eet response.

"I love you, yes; for you are he
Who from the East should come to me--
And I have waited long!" Oh, we
Were happy as the sun.

There came upon a hopeless quest,
With hell and hatred in his breast,
A stranger, who his love confessed
To Marta long in vain.

To me she spoke: "Chosen mate,
His eyes are terrible with fate,--
I fear his love, I fear his hate,--
I fear some looming ill!"

Then to the church we twain did ride,
I kissed her as she rode beside.
How fair--how passing fair my bride
With gold combs in her hair!

Before the Spanish priest we stood
Of San Gregorio's brotherhood--
A shot rang out!--and in her blood
My dark-eyed darling lay.

O God! I carried her beside
The Virgin's altar where she cried,--
Smiling upon me ere she died,--
"Adieu, my love, adieu!"

I knelt before St. Mary's shrine
And held my dead one's hand in mine,
"Vengeance," I cried, "O Lord, be thine,
But I thy minister!"

I kissed her thrice and sealed my vow,--
Her eyes, her sea-cold lips and brow,--
"Farewell, my heart is dying now,
O Marta of Milrone!"

Then swift upon my steed I lept;
My streaming eyes the desert swept;
I saw the accursed where he crept
Against the blood-red sun.

I galloped straight upon his track,
And never more my eyes looked back;
The world was barred with red and black;
My heart was flaming coal.

Through the delirious twilight dim
And the black night I followed him;
Hills did we cross and rivers swim,--
My fleet foot horse and I.

The morn burst red, a gory wound,
O'er iron hills and savage ground;
And there was never another sound
Save beat of horses' hoofs.

Unto the murderer's ear they said,
"_Thou'rt of the dead! Thou'rt of the dead!_"
Still on his stallion black he sped
While death spurred on behind.

Fiery dust from the blasted plain
Burnt like lava in every vein;
But I rode on with steady rein
Though the fierce sand-devils spun.

Then to a sullen land we came,
Whose earth was brass, whose sky was flame;
I made it balm with her blessed name
In the land of Mexico.

With gasp and groan my poor horse fell,--
Last of all things that loved me well!
I turned my head--a smoking shell
Veiled me his dying throes.