the cupboard on the second, the silent watching of those five pairs of eyes on the third, and the lackey with the knife in his breast hopping with both feet horribly across the floor,—­the horror of these recollections swept in upon him and changed him from a man into a timorous child.  He lay and shuddered until in every creak of the branches he heard the whisper of an enemy, in every flutter of leaves across the lawn a stealthy footstep, and behind every tree-stem he caught the flap of a cloak.

Stiff and sore, he raised himself from the ground, he groped for his boots and coat, and putting them on moved cautiously through the trees, supporting himself from stem to stem.  He came to the borders of a wide, smooth lawn, and on the farther side stood the house,—­a long, two-storeyed house with level tiers of windows stretching to the right and the left, and a bowed tower in the middle.  Through one of the windows in the ground-floor Wogan saw the spark of a lamp, and about that window a fan of yellow light was spread upon the lawn.

Wogan at this moment felt in great need of companionship.  He stole across the lawn and looked into the room.  An old gentleman with a delicate face, who wore his own white hair, was bending over a book at a desk.  The room was warmly furnished, the door of the stove stood open, and Wogan could see the logs blazing merrily.  A chill wind swept across the lawn, very drear and ghostly.  Wogan crept closer to the window.  A great boar-hound rose at the old man’s feet and growled; then the old man rose, and crossing to the window pressed his face against the panes with his hands curved about his eyes.  Wogan stepped forward and stood within the fan of light, spreading out his arms to show that he came as a supplicant and with no ill intent.

The old man, with a word to his hound, opened the window.

“Who is it?” he asked, and with a thrill not of fear but of expectation in his voice.

“A man wounded and in sore straits for his life, who would gladly sit for a few minutes by your fire before he goes upon his way.”

The old man stood aside, and Wogan entered the room.  He was spattered from head to foot with mud, his clothes were torn, his eyes sunken, his face was of a ghastly pallor and marked with blood.

“I am the Chevalier Warner,” said Wogan, “a gentleman of Ireland.  You will pardon me.  But I have gone through so much these last three nights that I can barely stand;” and dropping into a chair he dragged it up to the door of the stove, and crouched there shivering.

The old man closed the window.

“I am Count Otto von Ahlen, and in my house you are safe as you are welcome.”