“’Pache,” said I, “I’m disgusted. What does all this civilized life amount to? It only brings curses with it. Let us go into the hills. Let us run wild, and never be heard of again. Let us forget a world whose business it is to forget us as fast as it can. Come. There are two of us. We’re not afraid. What do you say? Shall we go back?”
But ’Pache shook his head.
I yielded with a sigh; and so I went on out through the Capitans, overruled by ’Pache. I don’t believe ’Pache liked the Mexican corn.
Out from the Capitans, which still rose grim, mysterious, silent, unexplored—out from the spirits which guard the Holy Grail. ’Pache and I couldn’t find it. I think—I feel sure—that no man will ever find it. But I believe that if Ysleta came and sought it, the demons and spirits of the Capitans would cease mocking, and stand hand on mouth. I believe the wide gates would open; that the white-garmented angels of the inner shrine would draw back to let Ysleta by, and that the Grail would glow red and pure and warm to let itself be taken in her hand.
’Pache and I went down the cañon; heads down; loppity-lop, loppity-lop. ’Pache, you clay-colored, india-rubber angel, God bless you, wherever you are!
A RAINY DAY.
THE clouds have darkened down again,
And all the world is sad with rain,
As if the dead of many years