The Writings of Bret Harte :: :: University of Virginia Library

Aye, look, there it hangs! You would think 'twas a cross
Fairly wrought of old iron. Yet, barring the loss
Of some twisted work here that once guarded the hand,
You might say 't was the hilt of some cavalier's brand;
As it is, of a truth! You are staring, Señor!
At this shrine, at this altar, where never before
Hung ex voto so strange; at these walls in decay,
All that stands of the Mission of San Luis Rey;
At these leagues of wild llano beyond, which still hoard
In their heart this poor shrine, and a cavalier's sword!

Yes! It hangs there to praise Holy Church and the spell
She once broke in her power and glory; as well
As that tough blade she snapped in its vengeance, just when—
But here is—Don Pancho!—a tale for your pen!

You accept. Then observe on the blade near its haft
The world-renowned stamp of that chief of his craft
In Toledo, Sebastian Hernandez. The date
You will note: sixteen hundred and seventy-eight!
That 's the year, so 't is said, when this story begins
And he fashioned that blade for our sorrows and sins.

From a baldric of Cordovan leather and steel
It trailed in its prime, at the insolent heel
Of Don José Ramirez, a Toledan knight,
Poor in all, so 't was said, but a stomach for fight.
And that blade, like himself, was so eager and keen
It would glide through a corselet and all else between;

426

And so supple 't would double from point to the hilt,
Yet pierce a cuirass like a lance in full tilt;
Till 'twixt Master and Sword, there was scarcely a day
That both were not drawn in some quarrel or fray.

Then Ruy Mendoza, a grandee of Spain,
Castellan of Toledo, was called to maintain
That such blades should be parted, but José replied,
“Come and try it!”—while Ruy let fall, on his side
Certain sneers which too free a translation might mar,
Such as “Ho! Espadachin!” and “Fanfarronear!”
Till Don José burst out that “the whole race abhorred,”
The line of Mendoza's should “fall by his sword.”

The oath of a braggart, you 'd say? Well, in truth,
So it seemed, for that oath wrought Ramirez but ruth;
And spite of the lightnings that leaped from his blade,
Here and there, everywhere, never point yet he made;
While the sword of Mendoza, pressing closely but true,
At the third and fourth pass ran the challenger through,
And he fell. But they say as the proud victor grasped
The sword of Ramirez, the dying man gasped,
And his white lips repeated the words of his boast:
“Ye—shall—fall—by—my—sword,” as he gave up the ghost.

“Retribution?” Quien sabe? The tale 's not yet done.
For a twelvemonth scarce passed since that victory won
And the sword of Don José hung up in the hall
Of Mendoza's own castle, a lesson for all
Who love brawls to consider, when one summer noon
Don Ruy came home just an hour too soon,
As some husbands will do when their wives prove untrue,
And discovered his own with a lover, who flew

427

From her bower through passage and hall in dismay,
With the Don in pursuit, but at last stood at bay
In the hall, where they closed in a deadly affray.

But here, runs the tale, when the lover's bright blade,
Engaging Don Ruy's, showed out “in parade,”
The latter drew back with a cry and a start
Which threw up his guard, and straightway through his heart
Passed the sword of his rival. He fell, but they say
He pointed one hand, as his soul was set free,
To the blade, and gasped out: “'T is his sword! Ay de mi!”
And 't was true! For the lover, unarmed in his flight,
Caught up the first weapon that chanced to his sight—
The sword on the wall, José's own fateful brand,
Not knowing the curse to be wrought by his hand.

So the first victim fell! When Don Luis, the heir
Of the luckless Don Ruy, in haste summoned there,
Heard the tale, he commanded the sword which had wrought
Such mischance to his race to be instantly brought,
And in presence of all smote the blade such a blow
'Cross the mail of his knee as should snap it; but, no;
For that well-tempered steel, from its point to its heel,
Was so supple, it bent in an arc like a wheel,
And recoiling, glanced up, to the horror of all,
Through the throat of the heir, in his dead father's hall!

Next of kin was a soldier, Ramon, who maintained
That by boldness alone was security gained,
And the curse would be naught to the man who dared trip
Through the rest of his life with that sword on his hip,
As he should. But, what would you? when he took the field,
His troop was surrounded; himself made to yield

428

And deliver his sword! You can fancy the rest
When you think of the curse. By the foe sorely pressed
In a fight, when released, he fell by that brand
Of the Spanish José, in some strange Flemish hand!

Then the sword disappeared, and with it, it seemed,
The race of Mendoza. No man ever dreamed
Of a curse lying perdu for centuries; when,
Some time in the year eighteen hundred and ten,
There died at the Pueblo of San Luis Rey
Comandante Mendoza, descended, they say,
From those proud hidalgos who brought in their hands
No sword, but the cross, to these far heathen lands,
And he left but one son, Agustin, to alone
Bear the curse of his race (though to him all unknown);
A studious youth, quite devout from a child,
With no trace of that sin his ancestors defiled.

You know the Pueblo? On its outskirts there stood
The casa new-built of El Capitan Wood
An American trader, who brought from the seas
Much wealth and the power to live at his ease.
And his casa was filled with the spoils of all climes
He had known; silks and china, rare goods of all times.
But notably first, 'midst queer idols and charms,
Was a rare and historical trophy of arms;
And supreme over all, hung the prize of that hoard,
An antique and genuine Toledan sword.

He had, too, a son, who was playmate and friend
To Agustin. Together, their joy was to spend
In this house of rare treasures their hours of play;
And here it so chanced that an unlucky day
The son of the host in adventurous zeal
Climbed the wall to examine that queer-looking steel

429

While Agustin looked on. A misstep! A wild cry!
And a clutch that tore loose that queer weapon on high,
And they both hurtled down on Agustin beneath
With his uplifted arms, and his breast a mere sheath
For the blade! When, thank God! (and all glory and praise
To our blessed San Luis, whose shrine here we raise!)
Its point struck the cross ever hung at his neck
And shivered like glass! a miraculous wreck!
Without splinter or fragment save this near the hilt,
And of innocent blood not a drop ever spilt!

There 's the tale! Yet not all! though that cross broke the spell
It ended the race of Mendoza as well,
For that youth was the last of his name! You ask, “How?
Died he too?” Nay, Don Pancho,—he speaks with you now,—
Spared that curse as “Agustin,” his young life he laid,
With his vows, on this altar, as “Brother Merced.”
And this cross on my breast with this dent, as you see,
Hangs but where it hung when that spell was set free!