There was no tinge of greatness in Graziosa's soul; she would have gone through life, if unmolested, merry, gentle, sweetness and happiness itself, content to always stand aside for others, eager to do little kindnesses that came within her compass, never tempted because never seeing the temptation, happy in utter simplicity and ignorance; but a great moment found her wanting, a crisis she could not face; as she tried to think, right and wrong grew strangely confused. She only knew she loved Visconti, and that he was in danger. She was too weak to kill herself, although she did not shrink from the cowardice of it, only from the pain; she was too weak to tell her father she still loved Visconti; she could not bear to see his face should she confess it; he would never understand. "I will lock the door," she said, with wild eyes, "lock the door, and let no one enter till it is all over--and perhaps my heart will break," she added pitifully. Then she stood a long time, still with hands locked tight. Suddenly she turned and her robe caught the jar of lilies, throwing them into the room. There they lay, faded by the heat, amid the broken jar, and Graziosa looked with unseeing eyes, and picked them up mechanically. Opposite hung a mirror, and as she raised her head she saw herself reflected there. The lilies dropped from her hands as they had dropped before in the street, the day Tisio took her bracelet. "He would have made me Duchess of Milan!" She drew nearer and surveyed her pale face closely. "Duchess of Milan! and he had all Italy to choose from!" The thought brought a flush to her cheek. "His sister is very, very beautiful. I am not so fair as she, nor as Della Scala's wife, and yet he thought me fit to share his throne----" She moved toward the door with faltering steps. "I must not think," she moaned. "I will lock the door--I will lock the door----" But another thought struck her, and she quivered with her agony. "He trusted me--he trusted us--he never questioned our faith!" Then her heart rose in rebellion at her own weakness. Let Visconti be betrayed: why? What did she know of his crimes? She could hear her father feasting the soldiers below, and thought of him restless and impatient for nightfall. He had never loved Ambrogio. She listened and heard his voice in pleasant laughter with a triumphant ring in it, and a sort of rage rose in her heart. "Who are we to save Milan from a tyrant?" she thought. "Ambrogio is more to me than all the Milanese." She put her hand on the door handle. "When would he have sent for me?" she wondered dully. "He smiled. His voice was gentle; Ambrogio's voice! and he is Ambrogio, and--to-night, to-night----" Her eyes fell on the long blue hooded cloak hanging on the wall near. She took it down and paused with it in her hand, looking at it with fixed eyes. A bird flew past the window, sending a swift shadow across the floor.