"Graziosa," said Agnolo, and there was a boyish triumph in his voice, "Visconti dies to-night." She did not move. "To-night Della Scala enters Milan; there is no chance of failure." "None?" she asked. Her voice was dull. "None! Ah, Graziosa, Visconti roused more dangerous foes than he reckoned on when he played with me and thee." The girl moved impatiently; her father's words jarred on her senses. "Father, I am tired," she said wearily, "and my heart is very sore----" "Never fear, my daughter; to-night, to-night!" Graziosa turned to him; her face was white and strained. "But if--he--the Duke--should not be--be slain?" she said. "He has a new army here in Milan." "Aye, but a surprise at dead of night is worth two armies to the others. The palace is near; Visconti will be in their hands even while he sleeps----" "In Della Scala's hands----" she breathed. "That means, indeed--he--O God, it means Ambrogio dies!" The last words were breathed so low Agnolo did not hear them, but he saw the pain on his daughter's face and came gently to her side. "Forgive me if I pain thee, my dearest. God knows, if I speak lightly 'tis but to hide a bitter grief----" But Graziosa interrupted him with a passionate cry, and seizing his hands covered them with kisses. "Take no heed of me!" she cried. "I am half distraught--soon I shall be better." "After to-night there will be a shadow gone from off us, Graziosa, and not from off us alone." "There is no chance of failure?" asked the girl again. "Comfort thyself--none." Graziosa said no more, and Agnolo turned to leave, for there were the soldiers still to hoodwink, but at the door his daughter called him: "At what hour do Della Scala's men enter?" she asked, in a low voice, her head still turned away. "One hour after midnight," returned the little painter. "Della Scala leads them?" "Della Scala himself," said Agnolo, proudly. "He is a noble prince." His daughter made no answer; long after the little painter had left her again alone she sat there listless in the sunny, silent chamber, listless, with her white face, leaning back against the window frame. "There was no possibility of failure." The words beat upon her heart till she thought it would break. "To-morrow he will be dead!" She sprang to her feet with sudden energy; the sun was rising high--the time was short. It was silent, maddeningly silent; Graziosa grew afraid of it--the silence and the sun; she wished she were dead; it came to her to kill herself, yet full well she knew that she had not the courage. She twisted her damp, cold hands together; she wondered if she shut her eyes and leaped from the window she might die without knowing it, and nerving herself looked out. But the stone courtyard seemed far away, hard and cruel, and she winced back again. In her own heart she knew she was a coward, and wept to think it was so--wept to think she could not rise to act, in any way to act.