Vincenzo, when he learned the news, had flown like a madman along the road to Milan, in a fury of rage, with some half-frenzied project of overtaking the traitor.
Outside the door was a group of soldiers, who peeped through with curiosity at the motionless figure within.
At last he moved dizzily to a seat. "Saint Hubert, when the Prince returns!" he gasped, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a groan of woe.
He looked a somewhat sorry figure, his peacock doublet crumpled, his hair uncurled, his hands shaking.
Last night, only last night, Visconti had been in this very room, a prisoner in his power, and he had reveled with a boy and quarreled over a game! One of the soldiers pushed the door open softly and entered.
"The Prince has returned, my lord," he said.
"So soon!" gasped Conrad. "So soon!"
"The army is moving from Brescia; the intention is to march on Milan——"
"With the men who are not here!" groaned Conrad.