“Balbus aedificabat murum,” said he; and a voice that made O’Toole start cried, “Enough of this!  Stand aside, whoever you may be.”

It was the second of the two men who spoke, and he dropped the cloak from his face.  “The King!” exclaimed O’Toole, and he stood aside.  The two men passed into the garden, and Wogan saw them from the window.

Just as O’Toole had blocked the King’s entrance into the garden, so did Wogan bar his way into the house.

“Who, in Heaven’s name, are you?” cried the Chevalier.

“Nay, there’s a question for me to ask,” said Wogan.

“Wogan!” cried the Chevalier, and “The King!” cried Wogan in one breath.

Wogan fell back; the Chevalier pushed into the hall and turned.

“So it is true.  I could not, did not, believe it.  I came from Spain to prove it false.  I find it true,” he said in a low voice.  “You whom I so trusted!  God help me, where shall I look for honour?”

“Here, your Majesty,” answered Wogan, without an instant’s hesitation,—­“here, in this hall.  There, in the rooms above.”

He had seized the truth in the same second when he recognised his King, and the King’s first words had left him in no doubt.  He knew now why he had never found Harry Whittington in any corner of Bologna.  Harry Whittington had been riding to Spain.

The Chevalier laughed harshly.

“Sir, I suspect honour which needs such barriers to protect it.  You are here, in this house, at this hour, with a sentinel to forbid intrusion at the garden door.  Explain me this honourably.”

“I had the honour to escort a visitor to her Highness, and I wait until the visit is at an end.”

“What?  Can you not better that excuse?” said the Chevalier.  “A visitor!  We will make acquaintance, Mr. Wogan, with your visitor, unless you have another sentinel to bar my way;” and he put his foot upon the step of the stairs.

“I beg your Majesty to pause,” said Wogan, firmly.  “Your thoughts wrong me, and not only me.”

“Prove me that!”

“I say boldly, ‘Here is a servant who loves his Queen!’ What then?”

“This!  That you should say, ’Here is a man who loves a woman,—­loves her so well he gives his friends the slip, and with the woman comes alone to Peri.’”

“Ah.  To Peri!  So I thought,” began Wogan, and the Chevalier whispered,—­

“Silence!  You raise your voice too high.  You no doubt are anxious in your great respect that there should be some intimation of my coming.  But I dispense with ceremony.  I will meet this fine visitor of yours at once;” and he ran lightly up the stairs.

Then Wogan did a bold thing.  He followed, he sprang past the King, he turned at the stair-top and barred the way.

“Sir, I beg you to listen to me,” he said quietly.

“Beg!” said the Chevalier, leaning back against the wall with his dark eyes blazing from a white face; “you insist.”