“You can finish the bottle,” said Rodriguez to this anxious watcher, who came forward eagerly though full of doubts, which changed to warm feelings of exuberant gratitude when he found how much remained.  Thus he obtained not much less than two tumblerfuls of wine that, as I have said, was stronger than port; and noon was nearing and it was spring in Spain.  And then he returned to guard his prisoner under the oak-tree and lay down there on the moss, remembering that it was his duty to keep awake.  And afterwards with one hand he took hold of a rope that bound the prisoner’s ankles, so that he might still guard his prisoner even though he should fall asleep.

Now two of the men had had little more than the full of a sherry glass each.  To these Morano made signs that there was another bottle, and, coming round behind his master, he covertly uncorked it and gave them their heart’s desire; and a little was left over for the man who drank third on the first occasion.  And presently the spirits of all four of la Garda grew haughty and forgot their humble bodies, and would fain have gone forth to dwell with the sons of light, while their bodies lay on the moss and the sun grew warmer and warmer, shining dappled in amongst the small green leaves.  All seemed still but for the winged insects flashing through shafts of the sunlight out of the gloom of the trees and disappearing again like infinitesimal meteors.  But our concern is with the thoughts of man, of which deeds are but the shadows:  wherever these are active it is wrong to say all is still; for whether they cast their shadows, which are actions, or whether they remain a force not visibly stirring matter, they are the source of the tales we write and the lives we lead; it is they that gave History her material and they that bade her work it up into books.

And thoughts were very active about that oak-tree.  For while the thoughts of la Garda arose like dawn, and disappeared into mists, their prisoner was silently living through the sunny days of his life, which are at no time quite lost to us, and which flash vivid and bright and near when memory touches them, herself awakened by the nearness of death.  He lived again days far from the day that had brought him where he stood.  He drew from those days (that is to say) that delight, that essence of hours, that something which we call life.  The sun, the wind, the rough sand, the splash of the sea, on the star-fish, and all the things that it feels during its span, are stored in something like its memory, and are what we call its life:  it is the same with all of us.  Life is feeling.  The prisoner from the store of his memory was taking all he had.  His head was lifted, he was gazing northwards, far further than his eyes could see, to shining spaces in great woods; and there his threatened being walked in youth, with steps such as spirits take, over immortal flowers, which were dim and faint but unfading because they lived on in memory.  In memory he walked with some