Before the next night was passed Rodriguez’ dream might come true!

And then the man came to the door anxious at hearing strange voices; and Morano questioned him too, but he understood never a word.  He was a French farmer that had married a Spanish girl, out of the wonderful land beyond the mountains:  but whether he understood her or not he never understood Spanish.  But both Rodriguez and the farmer’s wife knew the two languages, and he had no difficulty in asking for lodging for the night; and she looked wistfully at him going to the wars, for in those days wars were small and not every man went.  The night went by with dreams that were all on the verge of waking, which passed like ghosts along the edge of night almost touched by the light of day.  It was Rodriguez whom these dreams visited.  The farmer and his wife wondered awhile and then slept; Morano slept with all his wonted lethargy; but Rodriguez with his long quest now on the eve of fulfilment slept a tumultuous sleep.  Sometimes his dreams raced over the Pyrenees, running south as far as Lowlight; and sometimes they rushed forward and clung like bats to the towers of the great castle that he should win in the war.  And always he lay so near the edge of sleep that he never distinguished quite between thought and dream.

Dawn came and he put by all the dreams but the one that guided him always, and went and woke Morano.  They ate hurriedly and left the house, and again the farmer’s wife looked curiously at Rodriguez, as though there were something strange in a man that went to wars:  for those days were not as these days.  They followed the direction that had been given them, and never had the two men walked so fast.  By the end of four hours they had done sixteen miles.  They halted then, and Morano drew out his frying-pan with a haughty flourish, and cooked in the grand manner, every movement he made was a triumphant gesture; for they had passed refugees!  War was now obviously close:  they had but to take the way that the refugees were not taking.  The dream was true:  Morano saw himself walking slowly in splendid dress along the tapestried corridors of his master’s castle.  He would have slept after eating and would have dreamed more of this, but Rodriguez commanded him to put the things together:  so what remained of the food disappeared again in a sack, the frying-pan was slung over his shoulders, and Morano stood ready again for the road.

They passed more refugees:  their haste was unmistakable, and told more than their lips could have told had they tarried to speak:  the wars were near now, and the wanderers went leisurely.

As they strolled through the twilight they came over the brow of a hill, a little fold of the earth disturbed eras ago by the awful rushing up of the Pyrenees; and they saw the evening darkening over the fields below them and a white mist rising only just clear of the grass, and two level rows of tents greyish-white like the mist, with a few more tents scattered near them.  The tents had come up that evening with the mist, for there were men still hammering pegs.  They were lighting fires now as evening settled in.  Two hundred paces or so separated each row.  It was two armies facing each other.