The moon had now risen, and was mingling her lustre with the blaze of
the volcano. The shouts of revelry came less frequently from the city,
and, one by one, the torches vanished from the house-tops and the
streets. A pleasant quiet surrounded the deserted temple; a few embers,
only, glowed in the sacred urns; but the combined light of the luminary
and the mountain covered the terrace with radiance, and fully revealed
the few objects which gave it the interest of life. In this light, as
Don Amador turned to his youthful companion, he beheld the eyes of the
page suffused with tears.
"How is it, Jacinto?--What ails thee?" he cried. "I vow to heaven, I am
as much concerned at thy silly griefs, as though thou wert mine own
little brother Rosario, who is now saying his prayers at Cuenza. Art
thou weary? I will immediately conduct thee to our quarters. Is there
any thing that troubles thee? Thou shouldst make me thy confidant; for
surely I love thee well."
"Senor mio! I am not weary, and I am not grieved," said the stripling,
with simplicity, as the good-natured cavalier took him by the hand, to
give him comfort. "I wept for pity of the good Don Francisco and the
poor Minnapotzin; for surely it is a pity if they must die!"
"Thou art a silly youth to lament for evils that have not yet happened,"
said Amador.
"But besides, senor," said the page, "when Don Francisco made me sad, I
looked at the moon, and I thought how it was rising on my country!"
"It is now in the very noon of night, both in thy land and mine," said
the neophyte, touched by the simple expression, and leading the boy
where the planet could be seen without obstruction;--"it is now midnight
over Fez, as well as Castile; and, perhaps, some of our friends, in both
lands, are regarding this luminary, at this moment, and thinking of
_us_."
The page sighed deeply and painfully:
"I have no friends,--no, neither in Fez nor in Spain," he said; "and,
save my father, my master, and my good lord, none here. There is none of
my people left, but my father; and we are alone together!"
"Say not, alone," said Amador, with still more kindness,--for as Jacinto
made this confession of his destitute condition, the tears fell fast and
bitterly from his eyes. "Say not, alone; for, I repeat to thee, I have
come, I know not by what fascination, to love thee as well as if thou
wert my own little brother; and there shall no wrong come to thee, or
thy father, while I live to be thy friend."
Jacinto kissed the hand of the cavalier, and said,--
"I did not cry for sorrow, but only for thinking of my country."
"Thou shouldst think no more of Fez; for its people are infidels, and
thou a Christian."
"I thought of Granada,--for that is the land of Christians; and I longed
to be among the mountains where my mother was born."
"Thou shalt live there yet, if God be merciful to us," said the
cavalier: "for when there is peace in this barbarous clime, I will take
thee thither for a playmate to Rosario. But now that we are here alone,
let us sit by the tower, and while I grow melancholy, bethinking me of
that same land of Granada, which I very much love, I will have thee sing
me some other pretty ballad of the love of a Christian knight for a
Moorish lady;--or I care not if thou repeat the romance of the Cid: I
like it well--'Me acuerdo de ti'--'me acuerdo de ti'--" And the
neophyte seemed, while he murmured over the burthen, as if about to
imitate the pensiveness of De Morla.
"If my lord choose," said the page, "I would rather tell him a story of
Granada, which is about a Christian cavalier, very noble and brave, and
a Christian Morisca, that loved him."
"A Christian Morisca!" said Amador; "and she loved the cavalier?--I will
hear that story. And it happened in Granada too?"
"In one of the Moorish towns, but not in the royal city.--It was in the
town Almeria."
"In the town Almeria!" echoed Amador, eagerly. "Thou canst tell me
nothing of Almeria that will not give me both pain and pleasure, for
therein--But pho! a word doth fill the brain with memories!--Is it an
ancient story?"
"Not very ancient, please my lord: it happened since the fall of
Granada."
"It is strange that I never heard it, then; for I dwelt full two months
in this same town; and 'tis not yet forty years since the siege."
"Perhaps it is not _true_," said the stripling, innocently; "and, at the
best, 'tis not remarkable enough to have many repeaters. 'Tis a very
foolish story."
"Nevertheless, I am impatient to hear it."
"There lived in that town," said Jacinto, "a Moorish orphan--"
"A girl?" demanded the neophyte.
"A Moorish maiden,--of so obscure a birth, that she knew not even the
name that had been borne by her parents; but nevertheless, senor, her
parents, as was afterwards found out, were of the noblest blood of
Granada. She was protected and reared in the family of a benevolent
lady, who, being descended of a Moorish parent, looked with pity on the
poor orphan of the race of her mother. When this maiden was yet in her
very early youth, there came a noble cavalier of Castile--"
"A Castilian!" demanded Don Amador, with extraordinary vivacity,--"Art
thou a conjurer?--What was his name?"
"I know not," said Jacinto.
"Thou learnest thy stories, then, only by the half," said the neophyte,
with a degree of displeasure that amazed the youth. "And, doubtless,
thou wert forgetful also to acquire the name of the Moorish orphan?"
"Senor," said the page, discomposed at the heated manner of his patron,
"the Moorish maiden was called Leila."
"Leila!" cried the neophyte, starting to his feet, and seizing Jacinto
by the arm--"Canst thou tell me aught of Leila?"
"Senor!" murmured Jacinto, in affright.
"Leila, the Morisca, in the house of the senora Dona Maria de
Montefuerte!" exclaimed Don Amador, wildly. "Dost thou know of her fate?
Did she sleep under the surges of the bay? Was she ravished away by
those exile dogs of the mountains?--Now, by heaven, if thou canst tell
me any thing of that Moorish maid, I will make thee richer than the
richest Moor of Granada!"
At this moment, while Jacinto, speechless with terror, gazed on his
patron, as doubting if his senses had not deserted him, a step rung on
the earth of the terrace, and De Morla stood at his side.
The voice of his friend recalled the bewildered wits of the neophyte; he
stared at Jacinto, and at De Morla; a deep hue of shame and confusion
flushed over his brow; and perceiving that his violence had again thrown
the page into tears, he kissed him benevolently on the forehead, and
said, as tranquilly as he could,--
"A word will make fools of the wisest! I think I was dreaming, while
thou wert at thy story. Be not affrighted, Jacinto: I meant not to scold
thee--I was disturbed.--Next--next," he added, with a grievous shudder,
"I shall be as mad as my kinsman!"
"My brother! I am surprised to see thee in this emotion," said De
Morla.
"It is nothing," responded Amador, hastily and gloomily: "I fear there
is a natural infirmity in the brains of all my family. I was moved, by
an idle story of Jacinto, into the recollection of a certain sorrowful
event, which, one day, perhaps, I will relate to thee.--But let us
return to our quarters.--The air comes down chilly from the
mountains--It is time we were sleeping."
The friends retired from the temple, leaving the torch sticking in the
platform; for the moon was now so high as to afford a better
illumination. They parted at the quarters; but Don Amador, after
satisfying himself that the knight of Rhodes was slumbering on his
pallet, drew Jacinto aside to question him further of the orphan of
Almeria. His solicitude was, however, doomed to a disappointment; the
page was evidently impressed with the fear, that Don Amador was not
without some of the weakness of Calavar; and adroitly, though with great
embarrassment, avoided exciting him further.
"It is a foolish story, and I am sorry it displeased my lord," said he,
when commanded to continue the narrative.
"It displeased me not--I knew a Moorish maid of that name in Almeria,
who was also protected by a Christian lady; and, what was most
remarkable, this Christian lady was of Moorish descent, like her of whom
thou wert speaking; and, like the Leila of _thy_ story, the Leila of my
own memory vanished away from the town before----"
"Senor," cried Jacinto, "I did not say she vanished away from Almeria:
_that_ did not belong to the story."
"Ay, indeed! is it so? Heaven guard my wits! what made me think it?--And
thy Leila lived in Almeria very recently?"
"Perhaps ten or fifteen years ago----"
"Pho!--Into what folly may not an ungoverned fancy lead us?--Ten or
fifteen years ago!--And thou never heardst of the Leila that dwelt in
that town within a twelve-month?"
"_I_, senor?" cried Jacinto, with surprise.
"True--how is it possible thou couldst?--Thou hast, this night, stirred
me as by magic. I know not by what sorcery thou couldst hit upon that
name!"
"It was the name of the lady," said Jacinto, innocently.
"Ay, to be sure!--There is one Mary in heaven, and a thousand on
earth--why should there not be many Leilas?--Did I speak harshly to
thee, Jacinto? Thou shouldst not kiss my hand, if I did; for no
impatience or grief could excuse wrath to one so gentle and unoffending.
Good night--get thee to thy bed, and forget not to say thy prayers."
So saying, and in such disorder of spirits as the page had never before
witnessed in him, Don Amador retired.
Jacinto was left standing in a narrow passage, or corridor, on which
opened a long row of chambers with curtained doors, wherein slept the
soldiers, crowded thickly together. In the gallery, also, at a distance,
lay several dusky lumps, which, by the gleaming of armour about them,
were seen to be the bodies of soldiers stretched fast asleep. As the boy
turned to retire in the direction of the open portal, it was darkened by
the figure of a man, entering with a cautious and most stealthy step. He
approached, and by his voice, (for there was not light enough yielded by
the few flambeaux stuck against the wall, to distinguish features,)
Jacinto recognised his father.
"I sought thee, my child!" he whispered, "and saw thee returning with
the hidalgos.--The watchmen sleep as well as the cannoniers.--It is as I
told thee--art thou ready?"
"Dear father!"--stammered the page.
"Speak not above thy breath!--The curs, that are hungering after the
blood of the betrayed Mexicans, would not scorn to blunt their appetites
on the flesh of the Moor. Have thyself in readiness at a moment's
warning: Our destinies are written--God will not always frown upon us!"
"Dear father!" muttered Jacinto, "we are of the Spaniards' faith, and we
will go back to our country."
"It cannot be!--never can it be!" said Abdalla, in tones that were not
the less impressive for being uttered in a whisper. "The hills of thy
childhood, the rivers of thy love--they are passed away from
thee;--think of them no more;--never more shalt thou see them! In the
land of barbarians, heaven has willed that we should live and die; and
be thou reconciled to thy fate, for it shall be glorious! We live not
for ourselves; God brings us hither, and for great ends! To night, did
I--Hah!"--(One of the sleepers stirred in the passage.)--"Seek some
occasion to speak with me, to-morrow, on the march," whispered Abdalla
in the page's ear; and then, with a gesture for silence, he immediately
retired.
"_Fuego! Quien pasea alli?_" grumbled the voice of Lazaro, as he raised
his head from the floor. "_Fu! el muchacho!_--I am ever dreaming of that
cursed Turk, that was at my weasand, when Baltasar brained him with the
boll of his cross-bow. _Laus tibi, Christe!_--I have a throat left for
snoring." And comforting himself with this assurance, before Jacinto had
yet vanished from the passage, the man-at-arms again slumbered on his
mat.