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The words were a mere excuse, yet she seemed to take them very seriously. Her eyes sounded him. "Yes," she said slowly; "are you frank, even to yourself?" and she spoke as though a knowledge of the answer would make a task easier to her. Wogan's speculations, however, were interrupted by the entrance of Princess Casimira, Sobieski's eldest daughter.
She heard of it with indifference; it had no meaning to her. She waited. Wogan's mere presence at the villa told her there was more to come. He continued: "Last night Mr. Whittington came with the King to Bologna you understand, no doubt, why;" and she nodded without moving her eyes from his face. She made no pretence as to the part she had played in the affair. All the world might know it.
No doubt he would crawl to the side of the bed; he did. To feel, no doubt, for Mr. Wogan's coat and breeches and any little letter which might be hiding in the pockets. But here Wogan was wrong. For he saw a dark thing suddenly on the counterpane at the edge of the bed. The dark thing travelled upwards very softly; it had four fingers and a thumb.
"But I will not hinder you from forthwith immediately and at once incorporating with your most particular and inestimable treasures this jewel, this turquoise of heaven's own charming blue, encased and decorated with gold." The treasurer drew the turquoise from his pocket. It was of the size of an egg. He placed it in Wogan's hand, who gently returned it. "I cannot take it," said he.
"Well, she must take her heels off and make herself as short as she can." "You will have trouble, my friend, to persuade her to that," said O'Toole. "Hush!" said Gaydon. He rose and unlocked the door. The doctor was knocking for admission below. Gaydon let him in, and he dressed Wogan's wounds with an assurance that they were not deep and that a few days' quiet would restore him.
Yet who, in Fortune's summer-shine To waste life's longest term away, Would change that glorious dawn of thine, Though darken'd ere its noontide day! Be thine the tree whose dauntless boughs Brave summer's drought and winter's gloom. Rome bound with oak her patriots' brows, As Albyn shadows Wogan's tomb.
"You will give me the letter," said the polite man, coming round the table. He held his right hand behind his back. "You can sweep up the ashes from the hearth," said Wogan, who made no movement of any kind. The polite man came close to his side; Wogan let him come. The polite man stretched out his left hand towards Wogan's pocket.
As the swordsman drew back, Wogan swept his weapon round and slashed at the man upon his right. But the stroke was wide of its mark, and the big man struck at the sword with his stick, struck with all his might, so that Wogan's arm tingled from the wrist to the shoulder. That, however, was the least part of the damage the stick did. It broke Wogan's sword short off at the hilt.
There was only one acquaintance who had met and spoken with him, and that by the best of good fortune was Harry Whittington, the idler who took his banishment and his King's misfortunes with an equally light heart, and gave never a thought at all to anything weightier than a gamecock. Wogan's spirits revived. He had not yet come to the end of his luck.
She stood rigid like one paralysed; then she swayed round and fell in a swoon upon the floor. And as she fell, something bright slipped from her hand and dropped at Wogan's feet. He picked it up. It was a stiletto. He stood looking down at the childish figure with a queer compassionate smile upon his face. "She could love," said he; "yes, she could love."
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