Wogan was touched by the old gentleman's warmth.
"Count," said Wogan, "I will gladly keep your mare in remembrance of
your great goodwill to a stranger. But there is one better beast in
Christendom."
"Indeed? And which is that?"
"Why, sir, the black horse which the lady I shall marry will ride into
my city of dreams." And so he rode off upon his way. The morning was
just beginning to gleam pale in the east. Here was a night passed which
he had not thought to live through, and he was still alive to help the
chosen woman imprisoned in the hollow of the hills at Innspruck. Wogan
had reason to be grateful to that old man who stood straining his eyes
after him. There was something pathetical in his discontent with his
secluded life which touched Wogan to the heart. Wogan was not sure that
in the morning the old man would know that the part he had chosen was,
after all, the best. Besides, Wogan had between his knees the most
friendly and intelligent beast which he had ridden since that morning
when he met Lady Featherstone on the road to Bologna. But he had soon
other matters to distract his thoughts. However easily Flavia cantered
or trotted she could not but sharply remind him of his wounds. He had
forty miles to travel before he could reach Schlestadt; and in the
villages on the road there was gossip that day of a man with a tormented
face who rode rocking in his saddle as though the furies were at his
back.