power; the Arabian steed scoured across the plain, leaped the barrier,
plunged into the Tagus, swam its raging current, bore the prince
breathless and amazed to the cavern, and resumed his station, like a
statue, beside the iron table. The prince dismounted right gladly, and
replaced the armor, to abide the further decrees of fate. Then seating
himself in the cavern, he ruminated on the desperate state to which this
demoniac steed and armor had reduced him. Never should he dare to show
his face at Toledo after inflicting such disgrace upon its chivalry and
such an outrage on its king. What too would the princess think of so
rude and riotous an achievement? Full of anxiety, he sent forth his
winged messengers to gather tidings. The parrot resorted to all the
public places and crowded resorts of the city, and soon returned with a
world of gossip. All Toledo was in consternation. The princess had been
borne off senseless to the palace; the tournament had ended in
confusion; every one was talking of the sudden apparition, prodigious
exploits, and strange disappearance of the Moslem knight. Some
pronounced him a Moorish magician; others thought him a demon who had
assumed a human shape, while others related traditions of enchanted
warriors hidden in the caves of the mountains, and thought it might be
one of these, who had made a sudden irruption from his den. All agreed
that no mere ordinary mortal could have wrought such wonders, or
unhorsed such accomplished and stalwart Christian warriors.
The owl flew forth at night and hovered about the dusky city, perching
on the roofs and chimneys. He then wheeled his flight up to the royal
palace, which stood on a rocky summit of Toledo, and went prowling about
its terraces and battlements, eavesdropping at every cranny, and glaring
in with his big goggling eyes at every window where there was a light,
so as to throw two or three maids of honor into fits. It was not until
the gray dawn began to peer above the mountains that he returned from
his mousing expedition, and related to the prince what he had seen.
“As I was prying about one of the loftiest towers of the palace,” said
he, “I beheld through a casement a beautiful princess. She was reclining
on a couch with attendants and physicians around her, but she would none
of their ministry and relief. When they retired, I beheld her draw forth
a letter from her bosom, and read and kiss it, and give way to loud
lamentations; at which, philosopher as I am, I could but be greatly
moved.”
The tender heart of Ahmed was distressed at these tidings. “Too true
were thy words, O sage Eben Bonabben,” cried he; “care and sorrow and
sleepless nights are the lot of lovers. Allah preserve the princess from
the blighting influence of this thing called love!”
Further intelligence from Toledo corroborated the report of the owl. The
city was a prey to uneasiness and alarm. The princess was conveyed to
the highest tower of the palace, every avenue to which was strongly
guarded. In the mean time a devouring melancholy had seized upon her, of
which no one could divine the cause--she refused food and turned a deaf
ear to every consolation. The most skilful physicians had essayed their
art in vain; it was thought some magic spell had been practised upon
her, and the king made proclamation, declaring that whoever should
effect her cure should receive the richest jewel in the royal treasury.
When the owl, who was dozing in a corner, heard of this proclamation, he
rolled his large eyes and looked more mysterious than ever.
“Allah Akbar!” exclaimed he, “happy the man that shall effect that cure,
should he but know what to choose from the royal treasury.”
“What mean you, most reverend owl?” said Ahmed.
“Hearken, O prince, to what I shall relate. We owls, you must know, are
a learned body, and much given to dark and dusty research. During my
late prowling at night about the domes and turrets of Toledo, I
discovered a college of antiquarian owls, who hold their meetings in a
great vaulted tower where the royal treasury is deposited. Here they
were discussing the forms and inscriptions and designs of ancient gems
and jewels, and of golden and silver vessels, heaped up in the treasury,
the fashion of every country and age; but mostly they were interested
about certain relics and talismans that have remained in the treasury
since the time of Roderick the Goth. Among these was a box of
sandal-wood secured by bands of steel of Oriental workmanship, and
inscribed with mystic characters known only to the learned few. This
box and its inscription had occupied the college for several sessions,
and had caused much long and grave dispute. At the time of my visit a
very ancient owl, who had recently arrived from Egypt, was seated on the
lid of the box, lecturing upon the inscription, and he proved from it
that the coffer contained the silken carpet of the throne of Solomon the
Wise; which doubtless had been brought to Toledo by the Jews who took
refuge there after the downfall of Jerusalem.”
When the owl had concluded his antiquarian harangue, the prince remained
for a time absorbed in thought. “I have heard,” said he, “from the sage
Eben Bonabben, of the wonderful properties of that talisman, which
disappeared at the fall of Jerusalem, and was supposed to be lost to
mankind. Doubtless it remains a sealed mystery to the Christians of
Toledo. If I can get possession of that carpet, my fortune is secure.”
The next day the prince laid aside his rich attire, and arrayed himself
in the simple garb of an Arab of the desert. He dyed his complexion to a
tawny hue, and no one could have recognized in him the splendid warrior
who had caused such admiration and dismay at the tournament. With staff
in hand, and scrip by his side, and a small pastoral reed, he repaired
to Toledo, and presenting himself at the gate of the royal palace,
announced himself as a candidate for the reward offered for the cure of
the princess. The guards would have driven him away with blows. “What
can a vagrant Arab like thyself pretend to do,” said they, “in a case
where the most learned of the land have failed?” The king, however,
overheard the tumult, and ordered the Arab to be brought into his
presence.
“Most potent king,” said Ahmed, “you behold before you a Bedouin Arab,
the greater part of whose life has been passed in the solitudes of the
desert. These solitudes, it is well known, are the haunts of demons and
evil spirits, who beset us poor shepherds in our lonely watchings, enter
into and possess our flocks and herds, and sometimes render even the
patient camel furious; against these, our counter-charm is music; and we
have legendary airs handed down from generation to generation, that we
chant and pipe, to cast forth these evil spirits. I am of a gifted line,
and possess this power in its fullest force. If it be any evil influence
of the kind that holds a spell over thy daughter, I pledge my head to
free her from its sway.”
The king, who was a man of understanding, and knew the wonderful secrets
possessed by the Arabs, was inspired with hope by the confident language
of the prince. He conducted him immediately to the lofty tower, secured
by several doors, in the summit of which was the chamber of the
princess. The windows opened upon a terrace with balustrades, commanding
a view over Toledo and all the surrounding country. The windows were
darkened, for the princess lay within, a prey to a devouring grief that
refused all alleviation.
The prince seated himself on the terrace, and performed several wild
Arabian airs on his pastoral pipe, which he had learnt from his
attendants in the Generalife at Granada. The princess continued
insensible, and the doctors who were present shook their heads, and
smiled with incredulity and contempt: at length the prince laid aside
the reed, and, to a simple melody, chanted the amatory verses of the
letter which had declared his passion.
The princess recognized the strain--a fluttering joy stole to her heart;
she raised her head and listened; tears rushed to her eyes and streamed
down her cheeks; her bosom rose and fell with a tumult of emotions. She
would have asked for the minstrel to be brought into her presence, but
maiden coyness held her silent. The king read her wishes, and at his
command Ahmed was conducted into the chamber. The lovers were discreet:
they but exchanged glances, yet those glances spoke volumes. Never was
triumph of music more complete. The rose had returned to the soft cheek
of the princess, the freshness to her lip, and the dewy light to her
languishing eyes.
All the physicians present stared at each other with astonishment. The
king regarded the Arab minstrel with admiration mixed with awe.
“Wonderful youth!” exclaimed he, “thou shalt henceforth be the first
physician of my court, and no other prescription will I take but thy
melody. For the present receive thy reward, the most precious jewel in
my treasury.”
“O king,” replied Ahmed, “I care not for silver or gold or precious
stones. One relic hast thou in thy treasury, handed down from the
Moslems who once owned Toledo--a box of sandal-wood containing a silken
carpet: give me that box, and I am content.”
All present were surprised at the moderation of the Arab, and still more
when the box of sandal-wood was brought and the carpet drawn forth. It
was of fine green silk, covered with Hebrew and Chaldaic characters. The
court physicians looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and
smiled at the simplicity of this new practitioner, who could be content
with so paltry a fee.
“This carpet,” said the prince, “once covered the throne of Solomon the
Wise; it is worthy of being placed beneath the feet of beauty.”
So saying, he spread it on the terrace beneath an ottoman that had been
brought forth for the princess; then seating himself at her feet--
“Who,” said he, “shall counteract what is written in the book of fate?
Behold the prediction of the astrologers verified. Know, O king, that
your daughter and I have long loved each other in secret. Behold in me
the Pilgrim of Love!”
These words were scarcely from his lips when the carpet rose in the air,
bearing off the prince and princess. The king and the physicians gazed
after it with open mouths and straining eyes until it became a little
speck on the white bosom of a cloud, and then disappeared in the blue
vault of heaven.
The king in a rage summoned his treasurer. “How is this,” said he, “that
thou hast suffered an infidel to get possession of such a talisman?”
“Alas, sir, we knew not its nature, nor could we decipher the
inscription of the box. If it be indeed the carpet of the throne of the
wise Solomon, it is possessed of magic power, and can transport its
owner from place to place through the air.”
The king assembled a mighty army, and set off for Granada in pursuit of
the fugitives. His march was long and toilsome. Encamping in the Vega,
he sent a herald to demand restitution of his daughter. The king himself
came forth with all his court to meet him. In the king he beheld the
real minstrel, for Ahmed had succeeded to the throne on the death of his
father, and the beautiful Aldegonda was his sultana.
The Christian king was easily pacified when he found that his daughter
was suffered to continue in her faith; not that he was particularly
pious, but religion is always a point of pride and etiquette with
princes. Instead of bloody battles, there was a succession of feasts and
rejoicings, after which the king returned well pleased to Toledo, and
the youthful couple continued to reign as happily as wisely, in the
Alhambra.
It is proper to add, that the owl and the parrot had severally followed
the prince by easy stages to Granada; the former travelling by night,
and stopping at the various hereditary possessions of his family; the
latter figuring in gay circles of every town and city on his route.
Ahmed gratefully requited the services which they had rendered on his
pilgrimage. He appointed the owl his prime minister, the parrot his
master of ceremonies. It is needless to say that never was a realm more
sagely administered, nor a court conducted with more exact punctilio.
A RAMBLE AMONG THE HILLS
I used frequently to amuse myself towards the close of the day, when the
heat had subsided, with taking long rambles about the neighboring hills
and the deep umbrageous valleys, accompanied by my historiographic
squire, Mateo, to whose passion for gossiping I on such occasions gave
the most unbounded license; and there was scarce a rock, or ruin, or
broken fountain, or lonely glen, about which he had not some marvellous
story; or, above all, some golden legend; for never was poor devil so
munificent in dispensing hidden treasures.
In the course of one of these strolls Mateo was more than usually
communicative. It was toward sunset that we sallied forth from the great
Gate of Justice, and ascended an alley of trees until we came to a clump
of figs and pomegranates at the foot of the Tower of the Seven Floors
(de los siete suelos), the identical tower whence Boabdil is said to
have issued, when he surrendered his capital. Here, pointing to a low
archway in the foundation, Mateo informed me of a monstrous sprite or
hobgoblin, said to infest this tower, ever since the time of the Moors,
and to guard the treasures of a Moslem king. Sometimes it issues forth
in the dead of the night, and scours the avenues of the Alhambra, and
the streets of Granada, in the shape of a headless horse, pursued by six
dogs with terrible yells and howlings.
“But have you ever met with it yourself, Mateo, in any of your rambles?”
demanded I.
“No, Señor, God be thanked! but my grandfather, the tailor, knew several
persons that had seen it, for it went about much oftener in his time
than at present; sometimes in one shape, sometimes in another. Everybody
in Granada has heard of the Belludo, for the old women and the nurses
frighten the children with it when they cry. Some say it is the spirit
of a cruel Moorish king, who killed his six sons and buried them in
these vaults, and that they hunt him at nights in revenge.”
I forbear to dwell upon the marvellous details given by the
simple-minded Mateo about this redoubtable phantom, which has, in fact,
been time out of mind a favorite theme of nursery tales and popular
tradition in Granada, and of which honorable mention is made by an
ancient and learned historian and topographer of the place.
Leaving this eventful pile, we continued our course, skirting the
fruitful orchards of the Generalife, in which two or three nightingales
were pouring forth a rich strain of melody. Behind these orchards we
passed a number of Moorish tanks, with a door cut into the rocky bosom
of the hill, but closed up. These tanks, Mateo informed me, were
favorite bathing-places of himself and his comrades in boyhood, until
frightened away by a story of a hideous Moor, who used to issue forth
from the door in the rock to entrap unwary bathers.
Leaving these haunted tanks behind us, we pursued our ramble up a
solitary mule-path winding among the hills, and soon found ourselves
amidst wild and melancholy mountains, destitute of trees, and here and
there tinted with scanty verdure. Everything within sight was severe and
sterile, and it was scarcely possible to realize the idea that but a
short distance behind us was the Generalife, with its blooming orchards
and terraced gardens, and that we were in the vicinity of delicious
Granada, that city of groves and fountains. But such is the nature of
Spain; wild and stern the moment it escapes from cultivation; the desert
and the garden are ever side by side.
The narrow defile up which we were passing is called, according to
Mateo, _el Barranco de la tinaja_, or the ravine of the jar, because a
jar full of Moorish gold was found here in old times. The brain of poor
Mateo was continually running upon these golden legends.
“But what is the meaning of the cross I see yonder upon a heap of
stones, in that narrow part of the ravine?”
“Oh, that’s nothing--a muleteer was murdered there some years since.”
“So then, Mateo, you have robbers and murderers even at the gates of the
Alhambra?”
“Not at present, Señor; that was formerly, when there used to be many
loose fellows about the fortress; but they’ve all been weeded out. Not
but that the gypsies who live in caves in the hill-sides, just out of
the fortress, are many of them fit for anything; but we have had no
murder about here for a long time past. The man who murdered the
muleteer was hanged in the fortress.”
Our path continued up the barranco, with a bold, rugged height to our
left, called the “Silla del Moro,” or Chair of the Moor, from the
tradition already alluded to, that the unfortunate Boabdil fled thither
during a popular insurrection, and remained all day seated on the rocky
summit, looking mournfully down on his factious city.
We at length arrived on the highest part of the promontory above
Granada, called the mountain of the sun. The evening was approaching;
the setting sun just gilded the loftiest heights. Here and there a
solitary shepherd might be descried driving his flock down the
declivities, to be folded for the night; or a muleteer and his lagging
animals, threading some mountain path to arrive at the city gates before
nightfall.
Presently the deep tones of the Cathedral bell came swelling up the
defiles, proclaiming the hour of “oration” or prayer. The note was
responded to from the belfry of every church, and from the sweet bells
of the convents among the mountains. The shepherd paused on the fold of
the hill, the muleteer in the midst of the road; each took off his hat
and remained motionless for a time, murmuring his evening prayer. There
is always something pleasingly solemn in this custom, by which, at a
melodious signal, every human being throughout the land unites at the
same moment in a tribute of thanks to God for the mercies of the day. It
spreads a transient sanctity over the land, and the sight of the sun
sinking in all his glory adds not a little to the solemnity of the
scene.
In the present instance the effect was heightened by the wild and lonely
nature of the place. We were on the naked and broken summit of the
haunted mountain of the sun, where ruined tanks and cisterns, and the
mouldering foundations of extensive buildings, spoke of former
populousness, but where all was now silent and desolate.
As we were wandering about among these traces of old times, we came to a
circular pit, penetrating deep into the bosom of the mountain; which
Mateo pointed out as one of the wonders and mysteries of the place. I
supposed it to be a well dug by the indefatigable Moors, to obtain their
favorite element in its greatest purity. Mateo, however, had a different
story, and one much more to his humor. According to a tradition, in
which his father and grandfather firmly believed, this was an entrance
to the subterranean caverns of the mountain, in which Boabdil and his
court lay bound in magic spell, and whence they sallied forth at night,
at allotted times, to revisit their ancient abodes.
“Ah, Señor, this mountain is full of wonders of the kind. In another
place there was a hole somewhat like this, and just within it hung an
iron pot by a chain; nobody knew what was in that pot, for it was always
covered up; but everybody supposed it full of Moorish gold. Many tried
to draw it forth, for it seemed just within reach; but the moment it was
touched it would sink far, far down, and not come up again for some
time. At last one who thought it must be enchanted touched it with the
cross, by way of breaking the charm; and faith he did break it, for the
pot sank out of sight and never was seen any more.
“All this is fact, Señor; for my grandfather was an eye-witness.”
“What! Mateo; did he see the pot?”
“No, Señor, but he saw the hole where the pot had hung.”
“It’s the same thing, Mateo.”
The deepening twilight, which in this climate is of short duration,
admonished us to leave this haunted ground. As we descended the mountain
defile, there was no longer herdsman nor muleteer to be seen, nor
anything to be heard but our own footsteps and the lonely chirping of
the cricket. The shadows of the valley grew deeper and deeper, until all
was dark around us. The lofty summit of the Sierra Nevada alone
retained a lingering gleam of daylight; its snowy peaks glaring against
the dark blue firmament, and seeming close to us, from the extreme
purity of the atmosphere.
“How near the Sierra looks this evening!” said Mateo; “it seems as if
you could touch it with your hand; and yet it is many long leagues off.”
While he was speaking, a star appeared over the snowy summit of the
mountain, the only one yet visible in the heavens, and so pure, so
large, so bright and beautiful, as to call forth ejaculations of delight
from honest Mateo.
“Que estrella hermosa! que clara y limpia es!--No pueda ser estrella mas
brillante!”
(What a beautiful star! how clear and lucid!--a star could not be more
brilliant!)
I have often remarked this sensibility of the common people of Spain to
the charms of natural objects. The lustre of a star, the beauty or
fragrance of a flower, the crystal purity of a fountain, will inspire
them with a kind of poetical delight; and then, what euphonious words
their magnificent language affords, with which to give utterance to
their transports!
“But what lights are those, Mateo, which I see twinkling along the
Sierra Nevada, just below the snowy region, and which might be taken for
stars, only that they are ruddy, and against the dark side of the
mountain?”
“Those, Señor, are fires, made by the men who gather snow and ice for
the supply of Granada. They go up every afternoon with mules and asses,
and take turns, some to rest and warm themselves by the fires, while
others fill the panniers with ice. They then set off down the mountains,
so as to reach the gates of Granada before sunrise. That Sierra Nevada,
Señor, is a lump of ice in the middle of Andalusia, to keep it all cool
in summer.”
It was now completely dark; we were passing through the barranco, where
stood the cross of the murdered muleteer, when I beheld a number of
lights moving at a distance, and apparently advancing up the ravine. On
nearer approach they proved to be torches borne by a train of uncouth
figures arrayed in black: it would have been a procession dreary enough
at any time, but was peculiarly so in this wild and solitary place.
Mateo drew near, and told me, in a low voice, that it was a funeral
train bearing a corpse to the burying-ground among the hills.
As the procession passed by, the lugubrious light of the torches,
falling on the rugged features and funeral-weeds of the attendants, had
the most fantastic effect, but was perfectly ghastly, as it revealed the
countenance of the corpse, which, according to the Spanish custom, was
borne uncovered on an open bier. I remained for some time gazing after
the dreary train as it wound up the dark defile of the mountain. It put
me in mind of the old story of a procession of demons bearing the body
of a sinner up the crater of Stromboli.
“Ah! Señor,” cried Mateo, “I could tell you a story of a procession once
seen among these mountains, but then you’d laugh at me, and say it was
one of the legacies of my grandfather the tailor.”
“By no means, Mateo. There is nothing I relish more than a marvellous
tale.”
“Well, Señor, it is about one of those very men we have been talking of,
who gather snow on the Sierra Nevada.