"I accept—every city in my hands, every soldier—all—against my wife—I accept Visconti's terms."
Ligozzi's hand had dropped from his shoulder, the clink of metal was heard through the heavy silence, without a word he stepped forward and laid his sword on the table before the Prince, then turned toward the entrance.
"Ligozzi!" cried Mastino, incredulous. "Not thou, Ligozzi—not thou, my friend!"
He held out his hand imploringly, regardless of the eyes upon him. Ligozzi stopped and turned, answering Della Scala's wistful look by one of bitter scorn and pain.
"I had that sword from an honorable Prince—I go to weep that I should have to return it to a traitor!"
"Ligozzi!" Mastino staggered back, his extended, rejected hand fell against his side. "Thou might'st have spared me that before these—for the sake of the old days—Ligozzi—" he said, steadying himself. Ligozzi did not turn; with a hard face he walked across the tent—without a look back, without a word or a sign, he was gone.
Mastino watched his only friend depart, with straining eyes, that then he covered for a moment as if to shut out what they had seen. But the next moment he turned proudly to the messengers.
Giannotto was alone. The soldier, de Lana, had vanished.
Mastino started forward with a cry, but the secretary interposed: "My lord," he said smoothly, "our duty is our duty. There is no harm intended, there shall no harm be done; but of what value is your consent to my Lord Visconti's terms, if your friend should speak of it?"
Mastino fell back. A swift beginning.