For one moment a mad hate of him overmastered her, a wild desire to refuse to stir, to cling to the altar, dash herself against the floor, anything rather than obey. She knew his parricide; he was not the elder. She would not obey. Words of defiance were on her lips, but glancing at his face, the words died away, and a sense of the useless folly of resistance, the useless humiliation of refusal, surged over her. She was in his power. When she spoke, it was humbly, in a faltering voice, with tears. "Gian," she whispered. "Gian--I have never asked anything of thee before. Gian--this marriage is hateful to me--" she paused, then stepped forward with appealing eyes. "Gian--have consideration--have mercy!" "The Duke of Orleans waits," smiled Visconti. "Will you not let me lead you to him?" Valentine drew back and steadied herself against the wall. She thought of Conrad with bitterness and shame, of his vows of devotion, how he had sworn she should never wed the French Prince--and--he was free--had been so for many days, and never a word or a sign. Visconti flung wide the chapel door, and in the adjoining room he summoned to her side his sister's page. Valentine's eyes fell on him, and she noted how the blood rushed to his face as he sprang to obey. He was a fair-haired boy with eager eyes, who worshiped her with a romantic devotion at which she had often smiled; but now---- He lifted her train, and Visconti held out his hand. Outside her door soldiers kept their motionless guard, and beyond the gay crowd swept to and fro. Silently Valentine moved forward, but her heart was burning with rebellious hate. "I will still try once more for freedom," was the thought she held to; and as they traversed the great corridor and her eyes fell, as had her brother's, on the grim outline of Isotta's prison, "I will free her too," she added, with a swelling heart. And Visconti thought her conquered, cowed into complete submission, and watched her pass ahead of him down the banqueting chamber with a satisfied smile to see her the fairest and the proudest there. The brilliant courtiers streamed in, a mass of color and jewels, and Visconti, seated at the head of the table, glanced at the effeminate faces and frivolous bearing of the guests with some contempt. "No news?" he whispered to Giannotto behind his chair. "No news from Ferrara yet?" "None as yet, my lord. The messengers are expected at any moment." The apartment was a blaze of wax candles that threw a thousand dancing reflections on the elaborate silver and glass that covered the table.