manner most mysterious to Wogan, added to her gossamer appearance; and,
in a word, she seemed to him something too flowerlike for the world's
rough usage.

"I must have a postillion," she continued.

"Presently, madam," said the landlord, smiling with all a Tuscan
peasant's desire to please. "In a minute. In less than a minute."

He looked complacently about him as though at any moment now a crop of
postillions might be expected to flower by the roadside. The lady turned
from him with a stamp of the foot and saw that Wogan was curiously
regarding her carriage. A boy stood at the horses' heads, but his dress
and sleepy face showed that he had not been half an hour out of bed, and
there was no one else. Wogan was wondering how in the world she had
travelled as far as this inn. The lady explained.

"The postillion who drove me from Florence was drunk--oh, but drunk! He
rolled off his horse just here, opposite the door. See, I beat him," and
she raised the beribboned handle of a toy-like cane. "But it was no use.
I broke my cane over his back, but he would not get up. He crawled into
the passage where he lies."

Wogan had some ado not to smile. Neither the cane nor the hand which
wielded it would be likely to interfere even with a sober man's
slumbers.

"And I must reach Bologna to-day," she cried in an extreme agitation.
"It is of the last importance."