How hot it was, how hot! Ligozzi felt dizzy—he wished the sun would cease blazing down—he wished Della Scala would move—had he persuaded him? Mastino raised his head.
"Bring them back," he said slowly, "I will see them now."
Ligozzi's heart beat high. "He has won—over himself at least he has a victory!" he thought—but looking on Della Scala's haggard face, he ventured no speech.
Mastino sat erect—his hands on the table in front of him, his eyes on the floor. Visconti's envoys entered.
Giannotto, glancing at Mastino and then at Ligozzi keenly, saw that there Visconti had an adverse advocate. But the strained silence on them all was hard to break. They were uneasy, like men before a great grief, or in the presence of one about to die—it was difficult to treat the matter as an ordinary one, or to ask a decision from that tortured man before them.
Even Giannotto's heart failed him, and he stayed near the entrance, abashed and afraid, but with a fear different from that with which he fawned upon Visconti. Visconti's moods and motives he could understand—to some extent they were his own, on his own level,—but this man—some things were beyond the Duke of Milan's secretary, and for the first time in his life he felt it. Mastino himself broke that hideous silence. He raised his head, and with a little affectionate movement Ligozzi laid his hand on his master's arm as if to strengthen him.
"I have considered," said Della Scala, in a hard voice. He paused a moment, but a moment only. "I have considered, and my answer is: I will accept Visconti's terms—my wife against the towns."
"Oh, dear lord!" breathed Ligozzi. It was the only sound; the Milanese were silent, almost as if they too winced to hear the words.
Mastino rose, with defiance in his burning eyes.