And yet he was thirsty, and too tired to eat, and
sore in need of refreshment, and had had no more cause to learn to
shun good wine than he had had to shun the smiles of princesses;
and there the good wine had been, sparkling beside him merrily.
And now, why now, fatigued as he had been an hour or so ago (but
time had lost its tiresome, restless meaning), now he stood firm
while all things and all men staggered.
"Morano," said Rodriguez as he passed that foolish figure, "we go
sixty miles to-morrow."
"Sixty, master?" said Morano. "A hundred: two hundred."
"It is best to rest now," said his master.
"Two hundred, master, two hundred," Morano replied.
And then Rodriguez left him, and heard him muttering his challenge
to distance still, "Two hundred, two hundred," till the old
stairway echoed with it.
And so he came to his chamber, of which he remembered little, for
sleep lurked there and he was soon with dreams, faring further
with them than my pen can follow.
THE EIGHTH CHRONICLE
HOW HE TRAVELLED FAR
One blackbird on a twig near Rodriguez' window sang, then there
were fifty singing, and morning arose over Spain all golden and
wonderful.
Rodriguez descended and found mine host rubbing his hands by his
good table, with a look on his face that seemed to welcome the day
and to find good auguries concerning it. But Morano looked as one
that, having fallen from some far better place, is ill-content
with earth and the mundane way.
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