There was a great coming and going of brilliant company in the Visconti palace, a constant spurring of horses through its gates, the riding in of messengers and soldiers, the riding out of officers and nobles. The Duke d'Orleans and his wife had left for France, with a splendid cavalcade of knights and ladies, escorted by the flower and the chivalry of Milan. All Valentine's struggles and proud resistance and scorn had come to this: she left for France, as Visconti had ever said she should--left Milan dull to craziness, forgetful, with no sign of either joy or regret. Visconti thought of this consummation with some satisfaction, then banished his sister from his mind. There were other matters more important to Visconti than the subdual of his sister--of Mastino della Scala and his wife for one. Mastino had kept his pact: in one week, Pavia, Treviso, Cremona, Vincenza, and Verona had fallen; company after company of Mastino's soldiers had passed into the hands of the Milanese. Modena and Ferrara were left, but so weakened that a few days must see their end, though the deserted garrisons were fighting desperately, and sending wild messages to Della Scala, imploring aid. Julia Gonzaga in Mantua was sore beset. At an urgent appeal from Mastino, almost every trained man holding the city had been sent to his assistance, to find themselves surrounded and cut to pieces by the Milanese, and Mantua left defenceless. In Novara the Estes were shut up, waiting anxiously for news from Mastino--waiting in vain. Isotta d'Este had been removed from Milan, and was lodged in a strong fort some miles outside Brescia, guarded still by Visconti's soldiers, but also by some of Della Scala's trusted but still unwitting Veronese--men who kept watch over her night and day, inspected all she ate, and allowed no emissary from Visconti to see her alone. Such were the terms. The thing had been done secretly. Vague rumors that the Duchess's release was being negotiated were the utmost that got abroad. The soldiers guarding her for Mastino thought the privilege bought, or that the Emperor had wrung it from Visconti. There were none who suspected the truth. Though for those ten days had been disaster on disaster, though town after town had fallen, squadron after squadron been ambushed, and though some whispered treachery and pointed to this captain and to that, none thought of staining the loftiest name in Lombardy with even a doubt--Mastino della Scala, the son of Can' Gran' della Scala, of a race that had never lied or betrayed, the one race in Lombardy of a lofty honor. Men would have as soon thought the stars would fall as Mastino della Scala. Visconti, pacing his palace in a fever of triumph, thought of all this; thought of the d'Estes in Novara, still trusting--thought of Mastino's Veronese, their devotion, their sympathy--thought of Mastino's feelings. It was almost enough to satisfy his hate--but not quite--not quite.