"The Duke? Ah, my friend, hush, hush, thou art a stranger, take care! Even in this lonely spot such words are far from safe. Who art thou, messer, who dost not live in Milan and yet speak with such a look of the Visconti?" "Do not all who know the Visconti speak with such a look of him?" The painter gazed at him in silence. "But thou askest for my name," continued the other. "I am Francisco di Coldra, one who has suffered much from the Visconti." "In the sack of Verona, perhaps?" asked Agnolo after a pause. "The sack of Verona was three months ago. The prisoners have been in Milan twenty days!" These words were inscrutable, and the little painter did not even try to understand them; but they kindled a memory that would not be repressed. "Ah, and what a night that was," he cried, "when the Duke re-entered Milan with them! Since I do not hurt thee by the recollection, messer, let me tell thee, it was a splendid sight, that night the Duke returned. I live a quiet life, as an artist may do, even in Milan. I know little, I care little for the wars of princes. They tell me the Visconti's crimes outnumber the stars; but, messer, his shadow has not fallen across _my_ house, and what one does not see one does not fear--but when he returned from Verona! that was a sight, messer. It was late. Our house overlooks the western gates, and all day long the messengers had come and sped, bringing the news the Duke was here. Toward evening--we leaning from the window as did everyone--Alberic da Salluzzo comes galloping to the walls--red-hot upon some report that the Visconti has been slain--to look to the arming of the citizens. Even as we strain from the window, following the flash of his plumes--back he comes in madder haste--the Visconti is alive! The people shout and yell, and some cry 'tis not the Visconti's army on the road, but Della Scala's. Meanwhile a mob, with Napoleone della Torre at their head, begins to agitate, to threaten riot. With a strong hand Alberic puts them down--the streets are cleared, Graziosa and I on the balcony, all is dark, silent, save now and then the clink of the armor of the sentries on the walls. I am too excited for sleep, messer, all so hushed, so subdued, waiting, waiting. All at once it comes. Oh, the rattle, the roar! The great gates clatter back, the streets fill with crowds no man can keep back. The victorious army pelts through them; two men on every horse, great flaring torches throwing their yellow light on the torn banners and the wild faces of the soldiers, and then the cannon, leaping over the rough stones, drawn by the smoke-blackened gunners, all tearing, rushing through the street, a mass of light and shade, wonderful, wonderful! In the midst, the Visconti, the ragged light streaming over his tattered armor, and Isotta d'Este, guarded between two soldiers, swaying on her black horse, and above all the shouts of the frenzied triumph of the Milanese.... Ah!"