"Tisio," he said, "she's dead! Graziosa! Graziosa!"
He bent closer, eagerly.
"Get help, Tisio! help!"
And Tisio, eager, alert, put the lamp in the window, where it flung long, ghostly shadows, and sped calling down the stairs.
Visconti had sent for help, yet even while he sent he knew it useless: she was dead! He stood looking at her. Poison!—she had poisoned herself. Something was tightly locked in her right hand! he forced the fingers apart, and looked at it—poison.
"How dared she do it?" he muttered, with an ever-darkening face. "How dared she?—who gave it her? Who dared to give it her?"
He would never have thought it lay in her to do this. All Milan must know she had preferred to die rather than be his bride. He had failed in this, though he had sworn he could not, though he had sworn she should share his throne before them all—the woman who loved him for himself alone. He remembered Valentine. Valentine had done this.
At his feet lay the satin garments and the jewels Graziosa had flung aside: she would not wear them. Not all his power could do that; not all his pride, all his ambition, could make her wear the crown, without the love. Gian Visconti stamped his foot. How dared she! How dared she!
Her eyes would never sparkle at his coming nor sadden at his good-by. And Visconti, coming back to look at her again, was awed; affection stirred anew, and something like respect at the sight of her still dignity.