At his house
Rodriguez and Morano should leave the horses. He dwelt sixty miles
from the northern edge of the forest, and would surely give
Rodriguez fresh horses if he possessed them, for he was a true man
to the bowman. His name was Gonzalez and he dwelt in a queer green
house.
They turned then to listen a moment to a hunting song that all the
bowmen were singing about the death of a boar. Its sheer merriment
constrained them. Then Miguel spoke again. "You should not leave
the forest," he said sadly.
Rodriguez sighed: it was decided. Then Miguel told him of his
road, which ran north-eastward and would one day bring him out of
Spain. He told him how towns on the way, and the river Ebro, and
with awe and reverence he spoke of the mighty Pyrenees. And then
Rodriguez rose, for the start was to be at dawn, and walked
quietly through the singing out of the hall to the room where the
great bed was. And soon he slept, and his dreams joined in the
endless hunt through Shadow Valley that was carved all round the
timbers of his bed.
All too soon he heard voices, voices far off at first, to which he
drew nearer and nearer; thus he woke grudgingly out of the deeps
of sleep. It was Miguel and Morano calling him.
When at length he reached the hall all the merriment of the
evening was gone from it but the sober beauty of the forest
flooded in through both windows with early sunlight and bird-song;
so that it had not the sad appearance of places in which we have
rejoiced, when we revisit them next day or next generation and
find them all deserted by dance and song.
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