"My betrothed gave it to me," she murmured. "I cannot part with it." "I will have it," repeated Tisio imperiously, with outstretched hand. Graziosa's helpless tears were flowing; slowly she unclasped the bracelet; the page took her treasure with an easy air, handed it to his master, and turned the horses' heads toward home. "Thou wilt be none the worse," he laughed, as they rode away. Tisio, absorbed in his new toy, gave her neither look nor thought, for jewels, gold ornaments of rare design, were the craze of this Visconti's crazy brain. Graziosa pressed her bare arm to her lips, and looked after them, the tears of vexation streaming down. She thought of Ambrogio, the painter-lover, whose gift it was: what would he say to find her bracelet gone? "Oh, if only Ambrogio had been here," she cried, "he would not have let the Duke himself take it from me--but I--what could I do?--if only he is not angry that I let it go." She had not much faith in the page's words; besides, how dare she venture to the Visconti's palace? Her tears flowed afresh; she picked up the poor discarded lilies, all her pleasure gone. In the distance she could see Tisio, still handling the bracelet with delight, and she half-smiled, even through her tears, at so strange and pitiful a thing. "It makes the poor crazy lord happy," she said softly, "but it breaks _my_ heart to lose it." She watched Tisio disappear; then, her loss a certainty, she turned with reluctant feet upon her errand. Meanwhile Tisio, absorbed in his new spoil, rode toward the palace. The projecting gables of the houses sent clear-cut shadows across his path; the strong noonday sun blended the city into brilliant light and shade, broken only by the vivid color of the drapery fluttering at some unshaded window, or the sudden flash of pigeon's wings against the golden air. As they neared the great gate of the palace, a group of horsemen, galloping noisily ahead of them, dashed into the vast courtyard and drew rein with a fine clatter at the entrance steps. Tisio, following, raised his head, and looked dully at them--a band of his brother's soldiers, hired mercenaries; it was usual enough to meet them both within and without the Visconti's abode. As he was dismounting, the leader of the band addressed him familiarly. "My lord hears thee not, sir," said the page, "his thoughts are with his spoils." The soldier laughed with a grimace.