The two had withdrawn into the embrasure of one of the great open windows, and Visconti, glancing through it, turned his gaze there where, clear in the blue summer night, rose the outline of an abutting building, grim and dark and silent: Isotta's prison.
"See the guards be doubled there," he said. The secretary bowed.
"As to the Lady Valentine, my lord," he said insinuatingly, "she is safe and well, and at her prayers with her women. I have kept guard upon her slightest motion."
Visconti drew a ring from his finger. He was in a generous mood to-night, a rare one enough, as Giannotto thought with bitterness.
"Take this for thy pains," he said. "And now I will relieve thee of thy watch; she can hardly escape under my very eyes and with her bridegroom waiting. Let the guests know I bring the bride, Giannotto."
Visconti withdrew the length of one of the corridors, and paused there at a door before which stood two soldiers, the guard of his sister's apartments. At his soft approach they stood back, and, opening the folding doors, Visconti passed through, and quickly threaded the deserted ante-rooms until he reached the chapel that the lady used.
The place was dim, lit by red lamps that cast more shadow than gave light, and with high, stained windows, now scarcely showing color, and seated on the floor under one of them, her head against a carved wall, her hands listless in her lap, was Valentine.
She wore a dress of flame-colored satin, and her hair was elaborately dressed with rubies and pearls. She made no movement at her brother's entrance.
The air was heavy with incense and the perfume of some white roses that faded across the altar steps.