Close behind Giannotto was a fresco painting, a panel between the windows—St Sebastian in a glory, smiling, transfixed with arrows, brilliant against a background of blue.
Giannotto, standing there half-dazed with his new thought, noticed it, and clutched the wooden ribbing underneath with something like a prayer on his lips. Might the saints and martyrs remember to him he had had no share in this!
Visconti turned to leave the table, and with a clinking of armor and a dazzling display of scarlet and blue the nobles moved back; the sunshine was now golden and filling the room.
"Can he be going to look at her?" thought the secretary, dully; then, stumbling over something as he moved forward, he glanced down and started. The next moment he looked round sharply to see if any eye was upon him, stooped quickly, and picked it up.
It was a little stiletto, a thing dropped, perhaps last night, and overlooked, a tiny thing with a long, glittering blade. Giannotto slipped it into his dress, he hardly knew why—it gave him a feeling of security; it was a long time since Visconti's secretary had been armed, even by so much as this.
"With good horses," said Visconti, drawing on his gloves, "we reach Magenta—when, de Lana?"
"In two days, my lord."
"And Turin?"
"If there is no resistance——" began de Lana.