"The cellars are not so full that we can spare good wine," said da Ribera.
But Visconti laughed, and pulling the map again toward him, pointed out the march to Arezzo; and the secretary was forgotten, cowering in gloomy aloofness.
Giannotto watched the scene with a dull interest, as if it were far away and in no way belonging to him; he had had no sleep that night, and felt dizzy and confused. He could not forget Mastino, slain last night, and yet an eternity ago! and lying now out in the garden, marring the perfect morning with the horror of his face.
Giannotto turned his back to the garden and fixed his eyes on the group round the table.
They made a brilliant picture.
The background was mosaic, black and silver, gold and white, saints with glittering haloes, warriors in shining armor, placid and dignified—a splendid decoration; and against these the moving figures, brilliant in color, scarlet mantles, doublets, purple and orange, glittering with jewels, and laughter and talk—a riot of life and color. Slashed sleeves and gorgeous tassels were laid on or swept across the many-tinted marble table, on which there stood gold and silver goblets of curious shape, and glasses, milk-white, azure, or painted, some delicate as flower-bells, others with twisted stems clasped by a snake with emerald eyes. And the center of it all was Visconti, leaning eagerly over the map, with brocaded mantle thrown back.
"And so to Turin!" Giannotto heard him say through the confusion of voices. "We march next to Magenta."
A dozen voices caught up the word. Giannotto watched them idly.
The sun, flooding the room, made the gold on the wall twinkle and glint, and caught Arezzo's inlaid armor in points of light.
Visconti overturned one of the glasses, and drew on the table the plan of Turin in spilled wine, de Lana leaning over eagerly.