Mastino della Scala was proving himself. He had come to within fifteen miles of Milan.

Verona was his again; that was in itself enough to justify his allies’ confidence.

Of them Julia Gonzaga’s force and Ippolito d’Este’s army lay at Brescia, ready at any moment to advance.

Della Scala’s position lay nearer Milan, and by far the larger half of his support was Carrara, Duke of Padua’s contingent, led by the Duke in person.

Between the two forces, a quarter of a mile outside della Scala’s camp, was the castle of Brescia, at one time an occasional residence of Barnabas, Visconti’s father, and now a gloomy fortress, with an evil reputation; for Barnabas, driven from Milan by his son, had died there — with his wife — of fever it was said. In a gorgeous tent in the midst of della Scala’s camp sat Conrad von Schulembourg and the younger d’Este.

It was the slumbrous hour after noon, the air heavy with an approaching storm, and Conrad lounged languidly on a low divan, playing with his dagger. The war, although success had fallen to his leader, had already begun to weary this indolent cavalier, and even the sight of Milan in the distance, where Valentine was imprisoned, could not keep him from whining at the hardness of his fate. A parchment lay near him on the seat, and from time to time he made some pretence of looking at it: pretence only.

In della Scala’s force Conrad held third command under the Duke of Padua, who was immediately under Mastino; but Conrad’s post was largely a sinecure, for though in the battle the Count’s gallant courage roused della Scala’s warmest praise, he recognized that his capacity for generalship was small.

None the less della Scala trusted him completely. His heart full of his one object, elated by his successes, eagerly keeping his allies together, della Scala had small leisure to notice Conrad’s stifled yawns when the council of war was held, or the fact that he gave more thought to playing cards and chess with Vincenzo than to the discipline and efficiency of the men under his orders. For the fiftieth time he put the parchment down and turned to Vincenzo, who lay along the floor, eating nuts and hurling the shells at the legs of the sentry visible through the flaps set wide back for coolness. To make the soldier jump at a telling shot was more just then to Vincenzo than the taking of Milan.

‘I would there were someone else to read these despatches,’ said Conrad. ‘I love not this part of soldiering. When, think you, will there be another city to be taken, Vincenzo?’

‘There was fighting yesterday outside Milan,’ returned the boy. ‘Thou shouldst have gone.’

‘I asked the Prince to let me, but as usual I was bade stay at my post.’ And Conrad rose with a sigh of outraged virtue and adjusted the points of his rose-coloured doublet.

‘Asked the Prince mocked Vincenzo; ‘thou shouldst have gone without asking him.’

‘A dash on the walls,’ said Conrad, ‘that is what we need, not this idleness and skirmishing. I long to grasp my sword and fly to my Lady Valentine’s rescue — but the Prince —’

‘Tell me not,’ said Vincenzo. ‘I know Mastino always counsels prudence, and I am weary of it.’

‘The Prince knows more of it than we, doubtless,’ admitted Conrad. ‘Nevertheless these parchments may wait while I have a game of chess with thee.’

‘May they, Count Conrad? And is chess thy notion truly?’ said Mastino’s voice without, and unannounced he entered the tent, followed by Tomaso’s father, Giorgio Ligozzi.

He was from head to foot in armour.

His eyes fell on Vincenzo, and his face darkened.

‘For shame, Vincenzo,’ he said with scorn. ‘Thou art no longer a child, to indulge in these page’s tricks, and must I marvel Count Conrad should allow thee such licence.’

Vincenzo rose sullenly.

‘Leave us,’ continued della Scala with angry eyes. ‘And learn from yonder soldiers to play the man, and wear a leathern jacket with more grace than a silken doublet. I am ashamed of thee, Vincenzo.’

D’Este’s beautiful face flushed crimson.

’Tis not always the leathern jacket comes out best at time of need, my lord,’ he said defiantly. ‘Try me in it in a fight.’ Della Scala’s glance softened; he laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder gently.

‘Thou art a d’Este and my brother, Vincenzo. I do not fear thy behaviour in battle, only learn the harder part — to beat thyself while waiting.’

Vincenzo was melted, but not caring to show it before Conrad, left the tent without reply.

‘He hath the makings of a soldier in him for all his wilfulness. I pray you pardon his present idleness, my lord, and hold me as the cause,’ said Conrad. ‘I should have roused him sooner.’

Mastino glanced around. It was the first time he had entered the German’s abode, and the lavishness of its appointments was not to his taste.

‘This is an hour of great need, Count,’ he said gravely. ‘The downfall of Visconti cannot mean to you what it does to me — it cannot mean so much to any man — but am I not right in thinking it means all to you to see the Lady Valentine Visconti free?’

‘All! All I care for under heaven. By all the saints, Prince, I will give my right arm to serve your cause, since it serves her,’ cried Conrad.

Della Scala’s brown eyes observed him keenly.

‘I will ask a service of you, Count,’ he said; ‘not thy right hand, nor any feat of knight-errantry, but something full as difficult to render.’

‘Even if it be living on roots in a dungeon, I will do it!’

And, excited at the thought of some adventure, Count Conrad waited expectantly, his hand upon his sword.

The Prince smiled sadly.

‘I fear it is a harder task than that, Count Conrad, and so distasteful that I would not burden you with it were there any other worthy to entrust with it,’ he said. ‘But all the men here are mercenaries — Captain Vanvitelli is a boor; Ligozzi goes with me to Brescia, whither I am instantly bound to confer with Ferrara.’

‘Prince, I am proud to execute your commands,’ interrupted Conrad eagerly.

Della Scala turned to Ligozzi, who stood silent behind him.