When the grooms reached him, they found themselves intrepidly confronted by one who proclaimed himself Facino's son, and bade them sternly have a care how they dealt with him. But if he had proclaimed himself son of the Pope of Rome it would not have moved these brutish oafs, who knew no orders but Squarcia's and whose intelligence was no higher than that of the dogs they tended. With a thong of leather they attached his right wrist to a stirrup, and compelled him, raging inwardly, to trot with them. He neither struggled nor protested, realising the futility of both at present. At one part of the ford the water rose to his thighs, whilst the splashing of the horses about him added to his discomfort. But though soaked in blood and water, he still carried himself proudly when he came to stand before the young Duke. Bellarion beheld a man of revolting aspect. His face was almost embryonic, the face of a man prematurely born whose features in growing had preserved their half-modelled shape. A bridgeless nose broad as a negro's splayed across his fresh-complexioned face, immediately above the enormous purple lips of his shapeless mouth. Round, pale-coloured eyes bulged on the very surface of his face; his brow was sloping and shallow and his chin receded. From his handsome father he inherited only the red-gold hair that had distinguished Gian Galeazzo. Bellarion stared at him, fascinated by that unsurpassable ugliness, and, meeting the stare, a frown descended between the thick sandy eyebrows. 'Here's an insolent rogue! Do you know who I am?' 'I am supposing you to be the Duke of Milan,' said Bellarion, in a tone that was dangerously near contempt. 'Ah! You are supposing it? You shall have assurance of it before we are done with each other. Did you know it when you slew my dogs?' 'Less than ever when I perceived that you hunted with them deliberately.' 'Why so?' 'Could I suspect that a prince should so hunt a human quarry?' 'Why, you bold dog ...' 'Your highness knows my name!' 'Your name, oaf? What name?' 'What your highness called me. Cane.' Thus again, with more effectiveness than truth, did he introduce the identity that had served so well before. 'I am Bellarion Cane, Facino Cane's son.' It was an announcement that produced a stir in that odd company. A handsome, vigorous young man in mulberry velvet, who carried a hooded falcon perched on his left wrist, pushed forward on his tall black horse to survey this blood-smeared ragamuffin with fresh interest. The Duke turned to him. 'You hear what he says, Francesco?' 'Aye, but I never heard that Facino had a son.' 'Oh, some by-blow, maybe. No matter.' A deepening malice entered his evil countenance, the mere fact of Bellarion's parentage would give an added zest to his maltreatment. For deep down in his dark soul Gian Maria Visconti bore no love to the great soldier who dominated him. 'We'll rid Facino of the inconvenient incubus. Fall back there, you others. Line the bank.'