A blackbird blew a tune
less of this earth than of fairy-land.
Rodriguez wished that he could have had a less ambition than to
win a castle in the wars, for in those glades and among those oaks
he felt that happiness might be found under roofs of thatch. But
having come by his ambition he would not desert it.
Now rushlights were lit in the great cottage and the window of the
long room glowed yellow. A fountain fell in the stillness that he
had not heard before. An early nightingale tuned a tentative note.
"The forest is fair, is it not?" said Miguel.
Rodriguez had no words to say. To turn into words the beauty that
was now shining in his thoughts, reflected from the evening there,
was no easier than for wood to reflect all that is seen in the
mirror.
"You love the forest," he said at last.
"Master," said Miguel, "it is the only land in which we should
live our days. There are cities and roads but man is not meant for
them. I know not, master, what God intends about us; but in cities
we are against the intention at every step, while here, why, we
drift along with it."
"I, too, would live here always," said Rodriguez.
"The house is yours," said Miguel. And Rodriguez answered: "I go
tomorrow to the wars."
They turned round then and walked slowly back to the cottage, and
entered the candlelight and the loud talk of many men out of the
hush of the twilight. But they passed from the room at once by a
door on the left, and came thus to a large bedroom, the only other
room in the cottage.
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