She lay back, her head away from him, and, bending over her, he saw through her long curls that her eyes were closed, her lips parted, and one hand at her throat—the hand that bore his wedding ring. Oh, heaven!——
He caught her head in his hands and looked at her. She was dead, quite dead. The silk curtains fell-to again, and at Mastino's cry the bearers shrank, appalled. Isotta d'Este was dead.
And Mastino lay along the ground, senseless, his defaced shield near him, bare to the bright glare of the sinking sun.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE THE STORM
The storm had gathered and burst; rain fell in great drops that did not allay the heat; the sky was covered with clouds that dragged across the moon in a slow procession, dark and mysterious.
In one or two tents, thrown open to catch the breeze that stirred the chestnuts, sat the little handful of soldiers left to Mastino. Rude and coarse, still were they awed, by the horror that had befallen, to a whispering quiet.
Like a patch of white showing dimly through the gloom, the curtains of a litter were to be seen. At thought of who sat within alone there in the rain and dark, the men shuddered and drew nearer together.
"The Prince?" one whispered.