His eyes strayed back to the great design on the wall.  “The crown of the forest,” said Miguel as he saw his eyes wondering at it, “as you doubtless know, senor.”

Why should he know?  Of course because he bore the design himself.  “Who wears it?” said Rodriguez.

“The King of Shadow Valley.”

Morano was without curiosity; he did not question good drink; he sat at the table with a cup of horn in his hand, as happy as though he had come to his master’s castle, though that had not yet been won.

The sun sank under the oaks, filling the hall with a ruddy glow, turning the boar spears scarlet and reddening the red faces of the merry men of the bow.

A dozen of the men went out; to relieve the guard in the forest, Miguel explained.  And Rodriguez learned that he had come through a line of sentries without ever seeing one.  Presently a dozen others came in from their posts and unslung their bows and laid them on pegs on the wall and sat down at the table.  Whereat there were whispered words and they all rose and bowed to Rodriguez.  And Rodriguez had caught the words “A prince of the forest.”  What did it mean?

Soon the long hall grew dim, and his love for the light drew Rodriguez out to watch the sunset.  And there was the sun under indescribable clouds, turning huge and yellow among the trunks of the trees and casting glory munificently down glades.  It set, and the western sky became blood-red and lilac:  from the other end of the sky the moon peeped out of night.  A hush came and a chill, and a glory of colour, and a dying away of light; and in the hush the mystery of the great oaks became magical.  A blackbird blew a tune less of this earth than of fairy-land.

Rodriguez wished that he could have had a less ambition than to win a castle in the wars, for in those glades and among those oaks he felt that happiness might be found under roofs of thatch.  But having come by his ambition he would not desert it.

Now rushlights were lit in the great cottage and the window of the long room glowed yellow.  A fountain fell in the stillness that he had not heard before.  An early nightingale tuned a tentative note.  “The forest is fair, is it not?” said Miguel.

Rodriguez had no words to say.  To turn into words the beauty that was now shining in his thoughts, reflected from the evening there, was no easier than for wood to reflect all that is seen in the mirror.

“You love the forest,” he said at last.

“Master,” said Miguel, “it is the only land in which we should live our days.  There are cities and roads but man is not meant for them.  I know not, master, what God intends about us; but in cities we are against the intention at every step, while here, why, we drift along with it.”

“I, too, would live here always,” said Rodriguez.

“The house is yours,” said Miguel.  And Rodriguez answered:  “I go tomorrow to the wars.”