The day was wearing into evening when Conrad gave a last look in the little polished mirror hanging on the tapestried walls of his tent, and prepared to set out on a tour of inspection, including a visit to Carrara, who in this moment's interval, he thought, could not have gone astray.
Della Scala had been gone four hours or more, but to the light-hearted German it seemed he had only an instant ago turned from his tent.
He had employed the time in writing some verses (in imitation of the fashionable Petrarch, a production with which he was perfectly satisfied, and put aside to be fair copied by some one, a better adept in spelling than himself), in teaching Vittore to dance, and in changing his doublet.
Count Conrad was very careful of his doublets. He had a great many, and kept them carefully locked in the large coffer that stood at the head of his tent bed.
The one he donned to-day was elegant in the extreme; peacock purple over an under garment of rose, curiously slashed with cream. Vittore, who had become his page, was silent at the magnificence.
Conrad sighed as he smoothed the ruffles at his wrists to think that it might not be the latest mode. He felt far from civilization, though only twice seven miles outside Milan, and secretly regretted that Valentine Visconti had ever dazzled him into the imprudence of losing her brother's favor and with it the joys of a splendid court. Still he had exquisite leathern shoes with points a yard long, caught up and fastened by a chain to his knee; also a cap, garnished with a ruby and a curling feather, and, taking it from Vittore, he stepped out to begin his espionage of Carrara.
"Vittore, follow me," he said. "I have it in trust to see this black-browed duke gets into no mischief. Also," he continued, "'tis in my mind to find Vincenzo. Della Scala was severe this noon. I fear me the boy has gone to practice sword-play."
The camp was quiet and tranquil. It struck Conrad, however, that many of Carrara's men were engaged with their horses and in packing the wagons; but carried on so openly, in broad daylight, it aroused no suspicions on the part of the easy Von Schulembourg, who made toward Carrara's tent, singing gayly.
The air was heavy, the sky black about the horizon.