"A painter, my lord; the house is near the western gate."
"The western gate! I remember. It was the day I found von Schulembourg. Truly I think we may trust the man that I remember," and Mastino faintly smiled. "There is no guile in him—nor in his daughter; poor lady! she was happy then!"
"Visconti has left a guard of soldiers to protect the house; but not so many that they will not be easily disposed of. Vistarnini speaks them fair, they have no suspicion."
Mastino rose and held out his hand. "So thou hast done it, my friend, thou and thy son. I owe thee much, Ligozzi. A poor man's thanks are but an halting gift; some day, however, the Duke of Verona shall tell thee what his gratitude is worth, my friend. I thank God, Ligozzi, for one friend!"
* * * * *
In a thick wood near Milan, a man on a white horse was slowly picking his way through the dense undergrowth. The trees were close, and in their dark shadow the place was nigh as black as night.
Great tufts of flowers grew in the cool shadows. There were no signs of life, save the birds whirring through the leaves, the plants nodding in the breeze.
The rider dismounted, and tied his horse to the low bough of a large beech, flinging himself on the space of cleared ground beneath with a sigh. He wore a dress of peacock-colored velvet, tumbled and torn, and, save for a richly-jeweled dagger, more for ornament than use, was unarmed; but in the fight from which Count Conrad had just engaged, though a fight with two, weapons had not been needed; persuasion had done the work, and he had come out victorious.
In a bundle on his saddle hung his spoils, and as he discontentedly sucked the scratches on his wrist, he looked at them with interest and triumph.
Presently he fell to fingering his hair, then, sitting suddenly upright, drew his dagger with fine resolution.