The three beautiful princesses were filled with horror at the idea. With
all her virtuous indignation, the good old woman was of a placable
nature, and easily appeased. Besides, the music seemed to have a
beneficial effect upon her young mistresses. A rosy bloom had already
come to their cheeks, and their eyes began to sparkle. She made no
further objection, therefore, to the amorous ditty of the cavaliers.
When it was finished, the princesses remained silent for a time; at
length Zorayda took up a lute, and with a sweet, though faint and
trembling voice, warbled a little Arabian air, the burden of which was,
“The rose is concealed among her leaves, but she listens with delight to
the song of the nightingale.”
From this time forward the cavaliers worked almost daily in the ravine.
The considerate Hussein Baba became more and more indulgent, and daily
more prone to sleep at his post. For some time a vague intercourse was
kept up by popular songs and romances, which in some measure responded
to each other, and breathed the feelings of the parties. By degrees the
princesses showed themselves at the balcony, when they could do so
without being perceived by the guards. They conversed with the cavaliers
also, by means of flowers, with the symbolical language of which they
were mutually acquainted; the difficulties of their intercourse added to
its charms, and strengthened the passion they had so singularly
conceived; for love delights to struggle with difficulties, and thrives
the most hardily on the scantiest soil.
The change effected in the looks and spirits of the princesses by this
secret intercourse, surprised and gratified the left-handed king; but no
one was more elated than the discreet Kadiga, who considered it all
owing to her able management.
At length there was an interruption in this telegraphic correspondence:
for several days the cavaliers ceased to make their appearance in the
glen. The princesses looked out from the tower in vain. In vain they
stretched their swan-like necks from the balcony; in vain they sang like
captive nightingales in their cage: nothing was to be seen of their
Christian lovers; not a note responded from the groves. The discreet
Kadiga sallied forth in quest of intelligence, and soon returned with a
face full of trouble. “Ah, my children!” cried she, “I saw what all this
would come to, but you would have your way; you may now hang up your
lutes on the willows. The Spanish cavaliers are ransomed by their
families; they are down in Granada, and preparing to return to their
native country.”
The three beautiful princesses were in despair at the tidings. Zayda was
indignant at the slight put upon them, in thus being deserted without a
parting word. Zorayda wrung her hands and cried, and looked in the
glass, and wiped away her tears, and cried afresh. The gentle Zorahayda
leaned over the balcony and wept in silence, and her tears fell drop by
drop among the flowers of the bank where the faithless cavaliers had so
often been seated.
The discreet Kadiga did all in her power to soothe their sorrow. “Take
comfort, my children,” said she, “this is nothing when you are used to
it. This is the way of the world. Ah! when you are as old as I am, you
will know how to value these men. I’ll warrant these cavaliers have
their loves among the Spanish beauties of Cordova and Seville, and will
soon be serenading under their balconies, and thinking no more of the
Moorish beauties in the Alhambra. Take comfort, therefore, my children,
and drive them from your hearts.”
The comforting words of the discreet Kadiga only redoubled the distress
of the three princesses, and for two days they continued inconsolable.
On the morning of the third the good old woman entered their apartment,
all ruffling with indignation.
“Who would have believed such insolence in mortal man!” exclaimed she,
as soon as she could find words to express herself; “but I am rightly
served for having connived at this deception of your worthy father.
Never talk more to me of your Spanish cavaliers.”
“Why, what has happened, good Kadiga?” exclaimed the princesses in
breathless anxiety.
“What has happened?--treason has happened! or, what is almost as bad,
treason has been proposed; and to me, the most faithful of subjects, the
trustiest of duennas! Yes, my children, the Spanish cavaliers have dared
to tamper with me, that I should persuade you to fly with them to
Cordova, and become their wives!”
Here the excellent old woman covered her face with her hands, and gave
way to a violent burst of grief and indignation. The three beautiful
princesses turned pale and red, pale and red, and trembled, and looked
down, and cast shy looks at each other, but said nothing. Meantime the
old woman sat rocking backward and forward in violent agitation, and now
and then breaking out into exclamations,--“That ever I should live to be
so insulted!--I, the most faithful of servants!”
At length the eldest princess, who had most spirit and always took the
lead, approached her and laying her hand upon her shoulder, “Well,
mother,” said she, “supposing we were willing to fly with these
Christian cavaliers--is such a thing possible?”
The good old woman paused suddenly in her grief, and looking up,
“Possible,” echoed she; “to be sure it is possible. Have not the
cavaliers already bribed Hussein Baba, the renegado captain of the
guard, and arranged the whole plan? But, then, to think of deceiving
your father! your father, who has placed such confidence in me!” Here
the worthy woman gave way to a fresh burst of grief, and began again to
rock backward and forward, and to wring her hands.
“But our father has never placed any confidence in us,” said the eldest
princess, “but has trusted to bolts and bars, and treated us as
captives.”
“Why, that is true enough,” replied the old woman, again pausing in her
grief; “he has indeed treated you most unreasonably, keeping you shut up
here, to waste your bloom in a moping old tower, like roses left to
wither in a flower-jar. But, then, to fly from your native land!”
“And is not the land we fly to the native land of our mother, where we
shall live in freedom? And shall we not each have a youthful husband in
exchange for a severe old father?”
“Why, that again is all very true; and your father, I must confess, is
rather tyrannical; but what then,” relapsing into her grief, “would you
leave me behind to bear the brunt of his vengeance?”
“By no means, my good Kadiga; cannot you fly with us?”
“Very true, my child; and, to tell the truth, when I talked the matter
over with Hussein Baba, he promised to take care of me, if I would
accompany you in your flight; but then, bethink you, my children, are
you willing to renounce the faith of your father?”
“The Christian faith was the original faith of our mother,” said the
eldest princess; “I am ready to embrace it, and so, I am sure, are my
sisters.”
“Right again,” exclaimed the old woman, brightening up; “it was the
original faith of your mother, and bitterly did she lament, on her
death-bed, that she had renounced it. I promised her then to take care
of your souls, and I rejoice to see that they are now in a fair way to
be saved. Yes, my children, I too was born a Christian, and have
remained a Christian in my heart, and am resolved to return to the
faith. I have talked on the subject with Hussein Baba, who is a Spaniard
by birth, and comes from a place not far from my native town. He is
equally anxious to see his own country, and to be reconciled to the
Church; and the cavaliers have promised that, if we are disposed to
become man and wife, on returning to our native land, they will provide
for us handsomely.”
In a word, it appeared that this extremely discreet and provident old
woman had consulted with the cavaliers and the renegado, and had
concerted the whole plan of escape. The eldest princess immediately
assented to it; and her example, as usual, determined the conduct of her
sisters. It is true the youngest hesitated, for she was gentle and timid
of soul, and there was a struggle in her bosom between filial feeling
and youthful passion: the latter, however, as usual, gained the victory,
and with silent tears and stifled sighs she prepared herself for flight.
The rugged hill on which the Alhambra is built was, in old times,
perforated with subterranean passages, cut through the rock, and leading
from the fortress to various parts of the city, and to distant
sally-ports on the banks of the Darro and the Xenil. They had been
constructed at different times by the Moorish kings, as means of escape
from sudden insurrections, or of secretly issuing forth on private
enterprises. Many of them are now entirely lost, while others remain,
partly choked with rubbish, and partly walled up,--monuments of the
jealous precautions and warlike stratagems of the Moorish government. By
one of these passages Hussein Baba had undertaken to conduct the
princesses to a sally-port beyond the walls of the city, where the
cavaliers were to be ready with fleet steeds, to bear the whole party
over the borders.
The appointed night arrived; the tower of the princesses had been locked
up as usual, and the Alhambra was buried in deep sleep. Towards midnight
the discreet Kadiga listened from the balcony of a window that looked
into the garden. Hussein Baba, the renegado, was already below, and gave
the appointed signal. The duenna fastened the end of a ladder of ropes
to the balcony, lowered it into the garden and descended. The two eldest
princesses followed her with beating hearts; but when it came to the
turn of the youngest princess, Zorahayda, she hesitated and trembled.
Several times she ventured a delicate little foot upon the ladder, and
as often drew it back, while her poor little heart fluttered more and
more the longer she delayed. She cast a wistful look back into the
silken chamber; she had lived in it, to be sure, like a bird in a cage;
but within it she was secure; who could tell what dangers might beset
her, should she flutter forth into the wide world! Now she bethought her
of her gallant Christian lover, and her little foot was instantly upon
the ladder; and anon she thought of her father, and shrank back. But
fruitless is the attempt to describe the conflict in the bosom of one so
young and tender and loving, but so timid and so ignorant of the world.
In vain her sisters implored, the duenna scolded, and the renegado
blasphemed beneath the balcony; the gentle little Moorish maid stood
doubting and wavering on the verge of elopement; tempted by the
sweetness of the sin, but terrified at its perils.
Every moment increased the danger of discovery. A distant tramp was
heard. “The patrols are walking their rounds,” cried the renegado; “if
we linger, we perish. Princess, descend instantly, or we leave you.”
Zorahayda was for a moment in fearful agitation; then loosening the
ladder of ropes, with desperate resolution she flung it from the
balcony.
“It is decided!” cried she; “flight is now out of my power! Allah guide
and bless ye, my dear sisters!”
The two eldest princesses were shocked at the thoughts of leaving her
behind, and would fain have lingered, but the patrol was advancing; the
renegado was furious, and they were hurried away to the subterraneous
passage. They groped their way through a fearful labyrinth, cut through
the heart of the mountain, and succeeded in reaching, undiscovered, an
iron gate that opened outside of the walls. The Spanish cavaliers were
waiting to receive them, disguised as Moorish soldiers of the guard,
commanded by the renegado.
The lover of Zorahayda was frantic when he learned that she had refused
to leave the tower; but there was no time to waste in lamentations. The
two princesses were placed behind their lovers, the discreet Kadiga
mounted behind the renegado, and they all set off at a round pace in the
direction of the Pass of Lope, which leads through the mountains towards
Cordova.
They had not proceeded far when they heard the noise of drums and
trumpets from the battlements of the Alhambra.
“Our flight is discovered!” said the renegado.
“We have fleet steeds, the night is dark, and we may distance all
pursuit,” replied the cavaliers.
They put spurs to their horses, and scoured across the Vega. They
attained the foot of the mountain of Elvira, which stretches like a
promontory into the plain. The renegado paused and listened. “As yet,”
said he, “there is no one on our traces, we shall make good our escape
to the mountains.” While he spoke, a light blaze sprang up on the top of
the watch-tower of the Alhambra.
“Confusion!” cried the renegado, “that bale fire will put all the guards
of the passes on the alert. Away! away! Spur like mad,--there is no time
to be lost.”
Away they dashed--the clattering of their horses’ hoofs echoed from rock
to rock, as they swept along the road that skirts the rocky mountain of
Elvira. As they galloped on, the bale fire of the Alhambra was answered
in every direction; light after light blazed on the Atalayas, or
watch-towers of the mountains.
“Forward! forward!” cried the renegado, with many an oath, “to the
bridge,--to the bridge, before the alarm has reached there!”
They doubled the promontory of the mountains, and arrived in sight of
the famous Bridge of Pinos, that crosses a rushing stream often dyed
with Christian and Moslem blood. To their confusion, the tower on the
bridge blazed with lights and glittered with armed men. The renegado
pulled up his steed, rose in his stirrups and looked about him for a
moment; then beckoning to the cavaliers, he struck off from the road,
skirted the river for some distance, and dashed into its waters. The
cavaliers called upon the princesses to cling to them, and did the same.
They were borne for some distance down the rapid current, the surges
roared round them, but the beautiful princesses clung to their Christian
knights, and never uttered a complaint. The cavaliers attained the
opposite bank in safety, and were conducted by the renegado, by rude and
unfrequented paths and wild barrancos, through the heart of the
mountains, so as to avoid all the regular passes. In a word, they
succeeded in reaching the ancient city of Cordova; where their
restoration to their country and friends was celebrated with great
rejoicings, for they were of the noblest families. The beautiful
princesses were forthwith received into the bosom of the Church, and,
after being in all due form made regular Christians, were rendered happy
wives.
In our hurry to make good the escape of the princesses across the river,
and up the mountains, we forgot to mention the fate of the discreet
Kadiga. She had clung like a cat to Hussein Baba in the scamper across
the Vega, screaming at every bound, and drawing many an oath from the
whiskered renegado; but when he prepared to plunge his steed into the
river, her terror knew no bounds. “Grasp me not so tightly,” cried
Hussein Baba; “hold on by my belt and fear nothing.” She held firmly
with both hands by the leathern belt that girded the broad-backed
renegado; but when he halted with the cavaliers to take breath on the
mountain summit, the duenna was no longer to be seen.
“What has become of Kadiga?” cried the princesses in alarm.
“Allah alone knows!” replied the renegado; “my belt came loose when in
the midst of the river, and Kadiga was swept with it down the stream.
The will of Allah be done! but it was an embroidered belt, and of great
price.”
There was no time to waste in idle regrets; yet bitterly did the
princesses bewail the loss of their discreet counsellor. That excellent
old woman, however, did not lose more than half of her nine lives in the
water: a fisherman, who was drawing his nets some distance down the
stream, brought her to land, and was not a little astonished at his
miraculous draught. What further became of the discreet Kadiga, the
legend does not mention; certain it is that she evinced her discretion
in never venturing within the reach of Mohamed the Left-handed.
Almost as little is known of the conduct of that sagacious monarch when
he discovered the escape of his daughters, and the deceit practised upon
him by the most faithful of servants. It was the only instance in which
he had called in the aid of counsel, and he was never afterwards known
to be guilty of a similar weakness. He took good care, however, to guard
his remaining daughter, who had no disposition to elope; it is thought,
indeed, that she secretly repented having remained behind: now and then
she was seen leaning on the battlements of the tower, and looking
mournfully towards the mountains in the direction of Cordova, and
sometimes the notes of her lute were heard accompanying plaintive
ditties, in which she was said to lament the loss of her sisters and her
lover, and to bewail her solitary life. She died young, and, according
to popular rumor, was buried in a vault beneath the tower, and her
untimely fate has given rise to more than one traditionary fable.
* * * * *
The following legend, which seems in some measure to spring out of the
foregoing story, is too closely connected with high historic names to be
entirely doubted. The count’s daughter, and some of her young
companions, to whom it was read in one of the evening tertulias, thought
certain parts of it had much appearance of reality; and Dolores, who was
much more versed than they in the improbable truths of the Alhambra,
believed every word of it.
LEGEND OF THE ROSE OF THE ALHAMBRA
For some time after the surrender of Granada by the Moors, that
delightful city was a frequent and favorite residence of the Spanish
sovereigns, until they were frightened away by successive shocks of
earthquakes, which toppled down various houses, and made the old Moslem
towers rock to their foundation.
Many, many years then rolled away, during which Granada was rarely
honored by a royal guest. The palaces of the nobility remained silent
and shut up; and the Alhambra, like a slighted beauty, sat in mournful
desolation among her neglected gardens. The tower of the Infantas, once
the residence of the three beautiful Moorish princesses, partook of the
general desolation; the spider spun her web athwart the gilded vault,
and bats and owls nestled in those chambers that had been graced by the
presence of Zayda, Zorayda, and Zorahayda. The neglect of this tower may
have been partly owing to some superstitious notions of the neighbors.
It was rumored that the spirit of the youthful Zorahayda, who had
perished in that tower, was often seen by moonlight seated beside the
fountain in the hall, or moaning about the battlements, and that the
notes of her silver lute would be heard at midnight by wayfarers passing
along the glen.
At length the city of Granada was once more welcomed by the royal
presence. All the world knows that Philip V. was the first Bourbon that
swayed the Spanish sceptre. All the world knows that he married, in
second nuptials, Elizabetta or Isabella (for they are the same), the
beautiful princess of Parma; and all the world knows that by this chain
of contingencies a French prince and an Italian princess were seated
together on the Spanish throne. For a visit of this illustrious pair,
the Alhambra was repaired and fitted up with all possible expedition.
The arrival of the court changed the whole aspect of the lately deserted
palace. The clangor of drum and trumpet, the tramp of steed about the
avenues and outer court, the glitter of arms and display of banners
about barbican and battlement, recalled the ancient and warlike glories
of the fortress. A softer spirit, however, reigned within the royal
palace. There was the rustling of robes and the cautious tread and
murmuring voice of reverential courtiers about the antechambers; a
loitering of pages and maids of honor about the gardens, and the sound
of music stealing from open casements.
Among those who attended in the train of the monarchs was a favorite
page of the queen, named Ruyz de Alarcon. To say that he was a favorite
page of the queen was at once to speak his eulogium, for every one in
the suite of the stately Elizabetta was chosen for grace, and beauty,
and accomplishments. He was just turned of eighteen, light and lithe of
form, and graceful as a young Antinous. To the queen he was all
deference and respect, yet he was at heart a roguish stripling, petted
and spoiled by the ladies about the court, and experienced in the ways
of women far beyond his years.
This loitering page was one morning rambling about the groves of the
Generalife, which overlook the grounds of the Alhambra. He had taken
with him for his amusement a favorite ger-falcon of the queen. In the
course of his rambles, seeing a bird rising from a thicket, he unhooded
the hawk and let him fly. The falcon towered high in the air, made a
swoop at his quarry, but missing it, soared away, regardless of the
calls of the page. The latter followed the truant bird with his eye, in
its capricious flight, until he saw it alight upon the battlements of a
remote and lonely tower, in the outer wall of the Alhambra, built on the
edge of a ravine that separated the royal fortress from the grounds of
the Generalife. It was in fact the “Tower of the Princesses.”
The page descended into the ravine and approached the tower, but it had
no entrance from the glen, and its lofty height rendered any attempt to
scale it fruitless. Seeking one of the gates of the fortress, therefore,
he made a wide circuit to that side of the tower facing within the
walls.
A small garden, enclosed by a trellis-work of reeds overhung with
myrtle, lay before the tower. Opening a wicket, the page passed between
beds of flowers and thickets of roses to the door. It was closed and
bolted. A crevice in the door gave him a peep into the interior. There
was a small Moorish hall with fretted walls, light marble columns, and
an alabaster fountain surrounded with flowers. In the centre hung a gilt
cage containing a singing-bird; beneath it, on a chair, lay a
tortoise-shell cat among reels of silk and other articles of female
labor, and a guitar decorated with ribbons leaned against the fountain.
Ruyz de Alarcon was struck with these traces of female taste and
elegance in a lonely, and, as he had supposed, deserted tower. They
reminded him of the tales of enchanted halls current in the Alhambra;
and the tortoise-shell cat might be some spell-bound princess.
He knocked gently at the door. A beautiful face peeped out from a little
window above, but was instantly withdrawn. He waited, expecting that the
door would be opened, but he waited in vain; no footstep was to be heard
within--all was silent. Had his senses deceived him, or was this
beautiful apparition the fairy of the tower? He knocked again, and more
loudly. After a little while the beaming face once more peeped forth; it
was that of a blooming damsel of fifteen.
The page immediately doffed his plumed bonnet, and entreated in the most
courteous accents to be permitted to ascend the tower in pursuit of his
falcon.
“I dare not open the door, Señor,” replied the little damsel, blushing,
“my aunt has forbidden it.”
“I do beseech you, fair maid--it is the favorite falcon of the queen: I
dare not return to the palace without it.”
“Are you then one of the cavaliers of the court?”
“I am, fair maid; but I shall lose the queen’s favor and my place, if I
lose this hawk.”
“Santa Maria! It is against you cavaliers of the court my aunt has
charged me especially to bar the door.”
“Against wicked cavaliers, doubtless, but I am none of these, but a
simple, harmless page, who will be ruined and undone if you deny me this
small request.”
The heart of the little damsel was touched by the distress of the page.
It was a thousand pities he should be ruined for the want of so trifling
a boon. Surely too he could not be one of those dangerous beings whom
her aunt had described as a species of cannibal, ever on the prowl to
make prey of thoughtless damsels; he was gentle and modest, and stood so
entreatingly with cap in hand, and looked so charming.