"Ah, Giannotto, look," cried Visconti, "Della Scala's collection, Della Scala's jewels. How my treasury will be enriched! Only one thing mars it, that he should not be here to see!"
He turned from the window. Giannotto followed, cringing.
"Still, thou hast his wife, my lord," he said. Gian's eyes flashed afresh.
"Isotta d'Este—ah!"
He leaned back against the wall in silence. A certain winter morning, five years ago, rose clearly before him; a massive castle, frowning from the rocks above Modena, and on its steps a fair girl who stood there and laughed to see him ride away back to Milan, his offer of the Visconti's friendship scorned and flung in his face by her proud family, the haughty Estes. Visconti's face grew dark as he remembered her; almost more than Della Scala, her dead husband, did he hate Isotta, Della Scala's wife. And she was in his power. Greatly would it have soothed him to know her death was in his power too, but the lust of ambition was greater with this man even than the lust of pride or hate.
Isotta d'Este was a valuable hostage to be used against her family, should they think of avenging their fallen kinsman.
"Where hast thou finally placed her, my lord?" asked Giannotto, with his stealthy glance. The Duke started from his reverie.
"In the West Tower," he smiled. "Every day I go to gaze on the room that holds her to make sure it is not a dream; to see and feel with my eyes and my own hands that her prison is doubly sure. If Isotta d'Este should now escape me—but she will not!"
He crossed the room to leave it, but paused at the door.
"Be watchful, Giannotto, the Princess Valentine may try to leave the palace. I have spies on her every movement; still, thine eyes upon her also will do no harm—to me!"