Outside he recovered his
mandolin and his shoe. He was tired with the weariness of defeated
dreams that slept in his spirit exhausted, rather than with any
fatigue his young muscles had from the journey. He needed sleep;
he looked at the shuttered houses; then at the soft dust of the
road in which dogs lay during the daylight. But the dust was near
to his mood, so he lay down where he had fought the unknown
hidalgo. A light wind wandered the street like a visitor come to
the village out of a friendly valley, but Rodriguez' four days on
the roads had made him familiar with all wandering things, and the
breeze on his forehead troubled him not at all: before it had
wearied of wandering in the night Rodriguez had fallen asleep.
Just by the edge of sleep, upon which side he knew not, he heard
the window of the balcony creak, and looked up wide awake all in a
moment. But nothing stirred in the darkness of the balcony and the
window was fast shut. So whatever sound came from the window came
not from its opening but shutting: for a while he wondered; and
then his tired thoughts rested, and that was sleep.
A light rain woke Rodriguez, drizzling upon his face; the first
light rain that had fallen in a romantic tale. Storms there had
been, lashing oaks to terrific shapes seen at night by flashes of
lightning, through which villains rode abroad or heroes sought
shelter at midnight; hurricanes there had been, flapping huge
cloaks, fierce hail and copious snow; but until now no drizzle.
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