Morano rode as though trained in
the same school that some while later taught Macaulay's
equestrian, who rode with "loose rein and bloody spur." Yet the
miles went swiftly by as they galloped on soft white dust, which
lifted and settled, some of it, back on the lazy road, while some
of it was breathed by Morano. The gold coin on the green silk
ribbon flapped up and down as Rodriguez rode, till he stuffed it
inside his clothing and remembered no more about it. Once they saw
before them the man they had snatched from the noose: he was going
hard and leading a loose horse. And then where the road bent round
a low hill he galloped out of sight and they saw him no more. He
had the loose horse to change on to as soon as the other was
tired: they had no prospect of overtaking him. And so he passed
out of their minds as their host had done who went away with his
household to Saragossa.
At first Rodriguez' mandolin, that was always slung on his back,
bumped up and down uncomfortably; but he eased it by altering the
strap: small things like this bring contentment. And then he
settled down to ride. But no contentment came near Morano nor did
he look for it. On the first day of his wanderings he had worn his
master's clothes, which has been an experience standing somewhat
where toothache does, which is somewhere about half-way between
discomfort and agony. On the second day he had climbed at the end
of a weary journey over those sharp rocks whose shape was adapted
so ill to his body.
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