p prison, who hears a snatch of his comrades'
singing as they ride free by the coast, would grow more unbearable than
ever before. But the weight of his tired horse seemed to hang heavier
on the fanciful hopes that Rodriguez' dreams had made. Farther than
ever seemed the Pyrenees, huger than ever their barrier, dimmer and
dimmer grew the lands of romance.

If the hopes of Rodriguez were low, if his fancies were faint, what
material have I left with which to make a story with glitter enough to
hold my readers' eyes to the page: for know that mere dreams and idle
fancies, and all amorous, lyrical, unsubstantial things, are all that
we writers have of which to make a tale, as they are all that the Dim
Ones have to make the story of man.

Sometimes riding, sometimes going on foot, with the thought of the
long, long miles always crowding upon Rodriguez, overwhelming his
hopes; till even the castle he was to win in the wars grew too pale for
his fancy to see, tired and without illusions, they came at last by
starlight to the glow of a smith's forge. He must have done forty-five
miles and he knew they were near Caspe.

The smith was working late, and looked up when Rodriguez halted. Yes,
he knew Gonzalez, a master in the trade: there was a welcome for his
horses.

But for the two human travellers there were excuses, even apologies,
but no spare beds. It was the same in the next three or four houses
that stood together by the road. And the fever of Rodriguez' ambition
drove him on, though Morano would have lain down and slept where they
stood, though he himself was weary. The smith had received his horses;
after that he cared not whether they gave him shelter or not, the
alternative being the road, and that bringing nearer his wars and the
castle he was to win. And that fancy that led his master Morano allowed
always to lead him too, though a few more miles and he would have
fallen asleep as he walked and dropped by the roadside and slept on.
Luckily they had gone barely two miles from the forge where the horses
rested, when they saw a high, dark house by the road and knocked on the
door and found shelter. It was an old woman who let them in, a farmer's
wife, and she had room for them and one mattress, but no bed. They were
too tired to eat and did not ask for food, but at once followed her up
the booming stairs of her house, which were all dark but for her
candle, and so came among huge minuetting shadows to the long loft