"That too."
The younger d'Este looked out blankly at the sunshine, all hope faded from his face.
"And Mastino, father?"
Ippolito was silent, a silence worse than speech. Vincenzo was awed.
"So we are abandoned—defenseless, resistance hopeless! Oh, my lord! my father! We cannot fall into Visconti's hands! We—the Estes!"
"Hush!" said his father, sternly, yet with sparkling eyes. "I have been considering all—the Viper shall never fly in triumph from the walls from which a living d'Este is turned. Oh! had I never left Modena! See, Vincenzo—as soon as Visconti is within two miles of the gate—this!" He touched the door beside him, pushing it open, and Vincenzo's startled gaze followed the direction of his hand.
In the dark recess were the stone steps leading to the store beneath; the powder, the rude engines of war, and a vast quantity of wood, stored for winter use, and piled high even to the door. Vincenzo felt his heart grow cold; he looked from his father's proud face to what the steps beyond conveyed, and understood.
He raised his eyes steadily and smiled. He, too, was an Este, and in this moment the proud glory in his birth was plain.
"My son!" cried Ippolito, suddenly, passionately. "My son!"
Vincenzo could not trust his voice to answer; he sat very still, the smile on his lips, his hand on his toy-like dagger.