rose at five in the morning, dressed in a robe of white, tied a white ribbon about her hair, and for her only ornament fixed a white collar of pearls about her neck.  In this garb she went at once to the church of San Domenico, where she made her confession, and from the church to the Cardinal’s Palace.  There the Cardinal, with one Maas, an English priest from Rome, at his elbow, was already waiting for her.  Mr. Wogan thereupon read the procuration, for which he had ridden to Rome in haste so many months before, and pronounced the consent of the King his master to its terms.  Origo asked the Princess whether she likewise consented, and the manner in which she spoke her one word, “Yes,” seems to have stirred the historian to paeans.  It seems that all the virtues launched that one little word, and were clearly expressed in it.  The graces, too, for once in a way went hand in hand with the virtues.  Never was a “Yes” so sweetly spoken since the earth rose out of the sea.  In a word, there was no ruffle of the great passion which these two, man and woman, had trodden beneath their feet.  She did not hint of Iphigenia; he borrowed no plumes from Don Quixote.  Nor need one fancy that their contentment was all counterfeit.  They were neither of them grumblers, and “fate” and “destiny” were words seldom upon their lips.

One incident, indeed, is related which the chronicler thought to be curious, though he did not comprehend it.  The Princess Clementina brought from her confessional box a wisp of straw which clung to her dress at the knee.  Until Wogan had placed the King’s ring upon her finger, she did not apparently remark it; but no sooner had that office been performed than she stooped, and with a friendly smile at her makeshift bridegroom, she plucked it from her skirt and let it fall beneath her foot.

And that was all.  No words passed between them after the ceremony, for her Royal Highness went straight back to the little house in the garden, and that same forenoon set out for Rome.

She was not the only witness of the ceremony to take that road that day.  For some three hours later, to be precise, at half-past two, Maria Vittoria stepped into her coach before the Pilgrim Inn.  Wogan held the carriage door open for her.  He was still in the bravery of his wedding clothes, and Maria Vittoria looked him over whimsically from the top of his peruke to his shoe-buckles.

“I came to see a fool-woman,” said she, “and I saw a fool-man.  Well, well!” and she suddenly lowered her voice to a passionate whisper.  “Why, oh, why did you not take your fortunes in your hands at Peri?”

Wogan leaned forward to her.  “Do you know so much?”

She answered him quickly.  “I will never forgive you.  Yes, I know.”  She forced her lips into a smile.  “I suppose you are content.  You have your black horse.”

“You know of the horse, too,” said Wogan, colouring to the edge of his peruke.  “You know I have no further use for it.”