Mastino della Scala with his army lay at Serio, a hamlet boasting a small eminence crowned with a strongly built but insignificant castle. Some ten miles farther on Brescia was held by Julia Gonzaga’s army. Only a few weeks had passed since della Scala, falling first on Verona and taking it, had marched on Milan and almost snatched it from Visconti’s unsuspecting hold. But the alarm given at Valentine’s wedding-feast had come in time. With almost superhuman energy, in two hours’ time Visconti armed the walls and put the city in defence. To surprise a victory was impossible. Still, the Duke of Verona’s army was only some fifteen miles from the walls, and day by day drew nearer.

Visconti, from the height of proud security, was suddenly, by one move, placed in a position dangerous indeed. The towns and domains behind Milan, from that city to Turin, were still his, as were Pavia and Piacenza, but from Brescia to Verona, and from Modena to Lombardy, save for a few scattered towns and forts held desperately by Visconti’s men, the whole was in the hands of della Scala and his allies. Still Milan was not in a state of siege: men and supplies hurried in from Novara, Vercelli, and other towns in the Visconti’s dominions, and powerful aid was coming to the Duke of Milan’s assistance from the Empire.

Yet in Visconti’s eyes this aid, needful as it was, was dearly bought, for Charles IV, though an ignoble ruler and laughed at by his subjects, was of an honourable, open disposition, and related by marriage to the Estes, and the one condition on which he was dispatching to Visconti’s service his soldiers stationed in Switzerland and on the borders, was that Isotta d’Este should be untouched.

In the bitterness of his rage, Visconti wished he had already slain her; now, in truth, he dare not. It was no question now of gratifying an ambition, it was simple fear of losing his own throne, fear of being in his turn reduced to what he had reduced della Scala, that made him respect the wishes of the Empire, and the feeling of the French who thronged his court.

And the thought that he could not play the best card tyrant ever held was rendered doubly bitter by the fact that della Scala knew him to be helpless and Isotta safe.

Scheming in his crafty soul for means to outwit Mastino, Visconti thought of Giacomo Carrara, who held Padua, Treviso, Cremona, Vicenza. He was della Scala’s ally, but a man of no upright soul.

‘Could I gain him,’ thought Visconti, in his musings, ‘I could stand without the Empire, without France, and use my captive as I please and not as they dictate.’

To the Estes and Julia Gonzaga he gave no thought; well he knew they were not likely to desert Mastino — but Carrara — Meanwhile, he threw his whole strength against the opposing army, keeping it at bay, gaining time — and planning.

But Mastino della Scala’s object was not to lose time in idle skirmishes. Brilliant success had fallen to his share, not one reverse had marred his short campaign and it is not the policy of the victor to dally with time, rather to seize the chances each day offers, while yet fortune smiles on him.

But well della Scala knew that neither honour, nor pity, nor shame, but fear alone, would restrain Gian Maria Visconti from venting his hatred on Isotta d’Este.

Still, he kept up a stout heart. Visconti dare not! To make assurance doubly sure, he used all his influence at the court of Rome to procure the aid of the Church against the Duke of Milan.

Many a time had he rendered powerful help to the Pope, and, as his present position stood, might do so yet again; and the result of his appeal was a grave embassy from the Pope to Visconti, threatening him with excommunication and the sword of the Church should he dare to touch Isotta d’Este.

For the first, Visconti cared little; twice had the Church thrown him out, and each time had he laughed at it and emerged triumphant; but now his position was more perilous than it had ever been since he mounted the throne of Milan, and he dare not treat this mandate of the Church as he had done ‘the others. The Pope’s temporal power too was great; were that once turned against him, even with the Empire’s aid he could hardly stand; so Visconti answered them with fair words, pledging his honour for the Duchess of Verona’s life.

One bright summer morning, Visconti sat at the open window of his palace, thinking.

At the other end of the room the Duke of Orleans and Tisio were playing at chess; between these two, during the Duke’s enforced stay in Milan, a friendship had sprung up, and Visconti, weary of his foolish guest, was well pleased a foolish brother should take him off his hands.

The Frenchman was prepared at once to carry out the contract, marry Valentine, and depart for France, but this Visconti’s pride would not permit. The Duke of Orleans had witnessed a reverse, he should behold a triumph. Valentine should leave Italy as befitted his sister, not fly from it as a fugitive; and the French prince, who in a few weeks had yielded to Gian’s influence and learned both to fear and obey Visconti, assented meekly to delay, and whiled away the time as best he might.

Visconti sat so motionless and silent that the chess-players were forgetful of his presence, and their voices rose high.

‘My move,’ said Tisio gleefully. ‘See, the rook takes your knight.’

‘Your rook could take my kight,’ returned Orleans, ‘if it were your move, but as it is mine —’

‘You are not watching the game,’ was the angry rejoinder.

‘Your pardon, my move,’ said the Frenchman calmly, and, with a smile on his vacant face, he swept up one of Tisio’s men.

‘My move — and — mate, M’sieu.’

With a cry of childish rage, Tisio snatched at the board, spilling the men on to the floor.

‘I love not to play with you,’ he cried. ‘I would Count Conrad were here, he was the one to play with.’

Orleans laughed.

‘Because he always let you win, M’sieu?’ he said.

Tisio began to whimper with annoyance, calling loudly on Valentine.

Visconti, aroused, drew the curtains aside, and stepped forward.

Orleans was, at his appearance, a little flurried. It was impossible for his weak brain to meet those eyes and not feel flurried.

‘Tisio and I are fallen out again,’ he said feebly.

Visconti looked at him coldly.

‘I would remind you, my lord, Tisio, though an infant, is my brother.’

‘Gian!’ cried Tisio, suddenly noticing him. ‘Gian, it was my move!’

‘Whether it was thy move or no, it does not please me thou shouldst be annoyed — remember it, my Lord Duke’; and he turned into his inner room. As he closed the door, his long brooding showed in his face. It was lined and anxious. The position was a dizzy one: a perilous one: his dark dress concealed the gleam of chain armour.

His enemies were many, and some powerful, and Visconti took no chances.

At his side hung a dagger, long and sharp, and his fingers were often on the hilt in readiness. At his old place sat Giannotto. ‘I have decided,’ said Visconti. ‘I will attempt Carrara.’

‘You think he is to be bought, my lord?’

‘I think he is to be bought,’ responded Visconti. ‘At any rate we will try. He and his force are with della Scala?’

‘And fifteen miles outside our walls,’ said Giannotto; then at the look on the Duke’s face, he was sorry he had spoken, and shrank together.

‘Read what is on the parchment,’ said Visconti; and the secretary, glad to have been let off so easily, unwrapped the roll. Therein Visconti’s bribe was plainly set forth:

The town of Cologna, near to Padua, and well fortified, the protection and close alliance of Milan, and the service of ten thousand trained mercenaries, together with the right to trade free of toll in Visconti’s dominions —

‘And a pair of turquoise gloves,’ added Visconti, with a change of tone.

Giannotto glanced up.

‘Are they not worth three hundred ducats?’ said Visconti, smiling. ‘Did not the Pope and Emperor both wish to buy them, and fail?’

Giannotto bowed his head over again and studied the scrip in silence.

Visconti watched him keenly.

He thought, ‘I know he would betray me for a ducat — if I were not Visconti.’

He turned to the narrow window, and looked out on to the city spreading beneath him.

‘The Empire,’ he muttered to himself. ‘The Empire and the French — I will awe them and humour them while I must — but let me once gain Carrara — as I shall — I can dispense with them and deal with della Scala as I list.’

He turned from the window to Giannotto, and his face had lost its lines.

‘Well?’ he asked. ‘What think you?’

‘This is a master-stroke of temptation, my lord. You have always found craft a good servant.’

‘It would not serve me well in thee,’ said Visconti with a sudden glance. Now, see to it that parchment is dispatched, Giannotto, by a trusty messenger, and with no delay.’

‘I will give it to Ricardo with my own hands, my lord,’ said Giannotto. ‘He is the best man we have since Filippo was wounded this morning in a skirmish by the western gate.

‘The western gate?’ Visconti looked up quickly.

‘It was not worth while bringing to your notice, my lord. A band of the enemy’s soldiers have been skirmishing there.’

‘They were beaten off without harm to anyone within the gates?’

‘The gates were not forced, nor anyone injured — or I should have acquainted you, my lord,’ and he waited for possibly some mark of appreciation; but the Duke motioned curtly to the roll he held, and Giannotto crept out with bowed shoulders. As the tapestry fell into place behind him, Visconti approached the black bureau between the windows, and unlocked one of the long drawers.

In its dusky recess lay a gold box, and Visconti took it out, handling it carefully.

The light fell in a straight shaft from the narrow window on the delicate chasing of the casket as Visconti placed it on the table, and as he turned the key and the lid flew back, it gleamed on the emeralds and diamonds of an elaborate............