He came to the Old Broletto and the Church of Saint Gotthard, and paused there to survey the Duke's body where it lay under an apronful of roses which had been cast upon it by a harlot. Thence he repaired to the stables of the palace, and by making himself known procured a fresh horse. On this he made his way through the ever-increasing tumult of the streets, back to the Ticinese Gate, and he was away through the darkness to cover for the second time that day the twenty miles that lie between Milan and Pavia. It was past midnight when, so jaded that he kept his feet by a sheer effort of the will, he staggered into Filippo Maria's bedchamber, ushered by the servant who had preceded him to rouse the Prince. Filippo Maria sat up in bed, blinking in the candlelight, at that tall, swaying figure that was almost entirely clothed in mud. 'Is that you, Lord Bellarion? You will have heard that Facino is dead--God rest his soul!' A harsh, croaking voice made him answer! 'Aye, and avenged, Lord Duke.' A quiver crossed the pale fat face under its sleek black cap of hair. The coarse lips parted. 'Lord ... Lord Duke ... you said?' The high-pitched voice was awe-stricken. 'Your brother Gian Maria is dead, my lord, and you are Duke of Milan.' 'Duke of Milan? I am ...?' The grotesque young face showed bewilderment, confusion, fear. 'And Gian Maria ... Dead, do you say?' Bellarion did not mince matters. 'He was despatched to hell this morning by some gentlemen in Milan.' 'Jesus-Mary!' croaked the Prince, and fell to trembling. 'Murdered ... And you ...?' He heaved himself higher in the bed with one arm, whilst he flung out the other in accusation. He did not love his brother. He profited greatly by his death. But a Visconti does not permit that others shall lay hands on a Visconti. Bellarion laughed oddly. He had been forestalled. Perhaps it was as well. No need now to speak of his intentions. 'He was slain on his way to Mass this morning, at just about the hour that I arrived here from Bergamo.' The accusing arm fell heavily to the Prince's obese flank. The beady, lack-lustre eyes still peered at the young condottiero. 'Almost I thought ... And Giannino is dead ... murdered! God rest him!' The phrase was mechanical. 'Tell me about it.' Bellarion recited what he knew, then staggered out, on the arm of the servant who was to conduct him to the room prepared for him. 'What a world! What a dunghill!' he muttered as he went. 'And how well the old abbot knows it. _Pax multa in cella, foris autem plurima bella_!' CHAPTER VI THE INHERITANCE Facino Cane, Count of Biandrate, Lord of Novara, Dertona, Varese, Rosate, Valsassina, and of all the lands on Lake Maggiore as far as Vogogna, was buried with great pomp in the Church of San Pietro in Ciel d'Oro.