University of Virginia Library

34. CHAPTER XXXIV.

What Alvarado had reported of Don Amador,
was true. The neophyte averred, that, dead or alive,
—a spectre or a creature of flesh and blood,—the
steed, bestridden by the sable phantom, and urged
with such fury against the footmen, was neither less
nor more than his own good beast, Fogoso; and he
declared, with even more impetuosity, as Don Pedro
had related, that the figure, descending the opposite
hill, was the knight of Calavar, on his ancient war-horse,—an
apparition, perhaps, but no St. James,—unless
this heavenly patron had condescended to appear
in the likeness of a knight so valiant and so pious.
Strange fancies beset him, and so great was his impatience
to resolve the marvel, that he scarce waited to
behold the general balance his good spear, before he
turned his horse, and spurred furiously backward.

Meanwhile, the black horseman descended with
such violence upon the footmen, as threatened their
instant destruction, his fierce eyes, as the Christians
thought, gleaming with the fires of hell; so that, notwithstanding
the sudden relief coming in the person
of the supposed saint, they were seized with horror,
and gave way before him. At the moment when he
rushed among them, uttering what seemed the Lelilee
of another land, he was encountered by his celestial
opponent, whose strong voice shouted out—“God
and St. John! and down with thee, paynim demon!”

The shock of two such steeds, both of great weight,
each bearing a man cased in thick armour, each
urged on by the impetus of descent from the hills,
and meeting, midway, in a narrow valley, was tremendous.
At the moment of encounter, the sable
rider perceived, for the first time, his opponent;—he
checked his steed suddenly, and flung up his lance,
as if to avoid a contest. But the precaution came
too late;—his rising lance struck the casque of his

adversary, tearing it off, and revealing the grim
visage and grizzly locks of the knight of Calavar;
while, at the same moment, the spear of Don Gabriel,
aimed with as much skill as determination, smote
the enemy on the lower part of the corslet, and piercing
it as a buckler of ice, penetrated, at once, to the
bowels and spine. The shock that unseated the
riders, was shared by the steeds, and horse and man
rolled together on the earth.

The loud cry of “Calavar! the Penitent Knight!
the valiant Don Gabriel!” set up by the bewildered and
awe-struck infantry, reached the ears of the novice.
He spurred on with new ardour, and reaching the
footmen just as they divided in pursuit of the flying
barbarians, he sprung from his horse, and beheld his
kinsman lying senseless, and as it appeared to him,
lifeless, in the arms of the wounded Baltasar.

“In the name of heaven, and Amen! what is this?
and what do I see?” he cried. “Oh heaven, is this
my knight?—and doth he live?”

“He lives,” said Baltasar, “and he feels as of flesh
and blood; and yet did he die on the lake-side. God
forgive us our sins! for neither heaven nor hell will
hold the dead!”

Just at that moment, the knight opened his eyes,
and rolled them on his kinsman,—but his kinsman
regarded him not. A low moaning voice of one
never to be forgotten, fell on the ear of the novice,
as he gazed on his friend; and starting up, he beheld,
hard by, the page Jacinto, lying on the body of Abdalla,
from whose head he had torn the helm, and
now strove, with feeble fingers, to remove the broken
and blood-stained corslet.

“Jacinto!—Leila!” cried Amador, with a voice
of rapture, flinging himself at her side, (for now,
though the garments of escaupil still concealed the
figure of the Moorish maid, the disguise could be
continued no longer.) The joy of the cavalier vanished,
for the maiden replied only with lamentations;
while the Zegri fixed upon him an eye, in which the

stony hardness of death was mingled with the fires
of human passion.

“Place my head upon thine arm, cavalier!” said
Abdalla, faintly, “and let me look upon him who has
slain me.”

“Oh, my father! my father!” cried the Moorish
girl.

“God forbid that thou shouldst die, even for the
sake of the maiden I love,” exclaimed Amador,
eagerly, supporting his head. “Thou art a Wali, a
Christian, and the father of her that dwells in my
heart. Live, therefore; for though thou have neither
land nor people, neither home nor friends, neither
brother nor champion, yet am I all to thee; for I
crave the love of thy daughter.”

The maiden sobbed, and heard not the words of
the cavalier; but the dying Moor eyed her with a
look of joy, and then turning his gaze upon Amador,
said,—

“God be thy judge, as thou dealest truly with her,
who, although the offspring of kings, is yet an orphan,
landless, homeless, and friendless on the earth.”—

“I swear to thee,” said the novice,—“and I protest—”

“Protest me nothing: hearken to my words, for
they are few; the angel of death calls to me to come,
and my moments fly from me like the blood-drops,”
said the Zegri. “Until the day, when I dreamed thou
wert slumbering in the lake, I knew not of this that
hath passed between ye. Had it been known to me,
perhaps this death that comes to me, might not have
come; for, what I did, I did for the honour and weal
of my child, knowing that, in the hand of Spaniards,
she was in the power of oppressors and villains.
That I have struck for revenge, is true; I have shed
the blood of Castilians and rejoiced, for therein I
reckoned me the vengeance of Granada. Yet, had
it been apparent to me, that the feeble maid, who,
besides myself, knew no other protector of innocence
in the world, could have claimed the love of an honourable

cavalier, and enjoyed it without the shame
of disguise and menial occupation, then had I submitted
to my fate, and locked up in the darkness of
my heart, the memory of the Alpujarras.”

“Who speaks of the Alpujarras?” cried the knight
of Rhodes, staring wildly around; “who speaks of
the Alpujarras?”

“I!” said the Moor, with a firm voice, bending his
eye on Don Gabriel, and striving, though in vain, for
his nether limbs were paralyzed, to turn his body
likewise; “I Gabriel of Calavar, I speak of the Alpujarras;
and good reason have I to speak, and thou to
listen; for I was of the mourning, and thou of the
destroyers.”

“Pity me, heaven!” cried the knight, staring on
the Moor, in the greatest disorder. “I have seen
thee, and yet I know thee not.”

“Rememberest thou not the field of Zugar, and the
oath sworn on the cross of a blood-stained sword, by
the river-side?”

“Hah!” cried Don Gabriel; “dost thou speak of
mine oath?—mine oath to Alharef?”

“And the town of Bucares, among the hills?” continued
the Zegri, loudly, and with a frown made still
more ghastly by approaching death; “dost thou
remember the false and felon blow that smote the
friend of Zugar,—and that, still falser and fouler,
which shed the blood of Zayda, the beloved of the
Alpujarras?”

As the Wali spoke, the knight, as if uplifted by
some supernatural power, rose to his feet, and approached
the speaker, staring at him with eyes of
horror. At the name of Zayda, he dropt on his knees,
crying,—

“Miserere mei, Deus! I slew her! and thou that
art Alharef, though struck down by the same sword,
yet livest thou again to upbraid me!”

“Struck down by thy steel, yet not then, but
now!” exclaimed the Moor. “I live again, but not

to upbraid thee—I am Alharef-ben-Ismail, and I forgive
thee.”

At this name, already made of such painful interest
to the novice, his astonishment was so great, that, as
he started, he had nearly suffered the dying prince
(for such were the Walis of Moorish Spain,) to fall
to the earth. He caught him again in his arms, and
turned his amazed eye from him to Don Gabriel, who,
trembling in every limb, still stared with a distracted
countenance on that of his ancient preserver.

“I am Alharef, and, though dying, yet do I live,”
went on the Zegri, interrupted as much by the wails
of his daughter, as by his own increasing agonies.
“The sword wounded, but it slew not—it slew not all
—Zayda fell, yet live I, to tell thee, thou art forgiven.
Rash man! rash and most unhappy! thine anger was
unjust; and therefore didst thou shed the blood of the
good, the pure, the loving and the beautiful, and
thereby cover thyself, and him that was thy true
friend, with misery. When thou soughtest the love
of Zayda, she was the betrothed of Alharef. Miserable
art thou, Gabriel of Calavar! and therefore
have I forgiven thee; miserable art thou, for I have
watched thee by night, and looked upon thee by
day, and seen that the asp was at work in thy bosom,
and that the fire did not slumber. Great was thy sin,
but greater is thy grief; and therefore doth Zayda,
who is in heaven, forgive thee.”

“She pardons me not,” murmured Don Gabriel,
not a moment relaxing the steadfast eagerness of his
stare. “At the pyramid of Cholula, on the anniversary
of her death, she appeared to me in person, and,
O God! with the beauty of her youth and innocence,
yet robed in the blackness of anger!”

“And have thine eyes been as dark as the looks of
the lover?” cried Alharef. “Stand up, Zayda, the
child of Zayda! or turn thy face upon Calavar, that
his delusion may leave him.”

As he spoke, he lifted feebly the arm which embraced
his child, removed the cap, and parted the

thick clustering locks from her forehead. Still, however,
did she look rather the effeminate boy, upon
whom Calavar had been accustomed to gaze, than a
woman;—for there is no effort of imagination stronger
than that required to transform, in the mind, the object
which preserves an unchanging appearance to the
eye. Nevertheless, though such a transformation
could not be imagined by Don Gabriel, there came,
as he wistfully surveyed the pallid features of the
maiden, strange visions and memories, which, every
moment, associated a stronger resemblance between
the living and the dead. He trembled still more
violently, heavy dew-drops started from his brow,
and he gazed upon the weeping girl as upon a basilisk.

“Wherefore,” continued the Zegri, speaking rapidly,
but with broken accents,—“when I had resolved
to fly to the pagans, as being men whom, I thought,
God had commissioned me to defend from rapine and
slavery, I resolved to take such advantage of their
credulity, as might best enable me to befriend them,—
I say, wherefore I resolved this, I need not speak. I
protected my child, by recommending her to their
superstition; and, had I fallen dead in the streets,
still did I know, that reverence and fear would wait
upon the steps of one whom I delivered to them as a
messenger from heaven. In this light, I revealed her
to the princes at the temple, when—”

“It is enough!” muttered Don Gabriel, with the
deep and agitated tones of sorrow; “I wake from a
dream.—God forgive me! and thou art of the blood
of Zayda? the child of her whom I slew?—Alharef
forgives me; he says, that Zayda forgives me; but
thou that art her child, dost thou forgive me?”

“Father! dear father, she doth!” cried Amador,
gazing with awe on the altered countenance of Alharef,
and listening with grief to the moans of Zayda.
“O holy padre!” he exclaimed, perceiving the priest
Olmedo rising, at a little distance, from the side of a
man, to whom he had been offering the last consolations

of religion,—“Hither, father, for the love of
heaven, and absolve the soul of a dying Christian!”

“Is there a priest at my side?” said the Zegri,
reviving from what seemed the lethargy of approaching
dissolution, and looking eagerly into the face of
the good Olmedo. Then, turning to Amador, he
said solemnly, though with broken words, “Thou
lovest the orphan Zayda?”

“Heaven be my help, as I do,” replied the cavalier.

“And thou, Gabriel, that wert my friend, and
standest in the light of this young man's parent,—
dost thou consent that he shall espouse the daughter
of Zayda, saved, while a piteous infant, by Christian
men, from out the house of death?”

The knight bowed his head on his breast, and
strove to answer, but, in his agitation, could not
speak a word.

“Quick, father! for heaven's sake, quick!” cried
Alharef, eagerly; “let me, ere I die, know that my
child rests on the bosom of a husband. Quick! for
the sand runs fast; and there is that in my bosom,
which tells me of death. Love and honour thy
bride; for thou hast the last and noblest relic of
Granada. Take her—thou wert her protector from
harsh words and the violence of blows. Quick, father,
quick! quick, for mine eyes are glazing!”

The strangely timed and hurried ceremony was
hastened by the exclamations of Alharef; and the
words of nuptial benediction were, at last, hurriedly
pronounced.

“I see thee not, my child!” muttered the Moor,
immediately after. “My blessing to thee, Amador,—
Gabriel, thou art forgiven.—Thine arm round my
neck, Zayda; thy lips to mine. Would that I could
see thee!—Get thee to Granada, with thy lord—to
the tomb of thy mother—I will follow thee—Tarry
not in this land of blood—I will be with thee; we
have a power yet in the hills—”

“Let the cross rest on thy lips, if thou diest a
Christian,” said the father.

The novice drew the maiden aside; the Zegri
pressed the sacred symbol to his lips, but still they
muttered strangely of Granada.

“I am of the faith of Christ, and Mahomet I
defy. My people shall be followers of the cross, but
they shall sweep away the false Spaniard, as the wind
brushes away the leaves.—The Emir of Oran is prepared—the
king of Morocco will follow.—A power
in the hills—Ah!—We will creep, by night, to Granada—a
brave blow!—Africa shall follow—Ha, ha!
—Seize the gates! storm the Alhambra!—but spare
life—kill no women!—Remember Zayda!—”

With such wild words, accompanied by the faint
cries of his daughter, the spirit of the Moor passed
away, and Alharef-ben-Ismail lay dead in the land
of strangers.

Don Gabriel uttered a deep groan, and fell across
the feet of his ancient friend.

At this moment, Cortes descended from his horse,
and, followed by other cavaliers, stepped up to the
lamenting group.

“And Calavar, the valiant, has been murdered by
this traitor Moor!” he cried.

“Señor Don Hernan,” said the novice, sternly,
and as he spoke, rising from the earth, and folding
the Moorish maiden to his heart, “you speak of
him who was Alharef-ben-Ismail, a Wali of Granada,
driven by the injustice of our companions, and in
part, by your own harshness, to take arms against
you. As one that am now his representative, and,
as I may say, his son, I claim for him the honourable
burial of a Christian soldier; and, after that, will
hold myself prepared, with sword and spear, to defend
his memory from insult.”