Then he dozed unwittingly, and, waking with a start, saw the moonlight streaming through the broken roof, the faint stars, and near him Vittore sleeping. The goblet still shone upon the crazy table, but the hut door had been closed and, save for themselves, the place was empty. Francisco stepped out into the spring night, fire beating at his temples: _Visconti was abroad!_ The moon, half-shrouded in a misty vapor, was rising above the fragrant chestnuts, and brilliant in the semi-dark, like flame behind a veil, the clumps of wallflowers gave out intoxicating scent. Francisco noticed them, and thought grimly they were the color of blood just dry. The spell of the moon and of the hour lay on everything; a weird ghostliness seemed to step among the trees; a sighing came from the great bushes in the garden of the villa: "Visconti is abroad!" Francisco touched his dagger and went forward. Across his path two white moths fluttered, white by day, now silver purple, illusive and mysterious. To the man's fevered mood they seemed an omen; souls of the dead allowed to take farewell of earth; and with straining eyes he watched them float away and up, and out of sight. "Who had perchance just died?" Francisco's giant sinews tightened. He went forward swiftly to the road, and strained his eyes and ears along its silver length. Nothing to be heard! nothing to be seen! Had he lost his chance, had the Duke re-entered Milan? Or had he gone too far to return that night? He sat upon the boulders where he had rested previously, his face turned toward Brescia, his hand upon his dagger. The soft air was strengthening into a gentle wind; the poplar leaves were dancing, and darkening clouds began to drive across the moon. But the man heeded nothing the changing; light or dark, what matter once Visconti had crossed his path? Long he waited. Not a sound save the dancing of the leaves, the rising wind, the soft noises of the night. At length Francisco leaped to his feet, and his breath came short and fast. He could hear something. The wind was against him. He lay down; he put his ear to the ground; then he leaped to his feet again, transformed. It was unmistakable, though still far off; the thud of horses' flying feet. Francisco waited. With each second the wind rose; the clouds raced and gathered, and darkened half the sky, and the man, straining every nerve, thought at first it was the wind he heard mingling with the trample of the oncoming hoofs. Then he knew it for screams of fury and wild shouting. "It is the Visconti," he said, and involuntarily his tense arm sank and his muscles loosened; those mad shrieks could freeze the marrow. Nearer came the onset, trampling horse and yelling rider; and Francisco set himself anew. "He rides with his own soul for company," he muttered grimly. Now the furious cries came clearly, terrible, inhuman; and in another moment, horse and rider were in view. "Yes. Visconti."