“True,” answered Wogan, “the work ends to-night.  Months ago I rode down this street in the early morning, and with what high hopes!  The work ends to-night, and may God forgive me for a meddlesome fellow.  Cup and ball’s a fine game, but it is ill playing it with women’s hearts;” and he broke off suddenly.  “I’ll give you a toast, Lucius!  Here’s to the Princess Clementina!” and draining his glass he stood for a while, lost in the recollecting of that flight from Innspruck; he was far away from Bologna thundering down the Brenner through the night, with the sparks striking from the wheels of the berlin, and all about him a glimmering, shapeless waste of snow.

“To the Princess—­no, to the Queen she was born to be,” cried O’Toole, and Wogan sprang at him.

“You saw that,” he exclaimed, his eyes lighting, his face transfigured in the intensity of this moment’s relief.  “Aye,—­to love a nation,—­that is her high destiny.  For others, a husband, a man; for her, a nation.  And you saw it!  It is evident, to be sure.  Yet this or that thing she did, this or that word she spoke, assured you, eh?  Tell me what proved to you here was no mere woman, but a queen!”

The morning had dawned before Wogan had had his fill.  O’Toole was very well content to see his friend’s face once more quivering like a boy’s with pleasure, to hear him laugh, to watch the despondency vanish from his aspect.  “There’s another piece of good news,” he said at the end, “which I had almost forgotten to tell you.  Jenny and the Princess’s mother are happily set free.  It seems Jenny swore from daybreak to daybreak, and the Pope used his kindliest offices, and for those two reasons the Emperor was glad to let them go.  But there’s a question I would like to ask you.  One little matter puzzles me.”

“Ask your question,” said Wogan.

“To-night through that door in the garden wall which I guarded, there went in yourself and a lady,—­the King and a companion he had with him,—­four people.  Out of that door there came yourself, the lady, and the King,—­three people.”

“Ah,” said Wogan, as he stood up with a strange smile upon his lips, “I have a deal of clay upon my clothes.”

O’Toole nodded his head wisely once or twice.  “I am answered,” he said.  “Is it indeed so?” He understood, however, nothing except that the room had suddenly grown cold.

CHAPTER XXV

An account remains of the marriage ceremony, which took place the next morning in Cardinal Origo’s house.  It was of the simplest kind and was witnessed by few.  Murray, Misset and his wife, and Maria Vittoria de Caprara made the public part of the company; Wogan stood for the King; and the Marquis of Monti Boulorois for James Sobieski, the bride’s father.  Bride and bridegroom played their parts bravely and well, one must believe, for the chronicler speaks of their grace and modesty of bearing.  Clementina