Ligozzi left, and Mastino sat alone, his head in his hands, his elbows resting on the table.
It was blazing hot, the very crown of summer, languid and golden, with a haze of purple sky beating down on the swooning trees; noon, the sun at its height, the stillness of great heat in the air.
Mastino raised his head and looked out on it. What was Gian Visconti planning now?
He had some faint foreboding—a secret embassy from Milan—and following so swiftly on that last crushing blow; following so swiftly as to come upon him still helpless from it—what had it to say, and to his ears alone? He had some faint foreboding as he sat there. But it was not long. Ligozzi, exercising due precaution, returned with the two Milanese.
Giannotto stepped forward with a smooth obeisance, but stopped, a little surprised at the one occupant of the tent—the tall man with the proud dark face.
"My lord—the Prince?" he asked.
"I am Della Scala," said Mastino, and he turned to de Lana who looked an obvious soldier, and the worthier of the two. "Your errand, sir? I would hear you quickly."
"We have greetings from our lord, the Duke of Milan," replied de Lana, his speech and bearing uneasy, like one trying to gain time. He had always disliked his mission, and never more so than now, standing face to face with Della Scala.
Here was some one very different from the man he had expected, and it tended to confuse him.
Della Scala's dignity was his own, not that of pomp and splendor, the terror of crime, or the dazzle of power, that made Visconti feared and obeyed. As plainly attired as any of his soldiers, Mastino overawed the Milanese with something new to them—the sense of worth.