A legend of Sonora by Hildegarde Hawthorn. Two persons, a man and a
woman, faced each other under a clump of live oaks. Hard by were
visible the walls of an adobe house crumbling with age. The sun was setting.
A slight breeze stirred in the dark branches of the trees, which,
all through the hot Mexican day had been motionless. The woman was dark and
small, with large eyes and a graceful body. The man a swarthy vocaro
in sarope and sombrero. And you heard him say that, said she,
yes, Senorita. He said I love you. I love you twice like
that, and then he kissed her. Ah, he kissed her anything else
this He handed her a slip of folded paper. It contained a woman's name,
a few words of passion, and a signature. As the Signorita's eyes
perused it, they contracted, and she drew a long breath. The vacara
watched her keenly. I found it in the arbor after they had gone,
said he. She looked away dreamily. Thank you, thank you, Mazeppa.
She muttered, It is late, I must go in now. Adios
Mazeppa. She turned and moving slowly vanished behind a corner of the adobe house.
The Vaccaro remained motionless until she was out of sight. Then he pressed
his hands to his lips and flung them out toward her with a passionate gesture.
The next moment he had mounted his horse and was gone. An hour
past again the sound of hoofs, a handsome young signor, jauntily attired,
galloped up to the door of the house, and, springing from the saddle,
hitched his rein over a large hook projecting from the wall. Ollah Maria,
little one, he called out, in a rich, joyous voice.
Where is my little Maria? The senorita appeared, smiling. She was in
white, with a riboso drawn around her delicate face. She bore a two
handled silver cup. Curiously chaste, see, she said, I have brought
you some wine. Such a long ride, just see me. She was
holding out the cup toward him, but as he was about to receive it,
she drew it back. Suddenly, she was pale, her eyes glittered.
I too am thirsty, she said. She lifted the cup to her
lips and took a deep draft. Now you shall finish it, she added,
handing it to him. He nodded to her laughingly. To our love,
he said, and drained it. But how strangely you look at me,
little one, he exclaimed, as he set the cup down and caught
his breath. Is anything wrong? All is well? She answered? I
am happy? Are you happy? I? I am with you? Am
I not? She put her hand in his. Let us never be parted
any more, She said, Come, we'll walk to the hilltop and see
the moon rise. Hand in hand, they sauntered along the path up the
bare hillside. On and on they walked, slowly, slowly. Maria gave
a little gasp and glanced with dilated eyes at her lover. He smiled faintly
and tried to draw her toward him, but somehow did not, And still
they moved slowly on their way. The hilltop seemed strangely far off. Maria
pressed forward, grasping her lover's hand. What made the distance seem so long?
Surely it was but a stroll of ten minutes, Yet it was as
though they had been walking an hour a year many years. Down the hillside
path came a horseman, riding quietly and humming a low song. He was
close upon the two figures before he appeared to be aware of them. They
half stopped as if to speak to him. The horse shivered and plunged.
The rider stared at the couple, but an instant then, driving home his
spurs, he sprang past them. Mother of God, he faltered, crossing
himself as he threw a backward glance up the path, on which nothing was
now visible. The ghosts the little girl who they say down below poisoned herself
and her lover fifty years ago. End of a Legend of Sonora by Hildegarde Hawthorn