He flung from the tent, and Tomaso after him, the bitter sobs catching at his throat.
"I cannot bear it," he cried. "It is doom itself. Oh, my master! my dear master!"
The soldiers crowded together and watched.
"Look!" gasped one, pointing through the dark. "He hath got her—he hath got her!"
And they huddled back, half falling over one another, as Mastino came into view—a slender thing in white and purple in his arms. Close by, he paused, and laid it tenderly across the saddle of his white horse, whinnying low and waiting.
"Jesu, protect us!" cried the men. "Where is he going?"
"Stop him! stop him!" shrieked Tomaso, running to them. "He goes to find—Visconti!"
"Then no one of us had best dare meddle," was the answer. "Keep away from him, boy; he is mad, possessed—maybe by the devil!"
"I care not!" cried Tomaso in an agony of sorrow. "He shall not ride so; he has no armor on—it will be to his death. He shall not go—my lord! my dear lord!"
He sprang forward to the white horse, which Mastino had mounted, and clung to the stirrup.