"Since daybreak I have been flying for my life—I am a servant in the garrison at Brescia—it is destroyed," gasped the man.
"Brescia!" The echo of horror. "Has Brescia fallen?"
"Aye, fallen—into Della Scala's hands."
Giannotto looked around bewildered, incredulous.
"Della Scala at Brescia?" he said. "You dream!"
But the room was filled now with a wild-faced crowd that would not be kept back, and from every side echoed the evil tidings.
"Brescia—at dawn to-day Della Scala whirled down on us, flushed with victory—and in two hours the town fell."
"And Visconti thinks him idle at the d'Este's court!" broke from Giannotto.
And the crowd filled the chamber with the whisper of dismay and horror, but from the banqueting room still came the song and the laughter—Visconti was in blissful ignorance of evil. Who could tell him? Who would dare?
Well Giannotto knew the fall of Brescia could be only the last of a series of incredible disasters; so swift as to seem miraculous. Victory after victory must have fallen to Della Scala before he could have marched on and taken a place so near Milan; victories following too fast on one another to have reached Visconti before their culmination. The news indeed was terrible!