They sat for awhile silent.

Then Clementina came back to her first question.
"Tell me of the King," she said very softly.

And as the carriage rolled down the mountain valley through the night and its wheels struck flashes of fire from the stones, Wogan drew a picture for her of the man she was to marry.

It was a relief to him to escape from the dangerous talk of the last hour, and he spoke fervently.

The poet in him had always been sensitive to the glamour of that wandering Prince; he had his countrymen's instinctive devotion for a failing cause.