But on the horizon was a silver light, a light that danced and quivered, flecked here and there with red, and dotted about with curious faint smoke wreaths, fires in broad day. "Visconti's army!" said d'Este. "And those fires the forts and villages Della Scala held--held but yesterday!" Their doom was in those words and in what they saw; there was no need for more. "Santa Maria save us!" murmured Vincenzo, with a blanched face. It was all he said--words were poor, there was little enough time for action, none for comment. Outside could be heard the steady tramp of the sentries, and the hurry of more soldiers to the walls. "Do they know?" asked Vincenzo, as they descended. "The soldiers--yes--they are Modenese. The townsfolk--poor wretches--why tell them?" They watched the other chamber, and after a silence Vincenzo spoke incredulously. "Conrad said Modena had fallen?" "It is true," said his father, in a low voice. "And Ferrara--oh!--my cities!" Vincenzo gave a little gasp of pain. "And Verona?" "That too." The younger d'Este looked out blankly at the sunshine, all hope faded from his face. "And Mastino, father?" Ippolito was silent, a silence worse than speech. Vincenzo was awed. "So we are abandoned--defenseless, resistance hopeless! Oh, my lord! my father! We cannot fall into Visconti's hands! We--the Estes!" "Hush!" said his father, sternly, yet with sparkling eyes. "I have been considering all--the Viper shall never fly in triumph from the walls from which a living d'Este is turned. Oh! had I never left Modena! See, Vincenzo--as soon as Visconti is within two miles of the gate--this!" He touched the door beside him, pushing it open, and Vincenzo's startled gaze followed the direction of his hand. In the dark recess were the stone steps leading to the store beneath; the powder, the rude engines of war, and a vast quantity of wood, stored for winter use, and piled high even to the door. Vincenzo felt his heart grow cold; he looked from his father's proud face to what the steps beyond conveyed, and understood. He raised his eyes steadily and smiled. He, too, was an Este, and in this moment the proud glory in his birth was plain. "My son!" cried Ippolito, suddenly, passionately. "My son!" Vincenzo could not trust his voice to answer; he sat very still, the smile on his lips, his hand on his toy-like dagger. D'Este turned his head away. From without came the sound of voices and footsteps--sounds of alarm, commands, shouts. Ippolito turned to the door. "I go to give the last orders," he said, and left Vincenzo alone with his approaching fate. He sat very silent. This, then, was the end, the end of it all! That one thought beat strongest on his brain--this was the end. What had he not meant life to give him--all he had seen others enjoy, all he had ever dreamed of, honor and fame, power and love, visions there were no words for--the future for him had held all these--and now, a burst bubble!