"'Tis the Lord Tisio Visconti, lady; fear nothing; he would only speak with thee," he said. But the girl's alarm increased at the mention of that dreaded name. "He mistakes me for another, sir," she said. "I have never so much as seen even the Duke himself." "My lord would speak with thee," repeated the page. "He is not the Duke, but it is the Duke's pleasure that he be obeyed in matters such as this. Come, maiden, there is no need to fear: it is an honor." He turned his rein again, and, indeed, not daring to refuse, the girl followed and stood timidly by Tisio's side. He looked at her long and eagerly, at her scarlet dress, her sunny hair, the white and green lilies in her hands. Still he did not speak, and she raised her head and looked around questioningly and fearful. But the page only smiled: the men-at-arms sat silent and indifferent. "Thou art very beautiful," said Tisio at last. "What is thy name? Whose daughter art thou?" "Graziosa Vistarnini, my lord; Agnolo Vistarnini is my father. He is a painter." But Tisio's eyes grew vacant, and his gaze wandered to the lilies. "Did they come from yonder?" he asked, and pointed beyond the gate. "No, my lord. From a friend's garden. My father thinks to paint them." Still Tisio did not heed her answer; he laughed foolishly. "I may go?" asked Graziosa timidly. "I may go, my lord?" He bent from the saddle and lifted from her shoulder a long lock of her curling hair, and stroked it, dropping it with a sigh. "Give me these," he said, pointing to the lilies; "all the flowers I know grow in Gian's garden,--Gian is the Duke of Milan." And at his words, and the tone in which he spoke them, Graziosa's pity overcame her fear. In silence, tears in her eyes, she handed him the flowers. He took them eagerly, but before she could withdraw her hand, he grasped her arm with a childish exclamation and touched the bracelet of fine workmanship she wore upon the wrist. "I will have this too," he said, laughing with satisfaction: but the girl drew her arm back sharply and turned to go. Tisio fumed. "The bracelet," he said peevishly, and the page motioned to her harshly to remain. Graziosa turned to him in confusion and distress. "I cannot give it him," she said, the tears starting. "I entreat thee, sir, ask him to let me go." But the page intimated to her warningly she had best make no to-do. There was only one law for the citizens of Milan: that was the tyranny of the Visconti; let the one who encountered it only in the capricious whim of the crazy Tisio be thankful. "Hold it good fortune, it is naught but a bauble he demands," said the page. "Give him the bracelet; he will drop it, forgotten, to-morrow. Ask for me one day at the palace. I will restore it. But give it now, before he grows angry. Thou hadst better." Tisio's face was darkening. "Make haste, make haste," cried the page impatiently, "or it will be thee and thy bracelet both that will be carried off."