Wogan at this moment felt in great need of companionship. He stole
across the lawn and looked into the room. An old gentleman with a
delicate face, who wore his own white hair, was bending over a book at a
desk. The room was warmly furnished, the door of the stove stood open,
and Wogan could see the logs blazing merrily. A chill wind swept across
the lawn, very drear and ghostly. Wogan crept closer to the window. A
great boar-hound rose at the old man's feet and growled; then the old
man rose, and crossing to the window pressed his face against the panes
with his hands curved about his eyes. Wogan stepped forward and stood
within the fan of light, spreading out his arms to show that he came as
a supplicant and with no ill intent.

The old man, with a word to his hound, opened the window.

"Who is it?" he asked, and with a thrill not of fear but of expectation
in his voice.

"A man wounded and in sore straits for his life, who would gladly sit
for a few minutes by your fire before he goes upon his way."

The old man stood aside, and Wogan entered the room. He was spattered
from head to foot with mud, his clothes were torn, his eyes sunken, his
face was of a ghastly pallor and marked with blood.

"I am the Chevalier Warner," said Wogan, "a gentleman of Ireland. You
will pardon me. But I have gone through so much these last three nights
that I can barely stand;" and dropping into a chair he dragged it up to
the door of the stove, and crouched there shivering.