I. GIAN GALEAZZO MARIA VISCONTI 3

II. “FRANCISCO” 15

III. THE HOSTAGE OF THE ESTES 25

IV. VALENTINE 35

V. THE PAINTER’S DAUGHTER 39

VI. THE RESCUE OF COUNT VON SCHULEMBOURG 51

VII. “GRAZIOSA’S BRACELET” 58

VIII. FOR A LADY’S GIFT 75

IX. THE RETURN OF THE DEAD 88

X. THE TURQUOISE GLOVES 99

XI. MASTINO DELLA SCALA 111

XII. GRAZIOSA’S LOVER 120

XIII. VALENTINE VISCONTI’S TOAST 133

XIV. THE TUMULT AT THE WESTERN GATE 144

XV. A PRISONER FROM MILAN 157

XVI. FOR A GAME OF CHESS 165

XVII. THE TERRORS OF THE NIGHT 172

XVIII. GIACOMO CARRARA’S REWARD 184

XIX. A SIGN FROM HEAVEN 190

XX. IN THE DUKE’S ABSENCE 199

XXI. THE DUKE’S RETURN 214

XXII. THE SECRET PASSAGE 226

XXIII. FOR LOVE OF AMBROGIO 231

XXIV. TREACHERY 238

XXV. IN CLOTH OF GOLD 243

XXVI. IN VISCONTI’S HANDS 255

XXVII. UNEQUAL ODDS 267

XXVIII. THE VIPER 272

XXIX. THE ORDEAL OF MASTINO DELLA SCALA 287

XXX. THE WEDDING 303

XXXI. THE PRIDE OF THE D’ESTES 314

XXXII. THE PRICE OF DISHONOR 327

XXXIII. THE STORM 334

XXXIV. AN INSTRUMENT OF GOD 344

The Viper of Milan

CHAPTER ONE

GIAN GALEAZZO MARIA VISCONTI

It is a day in early summer, as beautiful as such days were in the
Southern lands of 500 years ago. It is Italy steeped in golden sunlight
which lies like a haze over the spreading view; the year 1360, when
cities were beautiful and nature all-pervading. Here is Lombardy, spread
like a garden in the hollow of the hills, ringed about with the purple
Apennines, covered with flowers, white, yellow, purple, and pink. This
wide road, one of the finest in Italy, winds from Milan to Brescia, its
whole length through chestnut woods and plains covered with flowering
myrtle. Primroses in great clusters border its sides, and from the midst
of their delicate blooms spring the slender stems of poplar trees; these
are red-gold, bursting into bloom against a tender sky; tufts of young
green; clumps of wild violets.

But for all its unspoiled beauty, the road was one of common use, for
Milan was within hail. Villas, the summer dwellings of its wealthy
peers, stood back among the trees, surrounded by magnificent grounds.
Behind them beautiful open country spread into the blue distance,
fragrant and glorious with budding trees. And cold and magnificent the
great city itself, with its huge walls and gates, crowned and emphasized
the landscape’s beauty. The lines of hundreds of turrets and spires,
bold and delicate, leaped up against the sky. And paramount, catching
the eye with color, weighing on the mind with meaning, were the city’s
banners. They floated from the gates and the highest buildings, half a
score of them, all with the same device. Far off could that device be
read: a green Viper on a silver ground: the emblazonment of the
Visconti.

From afar the city was a vision of stately splendor, and the low
dwellings clustered round about her walls, in the shadow of the palaces,
appeared to the nearing traveler but a touch added of the picturesque. A
close survey, however, revealed semi-ruined huts; in their foul neglect
and unsightliness, a blot upon the scene. They were homes of peasants,
who, tattered and miserable, starved and unwashed, seemed their fitting
occupants. Here comes a band of them slowly dragging along the road
toward Milan, men, women, and children, leading a few rough-haired
mules, laden with scanty country produce. It was poor stuff, and a poor
living they made at it. The wealthy grew their own fruit and vegetables,
the poorer could not afford to buy. Crushed by hopeless oppression into
a perpetual dull acceptance, the crowd trudged along, with shuffling
feet and bent heads, unheeding the beauty and the sunshine, unnoticing
the glory of the spring, with dull faces from which all the soul had
been stamped out, and “fear” writ large across the blank. Every movement
showed them slaves, every line in their bent figures told they lived
under a rule of terror, too potent for them to dare even to raise their
eyes to question. A stream of gray and brown monotony along the glorious
road, decked with the fairest beauty of fair Italy, these miserable
peasants were strangely out of keeping, both with the radiant blossoming
country and the magnificent city they drew near.

Keeping close behind them walked a young man and a boy, better attired
than the others, yet travel-worn and weary-looking. The delicate cast of
their features bespoke them of another part of Italy, as did the soft
Latin tongue in which they held their whispering, excited conversation.
The elder, whom his companion called Tomaso, was a fair-haired youth of
about nineteen; the other, like enough to be a relative, a mere child of
ten or twelve. The sun was growing hot, and their stout cloaks of dull
red serge were flung back, showing their leathern doublets, to which the
elder boy wore attached a great pouch of undressed skin, which evidently
bore their day’s provisions.

Suddenly, when Milan, clear and gray, was distant barely half a mile,
the group of wretched figures was roused from its shuffling apathy: and
the terror latent in their aspect leaped into life and motion.