She made no answer, and he laid her hand back on her lap tenderly, smoothing her dress, and whispering comfort in her unhearing ears. Suddenly the door swung under an impetuous hand. It was the Duke, but Tisio was not startled. "Gian!" he said, "be kind to her; talk to her, poor thing!" Visconti stepped into the room, looking at Tisio keenly. "Where is she?" he asked, for in the gloom he could not at once see the silent figure in the corner. "Where is she, Tisio?" "The girl with the pretty hair--" began his brother; but Visconti grasped him by the arm with a cry. "Bring me a light!" he cried, "a light----" With trembling hands Tisio lit the lamp and brought it near. Its yellow light fell over Visconti's green dress and Graziosa's bright hair. "If it should be so!" muttered Visconti. "If it should be so!" The light was faint, but it showed him enough. He looked into her face, and his own changed darkly. "Tisio," he said, "she's dead! Graziosa! Graziosa!" He bent closer, eagerly. "Get help, Tisio! help!" And Tisio, eager, alert, put the lamp in the window, where it flung long, ghostly shadows, and sped calling down the stairs. Visconti had sent for help, yet even while he sent he knew it useless: she was dead! He stood looking at her. Poison!--she had poisoned herself. Something was tightly locked in her right hand! he forced the fingers apart, and looked at it--poison. "How dared she do it?" he muttered, with an ever-darkening face. "How dared she?--who gave it her? Who dared to give it her?" He would never have thought it lay in her to do this. All Milan must know she had preferred to die rather than be his bride. He had failed in this, though he had sworn he could not, though he had sworn she should share his throne before them all--the woman who loved him for himself alone. He remembered Valentine. Valentine had done this. At his feet lay the satin garments and the jewels Graziosa had flung aside: she would not wear them. Not all his power could do that; not all his pride, all his ambition, could make her wear the crown, without the love. Gian Visconti stamped his foot. How dared she! How dared she! Her eyes would never sparkle at his coming nor sadden at his good-by. And Visconti, coming back to look at her again, was awed; affection stirred anew, and something like respect at the sight of her still dignity. He looked around to find the door full of anxious faces, and Tisio behind him. "Finely I am served!" he cried in a transport. "Do you let the Lady Graziosa go unattended? She hath been murdered, and those who should have been with her shall die for it!" Weeping ladies and frightened pages crept in and stood aghast, silent at what they saw--more silent at his face. Visconti stood before Graziosa's body and looked at them with mad eyes; he held a white rose in his fingers. The flickering lamp was just over his head; its light fell on his face and on hers--her sweet face that told its own tale.