She moved up and down, twisting her hands in an agony of impotence. "I will appeal to the Duke of Orleans himself!" she cried. "A bridegroom who is bought for a hundred thousand florins!" sneered her brother. "And how will thy appeal reach him? Come, my sister, be calm; the Duke will make as good a husband as Count Conrad. Bethink thyself, thou mayst live to be crowned Queen of France. Wilt thou not thank me then, that I saved thee from a German Count?" Valentine fell to weeping. "What has become of him?" she sobbed, "the only human being who ever turned to me in pity. The only one who ever cared for me. What has become of him?" "What becomes of a fool when he crosses the path of a Visconti?" asked her brother calmly. Valentine lifted her head. "He is dead, then?" she said. "It matters not to thee. Thy husband will be the Duke of Orleans, and thou art a prisoner in the palace till he takes thee from it." She caught at the arras; Visconti left her, and reached the door, his figure a shadow among the shadows. The girl rushed forward with a cry. "Gian!" she called. He paused, his hand upon the curtain, and looked back at her. "Gian!" she repeated, and stood still gasping, her hand upon her breast. The stiff folds of her dress gleamed richly in the subdued light that fell upon her from the painted window. "I know thee for what thou art," she said; "there are only two of us left, only two. Where are our parents, Gian?" "They were stricken down at Brescia," and Visconti took a quick step toward her. "They are dead," she breathed, "and they died as our brothers died, Filipo and Matteo----" "Did they so! Then take warning by it," and Gian, coming stealthily still nearer, turned a look on her. Valentine quailed, as Francisco well-nigh had done; the hot words of remorse and rebellion died away unuttered, and she hid her face, her high spirit cowed again into a bitter weeping. Visconti left her noiselessly. CHAPTER FIVE THE PAINTER'S DAUGHTER Three days had passed since that futile midnight encounter, and Francisco had found no means to enter Milan. He stood on the banks of the water looking moodily toward the city, watching the figure of Vittore, who trudged along the meadows,--his errand to procure provisions. The three still sheltered in the ruins, to which no owner had returned, nor had any signs of life or occupancy broken the silence within the villa's all-encircling walls. Now, as he watched Vittore out of sight--the boy looking back often to renew his courage--Francisco's brow was furrowed, and his eyes heavy with sleeplessness. The stream, clear, deep and sparkling, here ran darkened with the shadow of the willows that bent over it their long bluish leaves. A path, thickly bordered with reeds, ran beside the water to the head of the small lake into which the stream flowed, whence it continued, a scarcely discernible footway, toward the city.