of defeated dreams that slept in his spirit exhausted, rather than with any fatigue his young muscles had from the journey.  He needed sleep; he looked at the shuttered houses; then at the soft dust of the road in which dogs lay during the daylight.  But the dust was near to his mood, so he lay down where he had fought the unknown hidalgo.  A light wind wandered the street like a visitor come to the village out of a friendly valley, but Rodriguez’ four days on the roads had made him familiar with all wandering things, and the breeze on his forehead troubled him not at all:  before it had wearied of wandering in the night Rodriguez had fallen asleep.  Just by the edge of sleep, upon which side he knew not, he heard the window of the balcony creak, and looked up wide awake all in a moment.  But nothing stirred in the darkness of the balcony and the window was fast shut.  So whatever sound came from the window came not from its opening but shutting:  for a while he wondered; and then his tired thoughts rested, and that was sleep.

A light rain woke Rodriguez, drizzling upon his face; the first light rain that had fallen in a romantic tale.  Storms there had been, lashing oaks to terrific shapes seen at night by flashes of lightning, through which villains rode abroad or heroes sought shelter at midnight; hurricanes there had been, flapping huge cloaks, fierce hail and copious snow; but until now no drizzle.  It was morning; dawn was old; and pale and grey and unhappy.

The balcony above him, still empty, scarcely even held romance now.  Rain dripped from it sadly.  Its cheerless bareness seemed worse than the most sinister shadows of night.

And then Rodriguez saw a rose lying on the ground beside him.  And for all the dreams, fancies, and hopes that leaped up in Rodriguez’ mind, rising and falling and fading, one thing alone he knew and all the rest was mystery:  the rose had lain there before the rain had fallen.  Beneath the rose was white dust, while all around it the dust was turning grey with rain.

Rodriguez tried to guess how long the rain had fallen.  The rose may have lain beside him all night long.  But the shadows of mystery receded no farther than this one fact that the rose was there before the rain began.  No sign of any kind came from the house.

Rodriguez put the rose safe under his coat, wrapped in the kerchief that had guarded the mandolin, to carry it far from Lowlight, through places familiar with roses and places strange to them; but it remained for him a thing of mystery until a day far from then.

Sadly he left the house in the sad rain, marching away alone to look for his wars.

THE SEVENTH CHRONICLE

HOW HE CAME TO SHADOW VALLEY

Rodriguez still believed it to be the duty of any Christian man to kill Morano.  Yet, more than comfort, more than dryness, he missed Morano’s cheerful chatter, and his philosophy into which all occasions so easily slipped.  Upon his first day’s journey all was new; the very anemones kept him company; but now he made the discovery that lonely roads are long.