the posting stage. The lady would not wait, and Wogan for his part was
used to a light fare. He drove into Bologna that afternoon.

The lady put her head from the window and called out the name of a
street. Her postillion, however, paid no heed: he seemed suddenly to
have grown deaf; he whipped up his horses, shouted encouragements to
them and warnings to the pedestrians on the roads. The carriage rocked
round corners and bounced over the uneven stones. Wogan had clean
forgotten the fragility of the traveller within. He saw men going busily
about, talking in groups and standing alone, and all with consternation
upon their faces. The quiet streets were alive with them. Something had
happened that day in Bologna,--some catastrophe. Or news had come that
day,--bad news. Wogan did not stop to inquire. He drove at a gallop
straight to a long white house which fronted the street. The green
latticed shutters were closed against the sun, but there were servants
about the doorway, and in their aspect, too, there was something of
disorder. Wogan called to one of them, jumped down from his saddle, and
ran through the open doorway into a great hall with frescoed walls all
ruined by neglect. At the back of the hall a marble staircase, guarded
by a pair of marble lions, ran up to a landing and divided. Wogan set
foot on the staircase and heard an exclamation of surprise. He looked
up. A burly, good-humoured man in the gay embroideries of a courtier was
descending towards him.

"You?" cried the courtier. "Already?" and then laughed. He was the only
man whom Wogan had seen laugh since he drove into Bologna, and he drew a
great breath of hope.

"Then nothing has happened, Whittington? There is no bad news?"