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 of which dreams are generally made, 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 this respect,
however, he was secure, for she had 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 anything could he but have turned 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 advance, he would steal off, as though his very lurking near the
place would awaken suspicion. Then he would return cautiously, and peep
from a distance to see if everything was secure, but the sight of the
statues would again call forth his indignation. “Ay, 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 you from this charge that
must have set so heavy 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 barricade the doors and windows; yet after all his
precautions he could not sleep soundly. His usual gayety was at an end,
he had no longer a joke or a song for his neighbors, 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 counsel and ministry of her confessor Fray Simon, a
sturdy, broad-shouldered, blue-bearded, bullet-headed friar of the
neighboring convent of San Francisco, who was in fact the spiritual
comforter of half the good wives of the neighborhood. 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
knick-knacks 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 odor 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 acquainted, in great secrecy, with
the story of the hidden treasure.
The friar opened his 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 hath 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 matter may be
accommodated. Bring hither thy 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 toward 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 everything at
hazard by thy tattling.”
“What!” cried the good woman, “would you forbid my disburdening 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 earnestly prayed 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 candlesticks 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
filled a great leathern purse with pieces of Moorish 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
wellnigh lost his senses. “Unfortunate man,” cried he, “what will become
of me? I shall be robbed by piecemeal; 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 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 solicitations on behalf of
Saint Dominick, Saint Andrew, Saint James, until poor Lope was driven to
despair, and found that unless he got out of the reach of this holy
friar, he should have to make peace-offerings to every saint in the
calendar. 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 whence the Belludo, or goblin horse, is said to issue
forth at midnight, and 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 faithful wife of his bosom. By some miraculous
revelation, however, they became known to Fray Simon. The zealous friar
beheld these infidel treasures on the point of slipping forever 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 watchtower, and listening to the dreary hootings of owls,
and the distant barking of dogs from the gypsy caverns.
At length he heard the tramp of hoofs, and, through the gloom of the
overshading 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 crupper, he made a vault that would not have disgraced
the most experienced master of equitation, and alighted well-forked
astride the steed. “Ah ha!” 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 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
ribbons 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 Belludo!
Away then they went, according to the ancient phrase, “pull devil, pull
friar,” down the great avenue, across the Plaza Nueva, along the
Zacatin, around the Vivarrambla--never did huntsman and hound make a
more furious run, or more infernal uproar. In vain did the friar invoke
every saint in the calendar, and the holy Virgin into the bargain; every
time he mentioned a name of the kind it was like a fresh application of
the spur, and made the Belludo 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 Vivarrambla, 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 summerset through the air,
plunged into the dark vault followed by the infernal pack, and a
profound silence succeeded to the late deafening clamor.
Was ever so diabolical a trick played off upon a holy friar? A peasant
going to his labors at early dawn found the unfortunate Fray Simon lying
under a fig-tree at the foot of the tower, but so bruised and bedevilled
that he could neither speak nor move. He was conveyed with all care 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 mean time, 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 Belludo.
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 merry companion, though it was feared, from the care and melancholy
observed 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, 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 bridegroom sat beside her--rather a withered
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 enterprising traveller. Though
others, and particularly all female visitors, regard them with great
complacency as lasting monuments of the fact that women can keep a
secret.
THE CRUSADE OF THE GRAND MASTER OF ALCÁNTARA
In the course of a morning’s research among the old chronicles in the
Library of the University, I came upon a little episode in the history
of Granada, so strongly characteristic of the bigot zeal which sometimes
inflamed the Christian enterprises against this splendid but devoted
city, that I was tempted to draw it forth from the parchment-bound
volume in which it lay entombed, and submit it to the reader.
In the year of redemption, 1394, there was a valiant and devout grand
master of Alcántara, named Martin Yañez de Barbudo, who was inflamed
with a vehement desire to serve God and fight the Moors. Unfortunately
for this brave and pious cavalier, a profound peace existed between the
Christian and Moslem powers. Henry III had just ascended the throne of
Castile, and Yusef ben Mohammed had succeeded to the throne of Granada,
and both were disposed to continue the peace which had prevailed between
their fathers. The grand master looked with repining at Moorish banners
and weapons, which decorated his castle-hall, trophies of the exploits
of his predecessors; and repined at his fate to exist in a period of
such inglorious tranquillity.
At length his impatience broke through all bounds, and seeing that he
could find no public war in which to engage, he resolved to carve out a
little war for himself. Such at least is the account given by some
ancient chronicles, though others give the following as the motive for
this sudden resolution to go campaigning.
As the grand master was one day seated at table with several of his
cavaliers, a man suddenly entered the hall,--tall, meagre, and bony,
with haggard countenance and fiery eye. All recognized him for a hermit,
who had been a soldier in his youth, but now led a life of penitence in
a cave. He advanced to the table and struck upon it with a fist that
seemed of iron. “Cavaliers,” said he, “why sit ye here idly, with your
weapons resting against the wall, while the enemies of the faith lord it
over the fairest portion of the land?”
“Holy father, what wouldst thou have us do,” asked the grand master,
“seeing the wars are over and our swords bound up by treaties of peace?”
“Listen to my words,” replied the hermit. “As I was seated late at night
at the entrance of my cave, contemplating the heavens, I fell into a
reverie, and a wonderful vision was presented to me. I beheld the moon,
a mere crescent, yet luminous as the brightest silver, and it hung in
the heavens over the kingdom of Granada. While I was looking at it,
behold there shot forth from the firmament a blazing star, which, as it
went, drew after it all the stars of heaven; and they assailed the moon
and drove it from the skies; and the whole firmament was filled with the
glory of that blazing star. While mine eyes were yet dazzled by this
wondrous sight, some one stood by me with snowy wings and a shining
countenance. ‘Oh man of prayer,’ said he, ‘get thee to the grand master
of Alcántara and tell him of the vision thou hast beheld. He is the
blazing star, destined to drive the crescent, the Moslem emblem, from
the land. Let him boldly draw the sword and continue the good work begun
by Pelazo of old, and victory will assuredly attend his banner.’”
The grand master listened to the hermit as to a messenger from heaven,
and followed his counsel in all things. By his advice he dispatched two
of his stoutest warriors, armed _cap-à-pie_, on an embassy to the
Moorish king. They entered the gates of Granada without molestation, as
the nations were at peace; and made their way to the Alhambra, where
they were promptly admitted to the king, who received them in the Hall
of Ambassadors. They delivered their message roundly and hardly. “We
come, O King, from Don Martin Tañez de Barbudo, grand master of
Alcántara; who affirms the faith of Jesus Christ to be true and holy,
and that of Mahomet false and detestable, and he challenges thee to
maintain the contrary, hand to hand, in single combat. Shouldst thou
refuse, he offers to combat with one hundred cavaliers against two
hundred; or, in like proportion, to the number of one thousand, always
allowing thy faith a double number of champions. Remember, O King, that
thou canst not refuse this challenge; since thy prophet, knowing the
impossibility of maintaining his doctrines by argument, has commanded
his followers to enforce them with the sword.”
The beard of King Yusef trembled with indignation. “The master of
Alcántara,” said he, “is a madman to send such a message, and ye are
saucy knaves to bring it.”
So saying, he ordered the ambassadors to be thrown into a dungeon, by
way of giving them a lesson in diplomacy; and they were roughly treated
on their way thither by the populace, who were exasperated at this
insult to their sovereign and their faith.
The grand master of Alcántara could scarcely credit the tidings of the
maltreatment of his messengers; but the hermit rejoiced when they were
repeated to him. “God,” said he, “has blinded this infidel king for his
downfall. Since he has sent no reply to thy defiance, consider it
accepted. Marshal thy forces, therefore; march forward to Granada; pause
not until thou seest the gate of Elvira. A miracle will be wrought in
thy favor. There will be a great battle; the enemy will be overthrown;
but not one of thy soldiers will be slain.”
The grand master called upon every warrior zealous in the Christian
cause to aid him in this crusade. In a little while three hundred
horsemen and a thousand foot-soldiers rallied under his standard. The
horsemen were veterans, seasoned to battle and well-armed; but the
infantry were raw and undisciplined. The victory, however, was to be
miraculous; the grand master was a man of surpassing faith, and knew
that the weaker the means the greater the miracle. He sallied forth
confidently, therefore, with his little army, and the hermit strode
ahead, bearing a cross on the end of a long pole, and beneath it the
pennon of the order of Alcántara.