Wogan jumped down from his box and ran to the carriage-door.

"Her Highness is ill?" he cried in suspense.

"Not the least bit in the world," returned Clementina, whose voice for
once in a way jarred upon Wogan's ears. Nothing short of a positive
sickness could justify the delay.

"What is it, then?" he asked curtly, almost roughly, of Mrs. Misset.

"You carried a packet for her Highness. It is left behind at the
tavern."

Wogan stamped impatiently on the ground.

"And for this, for a petticoat or two, you hinder us," he cried in a
heat. "There's no petticoat in the world, though it were so stiff with
gold that it stood on end of itself, that's worth a single second of the
next forty-eight hours."

"But it contains her Highness's jewels."

Wogan's impatience became an exasperation. Were all women at heart,
then, no better than Indian squaws? A string of beads outweighed the
sacrifices of friends and the chance of a crown! There was a blemish in
his idol, since at all costs she must glitter. Wogan, however, was the
master here.

"Her Highness must lose her jewels," he said roughly, and was turning
away when her Highness herself spoke.

"You are unjust, my friend," she said. "I would lose them very
willingly, were there a chance no one else would discover them. But
there's no chance. The woman of the tavern will find the bundle, will
open it; very likely she has done so already. We shall have all
Innspruck on our heels in half an hour;" and for the first time that
night Wogan heard her voice break, and grieved to know that the tears
were running down her cheeks. He called to O'Toole,-"Ride back to the tavern! Bring the packet without fail!"