Morano gathered up the frying-pan and followed
Rodriguez, and when they came to the road he walked behind him in
silence.
For three or four miles they walked thus, Morano knowing that he
followed on sufferance and calling no attention to himself with
his garrulous tongue. But at the end of an hour the rain lifted;
and with the coming out of the sun Morano talked again.
"Master," he said, "the next man that you choose to kill you, let
him be one too base-born to know the tricks of the rapier, too
ignorant to do aught but wish you well, some poor fat fool over
forty who shall be too heavy to elude your rapier's point and too
elderly for it to matter when you kill him at your Chivalry, the
best of life being gone already at forty-five."
"There is timber here," said Rodriguez. "We will have some more
bacon while you dry my cloak over a fire."
Thus he acknowledged Morano again for his servant but never
acknowledged that in Morano's words he had understood any poor
sketch of Morano's self, or that the words went to his heart.
"Timber, Master?" said Morano, though it did not need Rodriguez to
point out the great oaks that now began to stand beside their
journey, but he saw that the other matter was well and thus he
left well alone.
Rodriguez waved an arm towards the great trees. "Yes, indeed,"
said Morano, and began to polish up the frying-pan as he walked.
Rodriguez, who missed little, caught a glimpse of tears in
Morano's eyes, for all that his head was turned downward over the
frying-pan; yet he said nothing, for he knew that forgiveness was
all that Morano needed, and that he had now given him: and it was
much to give, reflected Rodriguez, for so great a crime, and
dismissed the matter from his mind.
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