“We have lost twelve hours, more than twelve hours now,” he repeated and repeated to Gaydon.  All the way to Ala they would still be in the Emperor’s territory.  It needed only a single courier to gallop past them, and at either Roveredo or Trent they would infallibly be taken.  Wogan fingered his pistols, straining his eyes backwards down the road.

At daybreak the snow stopped; the carriage rolled on high among the mountains under a grey sky; and here and there, at a wind of the road, Wogan caught a glimpse of the towers and chimney-tops of Innspruck, or had within his view a stretch of the slope they had climbed.  But there was never a black speck visible upon the white of the snow; as yet no courier was overtaking them, as yet Innspruck did not know its captive had escaped.  At eight o’clock in the morning they came to Nazareth, and found their own berlin ready harnessed at the post-house door, the postillion already in his saddle, and Misset waiting with an uncovered head.

“Her Highness will breakfast here, no doubt?” said Gaydon.

“Misset will have seen to it,” cried Wogan, “that the berlin is furnished.  We can breakfast as we go.”

They waited no more than ten minutes at Nazareth.  The order of travelling was now changed.  Wogan and Gaydon now travelled in the berlin with Mrs. Misset and Clementina.  Gaydon, being the oldest of the party, figured as the Count of Cernes, Mrs. Misset as his wife, Clementina as his niece, and Wogan as a friend of the family.  O’Toole and Misset rode beside the carriage in the guise of servants.  Thus they started from Nazareth, and had journeyed perhaps a mile when without so much as a moan Clementina swooned and fell forward into Wogan’s arms.  Mrs. Misset uttered a cry; Wogan clasped the Princess to his breast.  Her head fell back across his arm, pale as death; her eyes were closed; her bosom, strained against his, neither rose nor fell.

“She has fasted all Lent,” he said in a broken voice.  “She has eaten nothing since we left Innspruck.”

Mrs. Misset burst into tears; she caught Clementina’s hand and clasped it; she had no eyes but for her.  With Gaydon it was different.  Wogan was holding the Princess in a clasp too loverlike, though, to be sure, it was none of his business.

“We must stop the carriage,” he said.

“No,” cried Wogan, desperately; “that we must not do;” and he caught her still closer to him.  He had a fear that she was dying.  Even so, she should not be recaptured.  Though she were dead, he would still carry her dead body into Bologna and lay it white and still before his King.  Europe from London to the Bosphorus should know the truth of her and ring with the wonder of her, though she were dead.  O’Toole, attracted by the noise of Mrs. Misset’s lamentations, bent down over his horse’s neck and looked into the carriage.

“Her Highness is dead!” he cried.

“Drive on,” replied Wogan, through his clenched teeth.