Be sure that the seneschal, in turn, Was deeply bowed with the grave concern Of the painful news his guest should learn:
"Last night, to her father's dying bed By a priest was the lady summoned;
Nor know we yet how well she sped, "But hope for the best." The grave Viceroy (Though grieved his visit had such alloy)
Must still wish the seneschal great joy Of a bride so true to her filial trust!
Yet now, as the day waxed on, they must To horse, if they'd 'scape the noonday dust.
"Nay," said the seneschal, "at least, To mend the news of this funeral priest, Myself shall ride as your escort east."
The Viceroy bowed. Then turned aside To his nearest follower: "With me ride--You and Felipe--on either side.
"And list! Should anything me befall, Mischance of ambush or musket-ball, Cleave to his saddle yon seneschal!
"No more." Then gravely in accents clear Took formal leave of his late good cheer;
Whiles the seneschal whispered a musketeer, Carelessly stroking his pommel top:
"If from the saddle ye see me drop, Riddle me quickly yon solemn fop!"
So these, with many a compliment, Each on his own dark thought intent, With grave politeness onward went, Riding high, and in sight of all, Viceroy, escort, and seneschal, Under the shade of the Almandral;
Holding their secret hard and fast, Silent and grave they ride at last Into the dusty traveled Past.
Even like this they passed away Two hundred years ago to-day.
What of the lady? Who shall say?
Do the souls of the dying ever yearn To some favored spot for the dust's return, For the homely peace of the family urn?
I know not. Yet did the seneschal, Chancing in after-years to fall Pierced by a Flemish musket-ball, Call to his side a trusty friar, And bid him swear, as his last desire, To bear his corse to San Pedro's choir At Leon, where 'neath a shield azure Should his mortal frame find sepulture:
This much, for the pains Christ did endure.
Be sure that the friar loyally Fulfilled his trust by land and sea, Till the spires of Leon silently Rose through the green of the Almandral, As if to beckon the seneschal To his kindred dust 'neath the choir wall.
I wot that the saints on either side Leaned from their niches open-eyed To see the doors of the church swing wide;
That the wounds of the Saviour on either flank Bled fresh, as the mourners, rank by rank, Went by with the coffin, clank on clank.
For why? When they raised the marble door Of the tomb, untouched for years before, The friar swooned on the choir floor;
For there, in her laces and festal dress, Lay the dead man's wife, her loveliness Scarcely changed by her long duress,--As on the night she had passed away;
Only that near her a dagger lay, With the written legend, "Por el Rey."
What was their greeting, the groom and bride, They whom that steel and the years divide?
I know not. Here they lie side by side.
Side by side! Though the king has his way, Even the dead at last have their day.
Make you the moral. "Por el Rey!"
RAMON
(REFUGIO MINE, NORTHERN MEXICO)
Drunk and senseless in his place, Prone and sprawling on his face, More like brute than any man Alive or dead, By his great pump out of gear, Lay the peon engineer, Waking only just to hear, Overhead, Angry tones that called his name, Oaths and cries of bitter blame,--Woke to hear all this, and, waking, turned and fled!
"To the man who'll bring to me,"
Cried Intendant Harry Lee,--Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,--"Bring the sot alive or dead, I will give to him," he said, "Fifteen hundred pesos down, Just to set the rascal's crown Underneath this heel of mine:
Since but death Deserves the man whose deed, Be it vice or want of heed, Stops the pumps that give us breath,--Stops the pumps that suck the death From the poisoned lower levels of the mine!"
No one answered; for a cry From the shaft rose up on high, And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below, Came the miners each, the bolder Mounting on the weaker's shoulder, Grappling, clinging to their hold or Letting go, As the weaker gasped and fell From the ladder to the well,--To the poisoned pit of hell Down below!
"To the man who sets them free,"
Cried the foreman, Harry Lee,--Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,--"Brings them out and sets them free, I will give that man," said he, "Twice that sum, who with a rope Face to face with Death shall cope.
Let him come who dares to hope!"
"Hold your peace!" some one replied, Standing by the foreman's side;
"There has one already gone, whoe'er he be!"
Then they held their breath with awe, Pulling on the rope, and saw Fainting figures reappear, On the black rope swinging clear, Fastened by some skillful hand from below;
Till a score the level gained, And but one alone remained,--He the hero and the last, He whose skillful hand made fast The long line that brought them back to hope and cheer!
Haggard, gasping, down dropped he At the feet of Harry Lee,--Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine.
"I have come," he gasped, "to claim Both rewards. Senor, my name Is Ramon!
I'm the drunken engineer, I'm the coward, Senor"-- Here He fell over, by that sign, Dead as stone!
DON DIEGO OF THE SOUTH
(REFECTORY, MISSION SAN GABRIEL, 1869)
Good!--said the Padre,--believe me still, "Don Giovanni," or what you will, The type's eternal! We knew him here As Don Diego del Sud. I fear The story's no new one! Will you hear?
One of those spirits you can't tell why God has permitted. Therein I Have the advantage, for I hold That wolves are sent to the purest fold, And we'd save the wolf if we'd get the lamb.
You're no believer? Good! I am.
Well, for some purpose, I grant you dim, The Don loved women, and they loved him.
Each thought herself his LAST love! Worst, Many believed that they were his FIRST!
And, such are these creatures since the Fall, The very doubt had a charm for all!
