“Yes,” said Wogan, with a wary eye upon his Eminence.  “Why is the King in Spain?”

“There is pressing business in Spain,—­an expedition from Cadiz.  The King’s presence there was urged most earnestly.  He had no hope you would succeed.  I myself have some share in the blame.  I did not hide from you my thought, Mr. Wogan.”

Wogan was not all reassured.  He could not but remember that the excuse for the King’s absence which the Cardinal now made to him was precisely that which he himself had invented to appease Clementina at Innspruck.  It was the simple, natural excuse which came first of all to the tongue’s tip, but—­but it did not satisfy.  There was, besides, too much flurry and agitation in the Cardinal’s manner.  Even now that he was taking snuff, he spilled the most of it from the trembling of his fingers.  Moreover, he must give reason upon reason for his perturbation the while he let his supper get cold.

“Her Highness I cannot but feel will have reason to think slightly of our welcome.  A young girl, she will expect, and rightly, something more of ceremony as her due.”

“Your Eminence does not know her,” interrupted Wogan, with some sharpness.  His Eminence was adroit enough to seize the occasion of ending a conversation which was growing with every minute more embarrassing.

“I shall make haste to repair my defect,” said he.  “I beg you to present my duty to her Highness and to request her to receive me to-morrow at ten.  By that, I will hope to have discovered a lodging more suitable to her dignity.”

Wogan made his prayer for the Pope’s intervention on Jenny’s behalf and then returned to the Pilgrim Inn, dashed and fallen in spirit.  He had thought that their troubles were at an end, but here was a new difficulty at which in truth he rather feared to guess.  The Chevalier’s departure to Spain had been a puzzle to him before; he remembered now that the Chevalier had agreed with reluctance to his enterprise, and had never been more than lukewarm in its support.  That reluctance, that lukewarmness, he had attributed to a natural habit of discouragement; but the evasiveness of Cardinal Origo seemed to propose a different explanation.  Wogan would not guess at it.

“The King is to marry the Princess,” said he, fiercely.  “I brought her out of Innspruck to Bologna.  The King must marry the Princess;” and, quite unawares, he set off running towards the inn.  As he drew near to it, he heard a confused noise of shouting.  He quickened his pace, and rushing out of the mouth of a side street into the square where the inn stood, came suddenly to a stop.  The square was filled with a great mob of people, and in face of the inn the crowd was so thick Wogan could have walked upon the shoulders.  Many of the people carried blazing torches, which they waved in the air, dropping the burning resin upon their companions; others threw their hats skywards; here were boys beating drums, and grown men blowing upon