And so he came to his chamber, of which he remembered little, for sleep lurked there and he was soon with dreams, faring further with them than my pen can follow.

THE EIGHTH CHRONICLE

HOW HE TRAVELLED FAR

One blackbird on a twig near Rodriguez’ window sang, then there were fifty singing, and morning arose over Spain all golden and wonderful.

Rodriguez descended and found mine host rubbing his hands by his good table, with a look on his face that seemed to welcome the day and to find good auguries concerning it.  But Morano looked as one that, having fallen from some far better place, is ill-content with earth and the mundane way.

He had scorned breakfast; but Rodriguez breakfasted.  And soon the two were bidding mine host farewell.  They found their horses saddled, they mounted at once, and rode off slowly in the early day.  The horses were tired and, slowly trotting and walking, and sometimes dismounting and dragging the horses on, it was nearly two hours before they had done ten miles and come to the house of the smith in a rocky village:  the street was cobbled and the houses were all of stone.

The early sparkle had gone from the dew, but it was still morning, and many a man but now sat down to his breakfast, as they arrived and beat on the door.

Gonzalez the smith opened it, a round and ruddy man past fifty, a citizen following a reputable trade, but once, ah once, a bowman.

“Senor,” said Rodriguez, “our horses are weary.  We have been told you will change them for us.”

“Who told you that?” said Gonzalez.

“The green bowmen in Shadow Valley,” the young man answered.

As a meteor at night lights up with its greenish glare flowers and blades of grass, twisting long shadows behind them, lights up lawns and bushes and the deep places of woods, scattering quiet night for a moment, so the unexpected answer of Rodriguez lit memories in the mind of the smith all down the long years; and a twinkle and a sparkle of those memories dancing in woods long forsaken flashed from his eyes.

“The green bowmen, senor,” said Gonzalez.  “Ah, Shadow Valley!”

“We left it yesterday,” said Rodriguez.

When Gonzalez heard this he poured forth questions.  “The forest, senor; how is it now with the forest?  Do the boars still drink at Heather Pool?  Do the geese go still to Greatmarsh?  They should have come early this year.  How is it with Larios, Raphael, Migada?  Who shoots woodcock now?”

The questions flowed on past answering, past remembering:  he had not spoken of the forest for years.  And Rodriguez answered as such questions are always answered, saying that all was well, and giving Gonzalez some little detail of some trifling affair of the forest, which he treasured as small shells are treasured in inland places when travellers bring them from the sea; but all that he heard of the forest seemed to the smith like something gathered on a far shore of time.  Yes, he had been a bowman once.