nature of the letter which he had burned, and any name which might give
a clue to the secret of his enterprise.

The Count Otto listened with his eyes as well as his ears; he hung upon
the words, shuddering at each danger that sprang upon Wogan, exclaiming
in wonder at the shift by which he escaped from it, and at times he
looked over towards his books with a glance of veritable dislike.

"To feel the blood run hot in one's veins, to be bedfellows with peril,
to go gallantly forward hand in hand with endeavour," he mused and broke
off. "See, I own a sword, being a gentleman. But it is a toy, an
ornament; it stands over there in the corner from day to day, and my
servants clean it from rust as they will. Now you, sir, I suppose--"

"My horse and my sword, Count," said Wogan, "when the pinch comes, they
are one's only servants. It would be an ill business if I did not see to
their wants."

The old man was silent for a while. Then he said timidly, "It was for a
woman, no doubt, that you ran this hazard to-night?"

"For a woman, yes."

The Count folded his hands and leaned forward.

"Sir, a woman is a strange inexplicable thing to me. Their words, their
looks, their graceful, delicate shapes, the motives which persuade them,
the thoughts which their eyes conceal,--all these qualities make them
beings of another world to me. I do envy men at times who can stand
beside them, talk with them without fear, be intimate with them, and