and ran like a fever in his blood.  He lay awake at nights inventing schemes of evasion, and each morning showed a flaw, and the schemes crumbled.  Not that his faith faltered.  At some one moment he felt sure the perfect plan, swift and secret, would be revealed to him, and he lived to seize the moment.  The people with whom he spoke became as shadows; the inns where he rested were confused into a common semblance.  He was like a man in a trance, seeing ever before his eyes the guarded villa at Innspruck, and behind the walls, patient and watchful, the face of the chosen woman; so that it was almost with surprise that he looked down one afternoon from the brim of a pass in the hills and saw beneath him, hooded with snow, the roofs and towers of Ohlau.

At Ohlau Wogan came to the end of his luck.  From the moment when he presented his letter he was aware of it.  The Prince was broken by his humiliation and the sufferings of his wife and daughter.  He was even inclined to resent them at the expense of the Chevalier, for in his welcome to Wogan there was a measure of embarrassment.  His shoulders, which had before been erect, now stooped, his eyes were veiled, the fire had burnt out in him; he was an old man visibly ageing to his grave.  He read the letter and re-read it.

“No,” said he, impatiently; “I must now think of my daughter.  Her dignity and her birth forbid that she should run like a criminal in fear of capture, and at the peril very likely of her life, to a king who, after all, is as yet without a crown.”  And then seeing Wogan flush at the words, he softened them.  “I frankly say to you, Mr. Warner, that I know no one to whom I would sooner entrust my daughter than yourself, were I persuaded to this project.  But it is doomed to fail.  It would make us the laughing-stock of Europe, and I ask you to forget it.  Do you fancy the Emperor guards my daughter so ill that you, single-handed, can take her from beneath his hand?”

“Your Highness, I shall choose some tried friends to help me.”

“There is no single chance of success.  I ask you to forget it and to pass your Christmas here as my very good friend.  The sight is longer in age, Mr. Warner, than in youth, and I see far enough now to know that the days of Don Quixote are dead.  Here is a matter where all Europe is ranged and alert on one side or the other.  You cannot practise secrecy.  At Ohlau your face is known, your incognito too.  Mr. Warner came to Ohlau once before, and the business on which he came is common knowledge.  The motive of your visit now, which I tell you openly is very grateful to me, will surely be suspected.”