The glimmering light fell faintly on a dark chamber, and dimly lit a large black couch from which the tapestry coverlet was half dragged off. Visconti peered an instant over his rescuer's shoulder eagerly, then fell back.
"I cannot," he said sullenly. "I will stay and face Della Scala—I cannot pass that way."
Carrara turned and looked at him keenly.
"What do you know of these chambers, that you are afraid to pass them, Visconti?" he asked.
"'Tis no matter what I know—I will not pass them," cried Visconti, fiercely, and clutched at the rough wall as if to keep himself from being made to enter them even by force. Giacomo looked into the chamber curiously; the lantern showed only parts of it, and that dimly—an empty audience chamber, stiff chairs against the wall, the couch, dust on the floor and shadows in the arras—nothing more; and Carrara turned impatiently.
"I risk my life for this," he said. "What do you think it will mean, Visconti, if I am found helping you escape?"
He stepped across the threshold, and flashed the lantern around.
"Nothing!" he laughed over his shoulder. "Nothing," but as he advanced he paused a moment, and lifted up a corner of the dragged coverlet, "save that this coverlet is riddled as if with dagger-thrusts," he added, "and the floor seems stained"—he sank his voice—"with blood."
He looked back at Visconti, standing in the doorway, and with a sudden fear of him his hand sought his sword.
"Whom did you murder here, Visconti?" he asked, awestruck. "Whoever it was," he added presently, "I would not lose my life for fear of them, seeing they are dead."