"It makes a gateway of the road." Clementina turned.

The wall was perhaps ten yards behind them.
"A gateway," said she, "through which we have passed." "The gateway of Italy," answered Wogan; and he drew the lash once or twice across the pony's back and so was silent.

Clementina looked at his set and cheerless face, cheerless as that chill morning, and she too was silent.

She looked back along the road which she had traversed through snow and sunshine and clear nights of stars; she saw it winding out from the gates of Innspruck over the mountains, above the foaming river, and after a while she said very wistfully,-- "There are worse lives than a gipsy's." "Are there any better ?" answered Wogan.
So this was what Mr.Wogan's fine project had come to.

He remembered another morning when the light had welled over the hills, sunless and clear and cold, on the road to Bologna,--the morning of the day when he had first conceived the rescue of Clementina.