“‘I looked around me and saw a beautiful woman sitting under a tree. She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen and she was crooning to herself, and all the while she was combing her long, shining black hair. Suddenly she looked up and saw me with her big, velvet eyes that held a brightness like some deep, cool forest pool upon which the sunlight falls between the leaves. But she said nothing and continued to sing softly in that sweet, far-away voice of hers, while her rounded arms slowly rose and fell as the comb slipped through her glorious hair, so soft and fine that the little breezes one could scarcely feel rippled and floated its tendrils.
“‘I went slowly closer to her and said quietly, in a way that I have of my own, “My handsome one, why are you out here so lonely and all by yourself?” I meant to say more, but she rose and moved a little away from me. Yet her eyes shone more brightly and she stopped singing and said ever so softly and sweetly, “Oh, Bat Buul!” Then she moved farther away. She was—how shall I say?—not thin, not fat, but plump like the wild partridge, and she moved as lightly as feather down. Yes, she seemed to float, so effortless was her retreat. Well, have I not said that my heart is soft toward a handsome woman? And so I followed her, even though she led me quite away from where my chac-ti logs were drying in the sun.
“‘She said nothing, but again began to hum a tiny, wistful, haunting melody and as she glided on she turned her head this way and that to glance at a plant or to inhale the perfume of a flower. And ever she kept an eye on me that seemed to invite me on and on.
“‘Farther and farther we went from my logs, and deeper and deeper into the forest, and she seemed to grow more lovely at each step. Suddenly I found that I had walked right into a thorny clump of tynbins and the tynbin ants were swarming over me with their stings like the pricking of red-hot needles, while she, on the other side, was as cool and fresh as though she had but stepped from her morning bath.
“‘And then I began to wonder, although the pain of the stings was very great. And when a man begins to wonder he is safe, for then he usually finds out why he is in trouble. “Ah,” I thought, “when I first saw this lovely maid she was sitting under a tree, combing her hair, and she called to me.” And I remembered it was a benote, the tree that the xtabays ever seek for shade as they sit and sing and comb their lovely hair and try to bring venturesome men to an awful death. “And so the Xtabay of Pisté has tried to play with Bat Buul this day. Poor thing! we shall see!” But all of this I said very softly to myself, for I am a wily man when dealing with women. Then, as if still unsuspecting, I worked my way out of the thicket. As she turned to elude me again, quick as lightning I slipped my long gold chain from my neck, hiding the crucifix in the palm of my hand. I know women and, after all, the xtabay is a woman, and a good-looking one at that.
“‘Then I stopped as if in surprise and said as I held up the chain, “I wonder who dropped this beautiful chain.” The xtabay stopped singing and looked back at me. Just then a ray of sunlight touched the chain and made it glitter. And the sweet creature came up to me with unsuspecting curiosity and leaned close to look at the chain. Ah, I am the one who knows women! So quickly that she hardly saw the flash, I tossed the loop of the chain over her head so that it rested about her neck, and then held up the sacred cross so that she could see it. For a whole minute she stood perfectly still, then she began to tremble. Her eyes filled with big, glistening tears and she looked at me piteously and said with a sighing sob, “Oh, Bat Buul!”
“‘I felt sorry for her, for I am not heartless and she was one to melt even the hardest heart, xtabay or no xtabay. Yet I gave her only an unrelenting look and an answer that left her hopeless, for I said to her: “Things found by the roadside and unclaimed belong to him who finds them there. That is the law and the custom; and, pray, who is there to claim you from me?” She made no answer, but only bowed her head and cried the harder. Then I gave a little tug at the chain and said, “Come on home,” and she followed without a word of protest and with great glistening tears dripping from her lovely eyes.
“‘And leading her in this fashion, I passed the big tanauha where all the animals of the forest drink their fill even in the driest season. I passed the rock where little Pol Mis was slain by Ek Balam, the jaguar—black pagan that he is! And we came to the benote tree with its green fruit like big arrow-heads standing sharp against the sky—the very tree where I first saw this entrancing nymph who now followed me like a dog on a leash. When we reached the tree she stopped and looked at me with pleading agony in her eyes, such a look as I never hope to see again upon the face of any woman and she said, “Oh, Bat Buul!” and then again, “Oh, Bat Buul!” and in her voice was the sound of strangled tears. A man does not like that sound, ever, for it either hardens his heart and makes him more cruel than he should be or it turns his heart to water and causes him to be more gentle than is just and right.
“‘So I stopped and looked at her. I did not want to, but I could not help it; and as I looked I knew that she was more beautiful than any woman that ever lived, even though she were an xtabay and without a soul, as the priest tells us. She was marvelously formed—not thin, not fat. Her flesh was as soft as a child’s, yet she was graceful and quick in her movements. She was all that a woman should be. She seemed like a bird just ready to fly. And, as I looked, I thought, “What will my friends say and what will the priest say and do?” Her eyes, filled with terror, pleaded with me more strongly than any words could have done.
“‘Ah, Señor, I have the big heart! I took off the chain of gold and covered the crucifix in the palm of my hand and released her. For a moment she did not move and I thought she hesitated and looked at me as though she were really sorry to be free. I was a young man then and not bad-looking, and even an xtabay may know what it is to love. She began to move slowly away, with light gliding steps. Then she stopped and said to me in the voice of the wood-dove talking to its mate, “Good-by, my Bat Buul.”