The blood rushed into Wogan's face at the sneer, but he bowed his head
to it, being much humbled by Origo's disclosures.
"This story I have told you," continued the Cardinal, "I will make bold
to tell to-morrow to her Highness."
"But you must also explain why the King lingers in Spain," Wogan
objected. "I am very certain of it. The Princess has her pride; she
will not marry a reluctant man."
"Well, that I cannot do," cried the Cardinal, now fairly exasperated.
"Pride! She has her pride! Is it to ruin a cause, this pride of hers? Is
it to wreck a policy?"
"No," cried Wogan, starting up. "I have a fortnight. I beg your Eminence
not to speak one word to her Highness until this fortnight is gone,
until the eve of the marriage in Bologna. Give me till then. I have a
hope there will be no need for us to speak at all."
The Cardinal shrugged his shoulders.
"You must do more than hope. Will you pledge your word to it?"
Here it seemed to Wogan was an occasion when a man must dare.
"Yes," he said, and so went out of the house. He had spoken under a
sudden inspiration; the Cardinal's words had shown him a way which with
careful treading might lead to his desired result. He went first to his
lodging, and ordered his servant Marnier to saddle his black horse. Then
he hurried again to O'Toole's lodging, and found his friend back from
the bookseller's indeed, but breathing very hard of a book which he slid
behind his back.
"I am to go on a journey," said Wogan, "and there's a delicate sort of
work I would trust to you."
O'Toole looked distantly at Wogan.
"Opus," said he, in a far-away voice.
"I want you to keep an eye on the little house in the garden--"
O'Toole nodded. "Hortus, hortus, hortum," said he, "horti--hortus,"
and he fingered the book at his back, "no, horti, horto, horto. Do you
know, my friend, that the difference between the second and fourth
declensions was solely invented by the grammarians for their own profit.
It is of no manner of use, and the most plaguy business that ever I
heard of."
"O'Toole," cried Wogan, with a bang of his fist, "you are no more
listening to me than this table."
At once O'Toole's face brightened, and with a shout of pride he reeled
out, "Mensa, mensa, mensam, mensae, mensae, mensa." Wogan sprang up in
a rage.