XIX.
A cloud of dust adown the steep,
Where scarce a whirling hawk would sweep,
The cloud his foes had follow'd fast,
And Morgan like a cloud had pass'd,
Yet passed like some proud king of old;
And now mad Vasques could not hold
Control of his one wild desire
To meet old Morgan, in his ire.
He cursed aloud, he shook his rein
Above the desert darkling deep,
And urged his steed toward the steep,
But urged his weary steed in vain.
Old Morgan heard his oath and shout,
And Morgan turn'd his head once more,
And wheel'd his stout steed short about,
Then seem'd to count their numbers o'er.
And then his right hand touch'd his steel,
And then he tapp'd his iron heel
And seem'd to fight with thought.
At last,
As if the final die was cast,
And cast as carelessly as one
Would toss a white coin in the sun,
He touch'd his rein once more, and then
His pistol laid with idle heed
Prone down the toss'd mane of his steed,
And he rode down the rugged way
Tow'rd where the wide, white desert lay,
By broken gorge and cavern'd den,
And join'd his band of midnight men.
Some say the gray old man had crazed
From mountain fruits that he had pluck'd
While winding through the wooded ways
Above the steep.
But others say
That he had turn'd aside and suck'd
Sweet poison from the honey dews
That lie like manna all the day
On dewy leaves so crystal fair
And temptingly that none refuse;
That thus made mad the man did dare
Confront the desert and despair.
Then other mountain men explain,
That when one looks upon this sea
Of glowing sand, he looks again,
Again, through gossamers that run
In scintillations of the sun
Along this white eternity,
And looks until the brain is dazed,
Bewilder'd, and the man is crazed.
Then one, a grizzled mountaineer,
A thin and sinewy old man,
With face all wrinkle-wrought, and tan,
And presence silent and austere,
Does tell a tale, with reaching face
And bated breath, of this weird place,
Of many a stalwart mountaineer
And Piute tall who perish'd here.
He tells a tale with whisper'd breath
Of skin-clad men who track'd this shore,
Once populous with sea-set town,
And saw a woman wondrous fair,
And, wooing, follow'd her far down
Through burning sands to certain death;
And then he catches short his breath.
He tells: Nay, this is all too long;
Enough. The old man shakes his hair
When he is done, and shuts his eyes,
So satisfied and so self-wise,
As if to say, "'Tis nothing rare,
This following the luring fair
To death, and bound in thorny thong;
'Twas ever thus; the old, old song."