ugh to deprive him of his last possibility of
doubt. He had seen the Chevalier de St. George, his King, sitting apart
in a little open space, and over against him a short squarish man, dusty
as Wogan himself, who stood and sullenly waited. It was Sir John Hay,
the man who had been sent to fetch the Princess Clementina privately to
Bologna, and here he now was back at Bologna and alone.

Wogan had counted much upon this marriage, more indeed than any of his
comrades. It was to be the first step of the pedestal in the building up
of a throne. It was to establish in Europe a party for James Stuart as
strong as the party of Hanover. But so much was known to everyone in
that room; to Wogan the marriage meant more. For even while he found
himself muttering over and over with dry lips, as white and exhausted he
leaned against the door, Clementina's qualifications,--"Daughter of the
King of Poland, cousin to the Emperor and to the King of Portugal, niece
to the Electors of Treves, Bavaria, and Palatine,"--the image of the
girl herself rose up before his eyes and struck her titles from his
thoughts. She was the chosen woman, chosen by him out of all Europe--and
lost by John Hay!

He remembered very clearly at that moment his first meeting with her.
He had travelled from court to court in search of the fitting wife, and
had come at last to the palace at Ohlau in Silesia. It was in the dusk
of the evening, and as he was ushered into the great stone hall, hung
about and carpeted with barbaric skins, he had seen standing by the
blazing wood fire in the huge chimney a girl in a riding dress. She
raised her head, and the firelight struck upwards on her face, adding a
warmth to its bright colours and a dancing light to the depths of her
dark eyes. Her hair was drawn backwards from her forehead, and the
frank, sweet face revealed to him from the broad forehead to the rounded
chin told him that here was one who joined to a royal dignity the simple
nature of a peasant girl who works in the fields and knows more of
animals than of mankind. Wogan was back again in that stone hall when
the voice of the Chevalier with its strong French accent broke in upon
his vision.

"Well, we will hear the story. Well, you left Ohlau with the Princess
and her mother and a mile-long train of servants in spite of my commands
of secrecy."

There was more anger and less despondency than was often heard in his
voice. Wogan raised himself again on tiptoes an