"Naught, father," answered Vincenzo bravely, though his heart was beating hot and thick. "Naught, save that _that_ cannot fail us." "No, Vincenzo; the wind blows eastward across the town," said d'Este, with a calmness that was almost brutal. "There will be none for Visconti to take back to Milan." "We shall light the sky bravely to-night," said Vincenzo, and bit his lip to keep it steady. His father's dark face lit with a sudden proud smile that transfigured it. "Some scouts say Visconti sends men to treat with us, Vincenzo--with us--d'Estes! This will be what he never reckoned on: the flames blowing from the walls shall be our flags of truce!" The streets, the whole town, were in a panic. The wild terror of the whole country-side had found its voice inside the gates of Novara; there were six hundred men to defend the walls--and God! how Visconti sacked a town! The sunlight that had rested along the walls when Conrad said farewell, lay along the floor now, a great square of gold that just tipped the table where Vincenzo's hand rested, and lay lovingly on his scarlet doublet, with its little foolish vanity of ribbons, and that other hand among them, clutched nervously, almost desperately, in the poor crumpled finery. D'Este took the crucifix from the wall and laid it on the table. Under it burned a candle, and he moved that too, standing it beside him, as he took his seat opposite his son. Behind him was the open door, in front the symbol of his religion--both meaning one thing, that the crucifix lying there baldly on the rough wood table told more plainly even than the powder kegs. Vincenzo's eyes were on the missal, but not his thoughts: his ears on the strain for that sound he set his teeth in readiness to hear--the call to the gates. In the silence of the chamber, the noises from the street sounded distinct, painfully distinct--shrieks and cries. Poor souls! so near eternity, and fighting over a handful of goods! Presently all noises died away into faint murmuring--or had he lost his power to hear? Then all at once it came--the beat of the drums, the summons to the walls! Louder, louder, wild, inspiring, the beat of the drums; and Vincenzo's heart bore them company. They rose to their feet, the two d'Estes, and clasped hands across the table, the crucifix between them. "God have mercy on our souls!" said Ippolito, and raised the pale, flaming candle. "Amen," said Vincenzo, kissing the missal with cold lips. The drums beat wildly, intoxicatingly, then suddenly stopped. D'Este pushed back his chair; for a moment there was perfect stillness, then he laid the candle to the powder.... And Vincenzo d'Este was on his knees in the patch of sunlight, its glory full on his beautiful, upturned face. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO THE PRICE OF DISHONOR