But Agnolo Vistarnini lay in the little chapel of Santa Maria Nuova, near to the western gate, with tapers burning at his head and feet, and five sword-thrusts through his heart. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX IN VISCONTI'S HANDS Valentine Visconti was praying in the Church of San' Apollinare. It stood some way from the Visconti palace, a magnificent building, rich with the Duke's gifts. That morning thanksgiving rose from every church in Milan; from the palace to the hut, all showed some sign of rejoicing. The Duke had ordered public processions and thanksgiving, and none dared disobey. His Holiness Pope Boniface had deserted the falling cause of Verona; there was nothing to be feared and little to be gained from Mastino della Scala, the Duke of Milan had offered his aid against the rebellious Florentines, and many bribes besides, and to-day had seen the new league between the powerful tyrant of Lombardy and His Holiness publicly ratified. From Rome Visconti had nothing more to fear, Mastino nothing more to hope. The country around Padua was Visconti's too; Cologna, which he had always held, the great seaport of Chioggia, Mestre and Lovigo, betrayed by Carrara. Bassano had fallen, and now Reggio; there was cause for thanksgiving in Milan. As a last triumph, Valentine had been sent to offer up prayers and gifts for her brother's success. She was guarded on her errand, practically a prisoner. Soldiers stood at every door of the church, and a mounted escort waited without to conduct her back. She was on her knees before the blazing altar, her head low over her missal, but she was not offering thanks to heaven for Gian's victories. She thought of Graziosa with angry hate. But for that girl, Della Scala had been in Milan, and Count Conrad with him--and in reward for her treachery Graziosa was to queen it over her! Visconti delighted to flaunt her with her at every turn. That morning Visconti had told her the war was drawing to a close--said it with much meaning, and promised her, smiling, Count Conrad's head as a wedding gift. He had been closeted long with Giannotto; strangely elated he had seemed, and Valentine shudderingly wondered what was in the air. That there was something she knew full well; Visconti was hatching some stroke that would complete Della Scala's ruin. For some days she had seen his purpose in his face, and to-day the alliance with the Pope confirmed it. She did not greatly care, she was too crushed with her own failures to care much for the failure of another. She felt sorry for Isotta d'Este, and bitter toward Count Conrad. "But were I either of them, Prince Mastino or Count Conrad," she thought in hot anger, "I would not _live_ to grace Visconti's triumph."