And while the cry still sounded, before the enthusiasm could abate, Visconti, armed and mounted, rode at the head of some thousand mercenaries and Milanese, to the farthest rampart of the city. D'Orleans had not volunteered. The French duke remained in the well-guarded palace, of which the Lady Valentine was left the governor during the Duke's absence, an office she had often filled before quarrels had sprung up between her and her brother, and while he held Milan against his father and she was his counselor and ally. For a few brief hours, power again was hers, for Visconti had not weakened her authority yet--outwardly at least. She could do nothing. She thought of her helplessness with bitterness. All day long she set herself to revolving schemes of escape--some way whereby to avail herself of the confusion into which Milan had been thrown--some means to outwit her brother. She could not rest for her anxious thoughts. The Visconti palace was near the walls, and Valentine, stepping onto the open balcony, looked through the clustered pillars over the flat house-roofs to the distant country where the advancing army lay. The air was heavy. From the streets came the sound of tumult, noise, and hurry: the walls were manned. "There is to be some fighting," murmured Valentine. She shaded her eyes from the sun that, beating on the red brickwork of the palace, gave back a blinding glare. "Oh, may God grant that victory may fall," she murmured, "where Count Conrad draws his sword!" It was evening before Visconti returned, weary from his survey of his men, victorious after a fierce skirmish with some of Verona's mercenaries, led by Mastino's trusted Captain Roccia. The palace that till then had lain so quiet was suddenly a wild confusion, a babel of noises, shouts, and trampling of horses. Strange, flaring lights were thrown across the courtyard; the torches flung ragged, straggling rays upon the sides of the palace, falling grotesquely on the griffins that grinned either side the arched door, falling across the long rows of straight windows, and, for a second, on Valentine Visconti's pale face, looking eagerly below. "Dogs of Veronese!" cried Visconti, turning his wild eyes toward the prisoners. "They have cost us a wild hour!" And he had been in the thick of it; his rich armor was dented, the embroidered surtout torn to rags: Visconti's blood was up. In a fight, even the Torriani could not say he lacked anything save prudence. Without alighting, he took from his head his ponderous helmet with the viper crest, and gave it to his page. "We have given Roccia a taste of our quality!" he laughed, and pulled his gauntlets off. "Where is De Lana?" "I am here, lord," said Giannotto. He stood at the Duke's saddle, looking around him in confusion. "What news, Giannotto?" cried Visconti. "Thy pallid face seems too ready to welcome me. Let me dismount." "Hear me first," entreated the secretary, "before you dismount--before anything--lord!"