘Santa Maria, I wish I had never seen this della Scala. His face will haunt me.’

Giannotto smiled.

‘Thou hast not been in Visconti’s service long,’ he said, ‘and what have these things to do with us?’

‘But this is inhuman,’ returned de Lana. ‘Della Scala hath a winning face. I might have been a better man if I had sold my sword to him.’

‘This way, messers,’ said Ligozzi. ‘I will come to you presently’ And the flap of the tent fell to behind Visconti’s messengers. Mastino sat, his head dropped into his hands.

‘My lord —’

Ligozzi put his hand upon his master’s arm.

‘My lord —’

Mastino raised his head and looked at him; his face was distorted, his eyes unnaturally bright.

‘Give them their answer, my lord,’ said Ligozzi. ‘Every moment gives them a triumph. Send it now.’

‘Now,’ cried Mastino, hoarsely. ‘They give me till tonight — surely, Ligozzi, they gave me till tonight.’

‘Thou dost not need until tonight, my lord. Visconti asked thy honour.’

‘And offered me,’ said della Scala slowly, ‘Isotta.’

Ligozzi looked at him horror-struck; an awful thought was breaking on him.

The eyes of the two men met; Ligozzi’s were steady, but Mastino’s flinched.

Neither spoke for some moments, Ligozzi at last incredulously.

‘You cannot mean — to accept?’ Mastino was silent. ‘Oh, no,’ cried Ligozzi, passionately. ‘You are not yourself. For the love of Heaven let me go and tell them to depart.’

And he started forward, but Mastino caught him by the arm. ‘Stay, Ligozzi; I command it.’

‘Then you yourself will tell them? Oh, it is impossible that thou couldst fall —’

‘Impossible?’ Mastino rose with clenched hands. ‘I think it is impossible that I could let her die.’

Ligozzi looked at his changed face.

‘The cities are not yours, my lord; the soldiers are not yours — would you be a traitor, della Scala?’

Mastino winced.

‘I would save my wife,’ he muttered, his face turned aside. ‘Your wife! A woman!’ cried Ligozzi. ‘Gian. Visconti will burn in hell for tempting you, but, by all the saints, so will you, my lord, if you accept such terms.’

Mastino was roused. The energy of Ligozzi broke the bonds of his dull agony. He turned, also passionately.

‘Have I not prayed and implored for this — only this — her life and return? Have I not sworn and vowed I would recover her — at any cost? Have I not warned them of it — and she shall not die! She shall not die! What care I for the cities! Did I not warn them? She shall not die!’

He fell to pacing the tent wildly, but Ligozzi stood in his place, bitter sorrow, deep anger in his face.

‘Think what it means,’ he said sternly.

&l............