the lady I shall marry will
come riding some sunrise on my black horse across the plain and into my
city of dreams. And she has not."

"Ah," said Clementina, "here's a subterfuge, my friend. The lady you
shall marry, you say. But tell me this! Has the lady you love ridden on
your black horse into your city of dreams?"

"No," said Wogan; "for there is no lady whom I love." There Wogan should
have ended, but he added rather sadly, "Nor is there like to be."

"Then I am sure," said Clementina.

"Sure that I speak truth?"

"No, sure that you mislead me. It is not kind; for here perhaps I might
give you some small token of my gratitude, would you but let me. Oh, it
is no matter. I shall find out who the lady is. You need not doubt it. I
shall set my wits and eyes to work. There shall be marriages when I am
Queen. I will find out!"

Wogan's face was not visible in the darkness; but he spoke quickly and
in a startled voice,--

"That you must never do. Promise that you never will! Promise me that
you will never try;" and again Gaydon stirred in his corner.

Clementina made no answer to the passionate words. She did not promise,
but she drew a breath, and then from head to foot she shivered. Wogan
dared not repeat his plea for a promise, but he felt that though she had
not given it, none the less she would keep it. They sat for awhile
silent. Then Clementina came back to her first question.

"Tell me of the King," she said very softly. And as the carriage rolled
down the mountain valley through the night and its wheels struck flashes
of fire from the stones, Wogan drew a picture for her of the man she was
to marry. It was a relief to him to escape from the dangerous talk of
the last hour, and he spoke fervently. The poet in him had always been
sensitive to the glamour of that wandering Prince; he had his
countrymen's instinctive devotion for a failing cause. This was no
suitable moment for dwelling upon the defects and weaknesses. Wogan told
her the story of the campaign in Scotland, of the year's residence in
Avignon. He spoke most burningly. A girl would no doubt like to hear of
her love's achievements; and if James Stuart had not so many to his name
as a man could wish, that was merely because chance had served him ill.
So a fair tale was told, not to be found in any history book, of a
night attack in Scotland and how the Chevalier de St. George, surprised
and already to all purposes a prisoner, forced a way alone t