Rodriguez gasped for joy; for the messenger from Lowlight, the certainty that here was no rival, the summons to the house of his dreams’ pilgrimage, came all together:  his hand still clasped the stranger’s.  Yet he answered with the due ceremony that that age and land demanded:  then they turned and rode together towards Lowlight.  And first the young men told each other their names; and the stranger told how he dwelt with his mother and sister in the house that Rodriguez knew, and his name was Don Alderon of the Valley of Dawnlight.  His house had dwelt in that valley since times out of knowledge; but then the Moors had come and his forbears had fled to Lowlight:  the Moors were gone now, for which Saint Michael and all fighting Saints be praised; but there were certain difficulties about his right to the Valley of Dawnlight.  So they dwelt in Lowlight still.

And Rodriguez told of the war that there was beyond the Pyrenees and how the just cause had won, but little more than that he was able to tell, for he knew scarce more of the cause for which he had fought than History knows of it, who chooses her incidents and seems to forget so much.  And as they talked they came to the house with the balcony.  A waning moon cast light over it that was now no longer twilight; but was the light of wild things of the woods, and birds of prey, and men in mountains outlawed by the King, and magic, and mystery, and the quests of love.  Serafina had left her place:  lights gleamed now in the windows.  And when the door was opened the hall seemed to Rodriguez so much less hugely hollow, so much less full of ominous whispered echoes, that his courage rose high as he went through it with Alderon, and they entered the room together that they had entered together before.  In the long room beyond many candles he saw Dona Serafina and her mother rising up to greet him.  Neither the ceremonies of that age nor Rodriguez’ natural calm would have entirely concealed his emotion had not his face been hidden as he bowed.  They spoke to him; they asked him of his travels; Rodriguez answered with effort.  He saw by their manner that Don Alderon must have explained much in his favour.  He had this time, to cheer him, a very different greeting; and yet he felt little more at ease than when he had stood there late at night before, with one eye bandaged and wearing only one shoe, suspected of he knew not what brawling and violence.

It was not until Dona Mirana, the mother of Serafina, asked him to play to them on his mandolin that Rodriguez’ ease returned.  He bowed then and brought round his mandolin, which had been slung behind him; and knew a triumphant champion was by him now, one old in the ways of love and wise in the sorrows of man, a slender but potent voice, well-skilled to tell what there were not words to say; a voice unhindered by language, unlimited even by thought, whose universal meaning was heard and understood, sometimes perhaps by wandering spirits of light, beaten far by some evil thought for their heavenly courses and passing close along the coasts of Earth.