This is the tale told in the last hours of a summer night
to the old Spanish priest in the Hôtel Dieu, by an aged
wanderer from the Spanish Americas; and I write it almost as
I heard it from the priest's lips:
I could not sleep. The strange odors of the flowers; the sense of
romantic excitement which fills a vivid imagination in a new land;
the sight of a new heaven illuminated by unfamiliar constellations,
and a new world which seemed to me a very garden of Eden--perhaps all
of these added to beget the spirit of unrest which consumed me as
with a fever. I rose and went out under the stars. I heard the heavy
breathing of the soldiers, whose steel corselets glimmered in the
ghostly light; the occasional snorting of the horses; the regular tread
of the sentries guarding the sleep of their comrades. An inexplicable
longing came upon me to wander alone into the deep forest beyond, such
a longing as in summer days in Seville had seized me when I heard the
bearded soldiers tell of the enchantment of the New World. I did not
dream of danger; for in those days I feared neither God nor devil, and
the Commander held me the most desperate of that desperate band of men.
I strode out beyond the lines;--the grizzled sentry growled out a rough
protest as I received his greeting in sullen silence;--I cursed him
and passed on.
. . . . . . . . .
The deep sapphire of that marvelous Southern night paled to pale
amethyst; then the horizon brightened into yellow behind the crests of
the palm trees; and at last the diamond-fires of the Southern Cross
faded out. Far behind me I heard the Spanish bugles, ringing their call
through the odorous air of that tropical morning, quaveringly sweet in
the distance, faint as music from another world. Yet I did not dream of
retracing my steps. As in a dream I wandered on under the same strange
impulse, and the bugle-call again rang out, but fainter than before. I
do not know if it was the strange perfume of the strange flowers, or
the odors of the spice-bearing trees, or the caressing warmth of the
tropical air, or witchcraft; but a new sense of feeling came to me.
I would have given worlds to have been able to weep: I felt the old
fierceness die out of my heart;--wild doves flew down from the trees
and perched upon my shoulders, and I laughed to find myself caressing
them--I whose hands were red with blood, and whose heart was black with
crime.
. . . . . . . . .
And the day broadened and brightened into a paradise of emerald
and gold; birds no larger than bees, but painted with strange
metallic fires of color, hummed about me;--parrots chattered in the
trees;--apes swung themselves with fantastic agility from branch to
branch;--a million million blossoms of inexpressible beauty opened
their silky hearts to the sun;--and the drowsy perfume of the dreamy
woods became more intoxicating. It seemed to me a land of witchcraft,
such as the Moors told us of in Spain, when they spoke of countries
lying near the rising of the sun. And it came to pass that I found
myself dreaming of the Fountain of Gold which Ponce de Leon sought.
. . . . . . . . .
Then it seemed to me that the trees became loftier. The palms looked
older than the deluge, and their cacique-plumes seemed to touch the
azure of heaven. And suddenly I found myself within a great clear
space, ringed in by the primeval trees so lofty that all within their
circle was bathed in verdant shadow. The ground was carpeted with moss
and odorous herbs and flowers, so thickly growing that the foot made no
sound upon their elastic leaves and petals; and from the circle of the
trees on every side the land sloped down to a vast basin filled with
sparkling water, and there was a lofty jet in the midst of the basin,
such as I had seen in the Moorish courts of Granada. The water was
deep and clear as the eyes of a woman in her first hours of love;--I
saw gold-sprinkled sands far below, and rainbow lights where the rain
of the fountain made ripples. It seemed strange to me that the jet
leaped from nothing formed by the hand of man; it was as though a
mighty underflow forced it upward in a gush above the bright level of
the basin. I unbuckled my armor and doffed my clothing, and plunged
into the fountain with delight. It was far deeper than I expected;
the crystalline purity of the water had deceived me--I could not even
dive to the bottom. I swam over to the fountain jet and found to my
astonishment that while the waters of the basin were cool as the flow
of a mountain spring, the leaping column of living crystal in its
centre was warm as blood!
. . . . . . . . .
I felt an inexpressible exhilaration from my strange bath; I gamboled
in the water like a boy; I even cried aloud to the woods and the birds;
and the parrots shouted back my cries from the heights of the palms.
And, leaving the fountain, I felt no fatigue or hunger; but when I lay
down a deep and leaden sleep came upon me,--such a sleep as a child
sleeps in the arms of its mother.
. . . . . . . . .
When I awoke a woman was bending over me. She was wholly unclad, and
with her perfect beauty and the tropical tint of her skin, she looked
like a statue of amber. Her flowing black hair was interwoven with
white flowers; her eyes were very large, and dark and deep, and fringed
with silky lashes. She wore no ornaments of gold, like the Indian
girls I had seen--only the white flowers in her hair. I looked at her
wonderingly as upon an angel; and with her tall and slender grace she
seemed to me, indeed, of another world. For the first time in all that
dark life of mine, I felt fear in the presence of a woman; but a fear
not unmixed with pleasure. I spoke to her in Spanish; but she only
opened her dark eyes more widely, and smiled. I made signs; she brought
me fruits and clear water in a gourd; and as she bent over me again, I
kissed her.
. . . . . . . . .
Why should I tell of our love, Padre?--let me only say that those were
the happiest years of my life. Earth and heaven seemed to have embraced
in that strange land; it was Eden; it was paradise; never-wearying
love, eternal youth! No other mortal ever knew such happiness as
I;--yet none ever suffered so agonizing a loss. We lived upon fruits
and the water of the Fountain;--our bed was the moss and the flowers;
the doves were our playmates;--the stars our lamps. Never storm or
cloud;--never rain or heat;--only the tepid summer drowsy with sweet
odors, the songs of birds and murmuring water; the waving palms, the
jewel-breasted minstrels of the woods who chanted to us through the
night. And we never left the little valley. My armor and my good rapier
rusted away; my garments were soon worn out; but there we needed no
raiment, it was all warmth and light and repose. "We shall never grow
old here," she whispered. But when I asked her if that was, indeed,
the Fountain of Youth, she only smiled and placed her finger upon her
lips. Neither could I ever learn her name. I could not acquire her
tongue; yet she had learned mine with marvelous quickness. We never had
a quarrel;--I could never find heart to even frown upon her. She was
all gentleness, playfulness, loveliness--but what do you care, Padre,
to hear all these things?
. . . . . . . . .
Did I say our happiness was perfect? No: there was one strange cause
of anxiety which regularly troubled me. Each night, while lying in her
arms, I heard the Spanish bugle-call--far and faint and ghostly as a
voice from the dead. It seemed like a melancholy voice calling to me.
And whenever the sound floated to us, I felt that she trembled, and
wound her arms faster about me, and she would weep until I kissed away
her tears. And through all those years I heard the bugle-call. Did I
say years?--nay, _centuries!_--for in that land one never grows old; I
heard it through centuries after all my companions were dead.
The priest crossed himself under the lamplight, and murmured
a prayer. "Continue, hijo mio," he said at last; "tell me
all."
It was anger, Padre; I wished to see for myself where the sounds came
from that tortured my life. And I know not why she slept so deeply that
night. As I bent over to kiss her, she moaned in her dreams, and I saw
a crystal tear glimmer on the dark fringe of her eyes--and then that
cursed bugle-call--
The old man's voice failed a moment. He gave a feeble cough,
spat blood, and went on:
I have little time to tell you more, Padre. I never could find my way
back again to the valley. I lost her forever. When I wandered out among
men, they spoke another language that I could not speak; and the world
was changed. When I met Spaniards at last, they spoke a tongue unlike
what I heard in my youth. I did not dare to tell my story. They would
have confined me with madmen. I speak the Spanish of other centuries;
and the men of my own nation mock my quaint ways. Had I lived much in
this new world of yours, I should have been regarded as mad, for my
thoughts and ways are not of to-day; but I have spent my life among the
swamps of the tropics, with the python and the cayman, in the heart of
untrodden forests and by the shores of rivers that have no names, and
the ruins of dead Indian cities,--until my strength died and my hair
became white in looking for her.
"My son," cried the old priest, "banish these evil thoughts.
I have heard your story; and any, save a priest, would
believe you mad. I believe all you have told me;--the
legends of the Church contain much that is equally strange.
You have been a great sinner in your youth; and God has
punished you by making your sins the very instrument of
your punishment. Yet has He not preserved you through the
centuries that you might repent? Banish all thoughts of the
demon who still tempts you in the shape of a woman; repent
and commend your soul to God, that I may absolve you."
"Repent!" said the dying man, fixing upon the priest's face
his great black eyes, which flamed up again as with the
fierce fires of his youth; "repent, father? I cannot repent!
I love her!--I love her! And if there be a life beyond
death, I shall love her through all time and eternity:
more than my own soul I love her!--more than my hope of
heaven!--more than my fear of death and hell!"
The priest fell on his knees, and, covering his face,
prayed fervently. When he lifted his eyes again, the soul
had passed away unabsolved; but there was such a smile upon
the dead face that the priest wondered, and, forgetting the
Miserere upon his lips, involuntarily muttered: "He hath
found Her at last." And the east brightened; and touched
by the magic of the rising sun, the mists above his rising
formed themselves into a Fountain of Gold.