In that welter of changing hues and
tints he saw only red. Red! That was the color of blood; it stood
for passion, lust, violence; and it was a fitting badge of color
for this land of revolutions and alarms. At first he saw little
else--except the hint of black despair to follow. But there was
gold in the sunset, too--the yellow gold of ransom! That was
Mexico--red and yellow, blood and gold, lust and license. Once the
rider's fancy began to work in this fashion, it would not rest,
and as the sunset grew in splendor he found in it richer meanings.
Red was the color of a woman's lips--yes, and a woman's hair. The
deepening blue of the high sky overhead was the hue of a certain
woman's eyes. A warm, soft breeze out of the west beat into his
face, and he remembered how warm and soft Alaire's breath had been
upon his cheek.
The woman of his desires was yonder, where those colors warred,
and she was mantled in red and gold and purple for his coming. The
thought aroused him; the sense of his unworthiness vanished, the
blight fell from him; he felt only a throbbing eagerness to see
her and to take her in his arms once more before the end.
With his head high and his face agleam, he rode into the west,
into the heart of the sunset.
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