"I am of Firmola," said Antonio, flushing red. "And while there was war, I might in all honour have played another trick, and carried you not hither, but to Firmola."
"I care not," cried the Prince angrily. "It was a trick, and no fair fighting."
"Be it as you will, my lord," said Antonio. "A man's own conscience is his only judge. Will you draw your sword, my lord?"
But the Prince was very angry, and he answered roughly, "I will not fight with you, and I will not speak more with you. I will go."
"I will lead Your Highness to your horse," said Antonio.
Then he led him some hundreds of paces down the hill, and they came where a fine horse stood ready saddled.
"It is not my horse," said the Prince.
"Be not afraid, my lord. It is not mine either," said Antonio smiling. "A rogue who serves me, and is called Bena, forgot his manners so far as to steal it from the quarters of the Duke. I pray you use some opportunity of sending it back to him, or I shall be dubbed horse-stealer with the rest."
"I am glad it is not yours," said the Prince, and he prepared to mount, Antonio holding the stirrup for him. And when he was mounted, Antonio told him how to ride, so that he should come safely to his own men, and avoid certain scouting parties of the Duke that he had thrown out behind him as he marched back to Firmola. And having done this, Antonio stood back and bared his head and bowed.
"And where is your horse?" asked the Prince suddenly.