Seven days had passed.

In Milan there was much rejoicing, in its streets and palaces much splendour; it was the Lady Valentine’s wedding day.

Among the throng outside the church of Sant’Apollinare, the eager crowd that fought and battled for a better chance of seeing the splendid procession, was a monk, seemingly a wandering friar, who pressed his face against the cold marble walls in the silent vexation of an utter disappointment. It was Conrad.

He had failed in his mad mission; success from the first had been hopeless; he had not redeemed himself. He had not helped della Scala, he had not rescued Valentine — he had failed.

A dozen different plans had been formed — equally futile and impossible to carry out. Who could outwit Visconti in his own city? Bitterly Conrad regretted the false hopes conveyed in that whisper in this very church. Perhaps she had trusted to them, and here was her wedding day and he was standing outside, helpless!

He knew it pure folly, this risking his life for nothing, and what had brought him there he could scarcely tell; but under his monk’s habit he had a concealed dagger.

He felt desperate, wounded badly in both heart and pride. It was not so much for love of Valentine Visconti — that had ever been more fancy than aught else — it was the sense of failure — of self-humiliation; a bitter sense of how Visconti laughed at him. Far better a fine, romantic death than disgrace one side, defeat the other. In fact a fine, romantic death in a lady’s cause would be decidedly gratifying. With this new thought of it struggling in his mind, Count Conrad suddenly turned from the wall and forced lustily through the crowd to the church steps.

He was there none too soon. A sudden wild shout from the crowd, a movement of the soldiers keeping guard, told him they were leaving the church. The pushing, struggling people were well kept back by the stout halberds; but Conrad, partly by virtue of his dress, but rather by the strength of his squared arms, managed to force to the front, where he stood close behind the stalwart figure of a German mercenary.

Conrad glanced at the blond hair and mild blue eyes. ‘Friend,’ he whispered in German, leaning forward, ‘have consideration for a German father who will say many prayers for thee — in his native tongue.’

The soldier turned.

‘Quick,’ said Conrad, ‘a place next thee, my friend.’

The soldier smiled at the friar’s curiosity, and allowed him vantage; and Conrad, stationed near the foot of the steps, looked up them eagerly to the brilliant group issuing from the church doors.

His roving eyes sought Gian Visconti. It was only four months since he had seen him, talked to him freely, face to face, his friend and favourite, but it seemed years. Visconti had grown in greatness since then, and Conrad, when his gaze caught the once familiar figure, felt far away from knowledge of him.

Visconti was standing, his cap in his hand, surveying the crowd. He looked much older, Conrad thought, his face was dark and sombre, hardly like the face of a man at the summit of his ambition. He came down the steps slowly, on one side his sister, her bridegroom on the other, and taking no further notice of the shouting people, gazed down moodily.

Conrad hardly looked at Valentine, whiter than her white dress, gazing vacantly before her; he did not notice the utter change from her former brilliancy, he had no eyes for the overdressed, foppish bridegroom — he was looking at Visconti.

The steps were thickly strewn with flowers; the train of lords and ladies was one of colour and gems still flowing from the church as Visconti came to within three steps of the Count, and Conrad sprang forward before the startled soldier could throw out a hand.

Visconti stopped, and the procession behind him, arrested, stood a flaming band of movement and colour. Conrad threw back his hood with a sweeping gesture, thrilled by the excitement of the moment to dare anything. What his motive was he could not have told, but it was a fine moment. He caught one glimpse of Valentine’s suddenly illumined face, and drew the dagger.

‘Another wedding gift!’ he cried in ringing tones, and struck Visconti full upon the breast.

Then an utter confusion fell upon Count Conrad. He was seized, and pinioned tight amid wild yells, while the dagger, glancing off the armour beneath the soft rose-coloured velvet, fell on the steps unheeded.

‘Count Conrad?’ said Visconti clearly through the babble of voices. ‘Conrad von Schulembourg?’

‘Aye,’ said Conrad wildly, struggling between the two soldiers who held him. ‘Complete your triumph, Visconti. I would have killed you; kill me — kill me! You tried before and failed. I have tried and I fail. End it.’

He would have added more defiances, but the soldiers hauled him roughly back, and choked the words back into his throat.

‘Count Conrad?’ asked Valentine, in a clear tone. ‘Did he say Count Conrad?’

Visconti motioned to Orleans.

‘Take the Duchess on, my lord. I will remain and deal with this crazy friar.’

‘Surely he needs but little dealing with!’ said the Frenchman. ‘An assassin! There is the gallows ready!’

‘There is also your wedding procession waiting,’ returned Visconti quietly, and he motioned the train onward, and Conrad forward, the eager people in the street all straining every nerve to know what might have happened; appeased by the oncoming train, they gave only half a thought to the little knot pressed round the steps, and what the Duke had paused for.

Conrad stood between his guards, with a flushed face and a proud bearing. He would have liked to kiss his hand to Valentine, stepping into her gorgeous litter, looking back with half-awakened eyes; but his hands were held firmly, and his feet lashed together.

‘Well, Visconti,’ he said, with a still higher carriage of his head, ‘what is it this time — starvation or the rack?’

Visconti made no answer: he was looking down at the flowers on the steps.

‘Take those away,’ he said to a page, and pointed to a spray of white roses.

The boy obeyed, and glanced at his companions, wondering.

‘Saint Hubert!’ cried Conrad, with a sudden laugh. ‘You are full of whims as of old! How long must I wait for my death, at your good pleasure, my lord?’

The Duke turned his eyes on him.

‘You are strangely foolish,’ he said, and hesitated, looking at Conrad with a moody face.

‘Foolish indeed, or I had never been Visconti’s friend!’ retorted Conrad. ‘Foolish — or I had never trusted to his friendship. But call me also bold, my lord, to be here now, buying with my life the pleasure of saying so!’

‘The impudent German murmured a lady in Visconti’s ear. ‘Heaven has given your lordship even this — to crown your perfect triumph.’

The Duke was still silent: he looked from Conrad to the crowd, shouting, throwing up their hats to see the procession pass, and then to the soldiers, wondering at this strange hesitation.

Why did you come to Milan?’ he asked at last, fingering the gold tassels on his sleeve, and speaking slowly.

‘To save your unhappy sister,’ cried Conrad. ‘To try and kill you, Visconti!’ And he struggled fiercely in the grip of his captors.

‘Take him away,’ said Visconti. ‘Take him —’ He paused a moment.

‘To the gibbet, my lord?’

‘No — outside the gates. Give him a safe-conduct that will take him out of my soldiers’ lines. And so farewell, Count Conrad; I can waste no more time on you.’

‘I will not go!’ shrieked Conrad furiously. ‘I will not have your mercy, Visconti — I will not accept from you my life!’ Visconti passed on.

‘I say I will die!’ cried Conrad after him. ‘Do you quail at another murder, Visconti? Dare you not kill one more?’ The Duke looked back at him.

‘I owe you somewhat, Count. You may remember a certain game of chess you played in della Scala’s camp. It served me well — it saved my life — and gave me — della Scala. Now take yours — as a most unequal recompense.’

He smiled unpleasantly, and Conrad was silent, struck, chilled.

Tut him outside the gates,’ continued Visconti; ‘and give him money for his journey. Maybe he left della Scala too hastily to bear much away; maybe della Scala did not in any case pay well; and we would not have the noble Count beg his way to Germany’.

‘Visconti —’ Conrad choked on the word. ‘Viscon............