"Ah!" said Visconti, "I have it in my mind to kill you, my sister. I have it in my mind to give myself that pleasure—to kill you."
He rose as he spoke, and Giannotto drew farther away from him, glancing at Valentine with a white amazement; the Duke was bordering on frenzy.
"Oh," cried Visconti again, "so you have no more wits than Tisio: you think, because it suited me that you should wed with d'Orleans, that you are free to flout me at your will!"
"Now be silent," breathed de Lana to Valentine, who leaned against the wall beside him.
"You!" said Visconti, stopping before her. "You!—to meddle with me—let me lift my finger and I can bring you lower than any slave in Milan!"
"Silence!" breathed de Lana again. But Valentine had too much of her brother's own spirit. The madness of the Visconti rose into her eyes; she straightened herself and moved forward defiantly.
"Aye, or you can kill me," she said, "as you have the others; but you cannot make me humble before your wife out of the streets."
Visconti stood stock still, and Giannotto, glancing at de Lana, wondered if she were to be murdered before their eyes.
Under the look in her brother's face Valentine stepped back again and huddled herself against the wall: she saw Visconti draw his dagger—and she hid her eyes—but motionless and without a sound.