"Evil news, indeed, I fear," he muttered, and waited anxiously.
A ray of brilliant light from the banquet hall beyond fell between the curtains and streamed across the room, there was laughter and clink of glasses, and a voice singing in French to a lute. The page clenched his fists and turned to go.
"Stay," said Giannotto, "stay. If thou wouldst end thy days, here comes a chance, methinks, for some one will have to carry ill news to Visconti." And even as he spoke a white-faced servant entered.
"My lord," he cried, as Giannotto stepped before him, "there has been some sore disaster—the country folk are trooping through the gates—there is a panic in the city."
"The messengers!" cried Giannotto, "the messengers!"
"The messengers have not returned—but there are plenty bringing news who were not sent for them, my lord." And as the man spoke, a disordered group, soldiers and servants, pressed into the room behind him.
"Gently, my friends," said Giannotto, checking their agitated outcry and pointing to the curtains that hid the banqueting hall. "The Duke!"
A man, dusty and white-faced, forced himself out of the crowd, small, but swelling every moment.
"I bear news the Duke must hear," he said, "and quickly."
"Where hast thou come from?" asked the secretary. "What is thy news?"