"It has no sheath."

Wogan was almost indignant at the suggestion that he would go so far as
to ask even his dearest friend for a sheath. Besides, he had a sheath,
and he fitted the knife into it.

"Now," said he, pleasantly, "all that I need is a sound, swift,
thoroughbred horse about six or seven years old."

Count Otto for the fourth time took up his lamp.

"Will you follow me?" he said for the fourth time.

Wogan followed the old man across the lawn and round a corner of the
house until he came to a long, low building surmounted by a cupola. The
building was the stable, and the Count Otto roused one of his grooms.

"Saddle me Flavia," said he. "Flavia is a mare who, I fancy, fulfils
your requirements."

Wogan had no complaint to make of her. She had the manners of a
courtier. It seemed, too, that she had no complaint to make of Mr.
Wogan. Count Otto laid his hand upon the bridle and led the mare with
her rider along a lane through a thicket of trees and to a small gate.

"Here, then, we part, Chevalier," said he. "No doubt to-morrow I shall
sit down at my table, knowing that I talked a deal of folly ill
befitting an old man. No doubt I shall be aware that my books are the
true happiness after all. But to-night--well, to-night I would fain be