On the third day he was riding. He did not
look for comfort. But he met discomfort with an easy resignation
that almost defeated the intention of Satan who sends it, unless--
as is very likely--it be from Heaven. And in spite of all
discomforts he gaily followed Rodriguez. In a thousand days at the
Inn of the Dragon and Knight no two were so different to Morano
that one stood out from the other, or any from the rest. It was
all as though one day were repeated again and again; and at some
point in this monotonous repetition, like a milestone shaped as
the rest on a perfectly featureless road, life would end and the
meaningless repetition stop: and looking back on it there would
only be one day to see, or, if he could not look back, it would be
all gone for nothing. And then, into that one day that he was
living on in the gloaming of that grim inn, Rodriguez had
appeared, and Morano had known him for one of those wandering
lights that sometimes make sudden day among the stars. He knew--
no, he felt--that by following him, yesterday today and tomorrow
would be three separate possessions in memory. Morano gladly gave
up that one dull day he was living for the new strange days
through which Rodriguez was sure to lead him. Gladly he left it:
if this be not true how then has a man with a dream led thousands
to follow his fancy, from the Crusades to whatever gay madness be
the fashion when this is read? As they galloped the scent of the
flowers rushed into Rodriguez' nostrils, while Morano mainly
breathed the dust from the hooves of his master's horse.
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