"For love, my lord?" ventured the secretary, with a hint of sarcasm. "Whom I please," said Visconti. "Which is not what Valentine is doing," he added with a smile. "She may give trouble yet, my lord." Visconti frowned. He thought of Conrad von Schulembourg, the brilliant young German noble, who had been a favorite with him and all his court, and had won the heart of Valentine Visconti; no favorite of his now. "As for my lady sister," he said, "let her dare turn her eyes save where I bid her." His own grew ominous, and Giannotto shuffled uneasily. A noise without broke the sudden silence of reflection. Visconti, responding at once to what it meant, glanced a moment from the window where he still stood, then swept down to the head of the table. He leaned across to Giannotto, not that he valued any response that he could offer--Visconti's secretary was no more to him than the chair on which he sat, valued solely for his skill in letters--but his triumph had to have its vent. "Hark!" he cried. "Listen to it, Giannotto! The wealth of Verona is pouring into Milan! The spoils of Verona, Giannotto, the treasures from Mastino della Scala's palace!" Giannotto winced before Visconti's passionate joy. "'Twas a man I hated, Giannotto--I would he had lived to feel it. The only man I ever _hated_, because the only man I ever feared, the only man who ever dared to despise me! But he has fallen, he is dead, his wife is in my power, and in his fall he has placed me higher than my highest hopes." Carried away by his transports, he seized Giannotto by the arm and dragged him to the window. The secretary gazed into the courtyard, where a group of soldiers and servants were busy conveying statues, gilt and silver plate, rich tapestry, glass, china, and arms, from carts and mules into the narrow doorways that led into the grim interior of the palace. They were presided over by a major-domo in a black gown, who called out directions in a shrill voice. To one side a few unhappy men, of note enough to have been spared, watched in grim silence the unlading of the spoils that came from the sacking of their palaces. The great gates stood at their widest, and through them wound a long train of soldiers, some driving before them groups of prisoners, tightly chained together, others galloping in laden with plunder of all kinds, art treasures, blackened as if by fire, banners and suits of armor. "Ah, Giannotto, look," cried Visconti, "_Della Scala's_ collection, _Della Scala's_ jewels. How my treasury will be enriched! Only one thing mars it, that he should not be here to see!" He turned from the window. Giannotto followed, cringing. "Still, thou hast his wife, my lord," he said. Gian's eyes flashed afresh. "Isotta d'Este--ah!"