Marco Visconti - chapter XXVIII

by Tommaso Grossi

revised, edited and reworked by Gianfranco Maitilasso Grossi

A PERILOUS JOURNEY

While in this state, he dreamed he was at Lucca, in a richly furnished chamber, in the company of Marco Visconti.
But the Marco before him had a vacant face and glassy, staring eyes.
Lupo spoke to him, yet received no answer. He held out Ermelinda’s letter, but no hand was stretched forth to take it.

Then—what strange change was this?
The hangings, gilding, and ornaments of the room vanished; the walls grew bare, dark, and rough, closing in upon him.
The gilded ceiling turned into a heavy, black vault; the pavement became a heap of filth.

A confused murmur of whispering voices reached his ear, and a sudden light flashed across his closed eyes.
He tried to rise—to speak—to draw his dagger—but could not move a step. His voice was choked, his arms fell powerless at his side.

He remained thus for a few moments, until, awakening, he felt his throat gripped tight and a heavy weight pressing on his chest.
He struggled—and opening his eyes, found it was no dream.
The two ruffians of the previous evening were leaning over him: one throttling his neck, the other striking at him with a dagger.
Behind them stood the host, lantern in hand, shouting:
“Hold him fast—don’t let him rise! And you, Passerino, strike hard—run him through the heart!”

“He’s wearing armor under his doublet—the blade won’t pierce!” cried the assassin.

“Then let me finish him!” roared the landlord. “Hold him down, both of you!”
And laying down his lantern, he ran to fetch the iron bar from the door.