d a fire: they hastily made a meal and
wrapped up their tent and soon they were going onward against the tide
of the Segre. And that day Morano rowed more skilfully; and Rodriguez
unwrapped his mandolin and played, reclining in the boat while he
rested from rowing. And the mandolin told them all, what the words of
none could say, that they fared to adventure in the land of Romance, to
the overthrow of dullness and the sameness of all drear schemes and the
conquest of discontent in the spirit of man; and perhaps it sang of a
time that has not yet come, or the mandolin lied.

That evening three wiser men made their camp before starlight. They
were now far up the Segre.

For thirteen hours next day they toiled at the oars or lay languid. And
while Rodriguez rested he played on his mandolin. The Segre slipped by
them.

They seemed like no men on their way to war, but seemed to loiter as
the bright river loitered, which slid seaward in careless ease and was
wholly freed from time.

On this day they heard men speak of the Pyrenees, two men and a woman
walking by the river; their voices came to the boat across the water,
and they spoke of the Pyrenees. And on the next day they heard men
speak of war. War that some farmers had fled from on the other side of
the mountain. When Rodriguez heard these chance words his dreams came
nearer till they almost touched the edges of reality.

It was the last day of Perez' rowing. He rowed well although they
neared the cradle of the Segre and he struggled against them in his
youth. Grey peaks began to peer that had nursed that river. Grey faces
of stone began to look over green hills. They were the Pyrenees.

When Rodriguez saw at last the Pyrenees he drew a breath and was unable
to speak. Soon they were gone again below the hills: they had but
peered for a moment to see who troubled the Segre.

And the sun set and still they did not camp, but Perez rowed on into
the starlight. That day he rowed six hours.

They pitched their tent as well as they could in the darkness; and,
breathing a clear new air all crisp from the Pyrenees, they slept
outside the threshold of adventure.

Rodriguez awoke cold. Once more he heard the first blackbird who sings
clear at the edge of night all alone in the greyness, the nightingale's
only rival; a rival like some unknown in the midst of a crowd who for a
moment leads some well-loved song, in notes more liquid than a
master-singer's; and all the crow