For five hours the Veronese and the defenders had struggled on the walls. Twice Mastino had wrenched the towers of the western gate from the enemy's hand; twice he had been driven back, leaving his dead piled high. A third desperate attempt had also been lost, and Della Scala fell back toward Brescia with frightfully diminished numbers, and mad with the agony of final defeat. His cause seemed hopeless. And in the moment of his hopelessness Visconti's embassy arrived. "Give Della Scala one day to consider," Visconti said to Giannotto, who accompanied de Lana on this mission. "An if he mislikes the terms, say thou art to carry them to Ippolito d'Este." It was evening, and very still. Visconti stepped onto the balcony, and looked through the clustered pillars of its arcade into the garden. The setting sun blended all flowers alike with soft gold; a little breeze shook the leaves, and stirred the jasmine that clung to the carved sandstone, fluttering its white stars delicately; the sky was very clear, as pure as a shell, and tinted like a wild rose. Visconti was busy with his thoughts. His eyes rested on Isotta's dark prison with an utter satisfaction in gazing on this evidence of his power over Della Scala. And then he looked to Graziosa's dwelling, and a shade crossed his face. Even to himself he would not yet admit it--but with her it was not perfect success. Since Valentine's cruel stab, Graziosa had faded, grown silent and dull; and her beauty had gone with her happiness. She looked no wife for a Visconti. Torn from its setting, her fresh face lost its charm; the simplicity that had pleased him in her father's house annoyed the Duke in his own palace; the meekness and devotion that had flattered his vanity now angered it--in his eyes she had no more presence than a serving-maid; she was making his choice a mock before all Milan, with her white face and timid voice. Visconti frowned to himself as he thought of her. She had said no word, she had uttered no reproach; she had remained passive and dull; but she was grown a mere shadow, a reflection of her former self. "Maybe her folly will wear away," mused Visconti moodily. "But if not--if she prefers her father before me--she may follow him." To-day he had not as yet seen her. This was the first thought he had spared her; now he had a free moment and he would visit her--see for himself if her humor should promise of changing--the humor of: "My Lady Graziosa Vistarnini, who hath not spirit for her destiny, who hath not the greatness to be proud to be a Duchess of Milan." Visconti sneered at her scruples, and was inclined to be angry with his own folly in choosing his wife for a soft heart and true affection; and with more even than anger he thought of Valentine. He took his way alone through the sumptuous gardens.