"Isotta d'Este!" said Visconti, under his breath, and yet with an unmoved face, that showed no surprise.
"Dead!" said de Lana, after a pause, and looked at him.
Visconti laughed softly, and turned with shining eyes.
"Did I not tell you Della Scala was mad—did we not see it for ourselves last night?" he said.
"So it is the Duchess?" whispered da Ribera. "She was very beautiful, they say."
She lay where they had drawn her from her shelter underneath the laurels, her dress clinging close, her head turned away. Mastino had wrapped her round carefully, with a clumsy tenderness; wrapped her veil about her face, and laid his own cloak over her to shield her from the night and rain. And his last whisper was for her—an appeal to some one's humanity to see that Visconti should not look upon his victim's face, should not defile her with his touch.
It rushed on Giannotto with the certainty of conviction—he had caught only the ghostly whisper, but he was sure in this moment of the sense of it; and the music, the colors and sunshine, and splendor and pomp of triumph, and Gian Visconti's cold, mocking face began to dance before Giannotto's vision like figures and fancies of a dream. He heard Visconti speak to Arezzo, saw Arezzo stoop and lift the mantle, and he moved back a step and put his hand to his breast.
"Isotta d'Este!" said Visconti, turning to the others, and pointing down to the dead uncovered face. "Now what was she to lose everything for?"
"His wife," said de Lana, and turned his head away.
"Yes, my friend—do not forget it: Della Scala's wife!" and Visconti touched him on the shoulder warningly.