The soldiers, at de Lana's peremptory order, stopped, and laid the burden they were lifting at Visconti's feet.
Mastino della Scala!
Visconti repeated the name and grasped his dagger.
Mastino della Scala, the man who had checked him, scorned him, foiled him all his life, the proudest race, the most stainless name in Lombardy, ended here and in this!
Visconti stepped close and looked down into his enemy's uncovered face.
"He was not beautiful, this Della Scala," he said.
Then he glanced up and round with a wordless, an unutterable exultation. All he had asked had been given him and more! He, Visconti, Duke of Milan, could ask for nothing more than this moment gave him—a perfect triumph.
Da Ribera peered forward curiously. "He is torn to rags," he said. "He must have fought like a madman——"
"He was mad," said Visconti.