The tents had
come up that evening with the mist, for there were men still
hammering pegs. They were lighting fires now as evening settled
in. Two hundred paces or so separated each row. It was two armies
facing each other.
The gloaming faded: mist and the tents grew greyer: camp-fires
blinked out of the dimness and grew redder and redder, and candles
began to be lit beside the tents till all were glowing pale
golden: Rodriguez and Morano stood there wondering awhile as they
looked on the beautiful aura that surrounds the horrors of war.
They came by starlight to that tented field, by twinkling
starlight to the place of Rodriguez' dream.
"For which side will you fight, master?" said Morano in his ear.
"For the right," said Rodriguez and strode on towards the nearest
tents, never doubting that he would be guided, though not trying
to comprehend how this could be.
They met with an officer going among his tents. "Where do you go?"
he shouted.
"Senor," Rodriguez said, "I come with my mandolin to sing songs to
you."
And at this the officer called out and others came from their
tents; and Rodriguez repeated his offer to them not without
confidence, for he knew that he had a way with the mandolin. And
they said that they fought a battle on the morrow and could not
listen to song: they heaped scorn on singing for they said they
must needs prepare for the fight: and all of them looked with
scorn on the mandolin.
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