"No news from Verona, or Mantua?" he asked. "None, my lord." "None? The messengers are late. But after all why should they haste?" said Visconti. "Della Scala will hardly be in the field yet," he added with a smile. "If ever, my lord," replied the secretary smoothly. The two had withdrawn into the embrasure of one of the great open windows, and Visconti, glancing through it, turned his gaze there where, clear in the blue summer night, rose the outline of an abutting building, grim and dark and silent: Isotta's prison. "See the guards be doubled there," he said. The secretary bowed. "As to the Lady Valentine, my lord," he said insinuatingly, "she is safe and well, and at her prayers with her women. I have kept guard upon her slightest motion." Visconti drew a ring from his finger. He was in a generous mood to-night, a rare one enough, as Giannotto thought with bitterness. "Take this for thy pains," he said. "And now I will relieve thee of thy watch; she can hardly escape under my very eyes and with her bridegroom waiting. Let the guests know I bring the bride, Giannotto." Visconti withdrew the length of one of the corridors, and paused there at a door before which stood two soldiers, the guard of his sister's apartments. At his soft approach they stood back, and, opening the folding doors, Visconti passed through, and quickly threaded the deserted ante-rooms until he reached the chapel that the lady used. The place was dim, lit by red lamps that cast more shadow than gave light, and with high, stained windows, now scarcely showing color, and seated on the floor under one of them, her head against a carved wall, her hands listless in her lap, was Valentine. She wore a dress of flame-colored satin, and her hair was elaborately dressed with rubies and pearls. She made no movement at her brother's entrance. The air was heavy with incense and the perfume of some white roses that faded across the altar steps. "We wait for thee, Valentine," said Visconti. A couple of her women moved forward from the shadows, and whispered to the Duke they could do nothing with her. He motioned to them to withdraw. "Valentine, come! Think of the splendid life that opens before thee from to-day." Visconti's tone had the gentleness of one who has gained his point. "Thou may'st be Queen of France." But Valentine Visconti had too much of her brother's spirit, too much of the ungovernable pride of will, not to hate this yielding to the force of power. She hated her brother's tyranny. She hated this marriage. What would life be for her, with an indifferent husband, in an idle, impoverished court, among foreigners, strangers, far from her own land? She would not be forced to it. She rose to her feet, desperate. Visconti watched her keenly, standing waiting. "Come," he repeated, "the Duke of Orleans waits. The feast is ready."