"I fear she is in sad woe," said Graziosa, encouraged by his tone. "She will return to Della Scala when the war is ended?"
Visconti laughed.
"The war will not be ended till she does, methinks; yet be comforted, Graziosa; before our wedding day she shall be in Della Scala's camp—and the war over: now think of it no more."
"Indeed I am satisfied; and my father, my lord?"
"Now, can I help it an he will not come to the palace? My word on it, he is safe; think no more of that, Graziosa. My word on it, he is safe! Now are you content?"
"My dear, dear lord, I am content: I will trouble you no more with questions. I am content to leave my father's safety in your hands—content."
She laid her arms about his neck, and Visconti kissed the roses on the breast that crushed them against his golden doublet, and then her upturned face.
Through the open window came the distant sound of singing; some one singing in French, and then a woman's laugh. Graziosa drew herself away, and Visconti's face darkened.
"Please heaven, she will not annoy me long," he muttered.
He took Graziosa's hand in silence and stepped out on to the terrace.