He did not, however, offer to help her to alight.
"This is your lodging ?" she asked.
"No," said he, "the King's;" and the woman shrank suddenly back amongst her cushions.

In a moment, however, her face was again at the door.
"Then who was he,--my postillion ?" "Your postillion ?" asked Whittington, glancing at the servant who held the horses.
"Yes, the tall man who looked as if he should have been a scholar and had twisted himself all awry into a soldier.

You must have passed him in the hall." Whittington stared at her.

Then he burst again into a laugh.
"Your postillion, was he?
That's the oddest thing," and he lowered his voice.

"Your postillion was Mr.Charles Wogan, who comes from Rome post-haste with the Pope's procuration for the marriage.