"One of Visconti's victims! It is some poor satisfaction to have rescued two," he said. "I know nothing of him except that it is plainly to be seen he is some person of distinction. We will nurse him to the best of our skill. Tomaso, he may be of use——"
Then suddenly Francisco's humor changed. He glanced around him at the boy, the youth, scarcely recovered from his fever, the ghastly figure on the ground over which he bent, and fury shook him. Of what use anything against Visconti? "Oh, terrible to be so helpless!" he cried passionately. "We will leave this place. I break my heart in vain against the walls of Milan. I will to Ferrara, to Della Scala's kinsfolk there."
"And they will aid thee?" asked Tomaso trembling.
Francisco smiled, but this time grimly. "I can but try," he said. "Della Scala was once known and trusted there. And in no case can we stay here!" He pointed down at Conrad. "The place will not be safe for us, let Visconti once discover his victim has escaped him. We will depart to Ferrara, and fall upon Visconti while he is unsuspecting that I—that anyone lives to still animate the Estes against him...."
An hour or two later, while Vittore and Tomaso slept, Francisco keeping watch beside him, Conrad woke from a light doze and felt that he had hold on life again. He tried to murmur thanks to his preserver, but the other checked him.
"Thou art not of Italy?" he said.
"I am Conrad von Schulembourg."
"Conrad von Schulembourg!" echoed Francisco in surprise. "Visconti's trusted friend!"
"The trusted friend of him who fastened me within my villa yonder to die a lingering death of hunger, or of poisoned food." The drops started on his forehead, he gasped for breath.