"To save your unhappy sister," cried Conrad. "To try and kill you, Visconti!" And he struggled fiercely in the grip of his captors. "Take him away," said Visconti. "Take him----" He paused a moment. "To the gibbet, my lord?" "No--outside the gates. Give him a safe-conduct that will take him out of my soldiers' lines. And so farewell, Count Conrad; I can waste no more time on you." "I will not go!" shrieked Conrad furiously. "I will not have your mercy, Visconti--I will not accept from you my life!" Visconti passed on. "I say I will die!" cried Conrad after him. "Do you quail at another murder, Visconti? Dare you not kill one more?" The Duke looked back at him. "I owe you somewhat, Count. You may remember a certain game of chess you played in Della Scala's camp. It served me well--it saved my life--and gave me--Della Scala. Now take yours--as a most unequal recompense." He smiled most unpleasantly, and Conrad was silent, struck, chilled. "Put him outside the gates," continued Visconti; "and give him money for his journey. Maybe he left Della Scala too hastily to bear much away; maybe Della Scala did not in any case pay well; and we would not have the noble Count beg his way to Germany." "Visconti----" Conrad choked on the word. "Visconti----" "I will spare thy thanks," smiled the Duke. "Farewell." "Give me a dagger--some one!" yelled Conrad. "That villain shall see I do not live to profit by his scorn. Give me a dagger--I--you truckling knaves! you shaveling cowards!" "When your blood is a little cooler," said the soldier calmly, tying his hands the tighter, "you'll be giving us a ducat apiece for not taking you at your word." "Silence, churl! I will not leave Milan; I will not be put outside the gates!" "Just whatever the Duke says, messer, you'll do--just whatever the Duke says; and thank your guardian saint he was not himself to-day, or you'd have had your death--but not quite so pleasant as you seem to think it." And for all he could shriek and threaten and pray, struggle and fight, Count Conrad was escorted through the crowded streets, between soldiers with immovable faces, and amid a crowd that laughed in huge enjoyment of his angry threats and bitter entreaties. A good mile outside the gates they led him, a fine rabble at his heels. And then they left him, with a good horse, a sword, and a bag of ducats. "Now, Count, take those and ride to Germany--or if you must die, try and get back into Milan." And they rode away, laughing heartily. Count Conrad seated himself on the roadside, and was silent a long while. Then he rose, and rubbed his stiff arms, bruised by the soldiers' grip, looked back toward Milan, looked at the horse and sword, gave one sigh to the past, mounted and rode away out of the shadow of Milan toward Novara, the first town on the route to Germany. * * * * *