Rodriguez heaved a sigh and turned away.  “Master,” Morano cried in pained astonishment, “you will not believe their swearings.”

“The child swore by the cross,” he answered.

“But, master!” Morano exclaimed.

But Rodriguez would say no more.  And they rode away aimless in silence.

Galloping hooves were heard and Pedro was there.  He had come to give up his horse.  He gave its reins to the scowling Morano but Rodriguez said never a word.  Then he ran round and kissed Rodriguez’ hand, who still was silent, for his hopes were lost with the castle; but he nodded his head and so parted for ever from the man whom his wife called Pedro, who called himself Don Alvidar-of-the-Rose-pink-Castle-on-Ebro.

THE TENTH CHRONICLE

HOW HE CAME BACK TO LOWLIGHT

“Master,” Morano said.  But Rodriguez rode ahead and would not speak.

They were riding vaguely southward.  They had ample provisions on the horse that Morano led, as well as blankets, which gave them comfort at night.  That night they both got the sleep they needed, now that there was no captive to guard.  All the next day they rode slowly in the April weather by roads that wandered among tended fields; but a little way off from the fields there shone low hills in the sunlight, so wild, so free of man, that Rodriguez remembering them in later years, wondered if their wild shrubs just hid the frontiers of fairyland.

For two days they rode by the edge of unguessable regions.  Had Pan piped there no one had marvelled, nor though fauns had scurried past sheltering clumps of azaleas.  In the twilight no tiny queens had court within rings of toadstools:  yet almost, almost they appeared.

And on the third day all at once they came to a road they knew.  It was the road by which they had ridden when Rodriguez still had his dream, the way from Shadow Valley to the Ebro.  And so they turned into the road they knew, as wanderers always will; and, still without aim or plan, they faced towards Shadow Valley.  And in the evening of the day that followed that, as they looked about for a camping-ground, there came in sight the village on the hill which Rodriguez knew to be fifty miles from the forest:  it was the village in which they had rested the first night after leaving Shadow Valley.  They did not camp but went on to the village and knocked at the door of the inn.  Habit guides us all at times, even kings are the slaves of it (though in their presence it takes the prouder name of precedent); and here were two wanderers without any plans at all; they were therefore defenceless in the grip of habit and, seeing an inn they knew, they loitered up to it.  Mine host came again to the door.  He cheerfully asked Rodriguez how he had fared on his journey, but Rodriguez would say nothing.  He asked for lodging for himself and Morano and stabling for the horses:  he ate and slept and paid his due, and in the morning was gone.