"Into your hands we deliver her in safety, my lord, and my lord of Milan offers three months in which to either quit Lombardy or choose some post in his service in Verona." "My choice is made: I quit Lombardy," said Mastino. "Leave me." The soldier lightly shrugged his shoulders and gave the word, and, cantering off, Visconti's guards wheeled and followed swift behind him. They had fulfilled their duty: Isotta d'Este's safety was no affair of theirs now. The Veronese footmen bearing the litter had set their burden down; the white curtains fluttered--was it the breeze, or Isotta's hand, that stirred them so? "Tomaso, Tomaso, I have borne much; can I bear this?" His eyes were sparkling, his tone joyful; he had thrown all his shame from his heart; the miserable past, the miserable future, were alike forgotten; the world had narrowed to this--her welcoming face. He laid his shield on the ground gently, and walked across the grass softly. The curtains, white in the still blazing sun, dazzled him; his heart was beating so, he thought it must choke him. "Isotta!" He called her name so low she could not hear. "Isotta!" Still she made no answer. "Perchance she is very weary," said Mastino to himself, tenderly, and drew the white curtains back. She lay back among silk cushions. "Isotta, my dear!" There was a tremor in his voice. Had she fainted? She lay back, her head away from him, and, bending over her, he saw through her long curls that her eyes were closed, her lips parted, and one hand at her throat--the hand that bore his wedding ring. Oh, heaven!---- He caught her head in his hands and looked at her. She was dead, quite dead. The silk curtains fell-to again, and at Mastino's cry the bearers shrank, appalled. Isotta d'Este was dead. And Mastino lay along the ground, senseless, his defaced shield near him, bare to the bright glare of the sinking sun. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE THE STORM The storm had gathered and burst; rain fell in great drops that did not allay the heat; the sky was covered with clouds that dragged across the moon in a slow procession, dark and mysterious. In one or two tents, thrown open to catch the breeze that stirred the chestnuts, sat the little handful of soldiers left to Mastino. Rude and coarse, still were they awed, by the horror that had befallen, to a whispering quiet. Like a patch of white showing dimly through the gloom, the curtains of a litter were to be seen. At thought of who sat within alone there in the rain and dark, the men shuddered and drew nearer together. "The Prince?" one whispered. "I have been to the tent, but further than the door I dare not." "What was there to see?" "The boy--alone, weeping like a woman. Santa Maria! I should not like the watch he keeps!" "The Prince is mad, think you?" "The Prince is mad, or--hush!--possessed." The men fell again to a silence, broken only by the patter of the rain. At last another spoke, one drawn further back into the tent.