Thought after thought, all painful, flashed through his brain. They were many--innumerable, and, ere he could give them any clear and definite order, the gates of the citadel were opened for his entrance, and a few minutes after, the low, damp dungeon of a murderer received him. They left him in solitude and in darkness to all the bitterness of thought; and then all that was to follow presented itself to his mind in full and terrible array--the trial; the death; the disgrace; the blighted name; the everlasting infamy. Oh! for the battle-field, the cannon's roar, the splintering lance, the grinding wound, the death of triumph and of glory!
Vain wishes: the heavy iron door was there, barring from every active scene of life; but that was not all he had to suffer that night. To the felon's dungeon was to be added the felon's chains. The door opened, the torchlight flashed in; fetters were placed upon his hands and ankles, and the ring of the chain was fastened to a ring in the wall. The guard withdrew, but left the door ajar, and a narrow line of light marked the entrance. It grew fainter and fainter as the torches receded, and then a human figure, like a dark shadow, crossed the light as it became broader while some one entered.
Could it be any one to bring him comfort? Oh no. The well-known voice of Ramiro d'Orco spoke in its cold, calm accents.
"Young man," it said, "you should beware when you are well warned. My lord prefect, you have to die to-morrow. Make your peace with God, for there is no help for you on earth. You shall have a fair trial in our court, that all the world may know the proud Lorenzo Visconti has not been condemned unjustly, but is truly guilty of the murder of a poor defenceless woman--his own wife--and that history may record the fact among the famous deeds of the great house of Milan. The proofs admit of no doubt; so be prepared; and when the axe is about to fall, remember me and Leonora d'Orcobr> "Man, you are deceived!" exclaimed Lorenzo. But Ramiro waited no reply, and the heavy key turned in the open door.
CHAPTER XLV.
It was a bright and sunshiny morning--considering the season of the year, more summer-like and warm than usual--and Leonora d'Orco sat in her beautiful little garden without covering for her head, and with her rich black hair in less trim array than usual, falling over her lovely neck and shoulders. Her eyes were fixed upon the fountain in its marble basin just before her, and there was something calm but melancholy in their gaze. She watched the water as it sprung bounding up, and then fell again in glittering drops, and presently the long, jetty eyelashes overflowed with tears.
"Poor unhappy girl!" she murmured: "the fountain of bright life is dried up for her--the gay and sparkling drops all spent. Oh Eloise--poor Eloise!"
One of her maids came out and stood by her side; but Leonora did not notice her, although the girl seemed anxious to tell her something. Her lady turned away her eyes. Below, at the distance of about half a mile, lay the city, with its dark walls and citadel strongly marked out in the clear light, and she saw a horseman riding up at headlong speed.
"Who is that coming, Carlotta?" asked Leonora. "It is not my father surely."
"Oh, no, signora," replied the girl. "It looks like the maestro. He will speak to you of what I was going to tell you."