Marjorie Bowen

“ Valentine fell to weeping.
"What has become of him?" she sobbed, "the only human being who ever turned to me in pity. The only one who ever cared for me. What has become of him?"
"What becomes of a fool when he crosses the path of a Visconti?" asked her brother calmly.
Valentine lifted her head.
"He is dead, then?" she said.
"It matters not to thee. Thy husband will be the Duke of Orleans, and thou art a prisoner in the palace till he takes thee from it."
She caught at the arras; Visconti left her, and reached the door, his figure a shadow among the shadows. ”

“ Her anger rose the more as she felt her helplessness.
"I will not marry the Duke!" she cried, "I will not walk up to the altar."
"Thou canst be carried," said Visconti.
She moved up and down, twisting her hands in an agony of impotence.
"I will appeal to the Duke of Orleans himself!" she cried.
"A bridegroom who is bought for a hundred thousand florins!" sneered her brother. "And how will thy appeal reach him? Come, my sister, be calm; the Duke will make as good a husband as Count Conrad. Bethink thyself, thou mayst live to be crowned Queen of France. ”

“ From domed ceiling to paneled floor the walls were carved with men, women, saints, martyrs, flowers and birds wrought together, in simple-minded joyousness of design, executed with the delicate workmanship of Niccolo Pisano's school. ”