In Milan there was much rejoicing, in its streets and palaces much splendor; it was the Lady Valentine's wedding day.
Among the throng outside the church of San' Apollinare, the eager crowd that fought and battled for a better chance of seeing the splendid procession, was a monk, seemingly a wandering friar, who pressed his face against the cold marble walls in the silent vexation of an utter disappointment. It was Conrad.
He had failed in his mad mission; success from the first had been hopeless; he had not redeemed himself. He had not helped Della Scala, he had not rescued Valentine—he had failed.
A dozen different plans had been formed—equally futile and impossible to carry out. Who could outwit Visconti in his own city? Bitterly Conrad regretted the false hopes conveyed in that whisper in this very church. Perhaps she had trusted to them, and here was her wedding day and he was standing outside helpless!
He knew it pure folly, this risking his life for nothing, and what had brought him there he could scarcely tell; but under his monk's habit he had a concealed dagger.
He felt desperate, wounded badly in both heart and pride. It was not so much for love of Valentine Visconti—that had ever been more fancy than aught else—it was the sense of failure—of self-humiliation; a bitter sense of how Visconti laughed at him. Far better a fine, romantic death than disgrace one side, defeat the other. In fact a fine, romantic death in a lady's cause would be decidedly gratifying. With this new thought of it struggling in his mind, Count Conrad suddenly turned from the wall and forced lustily through the crowd to the church steps.
He was there none too soon. A sudden wild shout from the crowd, a movement of the soldiers keeping guard, told him they were leaving the church. The pushing, struggling people were well kept back by the stout halberds; but Conrad, partly by virtue of his dress, but rather by the strength of his squared arms, managed to force to the front, where he stood close behind the stalwart figure of a German mercenary.
Conrad glanced at the blond hair and mild blue eyes. "Friend," he whispered in German, leaning forward, "have consideration for a German father who will say many prayers for thee—in his native tongue."
The soldier turned.
"Quick," said Conrad, "a place next thee, my friend."