Misset looked at him with sympathy.

“You have no doubt come far,” said he; “and the landlord’s a laggard.  Here’s something that may comfort you till he comes;” and he filled a glass half full with red Tyrol wine from the bottle at his elbow.

The man thanked him and advanced to the table.

“It is a raw hot wine,” continued Misset, “and goes better with water;” and he filled up the glass from the water-jug.  The courier reached out his hand for it.

“I am the thirstiest man in all Germany,” said he, and he took a gulp of the wine and immediately fell to spluttering.

“Save us,” said he, “but this wine is devilishly strong.”

“Try some more water,” said Misset, and again he filled up the glass.  The courier drank it all in a single draught, and stood winking his eyes and shaking his head.

“That warms a man,” said he.  “It does one good;” and again he called for the landlord, and this time in a strange voice.  The landlord still lagged, however, and Misset did not doubt that Wogan had found a means to detain him.  He filled up the courier’s glass again, half wine, half water.  The courier sat heavily down in a chair.

“I take the liberty, gentlemen,” said he.  “I am no better than a dung-heap to sit beside gentlemen.  But indeed I can stand no longer.  Never have I stridden across such vile slaughter-house cattle as they keep for travellers on the Brenner road.  I have sprained my legs with spurring ’em.  Seven times,” he cried with an oath,—­“seven times has a horse dropped under me to-day.  There’s not an inch of me unbruised, curse me if there is!  I’m a cake of mud.”

Misset knew very well why the courier had suffered these falls.  The horses he had ridden had first been tired by the Prince of Baden, and then had the last spark of fire flogged out of them by the Princess’s postillions.  He merely shrugged his shoulders, however, and said, “That looks ill for us.”

The courier gazed suddenly at Misset, then at O’Toole, with a dull sort of suspicion in his eyes.

“And which way might you gentlemen be travelling?”

“To Innspruck; we’re from Trent,” said Misset, boldly.

The courier turned to O’Toole.

“And you too, sir?”

O’Toole turned a stolid, uncomprehending face upon the courier.

“Pour moi, monsieur, je suis Savoyard.  Monsieur qui vous parle, c’est mon compagnon de negoce.”

The courier gazed with blank, heavy eyes at O’Toole.  He had the appearance of a man fuddled with drink.  He heaved a sigh or two.

“Will you repeat that,” he said at length, “and slowly?”

O’Toole repeated his remark, and the courier nodded at him.  “That’s very strange,” said he, solemnly, wagging his head.  “I do not dispute its truth, but it is most strange.  I will tell my wife of it.”  He turned in his chair, and a twinge from his bruises made him cry out.  “I shall be as stiff as a mummy in the morning,” he exclaimed, and swore loudly at “the bandits” who had caused him this deplorable journey.  Misset and O’Toole exchanged a quick glance, and Misset pushed the glass across the table.  The courier took it, and his eyes lighted up.