Not as confession he told it, but as a pleasant tale, for he
looked on the swift demise of la Garda's friend, in the night, in
the spidery room, as a fair blessing for Spain, a thing most
suited to the sweet days of Spring. The spiritual man rejoiced to
hear such a tale, as do all men of peace to hear talk of violent
deeds in which they may not share. And when the tale was ended he
reproved Rodriguez exceedingly, explaining to him the nature of
the sin of blood, and telling him that absolution could be come by
now, though hardly, but how on some future occasion there might be
none to be had. And Rodriguez listened with all the gravity of
expression that youth knows well how to wear while its thoughts
are nimbly dancing far away in fair fields of adventure or love.

And darkness came down and lamps were carried in: and the reverend
father asked Rodriguez in what other affairs of violence his sword
had unhappily been. And Rodriguez knew well the history of that
sword, having gathered all that concerned it out of spoken legend
or song. And although the reverend man frowned minatorily whenever
he heard of its passings through the ribs of the faithful, and
nodded as though his head gave benediction when he heard of the
destruction of God's most vile enemy the infidel, and though he
gasped a little through his lips when he heard of certain
tarryings of that sword, in scented gardens, while Christian
knights should sleep and their swords hang on the wall, though
sometimes even a little he raised his hands, yet he leaned forward
always, listening well, and picturing clearly as though his
gleaming eyes could see them, each doleful tale of violence or
sin. And so night came, and began to wear away, and neither knew
how late the hour was. And then as Rodriguez spoke of an evening