THE EIGHTH CHRONICLE
HOW HE TRAVELLED FAR
One blackbird on a twig near Rodriguez' window sang, then there werefifty singing, and morning arose over Spain all golden and wonderful.
Rodriguez descended and found mine host rubbing his hands by his goodtable, with a look on his face that seemed to welcome the day and tofind good auguries concerning it. But Morano looked as one that, havingfallen from some far better place, is ill-content with earth and themundane way.
He had scorned breakfast; but Rodriguez breakfasted. And soon the twowere bidding mine host farewell. They found their horses saddled, theymounted at once, and rode off slowly in the early day. The horses weretired and, slowly trotting and walking, and sometimes dismounting anddragging the horses on, it was nearly two hours before they had doneten miles and come to the house of the smith in a rocky village: thestreet was cobbled and the houses were all of stone.
The early sparkle had gone from the dew, but it was still morning, andmany a man but now sat down to his breakfast, as they arrived and beaton the door.
Gonzalez the smith opened it, a round and ruddy man past fifty, acitizen following a reputable trade, but once, ah once, a bowman.
"Senor," said Rodriguez, "our horses are weary. We have been told youwill 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 andblades of grass, twisting long shadows behind them, lights up lawns andbushes and the deep places of woods, scattering quiet night for amoment, so the unexpected answer of Rodriguez lit memories in the mindof the smith all down the long years; and a twinkle and a sparkle ofthose 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 HeatherPool? Do the geese go still to Greatmarsh? They should have come earlythis year. How is it with Larios, Raphael, Migada? Who shoots woodcocknow?"
The questions flowed on past answering, past remembering: he had notspoken of the forest for years. And Rodriguez answered as suchquestions are always answered, saying that all was well, and givingGonzalez some little detail of some trifling affair of the forest,which he treasured as small shells are treasured in inland places whentravellers bring them from the sea; but all that he heard of the forestseemed to the smith like something gathered on a far shore of time.Yes, he had been a bowman once.
But he had no horses. One horse that drew a cart, but no horses forriding at all. And Rodriguez thought of the immense miles lying betweenhim and the foreign land, keeping him back from his ambition; they allpressed on his mind at once. The smith was sorry, but he could not makehorses.
"Show him your coin, master," said Morano.
"Ah, a small token," said Rodriguez, drawing it forth still on itsgreen ribbon under his clothing. "The bowman's badge, is it not?"
Gonzalez looked at it, then looked at Rodriguez.
"Master," he said, "you shall have your horses. Give me time: you shallhave them. Enter, master." And he bowed and widely opened the door. "Ifyou will breakfast in my house while I go to the neighbours you shallhave some horses, master."
So they entered the house, and the smith with many bows gave thetravellers over to the care of his wife, who saw from her husband'smanner that these were persons of importance and as such she treatedthem both, and as such entertained them to their second breakfast. Andthis meant they ate heartily, as travellers can, who can go without abreakfast or eat two; and those who dwell in cities can do neither.
And while the plump dame did them honour they spoke no word of theforest, for they knew not what place her husband's early years had inher imagination.
They had barely finished their meal when the sound of hooves on cobbleswas heard and Gonzalez beat on the door. They all went to the door andfound him there with two horses. The horses were saddled and bridled.They fixed the stirrups to please them, then the travellers mounted atonce. Rodriguez made his grateful farewell to the wife of the smith:then, turning to Gonzalez, he pointed to the two tired horses which hadwaited all the while with their reins thrown over a hook on the wall.
"Let the owner of these have them till his own come back," he said, andadded: "How far may I take these?"
"They are good horses," said the smith.
"Yes," said Rodriguez.
"They could do fifty miles to-day," Gonzalez continued, "and to-morrow,why, forty, or a little more."
"And where will that bring me?" said Rodriguez, pointing to thestraight road which was going his way, north-eastward.
"That," said Gonzalez, "that should bring you some ten or twenty milesshort of Saspe."
"And where shall I leave the horses?" Rodriguez asked.
"Master," Gonzalez said, "in any village where there be a smith, if yousay 'these are the horses of the smith Gonzalez, who will come for themone day from here,' they will take them in for you, master."
"But," and Gonzalez walked a little away from his wife, and the horseswalked and he went beside them, "north of here none knows the bowmen.You will get no fresh horses, master. What will you do?"
"Walk," said Rodriguez.
Then they said farewell, and there was a look on the face of the smithalmost such as the sons of men might have worn in Genesis when angelsvisited 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 andthe monotonous sight of the road, on which his eyes were fixed: nearlyan hour more passed, and at last he saw his master halt and turn roundin his saddle.
"Dinner," Rodriguez said.
All Morano's weariness vanished: it was the hour of the frying-pan oncemore.
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 andgathered sticks from the bushes. And soon he had a fire, and a thincolumn 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 baconmingled with the smoke, then Morano was where all wise men and allunwise try to be, and where some of one or the other some times comefor 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 wasdrawing him down the road again, of which he knew that there remainedto be travelled over two hundred miles in Spain, and how much beyondthat he knew not, nor greatly cared, for beyond the frontier of Spainhe believed there lay the dim, desired country of romance where roadswere long no more and no rain fell. They mounted again and pushed onfor this country. Not a village they saw but that Morano hoped thathere his affliction would end and that he would dismount and rest; andalways Rodriguez rode on and Morano followed, and with a barking ofdogs they were gone and the village rested behind them. For many anhour their slow trot carried them on; and Morano, clutching the saddlewith worn arms, already was close to despair, when Rodriguez halted ina little village at evening before an inn. They had done their fiftymiles from the house of Gonzalez, and even a little more.
Morano rolled from his horse and beat on the small green door. Minehost came out and eyed them, preening the point of his beard; andRodriguez sat his horse and looked at him. They had not the welcomehere that Gonzalez gave them; but there was a room to spare forRodriguez, and Morano was promised what he asked for, straw; and therewas shelter to be had for the horses. It was all the travellers needed.
Children peered at the strangers, gossips peeped out of doors to gathermaterial concerning them, dogs noted their coming, the eyes of thelittle village watched them curiously, but Rodriguez and Morano passedinto the house unheeding; and past those two tired men the
mellowevening glided by like a dream. Tired though Rodriguez was he noticed acertain politeness in mine host while he waited at supper, which hadnot been noticeable when he had first received him, and rightly putthis down to some talk of Morano's; but he did not guess that Moranohad opened wide blue eyes and, babbling to his host, had guilelesslytold him that his master a week ago had killed an uncivil inn-keeper.
Scarcely were late birds home before Rodriguez sought his bed, and notall of them were sleeping before he slept.
Another morning shone, and appeared to Spain, and all at once Rodriguezwas wide awake. It was the eighth day of his wanderings.
When he had breakfasted and paid his due in silver he and Moranodeparted, leaving mine host upon his doorstep bowing with an almostperplexed look on his shrewd face as he took the points of moustachiosand beard lightly in turn between finger and thumb: for we of our dayenter vague details about ourselves in the book downstairs when we stayat inns, but it was mine host's custom to gather all that with hissharp eyes. Whatever he gathered, Rodriguez and Morano were gone.
But soon their pace dwindled, the trot slackening and falling to awalk; soon Rodriguez learned what it is to travel with tired horses. ToMorano riding was merely riding, and the discomforts of that were sogreat that he noticed no difference. But to Rodriguez, his continualhitting and kicking his horse's sides, his dislike of doing it, theuselessness of it when done, his ambition before and the tired beastunderneath, the body always some yards behind the beckoning spirit,were as great vexation as a traveller knows. It came to dismounting andwalking miles on foot; even then the horses hung back. They halted anhour over dinner while the horses grazed and rested, and they returnedto their road refreshed by the magic that was in the frying-pan, butthe horses were no fresher.
When our bodies are slothful and lie heavy, never responding to thespirit's bright promptings, then we know dullness: and the burden of itis the graver for hearing our spirits call faintly, as the chains of abuccaneer in some deep prison, who hears a snatch of his comrades'singing as they ride free by the coast, would grow more unbearable thanever before. But the weight of his tired horse seemed to hang heavieron the fanciful hopes that Rodriguez' dreams had made. Farther thanever seemed the Pyrenees, huger than ever their barrier, dimmer anddimmer grew the lands of romance.
If the hopes of Rodriguez were low, if his fancies were faint, whatmaterial have I left with which to make a story with glitter enough tohold my readers' eyes to the page: for know that mere dreams and idlefancies, and all amorous, lyrical, unsubstantial things, are all thatwe writers have of which to make a tale, as they are all that the DimOnes have to make the story of man.
Sometimes riding, sometimes going on foot, with the thought of thelong, long miles always crowding upon Rodriguez, overwhelming hishopes; till even the castle he was to win in the wars grew too pale forhis fancy to see, tired and without illusions, they came at last bystarlight to the glow of a smith's forge. He must have done forty-fivemiles and he knew they were near Caspe.
The smith was working late, and looked up when Rodriguez halted. Yes,he knew Gonzalez, a master in the trade: there was a welcome for hishorses.
But for the two human travellers there were excuses, even apologies,but no spare beds. It was the same in the next three or four housesthat stood together by the road. And the fever of Rodriguez' ambitiondrove him on, though Morano would have lain down and slept where theystood, though he himself was weary. The smith had received his horses;after that he cared not whether they gave him shelter or not, thealternative being the road, and that bringing nearer his wars and thecastle he was to win. And that fancy that led his master Morano allowedalways to lead him too, though a few more miles and he would havefallen asleep as he walked and dropped by the roadside and slept on.Luckily they had gone barely two miles from the forge where the horsesrested, when they saw a high, dark house by the road and knocked on thedoor and found shelter. It was an old woman who let them in, a farmer'swife, and she had room for them and one mattress, but no bed. They weretoo tired to eat and did not ask for food, but at once followed her upthe booming stairs of her house, which were all dark but for hercandle, and so came among huge minuetting shadows to the long loft atthe top. There was a mattress there which the old woman laid out forRodriguez, and a heap of hay for Morano. Just for a moment, asRodriguez climbed the last step of the stair and entered the loft wherethe huge shadows twirled between the one candle's light and theunbeaten darkness in corners, just for a moment romance seemed tobeckon to him; for a moment, in spite of his fatigue and dejection, inspite of the possibility of his quest being crazy, for a moment he feltthat great shadows and echoing boards, the very cobwebs even that hungfrom the black rafters, were all romantic things; he felt that his wasa glorious adventure and that all these things that filled the loft inthe night were such as should fitly attend on youth and glory. In amoment that feeling was gone he knew not why it had come. And though heremembered it till grey old age, when he came to know the causes ofmany things, he never knew what romance might have to do with shadowsor echoes at night in an empty room, and only knew of such fancies thatthey came from beyond his understanding, whether from wisdom or folly.
Morano was first asleep, as enormous snores testified, almost beforethe echoes had died away of the footsteps of the old woman descendingthe stairs; but soon Rodriguez followed him into the region of dreams,where fantastic ambitions can live with less of a struggle than in thebroad light of day: he dreamed he walked at night down a street ofcastles strangely colossal in an awful starlight, with doors too vastfor any human need, whose battlements were far in the heights of night;and chose, it being in time of war, the one that should be his; but thegargoyles on it were angry and spoiled the dream.
Dream followed dream with furious rapidity, as the dreams of tired mendo, racing each other, jostling and mingling and dancing, anill-assorted company: myriads went by, a wild, grey, cloudy multitude;and with the last walked dawn.
Rodriguez rose more relieved to quit so tumultuous a rest thanrefreshed by having had it.
He descended, leaving Morano to sleep on, and not till the old dame hadmade a breakfast ready did he return to interrupt his snores.
Even as he awoke upon his heap of hay Morano remained as true to hismaster's fantastic quest as the camel is true to the pilgrimage toMecca. He awoke grumbling, as the camel grumbles at dawn when the packsare put on him where he lies, but never did he doubt that they went tovictorious wars where his master would win a castle splendid withtowers.
Breakfast cheered both the travellers. And then the old lady toldRodriguez that Caspe was but a three hours' walk, and that cheered themeven more, for Caspe is on the Ebro, which seemed to mark for Rodrigueza stage in his journey, being carried easily in his imagination, likethe Pyrenees. What road he would take when he reached Caspe he had notplanned. And soon Rodriguez expressed his gratitude, full of fervour,with many a flowery phrase which lived long in the old dame's mind; andthe visit of those two travellers became one of the strange events ofthat house and was chief of the memories that faintly haunted therafters of the loft for years.
They did not reach Caspe in three hours, but went lazily, being weary;for however long a man defies fatigue the hour comes when it claimshim. The knowledge that Caspe lay near with sure lodging for the night,soothed Rodriguez' impatience. And as they loitered they talked, andthey decided that la Garda must now be too far behind to pursue anylonger. They came in four hours to the bank of the Ebro and there sawCaspe near them; but they dined once more on the grass, sitting besidethe river, rather than enter the town at once, for there had grown inboth travellers a liking for the wanderers' green table of earth.
It was a time to make plans. The country of romance was far away andthey were without horses.
"Will you buy horses, master?" said Morano.
"We might not get them over the Pyrenees," said Rodriguez, though hehad a better reason, which was that three gold pieces did not buy twosaddled horses. There were n
o more friends to hire from. Morano grewthoughtful. He sat with his feet dangling over the bank of the Ebro.
"Master," he said after a while, "this river goes our way. Let us comeby boat, master, and drift down to France at our ease."
To get a river over a range of mountains is harder than to get horses.Some such difficulty Rodriguez implied to him; but Morano, having comeslowly by an idea, parted not so easily with it.
"It goes our way, master," he repeated, and pointed a finger at theEbro.
At this moment a certain song that boatmen sing on that river, when thecurrent is with them and they have nothing to do but be idle and theirlazy thoughts run to lascivious things, came to the ears of Rodriguezand Morano; and a man with a bright blue sash steered down the Ebro. Hehad been fishing and was returning home.
"Master," Morano said, "that knave shall row us there."
Rodriguez seeing that the idea was fixed in Morano's mind determinedthat events would move it sooner than argument, and so made no reply.
"Shall I tell him, master?" asked Morano.
"Yes," said Rodriguez, "if he can row us over the Pyrenees."
This was the permission that Morano sought, and a hideous yell brokefrom his throat hailing the boatman. The boatman looked up lazily, ayoung man with strong brown arms, turning black moustaches towardsMorano. Again Morano hailed him and ran along the bank, while the boatdrifted down and the boatman steered in towards Morano. Somehow Moranopersuaded him to come in to see what he wanted; and in a creek he ranhis boat aground, and there he and Morano argued and bargained. ButRodriguez remained where he was, wondering why it took so long to turnhis servant's mind from that curious fancy. At last Morano returned.
"Well?" said Rodriguez.
"Master," said Morano, "he will row us to the Pyrenees."
"The Pyrenees!" said Rodriguez. "The Ebro runs into the sea." For theyhad taught him this at the college of San Josephus.
"He will row us there," said Morano, "for a gold piece a day, rowingfive hours each day."
Now between them they had but four gold pieces; but that did not makethe Ebro run northward. It seemed that the Ebro, after going their way,as Morano had said, for twenty or thirty miles, was joined by the riverSegre, and that where the Ebro left them, turning eastwards, the courseof the Segre took them on their way: but it would be rowing against thecurrent.
"How far is it?" said Rodriguez.
"A hundred miles, he says," answered Morano. "He knows it well."
Rodriguez calculated swiftly. First he added thirty miles; for he knewthat his countrymen took a cheerful view of distance, seldom allowingany distance to oppress them under its true name at the out set of ajourney; then he guessed that the boatman might row five miles an hourfor the first thirty miles with the stream of the Ebro, and he hopedthat he might row three against the Segre until they came near themountains, where the current might grow too strong.
"Morano," he said, "we shall have to row too."
"Row, master?" said Morano.
"We can pay him for four days," said Rodriguez. "If we all row we maygo far on our way."
"It is better than riding," replied Morano with entire resignation.
And so they walked to the creek and Rodriguez greeted the boatman,whose name was Perez; and they entered the boat and he rowed them downto Caspe. And, in the house of Perez, Rodriguez slept that night in alarge dim room, untidy with diverse wares: they slept on heaps ofthings that pertained to the river and fishing. Yet it was late beforeRodriguez slept, for in sight of his mind came glimpses at last of theend of his journey; and, when he slept at last, he saw the Pyrenees.Through the long night their mighty heads rejected him, staringimmeasurably beyond him in silence, and then in happier dreams theybeckoned him for a moment. Till at last a bird that had entered thecity of Caspe sang clear and it was dawn. With that first lightRodriguez arose and awoke Morano. Together they left that long haven oflumber and found Perez already stirring. They ate hastily and all wentdown to the boat, the unknown that waits at the end of all strangejourneys quickening their steps as they went through the early light.
Perez rowed first and the others took their turns and so they went allthe morning down the broad flood of the Ebro, and came in the afternoonto its meeting place with the Segre. And there they landed andstretched their limbs on shore and lit a fire and feasted, before theyfaced the current that would be henceforth against them. Then theyrowed on.
When they landed by starlight and unrolled a sheet of canvas that Perezhad put in the boat, and found what a bad time starlight is forpitching a tent, Rodriguez and Morano had rowed for four hours each andPerez had rowed for five. They carried no timber in the boat but usedthe oars for tent-poles and cut tent-pegs with a small hatchet thatPerez had brought.
They stumbled on rocks, tore the canvas on bushes, lost the same thingover and over again; in fact they were learning the craft of wandering.Yet at last their tent was up and a good fire comforting them outside,and Morano had cooked the food and they had supped and talked, andafter that they slept. And over them sleeping the starlight faded away,and in the greyness that none of them dreamed was dawn five clear noteswere heard so shrill in the night that Rodriguez half waking wonderedwhat bird of the darkness called, and learned from the answering chorusthat it was day.
He woke Morano who rose in that chilly hour and, striking sparks amonglast night's embers, soon had a fire: they hastily made a meal andwrapped up their tent and soon they were going onward against the tideof the Segre. And that day Morano rowed more skilfully; and Rodriguezunwrapped his mandolin and played, reclining in the boat while herested from rowing. And the mandolin told them all, what the words ofnone could say, that they fared to adventure in the land of Romance, tothe overthrow of dullness and the sameness of all drear schemes and theconquest of discontent in the spirit of man; and perhaps it sang of atime that has not yet come, or the mandolin lied.
That evening three wiser men made their camp before starlight. Theywere now far up the Segre.
For thirteen hours next day they toiled at the oars or lay languid. Andwhile Rodriguez rested he played on his mandolin. The Segre slipped bythem.
They seemed like no men on their way to war, but seemed to loiter asthe bright river loitered, which slid seaward in careless ease and waswholly freed from time.
On this day they heard men speak of the Pyrenees, two men and a womanwalking by the river; their voices came to the boat across the water,and they spoke of the Pyrenees. And on the next day they heard menspeak of war. War that some farmers had fled from on the other side ofthe mountain. When Rodriguez heard these chance words his dreams camenearer till they almost touched the edges of reality.
It was the last day of Perez' rowing. He rowed well although theyneared the cradle of the Segre and he struggled against them in hisyouth. Grey peaks began to peer that had nursed that river. Grey facesof stone began to look over green hills. They were the Pyrenees.
When Rodriguez saw at last the Pyrenees he drew a breath and was unableto speak. Soon they were gone again below the hills: they had butpeered for a moment to see who troubled the Segre.
And the sun set and still they did not camp, but Perez rowed on intothe starlight. That day he rowed six hours.
They pitched their tent as well as they could in the darkness; and,breathing a clear new air all crisp from the Pyrenees, they sleptoutside the threshold of adventure.
Rodriguez awoke cold. Once more he heard the first blackbird who singsclear at the edge of night all alone in the greyness, the nightingale'sonly rival; a rival like some unknown in the midst of a crowd who for amoment leads some well-loved song, in notes more liquid than amaster-singer's; and all the crowd joins in and his voice is lost, andno one learns his name. At once a host of birds answered him out of dimbushes, whose shapes had barely as yet emerged from night. And in thischorus Perez awoke, and even Morano.
They all three breakfasted together, and then the wanderers saidgood-bye to Perez. And soon he was gone with
his bright blue sash,drifting homewards with the Segre, well paid yet singing a little sadlyas he drifted; for he had been one of a quest, and now he left it atthe edge of adventure, near solemn mountains and, beyond them,romantic, near-unknown lands. So Perez left and Rodriguez and Moranoturned again to the road, all the more lightly because they had notdone a full day's march for so long, and now a great one unrolled itsleagues before them.
The heads of the mountains showed themselves again. They tramped as inthe early days of their quest. And as they went the mountains,unveiling themselves slowly, dropping film after film of distance thathid their mighty forms, gradually revealed to the wanderers themagnificence of their beauty. Till at evening Rodriguez and Moranostood on a low hill, looking at that tremendous range, which lifted farabove the fields of Earth, as though its mountains were no earthlythings but sat with Fate and watched us and did not care.
Rodriguez and Morano stood and gazed in silence. They had come twentymiles since morning, they were tired and hungry, but the mountains heldthem: they stood there looking neither for rest nor food. Beyond them,sheltering under the low hills, they saw a little village. Smokestraggled up from it high into the evening: beyond the village woodssloped away upwards. But far above smoke or woods the bare peaksbrooded. Rodriguez gazed on their austere solemnity, wondering whatsecret they guarded there for so long, guessing what message they heldand hid from man; until he learned that the mystery they guarded amongthem was of things that he knew not and could never know.
Tinkle-ting said the bells of a church, invisible among the houses ofthat far village. Tinkle-ting said the crescent of hills that shelteredit. And after a while, speaking out of their grim and enormous silenceswith all the gravity of their hundred ages, Tinkle-ting said themountains. With this trivial message Echo returned from among the homesof the mighty, where she had run with the small bell's tiny cry totrouble their crowned aloofness.
Rodriguez and Morano pressed on, and the mountains cloaked themselvesas they went, in air of many colours; till the stars came out and thelights of the village gleamed. In darkness, with surprise in the tonesof the barking dogs, the two wanderers came to the village where so fewever came, for it lay at the end of Spain, cut off by those mightyrocks, and they knew not much of what lands lay beyond.
They beat on a door below a hanging board, on which was written "TheInn of the World's End": a wandering scholar had written it and hadbeen well paid for his work, for in those days writing was rare. Thedoor was opened for them by the host of the inn, and they entered aroom in which men who had supped were sitting at a table. They were allof them men from the Spanish side of the mountains, farmers come intothe village on the affairs of Mother Earth; next day they would be backat their farms again; and of the land the other side of the mountainsthat was so near now they knew nothing, so that it still remained forthe wanderers a thing of mystery wherein romance could dwell: andbecause they knew nothing of that land the men at the inn treasured allthe more the rumours that sometimes came from it, and of these theytalked, and mine host listened eagerly, to whom all tales were broughtsoon or late; and most he loved to hear tales from beyond the mountains.
Rodriguez and Morano sat still and listened, and the talk was all ofwar. It was faint and vague like fable, but rumour clearly said War,and the other side of the mountains. It may be that no man has a crazyambition without at moments suspecting it; but prove it by thetouchstone of fact and he becomes at once as a woman whose invalid son,after years of seclusion indoors, wins unexpectedly some athleticprize. When Rodriguez heard all this talk of wars quite near he thoughtof his castle as already won; his thoughts went further even, floatingthrough Lowlight in the glowing evening, and drifting up and down pastSerafina's house below the balcony where she sat for ever.
Some said the Duke would never attack the Prince because the Duke'saunt was a princess from the Troubadour's country. Another said thatthere would surely be war. Others said that there was war already, andtoo late for man to stop it. All said it would soon be over.
And one man said that it was the last war that would come, becausegunpowder made fighting impossible. It could smite a man down, he said,at two hundred paces, and a man be slain not knowing whom he fought.Some loved fighting and some loved peace, he said, but gunpowder suitednone.
"I like not the sound of that gunpowder, master," said Morano toRodriguez.
"Nobody likes it," said the man at the table. "It is the end of war."And some sighed and some were glad. But Rodriguez determined to push onbefore the last war was over.
Next morning Rodriguez paid the last of his silver pieces and set offwith Morano before any but mine host were astir. There was nothing butthe mountains in front of them.
They climbed all the morning and they came to the fir woods. There theylit a good fire and Morano brought out his frying-pan. Over the mealthey took stock of their provisions and found that, for all the storeMorano had brought from the forest, they had now only food for threedays; and they were quite without money. Money in those uplifted wastesseemed trivial, but the dwindling food told Rodriguez that he mustpress on; for man came among those rocky monsters supplied with all hisneeds, or perished unnoticed before their stony faces. All theafternoon they passed through the fir woods, and as shadows began togrow long they passed the last tree. The village and all the fieldsabout it and the road by which they had come were all spread out belowthem like little trivial things dimly remembered from very long ago byone whose memory weakens. Distance had dwarfed them, and the coldregard of those mighty peaks ignored them. And then a shadow fell onthe village, then tiny lights shone out. It was night down there. Stillthe two wanderers climbed on in the daylight. With their faces to therocks they scarce saw night climb up behind them. But when Rodriguezlooked up at the sky to see how much light was left, and met the calmgaze of the evening star, he saw that Night and the peaks were mettogether, and understood all at once how puny an intruder is man.
"Morano," said Rodriguez, "we must rest here for the night."
Morano looked round him with an air of discontent, not with hismaster's words but with the rocks' angular hardness. There was scarce aplant of any kind near them now. They were near the snow, which hadflushed like a wild rose at sunset but was now all grey. Grey cliffsseemed to be gazing sheer at eternity; and here was man, the creatureof a moment, who had strayed in the cold all homeless among hisbetters. There was no welcome for them there: whatever feeling greatmountains evoke, THAT feeling was clear in Rodriguez and Morano. Theywere all amongst those that have other aims, other ends, and knownaught of man. A bitter chill from the snow and from starry space drovethis thought home.
They walked on looking for a better place, as men will, but found none.And at last they lay down on the cold earth under a rock that seemed togive shelter from the wind, and there sought sleep; but cold cameinstead, and sleep kept far from the tremendous presences of the peaksof the Pyrenees that gazed on things far from here.
An ageing moon arose, and Rodriguez touched Morano and rose up; and thetwo went slowly on, tired though they were. Picture the two tinyfigures, bent, shivering and weary, walking with clumsy sticks cut inthe wood, amongst the scorn of those tremendous peaks, which the moonshowed all too clearly.
They got little warmth from walking, they were too weary to run; andafter a while they halted and burned their sticks, and got a littlewarmth for some moments from their fire, which burned feebly andstrangely in those inhuman solitudes.
Then they went on again and their track grew steeper. They rested againfor fatigue, and rose and climbed again because of the cold; and allthe while the peaks stared over them to spaces far beyond the thoughtof man.
Long before Spain knew anything of dawn a monster high in heaven smiledat the sun, a peak out-towering all its aged children. It greeted thesun as though this lonely thing, that scorned the race of man sinceever it came, had met a mighty equal out in Space. The vast peakglowed, and the rest of its grey race took up the greeting leisurelyone by one.
Still it was night in all Spanish houses.
Rodriguez and Morano were warmed by that cold peak's glow, though nowarmth came from it at all; but the sight of it cheered them and theirpulses rallied, and so they grew warmer in that bitter hour.
And then dawn came, and showed them that they were near the top of thepass. They had come to the snow that gleams there everlastingly.
There was no material for a fire but they ate cold meats, and wentwearily on. They passed through that awful assemblage of peaks. By noonthey were walking upon level ground.
In the afternoon Rodriguez, tired with the journey and with the heat ofthe sun, decided that it was possible to sleep, and, wrapping his cloakaround him, he lay down, doing what Morano would have done, byinstinct. Morano was asleep at once and Rodriguez soon after. Theyawoke with the cold at sunset.
Refreshed amazingly they ate some food and started their walk again tokeep themselves warm for the night. They were still on level ground andset out with a good stride in their relief at being done with climbing.Later they slowed down and wandered just to keep warm. And some time inthe starlight they felt their path dip, and knew that they were goingdownward now to the land of Rodriguez' dreams.
When the peaks glowed again, first meeting day in her earliestdancing-grounds of filmy air, they stood now behind the wanderers.Below them still in darkness lay the land of their dream, but hithertoit had always faded at dawn. Now hills put up their heads one by onethrough films of mist; woods showed, then hedges, and afterwardsfields, greyly at first and then, in the cold hard light of morning,becoming more and more real. The sight of the land so long sought, atmoments believed by Morano not to exist on earth, perhaps to have fadedaway when fables died, swept their fatigue from the wanderers, and theystepped out helped by the slope of the Pyrenees and cheered by therising sun. They came at last to things that welcome man, little shrubsflowering, and--at noon--to the edge of a fir wood. They entered thewood and lit a merry fire, and heard birds singing, at which they bothrejoiced, for the great peaks had said nothing.
They ate the food that Morano cooked, and drew warmth and cheer fromthe fire, and then they slept a little: and, rising from sleep, theypushed on through the wood, downward and downward toward the land oftheir dreams, to see if it was true.
They passed the wood and came to curious paths, and little hills, andheath, and rocky places, and wandering vales that twisted all awry.They passed through them all with the slope of the mountain behindthem. When level rays from the sunset mellowed the fields of France thewanderers were walking still, but the peaks were far behind them,austerely gazing on the remotest things, forgetting the footsteps ofman. And walking on past soft fields in the evening, all tilted alittle about the mountain's feet, they had scarcely welcomed the sightof the evening star, when they saw before them the mild glow of awindow and knew they were come again to the earth that is mother toman. In their cold savagery the inhuman mountains decked themselves outlike gods with colours they took from the sunset; then darkened, allthose peaks, in brooding conclave and disappeared in the night. And thehushed night heard the tiny rap of Morano's hands on the door of thehouse that had the glowing window.