"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.