In the tent behind him, Tomaso and a page polished his armor. For once Mastino was without it—yesterday he had donned it, and waited expectant for the answer to the challenge he could not believe Visconti could refuse. It was his fault to think the best of men, a fault that had cost him dear when he had trusted Count Conrad, a fault that had cost him the insult now of Visconti's answer to his message.
"I have tried everything, and in everything I have been outwitted or betrayed. I am helpless, powerless. Will it last unto the end?"
The thought burned across Mastino's heart like fire.
"Would it last unto the end?"
The dazzling sun blinded him, the waving of the green made him giddy; he lifted the flap of the tent and entered.
After the glare the dark and gloom were welcome.
The tent was large and bare, only the two boys in their quiet dresses and the bright armor strewn over the worn grass, only these and Ligozzi seated near the entrance watching Mastino with anxious eyes.
Della Scala could not speak to him. He avoided his eyes, he had talked to him so often on this one theme. He could not meet his friend's eyes, so often humiliated with failure, with nothing but fresh disaster to speak of.
In silence he paced up and down the tent, Ligozzi's eyes following him wistfully. He also did not care to speak.