HOW ONE MOOR REMAINED, AND FIVE WENT AWAY
Two days had passed from the time that Rodrigo entered Burgos with the
spoils which he had taken in the mountains of Oca, and Teresa Nuña,
Ximena, Lambra, and Mayor were amusing themselves, talking to and
caressing the Moorish boy, saved by the kind-hearted Castilian general
on the field of battle. The boy was very handsome, and spoke the Romance
language with tolerable facility, as he had learned it from the
Christian captives who had always been servants in the house of his
father.
Those kind women had received him well, as Fernan prophesied, and
lavished on him all the caresses which a tender mother has for her
children when she sees them sad and disconsolate. The poor little
fellow, who, notwithstanding the kind manner in which Rodrigo treated
him, had been sad and downcast, now recovered courage and joyousness;
and even tears of gratitude and pleasure sprang from his beautiful and
expressive eyes. Lambra was almost mad with delight on account of the
handsome boy; the honoured and faithful dueña, who had envied a thousand
times the happiness of mothers who had children to caress and to be
caressed by, saw in anticipation the joy she would experience when her
mistress and Rodrigo would be married, a joy which was her golden dream,
and which would consist in having children by her side, to whom she
could be, in a certain sense, a mother. Even Mayor participated in
the contentment of her mistress and of the dueña, for without doubt she
saw in that pretty child what she hoped the fruit of her love for Fernan
would be.
The tender sympathy which binds children to women certainly moves and
consoles the soul, whether those women are mothers or those who have
never experienced the pains and delights of maternity. A poor,
unprotected child often appeals in vain to the heart of a man, but never
to that of a woman. When, covered with rags, shivering with cold, and
famished with hunger, it appeals to public charity in the streets, let
us count the men and the women who aid it, and we will see that the
number of the former is very much less than of the latter. What
consoling words often escape in such cases from a woman's lips!
"Have you no mother?"
"Poor little angel!"
"Alas for mothers who have given birth to children, to see them thus!"
Such as these are the words which the lips of women pronounce over the
unhappy child.
Let us bring back our memory to the calm days of our childhood, let us
bring to mind what sex it was that dried our tears, impressed kisses on
our cheeks, lulled us to repose with songs, watched over our sleep, took
part in our games, divined our wishes in order to satisfy them, wept
when we were in grief, and celebrated with deep contentment our good
health and joy. The name of a woman will be always bound up with those
recollections, whether it be that of our mother or of some other. God,
who foresees everything, who never entirely abandons the weak, has given
the child a mother in almost every woman.
Let us wander through the streets, let us go into villages, let us enter
the dwellings of the wealthy, and then let us pass on to the cottages of
the poor--wherever God has not given a vulgar and stony heart, we shall
find the essence of poetry and of sentiment in the multitude of names
with which, everywhere, women express their tenderness for children.
"My love!" "My delight!" "My treasure!" "My glory!" they exclaim,
kissing with rapture the rosy cheek of an angel. And those names, not
studied, but rushing spontaneously from the heart, are they not of more
value than all the loving expressions that poets have ever invented?
The sentiments with which children inspire women raise them above vulgar
surroundings, and purify their souls with the holy fire of poetry. When
we see women filled with such feelings, let us ask them why they love
children, and they will reply to us with these words, or similar ones--
"Because, when we seek for angels on earth, we can only find them in
these little children."
If for other qualities, for other virtues, for other attractions, women
do not merit the love and respect of all generous and good souls, they
deserve it for the sympathy which children awaken in their hearts.
Let those be blessed and loved who understand and experience the feeling
which moved the lips of the divine Nazarene when He said, "Suffer the
little children to come unto Me!"
"Ismael," said Ximena to the Moorish boy, "did you ever know your
mother?"
"Yes, kind Christian; she was beautiful and good, and loved me as you
do; but Allah took her to Paradise just at the end of the last Ramadan."
"Son of my soul!" exclaimed Teresa Nuña, "and did you love her much?"
"Ah yes," replied the child, "and yet she did not take me with her."
His eyes overflowed with tears, and he continued--
"When holy Allah called her to Paradise, my father and I wept very
much. A short time after the king was enrolling people for the war, and
my father asked me, 'Would you wish to go see your mother?' 'Oh yes,' I
answered. On that very day he took me up behind him on his horse, and we
set out for the frontiers of Castile. 'We are going to the war, my son,'
said my father to me, on the road; 'I trust that we may be killed in it,
for then we shall fly to Paradise, and never again be separated from
your mother, who is there.'"
The boy interrupted his story for a moment, bursting into sobs, and then
added--
"My father went to Paradise to see my mother, ... and he too did not
take me with him."
"Poor little fellow!" exclaimed the compassionate women, who surrounded
Ismael, caressing him and endeavouring to console him, just as affected
as he was.
"Unhappy child!" said Lambra; "what he wishes is to return to his own
country."
"Would you like to go back to your native country, my son?" asked
Teresa. "Do you wish to return to Molina?"
"My parents are not there now," answered the child in a despairing tone.
"I wish to remain with you, who are good and loving like my mother."
"Well, then, remain with us; for we will love you, as your mother did,
my son."
"How good the Christians are, how good!" exclaimed the child, not
knowing how to show his gratitude to those who were pitying and
consoling him.
"And would you like to be a Christian?" asked Teresa Nuña.
"If you are to be my mothers, I will adore the Prophet whom you adore.
My mother used to say that children should adore the God that their
mother adored; and does not the Nazarene, your Prophet, love children?"
"Yes, my son; children are the principal objects of His love: He
delighted, when He was on earth, to converse with them, He was angry
with those who ill-treated them and prevented them from going to Him,
and He leaves the gates of heaven always open for them."
"Oh, how good your Prophet is! I wish to adore the Nazarene," exclaimed
the child enthusiastically.
Teresa Nuña and Ximena then left him for a short time, feeling sure that
Lambra and Mayor would take good care of him while they were away.
Soon after Fernan came in, whilst the two women were questioning the
child respecting his country and parents, and the boy was replying to
them with visible emotion.
"By the soul of Beelzebub," exclaimed the squire, "they are simply fools
to torment this poor little chap by reminding him of the good things he
has lost, which is the saddest of remembrances. That's the way women
always understand tenderness; they kiss just as cruelly as they bite. I
will ask my mistresses, Doña Teresa and Doña Ximena, to entrust the
training of this little Moor to me; he is worth all the Moors in the
world. They will soon see how I shall make him a perfect horseman, and
also able to give lance thrusts, which will be worth a king's treasure."
The tone of Fernan was rough enough, and his words severe; but the face
and manners of the squire were stamped with such frankness and goodness
of heart, that Ismael, far from being frightened, ran to meet him, and
clasped his legs affectionately with his little arms.
"May I turn Moor," said the soft-hearted squire, "if this young chap
isn't worth all the spoils we took in the Oca mountains! Every time I
think of it, I feel more inclined to give that fool of an Alvar a good
cudgelling for finding fault with Don Rodrigo because he put this
splendid little fellow into a litter."
And Fernan took up Ismael in his herculean arms, and kissed him with
enthusiasm, saying--
"I would give you a thousand kisses, only that I am afraid of rasping
your rosy cheeks with my beard; but I will shave, and then I can kiss
you as much as I like. Are you fond of arms and horses, my boy?"
"Oh yes!" cried the child, jumping with joy. "Have you arms and a
horse?"
"Of course I have," answered the squire. "To-morrow morning we will go
to the stables, and there I will teach you to ride, and to use a lance
and sword. I swear by Beelzebub, that when you grow up, you must come to
the wars with Don Rodrigo and me, and fight like Bernardo at
Roncesvalles."
"Bring me to the stables now," said the child, "and show me your horse
and arms."
"You are very impatient, little chap. But I suppose I must humour you;
and your vivacity pleases me."
And thus speaking, Fernan took the little Moor by the hand, who was
jumping with pleasure and impatience to get to the stables.
"Don't take the child away, Fernan," said Mayor, "for if my mistresses
ask for him, they will be annoyed with Lambra and me for not having kept
him with us."
And she went to take Ismael by the hand which was free, in order to
remove him from Fernan; the squire, however, pushed her away, and
disappeared with the boy, saying--
"He will go wherever I please, and all the women in the world shall not
take him from me. By the soul of Beelzebub, that is a nice way to train
up children--keeping them always tied to women's petticoats! That's the
way hens bring up their chickens--and they become hens."
When the squire and the boy arrived at the stables, Fernan showed the
horses to Ismael, who was insisting on being put on the backs of all of
them. At last, to satisfy the child, Fernan mounted him on Overo, which
he saddled, and the animal, with a patience comparable to that of his
master, yielded to all the caprices of the child; sometimes quickening
his pace, sometimes going slowly, now turning to the right, now to the
left. They then went to the harness-room, and Fernan prepared to give
Ismael his first lesson in the use of the lance. He made him mount, in a
saddle placed on an arm-stand, put into his hand, to serve as a lance, a
stick a few feet long, made a mark on a post in front, and fastened a
strong piece of cord to the front of the arm-stand; he then gave him, as
a shield, the cover of a tin vessel used for carrying water to the
horses, through the handle of which he put his arm; when he had thus
accoutred him, he lectured him on the proper way of holding both
offensive and defensive arms. Then the good Fernan ordered him to
prepare to charge, and to keep his feet well in, so that they might not
be hurt; the boy did this, and the squire, taking hold of the cord,
dragged on, by means of it, the arm-stand and him who was mounted on it,
very quickly. The boy made his thrust too soon, and did not strike the
mark.
"I vow to Judas Iscariot," exclaimed Fernan, "that he will spoil his
best strokes by his impetuosity."
"My horse did not gallop fast enough," replied the child.
"Well, then," said Fernan, "get ready for a second charge, and take care
not to miss your aim."
"You will see, you will see how I shall hit the mark this time."
The little Moor got ready again, and Fernan pulled the cord more rapidly
than before; Ismael, however, made the thrust too soon, and went even
farther from the mark than on the first occasion.
"By the soul of Beelzebub," cried the squire, stamping fiercely on the
ground, "that would put holy Job himself out of patience. He thinks, I
suppose, that he will do better by making his thrusts too soon."
"I won't charge any more now," said the boy, more vexed by his own want
of dexterity than by the annoyance of Fernan. Then throwing away the tin
cover and the stick, he began to run back to the place from which the
squire had taken him.
"Come back, my son, come back," cried Fernan; but it was in vain, for
Ismael was already with Lambra and Mayor.
"Curses on my impatience!" exclaimed Fernan, giving himself a cuff on
the side of his head. "What else could the poor little fellow do but run
away from me, when I treated him worse than a slave?"
He then went off in search of the little Moor, and shortly afterwards
they were playing together as if both were children.
Whilst Fernan was thus amusing himself with Ismael, another scene, not
less interesting, was being performed in a large apartment, in which the
De Vivar family usually assembled. Rodrigo was relating to his parents
and to his wife the innumerable brave deeds of his soldiers at the
battle of Oca, remaining silent as to his own, for the noble cavalier
was as modest as he was valiant. He spoke also of the bravery of the
enemy, for he was so just and honourable that he could not refrain from
praising merit wherever it might be found.
"The hostile army," he said, "was numerous; but there were very many who
fought for no other cause but that of pillage, and it was those who
first turned their backs on our swords and lances. The Castilian troops
fought with great bravery; but the victory could not have been won so
soon if the enemy had had a few hundred men as brave as their leaders.
Those Moorish kings, whom I brought here as prisoners, in order that
they might do homage to my parents and to my Ximena, for you are all
worthy of it--those kings, I say, and especially Abengalvon of Molina,
fought as valiantly as the most perfect cavaliers in the world."
"Oh, how unfortunate they are, and how worthy of being well treated!"
exclaimed at the same time both Teresa and Ximena, whose souls were
always inclined to compassion.
"For that reason," said Rodrigo, "I have treated them not as wretched
captives, who are generally loaded with chains, but as kings, to whom
those who receive them in their houses allot the best apartments,
believing themselves honoured by having them under their roof; for that
reason I intend to restore them to liberty this very day, if you, my
parents, and you, Ximena, approve of my resolve."
"Yes, Rodrigo, yes," exclaimed all, with pleased accents. "Sad
captives!" added Teresa. "In their own land they have, most likely,
wives, children, or parents who weep over their absence, believing them
dead or lost to them for ever."
"My son," said old Diego, giving his trembling hand to Rodrigo, and
visibly affected, "your heart is worthy of a cavalier; not in vain was I
the author of your being, not in vain does my blood run in your veins,
not in vain are you descended from the noblest race of Castile. Oh, if
Lain Calvo, your grandfather, could raise his noble head from the
sepulchre! During my long life I have constantly laboured for the cause
of Castile--to make it greater and better--for the honour of our house,
and for the triumph of the faith; and God has amply recompensed me by
giving me a son as good as you are. My strength is failing, my breathing
is becoming difficult, my term of life is but short; but what is death
to a cavalier when he dies honoured, as I am, and when he leaves a
successor as good as you are? Restore to freedom at once those royal
captives; in the eyes of your father, and in the eyes of all that are
good, such an act of generosity will be one of your best triumphs."
Yes, Diego was right; on that day Rodrigo achieved one of his noblest
triumphs, for to him, the most affectionate of sons and the most loving
of husbands, the greatest glory was the words which he heard from his
parents and from his wife, and the pleasure which they experienced by
his act.
"Dear parents and dear Ximena," he said, as moved as they were, "let us
go now to set the captives free. If they wish to acknowledge themselves
our vassals, let them do so, but if not, they shall be equally free."
Rodrigo and his family then proceeded to the prison of the Moorish
kings. We have said to the prison, but the apartments of Abengalvon and
his companions did not deserve such a name. They were situated in the
ground floor of the building, having an entrance into beautiful gardens,
and were certainly in every respect suitable for kings. Rodrigo and his
family descended to them by a wide staircase, which placed in
communication the two habitable floors of which the building consisted,
and then requested permission of the Moors to be permitted to present
themselves to them. The royal captives came forth to meet them with
signs of respect and apprehension, and were about to prostrate
themselves before Rodrigo; but he prevented them, with kind words, which
filled the hearts of the Moslems with confidence and gratitude.
"The chances of war," he said to them, "placed your destinies in my
hands, and for that reason it is my right to dispose of you as I may
wish. Do you acknowledge that right?"
"We are your slaves," humbly answered Abengalvon, who was more
conversant than the others with the Castilian language, and who was also
the youngest of the five Moorish kings, as he was only about
five-and-twenty years of age.
"Well, then," continued Rodrigo, "you were my enemies when I conquered
you on the field of battle, but you fought with valour, and you bear the
title of kings; for these reasons I treated you all, not as slaves, but
as friends."
"Who would not be ambitious to be considered as such?" exclaimed
Abengalvon.
"My desire is to be your friend," said Rodrigo. "Know," he continued,
"that I consider myself so good a subject, that I love and revere all
who bear the name of king, and I should consider myself dishonoured if I
retained kings as prisoners, even though they are Moors, enemies of my
faith and of my country. Return, then, to your kingdoms, and be,
according as your hearts may dictate, my friends or my enemies. I comply
with what my heart, and the hearts of my parents and wife, whom you see
here, dictate to us."
"Oh, blessed Allah!" exclaimed the Moors, raising their eyes, moist with
tears, to heaven. "The prayers of our children and wives have reached
you and caused you to feel compassion for love and misfortune. We shall
sound the praises, in the midst of our families, of the noble Christian
who to-day teaches us to be generous and good."
And Abengalvon continued, addressing Rodrigo--
"No, we shall not be your enemies; we desire to become your vassals, as
such to respect you and to pay you tribute, and also to become your
friends, in order to love you. Let us kiss your hand."
"Come to my arms, if you believe me worthy of yours!" exclaimed Rodrigo,
as much moved as the Moors were.
They embraced him, weeping with joy, as did also the honoured old Diego
Lainez, Teresa, and Ximena, who were looking on the scene with much
emotion, and whose hands the Moors then kissed, manifesting that they
felt honoured by being allowed to do so.
"Mother!--Ximena!" said Rodrigo a moment after, "open the gates of their
prison for those who have been our captives, but who, from this day,
shall be our friends."
Teresa and Ximena then went to a door which gave egress to the street,
and pulled open the two wings of which it was composed.
"The gate of your prison is open to you," said Rodrigo to the Moors.
"Return to your homes, bring consolation to your wives and to your
children, and may God be with you, my friends! Outside you will find
good steeds to carry you, and squires who will accompany you as far as
the frontier, bearing my green standard, so that neither nobles nor
peasants shall dare to molest you."
"We are your vassals, and every year you shall receive tribute from us,"
said Abengalvon.
He and his companions then left the palace of De Vivar, their eyes
dimmed with tears, and blessing Rodrigo, Diego, Teresa, and Ximena with
all the fervour of which their souls were capable.