And always they spoke of him not only with respect but also with the discretion, Rodriguez thought, of men that spoke of one who might be behind them at that moment, and one who tolerated no trifling with his authority.  Then they sang songs again, such as Rodriguez had heard on the road, and their merry lives passed clearly before his mind again, for we live in our songs as no men live in histories.  And again Rodriguez lamented his hard ambition and his long, vague journey, turning away twice from happiness; once in the village of Lowlight where happiness deserted him, and here in the goodly forest where he jilted happiness.  How well could he and Morano live as two of this band, he thought; leaving all cares in cities:  for there dwelt cares in cities even then.  Then he put the thought away.  And as the evening wore away with merry talk and with song, Rodriguez turned to Miguel and told him how it was with la Garda and broached the matter of horses.  And while the others sang Miguel spoke sadly to him.  “Master,” he said, “la Garda shall never take you in Shadow Valley, yet if you must leave us to make your fortune in the wars, though your fortune waits you here, there be many horses in the forest, and you and your servant shall have the best.”

“Tomorrow morning, senor?” said Rodriguez.

“Even so,” said Miguel.

“And how shall I send them to you again?” said Rodriguez.

“Master, they are yours,” said Miguel.

But this Rodriguez would not have, for as yet he only guessed what claim at all he had upon Shadow Valley, his speculations being far more concerned with the identity of the hidalgo that he had fought the night before, how he concerned Serafina, who had owned the rose that he carried:  in fact his mind was busy with such studies as were proper to his age.  And at last they decided between them on the house of a lowland smith, who was the furthest man that the bowmen knew who was secretly true to their king.  At his house Rodriguez and Morano should leave the horses.  He dwelt sixty miles from the northern edge of the forest, and would surely give Rodriguez fresh horses if he possessed them, for he was a true man to the bowman.  His name was Gonzalez and he dwelt in a queer green house.

They turned then to listen a moment to a hunting song that all the bowmen were singing about the death of a boar.  Its sheer merriment constrained them.  Then Miguel spoke again.  “You should not leave the forest,” he said sadly.

Rodriguez sighed:  it was decided.  Then Miguel told him of his road, which ran north-eastward and would one day bring him out of Spain.  He told him how towns on the way, and the river Ebro, and with awe and reverence he spoke of the mighty Pyrenees.  And then Rodriguez rose, for the start was to be at dawn, and walked quietly through the singing out of the hall to the room where the great bed was.  And soon he slept, and his dreams joined in the endless hunt through Shadow Valley that was carved all round the timbers of his bed.