"It matters not to thee. Thy husband will be the Duke of Orleans, and thou art a prisoner in the palace till he takes thee from it."
She caught at the arras; Visconti left her, and reached the door, his figure a shadow among the shadows.
The girl rushed forward with a cry. "Gian!" she called.
He paused, his hand upon the curtain, and looked back at her.
"Gian!" she repeated, and stood still gasping, her hand upon her breast. The stiff folds of her dress gleamed richly in the subdued light that fell upon her from the painted window. "I know thee for what thou art," she said; "there are only two of us left, only two. Where are our parents, Gian?"
"They were stricken down at Brescia," and Visconti took a quick step toward her.
"They are dead," she breathed, "and they died as our brothers died, Filipo and Matteo——"
"Did they so! Then take warning by it," and Gian, coming stealthily still nearer, turned a look on her. Valentine quailed, as Francisco well-nigh had done; the hot words of remorse and rebellion died away unuttered, and she hid her face, her high spirit cowed again into a bitter weeping.
Visconti left her noiselessly.