The wayfarers gazed about them wonderingly. It was a place of charm. The fast-grown grass was thick with flowers; and a wooden bucket hung idly from its chain above the wooden runnel. Supporting Tomaso, Francisco turned into the nearest hut, and noted it was better fashioned and better fitted than many of the like. A low doorway admitted into the long divisions of the space, each lit by small square openings in the walls. The light by now had faded, and save that it was empty of life, little else would have been discernible, but a portion of the roof had been broken away, as if by some pikeman's reckless thrust, and through the gap some of the sweet spring dusk showed them faintly their surroundings. A few stools, a wooden table, roughly hewn, a broken earthenware bowl, and a rudely painted crucifix, half-torn from the wall, completed the furniture. "They fled in haste," said Francisco grimly. "Has Visconti been here too?" "See," cried Vittore, and he picked up from his feet a silver goblet. The other turned from where he had laid Tomaso down and took it from him eagerly. The piece was heavily chased, bearing a raised shield wrought with the German eagle and lettering "C.S." "German," he said. "Plunder. Possibly from the villa. This may account for its desertion. Yes--no doubt: the owner of the villa has crossed Visconti's path." And his teeth ground over the name as he set the goblet on the table, where it gleamed with a faint ghostly light. "Sleep," he said presently to Vittore. "Eat this and then sleep. Thou canst do so with safety." The boy, glancing up into his face, believed him, and was soon lost to everything in the deep sleep of utter weariness of mind and body. Francisco bent above Tomaso and gave him wine to swallow, and set water by his side. The youth caught the hand that tended him and kissed it. "I am grateful," he murmured. "To-morrow I shall be well." "Aye, get better," said Francisco. "Thou mayst be of some service if thou wilt. Nay," he added, checking Tomaso's feeble but eager impulse, "I know not yet what I can do myself. But we have a cause in common," and he smiled faintly. "And now sleep. You sought Della Scala's court. I will not desert thee." Taking his tattered cloak from his shoulders, he laid it over him, and Tomaso lay back on the ready spread couch of heather, and watched peacefully. There was no light in the hut, but the moonshine began to show across the open doorway. Francisco pulled a stool to the table, and sitting, drew out his dagger and carefully examined it; laid it ready. Then he felt in his wallet as if to reassure himself of something, and then Tomaso saw him slip something on his hand--it gleamed: a ring! "Who is he?" thought the youth, not sure he gazed upon reality. "Who is he?"