He looked complacently about him as though at any moment now a crop of postillions might be expected to flower by the roadside.  The lady turned from him with a stamp of the foot and saw that Wogan was curiously regarding her carriage.  A boy stood at the horses’ heads, but his dress and sleepy face showed that he had not been half an hour out of bed, and there was no one else.  Wogan was wondering how in the world she had travelled as far as this inn.  The lady explained.

“The postillion who drove me from Florence was drunk—­oh, but drunk!  He rolled off his horse just here, opposite the door.  See, I beat him,” and she raised the beribboned handle of a toy-like cane.  “But it was no use.  I broke my cane over his back, but he would not get up.  He crawled into the passage where he lies.”

Wogan had some ado not to smile.  Neither the cane nor the hand which wielded it would be likely to interfere even with a sober man’s slumbers.

“And I must reach Bologna to-day,” she cried in an extreme agitation.  “It is of the last importance.”

“Fortune is kind to us both, madam,” said Wogan, with a bow.  “My horse is lamed, as you see.  I will be your charioteer, for I too am in a desperate hurry to reach Bologna.”

Immediately the lady drew back.

“Oh!” she said with a start, looking at Wogan.

Wogan looked at her.

“Ah!” said he, thoughtfully.

They eyed each other for a moment, each silently speculating what the other was doing alone at this hour and in such a haste to reach Bologna.

“You are English?” she said with a great deal of unconcern, and she asked in English.  That she was English, Wogan already knew from her accent.  His Italian, however, was more than passable, and he was a wary man by nature as well as by some ten years’ training in a service where wariness was the first need, though it was seldom acquired.  He could have answered “No” quite truthfully, being Irish.  He preferred to answer her in Italian as though he had not understood.

“I beg your pardon.  Yes, I will drive you to Bologna if the landlord will swear to look after my horse.”  And he was very precise in his directions.

The landlord swore very readily.  His anxiety to be rid of his vociferous guest and to get back to bed was extreme.  Wogan climbed into the postillion’s saddle, describing the while such remedies as he desired to be applied to the sprained leg.

“The horse is a favourite?” asked the lady.

“Madam,” said Wogan, with a laugh, “I would not lose that horse for all the world, for the woman I shall marry will ride on it into my city of dreams.”

The lady stared, as she well might.  She hesitated with her foot upon the step.

“Is he sober?” she asked of the landlord.

“Madam,” said the landlord, unabashed, “in this district he is nicknamed the water drinker.”

“You know him, then?  He is Italian?”