Valentine looked at her curiously, scornfully. They were passing between rich bushes of roses and lilies, the air was heavy with scent, and from the ladies following came gentle laughter. "You think he loves you?" asked Valentine. "I know it," answered Graziosa, proudly. Valentine smiled and looked away. The smile and glance stung Visconti's betrothed like a whip-stroke. "What do you mean?" she cried. "You insult me--you insult him!" "Do you know Gian Visconti so very well?" asked his sister. "Have you seen him torturing his prisoners with the slow torture of the mind--worse than any rack? Have you seen him lying and betraying, stealing and murdering?" Graziosa looked at her wildly; she looked strangely like her brother could look, her voice was very like his. "You know how his father died? How his mother's heart was broken?" "I know you never raised a hand to save them--I know I love him!" cried Graziosa. "Doubtless," smiled Valentine with scorn. "But does he love you? Why, he is so stained with crime I do not care to touch his hand. Would such a man love--you?" "Some tales I have heard, but now I know them false," said Graziosa, white and trembling. "And I will hear no more." "She thinks he loves her!" murmured Valentine. "She thinks Gian Visconti loves her!" Graziosa was as near hate as was possible for her; her heart was too full for a reply, she called to her ladies and turned away. But Valentine followed, and laid her hand on her shoulder with what seemed a loving gesture. "Tell Gian what I have said," she whispered. "It will be an office to suit you, traitress!" and with a smile she turned away. Graziosa walked slowly toward her tower; somehow the garden had grown dim, the sky was not so bright, the sun so brilliant; she was looking at them through a veil of tears, unshed and bitter. "The Lady Valentine is not a gay companion to-day," remarked one of her attendants, looking at her. "No," said Graziosa dully. Valentine's words were rankling in her heart; all the past came before her, all the tales she had heard of Visconti, all her father's tenderness, the old, happy time. What if it had all been a mistake? What if Visconti still played with her and he was what Valentine had said? The idea was too awful, she crushed it back, she would not believe. She thought of her father with a sudden yearning; she had always turned to him in her little troubles, she felt uneasy about him with a sudden wave of homesickness. "Can I forget?" she cried in her heart. "Can I live this life and forget?" But the next moment she calmed herself. She thought of Visconti leaning over his cathedral, of his hand in hers, of his earnest voice--and she had his word for her father's safety. Smiling to herself, she mounted the steps to her gorgeous dwelling, made splendid by Visconti's love. "My father! We shall be happy together again yet!" And she laughed and kissed the roses Gian had kissed, and the sun seemed bright again.