A battered leathern cap covered his head, and from his shoulder hung a ragged scarlet cloak. A dagger and a sword were stuck in his belt, a leather pouch hung at his side. The man's face and bearing belied his dress. He was not handsome, and a peculiar effect was given to the expression by the half-shut brown eyes, but he had a grave and stately bearing, and as he a little unclosed a searching gaze upon Vittore, the boy felt renewed encouragement.
"Sir," cried the lad advancing, "I am in great distress. My cousin lies there dead, or dying. Help me to get him to some shelter."
"I am a stranger here," replied the traveler, "and have no shelter for myself to-night."
His accent, like his bearing, again belied his dress. He spoke in the refined Tuscan tongue, the language of the better classes, and to Vittore, who was gently nurtured, more familiar than the rough dialect of Lombardy, which he and Tomaso could only badly comprehend.
"But what I can find for myself," he added, "thou art welcome to share. Where is thy cousin?"
Vittore pointed to the recumbent figure half-hidden in the bank; the man glanced across, then around him. The sun was almost set, a whole flock of delicate little pink clouds lay trembling over Milan, its noble outline already half in shadow.
"It will be dark soon," he said, "and perchance—" he broke off abruptly. "Thy cousin, didst thou say?—what has happened to him? Wounded in some roadside fray?"
He rose as he spoke and crossed over to the fallen boy. "And what are you two doing traveling alone?" he demanded sternly.
"Alas, messer, we were going to Verona."