A legend of Sonora by Hildegarde Hawthorne. 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 vicaro
in serape 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 vicero
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, Adius
Mazeppa. She turned, and, moving slowly vanished behind a corner of the
adobe house. The Valkio 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.
A hour passed 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.
O l Ah, 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 chased see, she said,
I have brought you some wine. Such a long ride just to 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 hill top and see the moon rise. Hand in hand, they sauntered
along the path up the bare hill side. 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 love song. He was close upon the two figures before he appeared to
be aware of them. The 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. And of
a legend of Sonora by Hildegarde Hawthorne