"Ah," thought Giacomo, "I see the plot. Thou wouldst snatch a weapon while my hands are busy," and, priding himself on his cunning, he deftly slipped them on his hands, keeping his elbow on his sword-hilt and his watchful eyes upon Visconti.
"A beautiful dawn," said Gian softly, seeming to take no heed of Carrara's clever maneuvering; his eyes were fixed on the sunrise behind Milan. "All pearl and silver, blushing into life anon; about the time when I shall enter Milan."
And he fixed his eyes on Giacomo with a strange expression.
"When we shall enter Milan," corrected Carrara. "The sun will be faintly high: these marches are toilsome." And he glanced down proudly at the beautiful gauntlets on his hands, calculating what the pearls and turquoises might be worth, picked off, and vain at having outwitted Visconti.
"The promise of the day!" said Visconti, dreamily and sadly. "Hath it never struck thee how that promise never is fulfilled? Day after day, since the world began, something in the mystery of the dawn is promised—something the sunset smiles to see unfulfilled—something men have been ever cheated of—something men will never know—the promise of the dawn!"
The road began now to be fringed with poplars, and in the faint light the colors of the wayside flowers were visible.
They rode awhile in silence. Carrara looked back at the small rearguard in the distance, and before him along the road to his army blackening the plain, and then again at Visconti.
"Either he is always mad or——"
With a sharp exclamation he fell forward on his horse's neck, but recovered himself instantly. Visconti turned to him, still with that far-away look in his eyes.
"The road is stony," he said. "Thy horse stumbled?"