y were not ladies' rings, for no lady's ring would have fitted on to
any one of those fingers: the rings therefore of gallants: and not
given to Morano by their owners, for whoever wore precious stone needed
a ring to wear it in, and rings did not wear out like hose, which a
gallant might give to a servant. Nor, thought he, had Morano stolen
them, for whoever stole them would keep them whole, or part with them
whole and get a better price. Besides Morano had an honest face, or a
face at least that seemed honest in such an inn: and while these
thoughts were passing through his mind Morano spoke again: "Good hams,"
said Morano. He had already eaten one and was starting upon the next.
Perhaps he spoke out of gratitude for the honour and physical advantage
of being permitted to sit there and eat those hams, perhaps
tentatively, to find out whether he might consume the second, perhaps
merely to start a conversation, being attracted by the honest looks of
Rodriguez.

"You are hungry," said Rodriguez.

"Praise God I am always hungry," answered Morano. "If I were not hungry
I should starve."

"Is it so?" said Rodriguez.

"You see," said Morano, "the manner of it is this: my master gives me
no food, and it is only when I am hungry that I dare to rob him by
breaking in, as you saw me, upon his viands; were I not hungry I should
not dare to do so, and so ..." He made a sad and expressive movement
with both his hands suggestive of autumn leaves blown hence to die.

"He gives you no food?" said Rodriguez.

"It is the way of many men with their dog," said Morano. "They give him
no food," and then he rubbed his hands cheerfully, "and yet the dog
does not die."

"And he gives you no wages?" said Rodriguez.

"Just these rings."

Now Rodriguez had himself a ring upon his finger (as a gallant should),
a slender piece of gold with four tiny angels holding a sapphire, and
for a moment he pictured the sapphire passing into the hands of mine
host and the ring of gold and the four small angels being flung to
Morano; the thought darkened his gaiety for no longer than one of those
fleecy clouds in Spring shadows the fields of Spain.

Morano was also looking at the ring; he had followed the young man's
glance.

"Master," he said, "do you draw your sword of a night?"

"And you?" said Rodriguez.

"I have no sword," said Morano. "I am but as dog's meat that needs no
guarding, but you whose meat is rare like the flesh of the unicorn