“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.