"We parted for a silken knot,
White feather and purple cloak:
Whose fault it was I have forgot,
His the flame and mine the smoke!"
The last words were lost in a burst of laughter, as Conrad and Vincenzo, each mounted on a white horse, and attended by an escort with torches, rode past, back to their tents.
So close they came, that Visconti, with gleaming eyes, leaned forward, longing to strangle the singer with one of those long curls that hung around his laughing, careless face.
But Carrara was relieved.
"As long as he does not inquire for me," he said. "But even then my officers understand."
Visconti smiled grimly; he was to pay for that.