“Gladly indeed,” said Don Alderon.  “We will start tomorrow.”

And Rodriguez took his words literally, though his host had meant no more than what we should call “one of these days,” but Rodriguez was being consumed with a great impatience.  And so they arranged it, and Don Alderon went to bed with a feeling, which is favourable to dreams, that on the next day they went upon an adventure; for neither he nor anyone in that village had entered Shadow Valley.

Once more next morning Rodriguez walked with Serafina, with something of the romance of the garden gone, for Dona Mirana walked there too; and romance is like one of those sudden, wonderful colours that flash for a moment out of a drop of dew; a passing shadow obscures them; and ask another to see it, and the colour is not the same:  move but a yard and the ray of enchantment is gone.  Dona Mirana saw the romance of that garden, but she saw it from thirty years away; it was all different what she saw, all changed from a certain day (for love was love in the old days):  and to Rodriguez and Serafina it seemed that she could not see romance at all, and somehow that dimmed it.  Almost their eyes seemed to search amongst the azaleas for the romance of that other evening.

And then Rodriguez told Serafina that he was riding away with her brother to see about the affairs of his castle, and that they would return in a few days.  Scarcely a hint he gave that those affairs might not prosper, for he trusted the word of the King of Shadow Valley.  His confidence had returned:  and soon, with swords at side and cloaks floating brilliant on light winds of April, Rodriguez and Alderon rode away together.

Soon in the distance they saw Shadow Valley.  And then Rodriguez bethought him of Morano and of the foul wrong he committed against Don Alderon with his frying-pan, and how he was there in the camp to which he was bringing his friend.  And so he said:  “That vile knave Morano still lives and insists on serving me.”

“If he be near,” said Don Alderon, “I pray you to disarm him of his frying-pan for the sake of my honour, which does not suffer me to be stricken with culinary weapons, but only with the sword, the lance, or even bolts of cannon or arquebuss ...”  He was thinking of yet more weapons when Rodriguez put spurs to his horse.  “He is near,” he said; “I will ride on and disarm him.”

So Rodriguez came cantering into the forest while Don Alderon ambled a mile or so behind him.

And there he found his old camp and saw Morano, sitting upon the ground by a small fire.  Morano sprang up at once with joy in his eyes, his face wreathed with questions, which he did not put into words for he did not pry openly into his master’s affairs.

“Morano,” said Rodriguez, “give me your frying-pan.”

“My frying-pan?” said Morano.

“Yes,” said Rodriguez.  And when he held in his hand that blackened, greasy utensil he told Morano, “That senor you met in Lowlight rides with me.”