All the next day they rode on through the forest, till they came
to the black circle of the old fire of their next camp. And here
Rodriguez halted on account of the attraction that one of his old
camps seems to have for a wanderer. It drew his feet towards it,
this blackened circle, this hearth that for one night made one
spot in the wilderness home. Don Alderon did not care whether they
tarried or hurried; he loved his journey through this leafy land;
the cool night-breeze slipping round the tree-trunks was new to
him, and new was the comradeship of the abundant stars; the quest
itself was a joy to him; with his fancy he built Rodriguez'
mysterious castle no less magnificently than did Don Alvidar.
Sometimes they talked of the castle, each of the young men
picturing it as he saw it; but in the warmth of the camp-fire
after Morano slept they talked of more than these chronicles can
tell.
In the morning they pressed on as fast as the forest's low boughs
would allow them. They passed somewhere near the great cottage in
which the bowmen feasted; but they held on, as they had decided
after discussion to do, for the last place in which Rodriguez had
seen the King of Shadow Valley, which was the place of his
promise. And before any dimness came even to the forest, or golden
shafts down colonnades which were before all cathedrals, they
found the old camp that they sought, which still had a clear
flavour of magic for Morano on account of the moth-like coming and
going of his three horses after he had tied them to that tree.
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