In a second Visconti was by his side, gripping his arm, and Carrara, startled, shrank, and kept his hand upon his dagger.
"I do not fear them," whispered Visconti, in his ear. "Nor you."
And he hurried across the chamber, Carrara at his heels.
Room after room they traversed, deserted, gloomy, and unopened since that night.
"Hurry!" breathed Visconti. "Shall we never see the blessed sky again?"
And snatching the keys, he pushed on, taking every door and turning with a certainty that showed he knew them well.
"At last!" he cried, as they stepped out into the air.
They were at the back of the castle, on a ledge overhung with ivy, and overlooking a narrow flight of steps, the masonry half-ruined and overgrown with flowers.
The storm was over, a few great clouds tore across the sky, but the moon was clear and serene, the night calm and peaceful.
The cool air blew around Visconti's damp hair, and stirred the dark ivy leaves, glistening with the rain. Beneath them lay the tents, a large body of men, half the army, silently and swiftly preparing for flight.