“‘I could not move, but stood there spellbound and looked at her, and soon she reached the benote tree where the shadows now lay thick and dark. Here she paused and looked at me long and tenderly; and there was no longer terror in her eyes, but, it seemed to me, only regret at our parting. And the sun, which was just slipping beneath the horizon, cast for a long moment a spell of gold that gleamed upon her glossy hair like the sheen of light on polished ebony or the glint of many tiny bits of bright metal; and this is queer, for her hair was like my chac-ti wood after it has been burned very long.
“‘Deeper and longer grew the shadows, and at last I could no longer see her. I leaned a little forward and I was conscious that I was breathing hard as though I had run a long distance, and still I seemed to hear faintly the low, sweet song that she had crooned when first I saw her; and at last even that faded into stillness. I do not know how long I stood there, but it was almost dusk when I turned to retrace my steps. I was a long way from home. As I slowly turned about, I saw something at my feet that shone like dark metal. It was the seed-pod of the xtabay plant, which women sometimes use to comb their hair, and I was about to kick it carelessly aside when I heard a voice, “Oh, Bat Buul!” Just a whisper it was from far off in the forest. Then I knew it was her comb and I put it in my pocket, for she was a handsome woman and I could not throw the comb away. I have the comb to-day, although this happened long ago, when I was young and foolish.’
“Bat Buul paused and sat very still, his eyes seeming to look beyond us and back into the past. He did not touch the refilled glass beside him, even though he knew that the patron was paying for it and that by drinking it speedily he might quickly obtain another. At last he said, with a twinkle in his eye and more to himself than to his audience:
“‘I should like to see that xtabay again; perhaps I should act differently. And, then, perhaps I should act the same, for my heart is still kind to women, especially if they are handsome women.’
“As I have said before, one of the most interesting things I have encountered in Yucatan is the native custom of story-telling. Usually the teller of stories is an old man or an old woman with a wide repertoire of folk-lore. Ghosts, giants, fairies; mythical animals such as white jaguars; miraculous humans, and the ancient gods—all appear in these tales, which are told with amazing skill. A little group of Indians will gather about the story-teller almost anywhere, in the courtyard of a house or in the public square of a town, and they will sit by the hour as the speaker goes on without pause from one weird tale to another.
“I understand that in the near-by hamlet of Dzitas there is now a motion-picture theater and the telling of stories has been largely supplanted by the ‘movies,’ more’s the pity.
“The children are, of course, eager for stories, and nearly every village has some kindly old woman willing to entertain the children with oft-told tales. Such was X’Leut Cauich. X’Leut Cauich was old, very old, and yet, even though the outer wrappings, the casings of her mind and soul, were wrinkled with age, her mind and seemingly her soul remained undeniably very young.
“‘T is ever said that youth seeks youth as sparks fly upward, and the saying is a true one. Just so surely as old X’Leut seated herself comfortably before the koben, or three-stone fireplace, in her na (palm-thatched house) and started to make with colored threads and shining needle, on snow-white cotton cloth, the beautiful native embroidery “xoc-bui-chui,” just so surely would the children of the neighborhood spring up as if by magic from the very ground about her and beg for a story. And old X’Leut, because she was a born story-teller, never dreamed of denying them.
“Bit Euan; Phil Canul with his three brothers, all seemingly of an age; Pol Cocom with his big, soft eyes and harelip; Pablo Perez and his sister, white of skin, children of the Spanish storekeeper—all sat crouching, cross-legged, sprawling, each after the manner of his people, around old X’Leut, listening, motionless, with eager eyes and intent expression, to the words slowly spoken, clearly uttered, as they fell from her aged lips.