The room was of enormous size, and overawed the gaze. The four large entries, one in each wall, were curtained alike with gloomy purple. The ceiling was domed and of immense height, showing a dim tracery of carved wood, from which hung golden chains, suspending jeweled lamps. The high and narrow windows were wrought with painted saints, splendid in coloring. From domed ceiling to paneled floor the walls were carved with men, women, saints, martyrs, flowers and birds wrought together, in simple-minded joyousness of design, executed with the delicate workmanship of Niccolo Pisano's school. Silk arras, hung from carved gold rods, here and there concealed the carving. A carpet, the work of two men's lives, delicate in purple, brown, and gold, spread across the center, where a long low table of walnut wood, rich and dark, could seat two hundred guests. Purple velvet chairs were set about in the corners, and the light streaming through the colored window saints fell in gold and green across an ivory footstool, inlaid with jewels. As Visconti entered, the hall was empty, yet he stepped stealthily, as if he felt eyes watching him. Seating himself in the window recess, he waited, and presently, as if at an unuttered summons, the curtains at the far end of the room were rustled apart, and a lady entered. She was Valentine Visconti, Gian's sister. Her dress was of red and brown, embroidered with gold, her tawny hair piled high under a golden net upon her well-set head. She had the clear, colorless skin and the wide red lips of the fair-haired Italians, their rich presence; she was of a fine carriage, not easy to overlook; she might have been ten years younger than her brother; she was as tall and as stately. She looked straight toward the window where Visconti sat. Gian returned her gaze, not changing his position. Valentine drew nearer. "Why hast thou set spies upon me?" she demanded. "Why didst thou try to fly Milan with Count Conrad?" he returned. "I was foolish not to spy on thee before." Her gray eyes glinted. "I tried to escape from a life that was grown intolerable," she cried, "and I will try yet again!" Visconti smiled. "My sister, thou art much too precious; I shall not let thee go. Thou art worth a great deal to me. Through thee our family will be united to the Royal House of France. My sister, thy husband will be the Duke of Orleans, and not a German fool." But Valentine was also a Visconti: she advanced with blazing eyes. "I will not marry to serve thy ambitions; I will not help to steady thee upon the throne. Mark me, Gian, sooner than wed a Prince whom thou hast chosen, I will drag thy name into the mire, and sit in rags at thy palace gates." "Only thou hast not the choice," he answered pleasantly. Her anger rose the more as she felt her helplessness. "I will not marry the Duke!" she cried, "I will not walk up to the altar." "Thou canst be carried," said Visconti.