"Thou art tamed indeed," he said. "I am not ill-avenged."
Valentine stepped down into the room, her tangled hair hanging about her, and grasped him by the arm. "I was waiting—" she whispered. "I feared he would come back before I was dead. Ah! and he did! Count Conrad could not keep him off; the Viper, green and silver; the Viper, he has poisoned me." And she sank onto the floor with a sudden scream, her hands before her eyes.
"Thou art neither poisoned nor dying," said Visconti, roughly. "Call thy women, and—remember."
She looked at him with vacant eyes.
Visconti turned away. "She is not likely to forget, it seems," he thought. "Her spirit will not trouble my path more."
Neither his nor anyone's. The brilliant, witty, and daring Valentine Visconti was to dare, to mock, to laugh no more; her high spirit was broken, her proud courage gone. From that fearful night she was timorous, shrinking, like a child, wandering and vacant—like Tisio, half-crazed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE THE ORDEAL OF MASTINO DELLA SCALA
"A secret embassy from Milan!"