Della Scala is alive!

The news flew like fire around Milan, rousing even the indifferent to some interest. The rumours then were true? Della Scala was alive? In the market-place, in the streets, in the houses it was discussed — the name of della Scala was on every lip. But in the Visconti palace it was not spoken. Silent, sombre as ever, the castle frowned over its beautiful gardens, and only by the companies of horse that spurred out of its side gates to fortify still more strongly the nine cities once held by della Scala and now the Visconti’s, only by this could it be told how much the news meant to the man within.

Giannotto, walking softly through the corridors, paused and looked out into the garden.

Something had caught his keen eye, and he watched, hidden by the curtain of purple silk.

A sea of flowers lay spread beneath him, while beyond a more formal part of the grounds, crowned with white terraces and set with cypress-trees, rose clear against the sapphire sky. To the right lay Isotta d’Este’s prison, the western tower, a massive building of huge strength, encircled on three sides with a moat, and guarded by soldiers.

Giannotto’s eyes glanced from the silver banner that hung above, lifeless in the summer air, to the soldiers at their posts below.

There was an entrance to the tower near to the palace, guarded but little used, half-hidden by myrtle that had filled up the dried moat and climbed up the wall; and, as Giannotto still watched, the figure he had seen enter there, hooded and cloaked, passed out again hurriedly, sped between the sentries, who studiously took no heed, and was soon lost to sight along the winding paths.

The movement was quick, the figure gone almost as soon as noticed; a casual observer would have taken little heed, but Giannotto’s eyes were trained, and he knew the figure for whose it was: Valentine Visconti.

‘She must have bribed high,’ he thought. ‘High indeed. Why should she visit the prison of Isotta d’Este?’ He followed her figure across the garden with curious, suspicious thoughts.

‘She is daring,’ he mused, ‘and foolish. Did she think no one’s eyes could be on her, when Visconti has spies who are to watch her every movement?’

He turned back into the corridor, twisting the ends of his scarlet robe between his fingers, and smiling to himself.

The secretary was in a better humour than his master; that Mastino della Scala should live to vex Visconti, that he should have snatched von Schulembourg, one of his dearest victims, back from underneath his very hand, pleased Giannotto, as did anything that annoyed Visconti, save when his master’s rage was such that his secretary felt its working. The Duke he knew to be alone. The brief audience he accorded was long over. Visconti had no friends; they who must sought him in the morning in the audience-room. For the rest, like the others of his tainted race, he lived alone.

He paused outside Visconti’s door, and the secretary smoothed a smile from his face, and, tapping lightly, entered with a silent, cringing movement.

The chamber was dark, although it was full noonday. Visconti had no love for the sunlight, and even the narrow windows were obscured and shrouded in dark purple.

The walls were panelled in carved wood, but, apart from the stiff chairs, the sole furniture of the apartment was a long low chest, set open, and showing silver goblets and curious bottles and glasses twisted into strange shapes, and coloured. At the farther end were two doors close together, and between them sat Visconti, huddled up against the wall, gazing at the floor with strained, wide-open eyes.

Giannotto, entering softly, noticed in his hand a bracelet, fashioned as a snake, emerald green, of striking workmanship.

‘A messenger from the Bologna embassy, my lord,’ he said, closing the door behind him, ‘has entreated me to ask thy attention for them.’

Visconti looked up quickly, and put out of sight the bracelet with a snap of anger.

‘What, do the Bolognese trouble me?’ he said fiercely.

‘They only follow the example of the Pavians, my lord,’ returned the secretary smoothly. ‘They would have thy mediation between the rival factions in their state.’

‘My mediation! Pavia asked it, as thou say’s; and so did Bergamo; yet do the twain who then appealed, to me reign in either city now? The Bolognese are foolish,’ said Visconti.

Giannotto shrugged his shoulders. ‘That need not trouble thee, my lord. Bologna is a wealthy town. Thy lordship will think of it?’

The secretary’s eyes were on the ground. Gian Galeazzo slipped his bracelet into his doublet and rose.

‘Aye, I will think of it,’ he said, ‘but for the moment there are more precious things to do even than using the Bolognese against themselves.’

Giannotto waited. The Duke paced to and fro a moment, then broke into the subject next his heart.

‘Thinkest thou della Scala will outwit me?’ he said eagerly. ‘Thinkest thou that if he do reach Ferrara he will rouse the Estes to action?’

‘He had two good hours’ start,’ returned Giannotto, ‘and the road to Ferrara offers many chances.’

‘And those men — who let him escape them? Do they still live?’

‘Aye, my lord. They are valuable. It is enough that Alberic da Salluzzo has been lost to us —’

‘They shall yet hang for it,’ said Visconti.

With rapid steps he returned to his seat, flung himself into it, clutching the arms with vice-like grip.

‘He cannot do anything, Giannotto,’ he said. ‘He cannot rouse the Estes — against me! No; when della Scala ruled nine cities, and his revenue was equalled only by the kings of France — I stripped him, I routed him. And now!’ he smiled and his eyes widened, ‘he is a beggar. Perhaps it is not so ill that he lives to know it. It is a better revenge than any I could have devised, della Scala a beggar, a hanger-on at his kinsman’s court, deafening his ears with unwelcome prayers, sinking into contempt before the people who once owned him lord!’

Giannotto was silent. He could not imagine Mastino della Scala a beggar at any prince’s court.

But Visconti, blinded and absorbed by hatred, continued unheedingly:

‘Carrara also, the Duke of Padua, is too necessary to the Estes. They cannot stand without him. Will he, thinkest thou, ever be won over to side with Mastino? No, Giannotto, I do not fear him. Let della Scala live robbed of all — and with Count Conrad as an ally!’

‘Shall we then dismiss him, my lord?’ ventured Giannotto smoothly; ‘he who is not worth fearing is not worth considering.’ He seated himself at the low table as he spoke, his watchful eyes on Visconti, and drew some papers from the flat bag at his side.

The Duke returned no answer. In truth he heard not what was said, but leaned back in his chair and fell to thinking. The secretary, looking at his brooding face, shuddered a little at what his master’s thoughts might be. He wondered also as to that green bracelet Visconti had concealed.

The silence grew oppressive, and Giannotto moved uneasily. He loved not to sit alone with Visconti when he fell into these musings.

The Duke roused himself.

‘Ah,’ he said, breaking suddenly into a passion of declaim. ‘A god can do no more than say, “I have succeeded — in all I have undertaken, I have succeeded!” And I can say as much. I have succeeded. I looked on life and took from it what I wanted, the fairest and the finest things that offered; and the price — others paid it. Truly, I have succeeded!’

Giannotto shrank back at Visconti’s outburst, and made no answer.

But the Duke had forgotten him. He was but uttering his thoughts aloud.

‘Five years ago,’ he said exultingly, ‘I rode outside the gates of Verona and challenged della Scala to single combat. He sent his lackey out with a refusal, and in my heart I said: “I will bring that man so low that life shall hold nothing so sweet to him as the thought of meeting me in single fight!” I have succeeded! Isotta d’Este looked past me and laughed, and I said, “She shall live to feel her life within my hand.” In that also I have succeeded!

‘And three years ago, only three years ago, I stood within this very room, four lives between me and the throne of Milan — four lives, all crafty — and two young. But I— I, the youngest, took my fate and theirs into my hand. I said: “It is for me to reign in Milan — I am the Duke.” In that I have succeeded!’

He paused, with dilating eyes and parted lips, intoxicated with pride.

‘This ambition is his madness,’ thought Giannotto; but he still was silent.

‘In another thing,’ continued Visconti, and his voice was changed: he breathed softly, and his eyes sparked pleasantly. ‘Last May-day I saw the people in the fields, pulling flowers; I knew they were what poets call happy. Among them were two girls, one dark, one fair, and she with the dark hair had her betrothed beside her. They were happy among the happy, they loved each other — and I rode unseen. The may was thick and white, I watched them through the flowers and vowed: “I too will be happy, even as they are happy, though I am Visconti; I will be loved for myself alone; that fair-haired girl shall care for me as her companion for her lover — life shall give me that as well!”

And he rose, triumphant, smiling, resting his hand on the arra............