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قراءة كتاب The Viper of Milan A Romance of Lombardy

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‏اللغة: English
The Viper of Milan
A Romance of Lombardy

The Viper of Milan A Romance of Lombardy

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
الصفحة رقم: 9

at a tapestry frame with her back to the door, but at Visconti's entrance she rose, as at something expected, and sank in a deep obeisance.

Gian Maria closed the door behind him.

"How is she?" he said. "How does she bear her change of prison?"

The old woman glanced toward an inner door, massive and iron-clamped.

"When I am with her, my lord, she sits in silence, her eyes forever on her missal; indeed she has not spoken since we brought her here; but when she is alone, she weeps. I have heard her through the door; she weeps passionately, and calls wildly upon her husband to save her."

"I would I had him, to stand him gagged against the door to hear her," said the Duke.

"By the look of her she will die of it," continued the old woman. "But if I know anything of prisoners, and I have seen a few, thou wilt never break her spirit, my lord."

"She must be more humbled now," he said to himself. "She must turn and implore me for pity."

The huge door creaked and swung on its hinges, and he stood at the top of two low stone steps, looking down into Isotta's prison. It was little better than a dungeon of stone, lofty but dark, with one window deep set, high out of reach, and thickly barred. The walls were hung with faded tapestry, the gloomy, sad-looking folds drooping like torn, captured standards. A huge chest of somber blackness leaned against the wall; above it hung a horn lantern, which after dark gave all the light that was obtained. For the rest, a few high-backed chairs stood stiffly about the room. In his black dress Visconti, pausing at the head of the steps, seemed part of its gloom. His wide-open gray eyes looked straight across at the solitary occupant.

Isotta sat in one of the huge black chairs, her delicate hands resting on the faded crimson velvet of the arms, her feet on a wooden footstool. She was of a fair and noble appearance, but her face was marred by sorrow and her eyes red from many tears. Her pale yellow hair was drawn away under a white veil. Her long gray dress clung close about her slender figure. On her knee rested a little book, and on this she kept her eyes. Not by so much as a flutter of her hand did she show she knew of the Visconti's presence.

He waited, raging inwardly, but words would not come easily to break that silence. At last he slowly descended into the room, his eyes still on her face.

She never stirred, nor raised her own. With his noiseless tread, Visconti paced around the chamber, raising the arras, and testing with his dagger every block of stone. It was a superfluous precaution; any attempt to escape would have been simple madness, and Isotta d'Este was not likely to give way to frenzy. Still it was joy to be sure and doubly sure that she was safe. Every inch was inspected, every crevice searched. Meanwhile from time to time he observed her keenly. But she seemed not to know her solitude was broken, save that once, when he passed her, she swept in the train of her gown, as she might have done had a leper come too near. A simple thing, but it goaded him, and for a moment she was near her death; rage almost overcoming prudence. But as he stood behind her chair, half-inclined to strike, he noticed on her hand a ring. His expression changed; he smiled; his hand dropped down. The ring was of pearl, cut with the arms of Della Scala, and worn on the third finger of her left hand; her wedding ring.

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