Yet she heard the varying message, | So with proverbs and caresses, half in voiceless to all ears beside: faith and half in doubt, "He will come," the flowers whispered; Everv day some hope was kindled, flick"Come no more," the dry hills ered, faded, and went out. sighed. Bits of ancient observation by his fathers garnered, each As a pebble worn and polished in the So in vain the barren hillsides with their current of his speech: "Those who wait the coming rider travel twice as far as he'; "Tired wench and coming butter never did in time agree. "He that getteth himself honey, though "He whose father is Alcalde, of his trial And be sure the Count has reasons that will make his conduct clear." Then the voice sententious faltered, and And on "Concha," "Conchitita," and gay serapes blazed, Blazed and vanished in the dust-cloud that their flying hoofs had raised. FRANCIS BRET HARTE. 301 And the citadel was lighted, and the hall | Till one arose, and from his pack's scant was gayly drest, treasure A hoarded volume drew, cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure To hear the tale anew; then, while round them shadows gathered faster, And as the firelight fell, Till the formal speeches ended, and He read aloud the book wherein the amidst the laugh and wine Some one spoke of Concha's lover, heedless of the warning sign. Quickly then cried Sir George Simpson: "Speak no ill of him, I pray. He is dead. He died, poor fellow, forty years ago this day. "Died while speeding home to Russia, falling from a fractious horse. Left a sweetheart too, they tell me. Married, I suppose, of course! "Lives she yet?" A death-like silence fell on banquet, guests, and hall, And a trembling figure rising fixed the awe-struck gaze of all. Two black eyes in darkened orbits gleamed beneath the nun's white hood; Black serge hid the wasted figure, bowed and stricken where it stood. "Lives she yet?" Sir George repeated. All were hushed as Concha drew Closer yet her nun's attire. "Señor, pardon, she died too!" DICKENS IN CAMP. ABOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting, The river sang below; The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting Their minarets of snow. The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, And on that grave where English oak painted The ruddy tints of health On haggard face, and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth; THEY gave the whole long day to idle I KNEW a Princess: she was old, laughter, To fitful song and jest, To moods of soberness as idle, after, But when at last upon their way returning, Taciturn, late, and loath, Through the broad meadow in the sunset burning, They reached the gate, one fine spell hindered them both. Her heart was troubled with a subtile anguish Such as but women know That wait, and lest love speak or speak not languish, And what they would, would rather they would not so; 303 Crisp-haired, flat-featured, with a look Such as no dainty pen of gold Would write of in a Fairy Book. So bent she almost crouched, her face Was like the Sphinx's face, to me, Touched with vast patience, desert grace, And lonesome, brooding mystery. What wonder that a faith so strong As hers, so sorrowful, so still, Should watch in bitter sands so long, Obedient to a burdening will ! This Princess was a Slave, -like one And all the flowers, without a vail. Not of the Lamp, not of the Ring, Till he said, — man-like nothing compre- But of a subtler, fiercer Thing: hending Of all the wondrous guile That women won win themselves with, and bending Eyes of relentless asking on her the while, She was the Slave of Slavery. That at her side the whitest queen Were dark, her darkness was so fair. Nothing of loveliest loveliness This strange, sad Princess seemed to lack; Majestic with her calm distress She was, and beautiful though black: Then she-whom both his faith and fear Black, but enchanted black, and shut enchanted Far beyond words to tell, Feeling her woman's finest wit had wanted The art he had that knew to blunder so well In some vague Giant's tower of air, Built higher than her hope was. But The True Knight came and found her there. The Knight of the Pale Horse, he laid Shyly drew near, a little step, and mock-That hid her Self: as if afraid, ing, "Shall we not be too late For tea?" she said. "I'm quite worn out with walking: Yes, thanks, your arm. And will you -open the gate?" The cruel blackness shrank and fell. Then, lifting slow her pleasant sleep, And vanished up an awful Height. |