D'Este turned his head away. From without came the sound of voices and footsteps—sounds of alarm, commands, shouts.
Ippolito turned to the door.
"I go to give the last orders," he said, and left Vincenzo alone with his approaching fate.
He sat very silent.
This, then, was the end, the end of it all!
That one thought beat strongest on his brain—this was the end. What had he not meant life to give him—all he had seen others enjoy, all he had ever dreamed of, honor and fame, power and love, visions there were no words for—the future for him had held all these—and now, a burst bubble!
In the very richness of his youth he had flung away his days and hours, laughing at time, if he ever thought of it, and at life—then were life and time and an unending world before him.
Life! And even while he sported with it as endless, it could have been measured by hours.
A great wave of homesickness rushed over him, homesickness for the world, for the past he had never treasured, for Modena, the leaves and roses outside his father's palace, and Conrad riding away into the sunshine—away from this dark chamber he would never leave. Yet he did not for a moment flinch, such a thought never entered his mind, only he could not bear to have to wait; he wished it were done and over—now.
From the street below rose a great uproar; there was some panic among the people; the country folk were pressing through the gates, fire and sword behind them—Visconti was on the march! Wild, frightened screams, and the hurry of feet, rose to the gloomy room, and Vincenzo sprang up; he wished his father had not left him, he wished he were not alone.