The day had dawned fair and clear after the storm, and the early sunlight struck across the dark chamber that had held Visconti.

The stamped leather hung before the high window had been torn away and lay along the ground, but the room was unchanged save that the inner door was open, and near it, stuck into a crevice of the stone, a parchment hung.

Before this stood Count Conrad, with a face dazed.

Vincenzo, when he learned the news, had flown like a madman along the road to Milan, in a fury of rage, with some half-frenzied project of overtaking the traitor.

Outside the door was a group of soldiers, who peeped through with curiosity at the motionless figure within.

At last he moved dizzily to a seat. ‘St Hubert, when the Duke returns!’ he gasped, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a groan of woe.

He looked a somewhat sorry figure, his peacock doublet crumpled, his hair uncurled, his hands shaking.

Last night, only last night, Visconti had been in this very room, a prisoner in his power, and he had revelled with a boy and quarrelled over a game! One of the soldiers pushed the door open softly and entered.

‘The Prince has returned, my lord,’ he said.

‘So soon!’ gasped Conrad. ‘So soon!’

‘The army is moving from Brescia; the intention is to march on Milan —’

‘With the men who are not here!’ groaned Conrad.

‘The Duke met my lord d’Este. He knows,’ said the soldier gruffly, and left the room. It would have pleased him to strangle the foppish foreigner who had well-nigh ruined them.

Conrad felt half relieved, half sorry; whether Vincenzo’s relation had been as kind to him as his own would have been he doubted — he felt a wild desire to hide himself till della Scala’s rage had blown a little over.

As he stood there, miserable, undecided, he heard the salutations of the soldiers and a heavy tread outside.

He remembered that Mastino was a giant — he had once found it to his advantage, he might now find it to his peril; but it was not fear, but bitter shame, that brought Conrad almost to his knees.

He knew that della Scala was there, though he did not raise his head.

‘Conrad,’ said Mastino, and his voice was strangely altered. ‘Conrad.’

The Count, with an effort, looked at Mastino, who stood in front of the door he had closed, with a face from which all colour had been struck.

When did you discover — this?’ continued della Scala, and pointed to the parchment. All elaborate excuses and appeals for pardon Conrad had prepared died away on his tongue. ‘An hour ago,’ he replied lamely.

‘An hour ago!’ Mastino walked across to the parchment hanging on the wall.

Conrad’s eyes followed him; he could find no words to break the silence.

Della Scala first read, then tore the writing down, and crushed it in his hand; then he looked at the door, standing ajar.

‘How many have deserted?’ he asked in a hard voice. ‘Vincenzo said half the army.’

Conrad could not answer the truth.

‘How many?’ and Mastino turned toward him.

‘Carrara has taken all his force,’ faltered the wretched man. Mastino crushed the parchment yet tighter in his hand, and walked up to Conrad, who shrank before his face.

‘Your sword, Count,’ he said. Conrad hesitated, bewildered. ‘You are no longer in my service; as my officer you wear that sword; as what you are, I demand it from you.’

And he held out his hand.

In silence Conrad drew the weapon.

Mastino took it, broke it, threw it on the floor.

‘And now go,’ he said.

At last Conrad found his voice.

‘Lord!’ he cried, ‘let me stay.’

‘Go,’ said Mastino.

‘I will stay,’ faltered Conrad, ‘and amend my fault.’ But della Scala turned his back on him.

‘Go to Visconti,’ he flashed. ‘Tisio plays chess almost as well as Vincenzo.’

The taunt made speech come more easily. ‘No man can ask more than another’s humiliation, that other suing humbly for pardon —’

‘I did not ask so much,’ said Mastino, his back still to him. ‘You are unhurt.’

And the Count glanced at della Scala’s face, and saw a little of what he had done; that speech was useless.

He moved to go, murmuring something with bent head; at the door he turned again. ‘Della Scala,’ he began, ‘I—’

‘I will never willingly see your face again,’ interrupted Mastino. ‘Go and join my other allies — in Milan.’

Conrad drew himself up.

‘God helping me, I will go to Milan,’ he said. ‘I will further your cause in Milan itself — even though I leave with you my sword.’

Still Mastino stood motionless, and slowly Conrad passed through the door, and down the stairs, through the soldiery that turned their backs — cast out. As the door clashed to behind the Count, Mastino turned passionately and strode into the inner room, not knowing what he did, so great the agony of his helpless fury and despair.

A gloomy window gave a view upon the open country.

Della Scala strode to it; little he heeded the gloomy couch and the stained floor. He saw only the green plain of Lombardy, and his own diminished tents, lessened by the better half. He struck his hand against the window-frame violently — Visconti had triumphed!

This evening had he meant to seize Milan — the evening of this very day; and, behold, now it was all to be done again, the weary, weary waiting, the watching, the planning, the soothing his allies, the making good Carrara’s treachery; and meanwhile — Isotta!

Della Scala dropped his head into his hands with a cry wrung from his heart. ‘Isotta! Isotta!’

The sunlight fell too on the crumpled parchment on the floor, and Mastino, raising his head, saw it lying there and ground it beneath his heel.

‘Am I to be for ever laughed at and betrayed?’ he cried. ‘Ever served by traitors and leagued with fools? Shall I never learn I trust too much?’ He looked around the chamber, and thought, with a bitterness beyond expression, that only a few hours before Visconti had passed through it.

Della Scala leaned against the wall; the very sunlight seemed black, the very sky hopeless. Yet his spirit rose against his fate.

He drew out and kissed the little locket he wore around his neck, the pearl locket that always hung there. Then suddenly rousing himself and walking blindly forward, opening one door in mistake for another, he found himself at the top of two steps, looking down into a chapel. For a mo............