All too soon he heard voices, voices far off at first, to which he drew nearer and nearer; thus he woke grudgingly out of the deeps of sleep.  It was Miguel and Morano calling him.

When at length he reached the hall all the merriment of the evening was gone from it but the sober beauty of the forest flooded in through both windows with early sunlight and bird-song; so that it had not the sad appearance of places in which we have rejoiced, when we revisit them next day or next generation and find them all deserted by dance and song.

Rodriguez ate his breakfast while the bowmen waited with their bows all strung by the door.  When he was ready they all set off in the early light through the forest.

Rodriguez did not criticise his ambition; it sailed too high above his logic for that; but he regretted it, as he went through the beauty of the forest among these happy men.  But we must all have an ambition, and Rodriguez stuck to the one he had.  He had another, but it was an ambition with weak wings that could not come to hope.  It depended upon the first.  If he could win a castle in the wars he felt that he might even yet hope towards Lowlight.

Little was said, and Rodriguez was all alone with his thoughts.  In two hours they met a bowman holding two horses.  They had gone eight miles.

“Farewell to the forest,” said Miguel to Rodriguez.  There was almost a query in his voice.  Would Rodriguez really leave them? it seemed to say.

“Farewell,” he answered.

Morano too had looked sideways towards his master, seeming almost to wonder what his answer would be:  when it came he accepted it and walked to the horses.  Rodriguez mounted:  willing hands helped up Morano.  “Farewell,” said Miguel once more.  And all the bowmen shouted “Farewell.”

“Make my farewell,” said Rodriguez, “to the King of Shadow Valley.”

A twig cracked in the forest.

“Hark,” said Miguel.  “Maybe that was a boar.”

“I cannot wait to hunt,” said Rodriguez, “for I have far to go.”

“Maybe,” said Miguel, “it was the King’s farewell to you.”

Rodriguez looked into the forest and saw nothing.

“Farewell,” he said again.  The horses were fresh and he let his go.  Morano lumbered behind him.  In two miles they came to the edge of the forest and up a rocky hill, and so to the plains again, and one more adventure lay behind them.  Rodriguez turned round once on the high ground and took a long look back on the green undulations of peace.  The forest slept there as though empty of men.

Then they rode.  In the first hour, easily cantering, they did ten miles.  Then they settled down to what those of our age and country and occupation know as a hound-jog, which is seven miles an hour.  And after two hours they let the horses rest.  It was the hour of the frying-pan.  Morano, having dismounted, stretched himself dolefully; then he brought out all manner of meats.  Rodriguez looked wonderingly at them.