Costanza put her hand on Valentine's sleeve.
"Have a care," she whispered. "Not before them all, madama, for pity's sake!"
But Visconti's sister took no heed; she gathered up her reins and signed to her escort to move on.
"Of course," she said, "why should it interest thee?—there is nothing there—it is only a small, mean church, where a poor, obscure traitor lies on his bier." She looked around the startled faces with a bitter scorn on her own. "Who has heard of him?—one Agnolo Vistarnini—killed by the Duke's orders, killed by thy lover's orders, in the very hour that ye betrayed him to him, Graziosa Vistarnini!"
She flung the words at her as if they had been knives, and if they had been they could not have been more deadly. Without a word, her hand catching at her throat, Graziosa sank from her horse, the scene in an instant one of confusion.
"Dieu! what have you done!" cried d'Orleans, springing from the saddle and raising Graziosa. "Who will answer for this?"
"She will not die of it," said Valentine, scornfully. "She will take care to live—to be Duchess of Milan."
"Oh, shame! shame!" cried Costanza, and several echoed the cry.
"'Twas no gentle act," said d'Orleans, lifting Graziosa, "and heaven save you now, Princess!"