"What do you mean?" faltered Graziosa, with a pang of something like envy, as she noticed the grace and dignity of Valentine's bearing, and the superb carriage of her queenly head.
Valentine shrugged her white shoulders and laughed bitterly.
"Many things--among them this--get yourself a better tirewoman and you will keep Visconti longer--learn a little spirit and you will keep him longer still."
Graziosa glanced down at her dress, the richer of the two, but worn with no such grace.
"'Tis no question of my dress, lady," she answered, with some dignity--"nor of beauty--but of love alone."
Valentine looked at her curiously, scornfully. They were passing between rich bushes of roses and lilies, the air was heavy with scent, and from the ladies following came gentle laughter.
"You think he loves you?" asked Valentine.
Valentine smiled and looked away. The smile and glance stung Visconti's betrothed like a whip-stroke.
"What do you mean?" she cried. "You insult me--you insult him!"
"Do you know Gian Visconti so very well?" asked his sister. "Have you seen him torturing his prisoners with the slow torture of the mind--worse than any rack? Have you seen him lying and betraying, stealing and murdering?"
Graziosa looked at her wildly; she looked strangely like her brother could look, her voice was very like his.
"You know how his father died? How his mother's heart was broken?"
"I know you never raised a hand to save them--I know I love him!" cried Graziosa.
"Doubtless," smiled Valentine with scorn. "But does he love you? Why, he is so stained with crime I do not care to touch his hand. Would such a man love--you?"
"Some tales I have heard, but now I know them false," said Graziosa, white and trembling. "And I will hear no more."
"She thinks he loves her!" murmured Valentine. "She thinks Gian Visconti loves her!"
Graziosa was as near hate as was possible for her; her heart was too full for a reply, she called to her ladies and turned away. But Valentine followed, and laid her hand on her shoulder with what seemed a loving gesture.
"Tell Gian what I have said," she whispered. "It will be an office to suit you, traitress!" and with a smile she turned away.
Graziosa walked slowly toward her tower; somehow the garden had grown dim, the sky was not so bright, the sun so brilliant; she was looking at them through a veil of tears, unshed and bitter.