The bright light fell too on the rubies on Valentine Visconti's throat. She sat at her brother's side, with a pale face and sparkling eyes. On Visconti's right was her bridegroom, the Duke of Orleans, an elegant young man with weak eyes and a receding chin. His scanty, fair locks were carefully arranged with grease and curling irons into stiff curls, the ends of his mustache were elaborately twisted, and his face was rouged plentifully on the cheeks. Valentine looked at him once, then ignoring him utterly, she looked down the long, glittering table to the great entrance facing her, with a crowd and press of liveries and hurrying attendants, waiting pages. As for the French Duke, he conversed with Visconti, ignoring the hardly hidden contempt that he was either too dull to see or too politic to resent. The banqueting hall filled: and the guests in their seats, the secretary, standing back among the servitors, crept out into the antechamber. After the glare and splendor of the banquet, the room seemed dull and somber, and Giannotto stumbled over a crouching figure. It was Valentine's page, weeping bitterly. "Poor fool!" muttered the secretary. "Wouldst thou lose thy place as well as thy heart?" And he passed on with a laugh. But after a pace or two he paused. Through the palace windows floated a sound as of distant murmuring and commotion, yet so faint he could scarce be sure of it. The page had risen, shamefaced at having been discovered. He was very young, and his grief very real to him. He choked a little, stifling his sobs. "Silence!" said Giannotto angrily. "Listen!" The sound grew nearer and more distinct, and the secretary went to the window nearest and leaned forward eagerly. Several horsemen and soldiers came riding swiftly, holding flaming torches; windows were flung open, people hurried to and fro. "Some evil news has got abroad," said Giannotto, straining eyes and ears. And now the noise of angry shouts and frightened cries became too plain, and the secretary could see by the flare of some horsemen's torches a throng of country folk, laden with their possessions, and some men driving herds of cattle, and soldiers torn and dusty. "Evil news, indeed, I fear," he muttered, and waited anxiously. A ray of brilliant light from the banquet hall beyond fell between the curtains and streamed across the room, there was laughter and clink of glasses, and a voice singing in French to a lute. The page clenched his fists and turned to go. "Stay," said Giannotto, "stay. If thou wouldst end thy days, here comes a chance, methinks, for some one will have to carry ill news to Visconti." And even as he spoke a white-faced servant entered. "My lord," he cried, as Giannotto stepped before him, "there has been some sore disaster--the country folk are trooping through the gates--there is a panic in the city." "The messengers!" cried Giannotto, "the messengers!"