 | The knights of England, France, and Scotland |  |
THE MOORISH FATHER.
A TALE OF MALAGA.
It was the morning of the day succeeding that which had
beheld the terrible defeat, among the savage glens and mountain
fastnesses of Axarquia, of that magnificent array of cavaliers
which, not a week before, had pranced forth from the
walls of Antiquera, superbly mounted on Andalusian steeds,
fiery, and fleet, and fearless, with helm and shield and corslet
engrailed with arabesques of gold, surcoats of velvet and rich
broidery, plumes of the desert bird, and all in short that can
add pomp and circumstance to the dread game of war. The
strife was over in the mountain valleys; the lonely hollows on
the bare hill-side, the stony channels of the torrent, the tangled
thicket, and the bleak barren summit, were cumbered with the
carcasses of Spain's most noble cavaliers. War-steeds beside
their riders, knights of the proudest lineage among their lowliest
vassals, lay cold and grim and ghastly, each where the
shaft, the stone, the assagay, had stretched beneath him, beneath
the garish lustre of the broad southern sun. The Moorish
foe had vanished from the field, which he had won almost
without a struggle — the plunderer of the dead plied his hateful
trade even to satiety, and, gorged with booty that might well
possession of his brute comrades, the wolf, the raven, and the
eagle.
It was now morning, and the broad sun, high already, was
pouring down a flood of light over the giant crags, the deep precipitous
defiles, and all the stern though glorious features which
mark the mountain scenery of Malaga; and far beyond over
the broad, luxuriant Vega, watered by its ten thousand streams
of crystal, waving with olive-groves, and vineyards, and dark
woodlands; and farther yet over the laughing waters of the
bright Mediterranean. But one, who having found concealment
during that night of wo and slaughter in some dark cave,
or gully so sequestered that it had escaped the keen eyes of
the Moorish mountaineers, now plied his bloody spurs almost
in vain, so weary and so faint was the beautiful bay steed which
bore him. He paused not to look upon the wonders of his
road, tarried not to observe the play of light and shadow over
that glorious plain, although by nature he was fitted to admire
and to love all that she had framed of wild, of beautiful, or
of romantic. Nay more, he scarcely turned his eye to gaze
upon the miserable relics of some beloved comrade, who had
so often revelled gayly, and in that last awful carnage had
striven fearlessly and well, even when all was lost, beside him.
He was a tall dark-featured youth, with a profusion of black
hair clustered in short close curls about a high pale forehead;
an eye that glanced like fire at every touch of passion, yet
melted at the slightest claim upon his pity; an aquiline, thin
nose, and mouth well cut, but compressed and closely set, completed
the detail of his eminently handsome features. But the
dark curls — for he had been on the preceding day unhelmed
and slightly wounded — were clotted with stiff gore, matted
with dust, and bleached by the hot sun under which he had
for hours fought bareheaded. The keen, quick eye was dull
and grief, and the chiselled lips pale and cold as ashes.
His armor, which had been splendid in the extreme, richly embossed
and sculptured, was all defaced with dust and gore,
broken and dinted, and in many places riven quite asunder.
The surcoat which he had donned a few short days before, of
azure damask, charged with the bearings of his proud ancestral
race, fluttered in rags upon the morning breeze — his shield was
gone, as were the mace and battle-axe which had swung from
his saddle-bow — his sword, a long, cross-handled blade, and
his lance, its azure pennoncelle no less than its steel head,
crusted and black with blood, alone remained to him. The
scabbard of his poignard was empty, and the silver hilt of his
sword, ill-matched with the gilded sheath, showed plainly that
it was not the weapon to which his hand was used. Yet still,
though disarrayed, weary, and travel-spent, and worn with wo
and watching, no eye could have looked on him without recognising
in every trait, in every gesture, the undaunted knight
and the accomplished noble.
Hours had passed away, since, with the first gray twilight
of the dawn he had come forth from the precarious hiding-place
wherein he had spent a terrible and painful night; and so far
he had seen no human form, living at least, and heard no human
voice! Unimpaired, save by the faintness of his reeling
charger, he had ridden six long leagues over the perilous and
rugged path by which, late on the previous night, the bravest
of the brave, Alonzo de Aguilar, had by hard dint of hoof and
spur escaped from the wild infantry of El Zagal to the far walls
of Antiquera; and now from a bold and projecting summit he
looked down upon the ramparts of that city, across a rich and
level plain, into which sloped abruptly the steep ridge on which
he stood, at less than a league's distance. Here, for the first
time, since he had set forth on his toilsome route, the knight
hope irradiating his wan brow — and, as a pious cavalier is
ever bound to do, stretched forth his gauntleted hands to
Heaven, and in a low, deep murmur breathed forth his heartfelt
thanksgivings to Him, who had preserved him from the clutches
of the pitiless heathen. This duty finished, with a lighter
heart he wheeled his charger round an abrupt angle of the
limestone-rock, and, plunging into the shade of the dense cork-woods
which clothed the whole descent, followed the steep
and zigzag path, by which he hoped ere long to reach his
friends in safety. His horse, too, which had staggered wearily
and stumbled often, as he ascended the rude hills, seemed to
have gained new courage; for as he turned the corner of the
rock, he pricked his ears and snorted, and the next moment
uttered a long, tremulous, shrill neigh, quickening his pace —
which for the last two hours he had hardly done at the solicitation
of the spur — into a brisk and lively canter. Before,
however, his rider had found time to debate upon the cause of
this fresh vigor, the neigh was answered from below by the
sharp whinny of a war-horse, which was succeeded instantly
by the clatter of several hoofs, and the long barbaric blast of a
Moorish horn. The first impulse of the cavalier was to quit
the beaten path, and dashing into the thickets to conceal himself
until his foemen should have passed by. Prudent, however,
as was his determination, and promptly as he turned to
execute it, he was anticipated by the appearance of at least
half a score of Moorish horsemen — who, sitting erect in their
deep Turkish saddles, goring the sides of their slight Arabian
coursers with the edges of their broad sharp stirrups, and brandishing
their long assagays above their heads, dashed forward
with their loud ringing Lelilies, to charge the solitary Spaniard.
Faint as he was, and in ill-plight for battle, there needed
but the sight of the heathen foe to send each drop of his
the brave Spaniard. “St. Jago!” he cried, in clear and musical
tones, “St. Jago and God aid!” and with the word he
laid his long lance in the rest, and spurred his charger to the
shock. It was not, however, either the usual mode of warfare
with the Moors, or their intent at present to meet the shock of
the impetuous and heavily armed cavalier. One of their number,
it is true, dashed out as if to meet him — a spare gray-headed
man, whose years, although they had worn away the
soundness, and destroyed the muscular symmetry of his frame,
had spared the lithe and wiry sinews; had dried up all that
was superfluous of his flesh, and withered all that was comely
of his aspect; but had left him erect, and strong and hardy as
in his youngest days of warfare. His dress, caftan and turban
both, were of that dark-green hue, which bespoke an emir, or
lineal descendant of the prophet — the only order of nobility
acknowledged by the Moslemin — while the rich materials of
which they were composed, the jewels which bedecked the
hilt and scabbard of both cimeter and yatagan, the necklaces of
gold which encircled the broad glossy chest of his high-blooded
black Arabian, proved as unerringly his wealth and consequence.
Forth he dashed then, with the national war-cry, “La illah
allah la!” brandishing in his right hand the long, light javelin,
grasped by the middle, which his countrymen were wont to
hurl against their adversaries, with such unerring accuracy
both of hand and eye; and swinging on his left arm a light round
buckler, of the tough hide of the African buffalo, studded with
knobs of silver; while with his long reins flying as it would
seem quite loose, by aid of his sharp Moorish curb, he wheeled
his fiery horse from side to side so rapidly as quite to balk
the aim of the Spaniard's level lance. As the old mussulman
advanced, fearlessly as it seemed, against the Christian knight,
his comrades galloped on abreast with him, but by no means
narrow that three could hardly ride abreast in it; yet narrow as
it was, the nearest followers of the emir did not attempt to
keep it; on the contrary, giving their wild coursers the sharp
edge of their stirrups, they leaped and bolted from one side to
the other of the path now plunging into the open wood on either
hand, and dashing furiously over rock and stone, now pressing
straightforward for perhaps a hundred yards as if to bear down
bodily on their antagonist. All this, it must be understood,
passed in less time than it has taken to describe it; for though
the enemies, when first their eyes caught sight of one another,
were some five hundred yards apart, the speed of their fleet
horses brought them rapidly to close quarters. And now they
were upon the very point of meeting — the Spaniard bowing
his unhelmed head behind his charger's neck, to shield as best
he might that vital part from the thrust of the flashing assagay
with his lance projecting ten feet at the least, before the chamfront
which protected the brow of his barbed war-horse, and
the sheath of his twohanded broadsword clanging and rattling
at every bound of the horse against the steel-plates which protected
the legs of the man-at-arms! — the Moor sitting erect,
nay, almost standing up in his short stirrups, with his keen, black
eye glancing from beneath the shadow of his turban, and his
spear poised and quivering on high. Now they were scarce a
horse's length asunder, when, with a shrill, peculiar yell, the
old Moor wheeled his horse out of the road, and dashed into
the wood, his balked antagonist being borne aimlessly right
onward into the little knot of men who followed on the emir's
track. Not far, however, was he borne onward; for, with a
second yell, even shriller than before, the moslem curbed his
Arab, till he stood bolt upright, and turning sharp round, with
with such velocity that he seemed actually to whirl about as if
upon a pivot, darted back on him, and with the speed of light
point of the Spaniard was within a hand's breadth of the buckler
— frail guard to the breast — of the second of those eastern
warriors, but it was never doomed to pierce it. The light reed
hurtled through the air, and its keen head of steel, hurled with
most accurate aim, found a joint in the barbings of the war-horse.
Exactly in that open and unguarded spot, which intervenes
between the hip-bone and the ribs, it entered — it drove
through the bright and glistening hide, through muscle, brawn,
and sinew — clear through the vitals of the tortured brute, and
even — with such tremendous vigor was it sent from that old
arm — through the ribs on the farther side. With an appalling
shriek, the agonized animal sprung up, with all his feet into
the air, six feet at least in height, then plunged head foremost!
Yet, strange to say, such was the masterly and splendid horsemanship,
such was the cool steadiness of the European warrior,
that, as his charger fell, rolling over and over, writhing
and kicking in the fierce death-struggle, he alighted firmly and
fairly on his feet. Without a second's interval, for he had cast
his heavy lance far from him, while his steed was yet in air,
he whirled his long sword from its scabbard, and struck with
the full sweep of his practised arm at the nearest of the Saracens,
who were now wheeling round him, circling and yelling
like a flock of sea-fowl. Full on the neck of a delicate and
fine-limbed Arab, just at the juncture of the spine and skull, did
the sheer blow take place; and cleaving the vertebræ asunder,
and half the thickness of the muscular flesh below them, hurled
the horse lifeless, and the rider stunned and senseless to the
earth at his feet. A second sweep of the same ponderous blade
brought down a second warrior, with his right arm half-severed
from his body; a third time it was raised; but ere it fell, another
javelin, launched by the same aged hand, whizzed through the
air, and took effect a little way below the elbow-joint, just
pierced through between the bones, narrowly missing the great
artery, and the uplifted sword sunk harmless! A dull expression
of despair settled at once over the bright expressive features,
which had so lately been enkindled by the fierce ardor
and excitement of the conflict. His left hand dropped, as it
were instinctively, to the place where it should have found the
hilt of his dagger; but the sheath was empty, and the proud
warrior stood, with his right arm dropping to his side, transfixed
by the long lance, and streaming with dark blood, glaring,
in impotent defiance, upon his now triumphant enemies. The
nature of the Moorish tribes had been, it should be here observed,
very materially altered, since they had crossed the
straits; they were no longer the cruel, pitiless invaders offering
no option to the vanquished, but of the Koran or the cimeter;
but, softened by intercourse with the Christians, and having
imbibed, during the lapse of ages spent in continual warfare
against the most gallant and accomplished cavaliers of Europe,
much of the true spirit of chivalry, they had adopted many of
the best points of that singular institution. Among the principal
results of this alteration in the national character was this
— that they now no longer ruthlessly slaughtered unresisting
foes, but, affecting to be guided by the principles of knightly
courtesy, held all to mercy who were willing to confess themselves
overcome. When, therefore, it was evident that any
farther resistance was out of the question, the old emir leaping
down from his charger's back, with all the agility of a boy,
unsheathed his Damascus cimeter, a narrow, crooked blade,
with a hilt elaborately carved and jewelled, and strode slowly
up to face the wounded Christian.
“Yield thee,” he said, in calm and almost courteous tones —
using the lingua Franca, or mixed tongue, half Arabic, half
Spanish, which formed the ordinary medium of communication
the great peninsula of Europe — “yield thee, sir knight! thou
art sore wounded, and enough hast thou done already, and
enough suffered, to entitle thee to all praise of valor, to all
privilege of courtesy.”
“To whom must I yield me, emir?” queried the Christian,
in reply; “to whom must I yield? since yield I needs must;
for, as you truly say, I can indeed resist no longer. I pray
thee, of thy courtesy, inform me?”
“To me — Muley Abdallah el Zagal!”
“Nor unto nobler chief or braver warrior could any cavalier
surrender. Therefore, I yield myself true captive, rescue or
no rescue!” and as he spoke he handed the long silver-hilted
sword, which he had so well wielded, to his captor. But the
old Moor put aside the proffered weapon. “Wear it,” he said,
“wear it, sir, your pledged word suffices that you will not unsheath
it. Shame were it to deprive so good a cavalier of the
sword he hath used so gallantly! But lo! your wound bleeds
grievously. I pray you sit, and let your hurt be tended — Ho!
Hamet, Hassan, lend a hand here to unarm this good gentleman.
I pray you, sir, inform me of your style and title.”
“I am styled Roderigo de Narvaez,” returned the cavalier,
“equerry and banner-bearer to the most noble Don Diego de
Cordova, the famous count of Cabra!”
“Then be assured, Don Roderigo, of being, at my hands,
entreated with all due courtesy and honor — till that the good
count shall arrange for thy ransom or exchange.”
A little while sufficed to draw off the gauntlet, to cut the
shaft of the lance, where the steel protruded entirely through
the wounded arm, and to draw it out by main force from between
the bones, which it had actually strained asunder. But
so great was the violence which it was necessary to exert, and
so great was the suffering which it caused, that the stout warrior
senses, although every possible means at that time known were
applied for his restoration, until the blood had been stanched,
and a rude, temporary litter, framed of lances bound together
by the scarfs and baldrics of the emir's retinue, and strewn
with war-cloaks was prepared for him. Just as this slender
vehicle was perfected and slung between the saddles of four
warriors, the color returned to the pallid lips and cheeks of the
brave Spaniard, and gradually animation was restored. In the
meantime, the escort of El Zagal had been increased by the
arrival of many bands of steel-clad warriors, returning from the
pursuit of the routed Spaniards; until at length a grand host
was collected, comprising several thousands of soldiery, of
every species of force at that time in use — cavalry, archers,
infantry, arrayed beneath hundreds of many colored banners,
and marching gayly on to the blithe music of war-drum, atabal,
and clarion: The direction of the route taken by this martial
company was the same wild, desolate, and toilsome road, by
which Don Roderigo had so nearly escaped that morning. All
day long did they march beneath a burning sun and cloudless
sky, the fierce heat insupportably reflected from the white
limestone crags, and sandy surface of the roads; and so tremendous
were its effects, that many of the horses and mules, laden
with baggage, which accompanied the cavalcade, died on the
wayside; while the wounded captive, between anxiety and
pain, and the incessant jolting of the litter, was in a state of
fever bordering nearly on delirium, during the whole of the
long march.
At length, just when the sun was setting, and the soft dews
of evening were falling silently on the parched and scanty herbage,
the train of El Zagal reached the foot of a rugged and precipitous
hill, crowned by a lofty watch-tower. Ordering his
troops to bivouac as best they might, at the base of the steep
train and his enfeebled captive. Just as he reached the brow
the gates flew open, and the loveliest girl that ever met a sire's
embrace, rushed forth with her attendants — the sternness
melted from the old warrior's brow, as he clasped her to his
bosom, before he entered the dark portal. Within that mountain
fortalice long lay the Christian warrior, struggling midway
between the gates of life and death; and when at length he
awoke from his appalling dreams, strange visions of dark eyes
compassionately beaming upon his, soft hands that tended his
worn limbs, and shapes angelically graceful floating about his
pillow, were blent with the dark recollections of his hot delirium,
and that too so distinctly, that he long doubted whether
these too were the creations of his fevered fancy. Well had
it been for him, well for one lovelier and frailer being, had they
indeed been dreams; but who shall struggle against his destiny!
Hours, days, and weeks, rolled onward; and, as they fled,
brought health and vigor to the body of the wounded knight;
but brought no restoration to his overwrought and excited mind.
The war still raged in ruthless and unsparing fury, between the
politic and crafty Ferdinand, backed by the chivalry of the most
puissant realm of Europe, and the ill-fated Moorish prince, who,
last and least of a proud race, survived to weep the downfall of
that lovely kingdom which he had lacked the energy to govern
or defend. Field after field was fought, and foray followed
foray, till every streamlet of Grenada had been empurpled by
the mingled streams of Saracen and Christian gore, till every
plain and valley had teemed with that rank verdure, which betrays
a soil watered by human blood. So constant was the
strife, so general the havoc, so wide the desolation, that those
who fell were scarcely mourned by their surviving comrades,
forgotten almost ere the life had left them. Hardly a family in
the tidings in, of slaughter and of death, that the ear scarce
could drink one tale of sorrow, before another banished it.
And thus it was with Roderigo de Narvaez. For a brief space,
indeed, after the fatal day of Axarquia, his name had been syllabled
by those who had escaped from the dread slaughter,
with those of others as illustrious in birth, as famous in renown,
and as unfortunate, for all believed that he had fallen in the catastrophe
of their career. For a brief space his name had
swelled the charging cry of Antiquera's chivalry, when thirsting
for revenge, and all on fire to retrieve their tarnished laurels,
they burst upon their dark-complexioned foemen. A brief
space, and he was forgotten! His death avenged by tenfold
slaughter — his soul redeemed by many a midnight mass — his
virtues celebrated, and his name recorded, even while yet he
lived, on the sepulchral marble, and the bold banner-bearer
was even as though he had never been. Alone, alone in the
small mountain tower, he passed his weary days, his long and
woful nights. Ever alone! He gazed forth from the lofty
lattices over the bare and sun-scourged summits of the wild
crags of Malaga, and sighed for the fair huertas, the rich vineyards,
and the shadowy olives of his dear native province. He
listened to the clank of harness, to the wild summons of the
Moorish horn, to the thick-beating clatter of the hoofs, as with
his fiery hordes old Muley el Zagal swooped like some bird of
rapine from his far mountain eyry on the rich booty of the vales
below; but he saw not, marked not, at least, the gorgeousness
and pomp of their array; for, when he would have looked forth
on their merry mustering, his heart would swell within him as
though it would have burst from his proud bosom — his eyes
would dazzle and grow dim, filled with unbidden tears, that his
manhood vainly strove to check — his ears would be heavy
with a sound, as it were of many falling waters. Thus, hour
imprisoned knight waxed stronger still and stronger, the spirit
daily flagged and faltered. The fierce old emir noted the
yielding of his captive soul, noted the dimness of the eye, the
absence of the high and sparkling fire, that had so won his admiration
on their first encounter; he noted, and to do him justice,
noted it with compassion; and ever, when he sallied forth
to battle, determined that he would grasp the earliest opportunity,
afforded by the capture of any one of his own stout adherents,
to ransom or exchange his prisoner. But, as at times,
things will fall out perversely, and, as it were, directly contrary
to their accustomed course; though he lost many by the
lance, the harquebus, the sword, no man of his brave followers
was taken; nay more, so rancorous and savage had the war
latterly become, that Moor and Spaniard now, where'er they
met, charged instantly — with neither word nor parley — and
fought it out with murderous fury, till one or both had fallen.
And thus it chanced, that, while his friends esteemed him
dead, and dropped him quietly into oblivion, and his more generous
captor would, had he possessed the power, have sent
him forth to liberty on easy terms of ransom, fate kept him still
in thrall.
After a while, there came a change in his demeanor; the
head no longer was propped listlessly from morn to noon, from
noon “to dewy eve,” upon his burning hand; the cheek regained
its hue, the eye its quick clear glance, keen and pervading
as the falcon's; the features beamed with their old energy
of pride and valiant resolution; his movements were elastic,
his step free and bold, his head erect and fearless; and the old
Moor observed the change, and watched, if he perchance
might fathom the mysterious cause, and queried of his menials;
and yet remained long, very long, in darkness and in doubt.
And what was that mysterious cause, that sudden overmastering
weaned the prisoner from its melancholy yearnings; which
kindled his eye once again with its old fire; which roused him
from his oblivious stupor, and made him bear himself once
more, not as the tame heart-broken captive, but as the free,
bold, dauntless, energetic champion; clothed as in arms of
proof, in the complete, invulnerable panoply of a soul; proud,
active, and enthusiastic, and, at a moment's notice, prepared
for every fortune? What should it be but love — the tamer of
the proud and strong — the strengthener of the weak and timid
— the tyrant of all minds — the change of all natures — what
should it be but love?
The half-remembered images of his delirium — the strong
and palpable impressions, which had so wildly floated among
his feverish dreams, had been clothed with reality — the form,
which he had viewed so often through the half-shut lids of
agony and sickness, had stood revealed in the perfection of
substantial beauty before his waking eyesight; the soft voice,
which had soothed his anguish, had answered his in audible
and actual converse. In truth, that form, that voice, those lineaments,
were all-sufficient to have spell-bound the sternest and
the coldest heart, that ever manned itself against the fascinations
of the sex. Framed in the slightest and most sylph-like
mould, yet of proportions exquisitely true, of symmetry most
rare, of roundness most voluptuous, of grace unrivalled, Zelica
was in sooth a creature, formed not so much for mortal love as
for ideal adoration. Her coal-black hair, profuse almost unto
redundancy, waving in natural ringlets, glossy and soft as silk
— her wild, full, liquid eyes, now blazing with intolerable lustre,
now melting into the veriest luxury of languor; her high,
pale, intellectual brow; her delicately-chiselled lineaments, the
perfect arch of her small ruby mouth, and, above all, the fleet
and changeful gleams of soul that would flit over that rare face
glance of inspiration; the sweet, soft, dream-like melancholy,
half lustre and half shadow, like the transparent twilight of
her own lovely skies; the beaming, soul-entrancing smiles,
that laughed out from the eyes before they curled the ever-dimpling
lips — these were the spells that roused the Christian
captive from his dark lethargy of wo.
A first chance interview in the small garden of the fortress
— for in the smallest and most iron fastnesses of the Moors of
Spain, the decoration of a garden, with its dark cypresses, its
orange-bowers, its marble fountains, and arabesque kiosk among
its group of fan-like palms, imported with great care and cost
from their far native sands, was never lacking — a first chance
interview, wherein the Moorish maiden, bashful at being seen
beyond the precincts of the harem unveiled, and that too by a
giaour, was all tears, flutter, and dismay; while the enamored
Spaniard — enamored at first sight, and recognising in the fair,
trembling shape before him the ministering angel who had
smoothed his feverish pillow, and flitted round his bed during
those hours of dark and dread delirium — poured forth his
gratitude, his love, his admiration, in a rich flood of soul-fraught
and resistless eloquence: a first chance interview led
by degrees, and after interchange of flowery tokens, and wavings
of white kerchiefs by hands whiter yet, from latticed
casements, and all those thousand nothings, which, imperceptible
and nothing worth to the dull world, are to the lover confirmations
strong as proofs of Holy Writ, to frequent meetings
— meetings sweeter that they were stolen, fonder that they
were brief, during the fierce heat of the noontide, when all
beside were buried in the soft siesta, or by the pale light of
the amorous moon, when every eye that might have spied out
their clandestine interviews was sealed in deepest slumber.
Hours, days, and weeks, rolled onward, and still the Spanish
Zagal. Captive in spirit, yet more than in the body — for,
having spent the whole of his gay youth, the whole of his
young, fiery manhood, in the midst of courts and cities; having
from early boyhood basked in the smiles of beauty, endured
unharmed the ordeal of most familiar intercourse with the most
lovely maids and matrons of old Spain, and borne away a
heart untouched by any passion, by any fancy, how transient
or how brief soever; and having, at that period of his life
when man's passions are perhaps the strongest, and surely the
most permanent, surrendered almost at first sight his affections
to this wild Moorish maiden — it seemed as if he voluntarily
devoted his whole energies of soul and body to this one passion;
as if he purposely lay by all other wishes, hopes, pursuits;
as if he made himself designedly a slave, a blinded
worshipper.
It was, indeed, a singular, a wondrous subject for the contemplation
of philosophy, to see the keen, cool, polished courtier,
the warrior of a hundred battles, the cavalier of the most
glowing courts, the bland, sagacious, wily, and perhaps coldhearted
citizen of the great world, bowing a willing slave,
surrendering his very privilege of thought and action, to a mere
girl, artless, and frank, and inexperienced; devoid, as it would
seem, of every charm that could have wrought upon a spirit
such as his; skilled in no art, possessing no accomplishment,
whereby to win the field against the deep sagacity, the wily
worldly-heartedness of him whom she had conquered almost
without a struggle. And yet this very artlessness it was
which first enchained him; this very free, clear candor, which,
as a thing he never had before encountered, set all his art at
nothing.
Happily fled the winged days in this sweet dream; until at
length the Spaniard woke — woke to envisage his position; to
to execute. It needed not much of the deep knowledge
of the world for which, above all else, Roderigo was so famous,
to see that under no contingency would the old Moor — the
fiercest foeman of Spain's chivalry, the bitterest hater of the
very name of Spaniard — consent to such a union. It needed
even less to teach him that, so thoroughly had he enchained
the heart, the fancy, the affections of the young Zelica, that
for him she would willingly resign, not the home only, and the
country, and the creed of her forefathers, but name and fame,
and life itself, if such a sacrifice were called for. Fervently,
passionately did the young Spaniard love — honestly too, and
in all honor; nor would he, to have gained an empire, have
wronged that innocent, confiding, artless being, who had set all
the confidence of a young heart, which, guileless in itself,
feared naught of guile from others, upon the faith and honor of
her lover. At a glance he perceived that their only chance
was flight. A few soft moments of persuasion prevailed with
the fair girl; nor was it long ere opportunity, and bribery, and
the quick wit of Roderigo, wrought on the avarice of one, the
trustiest of old Muley's followers, to plan for them an exit from
the guarded walls, to furnish them with horses and a guide,
the very first time the old emir should go forth to battle.
Not long had they to wait. As the month waned, and the
nights grew dark and moonless, the note of preparation once
again was heard in hall, and armory, and stable. Harness was
buckled on, war-steeds were barbed for battle, and, for a foray
destined to last three weeks, forth sallied El Zagal.
Three days they waited, waited in wild suspense, in order
that the host might have advanced so far, that they should risk
no interruption from the stragglers of the rear. The destined
day arrived, and slowly, one by one, the weary hours lagged
on. At last — at last — the skies are darkened, and Lucifer,
barbs, of the best blood of Araby, stand in a gloomy dingle,
about a bow-shot from the castle-walls, tended by one dark,
turbaned servitor. Evening has passed, and midnight, dark,
silent, and serene, broods o'er the sleeping world. Two figures
steal down from the postern gate: one a tall, stately form,
sheathed cap-à-pie in European panoply; the other a slight
female figure, veiled closely, and bedecked with the rich, flowing
draperies that form the costume of all oriental nations.
'T is Roderigo and Zelica. Now they have reached the horses;
the cavalier has raised the damsel to her saddle, has vaulted to
his demipique. Stealthily for a hundred yards they creep
away at a foot's pace, till they have gained the greensward,
whence no loud clank will bruit abroad their progress. Now
they give free head to their steeds — they spur, they gallop!
Ha! whence that wild and pealing yell — “La illah, allah la!”
On every side it rings — on every side — and from bush, brake,
and thicket, on every side, up spring turban, and assagay, and
cimeter — all the wild cavalry of El Zagal!
Resistance was vain; but, ere resistance could be offered,
up strode the veteran emir. “This, then,” he said, in tones
of bitter scorn, “this is a Christian's gratitude — a Spaniard's
honor! — to bring disgrace — ”
“No, sir!” thundered the Spaniard, “no disgrace! A Christian
cavalier disgraces not the noblest demoiselle or dame by
offer of his hand!”
“His hand?” again the old Moor interrupted him; “his
hand — wouldst thou then marry — ”
“Had we reached Antiquera's walls this night, to-morrow's
dawn had seen Zelica the all-honored bride of Roderigo de
Narvaez!”
“Ha! is it so, fair sir?” replied the father; “and thou, I
trow, young mistress, thou too art nothing loath?” and taking
“be it so! deep will we feast to-night, and with to-morrow's
dawn Zelica shall be the bride of Roderigo de Narvaez!”
Astonishment rendered the Spaniard mute, but ere long
gratitude found words, and they returned gay, joyous, and supremely
happy, to the lone fortress.
There, in the vaulted hall, the board was set, the feast was
spread, the red wine flowed profusely, the old Moor on his
seat of state, and right and left of him that fair young couple;
and music flowed from unseen minstrels' harps, and perfumes
steamed the hall with their rich incense, and lights blazed high,
and garlands glittered: but blithe as were all appliances, naught
was so blithe or joyous as those young, happy hearts.
The feast was ended; and Abdallah rose, and filled a goblet
to the brim — a mighty goblet, golden and richly gemmed —
with the rare wine of Shiraz. “Drink,” he said, “Christian,
after your country's fashion — drink to your bride, and let her
too assist in draining this your nuptial chalice.”
Roderigo seized the cup, and with a lightsome smile drank
to his lovely bride — and deeply he quaffed, and passed it to
Zelica; and she, too, pleased with the ominous pledge, drank
as she ne'er had drank before, as never did she drink thereafter!
The goblet was drained, drained to the very dregs; and,
with a fiendish sneer, Muley Abdallah uprose once again.
“Christian, I said to-morrow's dawn should see Zelica Roderigo's
bride, and it shall — in the grave! To prayer — to
prayer! if prayer may now avail ye! Lo! your last cup on
earth is drained; your lives are forfeit — nay, they are gone
already!”
Why dwell upon the hateful scene — the agony, the anguish,
the despair? For one short hour, in all the extremities of
torture, that hapless pair writhed, wretchedly convulsed, before
outward symptoms of the tortures they endured, lest they
should add to the dread torments of the other — not a sigh, not
a groan, not a reproach was heard! Locked in each other's
arms, they wrestled to the last with the dread venom; locked
in each other's arms, when the last moment came, they lay
together on the cold floor of snowy marble — unhappy victims,
fearful monuments of the dread vengeance of a Moorish
father!
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