Francisco waited.
With each second the wind rose; the clouds raced and gathered, and darkened half the sky, and the man, straining every nerve, thought at first it was the wind he heard mingling with the trample of the oncoming hoofs. Then he knew it for screams of fury and wild shouting. "It is the Visconti," he said, and involuntarily his tense arm sank and his muscles loosened; those mad shrieks could freeze the marrow.
Nearer came the onset, trampling horse and yelling rider; and Francisco set himself anew.
"He rides with his own soul for company," he muttered grimly.
Now the furious cries came clearly, terrible, inhuman; and in another moment, horse and rider were in view.
"Yes. Visconti."
Standing in the stirrups, he lashed at the foaming horse in a blind rage and horror. His cap was gone, and hair and cloak were blown about him. He shouted wildly, cursed and shrieked.
For a breath Francisco paused. This could be no human rider; well was it known in Lombardy that the Visconti trafficked with the fiend, and this must be he; and the man shrank and turned his eyes, lest he should see his damning face.
But the next instant his courage and his purpose had returned.