His brain was in a whirl—he could think of nothing that was best, every moment might count—yet he crossed and recrossed his steps, turning down dark streets and back again into the Piazza; he was no longer sure of the safety of the castle; he was growing desperate.
But Visconti's men did not reveal themselves, and Marco worked his way out of the Piazza—since they surely were not there, and since no hint of what was passing within the fortress came from behind the porte-cullis—the single opening upon the square.
Little did he dream that Visconti's men, because they were Venetians and known to be in sympathy with the Queen were kept that night, by order of the Council of the Realm, in close detention.
The troop of horse stood impassible before the entrance and the sentry as tranquilly kept guard upon the turrets, as Marco passed them on his way to a small gate upon the seaward side which he had once noticed and now hoped had been forgotten, and where, in truth he entered when he reached it; for it had not been thought important by the planners of this night's strange revel—possibly because few knew of it, or perhaps, because there were none from the port who would not be welcome, for the fleets of Venice were known to be at anchor off the coasts of Turkey, having sailed thither in glad and unsuspecting temper after the courtesies of the baptismal and coronation fêtes.
It chanced that it was through this same small, unguarded doorway that Andrea Cornaro had passed when—unaware of the new password for the night and zealously kept in ignorance thereof by his colleagues in office—he had been denied admission at the great gate upon the Piazza. As all persuasion brought him the more strenuous denial, he felt sure of some perfidy and the more bent upon reaching his niece at all hazards—for he was not one to be easily overcome by obstacles.
Meanwhile, Messer Andrea, Auditor to the Queen and Member of the Council of the Realm, had meant to scale the walls by the seaside and fight his way, hand to hand if need be, to the Queen's side, when he had chanced upon this little gate upon the moat so long unused that its rusty bolt yielded without over-much persuasion to his pressure from without. The first court upon which it gave entrance—being the farthest from the Piazza—was dark and deserted, and he passed, without resistance into the second court, finding it also empty, except for the sentry passing to and fro on his monotonous duty.
The man saluted as he offered the usual password, then, recognizing one of the Queen's Council, presented arms.
Here, at least, all was tranquil—possibly his fears had been too great.
But from the third court—the one first entered from the Piazza, there came as he neared the arched passage that led from court to court through the thickness of the massive walls, hints of commotion that made him pause to consider whether he might not more surely reach the Queen by some other stairway.