Gian Maria drew rein now, and looked down at him, his face no longer indifferent, as he looked down into the white and contorted countenance of the dying man. "'Whom did you murder here, Visconti?'" he quoted. "'Whoever it be, do not fear him now, since he is dead'; and I answered, did I not, that I feared neither him nor you? And now, Carrara, thou mayst tell him what I said, he whom I murdered in that room we passed." Giacomo, writhing on the ground, looked up at him with hate equal to his own, and feebly still tried to pull off the turquoise gloves. Visconti, leaning low from the saddle, gripped his sword and thrust it through his belt. "I shall not ride into Milan swordless," he said; "thou might'st have spared thy caution, Carrara: I shall ride into Milan with thy army, thy towns, and thy sword; and I have bought them--with a pair of turquoise gloves." He looked curiously at Carrara, who suddenly sat upright; the cold light fell on his face, his starting eyes looking straight into Visconti's. "Thou art not human, Visconti," he whispered. "Yet, remember, even devils meet their punishment, and there will be the bitterest of all for such as thou art--failure--" And he fell back again among the flowers, where he lay, white and still. Visconti looked back at the advancing rearguard, waved to it, pointing downward, and then before him to Milan, brilliant in the sunrise. From its turrets still floated the banner of the Viper. CHAPTER NINETEEN A SIGN FROM HEAVEN The day had dawned fair and clear after the storm, and the early sunlight struck across the dark chamber that had held Visconti. The stamped leather hung before the high window had been torn away and lay along the ground, but the room was unchanged save that the inner door was open, and near it, stuck into a crevice of the stone, a parchment hung. Before this stood Count Conrad, with a face dazed. Vincenzo, when he learned the news, had flown like a madman along the road to Milan, in a fury of rage, with some half-frenzied project of overtaking the traitor. Outside the door was a group of soldiers, who peeped through with curiosity at the motionless figure within. At last he moved dizzily to a seat. "Saint Hubert, when the Prince returns!" he gasped, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a groan of woe. He looked a somewhat sorry figure, his peacock doublet crumpled, his hair uncurled, his hands shaking. Last night, only last night, Visconti had been in this very room, a prisoner in his power, and he had reveled with a boy and quarreled over a game! One of the soldiers pushed the door open softly and entered. "The Prince has returned, my lord," he said. "So soon!" gasped Conrad. "So soon!" "The army is moving from Brescia; the intention is to march on Milan----" "With the men who are not here!" groaned Conrad.