"All his hopes were on it," said Ligozzi bitterly. "His wife, his God." In disappointed groups the men moved off, to spread the evil news. It was now fully dark, but not so dark that the three left by the cave could not see each other in the faint starlight. Mastino called to Tomaso. His voice was hoarse and strained. "Tell me all, boy; tell how it happened." "My lord," faltered Tomaso, "it is too painful." "Painful!" And Della Scala laughed harshly. "I am well used to that; tell me how it happened." He had risen, and standing in the shadow of the trees, only the outline of his great figure was visible to Tomaso and Ligozzi, standing a few paces before him. "There is not much to tell," said the boy uneasily; he was sick with disappointment and the pain of his wound and leaned heavily against his father. "Agnolo opened the door to me--as had been arranged; he told me, with a wild face, his daughter was gone. Visconti had carried her off, he vowed. He was half-crazed, and ah, my lord, even as he spoke, the courtyard filled with soldiers, Visconti's soldiers. The girl had fled to the palace, and told the Duke all! We were betrayed! "They laughed to see me there; vowed I should die a merry death, trusted you would follow and let them give you a warm welcome. Agnolo they mocked with talk of pardon, for his daughter's sake, his daughter the Duchess to be, whom Visconti had proclaimed to all his court, if he would tell them a little more of what you meant to do! But Vistarnini met them with defiance. "'At least Visconti shall not claim us both!' he cried, and then they laughed and killed him. _That_ was the Duke's word, they said, not pardon." Tomaso paused. "And his daughter lives to be Duchess of Milan!" said Della Scala. "It is the will of Heaven!" He laughed again, harshly. "I escaped while they argued over the poor painter's body, and they dared not follow, being in terror of an ambush. If it had not been for saving thee, I would I might have died!" And he sank his head upon his father's shoulder with heart-wrung sobs. "Take him to the camp," said Mastino, rising. "How can I comfort him or thee, wanting it so much myself?" And he turned away through the trees. The air was perfumed and soft, it fanned the heavy hair back from his face and rustled the flowers around his feet. He walked fast, in a fury of hate. It came to him to rush into Milan, and die upon the soldiers' spears, if he might only get his hands upon Visconti. "I will challenge him to fight, to single combat," he thought madly. Then his mood changed, he stopped and felt for the locket at his neck. "Isotta! Oh, my dear, my dear!" and his voice was full of tears. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE IN CLOTH OF GOLD