Mr. Wogan was silent.

“I think I understand,” she continued bitterly; “you thought, here’s a foolish girl, aflame for knights and monsters overthrown.  She cries for deeds, not statecraft.  Well, out of your many, you would toss her one, and call it the King’s.  You could afford the loss, and she, please God, would be content with it.”  She spoke with an extraordinary violence in a low, trembling voice, and she would not listen to Wogan’s stammered interruption.

“Very likely, too, the rest of your words to me was of a piece.  I was a girl, and girls are to have gallant speeches given to them like so many lollipops.  Oh, but you have hurt me beyond words.  I would not have thought I could have suffered so much pain!”

That last cry wrung Wogan’s heart.  She turned away from him with the tears brimming in her eyes.  It was this conjecture of hers which he had dreaded, which at all costs he must dispel.

“Do not believe it!” he exclaimed.  “Think!  Should I have been at so much pains to refrain from speech, if speech was what I had intended?”

“How should I know but what that concealment was part of the gallantry, a necessary preface to the pretty speeches?”

“Should I have urged your rescue on the King had I believed you what you will have it that I did,—­a mere witless girl to be pampered with follies?”

“Then you admit,” she cried, “you urged the King.”

“Should I have travelled over Europe to search for a wife and lit on you?  Should I have ridden to Ohlau and pestered your father till he yielded?  Should I have ridden across Europe to Strasbourg?  Should I have endangered my friends in the rush to Innspruck?  No, no, no!  From first to last you were the chosen woman.”

The vehemence and fire of sincerity with which he spoke had its effect on her.  She turned again towards him with a gleam of hopefulness in her face, but midway in the turn she stopped.

“You spoke to me words which I have not forgotten,” she said doubtfully.  “You said the King had need of me.  I will be frank, hoping that you will match my frankness.  On that morning when we climbed down the gorge, and ever since I cheered myself with that one thought.  The King had need of me.”

“Never was truer word spoken,” said Wogan, stoutly.

“Then why is the King in Spain?”

They had come back to the first question.  Wogan had no new answer to it.  He said,—­

“I do not know.”

For a moment or two Clementina searched his eyes.  It seemed in the end that she was satisfied he spoke the truth.  For she said in a voice of greater gentleness,—­

“Then I will acquaint you.  Will you walk with me for half a mile?”

Wogan bowed, and followed her out of the garden.  He could not think whither she was leading him, or for what purpose.  She walked without a word to him, he followed without a question, and so pacing with much dignity they came to the steps of a great house.  Then Clementina halted.