The doors were thrown open for the Duke to pass, and as they passed out into the stairs, Giannotto slunk into his place behind Visconti. Here were also noise and crowds; the coming and going of soldiers and courtiers, excited talk and laughter, and in the distance the sound of the drums, for the army was preparing to march. The front of the palace was alive with them, the rattle of the new-fashioned artillery, the shouted commands, the sunshine upon the standards and the armor, and the fluttering, colored plumes. But Visconti turned aside to the back of the palace, and descended the steps that led to the garden. It was quiet here, all sounds subdued and distant. The balustrade of the steps and terrace was smothered in roses, white, pink, and crimson, past their full summer pride, and many lying crushed across the marble, while tangled trails of leaves and creepers lay torn from the stone where they had clung. Visconti noticed it, and looked with a smile at da Ribera, who in his turn smiled also and passed a light word on at which the laugh was general. They were great nobles, princes some of them, yet not one dared to look grave when Visconti smiled, or was not eager to fawn upon his notice. At the foot of the steps the grass was crushed and blood-stained, and from beside the oleanders and olives, drooping in the sun, a little procession of men was engaged lifting something from the ground. Visconti stopped. "Della Scala," said de Lana. "They are moving him, according to your orders, my lord." Visconti stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Bid them set him down again." And he stepped softly down the steps. Giannotto looked at his smiling face with a cold, strange horror, and glanced round to see if it were not in the others' faces too, but he did not see it. The soldiers, at de Lana's peremptory order, stopped, and laid the burden they were lifting at Visconti's feet. Mastino della Scala! Visconti repeated the name and grasped his dagger. Mastino della Scala, the man who had checked him, scorned him, foiled him all his life, the proudest race, the most stainless name in Lombardy, ended here and in this! Visconti stepped close and looked down into his enemy's uncovered face. "He was not beautiful, this Della Scala," he said. Then he glanced up and round with a wordless, an unutterable exultation. All he had asked had been given him and more! He, Visconti, Duke of Milan, could ask for nothing more than this moment gave him--a perfect triumph. Da Ribera peered forward curiously. "He is torn to rags," he said. "He must have fought like a madman----" "He _was_ mad," said Visconti. "And the lady?" said de Lana, suddenly, to Visconti. "Where is she, my lord?" Visconti, lacing his gold gloves, paused a moment, and answered over his shoulder, lightly: "She seems to fill thy thoughts, de Lana!"