In that great castle Visconti was a prisoner.
Though with his own eyes he had seen Gian Visconti bound between the soldiers, he could not rest for his impatience to see him again and have it confirmed before any other eyes should recognize this rare prize.
To-night Carrara's army was to desert to Milan. That had been already arranged with Visconti's disguised messenger. It should still desert, but Visconti was now a prisoner, his life in Carrara's hands—there must be slightly other terms between them.
To be in a position to dictate to such a man! Giacomo stood in the gathering dusk, waiting for the dark, his eyes on the castle that held Gian Galeazzo Maria Visconti, Duke of Milan—a prisoner.
* * * * *
"The storm nears: how hot, good St. Hubert, how hot!" And Conrad tossed the damp curls back from his forehead. The entrance of his tent was flung open to admit what little air there might be, showing to the soldiers without Conrad and Vincenzo bending over a game of chess; on a table near were flasks of wine and elegant glasses; along the floor Vittore lay, half in a heavy sleep.
The tent was lit by jeweled lamps, and by their dull light Vincenzo's beauty shone with an almost unearthly brilliancy. He was clothed in white, his thick black hair falling about his shoulders.
Evidently Mastino's reproof was already forgotten. He leaned forward with flushed cheeks and parted lips, eager and intent on a victory at chess; war and the price of it far from his thoughts.
"Hark!" said Conrad. "Thunder!"
A low rumble filled the tent, d'Este took no heed.