tting and walking, and sometimes dismounting and
dragging the horses on, it was nearly two hours before they had done
ten miles and come to the house of the smith in a rocky village: the
street was cobbled and the houses were all of stone.

The early sparkle had gone from the dew, but it was still morning, and
many a man but now sat down to his breakfast, as they arrived and beat
on the door.

Gonzalez the smith opened it, a round and ruddy man past fifty, a
citizen following a reputable trade, but once, ah once, a bowman.

"Senor," said Rodriguez, "our horses are weary. We have been told you
will change them for us."

"Who told you that?" said Gonzalez.

"The green bowmen in Shadow Valley," the young man answered.

As a meteor at night lights up with its greenish glare flowers and
blades of grass, twisting long shadows behind them, lights up lawns and
bushes and the deep places of woods, scattering quiet night for a
moment, so the unexpected answer of Rodriguez lit memories in the mind
of the smith all down the long years; and a twinkle and a sparkle of
those memories dancing in woods long forsaken flashed from his eyes.

"The green bowmen, senor," said Gonzalez. "Ah, Shadow Valley!"

"We left it yesterday," said Rodriguez.

When Gonzalez heard this he poured forth questions. "The forest, senor;
how is it now with the forest? Do the boars still drink at Heather
Pool? Do the geese go still to Greatmarsh? They should have come early
this year. How is it with Larios, Raphael, Migada? Who shoots woodcock
now?"

The questions flowed on past answering, past remembering: he had not
spoken of the forest for years. And Rodriguez answered as such
questions are always answered, saying that all was well, and giving
Gonzalez some little detail of some trifling affair of the forest,
which he treasured as small shells are treasured in inland places when
travellers bring them from the sea; but all that he heard of the forest
seemed to the smith like something gathered on a far shore of time.
Yes, he had been a bowman once.

But he had no horses. One horse that drew a cart, but no horses for
riding at all. And Rodriguez thought of the immense miles lying between
him and the foreign land, keeping him back from his ambition; they all
pressed on his mind at once. The smith was sorry, but he could not make
horses.

"Show him your coin, master," said Morano.

"Ah, a small token," said Rodriguez, drawing it forth still on its