"Thou wilt be getting it down and firing thyself with it," he remarked. "For thou art clean distraught, methinks." Visconti made no reply, he had noticed that _both_ the inner doors were shut. "And as I must answer for thee," continued the soldier, "I will secure thee with this," and stepping back into the passage, he returned with a rope and advanced toward the prisoner. The Duke rose with flashing eyes. "Remember thou art the devil, messer," said the soldier soothingly, "and naught can really hold thee." Visconti felt for the dagger that no longer hung by his side, then showed the soldier his fingers, red and still bleeding. "The teeth that met there can meet in thine," he snarled, and his eyes were like a wolf's. The soldier stepped back, then with a sudden thought pointed to the light. "Stay unbound then, and I will take that away again," he said, and again advanced. Visconti suffered his arms to be bound together at the elbows, nor did he seem to heed when the soldier left him, and the great door fell to once more in silence. The storm had sobbed itself away, leaving only the steady patter of the rain. The chamber had light, and the sight of a human face had restored Visconti. Once more he felt his hold on life and on reality, and he turned from that closed door with its superstitious horror to face real terror and a staggering mischance. Milan! he had left Milan in an hour of need--and with no one to check Valentine. Only within the last few weeks had he known what she was capable of. What might she not attempt once she realized his absence? Giannotto too, and the Duke d'Orleans! What of their sincerity? He had left not one man within the city whom he could trust implicitly. Then he considered his own plight. Clearly they did not know him; none the less they had him. He ground his teeth at the thought of Della Scala's triumph. His art of bribery occurred to him, and he remembered with a savage vexation how he had flung a jewel to his jailer for a light: A jewel that might have purchased freedom. Still, it was in his madness; he might be thankful he had not shouted aloud his name--and his crimes. Suddenly, with a start of recollection, it occurred to him anew that he had been placed apart. Then Carrara _had_ recognized him. The cords around Visconti's arms began now to torture him: he was weak from lack of food and mad excitement. Thoughts of Carrara vanished. He saw the face of the girl on whose account he had risked his dukedom. "Graziosa!" he cried, but the face looked at him unseeingly. "You know me!" as if in appeal. "Graziosa, you know me!" The face suddenly distorted, as if with horror. Visconti shrank from it--and she was gone.