The landlord swore very readily. His anxiety to be rid of his vociferous

guest and to get back to bed was extreme. Wogan climbed into the

postillion's saddle, describing the while such remedies as he desired

to be applied to the sprained leg.

"The horse is a favourite?" asked the lady.

"Madam," said Wogan, with a laugh, "I would not lose that horse for all

the world, for the woman I shall marry will ride on it into my city of

dreams."

The lady stared, as she well might. She hesitated with her foot upon the

step.

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"Is he sober?" she asked of the landlord.

"Madam," said the landlord, unabashed, "in this district he is nicknamed

the water drinker."

"You know him, then? He is Italian?"

"He is more. He is of Tuscany."

The landlord had never seen Wogan in his life before, but the lady

seemed to wish some assurance on the point, so he gave it. He shut the

carriage door, and Wogan cracked his whip.

The postillion's desires were of a piece with the lady's. They raced

across the valley, and as they climbed the slope beyond, the sun came

over the crests. One moment the dew upon the grass was like raindrops,

the next it shone like polished jewels. The postillion shouted a welcome

to the sun, and the lady proceeded to breakfast in her carriage. Wogan

had to snatch a meal as best he could while the horses were changed at

the posting stage. The lady would not wait, and Wogan for his part was

used to a light fare. He drove into Bologna that afternoon.

The lady put her head from the window and called out the name of a

street. Her postillion, however, paid no heed: he seemed suddenly to

have grown deaf; he whipped up his horses, shouted encouragements to

them and warnings to the pedestrians on the roads. The carriage rocked

round corners and bounced over the uneven stones. Wogan had clean

forgotten the fragility of the traveller within. He saw men going busily

about, talking in groups and standing alone, and all with consternation

upon their faces. The quiet streets were alive with them. Something had

happened that day in Bologna,--some catastrophe. Or news had come that

day,--bad news. Wogan did not stop to inquire. He drove at a gallop

straight to a long white house which fronted the street. The green

latticed shutters were closed against the sun, but there were servants

about the doorway, and in their aspect, too, there was something of

disorder. Wogan called to one of them, jumped down from his saddle, and

ran through the open doorway into a great hall with frescoed walls all

ruined by neglect. At the back of the hall a marble staircase, guarded

by a pair of marble lions, ran up to a landing and divided. Wogan set

foot on the staircase and heard an exclamation of surprise. He looked

up. A burly, good-humoured man in the gay embroideries of a courtier was

descending towards him.




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