at
the top. There was a mattress there which the old woman laid out for
Rodriguez, and a heap of hay for Morano. Just for a moment, as
Rodriguez climbed the last step of the stair and entered the loft where
the huge shadows twirled between the one candle's light and the
unbeaten darkness in corners, just for a moment romance seemed to
beckon to him; for a moment, in spite of his fatigue and dejection, in
spite of the possibility of his quest being crazy, for a moment he felt
that great shadows and echoing boards, the very cobwebs even that hung
from the black rafters, were all romantic things; he felt that his was
a glorious adventure and that all these things that filled the loft in
the night were such as should fitly attend on youth and glory. In a
moment that feeling was gone he knew not why it had come. And though he
remembered it till grey old age, when he came to know the causes of
many things, he never knew what romance might have to do with shadows
or echoes at night in an empty room, and only knew of such fancies that
they came from beyond his understanding, whether from wisdom or folly.

Morano was first asleep, as enormous snores testified, almost before
the echoes had died away of the footsteps of the old woman descending
the stairs; but soon Rodriguez followed him into the region of dreams,
where fantastic ambitions can live with less of a struggle than in the
broad light of day: he dreamed he walked at night down a street of
castles strangely colossal in an awful starlight, with doors too vast
for any human need, whose battlements were far in the heights of night;
and chose, it being in time of war, the one that should be his; but the
gargoyles on it were angry and spoiled the dream.

Dream followed dream with furious rapidity, as the dreams of tired men
do, racing each other, jostling and mingling and dancing, an
ill-assorted company: myriads went by, a wild, grey, cloudy multitude;
and with the last walked dawn.

Rodriguez rose more relieved to quit so tumultuous a rest than
refreshed by having had it.

He descended, leaving Morano to sleep on, and not till the old dame had
made a breakfast ready did he return to interrupt his snores.

Even as he awoke upon his heap of hay Morano remained as true to his
master's fantastic quest as the camel is true to the pilgrimage to
Mecca. He awoke grumbling, as the camel grumbles at dawn when the packs
are put on him where he lies, but never did he doubt that th