Upon the other side of the carriage, Misset shouted through the window, “There is a spring by the roadside.”

“Drive on,” said Wogan.

Gaydon touched him on the arm.

“You will stifle her, man.”

Wogan woke to a comprehension of his attitude, and placed Clementina back on her seat.  Mrs. Misset by good fortune had a small bottle of Carmelite water in her pocket; she held it to the Princess’s nostrils, who in a little opened her eyes and saw her companions in tears about her, imploring her to wake.

“It is nothing,” she said.  “Take courage, my poor marmosets;” and with a smile she added, “There’s my six feet four with the tears in his eyes.  Did ever a woman have such friends?”

The sun came out in the sky as she spoke.  They had topped the pass and were now driving down towards Italy.  There was snow about them still on the mountain-sides and deep in drifts upon the roads.  The air was musical with the sound of innumerable freshets:  they could be seen leaping and sparkling in the sunlight; the valleys below were green with the young green of spring, and the winds were tempered with the warmth of Italy.  A like change came upon the fugitives.  They laughed, where before they had wept; from under the seat they pulled out chickens which Misset had cooked with his own hands at Nazareth, bottles of the wine of St. Laurent, and bread; and Wogan allowed a halt long enough to get water from a spring by the roadside.

“There is no salt,” said Gaydon.

“Indeed there is,” replied Misset, indignant at the aspersion on his catering.  “I have it in my tobacco-box.”  He took his tobacco-box from his pocket and passed it into the carriage.  Clementina made sandwiches and passed them out to the horsemen.  The chickens turned out to be old cocks, impervious to the soundest tooth.  No one minded except Misset, who had brought them.  The jolts of the carriage became matter for a jest.  They picnicked with the merriment of children, and finally O’Toole, to show his contempt for the Emperor, fired off both his loaded pistols in the air.

At that Wogan’s anxiety returned.  He blazed up into anger.  He thrust his head from the window.

“Is this your respect for her Highness?” he cried.  “Is this your consideration?”

“Nay,” interposed Clementina, “you shall not chide my six feet four.”

“But he is mad, your Highness.  I don’t say but what a trifle of madness is salt to a man; but O’Toole’s clean daft to be firing his pistols off to let the whole world know who we are.  Here are we not six stages from Innspruck, and already we have lost twelve hours.”

“When?”