In the council chamber of the Estes’ summer palace at Ferrara were gathered the heads of the reigning families of Lombardy. At a long table, set across one end of the apartment, two men were seated talking to one another in low voices. They were Ippolito d’Este and Giacomo Carrara, Duke of Padua. D’Este, a stern, grey-haired man of fifty or so, with keen eyes and a hard mouth, was talking rapidly, tapping the while his fingers nervously upon the table.

Carrara, florrid, pleasant-mannered, with brilliant black eyes, black hair, and a ready smile, leaned forward and listened, observing him keenly. Opposite them, but the length of the table away, a lady with tired eyes and a patient mouth leaned back in her chair, motionless, watching the trees seen through the window.

She was Julia Gonzaga, the representative in this gathering in the name of her infant nephew, of the city of Mantua and its domains, the head of the fourth and last great family of Lombardy who dared to raise a hand against the encroachments and the power of Visconti.

But if at this end of the chamber the only sound was low converse, all subdued and quiet, at the farther end gay voices and bursts of laughter broke the stillness.

For seated in the broad window-seat, toying with a sprig of myrtle, was Count Conrad, brilliant and light-hearted, clad in the last extreme of fashion, resplendent in primrose velvet and mauve silk, with long scalloped sleeves that swept the ground.

Around his waist was a gold belt suspending, by a jewelled chain, an orange stuck with cloves and enclosed in a case of silver filigree.

Count Conrad also wore ear-rings, pearl drops that shimmered through his blond curls, and on each wrist a bracelet; yet even this effeminacy could not altogether destroy a certain manliness that was the Count’s, in spite of an almost seeming wish to disallow it.

Beside him, half-leaning through the window, was a youth of twenty, of that brilliant beauty too bright to last.

He too was dressed more like an idle courtier of the Valois court than a fighting noble of the free cities, and the rare charm of his face was marred by the spoiled affectation of his manner.

‘Another war!’ laughed Conrad. ‘I have done naught but fight since I left Germany. I am on the sick list.’

‘Not when the war is of thine own seeking,’ said Vincenzo. ‘Because thou needs must fall in love with the Visconti’s sister — as if there were not others as fair and far safer to woo!’

Conrad crossed his legs and glanced critically at the taper points of his gold shoes.

”Tis not my wooing of Visconti’s sister has caused war,’ he replied. ‘Thy brother-inlaw —’

‘I beseech thee,’ cried Vincenzo petulantly, ‘leave me some little rest from mention of his name and wrongs! Ever since you rode into Ferrara some six days ago, there has been naught else talked of but Mastino, Mastino’s wrongs, what we must do for Mastino — till I fair weary at the name!’

‘You would not risk your all to glut his vengeance?’ remarked the Count. ‘None the less his wife is your sister, and a d’Este.’

‘No need for the heroics he makes over her, even so. Visconti will not hurt her, yet we must be hurried into war for it, forsooth!’

‘I owe della Scala my life,’ returned Conrad airily. ‘I should be the last to speak; still, my wrongs are as many and as deep. I love the Lady Valentine. I have lost my land and my jewels, my house and servants, yet I am quite ready to settle in some other part of Italy — and forget Visconti. I do not go about trying to entice other people into my quarrels.’

He sniffed at his orange as he spoke, and breaking off the end of the myrtle, stuck it in his belt.

Vincenzo’s beautiful eyes flashed. ‘Art thou a poltroon then?’ he cried scornfully. ‘Loved I a lady and she were kept from me, I would not rest while a stone of the palace that held her remained one on the other.’

Conrad raised his eyebrows, startled at the sudden change of front.

‘Then you should understand Mastino,’ he said.

‘I hate Mastino. He is wearisome,’ cried Vincenzo, pettishly. ‘Still, I do not love a laggard’

Conrad’s reply was checked. Ippolito d’Este had arisen and was calling them to join him. Reluctantly they rose, Vincenzo with a yawn of distaste, and approached the table.

Ippolito frowned at Vincenzo’s face.

‘You would spend all your time in idleness, it seems,’ he said. ‘Have you no interest then in our decision as to the aid della Scala asks?’

Vincenzo dropped into his seat, seemingly rebuked. ‘Aid, my father?’ he said. ‘I knew not it was aid della Scala asked, me-thought ’twas all!’

‘My proposal is an army,’ said Giacomo smoothly. ‘A small army. Let us see what success della Scala has with a small army. Our all is much to ask.’

What say you to that?’ asked Ippolito of his son.

‘With all my heart,’ returned Vincenzo. ‘An army small or large, so long as it rids us of his gloomy face about court.’

‘Thou art an insolent boy,’ interrupted his father sternly. ‘At thy sister’s wedding thou wert proud that Mastino della Scala stooped to pat thee on the head. The Duke of Verona was once as much greater than we, Vincenzo, as we are higher than a footman. It goes not with nobility nor with honour to slight the fallen.’

Vincenzo blushed under his father’s rebuke and sat silent. But Giacomo, always ready to smooth things over, turned to the Duchess of Mantua.

‘And you,’ he said. ‘You, lady, what think you of trusting della Scala with an army?’

Julia Gonzaga smiled a little wearily.

Where is he, to speak for himself?’ she asked.

‘We are waiting for him,’ Ippolito replied. ‘He said he would be with us. He is late,’ he added testily.

‘Doubtless the hour has escaped him,’ put in Giacomo pleasantly. ‘The Duke of Verona will not fail us.’

‘He will disappoint us — if he turns up,’ said Vincenzo under his breath. But Conrad caught the whisper and choked with a suppressed laugh — not that the remark was funny, but that Count von Schulembourg was foolish. Ippolito’s stern, eyes were turned on him.

‘Is this a council of war?’ he asked, ‘or a gathering of —’

‘A council of war,’ interposed Conrad hastily, with his most winning smile.

But d’Este looked on him with mistrust; he had no love for the light-hearted German.

Still Mastino came not, and Giacomo moved with a great show of patience and forbearance.

”Tis scarcely the way to treat with us,’ he said.

”Tis treatment good enough for those who bear it,’ breathed Vincenzo, and Conrad sniffed his orange. Ippolito’s brow grew dark; he struck a gong beside him, and a page appeared.

‘Tell my lord of Verona we wait for him.’ He turned to the others. ”Tis agreed,’ he said quickly, ‘that we furnish della Scala with a small army — to be contributed between us’

Carrara moved in silent assent; on Julia Gonzaga’s face a faint scorn showed.

A silence fell, broken only by the tapping of d’Este&rsquo............