Rodriguez reined in his horse in the heavy silence
and waited. For what he waited he knew not: some unearthly answer
perhaps to his questioning thoughts that had wandered far from
earth, though no words came to him with which to ask their
question and he did not know what question they would ask. He was
all vibrating with the human longing: I know not what it is, but
perhaps philosophers know. He sat there waiting while a late bird
sailed homeward, sat while Morano wondered. And nothing spake from
anywhere.
And now a dog began to notice the moon: now a child cried suddenly
that had been dragged back from the street, where it had wandered
at bedtime: an old dog rose from where it had lain in the sun and
feebly yet confidently scratched at a door: a cat peered round a
corner: a man spoke: Rodriguez knew there would be no answer now.
Rodriguez hit his horse, the tired animal went forward, and he and
Morano rode slowly up the street.
Dona Serafina of the Valley of Dawnlight had left the heat of the
room that looked on the fields, and into which the sun had all day
been streaming, and had gone at sunset to sit in the balcony that
looked along the street. Often she would do this at sunset; but
she rather dreamed as she sat there than watched the street, for
all that it had to show she knew without glancing. Evening after
evening as soon as winter was over the neighbour would come from
next door and stretch himself and yawn and sit on a chair by his
doorway, and the neighbour from opposite would saunter across the
way to him, and they would talk with eagerness of the sale of
cattle, and sometimes, but more coldly, of the affairs of kings.
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