'Not so fast, Squarcia! Body of God! Not so fast, I say. I am out of breath!'
There was no mistaking that strident voice. It was the Duke, himself, and close upon his heels came six armed lackeys to make a bodyguard.
Squarcia and his powerful hounds crossed the main street of the borgo, almost under the head of Facino's horse, the brawny huntsman panting and swearing as he went.
'I cannot hold them back, Lord Duke,' he answered. 'They're hot upon the scent, and strong as mules, devil take them!'
He vanished down the dark gulf of an alley. From the leader of the Duke's bodyguard came a challenge:
'Who goes there at this hour?'
Facino loosed a laugh that was full of bitterness.
'Facino Cane, Lord Duke, going to the wars.'
'It makes you laugh, eh?' The Duke approached him. He had missed the bitterness of the laughter, or else the meaning of that bitterness.
'Oh yes, it makes me laugh. I go to fight the battles of the Duke of Milan. It is my business and my pleasure. I leave you, Lord Duke, to yours.'