storm had gathered and burst; rain fell in great drops that did not allay the heat; the sky was covered with clouds that dragged across the moon in a slow procession, dark and mysterious.
In one or two tents, thrown open to catch the breeze that stirred the chestnuts, sat the little handful of soldiers left to Mastino. Rude and coarse, still were they awed, by the horror that had befallen, to a whispering quiet.
Like a patch of white showing dimly through the gloom, the curtains of a litter were to be seen. At thought of who sat within alone there in the rain and dark, the men shuddered and drew nearer together.
"The Prince?" one whispered.
"I have been to the tent, but further than the door I dare not."
"What was there to see?"
"The boy—alone, weeping like a woman. Santa Maria! I should not like the watch he keeps!"
"The Prince is mad, think you?"
"The Prince is mad, or—hush!—possessed."
The men fell again to a silence, broken only by the patter of the rain. At last another spoke, one drawn further back into the tent.
"How came it about, think you?"
"Visconti"
"Ah, yes, Visconti, of a surety; but how?"
"The wedding ring, Petio—it was handed to her as she entered the litter—it was poisoned! She put it on, poor soul—kissed it, no doubt:—well, it was poisoned, Petio!"
"And so she started alive, and now lies there dead—poor soul!"
The men muttered and crossed themselves; a few sat in moody thought.
"The sun—we need the sun," said one at last.
"And a little wind, not these stifling puffs—a little wind from heaven. 'Tis hot as hell!"
"Hush!"
How it rained! And a wind rose, but it scarcely seemed from heaven. The chestnuts moaned, tossing their branches.
"Hush!" said some one suddenly. "The dear Lord forgive my sins!—who comes?"
They heard a footstep; a hand was fumbling at the entrance of their tent.
"The Prince!"
And the next instant the men sprang to their feet in affright at what was before them, at the livid face looking at them—Mastino della Scala.
"My wife!" he cried hoarsely. "Give me my wife!"
They looked on one another, helpless, and made no answer. But Mastino, striding forward, seized the foremost by the throat and shook him like a rag.
"Where is she? What have you done with her? Is she not bought and paid for? Where is she?"
Tomaso sprang into the tent, a piteous young figure, wet to the skin.
"Oh, my lord!—I will take thee to her. Come away! Come with me!"
His voice broke into a passion of sobs, and Mastino dropped his hands and paused.
"Your lady lies still in her litter," said a soldier.
"Out yonder in the rain, you rascal!" cried Della Scala. "What is she doing there?"
He flung from the tent, and Tomaso after him, the bitter sobs catching at his throat.
"I cannot bear it," he cried. "It is doom itself. Oh, my master! my dear master!"
The soldiers crowded together and watched.
"Look!" gasped one, pointing through the dark. "He hath got her—he hath got her!"
And they huddled back, half falling over one another, as Mastino came into view—a slender thing in white and purple in his arms. Close by, he paused, and laid it tenderly across the saddle of his white horse, whinnying low and waiting.
"Jesu, protect us!" cried the men. "Where is he going?"
"Stop him! stop him!" shrieked Tomaso, running to them. "He goes to find—Visconti!"
"Then no one of us had best dare meddle," was the answer. "Keep away from him, boy; he is mad, possessed—maybe by the devil!"
"I care not!" cried Tomaso in an agony of sorrow. "He shall not ride so; he has no armor on—it will be to his death. He shall not go—my lord! my dear lord!"
He sprang forward to the white horse, which Mastino had mounted, and clung to the stirrup.
"Not to-night, my lord; wait till the morn—till the storm is over; thou art unarmed!"
Mastino drew Isotta close to him, till her head rested on his shoulder, and looked down wildly at Tomaso.
"Visconti lies outside Novara—I know the way!" he said.
"Take some of us with thee!" implored Tomaso. "Oh, my lord"
But Della Scala spurred the horse into a sudden leap, that threw Tomaso to the ground.
"I know the way!" he said.
The white horse plunged forward into the storm, and the dark closed round the rider and his burden.
For hours had Della Scala ridden with his wife across his horse and against his breast, but riding always toward Novara; and now he had ridden suddenly into a wild red glare that lit the sky.