their own country
and would have taken him with them and advanced him to honour there.
But Rodriguez would not stay with them for he had his castle at last,
and must needs march off at once with his captive and Morano to see the
fulfilment of his dream. And therefore he thanked the leaders of that
host with many a courtesy and many a well-bent bow, and explained to
them how it was about his castle, and felicitated them on the victory
of their good cause, and so wished them farewell. And they said
farewell sorrowfully: but when they saw he would go, they gave him
horses for himself and Morano, and another for his captive; and they
heaped them with sacks of provender and blankets and all things that
could give him comfort upon a journey: all this they brought him out of
their spoils of war, and they would give him no less that the most that
the horses could carry. And then Rodriguez turned to his captive again,
who now stood on his feet.

"Senor," he said, "pray tell us all of your castle wherewith you ransom
your life."

"Senor," he answered, "I have a castle in Spain."

"Master," broke in Morano, his eyes lighting up with delight, "there
are no castles like the Spanish ones."

They got to horse then, all three; the captive on a horse of far poorer
build than the other two and well-laden with sacks, for Rodriguez took
no chance of his castle cantering, as it were, away from him on four
hooves through the dust.

And when they heard that his journey was by way of the Pyrenees four
knights of that army swore they would ride with him as far as the
frontier of Spain, to bear him company and bring him fuel in the lonely
cold of the mountains. They all set off and the merry army cheered. He
left them making ready for their banquet, and never knew the cause for
which he had fought.

They came by evening again to the house to which Rodriguez had come two
nights before, when he had slept there with his castle yet to win. They
all halted before it, and the man and the woman came to the door
terrified. "The wars!" they said.

"The wars," said one of the riders, "are over, and the just cause has
won."

"The Saints be praised!" said the woman. "But will there be no more
fighting?"

"Never again," said the horseman, "for men are sick of gunpowder."

"The Saints be thanked," she said.

"Say not that," said the horseman, "for Satan invented gunpowder."

And she was silent; but, had none been there, she had secretly thank