Clementina

Wogan jumped down from his box and ran to the carriage-door.

"Her Highness is ill?" he cried in suspense.

"Not the least bit in the world," returned Clementina, whose voice for

once in a way jarred upon Wogan's ears. Nothing short of a positive

sickness could justify the delay.

"What is it, then?" he asked curtly, almost roughly, of Mrs. Misset.

"You carried a packet for her Highness. It is left behind at the

tavern."

Wogan stamped impatiently on the ground.

"And for this, for a petticoat or two, you hinder us," he cried in a

heat. "There's no petticoat in the world, though it were so stiff with

gold that it stood on end of itself, that's worth a single second of the

next forty-eight hours."

"But it contains her Highness's jewels."

Wogan's impatience became an exasperation. Were all women at heart,

then, no better than Indian squaws? A string of beads outweighed the

sacrifices of friends and the chance of a crown! There was a blemish in

his idol, since at all costs she must glitter. Wogan, however, was the

master here.

"Her Highness must lose her jewels," he said roughly, and was turning

away when her Highness herself spoke.

"You are unjust, my friend," she said. "I would lose them very

willingly, were there a chance no one else would discover them. But

there's no chance. The woman of the tavern will find the bundle, will

open it; very likely she has done so already. We shall have all

Innspruck on our heels in half an hour;" and for the first time that

night Wogan heard her voice break, and grieved to know that the tears

were running down her cheeks. He called to O'Toole,-"Ride back to the tavern! Bring the packet without fail!"

O'Toole galloped off, and Gaydon drove the carriage to the side of the

road. There was nothing to do but to wait, and they waited in silence,

counting up the chances. There could be no doubt that the landlady, if

once she discovered the jewels hidden away in a common packet of

clothing, must suspect the travellers who had left them behind. She

would be terrified by their value; she would be afraid to retain them

lest harm should come to her; and all Innspruck would be upon the

fugitives' heels. They waited for half an hour,--thirty minutes of gloom

and despair. Clementina wept over this new danger which her comrades

ran; Mrs. Misset wept for that her negligence was to blame; Gaydon sat

on the box in the falling snow with his arms crossed upon his breast,

and felt his head already loose upon his shoulders. The only one of the

party who had any comfort of that half-hour was Wogan. For he had been

wrong,--the chosen woman had no wish to glitter at all costs, though, to

be sure, she could not help glittering with the refulgence of her great

merits. His idol had no blemish. Wogan paced up and down the road, while

he listened for O'Toole's return, and that thought cheated the time for

him. At last he heard very faintly the sound of galloping hoofs below

him on the road. He ran back to Gaydon.