Adrian bowed down to the earth.
“The son of Count Di Albarone,” said he, “feels highly honored by your condescension.”
“Well, now, sir, what have you to say?” exclaimed the Duke. “Speak, ignoble son of an honored sire—inglorious descendant of a noble line. Speak! What would you say?”
“Merely this, most gracious Duke,” answered Adrian, as he gazed sternly into the very eyes of the haughty prince, “merely this, that I have been doomed to death by thee and thy minions, in a manner that never was noble doomed before. Without form; on the proof of perjured caitiffs; without defence, have I been condemned for a crime, at the name of which hell itself would shudder.”
The Duke sneered, as he spoke:
“Surely, I cannot help it, and a brainless boy takes it into his head to poison his sire.”
“Pardon me, gracious Duke,” said Adrian, as by a sudden movement he grasped him by the throat, and at the same time seizing his cloak of scarlet and gold, he thrust it into his gaping mouth.
Closer and yet more close he wound his grasp, and, scarce able to breathe, much less to speak, the Duke of Florence stood without power or motion. Adrian coolly tripped up his heels, and then placing his knee upon his breast by a dexterous movement, he tore away the scarlet cloak, and then cautiously placing one hand over the mouth of the prince, he gathered some straw with the other, and forced it down his throat.
Then unbuckling his own belt of rough doe skin, he wound it around the neck and over the mouth of the Duke, and having fastened it as tightly as might be, he proceeded to tie his hands behind his back; the cord he used being nothing less than the chain of knighthood suspended from the neck of his grace.
You may be sure this was not accomplished without a struggle. The Duke writhed and wrestled, but to no purpose. He could not speak, and the knee of Adrian placed on his breast, laid him silent and motionless.