This is Ysleta’s story, as her father, the carretero, told me.
“It was one day at the fiesta in the large town. Ysleta had not been from the placita before that day.
“Ysleta had not made any sin, but she felt sad, as if she had made a sin. Therefore she went to the padre. The padre was busy with others, richer, and Ysleta must wait. Ysleta had not made any sin, but she was sad. She stood at the door of the church. All was new to her. She was afraid.
“There came to Ysleta, so she has said, an Americano. He was not as the men of this country. His skin was white, his hair yellow, his eyes blue. Ysleta thought he was more than a man. Perhaps he was less than a man. She loved him, doubtless. Such things are. Why? Quien sabe?”
“Was Ysleta married to el Americano? Señor, I am a man of travel and of knowledge. I have been twenty leguas from this spot. Therefore, it is plain that I know easily what marriage is. But Ysleta—Ysleta is a hill girl. It is not alike. I asked of Ysleta if she was married, and she said, ‘Si,’ for that she loved, and would love no other. Is that marriage? Who knows? I believe Ysleta thinks so.
“There is no mother here who loves a child as Ysleta loves hers. It is not good, so much to love. But Ysleta loves no man. ‘I am esposa,’ says Ysleta.
“El Americano? It is not known. He disappeared. He never came back. Ysleta has of him a picture, not painted as the saints in the church are painted. And she has a paper; but what the paper may say we do not know here. He is gone. And Ysleta grieves. And because Ysleta grieves and will not love any young man, the young men will kill you to-night, since you, too, are Americano.”
“Thanks!” said I, as this last information was calmly conveyed. “Thanks, awfully; but, excuse me, I believe I will vamos. Sorry to inconvenience your young gentlemen, but really—!” And I exchanged a glance of intelligence with ’Pache, who nodded and winked in reply.
I gave my watch-chain to Ysleta and the little fellow; and which admired it more I could not say. I further divided my few pesos among the simple folks, and rode away with such store of smoky topaz that I wouldn’t have liked a hard run down the cañon with it behind the cantle.
I rode away, thinking of the most beautiful woman I ever saw; perhaps the saddest, also. Poor girl! Born to a wealth the wealthiest woman on earth would envy, she was a beggar in happiness. A child of nature, a creature of the outer air, an Undine-woman of the hills, she suffered and lost her simple joy forever, when, at the touch of what we call a higher civilization, she felt the breath of what we call a higher love, and groaned at the birth in her heart of what we call a soul. As in some quiet court, sheltered from every wind, and turned always to the rays of the stimulating sun, some rare fruit, waxy-cheeked and tender, ripens and swells into full perfection, knowing no reason for its access save the unquestioned push of nature’s hand—as this fruit shrinks and shivers at the breath of a fence-breaking northern wind, so Ysleta, thoughtless as a fruit, as ripe, as sweet, as soulless, shrank and shivered at the marauding breath of feelings new to her—the breath of the mystery and the sorrow of a lasting love. I wondered about this. I wondered about it one day as I rode up where, morning, noon and night, spring, summer and autumn, the broad, white, snowy arms of the undying Holy Cross lie stretched out on the Sangre de Christo range. I wondered if those arms didn’t stretch over the poor hill-girl as much as over the Americano who, with tinkling spur, and light song on his lips, rode out through the hills, up through the cañons, up to the gate of the little valley—Launcelot bringing the curse to the Lady of Shalott!