“I took so much upon myself.”

The Chevalier held out his hand to Wogan.  “I have good reason to thank you,” said he, and before he could say another word, a door shut above, and Maria Vittoria came down the stairs towards them.  O’Toole was still standing sentry at the postern-door, and the three men escorted the Princess Caprara to the Pilgrim Inn.  She had spoken no word during the walk, but as she turned in the doorway of the inn, the light struck upon her face and showed that her eyes glistened.  To the Chevalier she said, “I wish you, my lord, all happiness, and the boon of a great love.  With all my heart I wish it;” and as he bowed over her hand, she looked across his shoulder to Wogan.

“I will bid you farewell to-morrow,” she said with a smile, and the Chevalier explained her saying afterwards as they accompanied him to his lodging.

“Mlle. de Caprara will honour us with her presence to-morrow.  You will still act as my proxy, Wogan.  I am not yet returned from Spain.  I wish no questions or talk about this evening’s doings.  Your friend will remember that?”

“My friend, sir,” said Wogan, “who was with me at Innspruck, is Captain Lucius O’Toole of Dillon’s regiment.”

“Et senator too,” said the Chevalier, with a laugh; and he added a friendly word or two which sent O’Toole back to his lodging in a high pleasure.  Wogan walked thither with him and held out his hand at the door.

“But you will come up with me,” said O’Toole.  “We will drink a glass together, for God knows when we speak together again.  I go back to Schlestadt to-morrow.”

“Ah, you go back,” said Wogan; and he came in at the door and mounted the stairs.  At the first landing he stopped.

“Let me rouse Gaydon.”

“Gaydon went three days ago.”

“Ah!  And Misset is with his wife.  Here are we all once more scattered, and, as you say, God knows when we shall speak together again;” and he went on to the upper storey.

O’Toole remarked that he dragged in his walk and that his voice had a strange, sad note of melancholy.

“My friend,” said he, “you have the black fit upon you; you are plainly discouraged.  Yet to-night sees the labour of many months brought to its due close;” and as he lit the candles on his chimney, he was quite amazed by the white, tired face which the light showed to him.  Wogan, indeed, harassed by misgivings, and worn with many vigils, presented a sufficiently woe-begone picture.  The effect was heightened by the disorder of his clothes, which were all daubed with clay in a manner quite surprising to O’Toole, who knew the ground to be dry underfoot.