The landlord, the lady, and Mr. Charles Wogan were all three, it
seemed, in luck's way that September morning of the year 1719.
Wogan was not surprised, his luck for the moment was altogether in,
so that even when his horse stumbled and went lame at a desolate
part of the road from Florence to Bologna, he had no doubt but that
somehow fortune would serve him. His horse stepped gingerly on for
a few yards, stopped, and looked round at his master. Wogan and his
horse were on the best of terms. "Is it so bad as that?" said he,
and dismounting he gently felt the strained leg. Then he took the
bridle in his hand and walked forward, whistling as he walked.
General
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