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song and strengthen our men thereby."
And so Rodriguez sang among the tents, standing by a great fire to which they led him; and men came from
the tents and into the circle of light, and in the darkness outside it were more than Rodriguez saw. And he sang
to the circle of men and the vague glimmer of faces. Songs of their homes he sang them, not in their language,
but songs that were made by old poets about the homes of their infancy, in valleys under far mountains remote
from the Pyrenees. And in the song the yearnings of dead poets lived again, all streaming homeward like swallows
when the last of the storms is gone: and those yearnings echoed in the hearts that beat in the night around the
campfire, and they saw their own homes. And then he began to touch his mandolin; and he played them the
tunes that draw men from their homes and that march them away to war. The tunes flowed up from the
firelight: the mandolin knew. And the men heard the mandolin saying what they would say.
In the late night he ended, and a hush came down on the camp while the music floated away, going up from
the dark ring of men and the fire-lit faces, touching perhaps the knees of the Pyrenees and drifting thence
wherever echoes go. And the sparks of the camp fire went straight upwards as they had done for hours, and the
men that sat around it saw them go: for long they had not seen the sparks stream upwards, for their thoughts
were far away with the mandolin. And all at once they cheered. And Rodriguez bowed to the one whose tent he
had entered, and sought permission to fight for them in the morning.
With good grace this was accorded him, and while he bowed and well expressed his thanks he felt Morano
touching his elbow. And as soon as he had gone aside with Morano that fat man's words bubbled over and were
said.
"Master, fight not for these men," he exclaimed, "for they listen to song till midnight while the others prepare
for battle. The others will win the fight, master, and where will your castle be?"
"Morano," said Rodriguez, "there seems to be truth in that. Yet must we fight for the right. For how would it
be if those that have denied song should win and thrive? The arm of every good man must be against them.
They have denied song, Morano! We must fight against them, you and I, while we can lay sword to head."
"Yes, indeed, master," said Morano. "But how shall you come by your castle?"
"As for that," said Rodriguez, "it must some day be won, yet not by denying song. These have given a
welcome to song, and the others have driven it forth. And what would life be if those that deny song are to be
permitted to thrive unmolested by all good men?"
"I know not, master," said Morano, "but I would have that castle."
"Enough," said Rodriguez. "We must fight for the right."
And so Rodriguez remained true to those that had heard him sing. And they gave him a casque and
breast-plate, proof, they said, against any sword, and offered a sword that they said would surely cleave any
breast-plate. For they fought not in battle with the nimble rapier. But Rodriguez did not forsake that famous
exultant sword whose deeds he knew from many an ancient song; which he had brought so far to give it its old
rich drink of blood. He believed it the bright key of the castle he was to win.
And they gave Rodriguez a good bed on the ground in the tent of the three leaders, the tent to which he
first came; for they honoured him for the gift of song that he had, and because he was a stranger, and because
he had asked permission to fight for them in their battle. And Rodriguez took one look by the light of a lantern at
the rose he had carried from Lowlight, then slept a sleep through whose dreams loomed up the towers of castles.
Dawn came and he slept on still; but by seven all the camp was loudly astir, for they had promised the enemy
to begin the battle at eight. Rodriguez breakfasted lightly; for, now that the day of his dreams was come at last
and all his hopes depended on the day, an anxiety for many things oppressed him. It was as though his castle,
rosy and fair in dreams, chilled with its huge cold rocks all the air near it: it was as though Rodriguez touched it at
last with his hands and felt a dankness of which he had never dreamed.
Then it came to the hour of eight and his anxieties passed.
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