"She will not care—she will not care," he said. But his voice was unsteady, and he supported himself against the saddle of his horse.
"The Duchess comes!" said Tomaso, and clutched Mastino's hand.
Out of a little wood of delicate trees, in front of them, the cavalcade was winding: Visconti's soldiers, Veronese soldiers, and a white, curtained litter in the midst.
Mastino's gaze flew to that, and to that only.
"Oh, my heart's desire!" he murmured. "I do not repent!" And he forgot the ladder of the Scaligeri battered from his shield.
The soldiers cantered up and lowered their halberds in a salute to the magnificent figure standing there alone, while the officer read in a high voice from the parchment, that stated that Isotta d'Este, Duchess of Verona, prisoner of war of Gian Galeazzo Maria Visconti, Duke of Milan, was returned to her husband in fulfillment of the league and treaty between them.
"Into your hands we deliver her in safety, my lord, and my lord of Milan offers three months in which to either quit Lombardy or choose some post in his service in Verona."
"My choice is made: I quit Lombardy," said Mastino. "Leave me."
The soldier lightly shrugged his shoulders and gave the word, and, cantering off, Visconti's guards wheeled and followed swift behind him. They had fulfilled their duty: Isotta d'Este's safety was no affair of theirs now.
The Veronese footmen bearing the litter had set their burden down; the white curtains fluttered—was it the breeze, or Isotta's hand, that stirred them so?