For some moments Visconti was silent, gazing at them wildly, and it seemed to more than one of those who crowded there appalled that there came a new expression to his face, a new look into his widely opened eyes--not madness and not rage--but fear. "In a week I would have made her Duchess of Milan," he said at last, with a sudden break in his voice; and he dropped his white rose at her dead feet, with a shudder, and turned away, through the crowd that fell away from him, down the stairs in silence. It was two hours later, in the hushed, awe-struck, half-expectant palace, when Visconti opened the door of his inner room and stepped into the antechamber, where one page kept watch. To him the Duke beckoned, handing him a glass with milk-white lines circling it--a slender, flower-like glass with a long stem. "Fill up with wine," he said. The page obeyed. "Now bring the glass and follow me," said Visconti, and left the room, the boy behind him. Before his sister's door he paused. Soldiers guarded it: within could be heard footsteps and anxious, frightened voices, the whispers of the tragedy. The key was turned: he entered, opening the door quietly, admitting himself and the page, the guard closing it behind him. The room was lofty, and, like all Visconti's rooms, ill-lit. A great crucifix hung at the far end, and before it knelt Valentine. When she heard the door she turned and started to her feet. "Put the wine down and go," said Visconti to the page. "Ah, no!" cried Valentine. "Let the page stay, Gian!" She stepped forward with imploring eyes upon the boy. "Go," said Visconti again. "In the name of mercy, stay!" cried Valentine, in sudden desperate fear, seeing her brother's face. "Stay!" The wretched page hesitated, but not for long. Visconti turned once more, and he tapped on the door to be let out, making no more ado. Visconti watched him go, then stepped to the inner door and locked it on the women whispering and quaking within. Valentine tried to speak; the words died away on her tongue; she fell back against the tapestry, grasping it in stiff fingers, her eyes on his face. Visconti seated himself at the table on which the page had stood the glass, and, resting his face on his hands, looked at her. The Viper on his doublet seemed to writhe, alive. "Graziosa is dead," he said. Valentine's eyes grew wild with fear. "I did not kill her!" she cried. "I did not kill her, Gian!" "I found her dead," said Visconti, still looking at her. Valentine writhed against the wall, wringing her hands. "She slew herself," she moaned. "I did not kill her!" "I shall not kill thee," said Gian. He looked down at the wine as he spoke, with a smile. Valentine threw herself on her knees. "I did not touch her!" she screamed wildly. "I did not lay a hand on her!" "I shall not touch thee; I shall not lay a hand on thee," smiled Visconti. "Then I shall not die? I shall not die?" She staggered to her feet, with an effort to be calm.