What sorrows had Rodriguez known in his life that he made so sad a melody?  I know not.  It was the mandolin.  When the mandolin was made it knew at once all the sorrows of man, and all the old unnamed longings that none defines.  It knew them as the dog knows the alliance that its forefathers made with man.  A mandolin weeps the tears that its master cannot shed, or utters the prayers that are deeper than its master’s lips can draw, as a dog will fight for his master with teeth that are longer than man’s.  And if the moonlight streamed on untroubled, and though Fate was deaf, yet beauty of those fresh strains going starward from under his fingers touched at least the heart of Rodriguez and gilded his dreams and gave to his thoughts a mournful autumnal glory, until he sang all newly as he never had sung before, with limpid voice along the edge of tears, a love-song old as the woods of his father’s valleys at whose edge he had heard it once drift through the evening.  And as he played and sang with his young soul in the music he fancied (and why not, if they care aught for our souls in Heaven?) he fancied the angles putting their hands each one on a star and leaning out of Heaven through the constellations to listen.

“A vile song, senor, and a vile tune with it,” said a voice quite close.

However much the words hurt his pride in his mandolin Rodriguez recognised in the voice the hidalgo’s accent and knew that it was an equal that now approached him in the moonlight round a corner of the house with the balcony; and he knew that the request he courteously made would be as courteously granted.

“Senor,” he said, “I pray you to permit me to lean my mandolin against the wall securely before we speak of my song.”

“Most surely, senor,” the stranger replied, “for there is no fault with the mandolin.”

“Senor,” Rodriguez said, “I thank you profoundly.”  And he bowed to the gallant, whom he now perceived to be young, a youth tall and lithe like himself, one whom we might have chosen for these chronicles had we not found Rodriguez.

Then Rodriguez stepped back a short way and placed his kerchief on the ground; and upon this he put his mandolin and leaned it against the wall.  When the mandolin was safe from dust or accident he approached the stranger and drew his sword.

“Senor,” he said, “we will now discuss music.”

“Right gladly, senor,” said the young man, who now drew his sword also.  There were no clouds; the moon was full; the evening promised well.

Scarcely had the flash of thin rapiers crossing each other by moonlight begun to gleam in the street when Morano appeared beside them and stood there watching.  He had bought his bacon and gone straight to the house with the balcony.  For though he knew no Latin he had not missed the silent greeting that had welcomed his master to that village, or failed to interpret the gist of the words that Rodriguez’ dumb glance would have said.  He stood there watching while each combatant stood his ground.