Swept back by the others, the two Florentines gazed in amazement to
learn the cause of this panic. In the distance, brilliant between the
dark stone of the gateway of the city, fluttered a banner, blazoned with
the same device as those that blew above the walls. The peasants’ eyes,
sharpened by fear, were quicker than Tomaso’s: it was some seconds
before he could discern that the banner fluttered from the canopy of a
splendid coach, magnificent in gold and scarlet, issuing from the somber
shadow into the sunshine of the road; and as it drew nearer, he looked
with pleasure not unmixed with wonder at the rich gildings, fine silk,
the beauty of the four black horses, the size and magnificent liveries
of the huge negroes who walked at their heads. To him it was an
interesting sight, an incident of his travels. But to the Milanese
peasants it was the symbol of the dread power that ruled Lombardy with a
grip of blood, the device that kept Milan, the wealthiest, proudest city
in the north, cringing in silent slavery; the banner that had waved from
city after city, added by force or treachery to the dominions of Milan;
the banner of Gian Galeazzo Maria Visconti, Duke.

With trembling hands and muttered threats to their slow beasts, the
hinds dragged their burdens to the roadside, forcing the children back
into the hedges; leaving clear the ways. Cowering and awestruck, in
fascinated expectation, they stared, toward that oncoming banner, and at
the horseman who rode behind.

Still at the same measured pace the coach advanced; a cumbrous
structure, swung high on massive gilded wheels, and open under an
embroidered canopy of scarlet silk. At the head of each black horse
walked a negro, richly dressed in scarlet and gold. The trappings of the
steeds were dazzling, in stamped leather and metal.

But this splendor of array the peasant folk of Lombardy were used to; it
was not that that made them crouch as if they would ask the earth to
hide them, shiver and shudder yet farther back as if the soft green bank
could save them.

In the coach sat two, a man and a woman, but both so old and shrivelled
that the distinguishing characteristics of their sex were well-nigh
lost. Both were richly clad in furs, and half-hidden in satin cushions,
nothing of the old man visible but his wrinkled face, gray beard, and,
loaded with rings, thin yellow hands, the fingers of which were
clutching nervously at his heavy silken robe. The woman, painted and
bedizened under a large red wig, weighed down by a gown of cloth of
gold, and with pearls around her neck, wrung her hands together, and
whispered incoherently below her breath. Both had sunk together among
the cushions in an attitude of despair, the man looking steadily in
front of him with white face, the woman casting terror-stricken eyes
over the wretched spectators in a mute appeal for help, if even from
them.

Behind them rode the single horseman who had struck the terror. His pace
was leisurely, his horse’s bridle held by a pale-faced man with long
red hair, of a stealthy bearing, crushed and mean-looking, but
resplendent in a jeweled dress. The rider himself, slight and handsome,
about thirty, plainly attired in green, gave, at a first glance, small
token of the spell he exercised. He rode with ease and surety: in one
hand a half-rolled parchment from which he read aloud in a soft voice,
in the other a long whip with which he flicked and teased the occupants
of the carriage.

The coach and its occupants, the solitary rider, and the red-haired man,
were the whole of the procession.

At the rider’s side hung a single dagger, the others were unarmed, yet
the crowd trembled under a spell of fear as if half Italy had backed
that man. No one gave sign of feeling, no one moved, though the wretched
couple looked around keenly and eagerly, with the helpless misery of
those who have fallen below everything save fear, and will stoop to ask
help of the lowest. And the Visconti banner floated out dreamily upon
the light spring breeze, and the rider rode at ease and read from the
parchment with a smiling face.

Suddenly the old man rose, and threw out his hands with a wild gesture
toward the crouching peasants. His frantic cry was stifled on his lips,
and a cut from the whip sent him back to his seat with a snarl of
impotent fury. The woman sobbed aloud, but sat still, for the tease of
the whip followed their slightest movements, though the horseman seemed
to heed nothing but the parchment from which he read.

“Beautiful the Tuscan flowers grew
Around the Florentine—-“

The soft lines died away on his smiling lips: he raised his eyes and
looked straight at the old man, who, at the words, had turned in his
seat and was gazing over his shoulder with an intensity of hate.

But on the pause there followed a cold laugh as the old man winced,
faltered, and dropped his eyes from that charmed and steady gaze. Again
the whip circled round them, and the calm voice continued:

“But straight and firm the poplars grew
The Lombard ranks between.”

The woman gazed around the crowd, desperate in hopeless misery. Hopeless
indeed. Not a finger was raised, not a word uttered, though, men alone,
they numbered more than fifty.

“Perchance thou wouldst not dare to turn
And draw the veil from off that face,
Fearing what secrets thou might’st learn
Both for thine own and her disgrace,”

read the horseman, and the cavalcade passed on its heavy way, and the
faint hope that had leaped to life within the wretched victims, at sight
of human eyes upon them, died within them.