"To you, my friend," said she, "I give nothing. There is no need. But I ask for something. I [pg 301] would be in debt to you still deeper than I am. I ask for a handkerchief which I dropped from my shoulders one evening under the stars upon the road to Ala."
Wogan bowed to her without a word. He drew the handkerchief from his breast slowly.
"It is true," said he; "I have no right to it;" and he gave it back. But his voice showed that he was hurt.
"You do not understand," said she, with a great gentleness. "You have every right which the truest loyalty can confer. I ask you for this handkerchief, because I think at times to wear it in memory of a white stone on which I could safely set my foot, for the stone was not straw."
Wogan could not trust his voice to answer her. He took her hand to lift it to his lips.
"No," said she; "as at Innspruck, an honest handclasp, if you please."
Wogan joined his three companions in the road, and they stood together for a little, recounting to one another the incidents of the flight.
"Here's a great work ended," said Gaydon at last.
"We shall be historical," said O'Toole. "It is my one ambition. I want to figure in the history-books and be a great plague and nuisance to children at school. I would sooner be cursed daily by schoolboys than have any number of golden statues in galleries. It means the more solid reputation;" and then he became silent. Gaydon had, besides [pg 302] his joy at the rescue of Clementina, a private satisfaction that matters which were none of his business had had no uncomfortable issue. Misset, too, was thankful for that his wife had come safely to the journey's end. O'Toole alone had a weight upon his mind; and when Gaydon said, "Well, we may go to bed and sleep without alarms till sundown to-morrow," he remarked,—
"There's Jenny. It was on my account she ventured with us."