Venegono stared at him. 'Give me to drink,' he begged. 'God! How I thirst. I have ridden from Pavia without pause save to change horse at Caravaggio.'
'From Pavia!' Bellarion's tone and manner changed; apprehension showed in both. But not on that account was he neglectful of the needs of his guest. On an ample square table in mid-tent stood a jug of wine and some beautiful drinking-cups, their bowls of beaten gold, their stems of choicely wrought silver, beside a dish of sweetmeats, bread, and a small loaf of cheese. Bellarion poured a cup of strong red Valtelline. Venegono drained it.
'Aye, I am consistent, as you say. And so is that hellspawn Gian Maria Visconti. Of his consistency, mine. By your leave.'
He flung himself wearily into the cushioned fald-stool by the table, and set down his cup. Bellarion nodded, and resumed his seat on the bear-skin.
'What has happened in Pavia?'
'In Pavia nothing. Nothing yet. I rode there to warn Facino of what is happening in Milan, but Facino ... The man is ill. He could do nothing if he would, so I come on to you.' And now, leaning forward, and scarcely pausing to draw breath, he launched the news he had ridden so desperately to bring. 'Della Torre is back in Milan, recalled by Gian Maria.'
Bellarion waited, but nothing further came.
'Well, man?' he asked. 'Is that all?'
'All? Does it mean so little to you that you ask that? Don't you know that this damned Guelph, whom Facino banished when he should have hanged him, has been throughout the inspirer of all the evil that has been wrought against Facino and against all the Ghibellines of Milan? Don't you understand that his return bodes ill?'
'What can he do? What can Gian Maria do? Their wings are clipped.'