And that they were active he found a way to discover.  The Countess from this time plied him with kindness.  He must play cards with her and Prince Constantine in the evening; he must take his coffee in her private apartments in the morning.  So upon one of these occasions he spoke of his departure from Ohlau.

“I shall go by way of Prague;” and he stopped in confusion and corrected himself quickly.  “At least, I am not sure.  There are other ways into Italy.”

The Countess showed no more concern than she had shown over her harp-string.  She talked indifferently of other matters as though she had barely heard his remark; but she fell into the trap.  Wogan was aware that the Governor of Prague was her kinsman; and that afternoon he left the castle alone, and taking the road to Vienna, turned as soon as he was out of sight and hurried round the town until he came out upon the road to Prague.  He hid himself behind a hedge a mile from Ohlau, and had not waited half an hour before a man came riding by in hot haste.  The man wore the Countess’s livery of green and scarlet; Wogan decided not to travel by way of Prague, and returned to the castle content with his afternoon’s work.  He had indeed more reason to be content with it than he knew, for he happened to have remarked the servant’s face as well as his livery, and so at a later time was able to recognise it again.  He had no longer any doubt that a servant in the same livery was well upon his way to Vienna.  The roads were bad, it was true, and the journey long; but Wogan had not the Prince’s consent, and could not tell when he would obtain it.  The servant might return with the Emperor’s order for his arrest before he had obtained it.  Wogan was powerless.  He sent his list of names to Gaydon in Schlestadt, but that was the only precaution he could take.  The days passed; Wogan spent them in unavailing persuasions, and New Year’s Day came and found him still at Ohlau and in a great agitation and distress.

Upon that morning, however, while he was dressing, there came a rap upon his door, and when he opened it he saw the Prince’s treasurer, a foppish gentleman, very dainty in his words.

“Mr. Warner,” said the treasurer, “his Highness has hinted to me his desires; he has moulded them into the shape of a prayer or a request.”

“In a word, he has bidden you,” said Wogan.

“Fie, sir!  There’s a barbarous and improper word, an ill-sounding word; upon my honour, a word without dignity or merit and banishable from polite speech.  His Highness did most prettily entreat me with a fine gentleness of condescension befitting a Sunday or a New Year’s Day to bring and present and communicate from hand to hand a gift,—­a most incomparable proper gift, the mirror and image of his most incomparable proper friendship.”

Wogan bowed, and requested the treasurer to enter and be seated the while he recovered his breath.

“Nay, Mr. Warner, I must be concise, puritanical, and unadorned in my language as any raw-head or bloody-bones.  The cruel, irrevocable moments pass.  I could consume an hour, sir, before I touched as I may say the hem of the reason of my coming.”