5. CHAPTER V.
How the people of Granada rewarded the valor of
El Zagal.
The daring spirit of the old warrior, Muley Abdalla
El Zagal, in sallying forth to defend his territories,
while he left an armed rival in his capital,
had struck the people of Granada with admiration.
They recalled his former exploits, and again anticipated
some hardy achievement from his furious valor.
Couriers from the army reported its formidable position
on the height of Bentomiz. For a time, there
was a pause in the bloody commotions of the city;
all attention was turned to the blow about to be
struck at the christian camp. The same considerations
which diffused anxiety and terror through Cordova,
swelled every bosom with exulting confidence
in Granada. The Moors expected to hear of another
massacre, like that in the mountains of Malaga. “El
Zagal has again entrapped the enemy!” was the cry.
“The power of the unbelievers is about to be struck
to the heart. We shall soon see the christian king
led captive to the capital.” Thus the name of El
Zagal was on every tongue. He was extolled as the
savior of the country; the only one worthy of wearing
the Moorish crown. Boabdil was reviled as
basely remaining passive while his country was invaded;
and, so violent became the clamor of the
populace, that his adherents trembled for his safety.
While the people of Granada were impatiently
looking out for tidings of the anticipated victory,
scattered horsemen came spurring across the vega.
They were fugitives from the Moorish army, and
brought the first incoherent account of its defeat.
Every one who attempted to tell the tale of this unaccountable
panic and dispersion, was as if bewildered
by the broken recollection of some frightful
dream. He knew not how or why it came to pass.
He talked of a battle in the night, among rocks and
precipices, by the glare of bale-fires; of multitudes
of armed foes in every pass, seen by gleams and
flashes; of the sudden horror that seized upon the
army at daybreak; its headlong flight, and total dispersion.
Hour after hour, the arrival of other fugitives
confirmed the story of ruin and disgrace.
In proportion to their recent vaunting, was the
humiliation that now fell upon the people of Granada.
There was a universal burst, not of grief, but
indignation. They confounded the leader with the
army—the deserted, with those who had abandoned
him; and El Zagal, from being their idol, became
suddenly the object of their execration. He had
sacrificed the army; he had disgraced the nation;
he had betrayed the country. He was a dastard, a
traitor; he was unworthy to reign!
On a sudden, one among the multitude shouted,
“Long live Boabdil el Chico!” the cry was echoed
on all sides, and every one shouted, “Long live Boabdil
el Chico! long live the legitimate king of
Granada! and death to all usurpers!” In the excitement
of the moment, they thronged to the Albaycin;
and those who had lately besieged Boabdil
with arms, now surrounded his palace with acclamations.
The keys of the city, and of all the fortresses,
were laid at his feet; he was borne in state to the
Alhambra, and once more seated, with all due ceremony,
on the throne of his ancestors.
Boabdil had by this time become so accustomed
to be crowned and uncrowned by the multitude,
that he put no great faith in the duration of their
loyalty. He knew that he was surrounded by hollow
hearts, and that most of the courtiers of the Alhambra
were secretly devoted to his uncle. He ascended
the throne as the rightful sovereign, who had been
dispossessed of it by usurpation; and he ordered the
heads of four of the principal nobles to be struck off,
who had been most zealous in support of the usurper.
Executions of the kind were matters of course, on
any change in Moorish government; and Boabdil
was lauded for his moderation and humanity, in being
content with so small a sacrifice. The factions
were awed into obedience; the populace, delighted
with any change, extolled Boabdil to the skies; and
the name of Muley Abdalla El Zagal was for a time
a by-word of scorn and opprobrium, throughout the
city.
Never was any commander more astonished and
confounded by a sudden reverse of fortune, than El
Zagal. The evening had seen him with a powerful
army at his command, his enemy within his grasp,
and victory about to cover him with glory, and to
consolidate his power:—the morning beheld him a
fugitive among the mountains, his army, his prosperity,
his power, all dispelled, he knew not how—
gone like a dream of the night. In vain had he tried
to stem the headlong flight of the army. He saw his
squadrons breaking and dispersing among the cliffs
of the mountains, until, of all his host, only a handful
of cavaliers remained faithful to him. With these he
made a gloomy retreat towards Granada, but with a
heart full of foreboding. When he drew near to the
city, he paused on the banks of the Xenel, and sent
forth scouts to collect intelligence. They returned
with dejected countenances: “The gates of Granada,”
said they, “are closed against you. The banner
of Boabdil floats on the tower of the Alhambra.”
El Zagal turned his steed, and departed in silence.
He retreated to the town of Almunecar, and from
thence to Almeria, which places still remained faithful
to him. Restless and uneasy at being so distant
from the capital, he again changed his abode, and
repaired to the city of Guadix, within a few leagues
of Granada. Here he remained, endeavoring to
rally his forces, and preparing to avail himself of
any sudden change in the fluctuating politics of the
metropolis.
