I will not distress you with a parting scene. We were in our saddles
before the stars had died out, and riding along the sandy road.
At a short distance from the house the path angled, striking into thick,
heavy timber. Here I checked my horse, allowing my companions to pass,
and, standing in the stirrup, looked back. My eyes wandered along the
old grey walls, and sought the azotea. Upon the very edge of the
parapet, outlined against the pale light of the aurora, was the object I
looked for. I could not distinguish the features, but I easily
recognised the oval curvings of the figure, cut like a dark medallion
against the sky.
She was standing near one of the yucca palm trees that grew up from the
azotea. Her hand rested upon its trunk, and she bent forward, straining
her gaze into the darkness below. Perhaps she saw the waving of a
kerchief; perhaps she heard her name, and echoed the parting prayer that
was sent back to her on the still breath of the morning. If so, her
voice was drowned by the tread of my chafing horse, that, wheeling
suddenly, bore me off into the sombre shadows of the forest.
I rode forward, turning at intervals to catch a glimpse of those lovely
outlines, but from no other point was the house visible. It lay buried
in the dark, majestic woods. I could only see the long bayonets of the
picturesque palmillas; and our road now descending among hills, these
too were soon hidden from my view.
Dropping the bridle, and leaving my horse to go at will, I fell into a
train of thoughts at once pleasant and painful.
I knew that I had inspired this young creature with a passion deep and
ardent as my own, perhaps more vital; for my heart had passed through
other affections, while hers had never throbbed with any save the
subdued solicitudes of a graceful childhood. She had never known
emotion. Love was her first strong feeling, her first passion. Would
it not, thus enthroned, reign over all other thoughts in her heart's
kingdom? She, too, so formed for love; so like its mythic goddess!
These reflections were pleasant. But the picture darkened as I turned
from looking back for the last time, and something whispered me, some
demon it was, "You may never see her more!"
The suggestion, even in this hypothetical form, was enough to fill my
mind with dark forebodings, and I began to cast my thoughts upon the
future. I was going upon no party of pleasure, from which I might
return at a fixed hour. Dangers were before me, the dangers of the
desert; and I knew that these were of no ordinary character. In our
plans of the previous night, Seguin had not concealed the perils of our
expedition. These he had detailed before exacting my final promise to
accompany him. Weeks before, I would not have regarded them--they would
only have lured me on to meet them; now my feelings were different, for
I believed that in my life there was another's. What, then, if the
demon had whispered truly? I might never see her more! It was a
painful thought; and I rode on, bent in the saddle, under the influence
of its bitterness.
But I was once more upon the back of my favourite Moro, who seemed to
"know his rider"; and as his elastic body heaved beneath me, my spirit
answered his, and began to resume its wonted buoyancy.
After a while I took up the reins, and shortening them in my hands,
spurred on after my companions. Our road lay up the river, crossing the
shallow ford at intervals, and winding through the bottom-lands, that
were heavily timbered. The path was difficult on account of the thick
underwood; and although the trees had once been blazed for a road, there
were no signs of late travel upon it, with the exception of a few
solitary horse-tracks. The country appeared wild and uninhabited. This
was evident from the frequency with which deer and antelope swept across
our path, or sprang out of the underwood close to our horses' heads.
Here and there our path trended away from the river, crossing its
numerous loops. Several times we passed large tracts where the heavy
timber had been felled, and clearings had existed. But this must have
been long ago, for the land that had been furrowed by the plough was now
covered with tangled and almost impenetrable thickets. A few broken and
decaying logs, or crumbling walls of the adobe were all that remained to
attest where the settlers' rancho had stood.
We passed a ruined church with its old turrets dropping by piecemeal.
Piles of adobe lay around covering the ground for acres. A thriving
village had stood there. Where was it now? Where were the busy
gossips? A wild-cat sprang over the briar-laced walls, and made off
into the forest. An owl flew sluggishly up from the crumbling cupola,
and hovered around our heads, uttering its doleful "woo-hoo-a," that
rendered the desolation of the scene more impressive. As we rode
through the ruin, a dead stillness surrounded us, broken only by the
hooting of the night-bird, and the "cranch-cranch" of our horses' feet
upon the fragments of pottery that covered the deserted streets.
But where were they who had once made these walls echo with their
voices? Who had knelt under the sacred shadow of that once hallowed
pile? They were gone; but where? and when? and why?