Wogan climbed into the postillion's saddle, describing the while such remedies as he desired to be applied to the sprained leg.
"The horse is a favourite ?" asked the lady.
"Madam," said Wogan, with a laugh, "I would not lose that horse for all the world, for the woman I shall marry will ride on it into my city of dreams." The lady stared, as she well might.

She hesitated with her foot upon the step.
"Is he sober ?" she asked of the landlord.
"Madam," said the landlord, unabashed, "in this district he is nicknamed the water drinker." "You know him, then?
He is Italian ?" "He is more.

He is of Tuscany." The landlord had never seen Wogan in his life before, but the lady seemed to wish some assurance on the point, so he gave it.

He shut the carriage door, and Wogan cracked his whip.
The postillion's desires were of a piece with the lady's.

They raced across the valley, and as they climbed the slope beyond, the sun came over the crests.