"Put him outside the gates," continued Visconti; "and give him money for his journey. Maybe he left Della Scala too hastily to bear much away; maybe Della Scala did not in any case pay well; and we would not have the noble Count beg his way to Germany."
"Visconti——" Conrad choked on the word. "Visconti——"
"I will spare thy thanks," smiled the Duke. "Farewell."
"Give me a dagger—some one!" yelled Conrad. "That villain shall see I do not live to profit by his scorn. Give me a dagger—I—you truckling knaves! you shaveling cowards!"
"When your blood is a little cooler," said the soldier calmly, tying his hands the tighter, "you'll be giving us a ducat apiece for not taking you at your word."
"Silence, churl! I will not leave Milan; I will not be put outside the gates!"
"Just whatever the Duke says, messer, you'll do—just whatever the Duke says; and thank your guardian saint he was not himself to-day, or you'd have had your death—but not quite so pleasant as you seem to think it."
And for all he could shriek and threaten and pray, struggle and fight, Count Conrad was escorted through the crowded streets, between soldiers with immovable faces, and amid a crowd that laughed in huge enjoyment of his angry threats and bitter entreaties. A good mile outside the gates they led him, a fine rabble at his heels. And then they left him, with a good horse, a sword, and a bag of ducats.
"Now, Count, take those and ride to Germany—or if you must die, try and get back into Milan." And they rode away, laughing heartily.