Novara had been stormed and taken from Visconti some months ago, and the Estes, fixing their headquarters there, had foraged the country around as far as the ramparts of Magenta, a large town held by Visconti's men.
For these last fatal ten days, disaster after disaster had reduced the Modenese soldiers to a mere handful; and when Mastino, sending word he was in desperate straits, had called out all of the Veronese that manned the town, they were left practically defenseless, in the midst of a country where Visconti's arms were everywhere triumphant.
They dared not leave the town; behind its walls was the only chance of safety. They knew not what positions Visconti held, nor what positions Della Scala. Since that last appeal for aid, they had had no message, no sign from him. Scouts sent out had not returned; one company, advancing from the walls, to find no sign or trace of Mastino, was surrounded and cut to pieces—the few who escaped returning to Novara with ghastly tales. Visconti's arms seemed everywhere victorious. The country was laid waste—and not by their allies.
But the Estes' hope was still in Della Scala. Urgent messages were sent to his camp outside Milan, and when neither answer nor messengers returned, the Duke of Modena grew sick at heart indeed.
He had not mentioned all his fears to his son, though Vincenzo could not but know their strait desperate.
"If we hear not to-day," said d'Este slowly, "I shall think there is treachery; not one messenger has returned—treachery, or some misfortune to Della Scala."
"Then are we lost indeed!" cried Vincenzo. "So far from Modena—so near Milan—only, what of the army that is with Della Scala—our army, his and ours?"
"What army we had with us," replied Ippolito, still looking with anxious eyes on the level country, "I sent to Della Scala—he was in sore need. What men we had outside the town have melted away like snow."
Vincenzo began to pace the room impulsively—a slender figure in a scarlet velvet doublet, his great black eyes bright and angry.
"Shall we not make a sortie, my father? Shall we not dash out and fight, seeing for ourselves what has become of Della Scala?"