Her eye was brown--a deep, deep brown; Her hair was darker than her eye; And something in her smile and frown, Curled crimson lip and instep high, Showed that there ran in each blue vein, Mixed with the milder Aztec strain, The vigorous vintage of Old Spain. She was alive in every limb With feeling, to the finger tips; And when the sun is like a fire, And sky one shining, soft sapphire One does not drink in little sips. . . . . . . . The air was heavy, the night was hot, I sat by her side and forgot, forgot; Forgot the herd that were taking their rest, Forgot that the air was close oppressed, That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon, In the dead of the night or the blaze of the noon; That, once let the herd at its breath take fright, Nothing on earth can stop their flight; And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed, That falls in front of their mad stampede! . . . . . . . Was that thunder? I grasped the cord Of my swift mustang without a word. I sprang to the saddle, and she clung behind. Away! on a hot chase down the wind! But never was fox-hunt half so hard, And never was steed so little spared. For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we fared In Texas, down by the Rio Grande. The mustang flew, and we urged him on; There was one chance left, and you have but one-- Halt, jump to the ground, and shoot your horse; Crouch under his carcass, and take your chance; And if the steers in their frantic course Don't batter you both to pieces at once, You may thank your star; if not, goodbye To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh, And the open air and the open sky, In Texas, down by the Rio Grande. The cattle gained on us, and, just as I felt For my old six-shooter behind in my belt, Down came the mustang, and down came we, Clinging together--and, what was the rest? A body that spread itself on my breast, Two arms that shielded my dizzy head, Two lips that hard to my lips were prest; Then came thunder in my ears, As over us surged the sea of steers, Blows that beat blood into my eyes, And when I could rise-- Lasca was dead! . . . . . . .