But Visconti took no heed of her.
"Think of thy daughter as a precious charge, Agnolo," he continued. "Meanwhile I leave one of my captains here on guard. That last attack on thee and thine came near costing me too dear."
"My daughter——" began the painter, but Visconti interrupted him:
"Thy daughter will be my wife, painter; remember it, and heed her safety. And thou, Valentine, come with me, and I will tell thee in private how Count Conrad's folly lost Della Scala thy dear brother, and gave me the day—and an army." He turned to go; Agnolo made an impulsive movement forward, but checked himself.
"Tell Graziosa," said Visconti, "she is my duchess on the day my sister weds the Duke d'Orleans."
Visconti crossed the courtyard; the soldiers closed around him and his captive; Agnolo sprang forward, and drawing the little dagger he wore, hurled it after him.
It fell unheard, unseen, amid the trampling feet.
"Your hand—hurts me," gasped Valentine, suddenly very white and trembling.
A soldier was pulling Adrian's dead body from the gate to allow of the Duke's passing, and she, dragged in his grasp, had almost stepped on him. This was what it had ended in—Adrian had flung away his life for nothing.
Visconti's voice broke upon her.