"Because we spared the church of Santa Claire, who must have been the patron saint of poets--eh, de Lana?" "Messer Francesco Petrarca found her so," said a noble laughing. "A lucky day for him when he stepped inside the church of Santa Claire!" "He had cause to thank her, doubtless----" "If Messer Hugues had not," smiled Visconti. "I know not, my lord; for a dull boor like that, he gathered some fame, else never his." "And the poet turned it to good account," said Visconti. "Methinks he used his love for money-making; he coined the Lady Laure into good gold pieces!" "Now, my lord, is not that spite because Messer Petrarca left his library to Venice?" Visconti laughed. "Let him leave his library where he pleased, he was a fine man of business, say I." "And a wearisome poet," said de Lana. "O Fiametta!" said Visconti laughing. "Joanna! Naples and the blue sea! These are thy patron saints, de Lana?" "Nay, I like not that book of feeble love-making any better," replied de Lana; "a Florentine dallying!" "I doubt me if thou hast ever read it," said the Duke gayly. "Alighieri is more to de Lana's mind," remarked da Ribera, pouring wine, "and the fair daughter of old Folco. I myself used to sing Alighieri's verses till I tired." "Yourself or your audience, my friend?" But Visconti looked at the speaker, frowning. "You have mentioned Alighieri, forgetting who was his patron," whispered della Torre. "The court of Verona and Can' Gran' della Scala----" "He recanted, my good lord; he died a Ghibelline," said da Ribera, acting on the whisper. "Mastino della Scala was a Ghibelline; we never quarreled over that," said Visconti easily. "But Mastino was no patron of poets like his father." He leaned back in his chair and looked out of the window, where above the beautiful fresh green of the garden faint smoke-wreaths showed, the last of Novara. "De Lana, you stood next; what did he say--as he went over?" At the sudden brutal question, they started, and de Lana suppressed a shudder. "I did not hear--I thought--he was dead." "I think you are still afraid of him," smiled Visconti. "I should like to know what he said." And he looked round for Giannotto, who had shrunk into a corner, and sat there gazing dully at the company. "Did you hear, Giannotto?" "I? How should I, my lord?" and the secretary shuffled uneasily. "Ho! a sullen knave!" cried Visconti, then leaned forward and touched de Lana on the arm. "I hear more arrivals--hark!" "What should this be?" asked da Ribera in surprise. "Not my Lord Arezzo from Modena?" "From Modena!" cried Visconti with sparkling eyes. "Is there success there too?" "Your arms cease to meet with aught else, Lord Visconti," said della Torre. "I drink to your perfect triumph!" He raised his glass, red as a huge ruby in the light, and Visconti, triumphant indeed when the leader of a faction admitted it and deemed it politic to say so, drank to della Torre standing.