"Thou shalt not repent it," he said, his generous soul melted at once. "While I live thou shalt not repent." Meanwhile Giacomo Carrara's prudent brain had rapidly concluded it would be most to his advantage, at least for the moment, to side openly with Della Scala, even in this wholesale fashion. "I too am of the same mind," he said pleasantly and frankly. "All I have is thine, Della Scala." "Then in a few days I will march on Verona!" cried Mastino, "and with thy generous aid I shall recover it! My heart is too full. I cannot speak my thanks," he continued, "but by my honor and my sword I swear, thou d'Este, thou Carrara, and thou lady, shall never regret thy trust in me." CHAPTER TWELVE GRAZIOSA'S LOVER In the courtyard of the painter Agnolo's house in Milan, the sunshine fell strong and golden, sparkling on the fountain that rose in the center from its rough stone basin, and throwing the waxen blossoms of the chestnut into brilliant relief against the sapphire sky. The courtyard was of stone. Around three sides ran the wall, one with its door into the street; opposite was a large garden, entered by an archway, the wicket in which stood always ajar. The fourth side of the quadrangle was formed by the dwelling-house, which stood with its back to the ivied walls, itself a long, low building, the upper half of which, jutting above the lower, was supported on pillars of carved stone. Around the bottom wall ran a wide border of plants, some climbing, others heavy with brilliant blossoms, trailing along the ground, and in the cool, blue shadows in the recess formed by the projecting story were large pots of spreading ferns, vivid green, mingled with the spikes of bright scarlet flowers. The basin of the fountain in the center was velvet green with moss, and over the limpid water there spread the flat leaves of water-lilies. Above the wall rose the sweet-smelling chestnuts, spreading their fan-like foliage and snowy blossoms, tier upon tier, against the brilliant sky, and through the low arch, trellised with roses, the garden stretched, a bewildering mass of color, white, mauve, yellow, pink, blue and red, into the soft distance, a swaying mass of trees. It was late afternoon, and the shadows were lengthening, as out of the house, the door of which stood open, came the little painter. He stepped into the sunshine, mopping his face and shaking his clothes. From head to foot he was a mass of green slime, his doublet torn, his hands scratched, his face hot and perspiring. After a few vain attempts to remove the dirt that clung to him, he looked around with a rueful countenance. "Graziosa!" he called. "Graziosa!" The lattice of an upper window was thrown open, and Graziosa looked out. At sight of her father she laughed. "Hast thou been down thy passage again, father?" she called from the window. Agnolo made a wry face good-humoredly. "That I have," he returned, "and fell into a pond at the other end."