“Senor, your name,” said the stranger.

“Lord of Arguento Harez,” said Rodriguez.

“Senor,” he said, “being a busy man, I have seldom time to pray.  And the blessed Saints, being more busy than I, I think seldom hear my prayers:  yet your name shall go up to them.  I will often tell it them quietly in the forest, and not on their holy days when bells are ringing and loud prayers fill Heaven.  It may be ...”

“Senor,” Rodriguez said, “I profoundly thank you.”

Even in these days, when bullets are often thicker than prayers, we are not quite thankless for the prayers of others:  in those days they were what “closing quotations” are on the Stock Exchange, ink in Fleet Street, machinery in the Midlands; common but valued; and Rodriguez’ thanks were sincere.

And now that the curses of the ungagged one of la Garda were growing monotonous, Rodriguez turned to Morano.

“Ungag the rest,” he said, “and let them talk to each other.”

“Master,” Morano muttered, feeling that there was enough noise already for a small wood, but he went and did as he was ordered.  And Rodriguez was justified of his humane decision, for the pent thoughts of all three found expression together and, all four now talking at once, mitigated any bitterness there may have been in those solitary curses.  And now Rodriguez could talk undisturbed.

“Whither?” said the stranger.

“To the wars,” said Rodriguez, “if wars there be.”

“Aye,” said the stranger, “there be always wars somewhere.  By which road go you?”

“North,” said Rodriguez, and he pointed.  The stranger turned his eyes to the way Rodriguez pointed.

“That brings you to the forest,” he said, “unless you go far around, as many do.”

“What forest?” said Rodriguez.

“The great forest named Shadow Valley,” said the stranger.

“How far?” said Rodriguez.

“Forty miles,” said the stranger.

Rodriguez looked at la Garda and then at their horses, and thought.  He must be far from la Garda by nightfall.

“It is not easy to pass through Shadow Valley,” said the stranger.

“Is it not?” said Rodriguez.

“Have you a gold great piece?” the stranger said.

Rodriguez held out one of his remaining four:  the stranger took it.  And then he began to rub it on a stone, and continued to rub while Rodriguez watched in silence, until the image of the lord the King was gone and the face of the coin was scratchy and shiny and flat.  And then he produced from a pocket or pouch in his jacket a graving tool with a round wooden handle, which he took in the palm of his hand, and the edge of the steel came out between his forefinger and thumb:  and with this he cut at the coin.  And Morano rejoined them from his merciful mission and stood and wondered at the cutting.  And while he cut they talked.