“Sir,” said she, “can you put a name to the house?”

“Upon my word, your Highness, I cannot.”

“It is the Caprara Palace,” said she, suddenly, and suddenly she bent her eyes upon Wogan.  The name, however, conveyed no meaning whatever to him, and his blank face told her so clearly.  She nodded in a sort of approval.  “No,” she said, relenting, “you did not know.”

She mounted the steps, and knocking upon the door was admitted by an old broken serving-man, who told her that the Princess Caprara was away.  It was permitted him, however, to show the many curiosities and treasures of the palace to such visitors as desired it.  Clementina did desire it.  The old man led her and her companion to the armoury, where he was for spending much time and breath over the trophies which the distinguished General Caprara had of old rapt from the infidels.  But Clementina quickly broke in upon his garrulity.

“I have a great wish to see the picture gallery,” said she, and the old man tottered onwards through many shrouded and darkened rooms.  In the picture gallery he drew up the blinds and then took a wand in his hand.

“Will you show me first the portrait of Mlle. de Caprara?” said Clementina.

It was a full-length portrait painted with remarkable skill.  Maria Vittoria de Caprara was represented in a black dress, and the warm Italian colouring of her face made a sort of glow in the dark picture.  Her eyes watched you from the canvas with so life-like a glance you had a thought when you turned that they turned after you.  Clementina gazed at the picture for a long while, and the blood slowly mounted on her neck and transfused her cheeks.

“There is a face, Mr. Wogan,—­a passionate, beautiful face,—­which might well set a seal upon a man’s heart.  I do not wonder.  I can well believe that though to-day that face gladdens the streets of Rome, a lover in Spain might see it through all the thick earth of the Pyrenees.  There, sir, I promised to acquaint you why the King lingered in Spain.  I have fulfilled that promise;” and making a present to the custodian, she walked back through the rooms and down the steps to the street.  Wogan followed her, and pacing with much dignity they walked back to the little house among the trees, and so came again into the garden of blossoms.

The anger had now gone from her face, but it was replaced by a great weariness.

“It is strange, is it not,” she said with a faltering smile, “that on a spring morning, beneath this sky, amongst these flowers, I should think with envy of the snows of Innspruck and my prison there?  But I owe you a reparation,” she added.  “You said the King had need of me.  For that saying of yours I find an apt simile.  Call it a stone on which you bade me set my foot and step.  I stepped, and found that your stone was straw.”

“No, madam,” cried Wogan.