surprised by the remarkable silence, almost a cessation of life it seemed, in a room which was quite full.  Wherever the broad bars of sunshine fell, as they slanted dusty with motes through the open lattices of the shutters, they striped a woman’s dress or a man’s velvet coat.  Yet if anyone shuffled a foot or allowed a petticoat to rustle, that person glanced on each side guiltily.  A group of people were gathered in front of the doorway.  Their backs were towards Wogan, and they were looking towards the centre of the room.  Wogan raised himself on his toes and looked that way too.  Having looked he sank down again, aware at once that he had travelled of late a long way in a little time, and that he was intolerably tired.  For that one glance was enough to deprive him of his last possibility of doubt.  He had seen the Chevalier de St. George, his King, sitting apart in a little open space, and over against him a short squarish man, dusty as Wogan himself, who stood and sullenly waited.  It was Sir John Hay, the man who had been sent to fetch the Princess Clementina privately to Bologna, and here he now was back at Bologna and alone.

Wogan had counted much upon this marriage, more indeed than any of his comrades.  It was to be the first step of the pedestal in the building up of a throne.  It was to establish in Europe a party for James Stuart as strong as the party of Hanover.  But so much was known to everyone in that room; to Wogan the marriage meant more.  For even while he found himself muttering over and over with dry lips, as white and exhausted he leaned against the door, Clementina’s qualifications,—­“Daughter of the King of Poland, cousin to the Emperor and to the King of Portugal, niece to the Electors of Treves, Bavaria, and Palatine,”—­the image of the girl herself rose up before his eyes and struck her titles from his thoughts.  She was the chosen woman, chosen by him out of all Europe—­and lost by John Hay!

He remembered very clearly at that moment his first meeting with her.  He had travelled from court to court in search of the fitting wife, and had come at last to the palace at Ohlau in Silesia.  It was in the dusk of the evening, and as he was ushered into the great stone hall, hung about and carpeted with barbaric skins, he had seen standing by the blazing wood fire in the huge chimney a girl in a riding dress.  She raised her head, and the firelight struck upwards on her face, adding a warmth to its bright colours and a dancing light to the depths of her dark eyes.  Her hair was drawn backwards from her forehead, and the frank, sweet face revealed to him from the broad forehead to the rounded chin told him that here was one who joined to a royal dignity the simple nature of a peasant girl who works in the fields and knows more of animals than of mankind.  Wogan was back again in that stone hall when the voice of the Chevalier with its strong French accent broke in upon his vision.

“Well, we will hear the story.  Well, you left Ohlau with the Princess and her mother and a mile-long train of servants in spite of my commands of secrecy.”