Seated on the steps was d'Orleans, playing with the red ribbons of his lute, and standing among the cluster of ladies at the foot of them was Valentine Visconti.
She looked very brilliant and beautiful, and angry and scornful; her laughter was bitter, and the veiled brightness of her eyes not pleasant.
The shade of Visconti's face deepened as he looked at her: compared to his sister, Graziosa was a candle beside the sun; the contrast did not please Gian.
D'Orleans rose and bowed low to the lady, yet in a way that was not respectful.
"So there has been a challenge from the enemy," he lisped. "Now I shall love to see a single meeting of brave swords again."
"Who said so?" asked Visconti. He came slowly down the steps; his manner had quite changed, and his eyes were on his sister.
"The Lady Valentine," said the Frenchman. "She——"
"The Lady Valentine," interrupted the Duke sternly, "had best remember—what I have often remembered to her advantage—that she is a woman, and these affairs are none of hers."
And he gave her a glance that made her wince, as always did that glance, for all her boldness.
Graziosa, her hand held lightly by the Duke, was following him down the steps, her pages behind, and Visconti kept his eyes upon his sister.