And before Gian could stop him, he had caught them up.
Visconti snatched them from him; at the same moment came a clamoring upon the door. It was Giannotto knocking lustily.
"Now, who beats down the door?" cried the Duke, and waiting for no further summons, Giannotto entered. The Duke, starting, thrust the turquoise gloves into his doublet.
"What is it now, Giannotto? Did I not say that I was coming?"
"My lord, it presses. De Lana would see you—there has been fierce fighting outside the walls—the army clamors for you——"
"Lead the way," said Visconti shortly; and, preceded by his secretary, he returned hastily toward his council chamber.
The anteroom, brilliant in pink stone and gold, the great hall itself, flaring in painted walls and dazzling stained-glass windows, were full of people—courtiers, soldiers, artists, and craftsmen.
Gian Visconti kept neither the open court nor the free table of his father; he was neither lavish in his hospitality, save when it suited his own ends, nor liberal in his rewards; still he loved, encouraged, and jealously exacted the homage of all artists. Woe be to the painter or poet who took his painting or poetry to any other in Milan save the Duke himself!
There were many there to-day, eager-eyed among the throng, among them the German architect of the glorious new church; but to-day Visconti passed unheeding through them. The city was at war.