University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER XVII.

The sentinels looked out from the
watchtowers of Loxa, along the valley
of the Xenil, which passes through the
mountains of Algaringo. They looked,
to behold the king returning in triumph,
at the head of his shining host, laden
with the spoil of the unbeliever. They
looked, to behold the standard of their
warlike idol, the fierce Ali Atar, borne
by the chivalry of Loxa, ever foremost
in the wars of the border.

In the evening of the 21st of April,
they described a single horseman, urging
his faltering steed along the banks of
the river. As he drew near, they perceived,
by the flash of arms, that he was
a warrior; and, on nearer approach, by
the richness of his armour, and the caparison
of his steed, they knew him to
be a warrior of rank.

He reached Loxa faint and aghast;
his Arabian courser covered with foam
and dust and blood, panting and staggering
with fatigue, and gashed with
wounds. Having brought his master
in safety, he sunk down and died before
the gate of the city. The soldiers at
the gate gathered round the cavalier, as
he stood, mute and melancholy, by his
expiring steed. They knew him to be
the gallant Cidi Caleb, nephew of the
chief alfaqui of the albaycen of Granada.
When the people of Loxa beheld
this noble cavalier thus alone, haggard
and dejected, their hearts were filled with
fearful forebodings.

"Cavalier," said they, "how fares it
with the king and army?" He cast his
hand mournfully towards the land of the
Christians. "There they lie!" exclaimed
he: "the heavens have fallen upon them!
all are lost! all dead!"[33]

Upon this, there was a great cry of
consternation among the people, and
loud wailings of women; for the flower
of the youth of Loxa were with the
army. An old Moorish soldier, scarred
in many a border battle, stood leaning
on his lance by the gateway. "Where
is Ali Atar?" demanded he eagerly.

"If he still live, the army cannot be
lost!"

"I saw his turban cloven by the
Christian sword," replied Cidi Caleb.
"His body is floating in the Xenil."

When the soldier heard these words,
he smote his breast, and threw dust upon
his head; for he was an old follower of
Ali Atar.

The noble Cidi Caleb gave himself no
repose; but, mounting another steed, hastened
to carry the disastrous tidings to
Granada. As he passed through the
villages and hamlets, he spread sorrow
around; for their chosen men had followed
the king to the wars.

When he entered the gates of Granada,
and announced the loss of the
king and army, a voice of horror went
throughout the city. Every one thought
but of his own share in the general
calamity, and crowded round the bearer
of ill tidings. One asked after a father,
another after a brother, some after a
lover, and many a mother after her son.
His replies were still of wounds and
death. To one he replied, "I saw thy
father pierced with a lance, as he defended
the person of the king." To
another, "Thy brother fell wounded under
the hoofs of the horses; but there
was no time to aid him, for the Christian
cavalry were upon us." To a third, "I
saw the horse of thy lover covered with
blood, and galloping without his rider."
To a fourth, "Thy son fought by my
side on the banks of the Xenil: we were
surrounded by the enemy, and driven into
the stream. I heard him call aloud upon
Allah in the midst of the waters: when
I reached the other bank, he was no
longer by my side!"

The noble Cidi Caleb passed on, leaving
Granada in lamentation. He urged
his steed up the steep avenue of trees
and fountains, that leads to the Alhambra,
nor stopped until he arrived before
the gate of justice. Ayxa, the mother
of Boabdil, and Morayma, his beloved
and tender wife, had daily watched,
from the tower of the Gomeres, to behold
his triumphant return. Who shall
describe their affliction, when they heard
the tidings of Cidi Caleb? The sultana
Ayxa spake not much, but sate as one
entranced in wo. Every now and then
a deep sigh burst forth; but she raised
her eyes to heaven. "It is the will of
Allah!" said she; and with these words
she endeavoured to repress the agonies
of a mother's sorrow. The tender Morayma
threw herself on the earth, and
gave way to the full turbulence of her
feelings, bewailing her husband and her
father. The high-minded Ayxa rebuked
the violence of her grief. "Moderate
these transports, my daughter," said
she; "remember, magnanimity should
be the attribute of princes: it becomes
not them to give way to clamorous sorrow,
like common and vulgar minds."
But Morayma could only deplore her
loss with the anguish of a tender woman.
She shut herself up in her mirador,
and gazed all day with streaming
eyes upon the vega. Every object before
her recalled the causes of her affliction.
The river Xenil, which ran
shining amidst the groves and gardens,
was the same on the banks of which
had perished her father, Ali Atar: before
her lay the road to Loxa, by which
Boabdil had departed in martial state,
surrounded by the chivalry of Granada.
Ever and anon she would burst into an
agony of grief. "Alas, my father!"
she would exclaim, "the river runs
smiling before me, that covers thy mangled
remains! who will gather them to
an honoured tomb, in the land of the
unbeliever? And thou, oh, Boabdil!
light of my eyes! joy of my heart!
life of my life! Wo the day, and wo
the hour, that I saw thee depart from
these walls! The road by which thou
hast departed is solitary: never will it
be gladdened by thy return! The
mountain thou hast traversed lies like
a cloud in the distance, and all beyond
it is darkness!"

The royal minstrels were summoned,
to assuage the sorrows of the queen:
they attuned their instruments to cheerful
strains; but, in a little while, the
anguish of their hearts prevailed, and
turned their songs to lamentations.

"Beautiful Granada!" they exclaimed,
"how is thy glory faded! The vivarrambla
no longer echoes to the tramp
of steed and sound of trumpet; no
longer is it crowded with thy youthful
nobles, eager to display their prowess

in the tourney and the festive tilt of
reeds. Alas! the flower of thy chivalry
lies low in a foreign land! The soft
note of the lute is no longer heard in
thy mournful streets, the lively castanet
is silent upon thy hills, and the graceful
dance of the zambra is no more seen
beneath thy bowers! Behold, the Alhambra
is forlorn and desolate! In
vain do the orange and myrtle breathe
their perfumes into its silken chambers;
in vain does the nightingale sing within
its groves; in vain are its marble halls
refreshed by the sound of fountains and
the gush of limpid rills! Alas! the
countenance of the king no longer
shines within those halls; the light of
the Alhambra is set for ever!"

Thus all Granada, say the Arabian
chroniclers, gave itself up to lamentations;
there was nothing but the voice
of wailing from the palace to the cottage.
All joined to deplore their youthful
monarch, cut down in the freshness
and promise of his youth. Many feared
that the prediction of the astrologer was
about to be fulfilled, and that the downfall
of the kingdom would follow the
death of Boabdil; while all declared,
that had he survived, he was the very
sovereign calculated to restore the realm
to its ancient prosperity and glory.