Speaker 1: 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