It was early morning of the second day since Ligozzi had discovered the secret passage, and Milan lay peaceful, for in those two days there had been no fighting; but the calm was the lull before the storm.

Agnolo Vistarnini stood in front of the secret door, with shining eys. The spring had just slipped back behind Tomaso, the last arrangements had been made; tonight della Scala should enter Milan — and he, Agnolo, would be the means.

Agnolo looked across the courtyard now in shadow to where a soldier kept his guard. The guard was the Duke’s orders, and to the painter’s face the soldiery showed all respect; yet well Agnolo knew they laughed at Visconti’s whim, and shrugged their shoulders at the pale-faced girl who was to be Duchess of Milan. And the painter had heard their talk among themselves.

‘It was likely enough for the Duke to amuse himself in disguise,’ they said, ‘but to marry a painter’s daughter!’

‘It were more reasonable had he dowered her to wed another, and yet ’tis of a piece with all his madness!’

‘I would sooner see her dead,’ thought the little painter, ‘than Duchess of Milan, the Visconti’s wife.’

The white agonized face of Isotta rose before him, the fierce rebellious hate that marred Valentine Visconti’s beauty, and Visconti’s own expression as he stooped to mock a woman in his power; the gallant heart of the little painter throbbed with wrath and honest fury against the tyrant who played with hearts, who thought the offer of a crown he had usurped atoned for crimes as black as hell.

‘Tonight, tonight!’ he murmured to himself as he mounted the stair to seek for his daughter. ‘Tonight we shall both avenge the use of us to please a whim.’

He entered his studio; it was empty, the two pictures stood with their backs to the room. Agnolo looked at them grimly. How often had Visconti sat painting that St Catherine, unarmed! How easy then to have struck him low! What would Lombardy have said!

‘Graziosa!’ he called. He was eager to tell her Tomaso had been again.

He never doubted for a moment that her love had turned, as his had done, to a passion of outraged pride.

‘Graziosa!’

But no answer came, and Agnolo mounted the stair and entered her little chamber in the turret. It was circular, lit by three long windows, and now ablaze with the morning sun.

The walls were hung with painted linen, faded browns, and in each window stood a rough stone jar of lilies, drooping neglected in the sun.

Seated on the floor near one of them was Graziosa, her face buried in her hands, but at her father’s entrance she raised her head and looked out of the window.

‘Graziosa,’ said Agnolo, and there was a boyish triumph in his voice, ‘Visconti dies tonight.’

She did not move.

‘Tonight della Scala enters Milan; there is no chance of failure.’

‘None?’ she asked. Her voice was dull.

‘None! Ah, Graziosa, Visconti roused more dangerous foes than he reckoned on when he played with me and thee.’

The girl moved impatiently; her father’s words jarred on her senses.

‘Father, I am tired,’ she said wearily, ‘and my heart is very sore —’

‘Never fear, my daughter; tonight, tonight!’

Graziosa turned to him; her face was white and strained.

‘But if — he — the Duke — should not be-be slain?’ she said. ‘He has a new army here in Milan.’

‘Aye, but a surprise at dead of night is worth two armies to the others. The palace is near; Visconti will be in their hands even while he sleeps —’

‘In della Scala’s hands —’ she breathed. ‘That means, indeed — he — O God, it means Ambrogio dies!’

The last words were breathed so low Agnolo did not hear them, but he saw the pain on his daughter’s face and came gently to her side.

‘Forgive me if I pain thee, my dearest. God knows, if I speak lightly ’tis but to hide a bitter grief —’

But Graziosa interrupted him with a passionate cry and seizing his hands covered them with kisses.

‘Take no heed of me!’ she cried. ‘I am half distraught — soon I shall be better.’

‘After tonight there will be a shadow gone from off us, Graziosa, and not from off us alone.’

‘There is no chance of failure?’ asked the girl again.

‘Comfort thyself — none.’

Graziosa said no more, and Agnolo turned to leave, for there were the soldiers still to hoodwink, but at the door his daughter called him.

‘At what hour do della Scala’s men enter?’ she asked, in a low voice, her head still turned away.

‘One hour after midnight,’ returned the little painter. ‘Della Scala leads them?’

‘Della Scala himself,’ said Agnolo, proudly. ‘He is a noble prince.’

His daughter made no answer; long after the little painter had left her alone again she sat there listless in the sunny, silent chamber, listless, with her white face, leaning back against the window frame.

‘There i............