“He is more.  He is of Tuscany.”

The landlord had never seen Wogan in his life before, but the lady seemed to wish some assurance on the point, so he gave it.  He shut the carriage door, and Wogan cracked his whip.

The postillion’s desires were of a piece with the lady’s.  They raced across the valley, and as they climbed the slope beyond, the sun came over the crests.  One moment the dew upon the grass was like raindrops, the next it shone like polished jewels.  The postillion shouted a welcome to the sun, and the lady proceeded to breakfast in her carriage.  Wogan had to snatch a meal as best he could while the horses were changed at the posting stage.  The lady would not wait, and Wogan for his part was used to a light fare.  He drove into Bologna that afternoon.

The lady put her head from the window and called out the name of a street.  Her postillion, however, paid no heed:  he seemed suddenly to have grown deaf; he whipped up his horses, shouted encouragements to them and warnings to the pedestrians on the roads.  The carriage rocked round corners and bounced over the uneven stones.  Wogan had clean forgotten the fragility of the traveller within.  He saw men going busily about, talking in groups and standing alone, and all with consternation upon their faces.  The quiet streets were alive with them.  Something had happened that day in Bologna,—­some catastrophe.  Or news had come that day,—­bad news.  Wogan did not stop to inquire.  He drove at a gallop straight to a long white house which fronted the street.  The green latticed shutters were closed against the sun, but there were servants about the doorway, and in their aspect, too, there was something of disorder.  Wogan called to one of them, jumped down from his saddle, and ran through the open doorway into a great hall with frescoed walls all ruined by neglect.  At the back of the hall a marble staircase, guarded by a pair of marble lions, ran up to a landing and divided.  Wogan set foot on the staircase and heard an exclamation of surprise.  He looked up.  A burly, good-humoured man in the gay embroideries of a courtier was descending towards him.

“You?” cried the courtier.  “Already?” and then laughed.  He was the only man whom Wogan had seen laugh since he drove into Bologna, and he drew a great breath of hope.

“Then nothing has happened, Whittington?  There is no bad news?”

“There is news so bad, my friend, that you might have jogged here on a mule and still have lost no time.  Your hurry is clean wasted,” answered Whittington.

Wogan ran past him up the stairs, and so left the hall and the open doorway clear.  Whittington looked now straight through the doorway, and saw the carriage and the lady on the point of stepping down onto the kerb.  His face assumed a look of extreme surprise.  Then he glanced up the staircase after Wogan and laughed as though the conjunction of the lady and Mr. Wogan was a rare piece of amusement.  Mr. Wogan did not hear the laugh, but the lady did.  She raised her head, and at the same moment the courtier came across the hall to meet her.  As soon as he had come close, “Harry,” said she, and gave him her hand.