University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
Lamentations of the Moors, for the battle of Lucena.

The sentinels looked out from the watch-towers
of Loxa, along the valley of the Xenel, 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 descried
a single horseman urging his faltering steed along the
banks of the Xenel. 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 armor
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 Albaycin 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!”[1]

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 lives, the army cannot be lost.”

“I saw his turban cleaved by the christian sword,”
replied Cidi Caleb. “His body is floating in the Xenel.”

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 another, “I saw the horse of
thy lover, covered with blood and galloping without
his rider.” To another, “Thy son fought by my side,
on the banks of the Xenel: we were surrounded by
the enemy, and driven into the stream. I heard him
cry 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 all 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, and 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 endeavored
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 Xenel, which ran shining amidst
the groves and gardens, was the same on whose banks
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 honored 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 moonlight 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 lamentation: 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 astrologers
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.