him quiet and telling the landlord he was very ill.  O’Toole finished his story as they came to Peri.  They went boldly to the Cervo Inn, where all traces of the night’s conflict had been removed, and neither Wogan nor the landlady thought it prudent to make any mention of the matter; they waited for Misset and his wife, who came the next day.  And thus reunited they passed one evening into the streets of Bologna and stopped at the Pilgrim Inn.

CHAPTER XXI

In the parlour of the Pilgrim Inn the four friends took their leave of the Princess.  She could not part from them lightly; she spoke with a faltering voice:—­

“Five days ago I was in prison at Innspruck, perpetually harassed and with no hope of release but in you.  Now I am in Bologna, and free.  I could not believe that any girl could find such friends except in fairyland.  You make the world very sweet and clean to me.  I should thank you.  See my tears fall!  Will you take them for my thanks?  I have no words which can tell as much of my thoughts towards you.  My little woman I keep with me, but to you gentlemen I would gladly give a token each, so that you may know I will never forget, and so that you too may keep for me a home within your memories.”  To Major Gaydon she gave a ring from off her finger, to Captain Misset a chain which she wore about her neck, to O’Toole, “her six feet four,” as she said between laughter and tears, her watch.  Each with a word of homage took his leave.  Clementina spoke to Wogan last of all, and when the room was empty but for these two.

“To you, my friend,” said she, “I give nothing.  There is no need.  But I ask for something.  I would be in debt to you still deeper than I am.  I ask for a handkerchief which I dropped from my shoulders one evening under the stars upon the road to Ala.”

Wogan bowed to her without a word.  He drew the handkerchief from his breast slowly.

“It is true,” said he; “I have no right to it;” and he gave it back.  But his voice showed that he was hurt.

“You do not understand,” said she, with a great gentleness.  “You have every right which the truest loyalty can confer.  I ask you for this handkerchief, because I think at times to wear it in memory of a white stone on which I could safely set my foot, for the stone was not straw.”

Wogan could not trust his voice to answer her.  He took her hand to lift it to his lips.

“No,” said she; “as at Innspruck, an honest handclasp, if you please.”

Wogan joined his three companions in the road, and they stood together for a little, recounting to one another the incidents of the flight.

“Here’s a great work ended,” said Gaydon at last.