Nor does she care to give her background a specific historical note. Granted that she insists the robber bridegroom lived, loved and stole under Spanish rule. Wrath and love burn only like the campfires. And even the appearance of a hero is no longer a single and majestic event like that of a star in the heavens, but a wandering fire soon lost. A journey is forever lonely and parallel to death, but the two watch each other, the traveler and the bandit, through the trees.
Murder is as soundless as a spout of blood, as regular and rhythmic as sleep.
A circle of bandits counts out the gold, with bending shoulders more slaves mount the block and go down, a planter makes a gesture of abundance with his riding whip. Yet no one can laugh or cry so savagely in this wilderness as to be heard by the nearest traveler or remembered the next year. I have quoted this passage because it conveys the intenseness of this strange, fanciful tale. Miss Welty's style is concise, yet rich like the sound of an organ. Once again the wealth of her talent has been proved.