up the stairs to bed. Other men of his age were now seated comfortably
by their own hearths, while he was hurrying about Europe, a vagabond
adventurer, risking his life for--and at once the reason why he was
risking his life rose up to convict him a grumbler.

The landlord led him into a room in the front of the house which held a
great canopied bed and little other furniture. There was not even a
curtain to the window. Wogan raised his candle and surveyed the dingy
walls.

"You have not spent much of your new paint on your guest-room, my
friend."

"Sir, you have not marked the door," said his host, reproachfully.

"True," said Wogan, with a yawn; "the door is admirably white."

"The frame of the door does not suffer in a comparison." The landlord
raised and lowered his candle that Wogan might see.

"I do not wish to be unjust to the frame of the door," said Wogan, and
he drew off his boots. The landlord bade his guest good-night and
descended the stairs.

Wogan, being a campaigner, was methodical even though lost in
reflection. He was reflecting now why in the world he should lately have
become sensible of loneliness; but at the same time he put the Prince's
letter beneath his pillow and a sheathed hunting-knife beside the
letter. He had always been lonely, and the fact had never troubled him;
he placed a chair on the left of the bed and his candle on the chair.