It was past midnight when, so jaded that he kept his feet by a sheer effort of the will, he staggered into Filippo Maria's bedchamber, ushered by the servant who had preceded him to rouse the Prince.
Filippo Maria sat up in bed, blinking in the candlelight, at that tall, swaying figure that was almost entirely clothed in mud.
'Is that you, Lord Bellarion? You will have heard that Facino is dead—God rest his soul!'
A harsh, croaking voice made him answer! 'Aye, and avenged, Lord Duke.'
A quiver crossed the pale fat face under its sleek black cap of hair. The coarse lips parted. 'Lord ... Lord Duke ... you said?' The high-pitched voice was awe-stricken.
'Your brother Gian Maria is dead, my lord, and you are Duke of Milan.'
'Duke of Milan? I am ...?' The grotesque young face showed bewilderment, confusion, fear. 'And Gian Maria ... Dead, do you say?'
Bellarion did not mince matters. 'He was despatched to hell this morning by some gentlemen in Milan.'
'Jesus-Mary!' croaked the Prince, and fell to trembling. 'Murdered ... And you ...?' He heaved himself higher in the bed with one arm, whilst he flung out the other in accusation. He did not love his brother. He profited greatly by his death. But a Visconti does not permit that others shall lay hands on a Visconti.
Bellarion laughed oddly. He had been forestalled. Perhaps it was as well. No need now to speak of his intentions.