Graziosa looked at her wildly; she looked strangely like her brother could look, her voice was very like his.
"You know how his father died? How his mother's heart was broken?"
"I know you never raised a hand to save them—I know I love him!" cried Graziosa.
"Doubtless," smiled Valentine with scorn. "But does he love you? Why, he is so stained with crime I do not care to touch his hand. Would such a man love—you?"
"Some tales I have heard, but now I know them false," said Graziosa, white and trembling. "And I will hear no more."
"She thinks he loves her!" murmured Valentine. "She thinks Gian Visconti loves her!"
Graziosa was as near hate as was possible for her; her heart was too full for a reply, she called to her ladies and turned away. But Valentine followed, and laid her hand on her shoulder with what seemed a loving gesture.
"Tell Gian what I have said," she whispered. "It will be an office to suit you, traitress!" and with a smile she turned away.
Graziosa walked slowly toward her tower; somehow the garden had grown dim, the sky was not so bright, the sun so brilliant; she was looking at them through a veil of tears, unshed and bitter.
"The Lady Valentine is not a gay companion to-day," remarked one of her attendants, looking at her.