"Graziosa!" he cried, but the face looked at him unseeingly. "You know me!" as if in appeal. "Graziosa, you know me!" The face suddenly distorted, as if with horror. Visconti shrank from it—and she was gone.
"What frightened her? Those other faces," Visconti whispered to himself, then roused himself with a harsh laugh. "Will Carrara come?" He fixed his eyes on the lamp, then on the door. And presently he heard the subdued bustle of arrival, the great door clang; the ringing answers of the soldiers; then outside his own door hushed and respectful voices—the door opened, shut, and Visconti saw his visitor.
A man, black-eyed, florid, richly dressed in velvet, well armed, unattended, and carrying the castle keys—Giacomo Carrara. He stood in amazement, and shrank back half-afraid, though the guard had warned him.
"Visconti!" he cried. "What has happened?"
The sickly light of the lantern showed him a white, haggard face, with wild, bloodshot eyes, the hair hanging lank and damp about its forehead, the plain doublet gashed and torn, hands and face smeared with blood.
But, at sight of the man he hoped to buy, Visconti's face took on a more human look.
"You have seen my messenger?"
"Hush!" and Giacomo looked around cautiously. "Yes, I have seen him, and dispatched my answer."
"My offer suits you?" said Visconti grimly.
"It suited me, Visconti, till just now," returned the other. "It suited me to such purpose that my men even now await my orders to desert to Milan."