They breakfasted hurriedly and Rodriguez rose to depart, feeling that he had taken hospitality that had not been offered.  But against his departure was the barrier of all the politeness of Spain.  The house was his, said his host, and even the small grove of ilices.

If I told you half of the things that the reverend man said, you would say:  “This writer is affected.  I do not like all this flowery mush.”  I think it safer, my reader, not to tell you any of it.  Let us suppose that he merely said, “Quite all right,” and that when Rodriguez thanked him on one knee he answered, “Not at all;” and that so Rodriguez and Morano left.  If here it miss some flash of the fair form of Truth it is the fault of the age I write for.

The road again, dust again, birds and the blaze of leaves, these were the background of my wanderers, until the eye had gone as far as the eye can roam, and there were the tips of some far pale-blue mountains that now came into view.

They were still in each other’s clothes; but the village was not behind them very far when Morano explained, for he knew the ways of la Garda, that having arrested two men upon this road, they would now arrest two men each on all the other roads, in order to show the impartiality of the Law, which constantly needs to be exhibited; and that therefore all men were safe on the road they were on for a long while to come.

Now there seemed to Rodriguez to be much good sense in what Morano had said; and so indeed there was for they had good laws in Spain, and they differed little, though so long ago, from our own excellent system.  Therefore they changed once more, giving back to each other everything but, alas, those delicate black moustachios; and these to Rodriguez seemed gone for ever, for the growth of new ones seemed so far ahead to the long days of youth that his hopes could scarce reach to them.

When Morano found himself once more in those clothes that had been with him night and day for so many years he seemed to expand; I mean no metaphor here; he grew visibly fatter.

“Ah,” said Morano after a huge breath, “last night I dreamed, in your illustrious clothes, that I was in lofty station.  And now, master, I am comfortable.”

“Which were best, think you,” said Rodriguez, “if you could have but one, a lofty place or comfort?” Even in those days such a question was trite, but Rodriguez uttered it only thinking to dip in the store of Morano’s simple wisdom, as one may throw a mere worm to catch a worthy fish.  But in this he was disappointed; for Morano made no neat comparison nor even gave an opinion, saying only, “Master, while I have comfort how shall I judge the case of any who have not?” And no more would he say.  His new found comfort, lost for a day and night, seemed so to have soothed his body that it closed the gates of the mind, as too much luxury may, even with poets.

And now Rodriguez thought of his quest again, and the two of them pushed on briskly to find the wars.