"We rest the night there," said Rodriguez pointing, though it was
yet seven or eight miles away.
"All the Saints be praised," said Morano.
They dismounted then and went on foot, for the horses were weary.
At evening they rode slowly into the village. At an inn whose
hospitable looks were as cheerfully unlike the Inn of the Dragon
and Knight as possible, they demanded lodging for all four. They
went first to the stable, and when the horses had been handed over
to the care of a groom they returned to the inn, and mine host and
Rodriguez had to help Morano up the three steps to the door, for
he had walked nine miles that day and ridden fifty and he was too
weary to climb the steps.
And later Rodriguez sat down alone to his supper at a table well
and variously laden, for the doors of mine hosts' larder were
opened wide in his honour; but Rodriguez ate sparingly, as do
weary men.
And soon he sought his bed. And on the old echoing stairs as he
and mine host ascended they met Morano leaning against the wall.
What shall I say of Morano? Reader, your sympathy is all ready to
go out to the poor, weary man. He does not entirely deserve it,
and shall not cheat you of it. Reader, Morano was drunk. I tell
you this sorry truth rather than that the knave should have
falsely come by your pity. And yet he is dead now over three
hundred years, having had his good time to the full. Does he
deserve your pity on that account? Or your envy? And to whom or
what would you give it? Well, anyhow, he deserved no pity for
being drunk.
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