"They were German boors," answered Visconti, "Count Conrad's men, and there was nothing to tell my degree. Yet, had they looked a little closer, they might have found one thing that would have told them I was different from what I seemed--these." And he drew out of his doublet the turquoise gloves. Even in that cold, faint light they showed brilliant and beautiful, and Carrara gazed at them in wonder. "As I was summoned," continued Visconti, dreamily, "I was looking at them. Are they not beautiful, Carrara? Two years they took to make, and cost more than I care to tell. Each turquoise is flawless, and set by Antonio Fressi himself." "And is this a gift for some one?" asked Carrara, and he looked keenly into Visconti's face. "It was one of my bridal gifts to the Duke d'Orleans. I must honor him, Carrara, although I love him not," said Visconti simply. "But now I will offer it to one to whom I owe my life. Take the gloves, a gift from me, Giacomo." And he turned in the saddle and held them with a winning smile to Carrara, who, mistrustful, looked at him doubtingly and keenly. "Thou wilt not refuse my gift?" and Visconti looked at him proudly. "Let it seal our bargain, Carrara. Take it, for the sake of the goodwill with which it is offered." Carrara's ruling quality was prudence, and all Visconti's seeming guilelessness did not deceive him; still, he hesitated, considering where the trap lay. Then, as he glanced down at the gloves, his eyes caught the gleam on the hilt of his dagger, and a thought struck him. "He means to make me put them on," he thought, "and snatch the sword meanwhile"; and he smiled to think Visconti could be so simple. "Thank thee for thy gift, Visconti, and for the goodwill that offers it," he said, with an ingenuousness equal to Visconti's, and reaching out his hand, he took the gloves, meaning to have the gift and outwit Visconti also. Gian's manner had lost its gloom and wildness, he seemed light of heart and in a pleasant mood. "They are riding-gloves," he cried. "Wear them into Milan, Carrara." "Ah," thought Giacomo, "I see the plot. Thou wouldst snatch a weapon while my hands are busy," and, priding himself on his cunning, he deftly slipped them on his hands, keeping his elbow on his sword-hilt and his watchful eyes upon Visconti. "A beautiful dawn," said Gian softly, seeming to take no heed of Carrara's clever maneuvering; his eyes were fixed on the sunrise behind Milan. "All pearl and silver, blushing into life anon; about the time when I shall enter Milan." And he fixed his eyes on Giacomo with a strange expression. "When _we_ shall enter Milan," corrected Carrara. "The sun will be faintly high: these marches are toilsome." And he glanced down proudly at the beautiful gauntlets on his hands, calculating what the pearls and turquoises might be worth, picked off, and vain at having outwitted Visconti.