On reaching it he flung the reins over the steed's back, and turned him adrift toward Brescia; then, with resolution in his heart and tears in his eyes, Count Conrad von Schulembourg, with feet bare on the stony road, made painful progress toward Milan. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE FOR LOVE OF AMBROGIO It was early morning of the second day since Ligozzi had discovered the secret passage, and Milan lay peaceful, for in those two days there had been no fighting; but the calm was the lull before the storm. Agnolo Vistarnini stood in front of the secret door, with shining eyes. The spring had just slipped back behind Tomaso, the last arrangements had been made; to-night Della Scala should enter Milan--and he, Agnolo, would be the means. Agnolo looked across the courtyard now in shadow to where a soldier kept his guard. The guard was the Duke's orders, and to the painter's face the soldiery showed all respect; yet well Agnolo knew they laughed at Visconti's whim, and shrugged their shoulders at the pale-faced girl who was to be Duchess of Milan. And the painter had heard their talk among themselves. "It was likely enough for the Duke to amuse himself in disguise," they said, "but to marry a painter's daughter!" "It were more reasonable had he dowered her to wed another, and yet 'tis of a piece with all his madness!" "I would sooner see her dead," thought the little painter, "than Duchess of Milan, the Visconti's wife." The white agonized face of Isotta rose before him, the fierce rebellious hate that marred Valentine Visconti's beauty, and Visconti's own expression as he stooped to mock a woman in his power; the gallant heart of the little painter throbbed with wrath and honest fury against the tyrant who played with hearts, who thought the offer of a crown he had usurped atoned for crimes as black as hell. "To-night, to-night!" he murmured to himself as he mounted the stair to seek for his daughter. "To-night we shall both avenge the use of us to please a whim." He entered his studio; it was empty, the two pictures stood with their backs to the room. Agnolo looked at them grimly. How often had Visconti sat painting that St. Catherine, unarmed! how easy then to have struck him low! What would Lombardy have said! "Graziosa!" he called. He was eager to tell her Tomaso had been again. He never doubted for a moment that her love had turned, as his had done, to a passion of outraged pride. "Graziosa!" But no answer came, and Agnolo mounted the stair and entered her little chamber in the turret. It was circular, lit by three long windows, and now ablaze with the morning sun. The walls were hung with painted linen, faded browns, and in each window stood a rough stone jar of lilies, drooping neglected in the sun. Seated on the floor near one of them was Graziosa, her face buried in her hands, but at her father's entrance she raised her head and looked out of the window.