fortifications, Quadrilateral, Ehrenbretstein, Gibraltar, and the modern warrior, so skilful with flashing sabre on occasion, wielded only his cane or umbrella of a summer holiday on Como.

XII

A SPORTSMAN OF THE MIDDLE AGES

HE rise of the Visconti to sovereign. power in the thirteenth century furnished a phase of surpassing richness

T

in the development of civilisation. Splendour, tyranny, cruelty, and deadly treachery were combined in these princes in a manner quite unparalleled in European history. Como was ever at the mercy of the despots, with other

towns.

Auda

Bernarbò Visconti, born in 1319, stepped upon the scene as master of Bergamo, Brescia, Crema, and Cremona, one of the three nephews who succeeded Giovanni, Archbishop of Milan. cious and brutal, Bernarbò was excommunicated by the Pope Urban V., who preached a crusade against him, and sought to crush the culprit by

means of the Emperor Charles IV. He was a keen sportsman, and fond of tracking the wild boar with dogs. He was severe with all poachers on his preserves, and is accused of having them tortured, burned, or slain. He had the Abbot of St. Barnaba hung for taking hares. His enemies stigmatised him as a Nero, or a Caligula. That he was by no means as evil a character as depicted is revealed in the quaint Dialogue of the Chronicle of Azario.

Bernarbò sojourned at Marignano. He hunted in the surrounding woods on horseback, and alone. The day was cold, the hour advanced, and he lost his road. He descried a poor peasant cutting wood.

Bernarbò. The heavens help you, worthy man.

Peasant. I have need of it. In this cold I can do little. The summer was bad; let us hope the winter may be better.

The hunter alighted from his horse. The Dialogue continues thus:

"Friend, you say the summer has been bad. How is that? The harvest has yielded abun

dantly in grain, and the vintage been good. What has gone wrong?"

Peasant. Oh, we have anew the devil for our master. One hoped that when Signor Bruzio Visconti departed the devil was dead, but we have another master still worse. He takes the bread from our mouths. We poor natives of Lodi work like dogs, and only for his profit.

Bernarbò. Certainly your master does wrong. ... I pray you, friend, guide me out of this wood. It is late; night is near, and I think you, also, have no time to lose, if you seek to return to your own house.

Peasant. Oh, I am in no haste to regain my home. I have left my wife and children in the house with little bread.

Bernarbò. Well, conduct me out of this thicket, and you shall earn something for your trouble.

Peasant. You only seek to turn me from my labour. Perhaps you are an infernal spirit. Cavaliers do not come to this wood. Or, if it please you, pay me first, and I will guide you where you wish.

Bernarbò. What do you demand?

Peasant. A grosso (three pence) of Milan. Bernarbò. Once clear of this wood you shall

have the grosso, and even more.

Peasant. Oh, yes, to-morrow.

You are on

horseback, and outside the wood you will gallop off, while I remain planted here like a cabbage. Thus do the retainers of our diabolical lord.

Bernarbò. Friend, why will you not believe in my good faith? Here is a pledge.

He gave him the silver buckle of his belt. The contadino hid the gift in the bosom of his shirt, and led the way out of the wood, but, very weary, he walked slowly.

Bernarbò. Good man, mount behind me. Peasant. Do you think your horse can carry two? You are so stout.

Bernarbò. Oh, very well. The horse will carry both of us, and more, especially as, from what you say, you have not dined heavily.

Peasant. You speak the truth.

They traversed the wood.

Bernarbò. Friend, you have given me only