Bellarion's tale had gone no farther than the point at which he had set out from Cigliano on his journey to Pavia. Nor now, in answer to this question, did he mention his adventure in Montferrat and the use he had made there already of Facino's name, but came straight to the events of that day in the meadows by Abbiategrasso. To this part of his narrative, and particularly to that of Bellarion's immunity from the fierce dogs, Facino listened in incredulity, although it agreed with the tale he had already heard.
'What patron did you adopt to protect you there?' he asked, between seriousness and derision. 'Or did you use magic, as they say.'
'I answered the Duke on that score with more literal truth than he suspected when I told him that dog does not eat dog.'
'How? You pretend that the mere name of Cane ...?'
'Oh, no. I reeked, I stank of dog. The great hound I had ripped up when it was upon me had left me in that condition, and the other hounds scented nothing but dog in me. The explanation, my lord, lies between that and miracle.'
Facino slowly nodded. 'And you do not believe in miracles?' he asked.
'Your lordship's patience with me is the first miracle I have witnessed.'
'It is the miracle you hoped for when you adopted me for your father?'
'Nay, my lord. My hope was that you would never hear of the adoption.'
Facino laughed outright. 'You're a frank rogue,' said he, and heaved himself up. 'Yet it would have gone ill with you if I had not heard that a son had suddenly been given to me.' To Bellarion's amazement the great soldier came to set a hand upon his shoulder, the dark eyes, whose expression could change so swiftly from humour to melancholy, looked deeply into his own. 'Your attempt to save Pusterla's life without counting the risk to yourself was a gallant thing, for which I honour you, and for which you deserve well of me. And they are to make a monk of you, you say?'