THE ADVENTURES OF THE LAST OF THE ABENCERRAGES VISCOUNT CHATEAUBRIAND

ADVERTISEMENT

The Adventures of the last of the Abencerrages were written nearly twenty years ago; the portrait which I have sketched of the Spaniards explains sufficiently why this story could not be printed under the Imperial government. The resistance of the Spaniards to Buonaparte, of a defenceless nation to the conqueror, who had vanquished the best soldiers of Europe, excited at that time the enthusiasm of every heart susceptible of being affected by great devotedness and noble sacrifices. The ruins of Saragossa were still smoking, and the censorship would not have suffered the publication of eulogiums, in which it would have discovered, rightly enough, a concealed interest for the victims. Pictures of the ancient manners of Europe, recollections of the glory of former times, and those of the court of one of our most distinguished monarchs, would not have been more agreeable to the censorship, which besides began to repent having so often allowed me to speak of the ancient monarchy, and of the religion of our fathers: these departed subjects, which I was incessantly recalling, excited too powerfully the thoughts of the living.

It is a frequent practice, in pictures, to place some unseemly personage for the purpose of bringing out more the beauty of others: in this story, my idea has been to paint three men of equally elevated character, but not out of the usual course of nature, and retaining, along with the passions, the manners and even the prejudices of their country. The character of the female is also drawn in the same proportions. The world of imagination, when we transport ourselves thither, should at least make us amends for the world of reality.

It will readily be seen that this story is the composition of a man who has felt the pangs of exile, and whose heart is entirely wrapt up in his country.

The views, so to speak, which I have given of Granada, of the Alhambra, and of the ruined mosque transformed into a church, were taken upon the spot. The latter is nothing else than the cathedral of Cordova. These descriptions are therefore a kind of addition to the following passage of the Itinerary. “From Cadiz, I repaired to Cordova; I admired the mosque which is now the cathedral of that city. I traversed the ancient Betica, described by the poets as the abode of happiness. I ascended as far as Andujar, and retraced my steps in order to see Granada. The Alhambra appeared to me well worthy of being looked at, even after the temples of Greece. The valley of Granada is delightful, and reminds one very much of that of Sparta; that the Moors should have regretted such a country may be easily conceived.”—(Itinerary, part VII. and last).

There are frequent allusions in this story to the history of the Zegris and the Abencerrages; this history is so well known, that I have thought it superfluous to give any sketch of it in this advertisement. Besides, the story itself contains sufficient details to make the text easily understood.

When Boabdil, the last king of Granada, was compelled to abandon the kingdom of his forefathers, he halted on the top of Mount Padul. That elevated spot commanded a view of the sea, on which the unfortunate monarch was about to embark for Africa; from it also could be discovered Granada, the Vega, and the Xenil, on the banks of which were erected the tents of Ferdinand and Isabella. At the sight of this beautiful country, and of the cypresses which still marked here and there the tombs of the Mussulmans, Boabdil began to shed tears. The sultana Ayxa, his mother, who accompanied him in his exile, along with the grandees who formerly composed his court, said to him: “Weep now like a woman, for the loss of a kingdom, which thou hast been unable to defend like a man.” They descended from the mountain, and Granada disappeared from their eyes for ever.

The Moors of Spain, who shared the fate of their sovereign, dispersed themselves throughout Africa; the tribes of the Zegris and the Gomeres settled in the kingdom of Fez, which was their aboriginal country; the Vanegas and the Alabeses took up their abode upon the coast, from Oran to Algiers; finally the Abencerrages established themselves in the environs of Tunis; they formed, within sight of the ruins of Carthage, a colony, which, even in our own times, is distinguished from the Moors of Africa, by its elegant manners, and the mildness of its laws.

These families carried into their new country the remembrance of their old one. The Paradise of Granada lived constantly in their memory, the mothers repeated its name to their children at the breast. They lulled them to sleep with the romances of the Zegris and the Abencerrages. Prayers were repeated in the mosque every five days, with the face turned towards Granada; and Allah was implored to restore to his chosen people that land of delights. In vain did the country of the Lotos-eaters present to the exiles its fruits, its waters, its verdure, and its glorious sun; far from the Vermilion Towers,[2] there were neither pleasant fruits, limpid springs, fresh verdure, nor sun worthy to be looked at. If any one shewed the plains of Bagrada to an exile, the latter only shook his head, and exclaimed with a sigh: “Granada!”

The Abencerrages, particularly, preserved the most tender and faithful remembrance of their country. They had quitted, with the most poignant anguish, the theatre of their glory, and the banks which they had made so often ring with the war-cry of “Honour and love.” Being no longer able to lift the lance in the deserts, or to wear the helmet in a colony of farmers, they had devoted themselves to the study of simples, a profession in equal estimation among the Arabs with that of arms. Thus did that race of warriors, which formerly inflicted wounds, now make its occupation that of healing them. In this particular, it retained something of its original genius, for the knights themselves frequently dressed the wounds of the enemies they had overthrown.

The cottage of that family, which formerly possessed palaces, was not placed in the hamlet of the other exiles, at the foot of Mount Mamelife; it was built amidst the very ruins of Carthage, on the sea-shore, in the place where St. Louis expired on the ashes, and where a Mahometan hermitage is now to be seen. Along the walls of the cottage were hung bucklers made of lions’ skins, bearing, impressed upon a field of azure, two figures of savages breaking down a town with a club; round the device was this motto: “It is but little!” the coat of arms and device of the Abencerrages. Lances adorned with white and blue pennons, burnouses, and cassocks of slashed satin, were ranged by the side of the bucklers, and figured in the midst of scimitars and poniards. Here and there also were suspended gauntlets, bits ornamented with precious stones, large silver stirrups, long swords, whose sheaths had been embroidered by the hands of princesses, and golden spurs, with which the Iseults, the Guineveres and Orianas were wont of old to invest gallant knights.

Beneath these trophies of glory, were placed upon tables the trophies of a life of peace. These were plants culled on the summits of Mount Atlas, and in the desert of Sahara; many of them had even been brought from the plain of Granada. Some were intended to relieve the ailments of the body; others were supposed to mitigate the severity of mental suffering. The Abencerrages regarded as most valuable those which were useful in calming vain regrets, in dissipating foolish illusions, and the ever-reviving, ever-deceived, hopes of happiness. Unfortunately these simples possessed qualities of an opposite nature, and the sweet odour of a flower of their own country frequently acted as a sort of poison to the illustrious exiles.

Twenty-four years had passed away since the taking of Granada. In that short space of time, fourteen Abencerrages had perished, by the effects of a new climate, the accidents of a wandering life, and principally through grief, which imperceptibly undermines the strength of man. One single descendant was the sole hope of that illustrious family. Aben-Hamet bore the name of that Abencerrage, who was accused by the Zegris of having seduced the sultana Alfayma. In him were united the beauty, the valour, the courtesy and the generosity of his ancestors, with that mild lustre and slight tinge of melancholy which adversity, nobly supported, inspires. He was only twenty-two years of age when he lost his father; he then determined to make a pilgrimage to the land of his ancestors, in order to gratify the secret longing of his heart, and to execute a plan which he carefully concealed from his mother.

He embarked at the port of Tunis; a favourable wind carried him to Carthagena, where he landed, and immediately proceeded on the road to Granada. He gave himself out for an Arabian physician, who had come to collect plants amid the rocks of the Sierra Nevada. A quiet mule bore him slowly along in the country where formerly the Abencerrages were carried with the swiftness of the wind on warlike coursers; a guide walked before, leading two other mules ornamented with bells and parti-coloured woollen tufts. Aben-Hamet crossed the large heaths and woods of palm-trees of the kingdom of Murcia; from the great age of these trees, he conjectured that they must have been planted by his ancestors, and his heart was pierced by regret. There rose a tower in which the sentinel, in former times, kept watch, during the wars of the Moors and Christians; here appeared a ruined building whose architecture proved its Moorish origin; a fresh subject of grief to Aben-Hamet! He dismounted from his mule, and, on pretence of seeking for plants, hid himself for a few moments, in the ruins, in order to give free vent to his tears. He then proceeded on his road, in a state of reverie, which was encouraged by the noise of the mule-bells, and the monotonous song of his guide. The latter only interrupted his long-winded ditty, in order to quicken the pace of his mules by giving them the names of beautiful and brave, or to scold them by the epithets of lazy and obstinate.

Flocks of sheep, directed by a shepherd like an army, in sere and barren plains, and occasionally a solitary traveller, far from diffusing an appearance of life upon the road, only served, in a manner, to make it more gloomy and desert. These travellers all wore a sword attached to the waist; they were wrapped up in a mantle, and a large slouched hat half covered their faces. As they passed, they saluted Aben-Hamet, who could only make out, in their noble salutation, the names of God, of Señor and of Knight. At the close of day, the Abencerrage took his place in the midst of strangers at the inn, without being troubled by their indiscreet curiosity. No one spoke to him, no one questioned him; his turban, his robe, and his arms, excited no surprise. As it had been the will of Allah, that the Moors of Spain should lose their beautiful country, Aben-Hamet could not help entertaining a feeling of esteem for its grave conquerors.

Emotions still more vivid awaited the Abencerrage at the end of his journey. Granada is built at the foot of the Sierra Nevada, on two high hills, separated by a deep valley. The houses, built on the declivities in the hollow of the valley, give this city the shape and appearance of a grenado half open, from which resemblance it derives its name. Two rivers, the Xenil and the Darro, the sands of the first of which contain gold, and the other silver, wash the feet of the hills, form a junction, and afterwards take a serpentine course in the midst of a charming valley, called the Vega. This plain, which is overlooked by Granada, is covered with vines, with pomegranate, fig, mulberry and orange-trees; it is surrounded by mountains of singularly beautiful form and colour. An enchanting sky, a pure and delicious air, affect the soul with a secret languor, from which even the passing traveller finds it difficult to preserve himself. Every one feels that, in this country, the tender passions would have very soon stifled the heroic ones, if true love did not always feel the wish to have glory as its companion.

As soon as Aben-Hamet discovered the tops of the first buildings of Granada, his heart beat so violently, that he was obliged to stop his mule. Crossing his arms over his breast, and fixing his eyes on the holy city, he remained speechless and immovable. The guide halted in his turn; and, as elevated sentiments are easily understood by a Spaniard, he appeared affected, and conjectured that the Moor’s feelings were excited by the sight of his former country. The Abencerrage at last broke silence.

“Guide!” said he, “be happy! hide not the truth from me, for the waves were calm, and the moon entered into her crescent, on the day of thy nativity. What are these towers which shine like stars over a green forest?”

“That is the Alhambra,” answered the guide.

“And the other castle upon the opposite hill?” said Aben-Hamet.

“It is the Generalife,” replied the Spaniard. “In that castle there is a garden planted with myrtles, where it is said the Abencerrage was surprised with the sultana Alfayma; farther off, you see the Albaycin, and nearer to us the Vermilion Towers.”

Every word which the guide uttered pierced the heart of Aben-Hamet. How cruel it is to be obliged to have recourse to strangers for information respecting the monuments of our ancestors, and to have the history of our family and friends related to us by indifferent persons! The guide, putting an end to the reflections of Aben-Hamet, exclaimed: “Let us proceed, Sir Moor; it is the will of God! Do not be downcast. Is not Francis I., even now, a prisoner in our Madrid? It is the will of God!” He took off his hat, crossed himself with great fervour, and drove on his mules. The Abencerrage, spurring on his, exclaimed in his turn: “It was thus written;” [3] and they descended towards Granada.

They passed close to the great ash-tree, memorable as the scene of the battle between Musa and the grand-master of Calatrava, in the time of the last king of Granada. They made the circuit of the Alameda walk, and entered the city by the gate of Elvira. They reascended the Rambla, and arrived shortly after at a square, surrounded on all sides by buildings of Moorish architecture. A khan was opened in this square for the Moors of Africa, whom the trade in silks of the Vega attracted in crowds to Granada. Thither the guide conducted Aben-Hamet.

The Abencerrage was too agitated to enjoy much rest in his new habitation; the idea of his country tormented him. Unable any longer to master the feelings which preyed upon his heart, he stole out, in the middle of the night, to wander about the streets of Granada. He attempted to recognize, with his eyes or with his hands, some of the monuments which the elders of his tribe had so frequently described to him. Perhaps the lofty edifice, whose walls he could only half distinguish through the darkness, was formerly the residence of the Abencerrages; perhaps it was in this solitary square that those splendid carousals were given, which raised the glory of Granada to the skies. There it was that the troops of horsemen, superbly dressed in brocade, marched in procession; there advanced the galleys loaded with arms and with flowers, the dragons darting out fire, and carrying illustrious warriors concealed in their sides; ingenious inventions of pleasure and gallantry.

But alas! in place of the sound of anafins, of the noise of trumpets, and of songs of love, the deepest silence reigned around Aben-Hamet. This mute city had changed its inhabitants, and the victors reposed on the couches of the vanquished. “They sleep then, these proud Spaniards,” exclaimed the young Moor with indignation, “under the roofs from which they have banished my ancestors! And I, an Abencerrage, I wake, unknown, solitary and forsaken, at the gate of my fathers’ palace.”

Aben-Hamet then reflected upon the destinies of man, on the vicissitudes of fortune, on the fall of empires, lastly on Granada itself surprised by its enemies in the midst of pleasures, and exchanging all at once its garlands of flowers for chains; he pictured to himself its citizens forsaking their homes in gala dresses, like guests, who, in the disorder of their attire, are suddenly driven from the chambers of festivity by a conflagration.

All these images, all these ideas, crowded on one another in the soul of Aben-Hamet; full of grief and anguish, his thoughts were principally turned to the execution of the project which had brought him to Granada. Day surprised him in his reverie; the Abencerrage had lost his way: he found himself far from the khan, in a remote suburb of the city. All was yet asleep: no noise disturbed the silence of the streets; the doors and windows of the houses were still shut; the clarion of the cock alone proclaimed, in the habitation of the poor, the return of labour and of hardship.

After wandering about for a long time, without being able to find his way, Aben-Hamet heard a door open. He saw a young female come out, dressed nearly like the Gothic queens which we see sculptured on the monuments of our ancient abbeys; her black corset trimmed with jet tightened her elegant waist. Her short petticoat, narrow and without folds, discovered a beautiful leg and charming foot; a mantilla, also black, was thrown over her head; with her left hand she held this mantilla crossed and drawn up close like a stomacher under her chin, in such a manner that nothing was seen of her face but her large eyes and rosy mouth. A duenna walked by her side; a page preceded her, carrying a prayer-book; two footmen in livery followed at some distance the beautiful unknown; she was repairing to morning prayers, which were announced by the ringing of a bell in a neighbouring monastery.

Aben-Hamet fancied he saw the angel Israfel, or the youngest of the houris. The Spanish maiden, not less surprised, looked at the Abencerrage, whose turban, robe and arms set off to still greater advantage his noble countenance. Recovering from her first astonishment, she beckoned to the stranger to approach, with the grace and freedom peculiar to the women of that country. “Sir Moor,” said she to him, “you appear to have recently arrived at Granada; have you lost your way?”

“Sultana of flowers,” replied Aben-Hamet, “delight of men’s eyes, Christian slave more beautiful than the virgins of Georgia, thou hast rightly guessed! I am a stranger in this city: having lost myself amidst its palaces, I was unable to find my way back to the khan of the Moors. May Mahomet touch thy heart, and reward thee for thy hospitality!”

“The Moors are renowned for their gallantry,” replied the lady with the sweetest smile; “but I am neither sultana of flowers, nor a slave, nor desirous of being recommended to Mahomet. Follow me, Sir knight, I will lead you back to the khan of the Moors.”

She walked lightly before the Abencerrage, led him to the door of the khan, to which she pointed with her hand, then passed on to the back of a palace, and disappeared.

To what then is the repose of life attached? His country no longer occupies solely and exclusively the mind of Aben-Hamet; Granada is no longer in his eyes deserted, forsaken, widowed and solitary; she is dearer than ever to his heart, but it is a new glamour which embellishes her ruins; with the recollection of his ancestors is now mingled another charm. Aben-Hamet has discovered the burial-place where the ashes of the Abencerrages repose; but while he prays, throws himself on the ground, and sheds a flood of filial tears, he fancies that the young Spanish maiden has sometimes passed over these tombs, and he no longer considers his ancestors as so unfortunate.

In vain does he wish to occupy himself with nothing but his pilgrimage to the land of his fathers; in vain does he scour the hills of the Darro and the Xenil to gather plants from them at the morning-dawn; the young Christian lady is the flower which he is now in search of. What fruitless efforts he has already made to discover the palace of his enchantress! How many times has he attempted to retrace the ground over which his divine guide conducted him! How many times has he fancied that he has recognized the same bell, and the same cock-crow, which he had heard near the house of the Spanish lady! Deceived by similar sounds, he runs immediately to the side from which they proceed; but the magic palace nowhere presents itself to his eyes! Frequently also the uniformity of the female dress at Granada gave him a moment of hope: at a distance every Christian female resembled the mistress of his heart; when close to him, not one possessed her beauty or her grace. Finally, Aben-Hamet had made the round of the churches, in order to discover the stranger; he had even penetrated to the tomb of Ferdinand and Isabella, but this was the greatest sacrifice which he had yet made to love.

One day he was herborizing in the valley of the Darro. The flowery declivity of the southern hill supported the walls of the Alhambra, and the gardens of the Generalife; the northern hill was adorned with the Albaycin, with smiling orchards, and with grottoes, inhabited by a numerous population. At the western extremity of the valley, were descried the spires of Granada, which rose in groups from the midst of holm-oaks and cypresses. At the other extremity, towards the east, the eye rested upon points of rocks, convents and hermitages, some of the ruins of the ancient Illiberia, and in the distance the heights of the Sierra Nevada. The waters of the Darro rolled along in the middle of the vale, and presented on the margin of its course newly erected mills, noisy waterfalls, the broken arches of a Roman aqueduct, and the remains of a bridge of the time of the Moors.

Aben-Hamet was neither miserable enough, nor happy enough, to enjoy properly the charms of solitude; he roamed over these beautiful banks with absence and indifference. In the course of his random walk, he struck into an alley of trees which wound round the declivity of the hill of the Albaycin. A country-house, surrounded by a grove of orange-trees, soon presented itself to his view; as he approached the grove, he heard the sounds of a voice and a guitar. Between the voice, the features and looks of a woman there are relations which never deceive a man whom love possesses. “It is my houri!” said Aben-Hamet, and he listened with a beating heart; at the name of the Abencerrages several times repeated, his heart beat still quicker. The fair unknown was singing a Spanish romance retracing the history of the Abencerrages and the Zegris. Aben-Hamet was no longer able to resist his emotion; he darted through a hedge of myrtle, and found himself in the midst of a party of young ladies, who were alarmed at his appearance, and, with loud screams, fled in all directions. The Spanish lady who had been singing, and who still held the guitar, exclaimed: “It is the Moorish gentleman!” and called back her companions. “Favourite of the genii,” said the Abencerrage, “I sought thee as an Arab searches for a spring at the heat of noon. I heard the sound of thy guitar; thou wert singing the heroes of my country. I discovered thee by the beauty of thy accents, and I come to lay at thy feet the heart of Aben-Hamet.”

“And it was with thoughts of you,” replied Donna Blanca, “that I was repeating the romance of the Abencerrages: ever since I saw you, I have fancied that these Moorish knights resembled you.”

The colour mounted slightly to Blanca’s forehead as she pronounced these words. Aben-Hamet felt as if he could have thrown himself at the feet of the young Christian, and declared to her that he was himself the last Abencerrage; but a remnant of prudence restrained him: he was afraid lest his name, too celebrated at Granada, should give uneasiness to the governor. The war with the Moriscoes was scarcely terminated, and the presence of an Abencerrage at that moment might give the Spaniards just cause of apprehension. It was not that Aben-Hamet was alarmed at the prospect of danger; but he trembled at the idea of being obliged to remove himself for ever from the daughter of Don Rodrigo.

Donna Blanca was descended from a family which derived its origin from the Cid de Bivar, and from Ximena, the daughter of Count Gormez de Gormas. The posterity of the conqueror of Valencia the Beautiful, owing to the ingratitude of the court of Castille, was reduced to a state of extreme poverty; it was even believed, for several centuries, to be extinct, such was the obscurity into which it had fallen. But, about the time of the conquest of Granada, a last descendant of the race of the Bivars, the grandfather of Blanca, made himself distinguished, less by his pedigree than by his signal valour. After the expulsion of the infidels, Ferdinand rewarded this descendant of the Cid with the estates of several Moorish families, and created him Duke of Santa Fé. The newly created Duke fixed his residence at Granada, and died while still young, leaving an only son already married, Don Rodrigo, father of Blanca.

Donna Teresa de Xeres, the wife of Don Rodrigo, gave birth to a son, who received, at his birth, the name of Rodrigo, like all his ancestors, but was called Don Carlos, to distinguish him from his father. The great events of which Don Carlos was a witness from his earliest years, the dangers to which he was exposed while yet in his nonage, contributed to render still more grave and severe a character naturally disposed to austerity. Don Carlos was scarcely fourteen years of age, when he followed Cortez to Mexico: he supported all the dangers, and was a witness of all the horrors, of that astonishing adventure; and he was present at the overthrow of the last king of a world until then unknown. Three years after that catastrophe, Don Carlos had returned to Europe, and was present at the battle of Pavia, as if he had come to witness kingly honour and valour sinking under the strokes of fortune. The aspect of a new world, long voyages on seas which had never before been navigated, and the spectacle of the revolutions and vicissitudes of fate, had made a deep impression on the religious and melancholy imagination of Don Carlos. He entered into the knightly order of Calatrava; and, renouncing marriage in spite of Don Rodrigo’s prayers, destined his whole fortune to his sister.

Blanca de Bivar, the only sister of Don Carlos, and much younger than he, was the idol of her father. She had lost her mother, and had just entered into her eighteenth year, when Aben-Hamet made his appearance at Granada. Everything about this enchanting woman was fascination itself; her voice was ravishing and her dancing lighter than the zephyr. Sometimes she delighted in directing a chariot, like Armida; at other times she flew upon the back of the swiftest barb of Andalusia, like those charming fairies who appeared to Tristan and to Galaor in the forests. Athens would have taken her for Aspasia, and Paris for Diana of Poitiers, who was then beginning to shine at the court. But, with the charms of a Frenchwoman, she had all the passions of a Spaniard, and her natural coquetry in no degree diminished the fixity, the constancy, the strength and elevation of the feelings of her heart.

At the noise of the screams, which the young ladies sent forth, when Aben-Hamet rushed into the midst of the grove, Don Rodrigo came running up. “My father,” said Blanca, “this is the Moorish gentleman of whom I spoke to you. He heard me singing, and recognized me; he entered the garden to thank me for having put him in his right road.”

The Duke of Santa Fé received the Abencerrage with the grave and yet unaffected politeness of the Spaniards. One remarks in this nation none of those servile airs, none of those circumlocutory phrases, which reveal the abjectness of ideas, and the degradation of the soul. The language of the first nobleman and of the peasant is the same, the salutation the same, the compliments, habits and customs are the same. In proportion as the confidence and generosity of this people to strangers is unbounded, in the same proportion is its vengeance terrible when betrayed. Of heroic courage, of patience inexhaustible, incapable of yielding to bad fortune, it must either vanquish or be crushed. It has little of what is called wit, but exalted passions are with it a substitute for that light which is derived from the refinement and abundance of ideas. A Spaniard, who passes the day without speaking, who has seen nothing, and cares not for seeing anything, who has read nothing, studied nothing, compared nothing, will yet discover, in the greatness of his resolutions, the necessary resources at the moment of adversity.

It was Don Rodrigo’s birthday, and Blanca was giving her father a tertulia, or little entertainment, in this delightful solitude. The Duke invited Aben-Hamet to seat himself amidst the young ladies, who were amused at the turban and robe of the stranger. Some velvet cushions were brought, and Aben-Hamet reclined himself on these cushions in the Moorish fashion. He was questioned respecting his country, and his adventures; he replied to these enquiries with spirit and vivacity. He spoke the purest Castilian; one could have taken him for a Spaniard, if he had not almost constantly said thou instead of you. This word had something so sweet about it in his mouth, that Blanca could not help feeling a secret annoyance when he addressed it to one of her companions.

A numerous retinue of servants appeared, and were the bearers of chocolate, of fruit cakes, and little sweet cakes from Malaga, white as snow, porous and light as sponges. After the refresco, Blanca was entreated to execute one of those national dances, in which she excelled the most accomplished Gitanas. She was obliged to accede to the wishes of her friends. Aben-Hamet was silent, but his supplicating looks spoke as eloquently as his mouth would have done. Blanca chose a zambra, an expressive dance which the Spaniards have borrowed from the Moors.

One of the young ladies began to play upon the guitar the air of this foreign dance. The daughter of Don Rodrigo took off her veil, and fastened a pair of ebony castanets round her white hands. Her black hair falls in ringlets on her alabaster neck; her mouth and her eyes smile in concert; her colour is animated by the action of her heart. All at once she makes the noisy ebony re-echo, beats time three times, commences the song of the zambra, and, mingling her voice with the sounds of the guitar, darts off like lightning.

What variety in her steps! What elegance in her attitudes! Now she raises her arms with vivacity, then she lets them fall with languor. Sometimes she springs forward as if intoxicated with pleasure, and then retires as if overwhelmed with sorrow. She turns her head, seems to call to her some invisible person, modestly holds out her rosy cheek to receive the kiss of a newly married husband, flies back ashamed, returns delighted and consoled, marches with a noble and almost warlike step, afterwards skims afresh the verdant mead. The harmony between her dancing, her singing, and the music of the guitar was perfect. The voice of Blanca, slightly husky, had that species of accent which stirs the passions to the very bottom of the soul. The Spanish music, composed of sighs, of lively movements, of melancholy repetitions, of airs suddenly stopped, presents a singular mixture of gaiety and melancholy. This music and this dancing settled the destiny of the last Abencerrage irrecoverably; they would have been sufficient to trouble a heart less susceptible than his.

In the evening they returned to Granada by the valley of the Darro. Don Rodrigo was so delighted with the noble and polished manners of Aben-Hamet, that he would not let him depart without receiving his promise to come frequently and amuse Blanca with the wonderful stories of the East. The Moor, at the height of his wishes, accepted the invitation of the Duke of Santa Fé; and, beginning with the following day, he was regular in his visits to the palace where she breathed whom he loved more than the light of day.

Blanca found her heart very soon engaged in a deep passion, from the very impossibility she had fancied that ever she should feel that passion. That any one should love an infidel, a Moor, an unknown stranger, appeared to her so extraordinary, that she took no precaution against the malady which began to insinuate itself into her veins. But no sooner did she become sensible of its inroads, than she accepted this malady like a true Spaniard. The dangers and troubles, which she foresaw, neither made her draw back when on the brink of the precipice, nor deliberate long with her heart. She said to herself: “Let Aben-Hamet become a Christian, let him love me, and I will follow him to the extremity of the earth.”

On his part, the Abencerrage also felt the full power of an irresistible passion: he no longer lived but for Blanca; he no longer occupied himself with the plans which had brought him to Granada. It was easy for him to obtain the information which he came expressly in pursuit of: but every other interest, except that of his love, had vanished from his eyes. He even dreaded the knowledge which might produce a change in his mode of existence. He asked for nothing; he wished not to know anything. He said to himself: “Let Blanca become a Mahometan, let her love me, and I will serve her to my last sigh.”

Thus determined in their resolutions, Aben-Hamet and Blanca only waited for a favourable moment to discover their mutual sentiments to each other. It was then the best time of the year. “You have not yet seen the Alhambra,” said the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé to the Abencerrage. “If I can guess, by some words which have dropped from you, your family is originally from Granada. You will perhaps be pleased to visit the palace of your ancient kings? I will myself, this evening, be your guide thither.”

Aben-Hamet swore, by the prophet, that no excursion could ever be more agreeable to him.

When the hour appointed for this pilgrimage to the Alhambra arrived, the daughter of Don Rodrigo mounted a white hackney, accustomed to climb the rocks like a deer. Aben-Hamet accompanied the brilliant Spaniard on an Andalusian horse, equipped in the Turkish manner. In the rapid course of the young Moor, his purple robe swelled out behind him, his crooked sabre echoed on the elevated saddle, and the wind shook the plume with which his turban was surmounted. The common people, charmed by his graceful carriage, said as they saw him pass: “It is an infidel prince whom Donna Blanca is going to convert.”

They first went up a long street which still bore the name of an illustrious Moorish family. This street bordered on the exterior inclosure of the Alhambra. They then crossed a wood of young elm-trees, arrived at a fountain, and shortly found themselves in front of the interior inclosure of the palace of Boabdil. In a wall flanked with towers and surmounted by battlements, was a gate called the Gate of Judgement. They passed through this first gate, and proceeded along a narrow road which led them in a serpentine course between high walls and half-ruined hovels. This road brought them to the square of the Algibes, close to which Charles V. was then erecting a palace. From thence, turning northward, they halted in a deserted court, at the foot of an unornamented wall, out of repair from the effects of time. Aben-Hamet, springing lightly to the ground, presented his hand to Blanca, and assisted her in alighting from her mule. The servants knocked at a deserted door, the threshold of which was concealed by the grass; the door opened, and all at once disclosed to view the secret recesses of the Alhambra.

All the charms of, and regrets for, his country, mingled with the glamour of love, seized the heart of Aben-Hamet. Silent and immovable, his wondering looks dived into this habitation of the genii. He fancied himself transported to the entrance of one of those palaces the account of which one reads in the Arabian tales. Light galleries, canals of white marble bordered with lemon and orange-trees in full bloom, fountains, and solitary courts, presented themselves in all directions to the eyes of Aben-Hamet; and through the lengthened vaults of the porticoes he perceived other labyrinths and fresh enchantments. The azure of the most beautiful sky appeared between the columns, which supported a chain of Gothic arches. The walls were covered with arabesques, which seemed to the eye like imitations of those stuffs of the East, which, in the ennui of the harem, are embroidered by the caprice of a female slave. An air of voluptuousness, of religion, and of war, seemed to breathe in this magic edifice; it was a species of lovers’ cloister, a mysterious retreat, where the Moorish sovereigns tasted all the pleasures, and forgot all the duties of life.

After some minutes of surprise and silence, the two lovers entered into this residence of fallen greatness and past felicities. They first made the round of the hall of Mexuar, in the midst of the perfume of flowers and the freshness of waters. They then penetrated into the Court of Lions. The agitation of Aben-Hamet increased at every step. “Didst thou not fill my soul with delight,” said he to Blanca, “with what pain should I find myself obliged to ask of thee, a Spaniard, the history of this palace! Ah! these places are made to serve as a retreat for happiness, and I!...”

Aben-Hamet perceived the name of Boabdil enchased in the mosaics: “ O my king!” exclaimed he, “what is become of thee? where shall I find thee in thy deserted Alhambra?” And tears of fidelity, of loyalty, and of honour suffused the eyes of the young Moor. “Your old masters,” said Blanca, “or rather the kings of your fathers, were ungrateful.”—” What matter!” returned the Abencerrage, “they were unfortunate!”

As he pronounced these words, Blanca conducted him into an apartment which seemed to be the very sanctuary of the temple of love. The elegance of this asylum could not be surpassed; the entire ceiling, painted blue and gold, and composed of arabesques of filagree work, allowed the light to appear as if through a tissue of flowers. A fountain spouted in the midst of the building, the waters of which, falling again in a shower of dew, were received in an alabaster shell. “Aben-Hamet,” said the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé “look well at this fountain; it received the disfigured heads of the Abencerrages. You can still see, on the marble, the stain of the blood of the unhappy men who were sacrificed to Boabdil’s suspicions. It is thus that, in your country, men who seduce credulous women are treated.”

Aben-Hamet had ceased to listen to Blanca; he had prostrated himself, and kissed respectfully the mark of the blood of his ancestors. Then rising he exclaimed: “O Blanca! I swear, by the blood of these knights, to love thee with the constancy, the fidelity and the ardour of an Abencerrage!”

“You love me then?” returned Blanca, clasping her beautiful hands, and raising her eyes to heaven; “but do you forget that you are an infidel, a Moor, an enemy, and that I am a Christian and a Spaniard?”

“O holy prophet!” said Aben-Hamet, “be thou witness of my oaths!...” Blanca interrupted him. “And what reliance think you can I place on the oaths of a persecutor of my God? Do you know whether I love you? Who has given you the assurance to use such language to me?”

Aben-Hamet in consternation replied: “True, lady, I am only thy slave; thou hast not chosen me to be thy knight.”

“Moor,” said Blanca, “lay artifice aside. Thou hast seen, by my looks, that I loved thee; my passion for thee exceeds all bounds: be a Christian, and nothing shall prevent me from being thine. But, if the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé venture to speak to thee thus frankly, thou mayest judge, from that very circumstance, that she will know how to conquer herself, and that no enemy of the Christians shall ever possess any claim on her.”

Aben-Hamet, in a transport of passion, seized the hands of Blanca, and placed them first on his turban, and then on his heart: “Allah is powerful,” he cried, “and Aben-Hamet is happy! O Mahomet, let this Christian acknowledge thy law, and nothing can....”—” Thou art a blasphemer,” said Blanca, “let us depart hence.”

Leaning on the arm of the Moor, she proceeded to the fountain of the Twelve Lions, which gives its name to one of the courts of the Alhambra. “Stranger,” said the artless Spanish maiden, “when I look at thy robe, thy turban, and thy arms, and think of our loves, I fancy I see the shade of the handsome Abencerrage walking in this forsaken retreat with the unfortunate Alfayma. Explain to me the Arabic inscription which is engraved on the marble of this fountain.”

Aben-Hamet read these words:

The beautiful princess who walks, covered with pearls, in her garden, adds to the beauty of it so prodigiously....[4] The rest of the inscription was effaced.

“It is for thee that this inscription was made,” said Aben-Hamet. “Beloved Sultana, these palaces have never been so beautiful in their youth, as they now are in their ruins. Listen to the murmur of the fountains, the waters of which have been turned from their course by the moss: look at the gardens, which we see through these half-ruined arcades; contemplate the star of day, which is setting beyond all these porticoes; how sweet it is to wander with thee in these abodes! Thy words embalm these retreats like the roses of Hymen. With what delight do I discover, in thy speech, some of the accents of the language of my fathers! The mere rustling of thy dress on these marbles makes me thrill. The air is only perfumed because it has touched thy tresses. Beautiful art thou as the genius of my country in the midst of these ruins! But can Aben-Hamet hope to fix thy heart? What is he, when compared to thee! He has roamed over the mountains with his father; he knows the plants of the desert.... Alas! there is not one of them that can heal the wound which thou hast given him!... He carries arms, but he is not a knight.

“I said to myself formerly: ‛The water of the sea, which sleeps under shelter in the hollow of the rock, is tranquil and silent, while quite near the open sea is noisy and agitated: Aben-Hamet! such will be thy life, silent, peaceful and unheard of, in an unknown corner of the earth, while the court of the Sultan is overturned by storms!’ I said so to myself, young Christian, and thou hast proved to me that the tempest may also disturb the drop of water in the hollow of the rock.”

Blanca listened with delight to a language which was so new to her, and the oriental turn of which seemed so much in harmony with this fairy abode, which she rambled over with her lover. Love penetrated her heart in all directions: she felt her knees sink under her, and was obliged to lean more heavily on the arm of her companion. Aben-Hamet supported the sweet burden, and repeated as he walked along: “Ah! why am I not an illustrious Abencerrage!”

“Thou wouldst please me less,” said Blanca, “for I should be more unhappy; remain in obscurity and live for me. A brave knight often forgets love for glory.”

“Thou wouldst not have that danger to apprehend,” replied Aben-Hamet with quickness.

“And how wouldst thou love me then, if thou wert an Abencerrage?” demanded the descendant of Ximena.

“I would love thee more than glory, and less than honour!” was the answer of the Moor.

The sun had sunk beneath the horizon during the promenade of the two lovers; they had traversed the whole of the Alhambra. What recollections were presented by it to the mind of Aben-Hamet! Here the Sultana received, by means of air-holes, the smoke of the perfumes which were burnt under her; there, in that secluded retreat, she adorned herself with the glorious attire of the East. And it was Blanca, it was a beloved woman, who related all these details to the handsome youth whom she idolized.

The rising moon diffused her doubtful light in the forsaken sanctuaries and in the deserted courts of the Alhambra; her silver rays outlined, upon the green turf of the gardens, and upon the walls of the apartments, the lace-work of an aerial architecture, the arches of the cloisters, the flitting shadows of the spouting waters, and those of the shrubs agitated by the zephyr. The nightingale sang in a cypress which pierced the domes of a ruined mosque, and the echoes repeated her plaintive strains. By the light of the moon, Aben-Hamet wrote the name of Blanca on the marble of the Hall of the Two Sisters; he traced it in Arabic characters, in order that the traveller might find an additional mystery for the exercise of his conjectures in this palace of mysteries.

“Moor,” said Blanca, “these amusements are cruel; let us quit this spot. The destiny of my life is fixed for ever. Bear well in mind those words: ‛Mussulman, I am thy mistress without hope; Christian, I am thy fortunate wife.’”

Aben-Hamet answered: “Christian, I am thy despairing slave; Mussulman, I am thy proud husband.”

And these noble lovers departed from this dangerous palace.

The passion of Blanca increased every day, and that of Aben-Hamet became equally violent. He was so transported at the idea of being loved for his own sake, and of owing the sentiments which he had inspired to no foreign cause, that he did not disclose the secret of his birth to the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé: he pictured to himself a delicate pleasure in giving her the information that he bore an illustrious name, on the very day when she consented to give him her hand. But he was suddenly recalled to Tunis. His mother had been attacked by an incurable disease, and wished to embrace and bless her son before her death. Aben-Hamet presented himself at the palace of Blanca. “Sultana,” said he to her, “my mother is at the point of death. She has sent for me to close her eyes. Wilt thou continue to love me?”

“Thou leavest me then,” replied Blanca, turning pale; “shall I never see thee more?”

“Come with me,” said Aben-Hamet; “I wish to exact an oath of thee, and to give thee one in return, which death alone can break. Follow me.”

They go out; they reach a cemetery which was formerly that of the Moors. Here and there were still to be seen little funeral columns round which the sculptor had formerly figured a turban; but which the Christians had subsequently replaced by a cross. Aben-Hamet led Blanca to the foot of these columns.

“Blanca,” said he, “this is the place where my ancestors repose; I swear by their ashes to love thee until the day when the angel of judgement shall summon me to the tribunal of Allah. I promise thee never to engage my heart to another woman, and to take thee for my wife, as soon as thou shalt know the divine light of the prophet. Every year, at this period, I will return to Granada, to see if thou hast kept thy faith to me, and if thou wilt renounce thy errors.”

“And I,” said Blanca, in tears, “will expect thee every year; I will preserve, until my latest sigh, the faith which I have sworn to thee; and I will receive thee for my husband, when the God of the Christians, more powerful than thy mistress, shall have melted thy infidel heart.”

Aben-Hamet departs, the winds carry him to the African shores. His mother had just expired. He weeps for her; he embraces her coffin. The months roll by; sometimes wandering amid the ruins of Carthage, sometimes seated on the tomb of St. Louis, the banished Abencerrage longs for the day which is to carry him back to Granada. That day at last arrives: Aben-Hamet embarks, and the vessel directs her course to Malaga. With what transport, with what joy mixed with apprehension, did he descry the first promontories of Spain! Is Blanca awaiting him on these shores? Does she still remember the poor Arab, who has never ceased to adore her under the palm-tree of the desert?

The daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé was not unfaithful to her vows. She had requested her father to convey her to Malaga. From the mountain-tops which bordered the uninhabited coast, she followed with her eyes the distant vessels and the flying sails. During the tempest, she contemplated with alarm the sea, as it was raised into fury by the winds. Then it was that she loved to lose herself in the clouds, to expose herself in dangerous passages, to feel herself washed by the same waves, or carried along by the same hurricane which threatened the days of Aben-Hamet. As she saw the plaintive seamew skim the waves with her large crooked wings, and fly towards the shores of Africa, she charged her with all the love-messages and extravagant wishes which proceed from a heart devoured by passion.

One day, while wandering on the beach, she discovered a long vessel, whose elevated prow, bent mast, and triangular sail announced the elegant genius of the Moors. Blanca ran to the port, into which she soon saw the Barbary vessel enter, making the sea foam under her rapid course. A Moor, most superbly dressed, was standing on the prow. Behind him, two black slaves held by the bridle an Arabian horse, whose smoking nostrils and dishevelled mane indicated both his natural ardour, and the terror with which the noise of the waves affected him. The bark arrives, lowers her sails, touches the pier, and lays to her side; the Moor springs upon the shore, which re-echoes with the sound of his arms. The slaves disembark the leopard-spotted courser, which neighs and leaps with joy at once more finding himself on land. Other slaves lower, with great care, a basket in which lay a gazelle amid palm-tree leaves; her delicate limbs were fastened and doubled under her, for fear of their being broken by the movement of the vessel; she wore a collar of aloe berries, and upon the gold plate, which served to connect the two ends of the collar, were engraved in Arabic a name and a talisman.

Blanca recognized Aben-Hamet; fearful of betraying herself in the presence of the crowd, she retired, and sent Dorothea, one of her attendants, to inform the Abencerrage, that she was waiting for him at the palace of the Moors. Aben-Hamet was at that moment presenting to the governor his firman, written in blue characters on beautiful vellum, and rolled up in a silk case. Dorothea approached, and conducted the happy Abencerrage to the feet of Blanca. What transports, when they found that both had remained faithful! What happiness in seeing each other after having been so long separated! How many fresh vows of eternal affection!

The two black slaves bring the Numidian courser, which, in place of a saddle, had only a lion’s skin thrown over his back and fastened by a purple belt. Afterwards the gazelle was introduced. “Sultana,” said Aben-Hamet, “this is a deer of my country, almost as light-footed as thyself.” Blanca, with her own hands, untied the beautiful animal, which seemed to thank her, by looks of the sweetest expression. During the absence of the Abencerrage, the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé had been studying Arabic; she read, with tearful eyes, her own name engraved on the gazelle’s collar. The animal, on being restored to her liberty, could scarcely stand upon her feet, from their having been so long tied up; she laid herself down upon the ground, and leaned her head against the knees of her mistress. Blanca gave her some fresh dates, and caressed this doe of the desert, whose fine coat retained the perfume of the aloe wood and of the rose of Tunis.

The Abencerrage, the Duke of Santa Fé and his daughter departed together for Granada. The days of the happy lovers passed like those of the preceding year: the same walks, the same regret at the sight of his country, the same love, or rather love always increasing, and always mutual; but also the same attachment in the two lovers to the religion of their fathers. “Become a Christian,” said Blanca;—“Become a Mussulman,” said Aben-Hamet, and they separated once more, without giving way to the passion which attracted them to each other.

Aben-Hamet reappeared the third year, like those birds of passage, which love brings back to our climates in the spring. This time he found not Blanca on the shore; but a letter from that adored woman informed the faithful Arab of the departure of the Duke for Madrid, and the arrival of Don Carlos at Granada. The latter was accompanied by a French prisoner, friend of Blanca’s brother. The Moor’s heart sunk within him at the perusal of this letter. He set out from Malaga for Granada with the most melancholy forebodings; the mountains appeared to him frightfully solitary: and he several times turned round to look at the sea which he had just crossed.

Blanca, during her father’s absence, had been unable to quit a brother whom she loved, a brother who intended to divest himself of all his property in her favour, and whom she saw again after seven years’ absence. Don Carlos possessed all the courage and all the pride of his nation: terrible as the conquerors of the New World, in whose ranks he had first carried arms; religious like the Spanish knights who conquered the Moors, he cherished in his heart that hatred of the infidels which he inherited from the blood of the Cid.

Thomas de Lautrec, of the illustrious house of Foix, in which beauty in the females and bravery in the males were regarded as hereditary qualities, was the younger brother of the Countess de Foix, and of the brave and unfortunate Odet de Foix, Lord of Lautrec. At the age of eighteen, Thomas had been knighted by Bayard, in that retreat which cost the life of the knight without fear and without reproach. Some time after, Thomas was pierced with wounds and made prisoner at Pavia, while defending the chivalrous monarch, who then lost all, except his honour.

Don Carlos de Bivar, who was a witness of the gallantry of Lautrec, had caused care to be taken of the wounds of the young Frenchman, and there was speedily formed between them one of those heroic friendships, of which esteem and virtue are the foundations. Francis I. had returned to France, but Charles V. detained the other prisoners. Lautrec had had the honour to share his sovereign’s captivity, and to lie at his feet in prison. Having remained in Spain, after the departure of his king, he had been handed over on his parole to Don Carlos, who had just brought him to Granada.

When Aben-Hamet presented himself at the palace of Don Rodrigo, and the door of the apartment in which was the Duke of Santa Fé’s daughter was opened, he experienced torments hitherto unknown to him. At the feet of Donna Blanca was seated a young man, who was looking at her in silence with a species of transport. This young man wore breeches made of buffalo’s skin, and a doublet of the same colour, fastened by a belt from which was suspended a sword with fleurs-de-lis. A silk mantle was thrown over his shoulders, and his head was covered with a narrow-brimmed hat, surmounted with feathers. A lace ruff, falling back on his bosom, allowed his neck to be seen. A pair of moustaches, black as ebony, gave a masculine and warlike air to a countenance naturally mild. To his large boots, which fell down and doubled over his feet, were attached golden spurs, the marks of knightly quality.

At some distance, another knight was standing, leaning on the iron cross of his long sword; he was dressed like his companion, but seemed rather older. His austere look, though at the same time ardent and passionate, inspired respect and awe. The red cross of Calatrava was embroidered on his doublet with this device: For it and for my king.

When Blanca perceived Aben-Hamet, she uttered an involuntary cry. “Knights,” said she immediately, “this is the infidel of whom I have said so much to you; take care he does not bear away the victory. The Abencerrages were just like him, and they were surpassed by none in loyalty, courage and gallantry.”

Don Carlos advanced to meet Aben-Hamet. “Señor Moor,” said he, “my father and sister have informed me of your name. They believe you are of a noble and brave race: you are yourself distinguished for your courtesy. My master Charles V. must soon commence war against Tunis, and we shall, I hope, meet each other in the field of honour.”

Aben-Hamet placed his hand upon his bosom, seated himself upon the ground without answering, and remained with his eyes fixed upon Blanca and upon Lautrec. The latter was admiring, with the curiosity peculiar to his countrymen, the handsome countenance of the Moor, his noble dress and his brilliant armour. Blanca displayed not the slightest embarrassment: her soul was completely exhibited in her eyes; the ingenuous Spaniard made no attempt to conceal the secret of her heart. After a silence of a few moments, Aben-Hamet rose, made his bow to the daughter of Don Rodrigo, and retired. Astonished at the behaviour of the Moor, and at the looks of Blanca, Lautrec left the apartment, with a suspicion which was speedily changed into certainty.

Don Carlos remained alone with his sister. “Blanca,” said he, “explain yourself. Whence this trouble which the sight of this stranger has occasioned you?”

“Brother,” answered Blanca, “I love Aben-Hamet, and, if he will become a Christian, my hand is his.”

“What!” exclaimed Don Carlos, “you love Aben-Hamet! the daughter of the Bivars love a Moor, an infidel, an enemy, whom we have driven from these palaces!”

“Don Carlos,” replied Blanca, “I love Aben-Hamet; Aben-Hamet loves me; for three years he has renounced me, sooner than renounce the religion of his forefathers. He possesses nobility, honour and knighthood: to my last breath I will adore him.”

Don Carlos was capable of estimating, in its fullest extent, the generous resolution of Aben-Hamet, although he lamented the infatuation of that infidel. “Unfortunate Blanca,” said he, “whither will this passion lead thee? I had hoped that my friend Lautrec would become my brother.”

“Thou deceivedst thyself,” said Blanca, “I cannot love that stranger. As to my feelings for Aben-Hamet, I am accountable to no one. Keep thy knightly vows, as I shall keep my vows of love. For thy comfort, be assured of this, that Blanca will never become the wife of an infidel.”

“Our family will then disappear from the earth!” said Don Carlos.

“It is thy business to revive it,” said Blanca. “Besides, of what consequence are sons whom thou wilt never see, and who will degenerate from thy virtues? Don Carlos, I feel that we are the last of our race; we are too much out of the common order to expect that our blood should flourish after us. The Cid was our ancestor: he will be our posterity;” so saying she quitted the apartment.

Don Carlos flew to the Abencerrage. “Moor,” said he, “renounce my sister, or meet me in single combat.”

“Art thou entrusted by thy sister,” said Aben-Hamet, “to reclaim the vows which she has made to me?”

“No,” replied Don Carlos, “she loves thee more than ever.”

“Ah! worthy brother of Blanca!” exclaimed Aben-Hamet, interrupting him, “I must derive all my happiness from thy noble blood! O fortunate Aben-Hamet! O happy day! I believed that Blanca was unfaithful for this French knight ...”

“That is thy misfortune!” angrily exclaimed Don Carlos in his turn, “Lautrec is my friend; but for thee, he would be my brother. You must give me satisfaction for the tears which you make my family shed.”

“I am contented to do so,” answered Aben-Hamet, “but although I am sprung from a family, which has probably combated thine, I am not a knight. I see no one here to confer upon me that order, which will allow thee to measure thy strength with mine, without degrading thy rank.”

Struck with the Moor’s observation, Don Carlos looked at him with a mixture of admiration and rage. Then all at once, “I myself will dub thee knight! thou art worthy of it.”

Aben-Hamet bent his knee to Don Carlos. The latter gave him the accolade, by striking him three times on the shoulder with the flat side of his sword; afterwards, he girded on him the same sword which the Abencerrage, perhaps, was about to plunge into his bosom. Such was ancient honour.

Both of them immediately sprang upon their coursers, got beyond the walls of Granada, and flew to the Fountain of the Pine. The duels between the Moors and Christians had for a long time given celebrity to this spring. It was there that Malek Alabes had fought with Ponce de Leon, and the Grand Master of Calatrava had killed the brave Abayados. The fragments of the armour of this Moorish knight were still seen suspended from the branches of the pine, and on the bark of the tree some letters of a funeral inscription were still legible. Don Carlos pointed out with his hand, to the Abencerrage, the tomb of Abayados. “Imitate,” said he to him, “that brave infidel, and receive baptism and death from my hand.”

“Death perhaps,” answered Aben-Hamet, “but Allah and the Prophet for ever!”

They immediately proceeded to take their ground, and rushed against each other with fury. They were only provided with swords: Aben-Hamet was much less skilful than Don Carlos in combat, but the excellence of his arms, which had been tempered at Damascus, and the fleetness of his Arabian steed, gave him an advantage over his enemy. He gave the reins to his courser in the Moorish manner, and with his large sharp stirrup cut the right leg of Don Carlos’s horse under the knee. The wounded animal fell to the ground, and Don Carlos, dismounted by this fortunate blow, marched against Aben-Hamet, bearing his sword aloft. Aben-Hamet sprang to the ground, and met Don Carlos with intrepidity; he warded off the first blows of the Spaniard, who broke his sword against the Damascus blade; twice disappointed by fortune, Don Carlos shed tears of rage, and called out to his enemy: “Strike, Moor, strike; Don Carlos, although disarmed, defies thee, thee and all thy infidel race.”

“Thou mightest have slain me,” replied the Abencerrage, “but I never thought of giving thee the slightest wound. I only wished to prove to thee that I was worthy of being thy brother, and to prevent thee from despising me.”

At that instant, they perceived a cloud of dust: it was Lautrec and Blanca, who were spurring on two mares of Fez, fleeter than the wind. On arriving at the Fountain of the Pine, they saw the combat suspended.

“I am vanquished,” said Don Carlos, “this knight has given me my life. Lautrec, you will perhaps be more fortunate than I?”

“My wounds,” replied Lautrec, in a noble and dignified tone of voice, “allow me to decline the combat with this courteous knight. I have no wish,” added he, with a blush, “to learn the subject of your quarrel, or to penetrate a secret which would probably be a deathblow to myself; my absence will speedily cause peace to be restored between you, at least unless it be Blanca’s orders that I should remain at her feet.”

“Sir knight,” said Blanca, “you must remain with my brother: you must look upon me as your sister. The hearts of all present are suffering deeply; you will learn from us to bear the ills of life.”

Blanca wished to constrain the three knights to shake each other’s hands; all three refused to do so. “I hate Aben-Hamet,” exclaimed Don Carlos. “I envy him,” said Lautrec. “And I,” said the Abencerrage, “I esteem Don Carlos, and I pity Lautrec; but I can love neither of them.”

“Let us continue to see each other,” said Blanca, “and sooner or later friendship will follow esteem. Let the fatal event which has brought us here be for ever unknown at Granada.”

From that moment Aben-Hamet became a thousand times dearer to the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé: love delights in valour. Nothing was now wanting to the Abencerrage, since he had shown himself brave, and Don Carlos owed his life to him. Aben-Hamet, by the advice of Blanca, abstained from appearing at the palace for several days, to allow the wrath of Don Carlos time to cool. A mixture of mild and bitter feelings filled the soul of the Abencerrage; if, on the one hand, the certainty of being loved with so much fidelity and ardour was to him an inexhaustible source of delight; on the other, the certainty of never being happy without renouncing the religion of his fathers weighed heavily on the courage of Aben-Hamet. Years had already elapsed without bringing any relief to his sufferings: should he see the rest of his life pass away in the same manner?

He was plunged into an abyss of the most serious and tender reflections, when one evening he heard the bell ringing for that Christian prayer which announces the close of the day. It struck him that he would enter into the temple of the God of Blanca, and ask further counsel of the Master of Nature.

He set out; he arrived at the door of an ancient mosque, which had been converted into a church by the faithful. With a heart pierced by sorrow and feelings of devotion, he penetrated into the temple which was formerly that of his God and of his country. Prayers were just ended: there was no longer any one in the church. A holy obscurity prevailed amid the multitude of columns, which resembled the trunks of trees of a regularly planted forest. The light architecture of the Arabs was here married to the Gothic architecture, and, without losing anything of its elegance, it had assumed a gravity better adapted to meditation. A few lamps scarcely gave light to the hollows of the vaults; but, by the brightness of several lighted tapers, the altar of the sanctuary was still conspicuous: it glittered with gold and precious stones. The Spaniards glory in stripping themselves of their riches, in order to decorate with them the objects of their worship; and the image of the living God, placed in the midst of lace veils, of crowns of pearls, and bunches of rubies, receives the adoration of a half-naked people.

Not a seat was to be seen in the whole extent of this vast area: a marble pavement, which covered coffins, served the great as well as the little, to prostrate themselves before the Lord. Aben-Hamet walked slowly up the deserted naves, which re-echoed with the solitary noise of his footsteps. His mind was divided between the recollections which this ancient edifice of the Moorish religion recalled to his memory, and the feelings to which the religion of the Christians gave birth in his heart. He distinguished at the foot of a column a motionless figure, which he at first mistook for a statue on a tomb. On approaching it, he distinguished a young knight on his knees, with his forehead reverently bent, and his arms crossed upon his bosom. This knight made not the slightest movement at the noise of Aben-Hamet’s steps; no mental wandering, no external sign of life disturbed his deep prayer; his sword was laid on the ground before him, and his plumed hat was placed by his side on the marble: he had the appearance of being fixed in that attitude from the effect of some enchantment. Aben-Hamet recognized Lautrec. “Ah!” said the Abencerrage to himself, “this young and handsome Frenchman is asking some signal favour of heaven; this warrior, so celebrated for his courage, is here laying his heart bare to the Sovereign of Heaven, as the humblest and the most obscure of men! Let me also pray to the God of knights and of glory.”

Aben-Hamet was about to prostrate himself upon the marble, when he perceived, by the glimmering of a lamp, some Arabic characters and a verse of the Koran, which appeared upon a half-ruined tablet. His heart again felt the pangs of remorse; and he made haste to quit a building in which he had entertained the idea of becoming a traitor to his religion and his country.

The cemetery which surrounded this ancient mosque was a species of garden, planted with orange, cypress and palm-trees, and watered by two fountains; a cloister went all round it. Aben-Hamet, in passing under one of the porticoes, perceived a female about to enter the church. Although she was wrapped up in a veil, the Abencerrage recognized the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé; he stopped her, and said to her: “Dost thou come to seek Lautrec in this temple?”

“Dismiss this vulgar jealousy,” replied Blanca, “if I no longer loved thee, I would tell thee so: I would scorn to deceive thee. I come here to pray for thee. Thou alone art now the object of my wishes. I forget my own soul for thine. Thou shouldst not have intoxicated me with the poison of thy love, or thou shouldst have consented to serve the God whom I serve. Thou disturbest my whole family; my brother hates thee, my father is overwhelmed with vexation, because I refuse to marry. Dost thou not see how much my health suffers? Behold this enchanted asylum of death: here I shall soon be laid, if thou dost not hasten to receive my vows at the foot of the Christian altar. The struggles which I endure are gradually undermining my existence; the passion, with which thou hast inspired me, will not always support this feeble frame. Remember, oh Moor, to speak to thee in thy own language, that the flame which lights the torch is also the fire which consumes it.”

Blanca entered the church, and left Aben-Hamet confounded with her last words.

The struggle is ended; the Abencerrage is vanquished; he is about to renounce the errors of his faith; he has struggled long enough; the dread of seeing Blanca perish triumphs over every other feeling in the breast of Aben-Hamet. “After all,” said he to himself, “perhaps the God of the Christians is the true God? This God is always the deity of noble souls, since he is the God of Blanca, of Don Carlos, and of Lautrec.”

Full of this idea, Aben-Hamet waited with impatience for the following day, to inform Blanca of his resolution, and to convert a life of sorrow and of tears into one of joy and happiness; he was unable, however, to repair to the palace of the Duke of Santa Fé until the evening. He learned that Blanca was gone with her brother to the Generalife, where Lautrec was giving an entertainment. Agitated by fresh suspicions, Aben-Hamet flies upon the traces of Blanca. Lautrec blushed at seeing the Abencerrage appear so suddenly; as to Don Carlos, he received the Moor with cool politeness, through which esteem was perceptible.

Lautrec had caused a collation to be served up of the finest fruits of Spain and of Africa, in one of the apartments of the Generalife, styled the Hall of the Knights. All round this hall were suspended the portraits of the princes and knights, who had conquered the Moors,—of Pelayo, the Cid, Gonzalvo de Cordova; and the sword of the last king of Granada was hung under these portraits. Aben-Hamet did not allow the internal pain which he felt to appear, and only said, like the lion, on looking at these portraits, “We know not how to paint.”

The generous Lautrec, who saw the eyes of the Abencerrage turned involuntarily towards the sword of Boabdil, said to him, “Knight of the Moors, had I anticipated the honour of your presence at this fête, I would not have received you here. One loses a sword every day, and I have seen the bravest of monarchs deliver up his to his fortunate enemy.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the Moor, hiding his face with a corner of his robe, “one might lose it like Francis I., but like Boabdil!...”

Night came on, lights were brought, and the conversation took another turn. Don Carlos was requested to relate the discovery of Mexico. He spoke of that unknown world with the pompous eloquence which is natural to the Spanish nation. He related the misfortunes of Montezuma, the manners of the Americans, the prodigies of Spanish valour, and even the cruelties of his countrymen, which did not, in his eyes, seem to deserve either praise or blame.

These narratives delighted Aben-Hamet, whose passion for marvellous tales betrayed his Arabian blood. When it came to his turn, he gave a picture of the Ottoman empire, newly established on the ruins of Constantinople, bestowing a tribute of passing regret to the first empire of Mahomet; the happy days when the Commander of the Faithful saw shining around him Zobeide, Flower of Beauty, Jalib al Koolloob, Fetnah and the generous Ganem, Love’s Slave. As to Lautrec, he painted the gallant court of Francis I., the arts reviving from the midst of barbarism, the honour, the loyalty, the chivalry of the olden time, joined to the politeness of civilized ages, the Gothic turrets ornamented with the Grecian orders, and the French ladies setting off their rich dresses with Athenian elegance.

After this conversation, Lautrec, wishing to amuse the divinity of the entertainment, took his guitar, and sang this romance[5] which he had composed to one of the mountain airs of his country:

As he finished the last couplet, Lautrec, with his glove, brushed away the tear which the recollection of the gentle land of France extorted from him. The regret of the handsome prisoner was warmly participated by Aben-Hamet, who deplored as well as Lautrec the loss of his country. When requested to take the guitar in his turn, he excused himself, by saying that he only knew one romance, which would not be at all agreeable to Christian ears.

” If it is a song of the infidels smarting under our victories,” said Don Carlos scornfully, “you may sing it; tears are allowed to the vanquished.”

“Yes,” said Blanca, “and that is the reason why our ancestors, while they were under the Moorish yoke, have left us so many complaints.”

Aben-Hamet then sang this ballad, which he had learned from a poet of the tribe of the Abencerrages.[6]

The plaintive artlessness of this lament affected even the proud Don Carlos, notwithstanding the imprecations it pronounced against the Christians. He would have wished to be excused from singing himself, but, out of courtesy to Lautrec, he felt obliged to yield to his entreaties. Aben-Hamet handed the guitar to Blanca’s brother, who celebrated the exploits of the Cid, his illustrious ancestor.[7]

Don Carlos appeared so proud in singing these words, in a masculine and sonorous voice, that he might have been taken for the Cid himself. Lautrec shared the warlike enthusiasm of his friend; but the Abencerrage had turned pale at the name of the Cid.

“This knight,” said he, “whom the Christians denominate the Flower of Battles, bears with us the name of the Cruel. Had his generosity but equalled his valour!...”

“His generosity,” said Don Carlos, interrupting Aben-Hamet, warmly, “was even greater than his courage, and none but a Moor would calumniate the hero to whom my family owes its birth.”

“What sayest thou?” exclaimed Aben-Hamet, springing up from the seat on which he lay half reclined: “dost thou reckon the Cid among thy ancestors?”

“His blood flows in my veins,” replied Don Carlos, “and I recognize my possession of that noble blood by the hatred with which my heart burns against the foes of my God.”

“It follows then,” said Aben-Hamet, looking at Blanca, “that you belong to the family of the Bivars who, after the conquest of Granada, invaded the possessions of the unfortunate Abencerrages, and put to death an ancient knight of that name, who attempted to defend the tomb of his forefathers.”

“Moor!” exclaimed Don Carlos, inflamed with rage, “know that I do not suffer myself to be interrogated. If I now possess the spoils of the Abencerrages, my ancestors acquired them at the price of their blood, and to their sword only do they owe them.”

“Only one word more,” said Aben-Hamet, with constantly increasing emotion; “we knew not in our exile that the Bivars had the title of Santa Fé, and it was this which was the cause of my error.”

“It was on the same Bivar,” answered Don Carlos, “who conquered the Abencerrages, that this title was conferred by Ferdinand the Catholic.”

The head of Aben-Hamet declined upon his bosom; he remained standing in the midst of Don Carlos, Lautrec and Blanca, who looked at him with astonishment. Two floods of tears gushed from his eyes upon the poniard which was fastened to his girdle. “Pardon me,” he said, “men ought not, I know, to shed tears; from this time mine will no longer flow externally, although I have many more to shed: listen to me.

“Blanca! my love for thee equals the ardour of the burning winds of Arabia. I was conquered: I could no longer live without thee. Yesterday the sight of this French knight at his prayers, and thy words in the cemetery of the temple, had made me resolve to know thy God, and to pledge thee my faith.”

A movement of joy from Blanca, and of surprise from Don Carlos, interrupted Aben-Hamet; Lautrec covered his face with both hands. The Moor divined his thoughts, and shaking his head with an agonizing smile said, “Knight, lose not all hope; as to thee, Blanca, weep for ever over the last of the Abencerrages.”

Blanca, Don Carlos and Lautrec all three lifted up their hands to heaven, and exclaimed, “The last of the Abencerrages!”

There was a moment of silence; fear, hope, hatred, love, astonishment and jealousy agitated their different hearts: Blanca shortly fell upon her knees: “Gracious God!” she said, “thou hast justified my choice; I could only love the descendant of heroes!”

“Sister!” said the irritated Don Carlos, “you forget that you are here in the presence of Lautrec.”

“Don Carlos,” said Aben-Hamet, “suspend thy wrath: it is my business to restore thee to repose.” Then, addressing himself to Blanca, who had again taken her seat:

“Houri of heaven, Genie of love and of beauty, Aben-Hamet will be thy slave to his latest breath; but hear the full extent of his misfortune. The old man who was immolated by thy ancestor, while defending his home, was the father of my father; learn also a secret which I concealed from thee, or rather which thou madest me forget. When I came for the first time to visit this sorrowful country, my first object was to find out some descendant of the Bivars whom I might call to account for the blood which his fathers had shed.”

“Well then,” said Blanca, in a voice of grief, but sustained by the accent of a great soul, “what is thy resolution?”

“The only one which is worthy of thee,” answered Aben-Hamet: “to restore thee thy vows, to satisfy by my eternal absence, and by my death, what we both of us owe to the enmity of our Gods, of our countries, and of our families. Should my image ever be blotted out from thy heart; if time, which destroys everything, should erase from thy memory the recollection of Abencerrage ... this French knight ... Thou owest this sacrifice to thy brother.”

Lautrec started up impetuously, and threw himself into the arms of the Moor. “Aben-Hamet,” he cried, “think not to outdo me in generosity; I am a Frenchman; I was knighted by Bayard; I have shed my blood for my king; I will be like my sponsor and my prince, without fear and without reproach. Shouldst thou remain with us, I will entreat Don Carlos to bestow upon thee the hand of his sister; if thou quittest Granada, never shall thy mistress be troubled with a whisper of my love. Thou shalt not carry with thee into thy exile the fatal idea that Lautrec was insensible to thy virtues, and sought to take advantage of thy misfortune.”

And the young knight pressed the Moor to his bosom with the warmth and vivacity of a Frenchman.

“Knights,” said Don Carlos in his turn, “I expected nothing less from the illustrious races to which ye belong. Aben-Hamet, by what mark can I recognize you for the last Abencerrage?”

“By my conduct,” replied Aben-Hamet.

“I admire it,” said the Spaniard; “but, before I explain myself, shew me some proof of your birth.”

Aben-Hamet took from his bosom the hereditary ring of the Abencerrages, which he wore suspended from a golden chain.

At sight of this, Don Carlos stretched out his hand to the unfortunate Aben-Hamet. “Sir knight,” said he, “I regard you as a man of honour, and the real descendant of kings. You honour me by your plans connected with my family; I accept the combat which you came privately to seek. If I am conquered, all my property, which formerly belonged to your family, shall be faithfully restored to you. If you have renounced your intention to fight, accept in turn the offer which I make to you: become a Christian, and receive the hand of my sister, which Lautrec has solicited for you.”

The temptation was great; but it was not beyond the strength of Aben-Hamet. If all-powerful love pleaded strongly in the heart of the Abencerrage; on the other hand, he could not think but with terror of uniting the blood of the persecutors with that of the persecuted. He fancied he saw the shade of his ancestor rising from the tomb, and reproaching him with this sacrilegious alliance. With a heart torn by grief, Aben-Hamet exclaimed: “Ah! why do I here meet with souls so sublime, characters so generous, to make me feel more bitterly the value of what I lose! Let Blanca pronounce; let her say what I must do, in order to render myself more worthy of her love!”

“Return to the desert!” was the exclamation of Blanca, who immediately sunk to the earth in a swoon.

Aben-Hamet prostrated himself, adored Blanca even more than Heaven, and departed without uttering a word. The same night he set out for Malaga, and took his passage on board a vessel which was to touch at Oran. Near that city he found the caravan encamped which leaves Morocco every three years, crosses Africa, repairs to Egypt, and rejoins the caravan of Mecca in Yemen. Aben-Hamet joined it as one of the pilgrims.

Blanca’s life was at first considered to be in danger, but she recovered. Faithful to the promise which he had given to the Abencerrage, Lautrec departed, and never did a word of his love or his sorrow trouble the melancholy of the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé. Every year Blanca made a journey to Malaga, to wander on the mountains, at the period when her lover was accustomed to return from Africa; she seated herself upon the rocks, contemplated the sea, and the vessels in the distance, and afterwards returned to Granada: she passed the rest of her life amid the ruins of the Alhambra. She complained not; she wept not; she never spoke of Aben-Hamet; a stranger to her would have thought her happy. She was the only survivor of her family. Her father died of grief, and Don Carlos was killed in a duel, in which Lautrec acted as his second. What was the fate of Aben-Hamet no one ever knew.

In leaving Tunis, by the gate which leads to the ruins of Carthage, the traveller finds a cemetery; under a palm-tree, in a corner of this cemetery, a tomb was pointed out to me, which was called the tomb of the last of the Abencerrages. There is nothing remarkable about it; the sepulchral stone is perfectly smooth; only, after a Moorish fashion, a slight hole has been excavated in the middle of it by the chisel. The rain-water which collects in the bottom of this funeral cup, serves, in a burning climate, to quench the thirst of the birds of the air.

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