CHAPTER VII.
THE END.
Day dawned upon Granada: the populace had sought their homes, and a
profound quiet wrapped the streets, save where, from the fires committed
in the late tumult, was yet heard the crash of roofs or the crackle of
the light and fragrant timber employed in those pavilions of the summer.
The manner in which the mansions of Granada were built, each separated
from the other by extensive gardens, fortunately prevented the flames
from extending. But the inhabitants cared so little for the hazard, that
not a single guard remained to watch the result. Now and then some
miserable forms in the Jewish gown might be seen cowering by the ruins of
their house, like the souls that, according to Plato, watched in charnels
over their own mouldering bodies. Day dawned, and the beams of the
winter sun, smiling away the clouds of the past night, played cheerily on
the murmuring waves of the Xenil and the Darro.
Alone, upon a balcony commanding that stately landscape, stood the last
of the Moorish kings. He had sought to bring to his aid all the lessons
of the philosophy he had cultivated. "What are we," thought the musing
prince, "that we should fill the world with ourselves--we kings! Earth
resounds with the crash of my falling throne: on the ear of races unborn
the echo will live prolonged. But what have I lost?--nothing that was
necessary to my happiness, my repose; nothing save the source of all my
wretchedness, the Marah of my life! Shall I less enjoy heaven and earth,
or thought or action, or man's more material luxuries of food or sleep--
the common and the cheap desires of all? Arouse thee, then, O heart
within me! many and deep emotions of sorrow or of joy are yet left to
break the monotony of existence."
He paused; and, at the distance, his eyes fell upon the lonely minarets
of the distant and deserted palace of Muza Ben Abil Gazan.
"Thou went right, then," resumed the king--"thou wert right, brave
spirit, not to pity Boabdil: but not because death was in his power;
man's soul is greater than his fortunes, and there is majesty in a life
that towers above the ruins that fall around its path." He turned away,
and his cheek suddenly grew pale, for he heard in the courts below the
tread of hoofs, the bustle of preparation: it was the hour for his
departure. His philosophy vanished: he groaned aloud, and re-entered the
chamber just as his vizier and the chief of his guard broke upon his
solitude.
The old vizier attempted to speak, but his voice failed him.
"It is time, then, to depart," said Boabdil, with calmness; "let it be
so: render up the palace and the fortress, and join thy friend, no more
thy monarch, in his new home."
He stayed not for reply: he hurried on, descended to the court, flung
himself on his barb, and, with a small and saddened train, passed through
the gate which we yet survey, by a blackened and crumbling tower
overgrown with vines and ivy; thence, amidst gardens, now appertaining to
the convent of the victor faith, he took his mournful and unwitnessed
way. When he came to the middle of the hill that rises above those
gardens, the steel of the Spanish armour gleamed upon him as the
detachment sent to occupy the palace marched over the summit in steady
order and profound silence.
At the head of this vanguard rode, upon a snow-white palfrey, the Bishop
of Avila, followed by a long train of barefooted monks. They halted as
Boabdil approached, and the grave bishop saluted him with the air of one
who addresses an infidel and an inferior. With the quick sense of
dignity common to the great, and yet more to the fallen, Boabdil felt,
but resented not, the pride of the ecclesiastic. "Go, Christian," said
he, mildly, "the gates of the Alhambra are open, and Allah has bestowed
the palace and the city upon your king: may his virtues atone the faults
of Boabdil!" So saying, and waiting no answer, he rode on, without
looking to the right or left. The Spaniards also pursued their way. The
sun had fairly risen above the mountains, when Boabdil and his train
beheld, from the eminence on which they were, the whole armament of
Spain; and at the same moment, louder than the tramp of horse, or the
flash of arms, was heard distinctly the solemn chant of Te Deum, which
preceded the blaze of the unfurled and lofty standards. Boabdil, himself
still silent, heard the groans and exclamations of his train; he turned
to cheer or chide them, and then saw, from his own watch-tower, with the
sun shining full upon its pure and dazzling surface, the silver cross of
Spain. His Alhambra was already in the hands of the foe, while, beside
that badge of the holy war, waved the gay and flaunting flag of St.
Iago, the canonised Mars of the chivalry of Spain.
At that sight the king's voice died within him: he gave the rein to his
barb, impatient to close the fatal ceremonial, and did not slacken his
speed till almost within bow-shot of the first ranks of the army. Never
had Christian war assumed a more splendid or imposing aspect. Far as the
eye could reach extended the glittering and gorgeous lines of that goodly
power, bristling with sunlit spears and blazoned banners; while beside
murmured, and glowed, and danced, the silver and laughing Xenil, careless
what lord should possess, for his little day, the banks that bloomed by
its everlasting course. By a small mosque halted the flower of the army.
Surrounded by the arch-priests of that mighty hierarchy, the peers and
princes of a court that rivalled the Rolands of Charlemagne, was seen the
kingly form of Ferdinand himself, with Isabel at his right hand and the
highborn dames of Spain, relieving, with their gay colours and sparkling
gems, the sterner splendour of the crested helmet and polished mail.
Within sight of the royal group, Boabdil halted--composed his aspect so
as best to conceal his soul,--and, a little in advance of his scanty
train, but never, in mien and majesty, more a king, the son of Abdallah
met his haughty conqueror.
At the sight of his princely countenance and golden hair, his comely and
commanding beauty, made more touching by youth, a thrill of compassionate
admiration ran through that assembly of the brave and fair. Ferdinand
and Isabel slowly advanced to meet their late rival--their new subject;
and, as Boabdil would have dismounted, the Spanish king place his hand
upon his shoulder. "Brother and prince," said he, "forget thy sorrows;
and may our friendship hereafter console thee for reverses against which
thou hast contended as a hero and a king-resisting man, but resigned at
length to God!"
Boabdil did not affect to return this bitter, but unintentional mockery
of compliment. He bowed his head, and remained a moment silent; then,
motioning to his train, four of his officers approached, and kneeling
beside Ferdinand, proffered to him, upon a silver buckler, the keys of
the city.
"O king!" then said Boabdil, "accept the keys of the last hold which has
resisted the arms of Spain! The empire of the Moslem is no more. Thine
are the city and the people of Granada: yielding to thy prowess, they yet
confide in thy mercy."
"They do well," said the king; "our promises shall not be broken. But,
since we know the gallantry of Moorish cavaliers, not to us, but to
gentler hands, shall the keys of Granada be surrendered."
Thus saying, Ferdinand gave the keys to Isabel, who would have addressed
some soothing flatteries to Boabdil: but the emotion and excitement were
too much for her compassionate heart, heroine and queen though she was;
and, when she lifted her eyes upon the calm and pale features of the
fallen monarch, the tears gushed from them irresistibly, and her voice
died in murmurs. A faint flush overspread the features of Boabdil, and
there was a momentary pause of embarrassment which the Moor was the first
to break.
"Fair queen," said he, with mournful and pathetic dignity; "thou canst
read the heart that thy generous sympathy touches and subdues: this is
thy last, nor least glorious, conquest. But I detain ye: let not my
aspect cloud your triumph. Suffer me to say farewell."
"May we not hint at the blessed possibility of conversion?" whispered the
pious queen through her tears to her royal consort.
"Not now--not now, by St. Iago!" returned Ferdinand, quickly, and in the
same tone, willing himself to conclude a painful conference. He then
added, aloud, "Go, my brother, and fair fortune with you! Forget the
past."
Boabdil smiled bitterly, saluted the royal pair with profound and silent
reverence, and rode slowly on, leaving the army below, as he ascended the
path that led to his new principality beyond the Alpuxarras. As the
trees snatched the Moorish cavalcade from the view of the king, Ferdinand
ordered the army to recommence its march; and trumpet and cymbal
presently sent their music to the ear of the Moslems.
Boabdil spurred on at full speed till his panting charger halted at the
little village where his mother, his slaves, and his faithful Amine (sent
on before) awaited him. Joining these, he proceeded without delay upon
his melancholy path.
They ascended that eminence which is the pass into the Alpuxarras. From
its height, the vale, the rivers, the spires, the towers of Granada,
broke gloriously upon the view of the little band. They halted,
mechanically and abruptly; every eye was turned to the beloved scene.
The proud shame of baffled warriors, the tender memories of home--of
childhood--of fatherland, swelled every heart, and gushed from every eye.
Suddenly, the distant boom of artillery broke from the citadel and rolled
along the sunlit valley and crystal river. A universal wail burst from
the exiles! it smote--it overpowered the heart of the ill-starred king,
in vain seeking to wrap himself in Eastern pride or stoical philosophy.
The tears gushed from his eyes, and he covered his face with his hands.
Then said his haughty mother, gazing at him with hard and disdainful
eyes, in that unjust and memorable reproach which history has preserved
--"Ay, weep like a woman over what thou couldst not defend like a man!"
Boabdil raised his countenance, with indignant majesty, when he felt his
hand tenderly clasped, and, turning round, saw Amine by his side.
"Heed her not! heed her not, Boabdil!" said the slave; "never didst thou
seem to me more noble than in that sorrow. Thou wert a hero for thy
throne; but feel still, O light of mine eyes, a woman for thy people!"
"God is great!" said Boabdil; "and God comforts me still! Thy lips;
which never flattered me in my power, have no reproach for me in my
affliction!"
He said, and smiled upon Amine--it was her hour of triumph.
The band wound slowly on through the solitary defiles: and that place
where the king wept, and the woman soothed, is still called "El, ultimo
suspiro del Moro,--THE LAST SIGH OF THE MOOR!"
