The light fell in a straight shaft from the narrow window, on the delicate chasing of the casket, as Visconti placed it on the table, and as he turned the key and the lid flew back, it gleamed on the emeralds and diamonds of an elaborate coronet, exquisitely enameled and pointed.
Every inch was covered with precious stones: each point tapering into a delicate tracery of gold, as fine as lace.
Visconti drew a chair to the table, and leaned back in it, his eyes upon the jewels; so absorbed was he, he did not heed the opening door nor Tisio's entrance.
And Tisio scarcely saw his brother, for joy at the little coronet, so brilliant in the sun's straight ray.
"How dost thou come here, Tisio?" asked his brother, startled; but at sight of Tisio's vacant, foolish face, he sank back, and noticing his joy, he smiled—for Tisio was crazed, and remembered nothing of even the things that gave him pleasure. "Dost thou like it?" he continued, gratified at the delight in his brother's eyes. "Thy taste in goldsmiths' work is good, Tisio."
"'Tis beautiful, Gian, wondrous beautiful!" cried Tisio in rapt admiration.
"I bought it with the price of half a city," said Gian. "And hold it cheap."
The words had no meaning for Tisio, as his brother knew: he only voiced his own pride in the lovely bauble.
"And wilt thou wear it?" asked Tisio.