The day that was to place Milan in the enemy’s hands was wearing to a close; the sun had almost set in a wide sky, a flare of orange and purple, against which the chestnuts stood in rich dark.

Mastino della Scala and some few of his officers were standing in the little wood into which the secret passage opened Behind them the army was in readiness.

‘I have wrenched success from the hands of failure!’ cried Mastino, his eyes brilliant, a different man. He could have laughed aloud for joy; he would see Isotta tonight, he would keep his word; Visconti’s palace was near the western gate, they would be upon him before he knew.

‘There is no possibility of failure, Ligozzi; no possibility of treachery?’ he said, eagerly, and pressed his friend’s hands in his.

‘None, lord; Vistarnini is to be trusted to the death.’

‘Von Schulembourg’s horse returned to camp this morning,’ said Ligozzi. ‘I know not where the Count is.’

‘When I am in Milan I will find him; he shall wed the Lady Valentine; I bear him no bitterness. Ah, Ligozzi, the world will be a different place tomorrow.’

And Mastino leaned forward eagerly, waiting for the first sign of the return of Tomaso, who had been sent ahead to reconnoitre.

The sky flared and blazed through the trees till the whole world seemed on fire; the red clouds were reflected in della Scala’s polished armour till it glowed in one bright flame, above which the plumes on his steel cap floated long and white.

The next second the glory faded and was gone, leaving the world cold and grey.

The sun had set.

A cold breeze stirred the leaves against the pale sky, but to Mastino, leaning against the tree trunk, waiting, no foreboding came. It was success, success — at last!

‘Tomaso is long,’ said Ligozzi.

‘The way is long,’ smiled Mastino. ‘But not so long that we shall not enter Milan before dawn!’

The passage opened into the undergrowth from the wide mouth of a cave, and della Scala, in his eagerness, stepped forward into the shadow of its blackness, listening intently.

No sound broke the stillness save the little murmur of the wind, the occasional clank of the bridles of the idle horses. ‘Hark cried Mastino. ‘I hear him!’

He turned with shining eyes to Ligozzi.

‘My friend, at last Heaven has heard!’

‘He carries no torch,’ said Ligozzi, wonderingly, for though footsteps ascended, no ray of light fell across the dark. ‘He stayed not for torch,’ cried della Scala. ‘Bring up the men, Ligozzi!’

As he spoke, a figure forced itself out of the dark, a wild figure, and yet Tomaso’s; his white face was smeared with blood which trickled from a great gash on his forehead, his doublet was rent and torn, and he reeled as hurt and spent.

‘O Mother of God!’ muttered Mastino. ‘Mother of God!’ Tomaso sank at his feet with a bitter cry.

‘All is over!’ he cried. ‘We are betrayed. Oh, would I were dead before I had to tell thee!’

‘Betrayed?’ echoed della Scala. All the life was struck out of him, he steadied himself against the cavern wall and looked at the boy dully. ‘Betrayed?’

‘Betrayed? By whom?’ cried Ligozzi. ‘Ah, thou art hurt!’

‘Nothing, nothing. I am in time — Visconti — his men guard the other entrance — with difficulty I escaped to warn thee,’ gasped Tomaso.

‘Who betrayed us?’ demanded his father, his face dark with passion.

‘The girl,’ said Tomaso, bitterly; ‘the girl who loved Visconti.’

‘And Heaven favours her love and not mine!’ The cry was wrung from Mastino. ‘We are betrayed for a girl’s love of Visconti. And my wife waits for me!’ He laughed wildly, and drew a faded rose from ............