Either side the massive entrance lay houses, low, of gray stone, enclosed in square courtyards, entered by doors deep set in the thick walls.
From one of these, as Tisio turned, a girl emerged in a scarlet robe. She carried a bunch of lilies, on her arm hung the basket that betokened her errand. She and the little group of horsemen were the only life in the silent, sunny street. Tisio's eyes lit upon her, and he smiled. Like all the Visconti, there was poetry mingled with his madness, and the sight of beauty touched even his crazy brain.
The girl, starting when she saw the horsemen, paused, as if to retire, her hand on the door, her brilliant robe gorgeous against the background of gray wall. The color, and the sunshine falling over her golden hair, made a picture Tisio was not slow to see; his eyes fixed upon her eagerly; he drew up his horse and turned to the page who, spy and attendant in one, invariably accompanied him.
"I would speak to her," he said, with the eagerness of a child.
The girl, seeing she attracted notice, turned, frightened and confused, to make good her escape, but the page, riding up, stopped her authoritatively, but with a reassuring smile.
"'Tis the Lord Tisio Visconti, lady; fear nothing; he would only speak with thee," he said.
But the girl's alarm increased at the mention of that dreaded name.
"He mistakes me for another, sir," she said. "I have never so much as seen even the Duke himself."
"My lord would speak with thee," repeated the page. "He is not the Duke, but it is the Duke's pleasure that he be obeyed in matters such as this. Come, maiden, there is no need to fear: it is an honor."
He turned his rein again, and, indeed, not daring to refuse, the girl followed and stood timidly by Tisio's side. He looked at her long and eagerly, at her scarlet dress, her sunny hair, the white and green lilies in her hands. Still he did not speak, and she raised her head and looked around questioningly and fearful. But the page only smiled: the men-at-arms sat silent and indifferent.
"Thou art very beautiful," said Tisio at last. "What is thy name? Whose daughter art thou?"
"Graziosa Vistarnini, my lord; Agnolo Vistarnini is my father. He is a painter."
But Tisio's eyes grew vacant, and his gaze wandered to the lilies.
