"Call me Francisco," said the traveler. "Thou wert journeying to Verona, didst thou say? What kinsman hast thou there?"
"My father," whispered Tomaso feebly, "Georgio Ligozzi." Leaning against the stranger, indeed half-carried by him, Tomaso felt him start. "Thou knewest him, messer?"
"He was put high in favor at Della Scala's court, and sent for us to share his fortune," put in Vittore eagerly.
"Ah," said Francisco. "Della Scala's court has perished. I am from Verona. I saw it burned."
Tomaso's head sunk dizzily upon his helper's shoulder. Vittore's young heart swelled, then seemed to break within him. He choked back his sobs.
"And Della Scala—and my uncle: did they perish too?"
"Who can tell?" replied the stranger sternly. "Who shall say who perished or who not on such a night as that on which Verona fell?"
"But Della Scala's wife, the Duchess, is yonder, prisoner in Milan."
"And that proves, thou thinkest, Della Scala must be dead! Maybe; who knows? All the same, thou art a brave lad and a gallant for the thought."