Gian Visconti was approaching down the gallery, followed by several pages in the Viper's silver and green livery.
He passed between the rows of bowing courtiers carelessly; there were many there of the proud nobility of France who found it hard to stand silent and respectful before this man, whose crimes alone were his passport to sovereignty.
To them this marriage was a humiliation, a disgrace to the French crown, but to Visconti it was a triumph, the successful crowning of ambition. He was in a genial mood, and as he passed Tisio stopped and smiled, telling him for to-night he might go where he pleased.
It was not too much to spare to the brother whose possessions he enjoyed.
And as Visconti passed on, more than one Frenchman raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders expressively as the sweep of his scarlet train disappeared.
Among the throng the ever-ready secretary waited for Visconti's eye to fall on him, and the Duke, dismissing the pages, beckoned him forward.
"No news from Verona, or Mantua?" he asked.
"None, my lord."
"None? The messengers are late. But after all why should they haste?" said Visconti. "Della Scala will hardly be in the field yet," he added with a smile.
"If ever, my lord," replied the secretary smoothly.