and she sang to herself, thinking all three of her companions were asleep.  Wogan had not caught the sound at first above the clatter of the wheels, and even now that he listened it came intermittently to his ears.  He heard enough, however, to know and to rejoice that there was no melancholy in the music.  The song had the clear bright thrill of the blackbird’s note in June.  Wogan listened, entranced.  He would have given worlds to have written the song with which Clementina solaced herself in the darkness, to have composed the melody on which her voice rose and sank.

The carriage drew up at an inn; the horses were changed; the flight was resumed.  Wogan had not moved during this delay, neither had Misset nor O’Toole come to the door.  But an ostler had flashed a lantern into the berlin, and for a second the light had fallen upon Wogan’s face and open eyes.  Clementina, however, did not cease; she sang on until the lights had been left behind and the darkness was about them.  Then she stopped and said,—­

“How long is it since you woke?”

Wogan was taken by surprise.

“I should never have slept at all,” stammered he.  “I promised myself that.  Not a wink of sleep betwixt Innspruck and Italy; and here was I fast as a log this side of Trent.  I think our postillion sleeps too;” and letting down the window he quietly called Misset.

“We have fresh relays,” said he, “and we travel at a snail’s-pace.”

“The relays are only fresh to us,” returned Misset.  “We can go no faster.  There is someone ahead with three stages’ start of us,—­someone of importance, it would seem, and who travels with a retinue, for he takes all the horses at each stage.”

Wogan thrust his head out of the window.  There was no doubt of it; the horses lagged.  In this hurried flight the most trifling hindrance was a monumental danger, and this was no trifling hindrance.  For the hue and cry was most certainly raised behind them; the pursuit from Innspruck had begun twelve hours since, on the most favourable reckoning.  At any moment they might hear the jingle of a horse’s harness on the road behind.  And now here was a man with a great retinue blocking their way in front.

“We can do no more, but make a fight of it in the end,” said he.  “They may be few who follow us.  But who is he ahead?”

Misset did not know.

“I can tell you,” said Clementina, with a slight hesitation.  “It is the Prince of Baden, and he travels to Italy.”

Wogan remembered a certain letter which his King had written to him from Rome; and the hesitation in the girl’s voice told him the rest of the story.  Wogan would have given much to have had his fingers about the scruff of that pompous gentleman’s neck with the precipice handy at his feet.  It was intolerable that the fellow should pester the Princess in prison and hinder her flight when she had escaped from it.

“Well, we can do no more,” said he, and he drew up the window.  Neither Gaydon nor Mrs. Misset were awakened; Clementina and Wogan were alone in the darkness.