The Alhambra a series of tales and sketches of the Moors and Spaniards |
LEGEND
OF
THE TWO DISCREET STATUES. |
 | LEGEND
OF
THE TWO DISCREET STATUES. The Alhambra |  |
LEGEND
OF
THE TWO DISCREET STATUES.
There lived once, in a waste apartment of
the Alhambra, a merry little fellow named Lope
Sanchez, who worked in the gardens, and was as
brisk and blithe as a grasshopper, singing all day
long. He was the life and soul of the fortress;
when his work was over, he would sit on one of
the stone benches of the esplanade and strum his
guitar, and sing long ditties about the Cid, and
Bernardo del Carpio, and Fernando del Pulgar,
and other Spanish heroes, for the amusement of
the old soldiers of the fortress, or would strike
up a merrier tune, and set the girls dancing boleros
and fandangos.
Like most little men, Lope Sanchez had a
strapping buxom dame for a wife, who could almost
have put him in her pocket; but he lacked
the usual poor man's lot,—instead of ten children
he had but one. This was a little black-eyed
girl, about twelve years of age, named Sanchica,
who was as merry as himself, and the delight of
his heart. She played about him as he worked in
the gardens, danced to his guitar as he sat in the
shade, and ran as wild as a young fawn about the
groves, and alleys, and ruined halls of the Alhambra.
It was now the eve of the blessed St. John,
and the holiday-loving gossips of the Alhambra,
men, women, and children, went up at night to
the mountain of the Sun, which rises above the
Generalife, to keep their midsummer vigil on its
level summit. It was a bright moonlight night,
and all the mountains were gray and silvery, and
the city, with its domes and spires, lay in shadows
below, and the Vega was like a fairy land,
with haunted streams gleaming among its dusky
groves. On the highest part of the mountain they
lit up a bale fire, according to an old custom of
the country handed down from the Moors. The
inhabitants of the surrounding country were keeping
in the Vega, and along the folds of the mountains,
blazed up palely in the moonlight.
The evening was gaily passed in dancing to the
guitar of Lope Sanchez, who was never so joyous
as when on a holiday revel of the kind.
While the dance was going on, the little Sanchica
with some of her playmates sported among
the ruins of an old Moorish fort that crowns the
mountain, when, on gathering pebbles in the
fosse, she found a small hand, curiously carved
of jet, the fingers closed, and the thumb firmly
clasped upon them. Overjoyed with her good
fortune, she ran to her mother with her prize.
It immediately became a subject of sage speculation,
and was eyed by some with superstitious
distrust. “Throw it away,” said one, “it is
Moorish,—depend upon it there's mischief and
witchcraft in it.” “By no means,” said another,
“you may sell it for something to the jewellers
of the Zacatin.” In the midst of this discussion
an old tawny soldier drew near, who had served
in Africa, and was as swarthy as a Moor. He examined
the hand with a knowing look. “I have
seen things of this kind,” said he, “among the
Moors of Barbary. It is of great virtue to guard
enchantments. I give you joy, friend Lope, this
bodes good luck to your child.”
Upon hearing this, the wife of Lope Sanchez
tied the little hand of jet to a riband, and hung
it round the neck of her daughter.
The sight of this talisman called up all the favourite
superstitions about the Moors. The dance
was neglected, and they sat in groups on the
ground, telling old legendary tales handed down
from their ancestors. Some of their stories turned
upon the wonders of the very mountain upon
which they were seated, which is a famous hobgoblin
region.
One ancient crone gave a long account of the
subterranean palace in the bowels of that mountain,
where Boabdil and all his Moslem court
are said to remain enchanted. “Among yonder
ruins,” said she, pointing to some crumbling
walls and mounds of earth on a distant part of the
mountain, “there is a deep black pit that goes
down, down into the very heart of the mountain.
For all the money in Granada, I would not look
down into it. Once upon a time, a poor man of
the Alhambra, who tended goats upon this mountain,
scrambled down into that pit after a kid that
staring, and told such things of what he had seen,
that every one thought his brain was turned. He
raved for a day or two about hobgoblin Moors
that had pursued him in the cavern, and could
hardly be persuaded to drive his goats up again
to the mountain. He did so at last, but, poor
man, he never came down again. The neighbours
found his goats browsing about the Moorish
ruins, and his hat and mantle lying near the
mouth of the pit, but he was never more heard
of.”
The little Sanchica listened with breathless attention
to this story. She was of a curious nature,
and felt immediately a great hankering to
peep into this dangerous pit. Stealing away from
her companions, she sought the distant ruins, and
after groping for some time among them, came
to a small hollow or basin, near the brow of the
mountain, where it swept steeply down into the
valley of the Darro. In the centre of this basin
yawned the mouth of the pit. Sanchica ventured
to the verge and peeped in. All was black as
pitch, and gave an idea of immeasurable depth.
Her blood ran cold—she drew back—then peeped
again—then would have run away—then took
delightful to her. At length she rolled a large
stone, and pushed it over the brink. For some
time it fell in silence; then struck some rocky
projection with a violent crash, then rebounded
from side to side, rumbling and tumbling, with a
noise like thunder, then made a final splash into
water, far, far below, and all was again silent.
The silence, however, did not long continue.
It seemed as if something had been awakened
within this dreary abyss. A murmuring sound
gradually rose out of the pit like the hum and
buzz of a bee-hive. It grew louder and louder:
there was the confusion of voices as of a distant
multitude, together with the faint din of arms,
clash of cymbals, and clangour of trumpets, as if
some army were marshalling for battle in the
very bowels of the mountain.
The child drew off with silent awe, and hastened
back to the place where she had left her parents
and their companions. All were gone.
The bale fire was expiring, and its last wreath of
smoke curling up in the moonshine. The distant
fires that had blazed along the mountains, and
in the Vega were all extinguished; every thing
seemed to have sunk to repose. Sanchica called
but received no reply. She ran down the side
of the mountain, and by the gardens of the Generalife,
until she arrived in the alley of trees leading
to the Alhambra, where she seated herself
on a bench of a woody recess to recover breath.
The bell from the watch-tower of the Alhambra
told midnight. There was a deep tranquillity, as
if all nature slept; excepting the low tinkling
sound of an unseen stream that ran under the covert
of the bushes. The breathing sweetness of
the atmosphere was lulling her to sleep, when
her eye was caught by something glittering at a
distance, and to her surprise, she beheld a long
cavalcade of Moorish warriors pouring down the
mountain side, and along the leafy avenues.
Some were armed with lances and shields;
others with scimetars and battle-axes, and with
polished cuirasses that flashed in the moonbeams.
Their horses pranced proudly, and champed upon
the bit, but their tramp caused no more sound
than if they had been shod with felt, and the
riders were all as pale as death. Among them
rode a beautiful lady with a crowned head and
long golden locks entwined with pearls. The
housings of her palfrey were of crimson velvet
but she rode all disconsolate, with eyes ever fixed
upon the ground.
Then succeeded a train of courtiers magnificently
arrayed in robes and turbans of divers
colours, and amidst these, on a cream coloured
charger, rode king Boabdil el Chico, in a royal
mantle covered with jewels, and a crown sparkling
with diamonds. The little Sanchica knew
him by his yellow beard, and his resemblance to
his portrait, which she had often seen in the picture
gallery of the Generalife. She gazed in
wonder and admiration at this royal pageant as it
passed glistening among the trees, but though
she knew these monarchs, and courtiers, and warriors,
so pale and silent, were out of the common
course of nature, and things of magic or enchantment,
yet she looked on with a bold heart, such
courage did she derive from the mystic talisman
of the hand which was suspended about her neck.
The cavalcade having passed by, she rose and
followed. It continued on to the great gate of
Justice, which stood wide open; the old invalid
centinels on duty, lay on the stone benches of
the Barbican, buried in profound and apparently
charmed sleep, and the phantom pageant swept
triumphant state. Sanchica would have followed,
but, to her surprise, she beheld an opening in the
earth within the Barbican, leading down beneath
the foundations of the tower. She entered
for a little distance, and was encouraged to proceed
by finding steps rudely hewn in the rock,
and a vaulted passage here and there lit up by a
silver lamp, which, while it gave light, diffused
likewise a grateful fragrance. Venturing on, she
came at last to a great hall wrought out of the
heart of the mountain, magnificently furnished in
the Moorish style, and lighted up by silver and
crystal lamps. Here on an ottoman sat an old
man in Moorish dress, with a long white beard,
nodding and dozing, with a staff in his hand, which
seemed ever to be slipping from his grasp; while
at a little distance, sat a beautiful lady, in ancient
Spanish dress, with a coronet all sparkling with
diamonds, and her hair entwined with pearls,
who was softly playing on a silver lyre. The
little Sanchica now recollected a story she had
heard among the old people of the Alhambra,
concerning a Gothic princess confined in the centre
of the mountain by an old Arabian magician,
power of music.
The lady paused with surprise, at seeing a
mortal in that enchanted hall. “Is it the eve of
the blessed St. John?” said she.
“It is,” replied Sanchica.
“Then for one night the magic charm is suspended.
Come hither, child, and fear not, I am a
Christian like thyself, though bound here by enchantment.
Touch my fetters with the talisman
that hangs about thy neck, and for this night I
shall be free.”
So saying, she opened her robes and displayed
a broad golden band round her waist, and a golden
chain that fastened her to the ground. The
child hesitated not to apply the little hand of jet
to the golden band, and immediately the chain
fell to the earth. At the sound the old man
awoke, and began to rub his eyes, but the lady ran
her fingers over the chords of the lyre, and again
he fell into a slumber and began to nod, and his
staff to falter in his hand. “Now,” said the lady,
“touch his staff with the talismanic hand of jet.”
The child did so, and it fell from his grasp, and
he sunk in a deep sleep on the ottoman. The
leaning it against the head of the sleeping magician,
then touching the chords until they vibrated
in his ear, “O potent spirit of harmony,” said
she, “continue thus to hold his senses in thraldom
till the return of day.” “Now follow me,
my child,” continued she, “and thou shalt behold
the Alhambra as it was in the days of its
glory, for thou hast a magic talisman that reveals
all enchantments.” Sanchica followed the lady in
silence. They passed up through the entrance
of the cavern into the Barbican of the gate of
Justice, and thence to the Plaza de las Algibes, or
esplanade within the fortress. This was all filled
with Moorish soldiery, horse and foot, marshalled
in squadrons, with banners displayed. There
were royal guards also at the portal, and rows of
African blacks with drawn scimetars. No one
spoke a word, and Sanchica passed on fearlessly
after her conductor. Her astonishment increased
on entering the royal palace, in which she had
been reared. The broad moonshine lit up all the
halls, and courts, and gardens, almost as brightly
as if it were day; but revealed a far different
scene from that to which she was accustomed.
The walls of the apartments were no longer
they were now hung with rich silks of Damascus,
and the gildings and Arabesque paintings,
were restored to their original brilliancy and
freshness. The halls, instead of being naked and
unfurnished, were set out with divans and ottomans
of the rarest stuffs, embroidered with pearls,
and studded with precious gems, and all the
fountains in the courts and gardens were playing.
The kitchens were again in full operation;
cooks were busied preparing shadowy dishes, and
roasting and boiling the phantoms of pullets and
partridges; servants were hurrying to and fro
with silver dishes heaped up with dainties, and
arranging a delicious banquet. The court of Lions
was thronged with guards, and courtiers, and
alfaquis, as in the old times of the Moors; and
at the upper end, in the saloon of judgment, sat
Boabdil on his throne, surrounded by his court,
and swayed a shadowy sceptre for the night.
Notwithstanding all this throng and seeming
bustle, not a voice or footstep was to be heard;
nothing interrupted the midnight silence but the
plashing of the fountains. The little Sanchica
followed her conductress in mute amazement
about the palace, until they came to a portal opening
tower of Comares. On each side of the portal
sat the figure of a nymph, wrought out of alabaster.
Their heads were turned aside, and their regards
fixed upon the same spot within the vault.
The enchanted lady paused, and beckoned the
child to her. “Here,” said she, “is a great secret,
which I will reveal to thee in reward for
thy faith and courage. These discreet statues
watch over a mighty treasure hidden in old times
by a Moorish king. Tell thy father to search the
spot on which their eyes are fixed, and he will
find what will make him richer than any man in
Granada. Thy innocent hands alone, however,
gifted as thou art also with the talisman, can remove
the treasure. Bid thy father use it discreetly,
and devote a part of it to the performance of
daily masses for my deliverance from this unholy
enchantment.”
When the lady had spoken these words, she led
the child onward to the little garden of Lindaraxa,
which is hard by the vault of the statues. The
moon trembled upon the waters of the solitary
fountain in the centre of the garden, and shed a
tender light upon the orange and citron trees.
The beautiful lady plucked a branch of myrtle
this be a memento,” said she, “of what I have
revealed to thee, and a testimonial of its truth.
My hour is come—I must return to the enchanted
hall; follow me not, lest evil befall thee; farewell,
remember what I have said, and have masses
performed for my deliverance.” So saying,
the lady entered a dark passage leading beneath
the towers of Comares, and was no longer to be
seen.
The faint crowing of a cock was now heard
from the cottages below the Alhambra, in the
valley of the Darro, and a pale streak of light
began to appear above the eastern mountains. A
slight wind arose; there was a sound like the
rustling of dry leaves through the courts and corridors,
and door after door shut to with a jarring
sound. Sanchica returned to the scenes she had
so lately beheld thronged with the shadowy multitude,
but Boabdil and his phantom court were
gone.
The moon shone into empty halls and galleries,
stripped of their transient splendour, stained and
dilapidated by time, and hung with cobwebs; the
bat flitted about in the uncertain light, and the
frog croaked from the fish-pond.
Sanchica now made the best of her way to a
remote staircase that led up to the humble apartment
occupied by her family. The door as usual
was open, for Lope Sanchez was too poor to need
bolt or bar: she crept quietly to her pallet, and,
putting the myrtle wreath beneath her pillow,
soon fell asleep.
In the morning she related all that had befallen
her to her father. Lope Sanchez, however, treated
the whole as a mere dream, and laughed at
the child for her credulity. He went forth to his
customary labours in the garden, but had not
been there long when his little daughter came
running to him almost breathless. “Father! father!”
cried she, “behold the myrtle wreath
which the Moorish lady bound round my head.”
Lope Sanchez gazed with astonishment, for the
stalk of the myrtle was of pure gold, and every
leaf was a sparkling emerald! Being not much
accustomed to precious stones, he was ignorant
of the real value of the wreath, but he saw enough
to convince him that it was something more substantial
than the stuff that dreams are generally
made of, and that at any rate the child had dreamt
to some purpose. His first care was to enjoin
the most absolute secrecy upon his daughter; in
discretion far beyond her years or sex. He then
repaired to the vault where stood the statues of
the two alabaster nymphs. He remarked that
their heads were turned from the portal, and that
the regards of each were fixed upon the same
point in the interior of the building. Lope Sanchez
could not but admire this most discreet contrivance
for guarding a secret. He drew a line
from the eyes of the statues to the point of regard,
made a private mark on the wall, and then
retired.
All day, however, the mind of Lope Sanchez
was distracted with a thousand cares. He could
not help hovering within distant view of the two
statues, and became nervous from the dread
that the golden secret might be discovered.
Every footstep that approached the place, made
him tremble. He would have given any thing
could he but turn the heads of the statues, forgetting
that they had looked precisely in the same
direction for some hundreds of years, without
any person being the wiser. “A plague upon
them,” he would say to himself, “they'll betray
all. Did ever mortal hear of such a mode of
guarding a secret!” Then, on hearing any one
lurking near the place would awaken suspicions.
Then he would return cautiously, and peep from
a distance to see if every thing was secure, but
the sight of the statues would again call forth his
indignation. “Aye, there they stand,” would
he say, “always looking, and looking, and looking,
just where they should not. Confound them!
they are just like all their sex; if they have not
tongues to tattle with, they'll be sure to do it
with their eyes!”
At length, to his relief, the long anxious day
drew to a close. The sound of footsteps was no
longer heard in the echoing halls of the Alhambra;
the last stranger passed the threshold, the
great portal was barred and bolted, and the bat,
and the frog, and the hooting owl gradually resumed
their nightly vocations in the deserted palace.
Lope Sanchez waited, however, until the night
was far advanced, before he ventured with his little
daughter to the hall of the two nymphs. He
found them looking as knowingly and mysteriously
as ever, at the secret place of deposit. “By
your leaves, gentle ladies,” thought Lope Sanchez
as he passed between them, “I will relieve
in your minds for the last two or three centuries.”
He accordingly went to work at the part
of the wall which he had marked, and in a little
while laid open a concealed recess, in which
stood two great jars of porcelain. He attempted
to draw them forth, but they were immovable
until touched by the innocent hand of
his little daughter. With her aid he dislodged
them from their niche, and found, to his great
joy, that they were filled with pieces of Moorish
gold, mingled with jewels and precious stones.
Before daylight he managed to convey them to
his chamber, and left the two guardian statues
with their eyes still fixed on the vacant wall.
Lope Sanchez had thus on a sudden become a
rich man, but riches, as usual, brought a world
of cares, to which he had hitherto been a stranger.
How was he to convey away his wealth
with safety? How was he even to enter upon the
enjoyment of it without awakening suspicion?
Now too, for the first time in his life, the dread
of robbers entered into his mind. He looked
with terror at the insecurity of his habitation,
and went to work to barricado the doors and windows;
yet after all his precautions, he could not
he had no longer a joke or a song for his neighbours,
and, in short, became the most miserable
animal in the Alhambra. His old comrades remarked
this alteration; pitied him heartily, and
began to desert him, thinking he must be falling
into want, and in danger of looking to them for
assistance; little did they suspect that his only
calamity was riches.
The wife of Lope Sanchez shared his anxiety;
but then she had ghostly comfort. We ought
before this to have mentioned, that Lope being
rather a light, inconsiderate little man, his wife
was accustomed, in all grave matters, to seek the
council and ministry of her confessor, Fray Simon,
a sturdy, broad-shouldered, blue-bearded,
bullet-headed friar of the neighbouring convent
of San Francisco, who was, in fact, the spiritual
comforter of half the good wives of the neighbourhood.
He was, moreover, in great esteem among
divers sisterhoods of nuns, who requited him for
his ghostly services by frequent presents of those
little dainties and nicknacks manufactured in
convents, such as delicate confections, sweet biscuits,
and bottles of spiced cordials, found to be
marvellous restoratives after fasts and vigils.
Fray Simon thrived in the exercise of his functions.
His oily skin glistened in the sunshine as
he toiled up the hill of the Alhambra on a sultry
day. Yet notwithstanding his sleek condition,
the knotted rope round his waist showed the austerity
of his self discipline; the multitude doffed
their caps to him as a mirror of piety, and even
the dogs scented the odour of sanctity that exhaled
from his garments, and howled from their
kennels as he passed.
Such was Fray Simon, the spiritual counsellor
of the comely wife of Lope Sanchez, and as the
father confessor is the domestic confidant of women
in humble life in Spain, he was soon made
acquainted, in great secrecy, with the story of the
hidden treasure.
The friar opened eyes and mouth, and crossed
himself a dozen times at the news. After a moment's
pause, “Daughter of my soul!” said he,
“know that thy husband has committed a double
sin, a sin against both state and church! The
treasure he has thus seized upon for himself, being
found in the royal domains, belongs of course
to the crown; but being infidel wealth, rescued,
as it were, from the very fangs of Satan, should
be devoted to the church. Still, however, the
myrtle wreath.”
When the good father beheld it, his eyes twinkled
more than ever, with admiration of the size
and beauty of the emeralds. “This,” said he,
“being the first fruits of this discovery, should
be dedicated to pious purposes. I will hang it
up as a votive offering before the image of San
Francisco in our chapel, and will earnestly pray
to him, this very night, that your husband be permitted
to remain in quiet possession of your
wealth.”
The good dame was delighted to make her
peace with heaven at so cheap a rate, and the
friar, putting the wreath under his mantle, departed
with saintly steps towards his convent.
When Lope Sanchez came home, his wife told
him what had passed. He was excessively provoked,
for he lacked his wife's devotion, and had
for some time groaned in secret at the domestic
visitations of the friar. “Woman,” said he,
“what hast thou done! Thou hast put every
thing at hazard by thy tattling.”
“What!” cried the good woman, “would you
forbid my disburthening my conscience to my
confessor?”
“No, wife! confess as many of your own sins
as you please; but as to this money-digging, it is
a sin of my own, and my conscience is very easy
under the weight of it.”
There was no use, however, in complaining;
the secret was told, and, like water spilled on the
sand, was not again to be gathered. Their only
chance was, that the friar would be discreet.
The next day, while Lope Sanchez was abroad,
there was an humble knocking at the door, and
Fray Simon entered with meek and demure
countenance.
“Daughter,” said he, “I have prayed earnestly
to San Francisco, and he has heard my
prayer. In the dead of the night the saint appeared
to me in a dream, but with a frowning aspect.
`Why,' said he, `dost thou pray to me to
dispense with this treasure of the Gentiles, when
thou seest the poverty of my chapel. Go to the
house of Lope Sanchez, crave in my name a portion
of the Moorish gold to furnish two candle-sticks
for the main altar, and let him possess the
residue in peace.”'
When the good woman heard of this vision,
she crossed herself with awe, and going to the secret
place where Lope had hid the treasure, she
gold, and gave it to the friar. The pious
monk bestowed upon her in return, benedictions
enough, if paid by heaven, to enrich her race to
the latest posterity; then slipping the purse into
the sleeve of his habit, he folded his hands upon
his breast, and departed with an air of humble
thankfulness.
When Lope Sanchez heard of this second donation
to the church, he had well nigh lost his
senses. “Unfortunate man,” cried he, “what
will become of me? I shall be robbed by piece-meal;
I shall be ruined and brought to beggary!”
It was with the utmost difficulty that his wife
could pacify him by reminding him of the countless
wealth that yet remained; and how considerate
it was for San Francisco to rest contented
with so very small a portion.
Unluckily, Fray Simon had a number of poor
relations to be provided for, not to mention some
half dozen sturdy, bullet-headed orphan children
and destitute foundlings, that he had taken under
his care. He repeated his visits, therefore, from
day to day, with salutations on behalf of Saint
Dominick, Saint Andrew, Saint James, until poor
he got out of the reach of this holy friar, he
should have to make peace offerings to every
saint in the kalendar. He determined, therefore,
to pack up his remaining wealth, beat a secret retreat
in the night, and make off to another part
of the kingdom.
Full of his project, he bought a stout mule
for the purpose, and tethered it in a gloomy
vault, underneath the tower of the Seven Floors.
The very place from whence the Bellado or goblin
horse without a head, is said to issue forth at
midnight and to scour the streets of Granada,
pursued by a pack of hell-hounds. Lope Sanchez
had little faith in the story, but availed himself
of the dread occasioned by it, knowing that no
one would be likely to pry into the subterranean
stable of the phantom steed. He sent off his
family in the course of the day, with orders to
wait for him at a distant village of the Vega. As
the night advanced, he conveyed his treasure to
the vault under the tower, and having loaded his
mule, he led it forth, and cautiously descended
the dusky avenue.
Honest Lope had taken his measures with the
utmost secrecy, imparting them to no one but the
revelation, however, they became known to Fray
Simon; the zealous friar beheld these infidel treasures
on the point of slipping for ever out of his
grasp, and determined to have one more dash at
them for the benefit of the church and San
Francisco. Accordingly, when the bells had
rung for animas, and all the Alhambra was quiet,
he stole out of his convent, and, descending
through the gate of Justice, concealed himself
among the thickets of roses and laurels that border
the great avenue. Here he remained, counting
the quarters of hours as they were sounded on
the bell of the watch-tower, and listening to the
dreary hootings of owls, and the distant barking
of dogs from the gipsy caverns.
At length, he heard the tramp of hoofs, and,
through the gloom of the overshadowing trees,
imperfectly beheld a steed descending the avenue.
The sturdy friar chuckled at the idea of
the knowing turn he was about to serve honest
Lope. Tucking up the skirts of his habit, and
wriggling like a cat watching a mouse, he waited
until his prey was directly before him, when
darting forth from his leafy covert, and putting
one hand on the shoulder, and the other on the
the most experienced master of equitation,
and alighted well forked astride the steed.
“Aha!” said the sturdy friar, “we shall now
see who best understands the game.”
He had scarce uttered the words, when the
mule began to kick and rear and plunge, and then
set off at full speed down the hill. The friar attempted
to check him, but in vain. He bounded
from rock to rock, and bush to bush; the friar's
habit was torn to ribands, and fluttered in the
wind, his shaven poll received many a hard
knock from the branches of the trees, and many
a scratch from the brambles. To add to his terror
and distress, he found a pack of seven hounds
in full cry at his heels, and perceived, too late,
that he was actually mounted upon the terrible
Bellado!
Away they went, according to the ancient
phrase, “pull devil, pull friar,” down the great
avenue, across the Plaza Nueva, along the Zacatin,
around the Vivarambla,—never did huntsman
and hound make a more furious run, or more
infernal uproar.
In vain did the friar invoke every saint in the
kalendar, and the holy virgin into the bargain;
was like a fresh application of the spur, and made
the Bellado bound as high as a house. Through
the remainder of the night was the unlucky Fray
Simon, carried hither and thither and whither
he would not, until every bone in his body ached,
and he suffered a loss of leather too grievous to
be mentioned. At length, the crowing of a cock
gave the signal of returning day. At the sound,
the goblin steed wheeled about, and galloped
back for his tower. Again he scoured the Vivarambla,
the Zacatin, the Plaza Nueva, and the
avenue of fountains, the seven dogs yelling and
barking, and leaping up, and snapping at the heels
of the terrified friar. The first streak of day had
just appeared as they reached the tower; here the
goblin steed kicked up his heels, sent the friar a
somerset through the air, plunged into the dark
vault followed by the infernal pack, and a profound
silence succeeded to the late deafening
clamour.
Was ever so diabolical a trick played off upon
holy friar? A peasant going to his labours at early
dawn, found the unfortunate Fray Simon lying
under a fig-tree at the foot of the tower, but so
bruised and bedeviled, that he could neither
and tenderness to his cell, and the story went that
he had been waylaid and maltreated by robbers.
A day or two elapsed before he recovered the
use of his limbs: he consoled himself in the meantime,
with the thoughts that though the mule
with the treasure had escaped him, he had previously
had some rare pickings at the infidel
spoils. His first care on being able to use his
limbs, was to search beneath his pallet, where he
had secreted the myrtle wreath and the leathern
pouches of gold, extracted from the piety of
dame Sanchez. What was his dismay at finding
the wreath, in effect, but a withered branch of
myrtle, and the leathern pouches filled with sand
and gravel!
Fray Simon, with all his chagrin, had the discretion
to hold his tongue, for to betray the secret
might draw on him the ridicule of the public,
and the punishment of his superior; it was not
until many years afterwards, on his death-bed,
that he revealed to his confessor his nocturnal
ride on the Bellado.
Nothing was heard of Lope Sanchez for a long
time after his disappearance from the Alhambra.
His memory was always cherished as that of a
care and melancholy showed in his conduct
shortly before his mysterious departure, that
poverty and distress had driven him to some extremity.
Some years afterwards, one of his old
companions, an invalid soldier, being at Malaga,
was knocked down and nearly run over by a
coach and six. The carriage stopped; an old gentleman
magnificently dressed, with a bag-wig and
sword, stepped out to assist the poor invalid.
What was the astonishment of the latter to behold
in this grand cavalier, his old friend Lope
Sanchez, who was actually celebrating the marriage
of his daughter Sanchica, with one of the
first grandees in the land.
The carriage contained the bridal party.
There was dame Sanchez now grown as round
as a barrel, and dressed out with feathers and
jewels, and necklaces of pearls, and necklaces of
diamonds, and rings on every finger, and altogether
a finery of apparel that had not been seen
since the days of Queen Sheba. The little
Sanchica had now grown to be a woman, and
for grace and beauty might have been mistaken
for a duchess, if not a princess outright. The
spindle-shanked little man, but this only proved
him to be of the true blue blood, a legitimate
Spanish grandee being rarely above three cubits
in stature. The match had been of the mother's
making.
Riches had not spoiled the heart of honest
Lope. He kept his old comrade with him
for several days; feasted him like a king, took
him to plays and bull-fights, and at length sent
him away rejoicing, with a big bag of money
for himself, and another to be distributed among
his ancient messmates of the Alhambra.
Lope always gave out that a rich brother had
died in America, and left him heir to a copper
mine, but the shrewd gossips of the Alhambra,
insist that his wealth was all derived from his
having discovered the secret guarded by the two
marble nymphs of the Alhambra. It is remarked,
that these very discreet statues continue even
unto the present day with their eyes fixed most
significantly on the same part of the wall, which
leads many to suppose there is still some hidden
treasure remaining there, well worthy the attention
of the enterprizing traveller. Though
them with great complacency, as lasting
monuments of the fact, that women can keep a
secret.
| LEGEND
OF
THE TWO DISCREET STATUES. The Alhambra | |