The Duke growled an order.
'Lay the rogue stark.'
Without waiting to untruss his points, two of the grooms ripped away his tunic, so that in a moment he was naked to the waist. Squarcia stood aloof, seeking to dissemble his superstitious awe, and expecting calamity or intervention at any moment.
The intervention came. Not only was it of a natural order, but it was precisely the intervention Squarcia should have been expecting, since it resulted from the message he had secretly carried.
The heavy studded door at the top of a flight of three stone steps swung slowly open behind the Duke, and a man of commanding aspect paused on the threshold. Although close upon fifty years of age, his moderately tall and vigorous, shapely frame, his tanned, shaven face, squarely cut with prominent bone structures, his lively, dark eyes, and his thick, fulvid hair, gave him the appearance of no more than forty. A gown of mulberry velvet edged with brown fur was loosely worn over a dress of great richness, a figured tunic of deep purple and gold with hose of the colour of wine.
A moment he stood at gaze, then spoke, in a pleasant, resonant voice, its tone faintly sardonic.
'Upon what beastliness is your highness now engaged?'
The Duke span round; the grooms stood arrested in their labours. The gentleman came sedately down the steps. 'Who bade you hither?' the Duke raged at him.
'The voice of duty. First there is my duty as your governor, to see that ...'
'My governor!' Sheer fury rang in the echoing words. 'My governor! You do not govern me, my lord, though you may govern Milan. And you govern that at my pleasure, you'll remember. I am the master here. It is I who am Duke. You'll be wise not to forget it.'