"Della Scala himself," said Agnolo, proudly. "He is a noble prince."
His daughter made no answer; long after the little painter had left her again alone she sat there listless in the sunny, silent chamber, listless, with her white face, leaning back against the window frame.
"There was no possibility of failure." The words beat upon her heart till she thought it would break.
"To-morrow he will be dead!"
She sprang to her feet with sudden energy; the sun was rising high—the time was short.
It was silent, maddeningly silent; Graziosa grew afraid of it—the silence and the sun; she wished she were dead; it came to her to kill herself, yet full well she knew that she had not the courage.
She twisted her damp, cold hands together; she wondered if she shut her eyes and leaped from the window she might die without knowing it, and nerving herself looked out.
But the stone courtyard seemed far away, hard and cruel, and she winced back again.
In her own heart she knew she was a coward, and wept to think it was so—wept to think she could not rise to act, in any way to act.
There was no tinge of greatness in Graziosa's soul; she would have gone through life, if unmolested, merry, gentle, sweetness and happiness itself, content to always stand aside for others, eager to do little kindnesses that came within her compass, never tempted because never seeing the temptation, happy in utter simplicity and ignorance; but a great moment found her wanting, a crisis she could not face; as she tried to think, right and wrong grew strangely confused. She only knew she loved Visconti, and that he was in danger.