LIV

At four of the next afternoon I reached the summit of the Cruces. There I dismounted to tread again the soil whence I had said farewell to my native country. Again I saw the valley of Cauca, a land as fair as I was unfortunate. So often had I dreamed of beholding it from that very mountain that even when I saw it before me in all its beauty I looked around to make sure that it was not a trick of sleep. My heart beat faster, as if it had a presentiment that María’s head would soon rest upon it. My eyes were fixed on the hills at the foot of the far sierra⁠—hills now in the full light of the afternoon sun⁠—where my father’s house was whitening.

Lorenzo had just caught up with me, leading by the halter a fine white horse which he had got in Tocotá for me to mount, the last three leagues of the day’s ride.

“Just think!” I said to him, pointing to the white spot on the sierra, from which I could not remove my eyes; “tomorrow at this time we shall be there.”

“Why, where?” he replied.

“What!”

“The family is in Cali.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? What did they come for?”

“Justo told me last night that the Señorita is still very sick.”

As Lorenzo said this he turned away his head, and seemed much affected.

Trembling, I mounted the horse, and the spirited animal almost flew down the stony path.

The afternoon was expiring when I turned the last promontory of the Montañuelas. A rush of wind from the west was whistling about me among the rocks and thickets, and rumpling my horse’s flowing mane. My father’s house could no longer be seen on the edge of the horizon at my left; but on the right, far away, under a turquoise sky, was the glint of Huila’s bulk, half covered by floating haze.

He who created that, I said to myself, cannot yet destroy the most beautiful of His creatures, whom He has permitted me to love so much. Again I forced back the sobs that were choking me.

I had now passed on my left the pleasant and beautiful valley of Peñon, worthy of its lovely river. The city had gone to sleep upon its green and cushioned breast. Like a flock of great birds soaring in search of their nests, the foliage of the palms could be seen above it, lighted up by the moon.

It took all my courage to knock at the door of the house. A servant let me in. Leaping down, I flung him the bridle, and hastily rushed through the entrance and the corridor leading to the parlor. It was in darkness. I had taken a few steps in it when I heard a cry, and felt myself embraced.

“María! My María!” I exclaimed, pressing to my heart that head abandoned to my caresses.

“Alas! no, no. My God!” I was interrupted by a sobbing voice.

Loosening her arms from my neck, she fell upon the sofa. It was Emma. She was dressed in black. The moon showed her face, pale and wet with tears.

At that moment the door of my mother’s room opened. Uttering incoherent cries, and kissing me repeatedly, she bore me to the seat where Emma was sitting silent and motionless.

“Where is she, then? Where is she?” I cried, rising to my feet.

“My darling boy!” exclaimed my mother, in a tone of the deepest tenderness, pressing me to her bosom again, “in heaven!”

Something like the cold blade of a dagger pierced my brain. I could not see or breathe. It was Death wounding me. Cruel and implacable, why did he not kill?