Complete Poetical Works by Bret Harte Part 11

And then (I know not how nor why) A subtle flame in the lady's eye-- Unseen by the courtiers standing by--

Burned through his lace and t.i.tled wreath, Burned through his body's jeweled sheath, Till it touched the steel of the man beneath!

(And yet, mayhap, no more was meant Than to point a well-worn compliment, And the lady's beauty, her worst intent.)

Howbeit, the Marquis bowed again: "Who rules with awe well serveth Spain, But best whose law is love made plain."

Be sure that night no pillow prest The seneschal, but with the rest Watched, as was due a royal guest,--

Watched from the wall till he saw the square Fill with the moonlight, white and bare,-- Watched till he saw two shadows fare

Out from his garden, where the shade That the old church tower and belfry made Like a benedictory hand was laid.

Few words spoke the seneschal as he turned To his nearest sentry: "These monks have learned That stolen fruit is sweetly earned.

"Myself shall punish yon acolyte Who gathers my garden grapes by night; Meanwhile, wait thou till the morning light."

Yet not till the sun was riding high Did the sentry meet his commander's eye, Nor then till the Viceroy stood by.

To the lovers of grave formalities No greeting was ever so fine, I wis, As this host's and guest's high courtesies!

The seneschal feared, as the wind was west, A blast from Morena had chilled his rest; The Viceroy languidly confest

That cares of state, and--he dared to say-- Some fears that the King could not repay The thoughtful zeal of his host, some way

Had marred his rest. Yet he trusted much None shared his wakefulness; though such Indeed might be! If he dared to touch

A theme so fine--the bride, perchance, Still slept! At least, they missed her glance To give this greeting countenance.

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 pa.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+eld 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 pa.s.sed 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, p.r.o.ne 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 h.e.l.l Down below!