soft white dust, which lifted and settled, some of it, back on the lazy road, while some of it was breathed by Morano.  The gold coin on the green silk ribbon flapped up and down as Rodriguez rode, till he stuffed it inside his clothing and remembered no more about it.  Once they saw before them the man they had snatched from the noose:  he was going hard and leading a loose horse.  And then where the road bent round a low hill he galloped out of sight and they saw him no more.  He had the loose horse to change on to as soon as the other was tired:  they had no prospect of overtaking him.  And so he passed out of their minds as their host had done who went away with his household to Saragossa.

At first Rodriguez’ mandolin, that was always slung on his back, bumped up and down uncomfortably; but he eased it by altering the strap:  small things like this bring contentment.  And then he settled down to ride.  But no contentment came near Morano nor did he look for it.  On the first day of his wanderings he had worn his master’s clothes, which has been an experience standing somewhat where toothache does, which is somewhere about half-way between discomfort and agony.  On the second day he had climbed at the end of a weary journey over those sharp rocks whose shape was adapted so ill to his body.  On the third day he was riding.  He did not look for comfort.  But he met discomfort with an easy resignation that almost defeated the intention of Satan who sends it, unless—­ as is very likely—­it be from Heaven.  And in spite of all discomforts he gaily followed Rodriguez.  In a thousand days at the Inn of the Dragon and Knight no two were so different to Morano that one stood out from the other, or any from the rest.  It was all as though one day were repeated again and again; and at some point in this monotonous repetition, like a milestone shaped as the rest on a perfectly featureless road, life would end and the meaningless repetition stop:  and looking back on it there would only be one day to see, or, if he could not look back, it would be all gone for nothing.  And then, into that one day that he was living on in the gloaming of that grim inn, Rodriguez had appeared, and Morano had known him for one of those wandering lights that sometimes make sudden day among the stars.  He knew—­ no, he felt—­that by following him, yesterday today and tomorrow would be three separate possessions in memory.  Morano gladly gave up that one dull day he was living for the new strange days through which Rodriguez was sure to lead him.  Gladly he left it:  if this be not true how then has a man with a dream led thousands to follow his fancy, from the Crusades to whatever gay madness be the fashion when this is read?  As they galloped the scent of the flowers rushed into Rodriguez’ nostrils, while Morano mainly breathed the dust from the hooves of his master’s horse.  But the quest was favoured the more by the scent of the flowers inspiring its leader’s fancies.  So Morano gained even from this.