Clementina

"And he?" she interrupted,--"he died there. Well?"

"You know the laurel hedge by the sun-dial? There is an out-house where

the gardener keeps his tools. I found a spade there, and beneath that

laurel hedge I buried him."

Lady Featherstone rose to her feet. She spoke no word; she uttered no

cry; her face was white and terrible. 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."

He walked out of the house, led his horse back onto the road and mounted

it. The night was gathering; there were purple shadows upon the

Apennines. Wogan rode away alone.

Chapter 26 Epilogue Sir Charles Wogan had opportunities enough to appreciate in later years

the accuracy of Maria Vittoria's prophecy. "Here are two people

cross-mated," said she, and events bore her out. The jealousies of

courtiers no doubt had their share in the estrangement of that unhappy

couple, but that was no consolation to Wogan, who saw, within so short a

time of that journey into Italy, James separated from the chosen woman,

and the chosen woman herself seeking the seclusion of a convent. As his

reward he was made Governor of La Mancha in Spain, and no place could

have been found with associations more suitable to this Irishman who

turned his back upon his fortunes at Peri. At La Mancha he lived for

many years, writing a deal of Latin verse, and corresponding with many

distinguished men in England upon matters of the intellect. Matters of

the heart he left alone, and meddled with no more. Nor did any woman

ever ride on his black horse into his city of dreams. He lived and died

a bachelor. The memory of that week when he had rescued his Princess and

carried her through the snows was to the last too vivid in his thoughts.

The thunderous roll of the carriage down the slopes, the sparks

striking from the wheels, the sound of Clementina's voice singing softly

in the darkness of the carriage, the walk under the stars to Ala, the

coming of the dawn about that lonely hut, high-placed amongst the pines.

These recollections bore him company through many a solitary evening.

Somehow the world had gone awry. Clementina, withdrawn into her convent,

was, after all, "wasted," as he had sworn she should not be. James was

fallen upon a deeper melancholy, and diminished hopes. He himself was an

exile alone in his white patio in Spain. In only one point was Maria

Vittoria's prophecy at fault. She had spoken of two who were to find no

mates, and one of the two was herself. She married five years later.