"And we stay here in ours," he called back.
And in after days, in peaceful days in Germany, when that brilliant, bloodstained Lombard summer seemed far away and strange as a wild dream, Conrad remembered; a memory he shared only with the dead.
The spurs jingled, with a trampling of hoofs the horses turned, the strong sun caught Conrad's plumes and Vittore's bright hair, he looked back with a laugh, and at a swift trot they passed through the castle gate.
Down the long paved street they clattered, till that sound too was gone.
Count Conrad had ridden away. Vincenzo stood silent in the great patch of sunlight that lay along the floor till Conrad's bridle bells were quite lost in the distance; then he turned, with something like a sigh.
He was not alone long—Ippolito re-entered with a calm face, and yet one his son was startled by.
"Count Conrad's news has been confirmed," he said; "a messenger has returned." He paused a moment. "All the country is in Visconti's hands."
"The saints save us!" cried Vincenzo.
"Aye, the saints, for there is no hope in man!"