Graziosa Vistarnini, the saviour of Milan, and the Duke’s betrothed, was lodged with regal state in the magnificent new tower that stood in the grounds of the Visconti palace. Visconti could be liberal to a fault where it suited his vanity or his purpose, and Graziosa’s new residence was decorated with a lavishness that made the French stare.

For not only had she saved Milan, but she had done it solely for love of him, and it gratified Visconti’s pride as much as it pleased his ambition. Save for this girl he had been now even as had been della Scala, and Milan humbled as Verona. She had been the means of his once more outwitting a foe; she had assured his safety and the safety of his city; and Visconti’s proud gratitude showed in the state and splendour with which he surrounded his chosen wife.

This glorious summer morning she was seated on the side terrace that surrounded the tower, a terrace of black marble and alabaster, the delicate balustrade smothered in lemon and myrtle trees and clusters of white roses.

Graziosa was in the midst of a brilliant company; the best-born dames in Italy were among her women, and more knights and pages composed her train than had ever waited on Visconti’s sister.

Beneath them the garden, reached by a shallow flight of steps, spread in perfect loveliness to the palace, above whose pink brick walls and rugged grey fortifications floated the banner of the Viper.

The air was golden with the brightness of the sun, there was not a cloud in the purple sky, and Graziosa’s heart was singing in pure happiness.

She rose from her chair impulsively, and walked to the edge of the terrace, leaning over the balustrade, the ladies behind her.

”Tis sad to think there should be fighting on such a day as this,’ said one, handing Graziosa her fan. ‘God grant it may soon be peace!’

‘God grant it!’ repeated the painter’s daughter fervently. ‘They say the Veronese cannot hold out much longer,’ said another. ‘This very morn there was news. Bassano has fallen —’ Graziosa picked a cluster of roses and buried her face in them.

‘How beautiful they are!’ she said. ‘See, they have little hearts all gold, never showing till they die; a pretty fancy, is it not?’ And she stroked them tenderly.

‘Bassano has fallen?’ she repeated idly.

‘Yes, and ’tis said they cannot fail in getting Reggio.’

‘Then my lord’s arms are everywhere victorious!’ cried Graziosa with sparkling eyes.

‘As ever, lady,’ was the answer.

‘And we can hope for peace,’ continued Graziosa softly.

‘And when peace is proclaimed you will be Duchess — almost Queen — of Lombardy, Gian Visconti’s wife!’

There was a note of envy in the speaker’s voice at such a splendid destiny, but Graziosa did not notice it. She even shuddered faintly at Visconti’s name; it had been associated with awe and terror too long for her to be able easily to shake the fear away.

‘Meanwhile, the sun is shining hot, lady,’ said a third attendant. Will you not come into the shelter?’

Graziosa moved away; the white roses at her bosom were not more pure than her face. Two pages lifted her rich train, and as she crossed the terrace a third came and spoke to her on bended knee.

‘My Lord Giannotto awaits your pleasure, lady.’

‘Tell him I am here,’ and the colour rose in Graziosa’s face at so much honour.

She turned to the steps where Giannotto waited, cap in hand, and advanced toward him.

‘Lady,’ said the secretary, bowing low, ‘my lord sent me to say he will wait on you himself; and meanwhile, if you have any commands —’

Graziosa interrupted him.

‘Indeed, my lord is too good; what commands should I have? Tell him so, with my deepest thanks, sir.’

Giannotto looked at her curiously, with a mixture of pity and wonder.

‘He comes himself, lady, to hear your thanks, and learn your will.’

And he stepped aside, joining the group that had been gathered about Graziosa.

Gian Visconti was coming through the garden, a grave-looking man by his side, a white hound at his heels, and two boys following, one bearing a wooden case, the other carrying a roll of drawings.

Visconti was talking to his companion; he was in the best of humours, at the height of triumph and success, his enemies well under his heel, his ambitions on the point of being gratified.

Graziosa came to the head of the steps, and Visconti took his gold cap off and waved it, coming up them gaily.

She stood silent in the glory of the sunshine and held out her hands, and he kissed them, and looked at her and laughed pleasantly.

‘Now art thou happy, donna mia?’ he said. ‘Hast thou all that thou couldst wish?’

‘More than I ever dreamed of, my lord,’ she answered softly. ‘I did not know the world could be so beautiful — or so happy.’ ”Tis but a small return, Graziosa, my beloved, for what thou hast done for me,’ returned Visconti. ‘And I will make it more — this is but an earnest of the future. Visconti’s wife shall live in such splendour that men shall not see her for its dazzle.’

What am I, that thou shouldst give me so much joy!’ cried Graziosa, with swimming eyes.

Visconti smiled.

‘Thou art thyself — it is enough!’

He turned to his companion, who stood respectfully at some little distance.

‘Come hither, Messer Gambera. Here is a lady who shall often pray within your church — my betrothed, who saved us Milan.’

Messer Gambera bowed low, and kissed the hem of her gown.

Visconti watched his homage with pleased pride, arid turned again to Graziosa.

‘Now I have somewhat to show thee. This is the architect of my new church, which shall be the wonder of Italy. Follow me, messer.’ And he led the way into the entrance hall.

It was low and wide, the walls covered with frescoes, the floor red sandstone, the windows opening on to the terrace.

In the middle stood a gilt stucco table, and to this Visconti drew a chair and bade Graziosa seat herself.

‘Here is what I will make of Milan, sweet, when the war is ended!’ he said, as the architect unrolled and arranged his drawings.

‘And will that be soon?’ she asked, looking up at him.

‘Aye, I hope so,’ laughed the Duke. ‘Mastino della Scala grows weaker day by day — I have Bassano, and shall have Reggio. He has lost his wits as well as his fortresses,’ for he bids me to a single combat: all to stand or fall by our own swords. He has his answer, and I have his wife. Now, look at these, Graziosa —’ and he took the drawings from the architect and spread them on the table.

‘My new church,’ he said. ‘The plans, my well-beloved.’ And he looked eagerly at Graziosa.

‘Indeed, my lord, I do not understand them — it is no church, surely?’ And she raised a sweet, bewildered face.

”Tis the plan of one. Messer Gambera will explain it,’ and he motioned eagerly to the architect. ‘Here, messer, this is the porch?’ and he laid his finger on the drawing, absorbed in contemplation.

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Set on three steps?’

”Tis so, my lord.’

‘I do not care for that, messer, and I will have more carving — would you not, Graziosa?’

‘You must not ask me; indeed I do not know,’ she smiled.

Visconti’s face for an instant darkened. ‘You must learn,’ he said. ‘My duchess must know architecture. Take away the plans, messer; I will look at them alone.’

‘Perchance the lady might care for the model, my lord?’ returned the architect. He spoke bad Italian, and was shaking with nervousness.

‘Bring the model,’ replied Visconti, and the page placed the box upon the table.

Messer Gambera touched a spring and it flew apart, showing an exquisite little model of white marble, some twelve inches high.

‘Oh! it is beautiful!’ said Graziosa, and Visconti looked at her with sparkling eyes.

‘You think so? Yes, it will be beautiful — the church of all Lombardy.’

‘It will be like this, of marble?’ she asked, breathless.

‘Every inch — from the porch to the pinnacles, and the floor shall be precious mosaic, and the altars crystal and serpentine, jasper and amethyst; men shall spend their lives in carving one pillar, and the price of cities shall pay for the gold that shall be lavished on it. Not in our life will this be done, nor in the lives of those that reign after us — or even them that follow, but finished it shall be, and one of the wonders of the world — and I shall be remembered as he who planned it — to the glory of God and the house of Visconti!’

He turned with shining eyes to the architect, who gazed on him with admiration, with a face that reflected the speaker’s own fervour.

‘Yes, mine will be the glory, though I shall never see the pinnacles kiss the sky, or hear the Mass beneath that marble roof — mine will be the glory — even though I am not buried there, it will be my monument to all eternity!’

Graziosa gazed at him in silence: she could not understand. Gian glanced down at her with a smile.

‘Would it not be a worthy tomb, even for a king, Graziosa?’

‘For an emperor — but we will not talk of tombs, my lord,’ she answered, ‘but of pleasant things, and — and — ............