“Morano,” said Rodriguez, “we must walk far to-day.”

“Indeed, master,” said Morano, “we must push on to these wars; for you have no castle, master, no lands, no fortune ...”

“Come,” said Rodriguez.

Morano slung his frying-pan behind him:  they had eaten up the last of his bacon:  he stood up, and they were ready for the journey.  The smoke from their meagre fire went thinly into the air, the small grey clouds of it went slowly up:  nothing beside remained to bid them farewell, or for them to thank for their strange night’s hospitality.  They climbed till they reached the rugged crest of the mountain; thence they saw a wide plain and the morning:  the day was waiting for them.

The northern slope of the mountain was wholly different from that black congregation of angry rocks through which they had climbed by night to the House of Wonder.

The slope that now lay before them was smooth and grassy, flowing before them far, a gentle slope that was soon to lend speed to Rodriguez’ feet, adding nimbleness even to youth.  Soon, too, it was to lift onward the dull weight of Morano as he followed his master towards unknown wars, youth going before him like a spirit and the good slope helping behind.  But before they gave themselves to that waiting journey they stood a moment and looked at the shining plain that lay before them like an open page, on which was the whole chronicle of that day’s wayfaring.  There was the road they should travel by, there were the streams it crossed and narrow woods they might rest in, and dim on the farthest edge was the place they must spend that night.  It was all, as it were written, upon the plain they watched, but in a writing not intended for them, and, clear although it be, never to be interpreted by one of our race.  Thus they saw clear, from a height, the road they would go by, but not one of all the events to which it would lead them.

“Master,” said Morano, “shall we have more adventures to-day?”

“I trust so,” said Rodriguez.  “We have far to go, and it will be dull journeying without them.”

Morano turned his eyes from his master’s face and looked back to the plain.  “There, master,” he said, “where our road runs through a wood, will our adventure be there, think you?  Or there, perhaps,” and he waved his hand widely farther.

“No,” said Rodriguez, “we pass that in bright daylight.”

“Is that not good for adventure?” said Morano.

“The romances teach,” said Rodriguez, “that twilight or night are better.  The shade of deep woods is favourable, but there are no such woods on this plain.  When we come to evening we shall doubtless meet some adventure, far over there.”  And he pointed to the grey rim of the plain where it started climbing towards hills.

“These are good days,” said Morano.  He forgot how short a time ago he had said regretfully that these days were not as the old days.  But our race, speaking generally, is rarely satisfied with the present, and Morano’s cheerfulness had not come from his having risen suddenly superior to this everyday trouble of ours; it came from his having shifted his gaze to the future.  Two things are highly tolerable to us, and even alluring, the past and the future.  It was only with the present that Morano was ever dissatisfied.