"Tomaso's father sent for him to come to him in Della Scala's court, and as last year my father was slain in the wars with Venice, since then I have resided with my cousin--and so accompany him--having naught else to do!" The boy looked up bewildered; he was half-dazed with this sudden misfortune. "We go to Verona!" he repeated. "We have food and a little money--if only this had not happened!" He turned to his prostrate cousin and burst into tears. The woman looked at him with pity: the old peasant shrugged his shoulders. "Thy cousin was over-bold! As well face the evil one--" he mumbled and crossed himself, "as step into the path of the--" he stopped abruptly and cast uneasy glances around him. "And that?" cried the boy, his tears arrested, "that man on horseback?" "That was the Visconti! Aye! Gian Galeazzo Maria, Duke of Milan!" The lad gazed down the road with interest and new terror. "The Duke of Milan! He who lately warred with Florence!" he cried breathlessly. "Aye, and beat her!" There was a touch of pride in the answer, for the peasant was of Milan. But the boy did not notice the remark, he was too absorbed in terrified conjecture. "And they in the carriage--?" he whispered. A silence fell. The crowd shuffled away from him, and turned their faces to the city. Used to scenes of horror as they were, the cavalcade that had just passed them seemed, even to their half hearts, to have chilled the sunlight with its terror. A young woman suddenly snatched her child up from the ground and strained it to her, in a passion of distress. "Oh, Luigi, Luigi, my little child, it was his father and mother, his father and mother!" She grasped the old man's arm. "Marked you how she looked at me?" she cried. The peasant checked her outbreak, but looked down the road with gloomy eyes. "They will never return from Brescia," he said; "they must be near seventy--old for such an end. However, hush thee, woman, 'tis no affair of ours!" Several anxious voices echoed him. "Why should we care!" said one, "'tis a Visconti the less to crush us." And Vittore saw the whole band turning off, pushing, driving, and urging their beasts along. He dragged at his still senseless companion in a sudden panic. "Help me!" he said. "We would on; I dare not stay alone." The old man laughed harshly. "Where will you on to? Are we to drag you into Milan to be whipped to death for harboring you; and Verona is in the hands of the Visconti--his last and greatest victory!" "But my uncle--Della Scala's court!" cried the boy distractedly. The old man drew himself up in his rags and spoke with a mixture of pride and awe. "Mastino della Scala perished in the flames of his burning palace; his wife is a prisoner, yonder in Milan, in the Visconti's hands. Thou hast not much to look for from Della Scala's court," he said.