54. CHAPTER LIV.
Surrender of Granada.
The sun had scarcely begun to shed his beams
upon the summits of the snowy mountains which
rise above Granada, when the christian camp was in
motion. A detachment of horse and foot, led by
distinguished cavaliers, and accompanied by Hernando
de Talavera, bishop of Avila, proceeded to
take possession of the Alhambra and the towers. It
had been stipulated in the capitulation, that the detachment
sent for this purpose should not enter by
the streets of the city; a road had therefore been
opened, outside of the walls, leading by the Puerta
de los Molinos, or the Gate of the Mills, to the summit
of the Hill of Martyrs, and across the hill to a
postern-gate of the Alhambra.
When the detachment arrived at the summit of
the hill, the Moorish king came forth from the gate,
attended by a handful of cavaliers, leaving his vizier
Yusef Aben Comixa to deliver up the palace. “Go,
senior,” said he to the commander of the detachment,
“go and take possession of those fortresses, which
Allah has bestowed upon your powerful sovereigns,
in punishment of the sins of the Moors.” He said
no more, but passed mournfully on, along the same
road by which the Spanish cavaliers had come; descending
to the vega, to meet the Catholic sovereigns.
The troops entered the Alhambra, the gates of which
were wide open, and all its splendid courts and halls
silent and deserted.
In the mean time, the christian court and army
poured out of the city of Santa Fé, and advanced
across the vega. The king and queen, with the
prince and princess, and the dignitaries and ladies of
the court, took the lead, accompanied by the different
orders of monks and friars, and surrounded by
the royal guards splendidly arrayed. The procession
moved slowly forward, and paused at the village
of Armilla, at the distance of half a league from the
city.
The sovereigns waited here with impatience, their
eyes fixed on the lofty tower of the Alhambra, watching
for the appointed signal of possession. The time
that had elapsed since the departure of the detachment
seemed to them more than necessary for the purpose,
and the anxious mind of Ferdinand began to
entertain doubts of some commotion in the city. At
length they saw the silver cross, the great standard of
this crusade, elevated on the Torre de la Vala, or
Great Watch-Tower, and sparkling in the sunbeams.
This was done by Hernando de Talavera, bishop of
Avila. Beside it was planted the pennon of the glorious
apostle St. James, and a great shout of “Santiago!
Santiago!” rose throughout the army. Lastly was
reared the royal standard by the king of arms, with
the shout of “Castile! Castile! For king Ferdinand
and queen Isabella!” The words were echoed by
the whole army, with acclamations that resounded
across the vega. At sight of these signals of possession,
the sovereigns sank upon their knees, giving
thanks to God for this great triumph; the whole
assembled host followed their example, and the
choristers of the royal chapel broke forth into the
solemn anthem of “
Te Deum laudamus.”
The procession now resumed its march with joyful
alacrity, to the sound of triumphant music, until
they came to a small mosque, near the banks of the
Xenel, and not far from the foot of the Hill of Martyrs,
which edifice remains to the present day, consecrated
as the hermitage of St. Sebastian. Here
the sovereigns were met by the unfortunate Boabdil,
accompanied by about fifty cavaliers and domestics.
As he drew near, he would have dismounted in token
of homage, but Ferdinand prefented him. He then
proffered to kiss the king's hand, but this sign of
vassalage was likewise declined; whereupon, not to
be outdone in magnanimity, he leaned forward and
kissed the right arm of Ferdinand. Queen Isabella
also refused to receive this ceremonial of homage,
and, to console him under his adversity, delivered to
him his son, who had remained as hostage ever since
Boabdil's liberation from captivity. The Moorish
monarch pressed his child to his bosom with tender
emotion, and they seemed mutually endeared to each
other by their misfortunes.[1]
He then delivered the keys of the city to king Ferdinand,
with an air of mingled melancholy and resig
nation: “These keys,” said he, “are the last relics
of the Arabian empire in Spain: thine, oh king, are
our trophies, our kingdom, and our person. Such
is the will of God! Receive them with the clemency
thou hast promised, and which we look for at thy
hands.”
[2]
King Ferdinand restrained his exultation into an
air of serene magnanimity. “Doubt not our promises,”
replied he, “nor that thou shalt regain from
our friendship the prosperity of which the fortune of
war has deprived thee.”
On receiving the keys, king Ferdinand handed
them to the queen; she in her turn presented them to
her son prince Juan, who delivered them to the count
de Tendilla, that brave and loyal cavalier being appointed
alcayde of the city, and captain-general of
the kingdom of Granada.
Having surrendered the last symbol of power, the
unfortunate Boabdil continued on towards the Alpuxarras,
that he might not behold the entrance of the
christians into his capital. His devoted band of
cavaliers followed him in gloomy silence; but heavy
sighs burst from their bosoms, as shouts of joy and
strains of triumphant music were borne on the breeze
from the victorious army.
Having rejoined his family, Boabdil set forward
with a heavy heart for his allotted residence in the
valley of Purchena. At two leagues' distance, the
cavalcade, winding into the skirts of the Alpuxarras,
ascended an eminence commanding the last view of
Granada. As they arrived at this spot, the Moors
paused involuntarily, to take a farewell gaze at their
beloved city, which a few steps more would shut
from their sight for ever. Never had it appeared so
lovely in their eyes. The sunshine, so bright in that
transparent climate, lit up each tower and minaret,
and rested gloriously upon the crowning battlements
of the Alhambra; while the vega spread its enameled
bosom of verdure below, glistening with the silver
windings of the Xenel. The Moorish cavaliers gazed
with a silent agony of tenderness and grief upon that
delicious abode, the scene of their loves and pleasures.
While they yet looked, a light cloud of smoke burst
forth from the citadel, and presently a peal of artillery,
faintly heard, told that the city was taken possession
of, and the throne of the Moslem kings was
lost for ever. The heart of Boabdil, softened by misfortunes
and overcharged with grief, could no longer
contain itself: “Allah Acbar! God is great!” said he;
but the words of resignation died upon his lips, and
he burst into a flood of tears.
His mother, the intrepid sultana Ayxa la Horra,
was indignant at his weakness: “You do well,” said
she, “to weep like a woman, for what you failed to
defend like a man!”
The vizier Aben Comixa endeavored to console
his royal master. “Consider, sire,” said he, “that
the most signal misfortunes often render men as renowned
as the most prosperous achievements, provided
they sustain them with magnanimity.”
The unhappy monarch, however, was not to be
consoled; his tears continued to flow. “Allah Acbar!”
exclaimed he; “when did misfortunes ever
equal mine?”
From this circumstance, the hill, which is not far
from the Padul, took the name of Feg Allah Acbar:
but the point of view commanding the last prospect
of Granada, is known among Spaniards by the name
of El ultimo suspiro del Moro; or, “The last sigh of
the Moor.”
