Fully aware of his power over refractory horses, he boldly entered the ring and walked quietly towards the snorting, foaming steed. Driving the animal back, and following him, he watched his opportunity, and as Satan turned, reached his side and boldly seized his nostrils firmly with his hand. Satan plunged more and more furiously, but the smith’s son held him as firmly as if in a vise, breathed into his nostrils, and stroked his head and muzzle, whispering soothing words. The animal gradually became quieter, tried once more to release himself from his tamer’s iron hand, and when he again failed, began to tremble and meekly stood still with his fore legs stretched far apart. “Bravo! Bravamente!” cried the duchess, and praise from such lips intoxicated Ulrich. The impulse to make a display, inherited from his mother, urged him to take still greater risks. Carefully winding his left hand in the stallion’s mane, he released his nostrils and swung himself on his back. Taken by surprise Satan tried to rid himself of his burden, but the rider sat firm, leaned far over the steed’s neck, stroked--his head again, pressed his flanks and, after the lapse of a few minutes, guided him merely by the pressure of his thighs first at a walk, then at a trot over the track. At last springing off, he patted Satan, who pranced peacefully beside him, and led him by the bridle to Don Juan. The latter measured the tall, brave fellow with a hasty glance, and turning, half to him, half to Alexander Farnese, said: “An enviable trick, and admirable performance, by my love!” Then he approached the stallion, stroked and patted his shining neck, and continued: “I thank you, young man. You have saved my best horse. But for you I should have stabbed him. You are an artist?” “At your service, Your Highness.” “Your art is beautiful, and you alone know how it suits you. But much honor, perhaps also wealth and fame, can be gained among my troopers. Will you enlist?” “No, Your Highness,” replied Ulrich, with a low bow. “If I were not an artist, I should like best to be a soldier; but I cannot give up my art.” “Right, right! Yet... do you think your cure of Satan will be lasting; or will the dance begin again to-morrow?” “Perhaps so; but grant me a week, Your Highness, and the swarthy fellows can easily manage him. An hour’s training like this every morning, and the work will be accomplished. Satan will scarcely be transformed into an angel, but probably will become a perfectly steady horse.” “If you succeed,” replied Don Juan, joyously, “you will greatly oblige me. Come to me next week. If you bring good tidings... consider meantime, how I can serve you.” Ulrich did not need to consider long. A week would pass swiftly, and then--then the king’s brother should send him to Italy. Even his enemies knew that he was liberal and magnanimous.