“Master,” Morano said, “when you choose a castle in the wars, let it above all things be one of those that is easy to be defended; for castles are easily got, as the old songs tell, and in the heat of combat positions are quickly stormed, and no more ado; but, when wars are over, then is the time for ease and languorous days and the imperilling of the soul, though not beyond the point where our good fathers may save it.”
“Nay, Morano,” Rodriguez said, “no man, as they taught me well in the College of San Josephus, should ever imperil his soul.”
“But, master,” Morano said, “a man imperils his body in the wars yet hopes by dexterity and his sword to draw it safely thence: so a man of courage and high heart may surely imperil his soul and still hope to bring it at the last to salvation.”
“Not so,” said Rodriguez, and gave his mind to pondering upon the exact teaching he had received on this very point, but could not clearly remember.
So they walked in silence, Rodriguez thinking still of this spiritual problem, Morano turning, though with infinite slowness, to another thought upon a lower plane.
And after a while Rodriguez’ eyes turned again to the flowers, and he felt his meditation, as youth will, and looking abroad he saw the wonder of Spring calling forth the beauty of Spain, and he lifted up his head and his heart rejoiced with the anemones, as hearts at his age do: but Morano clung to his thought.
It was long before Rodriguez’ fanciful thoughts came back from among the flowers, for among those delicate earliest blooms of Spring his youthful visions felt they were with familiars; so they tarried, neglecting the dusty road and poor gross Morano. But when his fancies left the flowers at last and looked again at Morano, Rodriguez perceived that his servant was all troubled with thought: so he left Morano in silence for his thought to come to maturity, for he had formed a liking already for the judgments of Morano’s simple mind.
They walked in silence for the space of an hour, and at last Morano spoke. It was then noon. “Master,” he said, “at this hour it is the custom of la Garda to enter the Inn of the Dragon and to dine at the expense of mine host.”
“A merry custom,” said Rodriguez.
“Master,” said Morano, “if they find him in less than his usual health they will get their dinners for themselves in the larder and dine and afterwards sleep. But after that; master, after that, should anything inauspicious have befallen mine host, they will seek out and ask many questions concerning all travellers, too many for our liking.”
“We are many good miles from the Inn of the Dragon and Knight,” said Rodriguez.
“Master, when they have eaten and slept and asked questions they will follow on horses,” said Morano.
“We can hide,” said Rodriguez, and he looked round over the plain, very full of flowers, but empty and bare under the blue sky of any place in which a man might hide to escape from pursuers on horse back. He perceived then that he had no plan.
“Master,” said Morano, “there is no hiding like disguises.”
Once more Rodriguez looked round him over the plain, seeing no houses, no men; and his opinion of Morano’s judgment sank when he said disguises. But then Morano unfolded to him that plan which up to that day had never been tried before, so far as records tell, in all the straits in which fugitive men have been; and which seems from my researches in verse and prose never to have been attempted since.
The plan was this, astute as Morano, and simple as his naive mind. The clothing for which Rodriguez searched the plain vainly was ready to hand. No disguise was effective against la Garda, they had too many suspicions, their skill was to discover disguises. But in the moment of la Garda’s triumph, when they had found out the disguise, when success had lulled the suspicions for which they were infamous, then was the time to trick la Garda. Rodriguez wondered; but the slow mind of Morano was sure, and now he came to the point, the fruit of his hour’s thinking. Rodriguez should disguise himself as Morano. When la Garda discovered that he was not the man he appeared to be, a study to which they devoted their lives, their suspicions would rest and there would be an end of it. And Morano should disguise himself as Rodriguez.
It was a new idea. Had Rodriguez been twice his age he would have discarded it at once; for age is guided by precedent which, when pursued, is a dangerous guide indeed. Even as it was he was critical, for the novelty of the thing coming thus from his gross servant surprised him as much as though Morano had uttered poetry of his own when he sang, as he sometimes did, certain merry lascivious songs of Spain that any one of the last few centuries knew as well as any of the others.
And would not la Garda find out that he was himself, Rodriguez asked, as quickly as they found out he was not Morano.
“That,” said Morano, “is not the way of la Garda. For once let la Garda come by a suspicion, such as that you, master, are but Morano, and they will cling to it even to the last, and not abandon it until they needs must, and then throw it away as it were in disgust and ride hence at once, for they like not tarrying long near one who has seen them mistaken.”
“They will soon then come by another suspicion,” said Rodriguez.
“Not so, master,” answered Morano, “for those that are as suspicious as la Garda change their suspicions but slowly. A suspicion is an old song to them.”
“Then,” said Rodriguez, “I shall be hard set ever to show that I am not you if they ever suspect I am.”
“It will be hard, master,” Morano answered; “but we shall do it, for we shall have truth upon our side.”
“How shall we disguise ourselves?” said Rodriguez.
“Master,” said Morano, “when you came to our town none knew you and all marked your clothes. As for me my fat body is better known than my clothes, yet am I not too well known by la Garda, for, being an honest man, whenever la Garda came I used to hide.”
“You did well,” said Rodriguez.
“Certainly I did well,” said Morano, “for had they seen me they might, on account of certain matters, have taken me to prison, and prison is no place for an honest man.”
“Let us disguise ourselves,” said Rodriguez.
“Master,” answered Morano, “the brain is greater than the stomach, and now more than at any time we need the counsel of the brain; let us therefore appease the clamours of the stomach that it be silent.”
And he drew out from amongst his clothing a piece of sacking in which was a mass of bacon and some lard, and unslung his huge frying-pan. Rodriguez had entirely forgotten the need of food, but now the memory of it had rushed upon him like a flood over a barrier, as soon as he saw the bacon. And when they had collected enough of tiny inflammable things, for it was a treeless plain, and Morano had made a fire, and the odour of the bacon became perceptible, this memory was hugely intensified.
“Let us eat while they eat, master,” said Morano, “and plan while they sleep, and disguise ourselves while they pursue.”
And this they did: for after they had eaten they dug up earth and gathered leaves with which to fill the gaps in Morano’s garments when they should hang on Rodriguez, they plucked a geranium with whose dye they deepened Rodriguez’ complexion, and with the sap from the stalk of a weed Morano toned to a pallor the ruddy brown of his tough cheeks. Then they changed clothes altogether, which made Morano gasp: and after that nothing remained but to cut off the delicate black moustachios of Rodriguez and to stick them to the face of Morano with the juice of another flower that he knew where to find. Rodriguez sighed when he saw them go. He had pictured ecstatic glances cast some day at those moustachios, glances from under long eyelashes twinkling at evening from balconies; and looking at them where they were now, he felt that this was impossible.
For one moment Morano raised his head with an air, as it were preening himself, when the new moustachios had stuck; but as soon as he saw, or felt, his master’s sorrow at their loss he immediately hung his head, showing nothing but shame for the loss he had caused his master, or for the impropriety of those delicate growths that so ill become his jowl. And now they took the road again, Rodriguez with the great frying-pan and cooking-pot; no longer together, but not too far apart for la Garda to take them both at once, and to make the doubly false charge that should so confound their errand. And Morano wore that old triumphant sword, and carried the mandolin that was ever young.