University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

Two hours after night-fall, and while the Spaniards
were still engaged in close battle with the besiegers,
who, this night, seemed as if their rage was never to
be appeased, the cavalier Don Amador de Leste
rested in his chamber, (the Moorish boy sitting dejected
at his feet,) now starting up with cries of grief
and impatience, as the continued explosions of artillery
admonished him of the straits of his friends, and
now, as these seemed to die away and be followed
by silence, giving his mind to other not less exciting
thoughts, and questioning the page of the events of
the past day.

“Not now, not now,—ask me not now!” replied
the page, with great emotion to one of his demands;
“for now can I think of naught but my father. It is
not his custom to leave me so long by night, even
when the battle continues. Heaven protect him! for
at any moment, he may die; and what then am I, in
this land, and among this people? Would to heaven
we had perished in Spain,—nay, in Barbary,—in the
sea along with our friends; for, then, might we have
died together!”

“Give not way to this passion,” said the cavalier,
with an attempt at consolation, which drove not the
gloom from his own countenance; “for thou knowest,
that, whatever evil may happen to Abdalla, I will
myself befriend thee.”

“My father is slain!” cried Jacinto, wringing his
hands, “or long since would he have been with us.”

“If this be the case,” said Amador, with grave
benevolence, “and I will not deny that Abdalla doth
keep his life in constant jeopardy, it plainly shows,
that I am bound to make a father's effort to protect
thee, and thou to follow my counsels. Hark!” he
exclaimed, as a furious cannonade, seemingly of all
the pieces shot off together, brought its roar and its

tremor to his prison-house,—“dost thou not hear how
ferocious is the combat, at this moment? Know, Jacinto,
that every explosion seems like a petard fastened
to and bursting upon mine own bosom,—so very
great are the shock and pang of mind with which, at
such time, I bethink me of the condition of my countrymen.
Much longer I cannot endure my captivity;
I have resolved that it shall end, even, if that be
needful, by the breach of my solemn vow; for, I am
persuaded, the dishonour and compunction which
must follow upon that, will be but light, compared
with the great ignominy of my present inactivity, and
the unspeakable remorse which rends my vitals, while
submitting to it. But I can by no means escape,
while thou art left alone to be my jailer; if I escape
by force of arms, it shall be when thy father is here
to oppose me. I counsel thee, however, as thinking,
with thee, that Abdalla may be dead—”

Here Jacinto burst into the most bitter lamentations.

“Be not thus afflicted; for I speak to thee only of
a possibility which may be feared, and not of a certainty
to be mourned. What I mean is, that this possibility
should be enough to release thee, as well as
myself, from this house; for if Abdalla be really deceased,
it must be evident to thee, nothing could be
more foolish, and even dangerous, than to remain in
it alone; seeing that, if we be not found out and murdered
by the Mexicans, we must surely expect to be
starved. Guided by the sounds of battle, we can
easily find our way to the palace; and perhaps, by
wrapping ourselves in some of these cotton curtains,
we may make our way through the herds of Mexicans,
without notice, as being mistaken for some of
their fellow-combatants. Once arrived within ear-shot
of the palace, I have no fear but that we shall
be very safe; and I pledge my vow to thee, that I
will so faithfully guard thee on the way, that no weapon
shall strike thee, that has not first pierced my
own bosom.”

The page clasped his hands, and regarded his
master with looks in which affection struggled with
despair.

“But if my father should live—oh, if my father
should live! and returning to this desolate house,
should find that his child has deserted him!”

“If he live,” said the cavalier, “then shall he
know, that thou hast taken the only step to preserve
him from destruction, both temporal and eternal. I
will not rest, till I have procured for him a free pardon;
I will hold thee as a hostage, which, in addition
to the assurance of forgiveness, will speedily bring
him into the garrison: for, knowing his love to thee,
I know he cannot live without thee. Besides, I will
obtain, for I will demand it, permission for him to
return with thee to Spain; and if my knight consent,
we will depart together; for now I am convinced
that heaven doth fight against us, even to upholding
the godless heathen. Let us therefore depart, making
our trust in God, who will cover us, this night, as
with shields, to protect our weakness.”

“Alas, alas!” cried the boy, faltering with grief
and fear, “my lord is sick and wounded, feeble and
helpless.”

“That I have not all the vigour, which, a few days
since, was mine,” said the cavalier, snatching up his
sword, and brandishing it, once or twice, in the air,
as if to make trial of his strength, “I cannot deny.
Nevertheless, I am stronger than yesterday; and besides,
while placing great reliance on the protection
of heaven, I shall trust less to my weapon than to
such disguises as it may be in our power to adopt.
With these figured curtains wrapped about us, and,
if there be any feathers about the house, a bunch or
two tied to our heads, I have no doubt, we can delude
the Mexican fighting men, and, in the tumult of
battle, pass through their ranks, entirely unmolested.”

While the page hesitated and wept, visibly struggling
between his wishes and his fears, there occurred
a sudden interruption in the cannonade; and, in the

dead silence that followed, both heard the sound of
rapid footsteps approaching the door, accompanied
by smothered groans.

The page started—In an instant, the steps were
heard in the passage, followed by a heavy sound, as
of a man falling upon the floor.

“Oh God! my father! my poor father!” cried Jacinto,
springing to the door.

He was arrested by the arm of the neophyte, who
plainly distinguished, along with the groans that came
from the passage, a noise as if the sufferer were
struggling to his feet; and in a moment after, as he
pushed aside the curtain, to go out himself, the slave
Ayub, covered with blood, rushed by him into the
apartment, and again fell prostrate.

“My father, Ayub! my father?” cried the page,
kneeling at his side.

“Allah il Allah! praised be God, for now I am
safe!” said the Morisco, raising on his arm, and,
though his whole frame shook as in the ague of death,
regarding the pair with the greatest exultation. “I
thought they had shot me through the liver with a
bullet; but Allah be praised! 'twas naught but an
arrow. Help me up, noble señor—Eh? ay? Trim
the taper a little, and give me a morsel of drink.”

“Thou sayest naught of my father, Ayub?” said
Jacinto, eagerly and yet with mortal fear,—for he
knew by the gesture of Don Amador, as he ceased
his unavailing attempt to lift the wounded man, but
more by the countenance of Ayub himself, that he
was a dying man.

“How can I speak without light?” cried the Moor,
with a sort of chuckle. “Trim the torch, trim the
torch, and let me see where these boltheads be rankling.—Praise
be to Allah, for I thought myself a dead
man!”

“Wilt thou not speak to me of my father?” exclaimed
Jacinto, in agony.

“A brave night! a brave night!” muttered Ayub,

fumbling at his garments—“Valiant unbelievers!—
Praised be God—The Wali—”

“Ay, the Wali! the Wali, thy master!” cried Jacinto,
his voice dwindling to a hoarse and terrified
whisper;—“my father, thy master, Ayub?”

“The Wali—Hah!” exclaimed the unbeliever,
roused by the distant explosions;—“At it yet, brave
pagans? Roar, cannon! Shout, infidel! shout and
whistle—shout, whistle, and kill!—Save me the Wali,
save me the Wali!”

“Oh heaven, Ayub!—thou sayest nothing of him,—
of my father!”

“They took him a prisoner—but we'll have him
again!—Lelilee! Lelilee!—Strike fast, pagan!—A
brave day for Granada!”

At these words, Jacinto seemed not less like to die
than the fugitive. But as he neither fell to the floor,
nor screamed, Don Amador still held fast to Ayub,
who was now struggling in the most fearful convulsions,
and yet, strange to hear, still uttering broken
expressions of joy.

“A prisoner, a prisoner!—A little drink, for the
sake of Allah!” he cried, incoherently. “Ha, ha!
one runs not so far with a bullet in the liver!—Now
they are at it! now they are killing the great señores!
now, they murder 'em!—Great joy! a great sight
for a Moor! great—great—great revenge!—Many
days agone—Great—great revenge! says the Wali
—They killed my mother—Great revenge—great—
great—Oho! great revenge for Granada!”—

With these accents on his lips, mingled with sounds
of laughter, and horrid contortions of countenance,
the infidel Moor, (for such was Ayub,) sprang suddenly
to his knees; and flinging abroad his arms,
and uttering a yell of agony, fell back instantly upon
the floor, quivered a moment, and then lay a disfigured
corse.

“Dost thou see, Jacinto!” said Don Amador, taking
the shivering boy by the arm. “Ayub is dead,
and thy father a prisoner. If thou wilt save the life

of Abdalla, the Wali, (I never before knew that Abdalla,
though noble, was of this dignity—but this shall
help me to plead for him;) get thyself instantly in
readiness, and let us begone.”

The page turned a tearless countenance on his
patron, and replied, with a tranquillity that seemed to
come from desperation,—

“I will go with my lord, for I have no friend now
but him,—I will go with my lord, to look upon my
father's dead body; for I know the Spaniards will
not spare his life a moment,—I will go with my lord,
—and would that I had gone sooner! for now, it is
too late.”

As Jacinto pronounced these words, he began to
weep anew, though hearkening passively to the instructions
of the cavalier.

“If thou canst find me any plumes,” said Amador,
“fetch them to me straight; and if thou hast about
the house, any Mexican garment, which thou canst
wear, haste thou to don it. As for myself, I will first
arm, and then robe me in the tunic of this poor dead
misbeliever. Be of good heart, I charge thee—God
will protect us.”

“There are robes enough, both for my lord and
me,” said the sobbing boy,—“and shrouds too—It
is too late.—But I can die with my lord!”

“Why, that is spoken with more valour than I
thought thou hadst,” said the cavalier. “But bring
me the robes, without thinking of thy shrouds; and
be very quick, for I must have thee to buckle some
of these straps of my jambeux.”

The page took up a little taper that lay near the
flambeau, and, shuddering as he passed by the body,
instantly departed on his errand.