The Duke laughed good-humoredly.
"Not I, Tisio; still soon—when Della Scala's crushed—thou shalt see it worn by some one—some one whose face will outshine these stones, Tisio."
"Whose will it be?" asked his brother childishly.
"A lady, Tisio; and when this coronet is on her head, she will be Visconti's wife and the Duchess of Milan!"
He paused on the word, and looked at Tisio; but there was no wonder in his brother's eyes, his gaze held by the flashing stones.
"Now, by Saint Mark!" cried Visconti suddenly. "This is no time to be maundering with a toy and an idiot."
He put the little coronet back and locked the casket.
"How comest thou to be alone, Tisio? Where is thy page?"
As he spoke he returned the casket to the bureau. Tisio, in eager curiosity, looked over his shoulders into the open drawer. There lay the turquoise-colored gloves.
"Oh!" cried Tisio joyously. "The beautiful, beautiful gloves!"