_ THE SEVENTH CHRONICLE
HOW HE CAME TO SHADOW VALLEY
Rodriguez still believed it to be the duty of any Christian man to
kill Morano. Yet, more than comfort, more than dryness, he missed
Morano's cheerful chatter, and his philosophy into which all
occasions so easily slipped. Upon his first day's journey all was
new; the very anemones kept him company; but now he made the
discovery that lonely roads are long.
When he had suggested food or rest Morano had fallen in with his
wishes; when he had suggested winning a castle in vague wars
Morano had agreed with him. Now he had dismissed Morano and had
driven him away at the rapier's point. There was no one now either
to cook his food or to believe in the schemes his ambition made.
There was no one now to speak of the wars as the natural end of
the journey. Alone in the rain the wars seemed far away and
castles hard to come by. The unromantic rain in which no dreams
thrive fell on and on.
The village of Lowlight was some way behind him, as he went with
mournful thoughts through the drizzling rain, when he caught the
smell of bacon. He looked for a house but the plain was bare
except for small bushes. He looked up wind, which was blowing from
the west, whence came the unmistakable smell of bacon: and there
was a small fire smoking greyly against a bush; and the fat figure
crouching beside it, although the face was averted, was clearly
none but Morano. And when Rodriguez saw that he was tenderly
holding the infamous frying-pan, the very weapon that had done the
accursed deed, then he almost felt righteous anger; but that
frying-pan held other memories too, and Rodriguez felt less fury
than what he thought he felt. As for killing Morano, Rodriguez
believed, or thought he believed, that he was too far from the
road for it to be possible to overtake him to mete out his just
punishment. As for the bacon, Rodriguez scorned it and marched on
down the road. Now one side of the frying-pan was very hot, for it
was tilted a little and the lard had run sideways. By tilting it
back again slowly Morano could make the fat run back bit by bit
over the heated metal, and whenever it did so it sizzled. He now
picked up the frying-pan and one log that was burning well and
walked parallel with Rodriguez. He was up-wind of him, and
whenever the bacon-fat sizzled Rodriguez caught the smell of it. A
small matter to inspire thoughts; but Rodriguez had eaten nothing
since the morning before, and ideas surged through his head; and
though they began with moral indignation they adapted themselves
more and more to hunger, until there came the idea that since his
money had bought the bacon the food was rightfully his, and he had
every right to eat it wherever he found it. So much can slaves
sometimes control the master, and the body rule the brain.
So Rodriguez suddenly turned and strode up to Morano. "My bacon,"
he said.
"Master," Morano said, for it was beginning to cool, "let me make
another small fire."
"Knave, call me not master," said Rodriguez.
Morano, who knew when speech was good, was silent now, and blew on
the smouldering end of the log he carried and gathered a handful
of twigs and shook the rain off them; and soon had a small fire
again, warming the bacon. He had nothing to say which bacon could
not say better. And when Rodriguez had finished up the bacon he
carefully reconsidered the case of Morano, and there were points
in it which he had not thought of before. He reflected that for
the execution of knaves a suitable person was provided. He should
perhaps give Morano up to la Garda. His next thought was where to
find la Garda. And easily enough another thought followed that
one, which was that although on foot and still some way behind
four of la Garda were trying to find him. Rodriguez' mind, which
was looking at life from the point of view of a judge, changed
somewhat at this thought. He reflected next that, for the
prevention of crime, to make Morano see the true nature of his
enormity so that he should never commit it again might after all
be as good as killing him. So what we call his better nature, his
calmer judgment, decided him now to talk to Morano and not to kill
him: but Morano, looking back upon this merciful change, always
attributed it to fried bacon.
"Morano," said Rodriguez' better nature, "to offend the laws of
Chivalry is to have against you the swords of all true men."
"Master," Morano said, "that were dreadful odds."
"And rightly," said Rodriguez.
"Master," said Morano, "I will keep those laws henceforth. I may
cook bacon for you when you are hungry, I may brush the dust from
your cloak, I may see to your comforts. This Chivalry forbids none
of that. But when I see anyone trying to kill you, master; why,
kill you he must, and welcome."
"Not always," said Rodriguez somewhat curtly, for it struck him
that Morano spoke somehow too lightly of sacred things.
"Not always?" asked Morano.
"No," said Rodriguez.
"Master, I implore you tell me," said Morano, "when they may kill
you and when they may not, so that I may never offend again."
Rodriguez cast a swift glance at him but found his face so full of
puzzled anxiety that he condescended to do what Morano had asked,
and began to explain to him the rudiments of the laws of Chivalry.
"In the wars," he said, "you may defend me whoever assails me, or
if robbers or any common persons attack me, but if I arrange a
meeting with a gentleman, and any knave basely interferes, then is
he damned hereafter as well as accursed now; for, the laws of
Chivalry being founded on true religion, the penalty for their
breach is by no means confined to this world."
"Master," replied Morano thoughtfully, "if I be not damned already
I will avoid those fires of Hell; and none shall kill you that you
have not chosen to kill you, and those that you choose shall kill
you whenever you have a mind."
Rodriguez opened his lips to correct Morano but reflected that,
though in his crude and base-born way, he had correctly
interpreted the law so far as his mind was able.
So he briefly said "Yes," and rose and returned to the road,
giving Morano no order to follow him; and this was the last
concession he made to the needs of Chivalry on account of the sin
of Morano. Morano gathered up the frying-pan and followed
Rodriguez, and when they came to the road he walked behind him in
silence.
For three or four miles they walked thus, Morano knowing that he
followed on sufferance and calling no attention to himself with
his garrulous tongue. But at the end of an hour the rain lifted;
and with the coming out of the sun Morano talked again.
"Master," he said, "the next man that you choose to kill you, let
him be one too base-born to know the tricks of the rapier, too
ignorant to do aught but wish you well, some poor fat fool over
forty who shall be too heavy to elude your rapier's point and too
elderly for it to matter when you kill him at your Chivalry, the
best of life being gone already at forty-five."
"There is timber here," said Rodriguez. "We will have some more
bacon while you dry my cloak over a fire."
Thus he acknowledged Morano again for his servant but never
acknowledged that in Morano's words he had understood any poor
sketch of Morano's self, or that the words went to his heart.
"Timber, Master?" said Morano, though it did not need Rodriguez to
point out the great oaks that now began to stand beside their
journey, but he saw that the other matter was well and thus he
left well alone.
Rodriguez waved an arm towards the great trees. "Yes, indeed,"
said Morano, and began to polish up the frying-pan as he walked.
Rodriguez, who missed little, caught a glimpse of tears in
Morano's eyes, for all that his head was turned downward over the
frying-pan; yet he said nothing, for he knew that forgiveness was
all that Morano needed, and that he had now given him: and it was
much to give, reflected Rodriguez, for so great a crime, and
dismissed the matter from his mind.
And now their road dipped downhill, and they passed a huge oak and
then another. More and more often now they met these solitary
giants, till their view began to be obscured by them. The road
dwindled till it was no better than a track, the earth beside it
was wild and rocky; Rodriguez wondered to what manner of land he
was coming. But continually the branches of some tree obscured his
view and the only indication he had of it was from the road he
trod, which seemed to tell him that men came here seldom. Beyond
every huge tree that they passed as they went downhill Rodriguez
hoped to get a better view, but always there stood another to
close the vista. It was some while before he realised that he had
entered a forest. They were come to Shadow Valley.
The grandeur of this place, penetrated by shafts of sunlight,
coloured by flashes of floating butterflies, filled by the chaunt
of birds rising over the long hum of insects, lifted the fallen
spirits of Rodriguez as he walked on through the morning.
He still would not have exchanged his rose for the whole forest;
but in the mighty solemnity of the forest his mourning for the
lady that he feared he had lost no longer seemed the only solemn
thing: indeed, the sombre forest seemed well attuned to his mood;
and what complaint have we against Fate wherever this is so. His
mood was one of tragic loss, the defeat of an enterprise that his
hopes had undertaken, to seize victory on the apex of the world,
to walk all his days only just outside the edge of Paradise, for
no less than that his hopes and his first love promised each
other; and then he walked despairing in small rain. In this mood
Fate had led him to solemn old oaks standing huge among shadows;
and the grandeur of their grey grip on the earth that had been
theirs for centuries was akin to the grandeur of the high hopes he
had had, and his despair was somehow soothed by the shadows. And
then the impudent birds seemed to say "Hope again."
They walked for miles into the forest and lit a fire before noon,
for Rodriguez had left Lowlight very early. And by it Morano
cooked bacon again and dried his master's cloak. They ate the
bacon and sat by the fire till all their clothes were dry, and
when the flames from the great logs fell and only embers glowed
they sat there still, with hands spread to the warmth of the
embers; for to those who wander a fire is food and rest and
comfort. Only as the embers turned grey did they throw earth over
their fire and continue their journey. Their road grew smaller and
the forest denser.
They had walked some miles from the place where they lit their
fire, when a somewhat unmistakable sound made Rodriguez look ahead
of him. An arrow had struck a birch tree on the right side, ten or
twelve paces in front of him; and as he looked up another struck
it from the opposite side just level with the first; the two were
sticking in it ten feet or so from the ground. Rodriguez drew his
sword. But when a third arrow went over his head from behind and
struck the birch tree, whut! just between the other two, he
perceived, as duller minds could have done, that it was a hint,
and he returned his sword and stood still. Morano questioned his
master with his eyes, which were asking what was to be done next.
But Rodriguez shrugged his shoulders: there was no fighting with
an invisible foe that could shoot like that. That much Morano
knew, but he did not know that there might not be some law of
Chivalry that would demand that Rodriguez should wave his sword in
the air or thrust at the birch tree until someone shot him. When
there seemed to be no such rule Morano was well content. And
presently men came quietly on to the road from different parts of
the wood. They were dressed in brown leather and wore leaf-green
hats, and round each one's neck hung a disk of engraved copper.
They came up to the travellers carrying bows, and the leader said
to Rodriguez:
"Senor, all travellers here bring tribute to the King of Shadow
Valley," at the mention of whom all touched hats and bowed their
heads. "What do you bring us?"
Rodriguez thought of no answer; but after a moment he said, for
the sake of loyalty: "I know one king only."
"There is only one king in Shadow Valley," said the bowman.
"He brings a tribute of emeralds," said another, looking at
Rodriguez' scabbard. And then they searched him and others search
Morano. There were eight or nine of them, all in their leaf-green
hats, with ribbons round their necks of the same colour to hold
the copper disks. They took a gold coin from Morano and grey
greasy pieces of silver. One of them took his frying-pan; but he
looked so pitifully at them as he said simply, "I starve," that
the frying-pan was restored to him.
They unbuckled Rodriguez' belt and took from him sword and
scabbard and three gold pieces from his purse. Next they found the
gold piece that was hanging round his neck, still stuffed inside
his clothes where he had put it when he was riding. Having
examined it they put it back inside his clothes, while the leader
rebuckled his sword-belt about his waist and returned him his
three gold-pieces.
Others returned his money to Morano. "Master," said the leader,
bowing to Rodriguez, his green hat in hand, "under our King, the
forest is yours."
Morano was pleased to hear this respect paid to his master, but
Rodriguez was so surprised that he who was never curt without
reason found no more to say than "Why?"
"Because we are your servants," said the other.
"Who are you?" asked Rodriguez.
"We are the green bowmen, master," he said, "who hold this forest
against all men for our King."
"And who is he?" said Rodriguez.
And the bowman answered: "The King of Shadow Valley," at which the
others all touched hats and bowed heads again. And Rodriguez
seeing that the mystery would grow no clearer for any information
to be had from them said: "Conduct me to your king."
"That, master, we cannot do," said the chief of the bowmen. "There
be many trees in this forest, and behind any one of them he holds
his court. When he needs us there is his clear horn. But when men
need him who knows which shadow is his of all that lie in the
forest?" Whether or not there was anything interesting in the
mystery, to Rodriguez it was merely annoying; and finding it grew
no clearer he turned his attention to shelter for the night, to
which all travellers give a thought at least once, between noon
and sunset.
"Is there any house on this road, senor," he said, "in which we
could rest the night?"
"Ten miles from here," said he, "and not far from the road you
take is the best house we have in the forest. It is yours, master,
for as long as you honour it."
"Come then," said Rodriguez, "and I thank you, senor."
So they all started together, Rodriguez with the leader going in
front and Morano following with all the bowmen. And soon the
bowmen were singing songs of the forest, hunting songs, songs of
the winter; and songs of the long summer evenings, songs of love.
Cheered by this merriment, the miles slipped by.
And Rodriguez gathered from the songs they sang something of what
they were and of how they lived in the forest, living amongst the
woodland creatures till these men's ways were almost as their
ways; killing what they needed for food but protecting the
woodland things against all others; straying out amongst the
villages in summer evenings, and always welcome; and owning no
allegiance but to the King of the Shadow Valley.
And the leader told Rodriguez that his name was Miguel Threegeese,
given him on account of an exploit in his youth when he lay one
night with his bow by one of the great pools in the forest, where
the geese come in winter. He said the forest was a hundred miles
long, lying mostly along a great valley, which they were crossing.
And once they had owned allegiance to kings of Spain, but now to
none but the King of the Shadow Valley, for the King of Spain's
men had once tried to cut some of the forest down, and the forest
was sacred.
Behind him the men sang on of woodland things, and of cottage
gardens in the villages: with singing and laughter they came to
their journey's end. A cottage as though built by peasants with
boundless material stood in the forest. It was a thatched cottage
built in the peasant's way but of enormous size. The leader
entered first and whispered to those within, who rose and bowed to
Rodriguez as he entered, twenty more bowmen who had been sitting
at a table. One does not speak of the banqueting-hall of a
cottage, but such it appeared, for it occupied more than half of
the cottage and was as large as the banqueting-hall of any castle.
It was made of great beams of oak, and high at either end just
under the thatch were windows with their little square panes of
bulging bluish glass, which at that time was rare in Spain. A
table of oak ran down the length of it, cut from a single tree,
polished and dark from the hands of many men that had sat at it.
Boar spears hung on the wall, great antlers and boar's tusks and,
carved in the oak of the wall and again on a high, dark chair that
stood at the end of the long table empty, a crown with oak leaves
that Rodriguez recognised. It was the same as the one that was cut
on his gold coin, which he had given no further thought to, riding
to Lowlight, and which the face of Serafina had driven from his
mind altogether. "But," he said, and then was silent, thinking to
learn more by watching than by talking. And his companions of the
road came in and all sat down on the benches beside the ample
table, and a brew was brought, a kind of pale mead, that they
called forest water. And all drank; and, sitting at the table,
watching them more closely than he could as he walked in the
forest, Rodriguez saw by the sunlight that streamed in low through
one window that on the copper disks they wore round their necks on
green ribbon the design was again the same. It was much smaller
than his on the gold coin but the same strange leafy crown. "Wear
it as you go through Shadow Valley," he now seemed to remember the
man saying to him who put it round his neck. But why? Clearly
because it was the badge of this band of men. And this other man
was one of them.
His eyes strayed back to the great design on the wall. "The crown
of the forest," said Miguel as he saw his eyes wondering at it,
"as you doubtless know, senor."
Why should he know? Of course because he bore the design himself.
"Who wears it?" said Rodriguez.
"The King of Shadow Valley."
Morano was without curiosity; he did not question good drink; he
sat at the table with a cup of horn in his hand, as happy as
though he had come to his master's castle, though that had not yet
been won.
The sun sank under the oaks, filling the hall with a ruddy glow,
turning the boar spears scarlet and reddening the red faces of the
merry men of the bow.
A dozen of the men went out; to relieve the guard in the forest,
Miguel explained. And Rodriguez learned that he had come through a
line of sentries without ever seeing one. Presently a dozen others
came in from their posts and unslung their bows and laid them on
pegs on the wall and sat down at the table. Whereat there were
whispered words and they all rose and bowed to Rodriguez. And
Rodriguez had caught the words "A prince of the forest." What did
it mean?
Soon the long hall grew dim, and his love for the light drew
Rodriguez out to watch the sunset. And there was the sun under
indescribable clouds, turning huge and yellow among the trunks of
the trees and casting glory munificently down glades. It set, and
the western sky became blood-red and lilac: from the other end of
the sky the moon peeped out of night. A hush came and a chill, and
a glory of colour, and a dying away of light; and in the hush the
mystery of the great oaks became magical. A blackbird blew a tune
less of this earth than of fairy-land.
Rodriguez wished that he could have had a less ambition than to
win a castle in the wars, for in those glades and among those oaks
he felt that happiness might be found under roofs of thatch. But
having come by his ambition he would not desert it.
Now rushlights were lit in the great cottage and the window of the
long room glowed yellow. A fountain fell in the stillness that he
had not heard before. An early nightingale tuned a tentative note.
"The forest is fair, is it not?" said Miguel.
Rodriguez had no words to say. To turn into words the beauty that
was now shining in his thoughts, reflected from the evening there,
was no easier than for wood to reflect all that is seen in the
mirror.
"You love the forest," he said at last.
"Master," said Miguel, "it is the only land in which we should
live our days. There are cities and roads but man is not meant for
them. I know not, master, what God intends about us; but in cities
we are against the intention at every step, while here, why, we
drift along with it."
"I, too, would live here always," said Rodriguez.
"The house is yours," said Miguel. And Rodriguez answered: "I go
tomorrow to the wars."
They turned round then and walked slowly back to the cottage, and
entered the candlelight and the loud talk of many men out of the
hush of the twilight. But they passed from the room at once by a
door on the left, and came thus to a large bedroom, the only other
room in the cottage.
"Your room, master," said Miguel Threegeese.
It was not so big as the hall where the bowmen sat, but it was a
goodly room. The bed was made of carved wood, for there were
craftsmen in the forest, and a hunt went all the way round it with
dogs and deer. Four great posts held a canopy over it: they were
four young birch-trees seemingly still wearing their bright bark,
but this had been painted on their bare timber by some woodland
artist. The chairs had not the beauty of the great ages of
furniture, but they had a dignity that the age of commerce has not
dreamed of. Each one was carved out of a single block of wood:
there was no join in them anywhere. One of them lasts to this day.
The skins of deer covered the long walls. There were great basins
and jugs of earthenware. All was forest-made. The very shadows
whispering among themselves in corners spoke of the forest. The
room was rude; but being without ornament, except for the work of
simple craftsmen, it had nothing there to offend the sense of
right of anyone entering its door, by any jarring conflict with
the purposes and traditions of the land in which it stood. All the
woodland spirits might have entered there, and slept--if spirits
sleep--in the great bed, and left at dawn unoffended. In fact that
age had not yet learned vulgarity.
When Miguel Threegeese left Morano entered.
"Master," he said, "they are making a banquet for you."
"Good," said Rodriguez. "We will eat it." And he waited to hear
what Morano had come to say, for he could see that it was more
than this.
"Master," said Morano, "I have been talking with the bowman. And
they will give you whatever you ask. They are good people, master,
and they will give you all things, whatever you asked of them."
Rodriguez would not show to his servant that it all still puzzled
him.
"They are very amiable men," he said.
"Master," said Morano, coming to the point, "that Garda, they will
have walked after us. They must be now in Lowlight. They have all
to-night to get new shoes on their horses. And to-morrow, master,
to-morrow, if we be still on foot..."
Rodriguez was thinking. Morano seemed to him to be talking sense.
"You would like another ride?" he said to Morano.
"Master," he answered, "riding is horrible. But the public
garrotter, he is a bad thing too." And he meditatively stroked the
bristles under his chin.
"They would give us horses?" said Rodriguez.
"Anything, master, I am sure of it. They are good people."
"They'll have news of the road by which they left Lowlight," said
Rodriguez reflectively. "They say la Garda dare not enter the
forest," Morano continued, "but thirty miles from here the forest
ends. They could ride round while we go through."
"They would give us horses?" said Rodriguez again.
"Surely," said Morano.
And then Rodriguez asked where they cooked the banquet, since he
saw that there were only two rooms in the great cottage and his
inquiring eye saw no preparations for cooking about the fireplace
of either. And Morano pointed through a window at the back of the
room to another cottage among the trees, fifty paces away. A red
glow streamed from its windows, growing strong in the darkening
forest.
"That is their kitchen, master," he said. "The whole house is
kitchen." His eyes looked eagerly at it, for, though he loved
bacon, he welcomed the many signs of a dinner of boundless
variety.
As he and his master returned to the long hall great plates of
polished wood were being laid on the table. They gave Rodriguez a
place on the right of the great chair that had the crown of the
forest carved on the back.
"Whose chair is that?" said Rodriguez.
"The King of Shadow Valley," they said.
"He is not here then," said Rodriguez.
"Who knows?" said a bowman.
"It is his chair," said another; "his place is ready. None knows
the ways of the King of Shadow Valley."
"He comes sometimes at this hour," said a third, "as the boar
comes to Heather Pool at sunset. But not always. None knows his
ways."
"If they caught the King," said another, "the forest would perish.
None loves it as he, none knows its ways as he, no other could so
defend it."
"Alas," said Miguel, "some day when he be not here they will enter
the forest." All knew whom he meant by they. "And the goodly trees
will go." He spoke as a man foretelling the end of the world; and,
as men to whom no less was announced, the others listened to him.
They all loved Shadow Valley.
In this man's time, so they told Rodriguez, none entered the
forest to hurt it, no tree was cut except by his command, and
venturous men claiming rights from others than him seldom laid axe
long to tree before he stood near, stepping noiselessly from among
shadows of trees as though he were one of their spirits coming for
vengeance on man.
All this they told Rodriguez, but nothing definite they told of
their king, where he was yesterday, where he might be now; and any
questions he asked of such things seemed to offend a law of the
forest.
And then the dishes were carried in, to Morano's great delight:
with wide blue eyes he watched the produce of that mighty estate
coming in through the doorway cooked. Boars' heads, woodcock,
herons, plates full of fishes, all manner of small eggs, a roe-
deer and some rabbits, were carried in by procession. And the men
set to with their ivory-handled knives, each handle being the
whole tusk of a boar. And with their eating came merriment and
tales of past huntings and talk of the forest and stories of the
King of Shadow Valley.
And always they spoke of him not only with respect but also with
the discretion, Rodriguez thought, of men that spoke of one who
might be behind them at that moment, and one who tolerated no
trifling with his authority. Then they sang songs again, such as
Rodriguez had heard on the road, and their merry lives passed
clearly before his mind again, for we live in our songs as no men
live in histories. And again Rodriguez lamented his hard ambition
and his long, vague journey, turning away twice from happiness;
once in the village of Lowlight where happiness deserted him, and
here in the goodly forest where he jilted happiness. How well
could he and Morano live as two of this band, he thought; leaving
all cares in cities: for there dwelt cares in cities even then.
Then he put the thought away. And as the evening wore away with
merry talk and with song, Rodriguez turned to Miguel and told him
how it was with la Garda and broached the matter of horses. And
while the others sang Miguel spoke sadly to him. "Master," he
said, "la Garda shall never take you in Shadow Valley, yet if you
must leave us to make your fortune in the wars, though your
fortune waits you here, there be many horses in the forest, and
you and your servant shall have the best."
"Tomorrow morning, senor?" said Rodriguez.
"Even so," said Miguel.
"And how shall I send them to you again?" said Rodriguez.
"Master, they are yours," said Miguel.
But this Rodriguez would not have, for as yet he only guessed what
claim at all he had upon Shadow Valley, his speculations being far
more concerned with the identity of the hidalgo that he had fought
the night before, how he concerned Serafina, who had owned the
rose that he carried: in fact his mind was busy with such studies
as were proper to his age. And at last they decided between them
on the house of a lowland smith, who was the furthest man that the
bowmen knew who was secretly true to their king. At his house
Rodriguez and Morano should leave the horses. He dwelt sixty miles
from the northern edge of the forest, and would surely give
Rodriguez fresh horses if he possessed them, for he was a true man
to the bowman. His name was Gonzalez and he dwelt in a queer green
house.
They turned then to listen a moment to a hunting song that all the
bowmen were singing about the death of a boar. Its sheer merriment
constrained them. Then Miguel spoke again. "You should not leave
the forest," he said sadly.
Rodriguez sighed: it was decided. Then Miguel told him of his
road, which ran north-eastward and would one day bring him out of
Spain. He told him how towns on the way, and the river Ebro, and
with awe and reverence he spoke of the mighty Pyrenees. And then
Rodriguez rose, for the start was to be at dawn, and walked
quietly through the singing out of the hall to the room where the
great bed was. And soon he slept, and his dreams joined in the
endless hunt through Shadow Valley that was carved all round the
timbers of his bed.
All too soon he heard voices, voices far off at first, to which he
drew nearer and nearer; thus he woke grudgingly out of the deeps
of sleep. It was Miguel and Morano calling him.
When at length he reached the hall all the merriment of the
evening was gone from it but the sober beauty of the forest
flooded in through both windows with early sunlight and bird-song;
so that it had not the sad appearance of places in which we have
rejoiced, when we revisit them next day or next generation and
find them all deserted by dance and song.
Rodriguez ate his breakfast while the bowmen waited with their
bows all strung by the door. When he was ready they all set off in
the early light through the forest.
Rodriguez did not criticise his ambition; it sailed too high above
his logic for that; but he regretted it, as he went through the
beauty of the forest among these happy men. But we must all have
an ambition, and Rodriguez stuck to the one he had. He had
another, but it was an ambition with weak wings that could not
come to hope. It depended upon the first. If he could win a castle
in the wars he felt that he might even yet hope towards Lowlight.
Little was said, and Rodriguez was all alone with his thoughts. In
two hours they met a bowman holding two horses. They had gone
eight miles.
"Farewell to the forest," said Miguel to Rodriguez. There was
almost a query in his voice. Would Rodriguez really leave them? it
seemed to say.
"Farewell," he answered.
Morano too had looked sideways towards his master, seeming almost
to wonder what his answer would be: when it came he accepted it
and walked to the horses. Rodriguez mounted: willing hands helped
up Morano. "Farewell," said Miguel once more. And all the bowmen
shouted "Farewell."
"Make my farewell," said Rodriguez, "to the King of Shadow
Valley."
A twig cracked in the forest.
"Hark," said Miguel. "Maybe that was a boar."
"I cannot wait to hunt," said Rodriguez, "for I have far to go."
"Maybe," said Miguel, "it was the King's farewell to you."
Rodriguez looked into the forest and saw nothing.
"Farewell," he said again. The horses were fresh and he let his
go. Morano lumbered behind him. In two miles they came to the edge
of the forest and up a rocky hill, and so to the plains again, and
one more adventure lay behind them. Rodriguez turned round once on
the high ground and took a long look back on the green undulations
of peace. The forest slept there as though empty of men.
Then they rode. In the first hour, easily cantering, they did ten
miles. Then they settled down to what those of our age and country
and occupation know as a hound-jog, which is seven miles an hour.
And after two hours they let the horses rest. It was the hour of
the frying-pan. Morano, having dismounted, stretched himself
dolefully; then he brought out all manner of meats. Rodriguez
looked wonderingly at them.
"For the wars, master," said Morano. To whatever wars they went,
the green bowmen seemed to have supplied an ample commissariat.
They ate. And Rodriguez thought of the wars, for the thought of
Serafina made him sad, and his rejection of the life of the forest
saddened him too; so he sought to draw from the future the comfort
that he could not get from the past.
They mounted again and rode again for three hours, till they saw
very far off on a hill a village that Miguel had told them was
fifty miles from the forest.
"We rest the night there," said Rodriguez pointing, though it was
yet seven or eight miles away.
"All the Saints be praised," said Morano.
They dismounted then and went on foot, for the horses were weary.
At evening they rode slowly into the village. At an inn whose
hospitable looks were as cheerfully unlike the Inn of the Dragon
and Knight as possible, they demanded lodging for all four. They
went first to the stable, and when the horses had been handed over
to the care of a groom they returned to the inn, and mine host and
Rodriguez had to help Morano up the three steps to the door, for
he had walked nine miles that day and ridden fifty and he was too
weary to climb the steps.
And later Rodriguez sat down alone to his supper at a table well
and variously laden, for the doors of mine hosts' larder were
opened wide in his honour; but Rodriguez ate sparingly, as do
weary men.
And soon he sought his bed. And on the old echoing stairs as he
and mine host ascended they met Morano leaning against the wall.
What shall I say of Morano? Reader, your sympathy is all ready to
go out to the poor, weary man. He does not entirely deserve it,
and shall not cheat you of it. Reader, Morano was drunk. I tell
you this sorry truth rather than that the knave should have
falsely come by your pity. And yet he is dead now over three
hundred years, having had his good time to the full. Does he
deserve your pity on that account? Or your envy? And to whom or
what would you give it? Well, anyhow, he deserved no pity for
being drunk. And yet he was thirsty, and too tired to eat, and
sore in need of refreshment, and had had no more cause to learn to
shun good wine than he had had to shun the smiles of princesses;
and there the good wine had been, sparkling beside him merrily.
And now, why now, fatigued as he had been an hour or so ago (but
time had lost its tiresome, restless meaning), now he stood firm
while all things and all men staggered.
"Morano," said Rodriguez as he passed that foolish figure, "we go
sixty miles to-morrow."
"Sixty, master?" said Morano. "A hundred: two hundred."
"It is best to rest now," said his master.
"Two hundred, master, two hundred," Morano replied.
And then Rodriguez left him, and heard him muttering his challenge
to distance still, "Two hundred, two hundred," till the old
stairway echoed with it.
And so he came to his chamber, of which he remembered little, for
sleep lurked there and he was soon with dreams, faring further
with them than my pen can follow. _