Count Conrad seated himself on the roadside, and was silent a long while. Then he rose, and rubbed his stiff arms, bruised by the soldiers' grip, looked back toward Milan, looked at the horse and sword, gave one sigh to the past, mounted and rode away out of the shadow of Milan toward Novara, the first town on the route to Germany.
* * * * *
There was a great coming and going of brilliant company in the Visconti palace, a constant spurring of horses through its gates, the riding in of messengers and soldiers, the riding out of officers and nobles.
The Duke d'Orleans and his wife had left for France, with a splendid cavalcade of knights and ladies, escorted by the flower and the chivalry of Milan.
All Valentine's struggles and proud resistance and scorn had come to this: she left for France, as Visconti had ever said she should—left Milan dull to craziness, forgetful, with no sign of either joy or regret.
Visconti thought of this consummation with some satisfaction, then banished his sister from his mind. There were other matters more important to Visconti than the subdual of his sister—of Mastino della Scala and his wife for one.
Mastino had kept his pact: in one week, Pavia, Treviso, Cremona, Vincenza, and Verona had fallen; company after company of Mastino's soldiers had passed into the hands of the Milanese. Modena and Ferrara were left, but so weakened that a few days must see their end, though the deserted garrisons were fighting desperately, and sending wild messages to Della Scala, imploring aid.
Julia Gonzaga in Mantua was sore beset. At an urgent appeal from Mastino, almost every trained man holding the city had been sent to his assistance, to find themselves surrounded and cut to pieces by the Milanese, and Mantua left defenceless.
In Novara the Estes were shut up, waiting anxiously for news from Mastino—waiting in vain.