a fire."

Thus he acknowledged Morano again for his servant but never
acknowledged that in Morano's words he had understood any poor sketch
of Morano's self, or that the words went to his heart.

"Timber, Master?" said Morano, though it did not need Rodriguez to
point out the great oaks that now began to stand beside their journey,
but he saw that the other matter was well and thus he left well alone.

Rodriguez waved an arm towards the great trees. "Yes, indeed," said
Morano, and began to polish up the frying-pan as he walked.

Rodriguez, who missed little, caught a glimpse of tears in Morano's
eyes, for all that his head was turned downward over the frying-pan;
yet he said nothing, for he knew that forgiveness was all that Morano
needed, and that he had now given him: and it was much to give,
reflected Rodriguez, for so great a crime, and dismissed the matter
from his mind.

And now their road dipped downhill, and they passed a huge oak and then
another. More and more often now they met these solitary giants, till
their view began to be obscured by them. The road dwindled till it was
no better than a track, the earth beside it was wild and rocky;
Rodriguez wondered to what manner of land he was coming. But
continually the branches of some tree obscured his view and the only
indication he had of it was from the road he trod, which seemed to tell
him that men came here seldom. Beyond every huge tree that they passed
as they went downhill Rodriguez hoped to get a better view, but always
there stood another to close the vista. It was some while before he
realised that he had entered a forest. They were come to Shadow Valley.

The grandeur of this place, penetrated by shafts of sunlight, coloured
by flashes of floating butterflies, filled by the chaunt of birds
rising over the long hum of insects, lifted the fallen spirits of
Rodriguez as he walked on through the morning.

He still would not have exchanged his rose for the whole forest; but in
the mighty solemnity of the forest his mourning for the lady that he
feared he had lost no longer seemed the only solemn thing: indeed, the
sombre forest seemed well attuned to his mood; and what complaint have
we against Fate wherever this is so. His mood was one of tragic loss,
the defeat of an enterprise that his hopes had undertaken, to seize
victory on the apex of the world, to walk all his days only just
outside the edge of Paradise, for no less than that his hopes and h