how he dwelt with his mother and sister in the house that Rodriguez
knew, and his name was Don Alderon of the Valley of Dawnlight. His
house had dwelt in that valley since times out of knowledge; but then
the Moors had come and his forbears had fled to Lowlight: the Moors
were gone now, for which Saint Michael and all fighting Saints be
praised; but there were certain difficulties about his right to the
Valley of Dawnlight. So they dwelt in Lowlight still.

And Rodriguez told of the war that there was beyond the Pyrenees and
how the just cause had won, but little more than that he was able to
tell, for he knew scarce more of the cause for which he had fought than
History knows of it, who chooses her incidents and seems to forget so
much. And as they talked they came to the house with the balcony. A
waning moon cast light over it that was now no longer twilight; but was
the light of wild things of the woods, and birds of prey, and men in
mountains outlawed by the King, and magic, and mystery, and the quests
of love. Serafina had left her place: lights gleamed now in the
windows. And when the door was opened the hall seemed to Rodriguez so
much less hugely hollow, so much less full of ominous whispered echoes,
that his courage rose high as he went through it with Alderon, and they
entered the room together that they had entered together before. In the
long room beyond many candles he saw Dona Serafina and her mother
rising up to greet him. Neither the ceremonies of that age nor
Rodriguez' natural calm would have entirely concealed his emotion had
not his face been hidden as he bowed. They spoke to him; they asked him
of his travels; Rodriguez answered with effort. He saw by their manner
that Don Alderon must have explained much in his favour. He had this
time, to cheer him, a very different greeting; and yet he felt little
more at ease than when he had stood there late at night before, with
one eye bandaged and wearing only one shoe, suspected of he knew not
what brawling and violence.

It was not until Dona Mirana, the mother of Serafina, asked him to play
to them on his mandolin that Rodriguez' ease returned. He bowed then
and brought round his mandolin, which had been slung behind him; and
knew a triumphant champion was by him now, one old in the ways of love
and wise in the sorrows of man, a slender but potent voice,
well-skilled to tell what there were not words to say; a voice
unhindered by language, unlimited eve