"Oh, may God grant that victory may fall," she murmured, "where Count Conrad draws his sword!"
It was evening before Visconti returned, weary from his survey of his men, victorious after a fierce skirmish with some of Verona's mercenaries, led by Mastino's trusted Captain Roccia.
The palace that till then had lain so quiet was suddenly a wild confusion, a babel of noises, shouts, and trampling of horses.
Strange, flaring lights were thrown across the courtyard; the torches flung ragged, straggling rays upon the sides of the palace, falling grotesquely on the griffins that grinned either side the arched door, falling across the long rows of straight windows, and, for a second, on Valentine Visconti's pale face, looking eagerly below.
"Dogs of Veronese!" cried Visconti, turning his wild eyes toward the prisoners. "They have cost us a wild hour!"
And he had been in the thick of it; his rich armor was dented, the embroidered surtout torn to rags: Visconti's blood was up. In a fight, even the Torriani could not say he lacked anything save prudence.
Without alighting, he took from his head his ponderous helmet with the viper crest, and gave it to his page.
"We have given Roccia a taste of our quality!" he laughed, and pulled his gauntlets off. "Where is De Lana?"
"I am here, lord," said Giannotto.
He stood at the Duke's saddle, looking around him in confusion.