“My daughter cannot go to-night,” she repeated resentfully.  “I do forbid it.”

Wogan had his one argument.  This one argument was his last resource.  He had chosen it carefully with an eye to the woman whom it was to persuade.  It was not couched as an inducement; it did not claim the discharge of an obligation; it was not a reply to any definite objection.  Such arguments would only have confirmed her in her stubbornness.  He made accordingly an appeal to sentiment.

“Your Highness’s daughter,” said he, “spoke a minute since of the hazards my friends and I have run to compass her escape.  As regards four of us, the words reached beyond our deserts.  For we are men.  Such hazards are our portion; they are seldom lightened by so high an aim.  But the fifth!  The words, however kind, were still below that fifth one’s merits; for the fifth is a woman.”

“I know.  With all my heart I thank her.  With all my heart I pity her.”

“But there is one thing your Highness does not know.  She runs our risks,—­the risk of capture, the risk of the night, the storm, the snow, she a woman by nature timid and frail,—­yet with never in all her life so great a reason for timidity, or so much frailty of health as now.  We venture our lives, but she ventures more.”

The mother bowed her head; Clementina looked fixedly at Wogan.

“Speak plainly, my friend,” she said.  “There are no children here.”

“Madam, I need but quote to you the words her husband used.  For my part, I think that nobler words were never spoken, and with her whole heart she repeats them.  They are these:  ’The boy would only live to serve his King; why should he not serve his King before he lives?’”

The mother was still silent, but Wogan could see that the tears overbrimmed her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.  Clementina was silent for a while too, and stood with her eyes fixed thoughtfully on Wogan.  Then she said gently,—­

“Her name.”

Wogan told her it, and she said no more; but it was plain that she would never forget it, that she had written it upon her heart.

Wogan waited, looking to the Princess, who drying her tears rose from her chair and said with great and unexpected dignity,—­

“How comes it, sir, that with such servants your King still does not sit upon his throne?  My daughter shall not fall below the great example set to her.  My fears are shamed by it.  My daughter goes with you to-night.”

It was time that she consented, for even as Wogan flung himself upon his knee and raised her hand, M. Chateaudoux appeared at the door with a finger on his lips, and behind him one could hear a voice grumbling and cursing on the stairs.

“Jenny,” said Wogan, and Jenny stumbled into the room.  “Quiet,” said he; “you will wake the house.”

“Well, if you had to walk upstairs in the dark in these horrible shoes—­”

“Oh, Jenny, your cloak, quick!”