The thought was grateful to her sore, angry heart. She had not much confidence in Count Conrad's skill nor his chances of success—still, he was in Milan, he cared enough to have risked that, and she could wait.
After the dim church the sun was blinding, the crash of the bells deafening. Valentine mounted her horse with a throbbing heart; that whisper in the church had given her new life.
The soldiers formed up either side, behind and before; it would not have been possible for her to drop even her glove unnoticed. She was riding the streets of Milan as her brother's trophy, as his prisoner; every one of those who bowed so humbly to her as she passed, every peasant her guards thrust back from her path, was freer than she.
San' Apollinare was far from the palace, and for that reason Visconti had chosen it. All Milan should see her ride to offer thanksgiving for his victories.
"Surely there is more good news," said Costanza, as they crossed the bridge that spanned the canal; "the air is full of rejoicing, and I have seen many messengers spur past."
Valentine set her teeth, and looked between the spears of her escort at the bright blue water beneath them. All the craft that covered its surface were gay with flags, its depth reflected buildings hung with the banners of the Viper.
"It fills the very air we breathe," shuddered Valentine, "the shadow of the Viper."
Costanza glanced at her.
"I must confess," she replied, "I should be proud an it were my bearing. To be a Visconti on such a day as this would please me well; and though I am your friend, madama, I must say it."
"As do all the others," said Valentine, bitterly. "You are blinded by splendor and power—you see no deeper than the skin!"