"Your tales sicken me—I have always hated horrors," said Visconti.
Mastino crept along and found a door.
"I will get in here," he said within himself; and then within himself he laughed, for it was opened.
The tapestry within was moved aside, and there was a glimpse of a white sleeve and a delicate, ringed hand. The next moment the curtain was torn, in a giant's grip, from its fastening, and Mastino, trampling it under him, was upon them—in his madness staying to reckon on no odds.
Where was Visconti? Not far, for he himself, with his own hand, had opened the door.
But from the red glare outside, the blaze within blinded Della Scala. He looked round him for Visconti. Then a voice screamed: "Keep him off!" and suddenly his eyes met the Duke's, and he strode forward. It seemed almost done. Visconti, in wild fear, fell back before that terrible face, staggering against the wall, his hand fumbling for his dagger, and the men in the room scattered to right and left, as before an apparition.
"Gentlemen!" shrieked Visconti, "you are ten to one: stop him! A fortune for the one who slays him!"
But Mastino had him in his grip—almost: another moment——
But Visconti fell, and crouched along the wall, those reaching hands above him; and a dozen swords leaped out: the soldiers flocked in from the ante-room: there was a wild confusion.
"Slay him!" shrieked Visconti. But from Della Scala, as they closed on him, came a yell that froze the marrow.