His own showed neither fear, nor remorse, nor wonder, only triumph, and the secretary felt the blood rise slowly from his heart toward his brain, and he drew the stiletto half from his breast. "_Donna mia_," said Visconti, speaking to her with a smile, "we must not part so coldly, you and I--I will give you a fair tomb in Verona--in red Verona, _donna mia_." He dropped on one knee beside her, holding the laurels back and the lilies that hung above her head. "This as an earnest," he said, and bent over her and kissed her--kissed the cold cheek of Mastino's wife. The group watching stirred among themselves; no smiling faces now: each eye averted, but still no one spoke. And Visconti stooped and kissed her again, where the dark hair lay about her forehead. Then something gave in Giannotto's brain: a voice seemed to thunder in his ears--"Judgment!" His hand flew from his breast and up and down upon the kneeling figure, while he cried out terribly with a white, inspired face, and Visconti fell forward, stabbed through the back. "Treachery," cried da Ribera, scarcely seeing who had done it. "The Duke is stabbed!" Visconti clutched at the flowers and fell without a word. "Killed!" screamed de Lana. "Now God is just!" "Killed--the Duke is killed!" Guido d'Arezzo bent over him with a white face, but della Torre stamped in a passion of excitement and dragged at his shoulder. "Killed!--come away--there are ourselves to think of--come away!" Arezzo sprang to his feet. "To Milan!" cried della Torre. "He leaves no heirs." Visconti was still breathing: he struggled, and Giannotto pushed to his side and stood above him, bursting into wild words. "I did it--Visconti!--I did it--do you hear--do you hear! I knew, and I did it!" "Keep away!" yelled della Torre, and pulled him back. Then he dropped to his knee and tore the signet-ring from the hand of the dying man. "To Milan!" he cried, springing up. "Haste! to Milan!" "To Milan!" echoed Arezzo; "to Milan and the army----" "Back--all of you!" said de Lana, and he raised Visconti. "He is not dead----" "He is past life. To Milan!" The garden was one wild, yelling confusion; the news was spreading like fire; each thought and acted for himself; and Giannotto, instrument of vengeance, whimpered on his knees. The rush to the gate came by so close, the flying feet almost touched Visconti's face; and as della Torre passed, he struck his glove across him. De Lana lifted Visconti from the grass, but with a last effort he struggled from him and dropped back. "Milan!" he sobbed. De Lana bent down eagerly to catch a muttered prayer, but there was nothing more. "Milan!" The voices and shouts rose to a deafening pitch of confusion, the very air seemed fevered with excitement; a flock of startled doves flew past in panic, a rainbow of color; flew so low and so close to de Lana as to blind him for a moment with the whirr of their wings, and in that moment was a terrible cry.