Conrad crossed his legs and glanced critically at the taper points of his gold shoes.
"'Tis not my wooing of Visconti's sister has caused war," he replied. "Thy brother-in-law——"
"I beseech thee," cried Vincenzo petulantly, "leave me some little rest from mention of his name and wrongs! Ever since you rode into Ferrara some six days ago, there has been naught else talked of but Mastino, Mastino's wrongs, what we must do for Mastino—till I fair weary at the name!"
"You would not risk your all to glut his vengeance?" remarked the Count. "None the less his wife is your sister, and a d'Este."
"No need for the heroics he makes over her, even so. Visconti will not hurt her, yet we must be hurried into war for it, forsooth!"
"I owe Della Scala my life," returned Conrad airily. "I should be the last to speak; still, my wrongs are as many and as deep. I love the Lady Valentine. I have lost my land and my jewels, my house and servants, yet I am quite ready to settle in some other part of Italy—and forget Visconti. I do not go about trying to entice other people into my quarrels."
He sniffed at his orange as he spoke, and breaking off the end of the myrtle, stuck it in his belt.
Vincenzo's beautiful eyes flashed. "Art thou a poltroon then?" he cried scornfully. "Loved I a lady and she were kept from me, I would not rest while a stone of the palace that held her remained one on the other."
Conrad raised his eyebrows, startled at the sudden change of front.
"Then you should understand Mastino," he said.