"Begone!" screamed Mastino, "take my answer and begone!" Giannotto turned and went softly out of the tent. * * * * * It was done--it was done--beyond redemption had he fallen; he had chosen--there was no turning back. Mastino della Scala sat alone and stared in the face of what he had done. These few moments were his; then he must go and lie to his officers, deceive his men, weaken his towns, destroy his forts--prepare to place them in Visconti's hands. He must send false messages to the Estes and to Julia Gonzaga--lie and deceive and betray! But he had saved his wife from Visconti--his wife--Isotta. Outside he heard familiar voices, officers and men; his Veronese, still glad to trust his leadership; and he was to betray and trick them into shame. "Can I carry it through, can I go forth with a calm face and lie to them--my soldiers!" he cried in agony. "But her life--her dear life--her more than life--hangs upon my falsity!" He thought of the beautiful free towns of Italy: his Verona he had rescued once; proud Ferrara; Mantua that had never felt any yoke but that of the Gonzaga's; Pavia; all the haughty fair towns that had scorned Visconti. What would Visconti's vengeance on them be? Mastino could hardly believe he had done this thing. Yet were the choice given again, he would choose the same--he would choose the same! The sultry breeze blew back the opening, showing the deep blue sky and near-lying tents; a company of soldiers galloped by carrying the standard of Verona--the ladder of the Scaligeri. How soon would that banner be torn from the walls of Verona and the Viper take its place? "My city!" cried Mastino, "my city!" and his head sank forward on his out-thrown arms, while his shoulders heaved with sobs. CHAPTER THIRTY THE WEDDING Seven days had passed. In Milan there was much rejoicing, in its streets and palaces much splendor; it was the Lady Valentine's wedding day. Among the throng outside the church of San' Apollinare, the eager crowd that fought and battled for a better chance of seeing the splendid procession, was a monk, seemingly a wandering friar, who pressed his face against the cold marble walls in the silent vexation of an utter disappointment. It was Conrad. He had failed in his mad mission; success from the first had been hopeless; he had not redeemed himself. He had not helped Della Scala, he had not rescued Valentine--he had failed. A dozen different plans had been formed--equally futile and impossible to carry out. Who could outwit Visconti in his own city? Bitterly Conrad regretted the false hopes conveyed in that whisper in this very church. Perhaps she had trusted to them, and here was her wedding day and he was standing outside helpless! He knew it pure folly, this risking his life for nothing, and what had brought him there he could scarcely tell; but under his monk's habit he had a concealed dagger.