Then they said farewell, and there was a look on the face of the smith almost such as the sons of men might have worn in Genesis when angels visited them briefly.

They settled down into a steady trot and trotted thus for three hours.  Noon came, and still there was no rest for Morano, but only dust and the monotonous sight of the road, on which his eyes were fixed:  nearly an hour more passed, and at last he saw his master halt and turn round in his saddle.

“Dinner,” Rodriguez said.

All Morano’s weariness vanished:  it was the hour of the frying-pan once more.

They had done more than twenty-one miles from the house of Gonzalez.  Nimbly enough, in his joy at feeling the ground again, Morano ran and gathered sticks from the bushes.  And soon he had a fire, and a thin column of grey smoke going up from it that to him was always home.

When the frying-pan warmed and lard sizzled, when the smell of bacon mingled with the smoke, then Morano was where all wise men and all unwise try to be, and where some of one or the other some times come for awhile, by unthought paths and are gone again; for that smoky, mixed odour was happiness.

Not for long men and horses rested, for soon Rodriguez’ ambition was drawing him down the road again, of which he knew that there remained to be travelled over two hundred miles in Spain, and how much beyond that he knew not, nor greatly cared, for beyond the frontier of Spain he believed there lay the dim, desired country of romance where roads were long no more and no rain fell.  They mounted again and pushed on for this country.  Not a village they saw but that Morano hoped that here his affliction would end and that he would dismount and rest; and always Rodriguez rode on and Morano followed, and with a barking of dogs they were gone and the village rested behind them.  For many an hour their slow trot carried them on; and Morano, clutching the saddle with worn arms, already was close to despair, when Rodriguez halted in a little village at evening before an inn.  They had done their fifty miles from the house of Gonzalez, and even a little more.

Morano rolled from his horse and beat on the small green door.  Mine host came out and eyed them, preening the point of his beard; and Rodriguez sat his horse and looked at him.  They had not the welcome here that Gonzalez gave them; but there was a room to spare for Rodriguez, and Morano was promised what he asked for, straw; and there was shelter to be had for the horses.  It was all the travellers needed.

Children peered at the strangers, gossips peeped out of doors to gather material concerning them, dogs noted their coming, the eyes of the little village watched them curiously, but Rodriguez and Morano passed into the house unheeding; and past those two tired men the mellow evening glided by like a dream.  Tired though Rodriguez was he noticed a certain politeness in mine host while he waited at supper, which had not been noticeable when he had first received him, and rightly put this down to some talk of Morano’s; but he did not guess that Morano had opened wide blue eyes and, babbling to his host, had guilelessly told him that his master a week ago had killed an uncivil inn-keeper.