"He recanted, my good lord; he died a Ghibelline," said da Ribera, acting on the whisper.
"Mastino della Scala was a Ghibelline; we never quarreled over that," said Visconti easily. "But Mastino was no patron of poets like his father." He leaned back in his chair and looked out of the window, where above the beautiful fresh green of the garden faint smoke-wreaths showed, the last of Novara.
"De Lana, you stood next; what did he say—as he went over?"
At the sudden brutal question, they started, and de Lana suppressed a shudder.
"I did not hear—I thought—he was dead."
"I think you are still afraid of him," smiled Visconti. "I should like to know what he said." And he looked round for Giannotto, who had shrunk into a corner, and sat there gazing dully at the company.
"Did you hear, Giannotto?"
"I? How should I, my lord?" and the secretary shuffled uneasily.
"Ho! a sullen knave!" cried Visconti, then leaned forward and touched de Lana on the arm.