"Fortune is kind to us both, madam," said Wogan, with a bow. "My horse
is lamed, as you see. I will be your charioteer, for I too am in a
desperate hurry to reach Bologna."

Immediately the lady drew back.

"Oh!" she said with a start, looking at Wogan.

Wogan looked at her.

"Ah!" said he, thoughtfully.

They eyed each other for a moment, each silently speculating what the
other was doing alone at this hour and in such a haste to reach Bologna.

"You are English?" she said with a great deal of unconcern, and she
asked in English. That _she_ was English, Wogan already knew from her
accent. His Italian, however, was more than passable, and he was a wary
man by nature as well as by some ten years' training in a service where
wariness was the first need, though it was seldom acquired. He could
have answered "No" quite truthfully, being Irish. He preferred to answer
her in Italian as though he had not understood.

"I beg your pardon. Yes, I will drive you to Bologna if the landlord
will swear to look after my horse." And he was very precise in his
directions.

The landlord swore very readily. His anxiety to be rid of his vociferous
guest and to get back to bed was extreme. Wogan climbed into the
postillion's saddle, describing the while such remedies as he desired