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.
THE EIGHTH CHRONICLE
HOW HE TRAVELLED FAR
One blackbird on a twig near Rodriguez' window sang, then there were
fifty singing, and morning arose over Spain all golden and wonderful.
Rodriguez descended and found mine host rubbing his hands by his good
table, with a look on his face that seemed to welcome the day and to
find good auguries concerning it. But Morano looked as one that, having
fallen from some far better place, is ill-content with earth and the
mundane way.
He had scorned breakfast; but Rodriguez breakfasted. And soon the two
were bidding mine host farewell. They found their horses saddled, they
mounted at once, and rode off slowly in the early day. The horses were
tired and, slowly trotting and walking, and sometimes dismounting and
dragging the horses on, it was nearly two hours before they had done
ten miles and come to the house of the smith in a rocky village: the
street was cobbled and the houses were all of stone.
The early sparkle had gone from the dew, but it was still morning, and
many a man but now sat down to his breakfast, as they arrived and beat
on the door.
Gonzalez the smith opened it, a round and ruddy man past fifty, a
citizen following a reputable trade, but once, ah once, a bowman.
"Señor," said Rodriguez, "our horses are weary. We have been told you
will change them for us."
"Who told you that?" said Gonzalez.
"The green bowmen in Shadow Valley," the young man answered.
As a meteor at night lights up with its greenish glare flowers and
blades of grass, twisting long shadows behind them, lights up lawns and
bushes and the deep places of woods, scattering quiet night for a
moment, so the unexpected answer of Rodriguez lit memories in the mind
of the smith all down the long years; and a twinkle and a sparkle of
those memories dancing in woods long forsaken flashed from his eyes.
"The green bowmen, señor," said Gonzalez. "Ah, Shadow Valley!"
"We left it yesterday," said Rodriguez.
When Gonzalez heard this he poured forth questions. "The forest, señor;
how is it now with the forest? Do the boars still drink at Heather
Pool? Do the geese go still to Greatmarsh? They should have come early
this year. How is it with Larios, Raphael, Migada? Who shoots woodcock
now?"
The questions flowed on past answering, past remembering: he had not
spoken of the forest for years. And Rodriguez answered as such
questions are always answered, saying that all was well, and giving
Gonzalez some little detail of some trifling affair of the forest,
which he treasured as small shells are treasured in inland places when
travellers bring them from the sea; but all that he heard of the forest
seemed to the smith like something gathered on a far shore of time.
Yes, he had been a bowman once.
But he had no horses. One horse that drew a cart, but no horses for
riding at all. And Rodriguez thought of the immense miles lying between
him and the foreign land, keeping him back from his ambition; they all
pressed on his mind at once. The smith was sorry, but he could not make
horses.
"Show him your coin, master," said Morano.
"Ah, a small token," said Rodriguez, drawing it forth still on its
green ribbon under his clothing. "The bowman's badge, is it not?"
Gonzalez looked at it, then looked at Rodriguez.
"Master," he said, "you shall have your horses. Give me time: you shall
have them. Enter, master." And he bowed and widely opened the door. "If
you will breakfast in my house while I go to the neighbours you shall
have some horses, master."
So they entered the house, and the smith with many bows gave the
travellers over to the care of his wife, who saw from her husband's
manner that these were persons of importance and as such she treated
them both, and as such entertained them to their second breakfast. And
this meant they ate heartily, as travellers can, who can go without a
breakfast or eat two; and those who dwell in cities can do neither.
And while the plump dame did them honour they spoke no word of the
forest, for they knew not what place her husband's early years had in
her imagination.
They had barely finished their meal when the sound of hooves on cobbles
was heard and Gonzalez beat on the door. They all went to the door and
found him there with two horses. The horses were saddled and bridled.
They fixed the stirrups to please them, then the travellers mounted at
once. Rodriguez made his grateful farewell to the wife of the smith:
then, turning to Gonzalez, he pointed to the two tired horses which had
waited all the while with their reins thrown over a hook on the wall.
"Let the owner of these have them till his own come back," he said, and
added: "How far may I take these?"
"They are good horses," said the smith.
"Yes," said Rodriguez.
"They could do fifty miles to-day," Gonzalez continued, "and to-morrow,
why, forty, or a little more."
"And where will that bring me?" said Rodriguez, pointing to the
straight road which was going his way, north-eastward.
"That," said Gonzalez, "that should bring you some ten or twenty miles
short of Saspe."
"And where shall I leave the horses?" Rodriguez asked.
"Master," Gonzalez said, "in any village where there be a smith, if you
say 'these are the horses of the smith Gonzalez, who will come for them
one day from here,' they will take them in for you, master."
"But," and Gonzalez walked a little away from his wife, and the horses
walked and he went beside them, "north of here none knows the bowmen.
You will get no fresh horses, master. What will you do?"
"Walk," said Rodriguez.
Then they said farewell, and there was a look on the face of the smith
almost such as the sons of men might have worn in Genesis when angels
visited them briefly.
They settled down into a steady trot and trotted thus for three hours.
Noon came, and still there was no rest for Morano, but only dust and
the monotonous sight of the road, on which his eyes were fixed: nearly
an hour more passed, and at last he saw his master halt and turn round
in his saddle.
"Dinner," Rodriguez said.
All Morano's weariness vanished: it was the hour of the frying-pan once
more.
They had done more than twenty-one miles from the house of Gonzalez.
Nimbly enough, in his joy at feeling the ground again, Morano ran and
gathered sticks from the bushes. And soon he had a fire, and a thin
column of grey smoke going up from it that to him was always home.
When the frying-pan warmed and lard sizzled, when the smell of bacon
mingled with the smoke, then Morano was where all wise men and all
unwise try to be, and where some of one or the other some times come
for awhile, by unthought paths and are gone again; for that smoky,
mixed odour was happiness.
Not for long men and horses rested, for soon Rodriguez' ambition was
drawing him down the road again, of which he knew that there remained
to be travelled over two hundred miles in Spain, and how much beyond
that he knew not, nor greatly cared, for beyond the frontier of Spain
he believed there lay the dim, desired country of romance where roads
were long no more and no rain fell. They mounted again and pushed on
for this country. Not a village they saw but that Morano hoped that
here his affliction would end and that he would dismount and rest; and
always Rodriguez rode on and Morano followed, and with a barking of
dogs they were gone and the village rested behind them. For many an
hour their slow trot carried them on; and Morano, clutching the saddle
with worn arms, already was close to despair, when Rodriguez halted in
a little village at evening before an inn. They had done their fifty
miles from the house of Gonzalez, and even a little more.
Morano rolled from his horse and beat on the small green door. Mine
host came out and eyed them, preening the point of his beard; and
Rodriguez sat his horse and looked at him. They had not the welcome
here that Gonzalez gave them; but there was a room to spare for
Rodriguez, and Morano was promised what he asked for, straw; and there
was shelter to be had for the horses. It was all the travellers needed.
Children peered at the strangers, gossips peeped out of doors to gather
material concerning them, dogs noted their coming, the eyes of the
little village watched them curiously, but Rodriguez and Morano passed
into the house unheeding; and past those two tired men the mellow
evening glided by like a dream. Tired though Rodriguez was he noticed a
certain politeness in mine host while he waited at supper, which had
not been noticeable when he had first received him, and rightly put
this down to some talk of Morano's; but he did not guess that Morano
had opened wide blue eyes and, babbling to his host, had guilelessly
told him that his master a week ago had killed an uncivil inn-keeper.
Scarcely were late birds home before Rodriguez sought his bed, and not
all of them were sleeping before he slept.
Another morning shone, and appeared to Spain, and all at once Rodriguez
was wide awake. It was the eighth day of his wanderings.
When he had breakfasted and paid his due in silver he and Morano
departed, leaving mine host upon his doorstep bowing with an almost
perplexed look on his shrewd face as he took the points of moustachios
and beard lightly in turn between finger and thumb: for we of our day
enter vague details about ourselves in the book downstairs when we stay
at inns, but it was mine host's custom to gather all that with his
sharp eyes. Whatever he gathered, Rodriguez and Morano were gone.
But soon their pace dwindled, the trot slackening and falling to a
walk; soon Rodriguez learned what it is to travel with tired horses. To
Morano riding was merely riding, and the discomforts of that were so
great that he noticed no difference. But to Rodriguez, his continual
hitting and kicking his horse's sides, his dislike of doing it, the
uselessness of it when done, his ambition before and the tired beast
underneath, the body always some yards behind the beckoning spirit,
were as great vexation as a traveller knows. It came to dismounting and
walking miles on foot; even then the horses hung back. They halted an
hour over dinner while the horses grazed and rested, and they returned
to their road refreshed by the magic that was in the frying-pan, but
the horses were no fresher.
When our bodies are slothful and lie heavy, never responding to the
spirit's bright promptings, then we know dullness: and the burden of it
is the graver for hearing our spirits call faintly, as the chains of a
buccaneer in some deep prison, who hears a snatch of his comrades'
singing as they ride free by the coast, would grow more unbearable than
ever before. But the weight of his tired horse seemed to hang heavier
on the fanciful hopes that Rodriguez' dreams had made. Farther than
ever seemed the Pyrenees, huger than ever their barrier, dimmer and
dimmer grew the lands of romance.
If the hopes of Rodriguez were low, if his fancies were faint, what
material have I left with which to make a story with glitter enough to
hold my readers' eyes to the page: for know that mere dreams and idle
fancies, and all amorous, lyrical, unsubstantial things, are all that
we writers have of which to make a tale, as they are all that the Dim
Ones have to make the story of man.
Sometimes riding, sometimes going on foot, with the thought of the
long, long miles always crowding upon Rodriguez, overwhelming his
hopes; till even the castle he was to win in the wars grew too pale for
his fancy to see, tired and without illusions, they came at last by
starlight to the glow of a smith's forge. He must have done forty-five
miles and he knew they were near Caspe.
The smith was working late, and looked up when Rodriguez halted. Yes,
he knew Gonzalez, a master in the trade: there was a welcome for his
horses.
But for the two human travellers there were excuses, even apologies,
but no spare beds. It was the same in the next three or four houses
that stood together by the road. And the fever of Rodriguez' ambition
drove him on, though Morano would have lain down and slept where they
stood, though he himself was weary. The smith had received his horses;
after that he cared not whether they gave him shelter or not, the
alternative being the road, and that bringing nearer his wars and the
castle he was to win. And that fancy that led his master Morano allowed
always to lead him too, though a few more miles and he would have
fallen asleep as he walked and dropped by the roadside and slept on.
Luckily they had gone barely two miles from the forge where the horses
rested, when they saw a high, dark house by the road and knocked on the
door and found shelter. It was an old woman who let them in, a farmer's
wife, and she had room for them and one mattress, but no bed. They were
too tired to eat and did not ask for food, but at once followed her up
the booming stairs of her house, which were all dark but for her
candle, and so came among huge minuetting shadows to the long loft at
the top. There was a mattress there which the old woman laid out for
Rodriguez, and a heap of hay for Morano. Just for a moment, as
Rodriguez climbed the last step of the stair and entered the loft where
the huge shadows twirled between the one candle's light and the
unbeaten darkness in corners, just for a moment romance seemed to
beckon to him; for a moment, in spite of his fatigue and dejection, in
spite of the possibility of his quest being crazy, for a moment he felt
that great shadows and echoing boards, the very cobwebs even that hung
from the black rafters, were all romantic things; he felt that his was
a glorious adventure and that all these things that filled the loft in
the night were such as should fitly attend on youth and glory. In a
moment that feeling was gone he knew not why it had come. And though he
remembered it till grey old age, when he came to know the causes of
many things, he never knew what romance might have to do with shadows
or echoes at night in an empty room, and only knew of such fancies that
they came from beyond his understanding, whether from wisdom or folly.
Morano was first asleep, as enormous snores testified, almost before
the echoes had died away of the footsteps of the old woman descending
the stairs; but soon Rodriguez followed him into the region of dreams,
where fantastic ambitions can live with less of a struggle than in the
broad light of day: he dreamed he walked at night down a street of
castles strangely colossal in an awful starlight, with doors too vast
for any human need, whose battlements were far in the heights of night;
and chose, it being in time of war, the one that should be his; but the
gargoyles on it were angry and spoiled the dream.
Dream followed dream with furious rapidity, as the dreams of tired men
do, racing each other, jostling and mingling and dancing, an
ill-assorted company: myriads went by, a wild, grey, cloudy multitude;
and with the last walked dawn.
Rodriguez rose more relieved to quit so tumultuous a rest than
refreshed by having had it.
He descended, leaving Morano to sleep on, and not till the old dame had
made a breakfast ready did he return to interrupt his snores.
Even as he awoke upon his heap of hay Morano remained as true to his
master's fantastic quest as the camel is true to the pilgrimage to
Mecca. He awoke grumbling, as the camel grumbles at dawn when the packs
are put on him where he lies, but never did he doubt that they went to
victorious wars where his master would win a castle splendid with
towers.
Breakfast cheered both the travellers. And then the old lady told
Rodriguez that Caspe was but a three hours' walk, and that cheered them
even more, for Caspe is on the Ebro, which seemed to mark for Rodriguez
a stage in his journey, being carried easily in his imagination, like
the Pyrenees. What road he would take when he reached Caspe he had not
planned. And soon Rodriguez expressed his gratitude, full of fervour,
with many a flowery phrase which lived long in the old dame's mind; and
the visit of those two travellers became one of the strange events of
that house and was chief of the memories that faintly haunted the
rafters of the loft for years.
They did not reach Caspe in three hours, but went lazily, being weary;
for however long a man defies fatigue the hour comes when it claims
him. The knowledge that Caspe lay near with sure lodging for the night,
soothed Rodriguez' impatience. And as they loitered they talked, and
they decided that la Garda must now be too far behind to pursue any
longer. They came in four hours to the bank of the Ebro and there saw
Caspe near them; but they dined once more on the grass, sitting beside
the river, rather than enter the town at once, for there had grown in
both travellers a liking for the wanderers' green table of earth.
It was a time to make plans. The country of romance was far away and
they were without horses.
"Will you buy horses, master?" said Morano.
"We might not get them over the Pyrenees," said Rodriguez, though he
had a better reason, which was that three gold pieces did not buy two
saddled horses. There were no more friends to hire from. Morano grew
thoughtful. He sat with his feet dangling over the bank of the Ebro.
"Master," he said after a while, "this river goes our way. Let us come
by boat, master, and drift down to France at our ease."
To get a river over a range of mountains is harder than to get horses.
Some such difficulty Rodriguez implied to him; but Morano, having come
slowly by an idea, parted not so easily with it.
"It goes our way, master," he repeated, and pointed a finger at the
Ebro.
At this moment a certain song that boatmen sing on that river, when the
current is with them and they have nothing to do but be idle and their
lazy thoughts run to lascivious things, came to the ears of Rodriguez
and Morano; and a man with a bright blue sash steered down the Ebro. He
had been fishing and was returning home.
"Master," Morano said, "that knave shall row us there."
Rodriguez seeing that the idea was fixed in Morano's mind determined
that events would move it sooner than argument, and so made no reply.
"Shall I tell him, master?" asked Morano.
"Yes," said Rodriguez, "if he can row us over the Pyrenees."
This was the permission that Morano sought, and a hideous yell broke
from his throat hailing the boatman. The boatman looked up lazily, a
young man with strong brown arms, turning black moustaches towards
Morano. Again Morano hailed him and ran along the bank, while the boat
drifted down and the boatman steered in towards Morano. Somehow Morano
persuaded him to come in to see what he wanted; and in a creek he ran
his boat aground, and there he and Morano argued and bargained. But
Rodriguez remained where he was, wondering why it took so long to turn
his servant's mind from that curious fancy. At last Morano returned.
"Well?" said Rodriguez.
"Master," said Morano, "he will row us to the Pyrenees."
"The Pyrenees!" said Rodriguez. "The Ebro runs into the sea." For they
had taught him this at the college of San Josephus.
"He will row us there," said Morano, "for a gold piece a day, rowing
five hours each day."
Now between them they had but four gold pieces; but that did not make
the Ebro run northward. It seemed that the Ebro, after going their way,
as Morano had said, for twenty or thirty miles, was joined by the river
Segre, and that where the Ebro left them, turning eastwards, the course
of the Segre took them on their way: but it would be rowing against the
current.
"How far is it?" said Rodriguez.
"A hundred miles, he says," answered Morano. "He knows it well."
Rodriguez calculated swiftly. First he added thirty miles; for he knew
that his countrymen took a cheerful view of distance, seldom allowing
any distance to oppress them under its true name at the out set of a
journey; then he guessed that the boatman might row five miles an hour
for the first thirty miles with the stream of the Ebro, and he hoped
that he might row three against the Segre until they came near the
mountains, where the current might grow too strong.
"Morano," he said, "we shall have to row too."
"Row, master?" said Morano.
"We can pay him for four days," said Rodriguez. "If we all row we may
go far on our way."
"It is better than riding," replied Morano with entire resignation.
And so they walked to the creek and Rodriguez greeted the boatman,
whose name was Perez; and they entered the boat and he rowed them down
to Caspe. And, in the house of Perez, Rodriguez slept that night in a
large dim room, untidy with diverse wares: they slept on heaps of
things that pertained to the river and fishing. Yet it was late before
Rodriguez slept, for in sight of his mind came glimpses at last of the
end of his journey; and, when he slept at last, he saw the Pyrenees.
Through the long night their mighty heads rejected him, staring
immeasurably beyond him in silence, and then in happier dreams they
beckoned him for a moment. Till at last a bird that had entered the
city of Caspe sang clear and it was dawn. With that first light
Rodriguez arose and awoke Morano. Together they left that long haven of
lumber and found Perez already stirring. They ate hastily and all went
down to the boat, the unknown that waits at the end of all strange
journeys quickening their steps as they went through the early light.
Perez rowed first and the others took their turns and so they went all
the morning down the broad flood of the Ebro, and came in the afternoon
to its meeting place with the Segre. And there they landed and
stretched their limbs on shore and lit a fire and feasted, before they
faced the current that would be henceforth against them. Then they
rowed on.