"For an emperor--but we will not talk of tombs, my lord," she answered, "but of pleasant things, and--and--of something that I have to ask you." "What?" smiled Visconti. The pages had gathered up the drawings, and the architect had removed his precious model and withdrawn. They were alone, and Graziosa rose and looked at Visconti a little timidly. "I--I mean--there will be peace soon--you think, my lord?" "I think so--but peace or war, it shall not touch thee, Graziosa." "Indeed, I do not fear it--but----" She hesitated a moment, and glanced anxiously at Visconti's smiling face. "Prince Mastino's wife--my lord----" "What of her?" asked Gian, lightly. "How does she trouble thee?" "I fear she is in sad woe," said Graziosa, encouraged by his tone. "She will return to Della Scala when the war is ended?" Visconti laughed. "The war will not be ended till she does, methinks; yet be comforted, Graziosa; before our wedding day she shall be in Della Scala's camp--and the war over: now think of it no more." "Indeed I am satisfied; and my father, my lord?" "Now, can I help it an he will not come to the palace? My word on it, he is safe; think no more of that, Graziosa. My word on it, he is safe! Now are you content?" "My dear, dear lord, I am content: I will trouble you no more with questions. I am content to leave my father's safety in your hands--content." She laid her arms about his neck, and Visconti kissed the roses on the breast that crushed them against his golden doublet, and then her upturned face. Through the open window came the distant sound of singing; some one singing in French, and then a woman's laugh. Graziosa drew herself away, and Visconti's face darkened. "Please heaven, she will not annoy me long," he muttered. He took Graziosa's hand in silence and stepped out on to the terrace. Seated on the steps was d'Orleans, playing with the red ribbons of his lute, and standing among the cluster of ladies at the foot of them was Valentine Visconti. She looked very brilliant and beautiful, and angry and scornful; her laughter was bitter, and the veiled brightness of her eyes not pleasant. The shade of Visconti's face deepened as he looked at her: compared to his sister, Graziosa was a candle beside the sun; the contrast did not please Gian. D'Orleans rose and bowed low to the lady, yet in a way that was not respectful. "So there has been a challenge from the enemy," he lisped. "Now I shall love to see a single meeting of brave swords again." "Who said so?" asked Visconti. He came slowly down the steps; his manner had quite changed, and his eyes were on his sister. "The Lady Valentine," said the Frenchman. "She----" "The Lady Valentine," interrupted the Duke sternly, "had best remember--what I have often remembered to her advantage--that she is a woman, and these affairs are none of hers." And he gave her a glance that made her wince, as always did that glance, for all her boldness.