He still would not have exchanged his rose for the whole forest; but in the mighty solemnity of the forest his mourning for the lady that he feared he had lost no longer seemed the only solemn thing:  indeed, the sombre forest seemed well attuned to his mood; and what complaint have we against Fate wherever this is so.  His mood was one of tragic loss, the defeat of an enterprise that his hopes had undertaken, to seize victory on the apex of the world, to walk all his days only just outside the edge of Paradise, for no less than that his hopes and his first love promised each other; and then he walked despairing in small rain.  In this mood Fate had led him to solemn old oaks standing huge among shadows; and the grandeur of their grey grip on the earth that had been theirs for centuries was akin to the grandeur of the high hopes he had had, and his despair was somehow soothed by the shadows.  And then the impudent birds seemed to say “Hope again.”

They walked for miles into the forest and lit a fire before noon, for Rodriguez had left Lowlight very early.  And by it Morano cooked bacon again and dried his master’s cloak.  They ate the bacon and sat by the fire till all their clothes were dry, and when the flames from the great logs fell and only embers glowed they sat there still, with hands spread to the warmth of the embers; for to those who wander a fire is food and rest and comfort.  Only as the embers turned grey did they throw earth over their fire and continue their journey.  Their road grew smaller and the forest denser.

They had walked some miles from the place where they lit their fire, when a somewhat unmistakable sound made Rodriguez look ahead of him.  An arrow had struck a birch tree on the right side, ten or twelve paces in front of him; and as he looked up another struck it from the opposite side just level with the first; the two were sticking in it ten feet or so from the ground.  Rodriguez drew his sword.  But when a third arrow went over his head from behind and struck the birch tree, whut! just between the other two, he perceived, as duller minds could have done, that it was a hint, and he returned his sword and stood still.  Morano questioned his master with his eyes, which were asking what was to be done next.  But Rodriguez shrugged his shoulders:  there was no fighting with an invisible foe that could shoot like that.  That much Morano knew, but he did not know that there might not be some law of Chivalry that would demand that Rodriguez should wave his sword in the air or thrust at the birch tree until someone shot him.  When there seemed to be no such rule Morano was well content.  And presently men came quietly on to the road from different parts of the wood.  They were dressed in brown leather and wore leaf-green hats, and round each one’s neck hung a disk of engraved copper.  They came up to the travellers carrying bows, and the leader said to Rodriguez: 

“Senor, all travellers here bring tribute to the King of Shadow Valley,” at the mention of whom all touched hats and bowed their heads.  “What do you bring us?”