LIX

That afternoon I set out on my return to the city, intending to pass by the cemetery where was María’s grave. Juan Ángel and Braulio had gone on ahead to wait for me there, and José, his wife, and his daughters were around me to receive my farewell. On my invitation they all went with me to the oratory, and, kneeling and weeping, we prayed for the soul of her we had so much loved. José broke in upon the silence which followed this solemn prayer, to offer a supplication to the protectress of travelers on land and sea.

I had no voice to say a last friendly word to José and his daughters. They would have had none to reply to me.

A few rods distant from the house, I paused at the beginning of the descent to take one more look at the beloved home and its surroundings. Of the hours of happiness which I had passed in it I was carrying with me only the memory; of María, only the gifts which she had left for me when on the edge of her grave.

Then Mayo came up, and stopped, tired out, at the shore of the stream between us. Twice he tried to wade it, but both times had to give it up.

He sat down upon the turf and howled piteously, as if to reproach me for abandoning him in his old age.

After a ride of an hour and a half I dismounted at the entrance to a sort of garden, lying by itself in the plain, and surrounded with palings. It was the village cemetery. Braulio took my horse, and, sharing the emotion which he perceived on my face, opened one of the gates, but did not go in himself. I passed on through the bushes, and among the wooden crosses rising above them. As I rounded a clump of large tamarinds I came upon a white pedestal, spotted by the rains, on which was erected an iron cross. I went up to it. On a black tablet, which the poppies half hid already, I began to read, “María⁠ ⁠…”

To that terrible monologue of the soul in the presence of death⁠—of the soul which questions, which curses, which begs, which cries out⁠—that cold and deaf grave, which my arms were embracing and my tears bathing, gave a reply all too eloquent.

The noise of steps on the leaves made me raise my head. Braulio came up to me, and gave me a crown of roses and lilies, the gift of José’s daughters. He remained, as if to hint to me that it was time to go. I stood up and hung the flowers on the cross. Then I gave to María and her grave a last farewell.

I had already mounted my horse, and Braulio was pressing my hand, when a bird flew over our heads with a sinister croak well known to me. I saw her fly to the iron cross, alight upon one of its arms, flap her wings, and heard again her terrifying cry.

Torn with emotion, I set out at a gallop over the lonely plain, whose vast horizon the night was darkening.