"I wish he had not," said the girl in distress. "He will do something rash, I fear me. How can he get it back from the Visconti palace?"
"He won't get it back," said the little painter cheerfully. "Even a lover would not be quite so mad as to beard the Visconti for a toy."
"Yet he swore I should have it again. It was rash of me to tell him how I lost it," replied Graziosa.
"Then he would have thought thou hadst given it to the stone-cutter next door, and there would have been high words, flashing eyes. 'Ha—ha—come out and be slain, thou varlet! Skulking dog, thou liest!' then swords out, and thou lying in a faint—or bewailing the day of thy birth. After that, thunder and lightning—gore—the brawlers driven into the street—the soldiers come up—and off we go to prison for disturbing the streets with our frays."
"You jest too much, father," said Graziosa. "It may be serious if Ambrogio try to recover the bracelet."
But a light knock on the outer door interrupted her, and with a heightened color she rose.
"It is he, father!" she whispered. "I knew he would not fail us."
Agnolo hurried forward and drew back the bolts, and truly enough Ambrogio entered.
Graziosa's lover was of medium height, a slight man, with beautiful gray eyes. His attire was the plain garb of a student. To-day his right hand was hanging in a sling, while in the other he carried a roll of drawings.
"Still alive!" said Agnolo pleasantly. "Graziosa was fearing thou hadst spitted thyself on Visconti's sword in the recovery of her bracelet."