'Tornerà l'età dell' oro, Cantiam tutti: "Viva il Moro!"'
(The age of gold shall brighten as of yore, And all exulting sing, 'Long live the Moor.')
Around the chariot of the Golden Age the dancing was renewed, and though no one heeded him any longer, the unhappy golden child still sobbed out his piteous song:--
'Tornerà l'età dell' oro, Cantiam tutti: "Viva il Moro!"'
Beatrice was dancing with Gaspare Visconti. At times she laughed and sobbed hysterically, and her throat convulsively contracted. With unsupportable agony the blood throbbed at her temples, and a mist rolled before her eyes; yet her face was calm, and she even smiled.
At the dance's conclusion she again slipped unnoticed from the revelling crowd, and sought seclusion in her private apartments.
She went to the retired _Torre della Tesoreria_, where no one ever came save the Duke and herself. Taking the candle from Ricciardetto and bidding him await her at the entrance, she passed into a lofty hall, dark and cold as a cellar, sat down, drew forth the packet of letters and was about to read. But suddenly a strange and eerie gust of wind swept shrieking round the tower, howled in the chimney, invaded the room with an icy breath almost extinguishing the candle. There was a great hush; it seemed to her she could hear the distant music of the ball, the murmur of voices, the patter of dancing feet, the sound of iron fetters from the vaults below, where was the prison.
And at the same moment she felt a presence in the room with her: there, in the dark angle of the wall, with eyes fixed upon hers. An anguish of terror seized her soul. She felt she must not move, must not look. But it was unendurable, and she did look. He stood there, as once she had seen him before, a long, long, black figure, blacker than the investing darkness, his head bent, and shrouded in the cowl of a monk. She tried to scream, to call Ricciardetto, but her voice failed. She rose to flee and her legs refused to support her; she fell on her knees groaning:--
He raised his head slowly and threw back the cowl, and showed the visage of Gian Galeazzo Sforza, _the murdered duke_. The face had nothing in it corpse-like, nothing appalling, and he spoke gently and distinctly: