University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.

The moon had now risen, and was mingling her
lustre with the blaze of the volcano. The shouts of
revelry came less frequently from the city, and, one
by one, the torches vanished from the house-tops and
the streets. A pleasant quiet surrounded the deserted
temple; a few embers, only, glowed in the sacred
urns; but the combined light of the luminary and
the mountain covered the terrace with radiance, and
fully revealed the few objects which gave it the interest
of life. In this light, as Don Amador turned
to his youthful companion, he beheld the eyes of the
page suffused with tears.

“How is it, Jacinto?—What ails thee?” he cried.
“I vow to heaven, I am as much concerned at thy
silly griefs, as though thou wert mine own little
brother Rosario, who is now saying his prayers at
Cuenza. Art thou weary? I will immediately conduct
thee to our quarters. Is there any thing that
troubles thee? Thou shouldst make me thy confidant;
for surely I love thee well.”

“Señor mio! I am not weary, and I am not grieved,”
said the stripling, with simplicity, as the good-natured
cavalier took him by the hand, to give him
comfort. “I wept for pity of the good Don Francisco
and the poor Minnapotzin; for surely it is a
pity if they must die!”

“Thou art a silly youth to lament for evils that
have not yet happened,” said Amador.

“But besides, señor,” said the page, “when Don

Francisco made me sad, I looked at the moon, and I
thought how it was rising on my country!”

“It is now in the very noon of night, both in thy
land and mine,” said the neophyte, touched by the
simple expression, and leading the boy where the planet
could be seen without obstruction;—“it is now
midnight over Fez, as well as Castile; and, perhaps,
some of our friends, in both lands, are regarding this
luminary, at this moment, and thinking of us.”

The page sighed deeply and painfully:

“I have no friends,—no, neither in Fez nor in
Spain,” he said; “and, save my father, my master,
and my good lord, none here. There is none of my
people left, but my father; and we are alone together!”

“Say not, alone,” said Amador, with still more
kindness,—for as Jacinto made this confession of his
destitute condition, the tears fell fast and bitterly from
his eyes. “Say not, alone; for, I repeat to thee, I
have come, I know not by what fascination, to love
thee as well as if thou wert my own little brother;
and there shall no wrong come to thee, or thy father,
while I live to be thy friend.”

Jacinto kissed the hand of the cavalier, and said,—

“I did not cry for sorrow, but only for thinking of
my country.”

“Thou shouldst think no more of Fez; for its people
are infidels, and thou a Christian.”

“I thought of Granada,—for that is the land of
Christians; and I longed to be among the mountains
where my mother was born.”

“Thou shalt live there yet, if God be merciful to
us,” said the cavalier: “for when there is peace in
this barbarous clime, I will take thee thither for a
playmate to Rosario. But now that we are here
alone, let us sit by the tower, and while I grow melancholy,
bethinking me of that same land of Granada,
which I very much love, I will have thee sing me
some other pretty ballad of the love of a Christian
knight for a Moorish lady;—or I care not if thou
repeat the romance of the Cid: I like it well—`Me

acuerdo de ti'—`me acuerdo de ti'—” And the neophyte
seemed, while he murmured over the burthen,
as if about to imitate the pensiveness of De Morla.

“If my lord choose,” said the page, “I would
rather tell him a story of Granada, which is about
a Christian cavalier, very noble and brave, and a
Christian Morisca, that loved him.”

“A Christian Morisca!” said Amador; “and she
loved the cavalier?—I will hear that story. And it
happened in Granada too?”

“In one of the Moorish towns, but not in the royal
city.—It was in the town Almeria.”

“In the town Almeria!” echoed Amador, eagerly.
“Thou canst tell me nothing of Almeria that will not
give me both pain and pleasure, for therein—But pho!
a word doth fill the brain with memories!—Is it an
ancient story?”

“Not very ancient, please my lord: it happened
since the fall of Granada.”

“It is strange that I never heard it, then; for I
dwelt full two months in this same town; and 'tis
not yet forty years since the siege.”

“Perhaps it is not true,” said the stripling, innocently;
“and, at the best, 'tis not remarkable enough
to have many repeaters. 'Tis a very foolish story.”

“Nevertheless, I am impatient to hear it.”

“There lived in that town,” said Jacinto, “a
Moorish orphan—”

“A girl?” demanded the neophyte.

“A Moorish maiden,—of so obscure a birth, that
she knew not even the name that had been borne by
her parents; but nevertheless, señor, her parents, as
was afterwards found out, were of the noblest blood
of Granada. She was protected and reared in the
family of a benevolent lady, who, being descended of
a Moorish parent, looked with pity on the poor orphan
of the race of her mother. When this maiden was yet
in her very early youth, there came a noble cavalier
of Castile—”

“A Castilian!” demanded Don Amador, with extraordinary

vivacity,—“Art thou a conjurer?—What
was his name?”

“I know not,” said Jacinto.

“Thou learnest thy stories, then, only by the half,”
said the neophyte, with a degree of displeasure that
amazed the youth. “And, doubtless, thou wert forgetful
also to acquire the name of the Moorish
orphan?”

“Señor,” said the page, discomposed at the heated
manner of his patron, “the Moorish maiden was
called Leila.”

“Leila!” cried the neophyte, starting to his feet,
and seizing Jacinto by the arm—“Canst thou tell me
aught of Leila?”

“Señor!” murmured Jacinto, in affright.

“Leila, the Morisca, in the house of the señora
Doña Maria de Montefuerte!” exclaimed Don Amador,
wildly. “Dost thou know of her fate? Did she
sleep under the surges of the bay? Was she ravished
away by those exile dogs of the mountains?—Now,
by heaven, if thou canst tell me any thing of that
Moorish maid, I will make thee richer than the richest
Moor of Granada!”

At this moment, while Jacinto, speechless with
terror, gazed on his patron, as doubting if his senses
had not deserted him, a step rung on the earth of the
terrace, and De Morla stood at his side.

The voice of his friend recalled the bewildered
wits of the neophyte; he stared at Jacinto, and at De
Morla; a deep hue of shame and confusion flushed
over his brow; and perceiving that his violence had
again thrown the page into tears, he kissed him benevolently
on the forehead, and said, as tranquilly as
he could,—

“A word will make fools of the wisest! I think I
was dreaming, while thou wert at thy story. Be not
affrighted, Jacinto: I meant not to scold thee—I was
disturbed.—Next—next,” he added, with a grievous
shudder, “I shall be as mad as my kinsman!”

“My brother! I am surprised to see thee in this
emotion,” said De Morla.

“It is nothing,” responded Amador, hastily and
gloomily: “I fear there is a natural infirmity in the
brains of all my family. I was moved, by an idle
story of Jacinto, into the recollection of a certain
sorrowful event, which, one day, perhaps, I will relate
to thee.—But let us return to our quarters.—
The air comes down chilly from the mountains—It
is time we were sleeping.”—

The friends retired from the temple, leaving the
torch sticking in the platform; for the moon was
now so high as to afford a better illumination. They
parted at the quarters; but Don Amador, after satisfying
himself that the knight of Rhodes was slumbering
on his pallet, drew Jacinto aside to question
him further of the orphan of Almeria. His solicitude
was, however, doomed to a disappointment; the
page was evidently impressed with the fear, that Don
Amador was not without some of the weakness of
Calavar; and adroitly, though with great embarrassment,
avoided exciting him further.

“It is a foolish story, and I am sorry it displeased
my lord,” said he, when commanded to continue the
narrative.

“It displeased me not—I knew a Moorish maid of
that name in Almeria, who was also protected by a
Christian lady; and, what was most remarkable, this
Christian lady was of Moorish descent, like her of
whom thou wert speaking; and, like the Leila of thy
story, the Leila of my own memory vanished away
from the town before—”

“Señor,” cried Jacinto, “I did not say she vanished
away from Almeria: that did not belong to the
story.”

“Ay, indeed! is it so? Heaven guard my wits!
what made me think it?—And thy Leila lived in Almeria
very recently?”

“Perhaps ten or fifteen years ago.”—

“Pho!—Into what folly may not an ungoverned
fancy lead us?—Ten or fifteen years ago!—And thou
never heardst of the Leila that dwelt in that town
within a twelve-month?”

“I, señor?” cried Jacinto, with surprise.

“True—how is it possible thou couldst?—Thou
hast, this night, stirred me as by magic. I know not
by what sorcery thou couldst hit upon that name!”

“It was the name of the lady,” said Jacinto, innocently.

“Ay, to be sure!—There is one Mary in heaven,
and a thousand on earth—why should there not be
many Leilas?—Did I speak harshly to thee, Jacinto?
Thou shouldst not kiss my hand, if I did; for no impatience
or grief could excuse wrath to one so gentle
and unoffending. Good night—get thee to thy
bed, and forget not to say thy prayers.”

So saying, and in such disorder of spirits as the
page had never before witnessed in him, Don Amador
retired.

Jacinto was left standing in a narrow passage, or
corridor, on which opened a long row of chambers
with curtained doors, wherein slept the soldiers,
crowded thickly together. In the gallery, also, at a
distance, lay several dusky lumps, which, by the
gleaming of armour about them, were seen to be the
bodies of soldiers stretched fast asleep. As the boy
turned to retire in the direction of the open portal,
it was darkened by the figure of a man, entering
with a cautious and most stealthy step. He approached,
and by his voice, (for there was not light
enough yielded by the few flambeaux stuck against
the wall, to distinguish features,) Jacinto recognised
his father.

“I sought thee, my child!” he whispered, “and
saw thee returning with the hidalgos.—The watchmen
sleep as well as the cannoniers.—It is as I told
thee—art thou ready?”

“Dear father!”—stammered the page.

“Speak not above thy breath!—The curs, that are
hungering after the blood of the betrayed Mexicans,
would not scorn to blunt their appetites on the flesh
of the Moor. Have thyself in readiness at a moment's

warning: Our destinies are written—God will
not always frown upon us!”

“Dear father!” muttered Jacinto, “we are of the
Spaniards' faith, and we will go back to our country.”

“It cannot be!—never can it be!” said Abdalla, in
tones that were not the less impressive for being uttered
in a whisper “The hills of thy childhood, the
rivers of thy love—they are passed away from thee;
—think of them no more;—never more shalt thou
see them! In the land of barbarians, heaven has
willed that we should live and die; and be thou reconciled
to thy fate, for it shall be glorious! We
live not for ourselves; God brings us hither, and for
great ends! To night, did I—Hah!”—(One of the
sleepers stirred in the passage.)—“Seek some occasion
to speak with me, to-morrow, on the march,”
whispered Abdalla in the page's ear; and then, with
a gesture for silence, he immediately retired.

“Fuego! Quien pasea alli?” grumbled the voice of
Lazaro, as he raised his head from the floor. “Fu!
el muchacho!—I am ever dreaming of that cursed
Turk, that was at my weasand, when Baltasar brained
him with the boll of his cross-bow. Laus tibi,
Christe!—I have a throat left for snoring.” And
comforting himself with this assurance, before Jacinto
had yet vanished from the passage, the man-at-arms
again slumbered on his mat.