The landlord swore very readily. His anxiety to be rid of his vociferous
guest and to get back to bed was extreme. Wogan climbed into the
postillion's saddle, describing the while such remedies as he desired
to be applied to the sprained leg.
"The horse is a favourite?" asked the lady.
"Madam," said Wogan, with a laugh, "I would not lose that horse for all
the world, for the woman I shall marry will ride on it into my city of
dreams."
The lady stared, as she well might. She hesitated with her foot upon the
step.
"Is he sober?" she asked of the landlord.
"Madam," said the landlord, unabashed, "in this district he is nicknamed
the water drinker."
"You know him, then? He is Italian?"
"He is more. He is of Tuscany."
The landlord had never seen Wogan in his life before, but the lady
seemed to wish some assurance on the point, so he gave it. He shut the
carriage door, and Wogan cracked his whip.
The postillion's desires were of a piece with the lady's. They raced
across the valley, and as they climbed the slope beyond, the sun came
over the crests. One moment the dew upon the grass was like raindrops,
the next it shone like polished jewels. The postillion shouted a welcome
to the sun, and the lady proceeded to breakfast in her carriage. Wogan
had to snatch a meal as best he could while the horses were changed at
the posting stage. The lady would not wait, and Wogan for his part was
used to a light fare. He drove into Bologna that afternoon.
The lady put her head from the window and called out the name of a
street. Her postillion, however, paid no heed: he seemed suddenly to
have grown deaf; he whipped up his horses, shouted encouragements to
them and warnings to the pedestrians on the roads. The carriage rocked
round corners and bounced over the uneven stones. Wogan had clean
forgotten the fragility of the traveller within. He saw men going busily
about, talking in groups and standing alone, and all with consternation
upon their faces. The quiet streets were alive with them. Something had
happened that day in Bologna,--some catastrophe. Or news had come that
day,--bad news. Wogan did not stop to inquire. He drove at a gallop
straight to a long white house which fronted the street. The green
latticed shutters were closed against the sun, but there were servants
about the doorway, and in their aspect, too, there was something of
disorder. Wogan called to one of them, jumped down from his saddle, and
ran through the open doorway into a great hall with frescoed walls all
ruined by neglect. At the back of the hall a marble staircase, guarded
by a pair of marble lions, ran up to a landing and divided. Wogan set
foot on the staircase and heard an exclamation of surprise. He looked
up. A burly, good-humoured man in the gay embroideries of a courtier was
descending towards him.