This evening was but one of many during that Christmastide.  Wogan must wear an easy countenance, though his heart grew heavy as lead.  The Countess of Berg was the Prince Constantine’s favourite; and Wogan was not slow to discover that her smiling face and quiet eyes hid the most masterful woman at that court.  He made himself her assiduous servant, whether in hunting amid the snow or in the entertainments at the palace, but a quizzical deliberate word would now and again show him that she was still his enemy.  With the Princess Casimira he was a profound critic of observances:  he invented a new cravat and was most careful that there should never be a wrinkle in his stockings; with the Princess Charlotte he laughed till his head sang.  He played all manner of parts; the palace might have been the stage of a pantomime and himself the harlequin.  But for all his efforts it did not seem that he advanced his cause; and if he made headway one evening with the Prince, the next morning he had lost it, and so Christmas came and passed.

But two days after Christmas a courier brought a letter to the castle.  He came in the evening, and the letter was carried to Wogan while he was at table.  He noticed at once that it was in his King’s hand, and he slipped it quickly into his pocket.  It may have been something precipitate in his manner, or it may have been merely that all were on the alert to mark his actions, but at once curiosity was aroused.  No plain words were said; but here and there heads nodded together and whispered, and while some eyed Wogan suspiciously, a few women whose hearts were tuned to a sympathy with the Princess in her imprisonment, or touched with the notion of a romantic attachment, smiled upon him their encouragement.  The Countess of Berg for once was unobservant, however.

Wogan made his escape from the company as soon as he could, and going up to his apartments read the letter.  The moon was at its full, and what with the clear, frosty air, and the snow stretched over the world like a white counterpane, he was able to read the letter by the window without the light of a candle.  It was written in the Chevalier’s own cipher and hand; it asked anxiously for news and gave some.  Wogan had had occasion before to learn that cipher by heart.  He stood by the window and spelled the meaning.  Then he turned to go down; but at the door his foot slipped upon the polished boards, and he stumbled onto his knee.  He picked himself up, and thinking no more of the matter rejoined the company in a room where the Countess of Berg was playing upon a harp.

“The King,” said Wogan, drawing the Prince apart, “leaves Bologna for Rome.”

“So the letter came from him?” asked the Prince, with an eagerness which could not but seem hopeful to his companion.

“And in his own hand,” replied Wogan.

The Prince shuffled and hesitated as though he was curious to hear particulars.  Wogan thought it wise to provoke his curiosity by disregarding it.  It seemed that there was wisdom in his reticence, for a little later the Prince took him aside while the Countess of Berg was still playing upon her harp, and said,—­