But on the outside of the crowd, Tomaso and Vittore, kneeling with the
rest, as that banner drew near, now stirred uneasily, and, as the coach
came abreast, the woman made a convulsive movement with her hands. The
elder sprang to his feet and stepped forward impulsively. At sight of
him in the roadway the horseman drew rein, and the terror-stricken crowd
watched breathless, while the youth advanced boldly to his stirrup, hot
words upon his lips, defiance in his eyes. The red-haired man at the
bridle crouched, but before the lad could speak, the rider, leaning
forward, struck him a blow full across the face.

There was no need for a second. With a scream of pain, Tomaso fell back,
and then, as if noticing them for the first time, the horseman sent his
glance on the crowd. No sound or movement: they cowered beneath his eyes
in deprecating silence.

“Drive on,” he said, and the dreary procession started again, winding
through the sun and shadow toward Brescia.

So great was the spell upon the peasants, that though the wounded boy
lay moaning in the road, not a man, scarce a child among them stirred
from his place till the banner of the Viper was a silver speck in the
distance.

Then with shaking hands the youth was dragged into the ditch amid a
babble of blame and fear. Vittore, rising from his stricken comrade,
gazed into the distance with horror-stricken eyes.

“Who was it?” he whispered at last to the woman near him. “Who was it?”

She turned a dull face up from the scattered vegetables she was
gathering together.

“Who art thou that thou knowest not?” she asked.

“I come from Florence,” said the lad quickly, “traveling to Verona.”

“To Verona! Thou art not on thy way to Verona here.”

“I know it, but the company we traveled with was bound for Milan. Three
days ago we missed them, and thought to find them in the city where we
looked to spend the night, but now—-“

He glanced at his companion and could scarce refrain from weeping.

“To Verona!” said an old peasant, turning sharply at the name. “To
Verona!”

The child dropped again to his knees beside Tomaso.

“Yes,” he said, over his shoulder. “My cousin–he is done to death, I
fear me–and I were traveling by way of Milan to Della Scala’s
court—-“

He broke off, and wrung his hands. “Oh, help me, some one; Tomaso is
dying!”

With a certain dull humanity, kindness it could scarcely be called that
was so inert and full of apathy, one or two of them gave what help they
could.

“Thou art from Florence!” said the old man again. “Aye, indeed, I _know_
thou art from Florence, for thy mate here to have had such daring. Why
camest thou from _Florence_ to anywhere by way of Milan?”

For even to the dull mind of the peasantry, Florence, who alone of the
cities of Italy had preserved her liberty, seemed a country of the free,
a republic of equality.

“Tomaso’s father sent for him to come to him in Della Scala’s court, and
as last year my father was slain in the wars with Venice, since then I
have resided with my cousin–and so accompany him–having naught else to
do!”

The boy looked up bewildered; he was half-dazed with this sudden
misfortune.

“We go to Verona!” he repeated. “We have food and a little money–if
only this had not happened!”

He turned to his prostrate cousin and burst into tears.

The woman looked at him with pity: the old peasant shrugged his
shoulders.

“Thy cousin was over-bold! As well face the evil one–” he mumbled and
crossed himself, “as step into the path of the–” he stopped abruptly
and cast uneasy glances around him.

“And that?” cried the boy, his tears arrested, “that man on horseback?”

“That was the Visconti! Aye! Gian Galeazzo Maria, Duke of Milan!”

The lad gazed down the road with interest and new terror.

“The Duke of Milan! He who lately warred with Florence!” he cried
breathlessly.

“Aye, and beat her!” There was a touch of pride in the answer, for the
peasant was of Milan. But the boy did not notice the remark, he was too
absorbed in terrified conjecture.

“And they in the carriage–?” he whispered.

A silence fell. The crowd shuffled away from him, and turned their faces
to the city. Used to scenes of horror as they were, the cavalcade that
had just passed them seemed, even to their half hearts, to have chilled
the sunlight with its terror.

A young woman suddenly snatched her child up from the ground and
strained it to her, in a passion of distress.

“Oh, Luigi, Luigi, my little child, it was his father and mother, his
father and mother!”

She grasped the old man’s arm. “Marked you how she looked at me?” she
cried.

The peasant checked her outbreak, but looked down the road with gloomy
eyes.

“They will never return from Brescia,” he said; “they must be near
seventy–old for such an end. However, hush thee, woman, ’tis no affair
of ours!” Several anxious voices echoed him.

“Why should we care!” said one, “’tis a Visconti the less to crush us.”

And Vittore saw the whole band turning off, pushing, driving, and urging
their beasts along. He dragged at his still senseless companion in a
sudden panic.

“Help me!” he said. “We would on; I dare not stay alone.”

The old man laughed harshly.

“Where will you on to? Are we to drag you into Milan to be whipped to
death for harboring you; and Verona is in the hands of the
Visconti–his last and greatest victory!”

“But my uncle–Della Scala’s court!” cried the boy distractedly. The old
man drew himself up in his rags and spoke with a mixture of pride and
awe.

“Mastino della Scala perished in the flames of his burning palace; his
wife is a prisoner, yonder in Milan, in the Visconti’s hands. Thou hast
not much to look for from Della Scala’s court,” he said.

“Hold thy peace! Hold thy peace!” cried angry voices. “What hast thou to
do with such as he?” and the old man, whose better intelligence made him
a source of danger to the others, was dragged away.