That he is. Henry doesn't have much incentive to reply back to a rhetorical statement except for a grin, eyes still trained on the terrifying scene ahead. He'd like to think himself a fast thinker, able to work with any given exciting situation to his advantage, but he's nowhere near as fast as Midnighter. Not that he could tell from here.

As Midnighter dodged to the left, Henry darts to the right with his blade poised behind him ready to strike should it need be, but it looks like his new war buddy has already gotten a good control of the situation. Might as well go along with it.

"Right, then—" and with no hesitation, he grasps around his wrist for a steady hold and quickly swings himself up over the wounded horse's backside. His free hand grips the side of the saddle, other hand extended out with the scimitar. The unsteady galloping beneath him is worrying, however.

"Sure this old boy will hold up?"

The other crusader seems prepared to avenge his comrade, ready to charge in a second's notice.