| |
| GUSTY and raw was the morning, | |
| A fog hung over the seas, | |
| And its gray skirts, rolling inland, | |
| Were torn by the mountain trees; | |
| No sound was heard but the dashing | 5 |
| Of waves on the sandy bar, | |
| When Pablo of San Diego | |
| Rode down to the Paso del Mar. | |
| |
| The pescadòr, out in his shallop, | |
| Gathering his harvest so wide, | 10 |
| Sees the dim bulk of the headland | |
| Loom over the waste of the tide; | |
| He sees, like a white thread, the pathway | |
| Wind round on the terrible wall, | |
| Where the faint, moving speck of the rider | 15 |
| Seems hovering close to its fall. | |
| |
| Stout Pablo of San Diego | |
| Rode down from the hills behind; | |
| With the bells on his gray mule tinkling | |
| He sang through the fog and wind. | 20 |
| Under his thick, misted eyebrows | |
| Twinkled his eye like a star, | |
| And fiercer he sang as the sea-winds | |
| Drove cold on the Paso del Mar. | |
| |
| Now Bernal, the herdsman of Chino, | 25 |
| Had travelled the shore since dawn, | |
| Leaving the ranches behind him,— | |
| Good reason had he to be gone! | |
| The blood was still red on his dagger, | |
| The fury was hot in his brain, | 30 |
| And the chill, driving scud of the breakers | |
| Beat thick on his forehead in vain. | |
| |
| With his poncho wrapped gloomily round him, | |
| He mounted the dizzying road, | |
| And the chasms and steeps of the headland | 35 |
| Were slippery and wet, as he trod: | |
| Wild swept the wind of the ocean, | |
| Rolling the fog from afar, | |
| When near him a mule-bell came tinkling, | |
| Midway on the Paso del Mar. | 40 |
| |
| “Back!” shouted Bernal, full fiercely, | |
| And “Back!” shouted Pablo, in wrath, | |
| As his mule halted, startled and shrinking, | |
| On the perilous line of the path. | |
| The roar of devouring surges | 45 |
| Came up from the breakers’ hoarse war; | |
| And, “Back, or you perish!” cried Bernal, | |
| “I turn not on Paso del Mar!” | |
| |
| The gray mule stood firm as the headland: | |
| He clutched at the jingling rein, | 50 |
| When Pablo rose up in his saddle | |
| And smote till he dropped it again. | |
| A wild oath of passion swore Bernal, | |
| And brandished his dagger, still red, | |
| While fiercely stout Pablo leaned forward, | 55 |
| And fought o’er his trusty mule’s head. | |
| |
| They fought till the black wall below them | |
| Shone red through the misty blast; | |
| Stout Pablo then struck, leaning farther, | |
| The broad breast of Bernal at last. | 60 |
| And, frenzied with pain, the swart herdsman | |
| Closed on him with terrible strength, | |
| And jerked him, despite of his struggles, | |
| Down from the saddle at length. | |
| |
| They grappled with desperate madness, | 65 |
| On the slippery edge of the wall; | |
| They swayed on the brink, and together | |
| Reeled out to the rush of the fall. | |
| A cry of the wildest death-anguish | |
| Rang faint through the mist afar, | 70 |
| And the riderless mule went homeward | |
| From the fight of the Paso del Mar. | |
| |
