"But were I either of them, Prince Mastino or Count Conrad," she thought in hot anger, "I would not live to grace Visconti's triumph."
The sound of bells penetrated even into the hushed interior of the church. As the service ended and Valentine rose to her feet, she heard them burst into wild music; the dim, incensed air seemed troubled by their triumphant throb, the gold tapestry to shake with it.
"Is it another victory?" murmured Valentine. The church had emptied, she was alone in it save for two ladies kneeling motionless.
The monks swept out, with a swinging of incense and a low chanting. One only remained, putting out candles about the altar.
Valentine closed her missal and turned to leave. The sun was streaming through the gold and opal window in a dazzling shaft of light, it fell over her face and blinded her for a second. The next, she looked round to see the solitary monk behind her. His head was hidden in his cowl, his arms folded, he passed her without looking up.
"Count Conrad is in Milan," he said, under his breath, and silently and swiftly he was gone.
Valentine, hardly believing she had heard aright, gazed after him wildly, then collecting herself, walked down the aisle, her brain on fire.
Her ladies rose, in waiting, and under no excuse could she prolong her stay.
"Count Conrad is in Milan!"
Did that mean that he would rescue her yet—was it Conrad himself who spoke?