clothing for which Rodriguez searched the plain vainly was ready to
hand. No disguise was effective against la Garda, they had too many
suspicions, their skill was to discover disguises. But in the moment of
la Garda's triumph, when they had found out the disguise, when success
had lulled the suspicions for which they were infamous, then was the
time to trick la Garda. Rodriguez wondered; but the slow mind of Morano
was sure, and now he came to the point, the fruit of his hour's
thinking. Rodriguez should disguise himself as Morano. When la Garda
discovered that he was not the man he appeared to be, a study to which
they devoted their lives, their suspicions would rest and there would
be an end of it. And Morano should disguise himself as Rodriguez.
It was a new idea. Had Rodriguez been twice his age he would have
discarded it at once; for age is guided by precedent which, when
pursued, is a dangerous guide indeed. Even as it was he was critical,
for the novelty of the thing coming thus from his gross servant
surprised him as much as though Morano had uttered poetry of his own
when he sang, as he sometimes did, certain merry lascivious songs of
Spain that any one of the last few centuries knew as well as any of the
others.
And would not la Garda find out that he was himself, Rodriguez asked,
as quickly as they found out he was not Morano.
"That," said Morano, "is not the way of la Garda. For once let la Garda
come by a suspicion, such as that you, master, are but Morano, and they
will cling to it even to the last, and not abandon it until they needs
must, and then throw it away as it were in disgust and ride hence at
once, for they like not tarrying long near one who has seen them
mistaken."
"They will soon then come by another suspicion," said Rodriguez.
"Not so, master," answered Morano, "for those that are as suspicious as
la Garda change their suspicions but slowly. A suspicion is an old song
to them."
"Then," said Rodriguez, "I shall be hard set ever to show that I am not
you if they ever suspect I am."
"It will be hard, master," Morano answered; "but we shall do it, for we
shall have truth upon our side."
"How shall we disguise ourselves?" said Rodriguez.
"Master," said Morano, "when you came to our town none knew you and all
marked your clothes. As for me my fat body is better known than my
clothes, yet am I not too well known by la Garda, for, being an honest
man, whenever la Garda came I used to hide."
"You did well," said Rodriguez.
"Certainly I did well," said Morano, "for had they seen me they might,
on account of certain matters, have taken me to prison, and prison is
no place for an honest man."
"Let us disguise ourselves," said Rodriguez.
"Master," answered Morano, "the brain is greater than the stomach, and
now more than at any time we need the counsel of the brain; let us
therefore appease the clamours of the stomach that it be silent."
And he drew out from amongst his clothing a piece of sacking in which
was a mass of bacon and some lard, and unslung his huge frying-pan.
Rodriguez had entirely forgotten the need of food, but now the memory
of it had rushed upon him like a flood over a barrier, as soon as he
saw the bacon. And when they had collected enough of tiny inflammable
things, for it was a treeless plain, and Morano had made a fire, and
the odour of the bacon became perceptible, this memory was hugely
intensified.
"Let us eat while they eat, master," said Morano, "and plan while they
sleep, and disguise ourselves while they pursue."
And this they did: for after they had eaten they dug up earth and
gathered leaves with which to fill the gaps in Morano's garments when
they should hang on Rodriguez, they plucked a geranium with whose dye
they deepened Rodriguez' complexion, and with the sap from the stalk of
a weed Morano toned to a pallor the ruddy brown of his tough cheeks.
Then they changed clothes altogether, which made Morano gasp: and after
that nothing remained but to cut off the delicate black moustachios of
Rodriguez and to stick them to the face of Morano with the juice of
another flower that he knew where to find. Rodriguez sighed when he saw
them go. He had pictured ecstatic glances cast some day at those
moustachios, glances from under long eyelashes twinkling at evening
from balconies; and looking at them where they were now, he felt that
this was impossible.
For one moment Morano raised his head with an air, as it were preening
himself, when the new moustachios had stuck; but as soon as he saw, or
felt, his master's sorrow at their loss he immediately hung his head,
showing nothing but shame for the loss he had caused his master, or for
the impropriety of those delicate growths that so ill become his jowl.
And now they took the road again, Rodriguez with the great frying-pan
and cooking-pot; no longer together, but not too far apart for la Garda
to take them both at once, and to make the doubly false charge that
should so confound their errand. And Morano wore that old triumphant
sword, and carried the mandolin that was ever young.
They had not gone far when it was as Morano had said; for, looking
back, as they often did, to the spot where their road touched the
sky-line, they saw la Garda spurring, seven of them in their
unmistakable looped hats, very clear against the sky which a moment ago
seemed so fair.
When the seven saw the two they did not spare the dust; and first they
came to Morano.
"You," they said, "are Rodriguez Trinidad Fernandez, Concepcion
Henrique Maria, a Lord of the Valleys of Arguento Harez."
"No, masters," said Morano.
Oh but denials were lost upon la Garda.
Denials inflamed their suspicions as no other evidence could. Many a
man had they seen with his throat in the hands of the public garrotter;
and all had begun with denials who ended thus. They looked at the
mandolin, at the gay cloak, at the emeralds in the scabbard, for
wherever emeralds go there is evidence to identify them, until the
nature of man changes or the price of emeralds. They spoke hastily
among themselves.
"Without doubt," said one of them, "you are whom we said." And they
arrested Morano.
Then they spurred on to Rodriguez. "You are," they said, "as no man
doubts, one Morano, servant at the Inn of the Dragon and Knight, whose
good master is, as we allege, dead."
"Masters," answered Rodriguez, "I am but a poor traveller, and no
servant at any inn."
Now la Garda, as I have indicated, will hear all things except denials;
and thus to receive two within the space of two moments infuriated them
so fiercely that they were incapable of forming any other theory that
day except the one they held.
There are many men like this; they can form a plausible theory and
grasp its logical points, but take it away from them and destroy it
utterly before their eyes, and they will not so easily lash their tired
brains at once to build another theory in place of the one that is
ruined.
"As the saints live," they said, "you are Morano." And they arrested
Rodriguez too.
Now when they began to turn back by the way they had come Rodriguez
began to fear overmuch identification, so he assured la Garda that in
the next village ahead of them were those who would answer all
questions concerning him, as well as being the possessors of the finest
vintage of wine in the kingdom of Spain.
Now it may be that the mention of this wine soothed the anger caused in
the men of la Garda by two denials, or it may be that curiosity guided
them, at any rate they took the road that led away from last night's
sinister shelter, Rodriguez and five of la Garda. Two of them stayed
behind with Morano, undecided as yet which way to take, though looking
wistfully the way that that wine was said to be; and Rodriguez left
Morano to his own devices, in which he trusted profoundly.
Now Rodriguez knew not the name of the next village that they would
come to nor the names of any of the dwellers in it.
Yet he had a plan. As he went by the side of one of the horses he
questioned the rider.
"Can Morano write?" he said. La Garda laughed.
"Can Morano talk Latin?" he said. La Garda crossed themselves, all five
men. And after some while of riding, and hard walking for Rodriguez, to
whom they allowed a hand on a stirrup leather, there came in sight the
tops of the brown roofs of a village over a fold of the plain. "Is this
your village?" said one of his captors.
"Surely," answered Rodriguez.
"What is its name?" said one.
"It has many names," said Rodriguez.
And then another one of them recognised it from the shape of its roofs.
"It is Saint Judas-not-Iscariot," he said.
"Aye, so strangers call it," said Rodriguez.
And where the road turned round that fold of the plain, lolling a
little to its left in the idle Spanish air, they came upon the village
all in view. I do not know how to describe this village to you, my
reader, for the words that mean to you what it was are all the wrong
words to use. "Antique," "old-world," "quaint," seem words with which
to tell of it. Yet it had no antiquity denied to the other villages; it
had been brought to birth like them by the passing of time, and was
nursed like them in the lap of plains or valleys of Spain. Nor was it
quainter than any of its neighbours, though it was like itself alone,
as they had their characters also; and, though no village in the world
was like it, it differed only from the next as sister differs from
sister. To those that dwelt in it, it was wholly apart from all the
world of man.
Most of its tall white houses with green doors were gathered about the
market-place, in which were pigeons and smells and declining sunlight,
as Rodriguez and his escort came towards it, and from round a corner at
the back of it the short, repeated song of one who would sell a
commodity went up piercingly.
This was all very long ago. Time has wrecked that village now.
Centuries have flowed over it, some stormily, some smoothly, but so
many that, of the village Rodriguez saw, there can be now no more than
wreckage. For all I know a village of that name may stand on that same
plain, but the Saint Judas-not-Iscariot that Rodriguez knew is gone
like youth.
Queerly tiled, sheltered by small dense trees, and standing a little
apart, Rodriguez recognised the house of the Priest. He recognised it
by a certain air it had. Thither he pointed and la Garda rode. Again he
spoke to them. "Can Morano speak Latin?" he said.
"God forbid!" said la Garda.
They dismounted and opened a gate that was gilded all over, in a low
wall of round boulders. They went up a narrow path between thick ilices
and came to the green door. They pulled a bell whose handle was a
symbol carved in copper, one of the Priest's mysteries. The bell boomed
through the house, a tiny musical boom, and the Priest opened the door;
and Rodriguez addressed him in Latin. And the Priest answered him.
At first la Garda had not realised what had happened. And then the
Priest beckoned and they all entered his house, for Rodriguez had asked
him for ink. Into a room they came where a silver ink-pot was, and the
grey plume of the goose. Picture no such ink-pot, my reader, as they
sell to-day in shops, the silver no thicker than paper, and perhaps a
pattern all over it guaranteed artistic. It was molten silver well
wrought, and hollowed for ink. And in the hollow there was the magical
fluid, the stuff that rules the world and hinders time; that in which
flows the will of a king, to establish his laws for ever; that which
gives valleys unto new possessors; that whereby towers are held by
their lawful owners; that which, used grimly by the King's judge, is
death; that which, when poets play, is mirth for ever and ever.
No wonder la Garda looked at it in awe, no wonder they crossed
themselves again: and then Rodriguez wrote. In the silence that
followed the jaws of la Garda dropped, while the old Priest slightly
smiled, for he somewhat divined the situation already; and, being the
people's friend, he loved not la Garda more than he was bound by the
rules of his duty to man.
Then one of la Garda spoke, bringing back his confidence with a
bluster. "Morano has sold his soul to Satan," he said, "in exchange for
Satan's aid, and Satan has taught his tongue Latin and guides his
fingers in the affairs of the pen." And so said all la Garda, rejoicing
at finding an explanation where a moment ago there was none, as all men
at such times do: little it matters what the explanation be: does a man
in Sahara, who finds water suddenly, inquire with precision what its
qualities are?
And then the Priest said a word and made a sign, against which Satan
himself can only prevail with difficulty, and in presence of which his
spells can never endure. And after this Rodriguez wrote again. Then
were la Garda silent.
And at length the leader said, and he called on them all to testify,
that he had made no charge whatever against this traveller; moreover,
they had escorted him on his way out of respect for him, because the
roads were dangerous, and must now depart because they had higher
duties. So la Garda departed, looking before them with stern,
preoccupied faces and urging their horses on, as men who go on an
errand of great urgency. And Rodriguez, having thanked them for their
protection upon the road, turned back into the house and the two sat
down together, and Rodriguez told his rescuer the story of the
hospitality of the Inn of the Dragon and Knight.
Not as confession he told it, but as a pleasant tale, for he looked on
the swift demise of la Garda's friend, in the night, in the spidery
room, as a fair blessing for Spain, a thing most suited to the sweet
days of Spring. The spiritual man rejoiced to hear such a tale, as do
all men of peace to hear talk of violent deeds in which they may not
share. And when the tale was ended he reproved Rodriguez exceedingly,
explaining to him the nature of the sin of blood, and telling him that
absolution could be come by now, though hardly, but how on some future
occasion there might be none to be had. And Rodriguez listened with all
the gravity of expression that youth knows well how to wear while its
thoughts are nimbly dancing far away in fair fields of adventure or
love.
And darkness came down and lamps were carried in: and the reverend
father asked Rodriguez in what other affairs of violence his sword had
unhappily been. And Rodriguez knew well the history of that sword,
having gathered all that concerned it out of spoken legend or song. And
although the reverend man frowned minatorily whenever he heard of its
passings through the ribs of the faithful, and nodded as though his
head gave benediction when he heard of the destruction of God's most
vile enemy the infidel, and though he gasped a little through his lips
when he heard of certain tarryings of that sword, in scented gardens,
while Christian knights should sleep and their swords hang on the wall,
though sometimes even a little he raised his hands, yet he leaned
forward always, listening well, and picturing clearly as though his
gleaming eyes could see them, each doleful tale of violence or sin. And
so night came, and began to wear away, and neither knew how late the
hour was. And then as Rodriguez spoke of an evening in a garden, of
which some old song told well, a night in early summer under the
evening star, and that sword there as always; as he told of his
grandfather as poets had loved to tell, going among the scents of the
huge flowers, familiar with the dark garden as the moths that drifted
by him; as he spoke of a sigh heard faintly, as he spoke of danger
near, whether to body or soul; as the reverend father was about to
raise both his hands; there came a thunder of knockings upon the locked
green door.
THE THIRD CHRONICLE
HOW HE CAME TO THE HOUSE OF WONDER
It was the gross Morano. Here he had tracked Rodriguez, for where la
Garda goes is always known, and rumour of it remains long behind them,
like the scent of a fox. He told no tale of his escape more than a dog
does who comes home some hours late; a dog comes back to his master,
that is all, panting a little perhaps; someone perhaps had caught him
and he escaped and came home, a thing too natural to attempt to speak
of by any of the signs that a dog knows.
Part of Morano's method seems to have resembled Rodriguez', for just as
Rodriguez spoke Latin, so Morano fell back upon his own natural speech,
that he as it were unbridled and allowed to run free, the coarseness of
which had at first astounded, and then delighted, la Garda.
"And did they not suspect that you were yourself?" said Rodriguez.
"No, master," Morano answered, "for I said that I was the brother of
the King of Aragon."
"The King of Aragon!" Rodriguez said, going to the length of showing
surprise. "Yes, indeed, master." said Morano, "and they recognised me."
"Recognised you!" exclaimed the Priest.
"Indeed so," said Morano, "for they said that they were themselves the
Kings of Aragon; and so, father, they recognised me for their brother."
"That you should not have said," the Priest told Morano.
"Reverend father," replied Morano, "as Heaven shines, I believed that
what I said was true." And Morano sighed deeply. "And now," he said, "I
know it is true no more."
Whether he sighed for the loss of his belief in that exalted
relationship, or whether for the loss of that state of mind in which
such beliefs come easily, there was nothing in his sigh to show. They
questioned him further, but he said no more: he was here, there was no
more to say: he was here and la Garda was gone.
And then the reverend man brought for them a great supper, even at that
late hour, for many an hour had slipped softly by as he heard the sins
of the sword; and wine he set out, too, of a certain golden vintage,
long lost--I fear--my reader: but this he gave not to Morano lest he
should be once more, what the reverend father feared to entertain, that
dread hidalgo, the King of Aragon's brother. And after that, the stars
having then gone far on their ways, the old Priest rose and offered a
bed to Rodriguez; and even as he eyed Morano, wondering where to put
him, and was about to speak, for he had no other bed, Morano went to a
corner of the room and curled up and lay down. And by the time his host
had walked over to him and spoken, asking anxiously if he needed
nothing more, he was almost already asleep, and muttered in answer,
after having been spoken to twice, no more than "Straw, reverend
father, straw."
An armful of this the good man brought him, and then showed Rodriguez
to his room; and they can scarcely have reached it before Morano was
back in Aragon again, walking on golden shoes (which were sometimes
wings), proud among lesser princes.
As precaution for the night Rodriguez took one more glance at his
host's kind face; and then, with sword out of reach and an unlocked
door, he slept till the songs of birds out of the deeps of the ilices
made sleep any longer impossible.
The third morning of Rodriguez' wandering blazed over Spain like brass;
flowers and grass and sky were twinkling all together.
When Rodriguez greeted his host Morano was long astir, having awakened
with dawn, for the simpler and humbler the creature the nearer it is
akin to the earth and the sun. The forces that woke the birds and
opened the flowers stirred the gross lump of Morano, ending his sleep
as they ended the nightingale's song.
They breakfasted hurriedly and Rodriguez rose to depart, feeling that
he had taken hospitality that had not been offered. But against his
departure was the barrier of all the politeness of Spain. The house was
his, said his host, and even the small grove of ilices.
If I told you half of the things that the reverend man said, you would
say: "This writer is affected. I do not like all this flowery mush." I
think it safer, my reader, not to tell you any of it. Let us suppose
that he merely said, "Quite all right," and that when Rodriguez thanked
him on one knee he answered, "Not at all;" and that so Rodriguez and
Morano left. If here it miss some flash of the fair form of Truth it is
the fault of the age I write for.
The road again, dust again, birds and the blaze of leaves, these were
the background of my wanderers, until the eye had gone as far as the
eye can roam, and there were the tips of some far pale-blue mountains
that now came into view.
They were still in each other's clothes; but the village was not behind
them very far when Morano explained, for he knew the ways of la Garda,
that having arrested two men upon this road, they would now arrest two
men each on all the other roads, in order to show the impartiality of
the Law, which constantly needs to be exhibited; and that therefore all
men were safe on the road they were on for a long while to come.
Now there seemed to Rodriguez to be much good sense in what Morano had
said; and so indeed there was for they had good laws in Spain, and they
differed little, though so long ago, from our own excellent system.
Therefore they changed once more, giving back to each other everything
but, alas, those delicate black moustachios; and these to Rodriguez
seemed gone for ever, for the growth of new ones seemed so far ahead to
the long days of youth that his hopes could scarce reach to them.
When Morano found himself once more in those clothes that had been with
him night and day for so many years he seemed to expand; I mean no
metaphor here; he grew visibly fatter.
"Ah," said Morano after a huge breath, "last night I dreamed, in your
illustrious clothes, that I was in lofty station. And now, master, I am
comfortable."
"Which were best, think you," said Rodriguez, "if you could have but
one, a lofty place or comfort?" Even in those days such a question was
trite, but Rodriguez uttered it only thinking to dip in the store of
Morano's simple wisdom, as one may throw a mere worm to catch a worthy
fish. But in this he was disappointed; for Morano made no neat
comparison nor even gave an opinion, saying only, "Master, while I have
comfort how shall I judge the case of any who have not?" And no more
would he say. His new found comfort, lost for a day and night, seemed
so to have soothed his body that it closed the gates of the mind, as
too much luxury may, even with poets.
And now Rodriguez thought of his quest again, and the two of them
pushed on briskly to find the wars.
For an hour they walked in silence an empty road. And then they came
upon a row of donkeys; piled high with the bark of the cork-tree, that
men were bringing slowly from far woods. Some of the men were singing
as they went. They passed slow in the sunshine.
"Oh, master," said Morano when they were gone, "I like not that
lascivious loitering."
"Why, Morano?" said Rodriguez. "It was not God that made hurry."
"Master," answered Morano, "I know well who made hurry. And may he not
overtake my soul at the last. Yet it is bad for our fortunes that these
men should loiter thus. You want your castle, master; and I, I want not
always to wander roads, with la Garda perhaps behind and no certain
place to curl up and sleep in front. I look for a heap of straw in the
cellar of your great castle."
"Yes, yes, you shall have it," his master said, "but how do these folks
hinder you?" For Morano was scowling at them over his shoulder in a way
that was somehow spoiling the gladness of Spring.
"The air is full of their singing," Morano said. "It is as though their
souls were already flying to Hell, and cawing hoarse with sin all the
way as they go. And they loiter, and they linger..." Oh, but Morano was
angry.
"But," said Rodriguez, "how does their lingering harm you?"
"Where are the wars, master? Where are the wars?" blurted Morano, his
round face turning redder. "The donkeys would be dead, the men would be
running, there would be shouts, cries, and confusion, if the wars were
anywhere near. There would be all things but this."
The men strolled on singing and so passed slow into distance. Morano
was right, though I know not how he knew.
And now the men and the donkeys were nearly out of sight, but had not
yet at all emerged from the wrath of Morano. "Lascivious knaves,"
muttered that disappointed man. And whenever he faintly heard dim
snatches of their far song that a breeze here, and another there,
brought over the plain as it ran on the errands of Spring, he cursed
their sins under his breath. Though it seemed not so much their sins
that moved his wrath as the leisure they had for committing them.
"Peace, peace, Morano," said Rodriguez.
"It is that," said Morano, "that is troubling me."
"What?"
"This same peace."
"Morano," said Rodriguez, "I had when young to study the affairs of
men; and this is put into books, and so they make history. Now I
learned that there is no thing in which men have taken delight, that is
ever put away from them; for it seems that time, which altereth every
custom, hath altered none of our likings: and in every chapter they
taught me there were these wars to be found."
"Master, the times are altered," said Morano sadly. "It is not now as
in old days."