''And she loves you?'
'I said yes.
'And that was all. She never pressed her point… except once, and then she showed a bit of fire.
''All I've got to do,' she said, 'is to give the word, and you don't get away from here. If I give the word, you stay on… But I ain't going to give it. I wouldn't want you if you didn't want to be wanted… and if you didn't want me.'
'She went ahead and outfitted me and started me on my way.
''It's a darned shame, stranger,' she said, at parting. 'I like your looks, and I like you. If you ever change your mind, come back.'
'Now there was one thing I wanted to do, and that was to kiss her good-bye, but I didn't know how to go about it nor how she would take it.—I tell you I was half in love with her. But she settled it herself.
''Kiss me,' she said. 'Just something to go on and remember.'
'And we kissed, there in the snow, in that valley by the Rockies , and I left her standing by the trail and went on after my dogs. I was six weeks in crossing over the pass and coming down to the first post on Great Slave Lake .'
The brawl of the streets came up to us like a distant surf. A steward, moving noiselessly, brought fresh siphons. And in the silence Trefethan's voice fell like a funeral bell:
'It would have been better had I stayed. Look at me.'
We saw his grizzled mustache, the bald spot on his head, the puff-sacks under his eyes, the sagging cheeks, the heavy dewlap, the general tiredness and staleness and fatness, all the collapse and ruin of a man who had once been strong but who had lived too easily and too well.
'It's not too late, old man,' Bardwell said, almost in a whisper.
'By God! I wish I weren't a coward!' was Trefethan's answering cry. 'I could go back to her. She's there, now. I could shape up and live many a long year… with her… up there. To remain here is to commit suicide. But I am an old man—forty-seven—look at me. The trouble is,' he lifted his glass and glanced at it, 'the trouble is that suicide of this sort is so easy. I am soft and tender. The thought of the long day's travel with the dogs appalls me; the thought of the keen frost in the morning and of the frozen sled-lashings frightens me—'
Automatically the glass was creeping toward his lips. With a swift surge of anger he made as if to crash it down upon the floor. Next came hesitancy and second thought. The glass moved upward to his lips and paused. He laughed harshly and bitterly, but his words were solemn:
'Well, here's to the Night-Born. She WAS a wonder.'
THE MADNESS OF JOHN HARNED
I TELL this for a fact. It happened in the bull-ring at Quito . I sat in the box with John Harned, and with Maria Valenzuela, and with Luis Cervallos. I saw it happen. I saw it all from first to last. I was on the steamer Ecuadore from Panama to Guayaquil . Maria Valenzuela is my cousin. I have known her always. She is very beautiful. I am a Spaniard—an Ecuadoriano, true, but I am descended from Pedro Patino, who was one of Pizarro's captains. They were brave men. They were heroes. Did not Pizarro lead three hundred and fifty Spanish cavaliers and four thousand Indians into the far Cordilleras in search of treasure? And did not all the four thousand Indians and three hundred of the brave cavaliers die on that vain quest? But Pedro Patino did not die. He it was that lived to found the family of the Patino. I am Ecuadoriano, true, but I am Spanish. I am Manuel de Jesus Patino. I own many haciendas, and ten thousand Indians are my slaves, though the law says they are free men who work by freedom of contract. The law is a funny thing. We Ecuadorianos laugh at it. It is our law. We make it for ourselves. I am Manuel de Jesus Patino. Remember that name. It will be written some day in history. There are revolutions in Ecuador . We call them elections. It is a good joke is it not?—what you call a pun?
John Harned was an American. I met him first at the Tivoli hotel in Panama . He had much money—this I have heard. He was going to Lima , but he met Maria Valenzuela in the Tivoli hotel. Maria Valenzuela is my cousin, and she is beautiful. It is true, she is the most beautiful woman in Ecuador . But also is she most beautiful in every country—in Paris , in Madrid , in New York , in Vienna . Always do all men look at her, and John Harned looked long at her at Panama . He loved her, that I know for a fact. She was Ecuadoriano, true—but she was of all countries; she was of all the world. She spoke many languages. She sang—ah! like an artiste. Her smile—wonderful, divine. Her eyes—ah! have I not seen men look in her eyes? They were what you English call amazing. They were promises of paradise. Men drowned themselves in her eyes.
Maria Valenzuela was rich—richer than I, who am accounted very rich in Ecuador . But John Harned did not care for her money. He had a heart—a funny heart. He was a fool. He did not go to Lima . He left the steamer at Guayaquil and followed her to Quito . She was coming home from Europe and other places. I do not see what she found in him, but she liked him. This I know for a fact, else he would not have followed her to Quito . She asked him to come. Well do I remember the occasion. She said:
'Come to Quito and I will show you the bullfight—brave, clever, magnificent!'
But he said: 'I go to Lima , not Quito . Such is my passage engaged on the steamer.'
'You travel for pleasure—no?' said Maria Valenzuela; and she looked at him as only Maria Valenzuela could look, her eyes warm with the promise.
And he came. No; he did not come for the bull-fight. He came because of what he had seen in her eyes. Women like Maria Valenzuela are born once in a hundred years. They are of no country and no time. They are what you call goddesses. Men fall down at their feet. They play with men and run them through their pretty fingers like sand. Cleopatra was such a woman they say; and so was Circe. She turned men into swine. Ha! ha! It is true—no?
It all came about because Maria Valenzuela said:
'You English people are—what shall I say?—savage—no? You prize-fight. Two men each hit the other with their fists till their eyes are blinded and their noses are broken. Hideous! And the other men who look on cry out loudly and are made glad. It is barbarous—no?'
'But they are men,' said John Harned; 'and they prize-fight out of desire. No one makes them prize-fight. They do it because they desire it more than anything else in the world.'
Maria Valenzuela—there was scorn in her smile as she said: 'They kill each other often—is it not so? I have read it in the papers.'
'But the bull,' said John Harned.
'The bull is killed many times in the bull-fight, and the bull does not come into the the ring out of desire. It is not fair to the bull. He is compelled to fight. But the man in the prize-fight—no; he is not compelled.'
'He is the more brute therefore,' said Maria Valenzuela.
'He is savage. He is primitive. He is animal. He strikes with his paws like a bear from a cave, and he is ferocious. But the bull-fight—ah! You have not seen the bullfight—no? The toreador is clever. He must have skill. He is modern. He is romantic. He is only a man, soft and tender, and he faces the wild bull in conflict. And he kills with a sword, a slender sword, with one thrust, so, to the heart of the great beast. It is delicious. It makes the heart beat to behold—the small man, the great beast, the wide level sand, the thousands that look on without breath; the great beast rushes to the attack, the small man stands like a statue; he does not move, he is unafraid, and in his hand is the slender sword flashing like silver in the sun; nearer and nearer rushes the great beast with its sharp horns, the man does not move, and then—so—the sword flashes, the thrust is made, to the heart, to the hilt, the bull falls to the sand and is dead, and the man is unhurt. It is brave. It is magnificent! Ah!—I could love the toreador. But the man of the prize-fight—he is the brute, the human beast, the savage primitive, the maniac that receives many blows in his stupid face and rejoices. Come to Quito and I will show you the brave sport of men, the toreador and the bull.'
But John Harned did not go to Quito for the bull-fight. He went because of Maria Valenzuela. He was a large man, more broad of shoulder than we Ecuadorianos, more tall, more heavy of limb and bone. True, he was larger of his own race. His eyes were blue, though I have seen them gray, and, sometimes, like cold steel. His features were large, too—not delicate like ours, and his jaw was very strong to look at. Also, his face was smooth-shaven like a priest's. Why should a man feel shame for the hair on his face? Did not God put it there? Yes, I believe in God—I am
