The trembling pages had brought more lights, and light was life to Visconti. He came forward and looked, a little nearer, on the figure in the doorway, but very slowly, with de Lana between.
Mastino lay out straight, in a sudden up-flare from the burning city, his arm flung over his face.
"He was a giant," whispered Visconti, fearfully. "And how dark!—I do not remember him so dark——"
He looked over de Lana's shoulder at him.
The soldiers peered behind him. That man was Mastino della Scala once!—it was strange even to their cold hearts.
He was dead—dead! Visconti's fear, the superstitious fear of a righteous, God-sent vengeance, turned to a savage joy; still he was afraid, still afraid.
He touched the body with the point of his gold shoe.
"Throw him into the garden," he said to the soldiers, showing his teeth.
Giannotto and de Lana exchanged a curious glance; the soldier set his lips.
"Are you all traitors or cowards, that you do not heed me?" cried Visconti, in a fury. "Throw, thrust, kick this thing into the garden—let him lie there till the morning."