my town’s one blemish.  Its streets are nameless.  It has taken a long while in the building, ever since my boyhood; and indeed the work’s not finished yet, nor do I think it ever will be finished till I die, since my brain’s its architect.  When I was asleep but now, I discovered a new villa, and an avenue of trees, and a tavern with red blinds which I had never remarked before.  At the first there was nothing but a queer white house of which the original has fallen to ruins at Rathcoffey in Ireland.  This house stood alone in a wide flat emerald plain that stretched like an untravelled sea to a circle of curving sky.  There was room to build, you see, and when I left Rathcoffey and became a wanderer, the building went on apace.  There are dark lanes there from Avignon between great frowning houses, narrow climbing streets from Meran, arcades from Verona, and a park of many thickets and tall poplar-trees with a long silver stretch of water.  One day you will see that park from the windows of St. James.  It has a wall too, my city,—­a round wall enclosing it within a perfect circle; and from whatever quarter of the plain you come towards it, you only see this wall, there’s not so much as a chimney visible above it.  Once you have crowded with the caravans and traders through the gates,—­for my town is busy,—­you are at once in the ringing streets.  I think my architect in that took Aigues Mortes for his model.  Outside you have the flat, silent plain, across which the merchants creep in long trailing lines, within the noise of markets, the tramp of horses’ hoofs, the talk of men and women, and, if you listen hard, the whispers, too, of lovers.  Oh, my city’s populous!  There are quiet alleys with windows opening onto them, where on summer nights you may see a young girl’s face with the moonlight on it like a glory, and in the shadow of the wall beneath, the cloaked figure of a youth.  Well, I have a notion—­” and then he broke off abruptly.  “There’s a black horse I own, my favourite horse.”

“You rode it the first time you came to Ohlau,” said the Princess.

“Do you indeed remember that?” cried Wogan, with so much pleasure that Gaydon stirred in his corner, and Clementina said, “Hush!”

Wogan waited in a suspense lest Gaydon should wake up, which, to be sure, would be the most inconsiderate thing in the world.  Gaydon, however, settled himself more comfortably, and in a little his regular breathing might be heard again.

“Well,” resumed Wogan, “I have a notion that the lady I shall marry will come riding some sunrise on my black horse across the plain and into my city of dreams.  And she has not.”

“Ah,” said Clementina, “here’s a subterfuge, my friend.  The lady you shall marry, you say.  But tell me this!  Has the lady you love ridden on your black horse into your city of dreams?”

“No,” said Wogan; “for there is no lady whom I love.”  There Wogan should have ended, but he added rather sadly, “Nor is there like to be.”