"The monster was capable of all!" exclaimed Theodora, with dreadful

agitation; for the recital of her lover's perfidy rudely awoke all the

dormant feelings of the heart.

"I have saved you from his infernal machinations;" said the renegade.

"My conduct to you then appeared barbarous, but my subsequent behaviour

must have effaced from your mind those unfavorable impressions. If not,

the time is come for you to learn, and me to disclose, the motives by

which all my words and actions have been directed. Theodora," he then

added, in a firm but soothing tone, "my proceedings have been to you

mysterious; the mystery here ends--I have procured liberty, home,

happiness for you--revenge for myself."

"Heavens!" exclaimed Theodora, "explain, what mean you?"

"I mean the truth. Be cautious and confident, and not many days shall

pass ere you flee from the company of men whom you abhor, and I despise.

Ere long you shall return to your deserted home, and enjoy the

consolation which a father can confer--a happiness which they say is

great.--I never knew it."

"Can this be real?" exclaimed Theodora, with a scream of surprise and

joy. "Oh, Alagraf, are you then so generous?" and unable to restrain the

swelling emotion of her grateful heart, she fell at his feet.

"Rise, lady, rise," vehemently cried the renegade, "that posture ill

becomes you. I cannot sustain the sight. Poor, helpless, innocent

sufferer," he then said in a pathetic tone, which in spite of his

sternness, he could not suppress. "Poor, poor, forlorn girl--it was thus

she begged and supplicated, but he denied her." He suddenly recollected

himself, and with an abrupt motion he raised the weeping Theodora from

the ground.

"Rise; for by all the powers of darkness, to see you thus more fiercely

burns my brain, and my frenzied madness becomes more ungovernable.

Woman, I am not generous, I am only just, though some cold mortals might

denominate my justice selfish cruelty. But I care not for man or his

opinions."

He paused for a moment, and then proceeded in a calmer tone:--

"Theodora, you are now acquainted with my intentions. I only grieve they

cannot be put in execution with the promptitude that I desire.--But I

must go hence immediately--I must keep up the hellish character which I

have assumed, and I am sent to act in conjunction with El Feri; my

absence shall be as short as I can make it, and in the mean time fear

not any violence from Caneri. In that quarter you are secure; for the

petty despot knows that his death would be the consequence of such a

step. And now, lady, keep strict silence on my important disclosures.

Roque is faithfully devoted to your service, but much is to be

apprehended from his imprudent loquacity, should he be made acquainted

with the secret before the time of action. He and any other you wish to

point out shall be our attendants. Remember my injunctions. Be

comforted, but do not exhibit symptoms of sudden and extraordinary joy,

lest you awaken the suspicions of Caneri; for he is possessed of all the

cunning and mistrust which generally fall to the share of a coward heart

blended with a despotic mind. Till we meet--adieu! I call for no

blessing on your head,--for I can only curse."

He said, and suddenly withdrew.

Theodora for some time was scarcely able to collect her thoughts; the

renegade had again revived her drooping spirits, and she ventured to

hope once more. She resolved implicitly to follow his instructions, in

the anxious expectation of a speedy deliverance from her present

miserable and perilous condition.

CHAPTER V.

Un farouche silence, enfant de la fureur,

A ces bruyants eclats succede avec horreur.

D'un bras determine, d'un oeil brulant de rage,

Parmi ses ennemis chacun s'ouvre un passage.

_La Henriade._

Now yield thee, or by him who made

The world! thy heart-blood dyes my blade.--

Thy threats, thy mercy I despise,

Let recreant yield, who fears to die.--

_Sir Walter Scott._

The shadows of evening were falling round when Alonso de Aguilar and his

gallant army arrived at the plain that skirts the mountain of the Sierra

Bermeja. The rebels, with El Feri de Benastepar at their head, who had

already been worsted in the plain, had resolved not to hazard another

battle, but to keep possession of the mountains, confident of the

advantages of their position. El Feri, therefore, having secured all the

heights and passes of the Sierra, beheld with inward satisfaction the

approach of the enemy; indeed, his situation could not be improved;

nature had fashioned an impregnable fortress in the whole circumference

of that huge mountain; large masses of rock frowned at intervals around

the summit and extended down the sides, and the hollows were filled up

with large clumps of trees, the growth of ages. There was only one path

by which an ascent appeared practicable, narrow, steep and tortuous, and

this perilous pass from the nature of its position might be defended by

a handful of brave men; numerous small ravines were likewise observable,

by which a laborious and difficult ascent might be attempted, although

they were almost choaked with different impediments, being the beds of

the torrents which at times poured their headlong course down the sides

of the mountain.

The Christians beheld with dread the formidable array which the Sierra

presented. The Moors from the adjacent country had flocked to the

standard of El Feri, confiding in the prosperous turn which their

enterprise was likely to take; they manifested both their hopes and

defiance by a prolonged succession of shouts and barbaric yells, which,

in lengthened and fearful clamour, were reverberated through the rocky

passes and solitary caverns of those mountains.

Alonso de Aguilar was struck with the advantages which the rebels

derived from their position, and the attempt to ascend the mountain,

crowned as it was with desperate men, might be considered more a deed of

madness than an act of true courage; but again he thought of the evil

which procrastinated measures often produce in a war of this nature--the

longer he delayed the attack the greater the number of enemies he should

have to encounter, and if the spark of revolt were not immediately

extinguished, the whole province would soon blaze out in open rebellion.

Most alarming symptoms of the refractory spirit of the inhabitants had

already been manifested during the progress of the army from Granada,

and Aguilar well knew that the difficulties he had now to surmount,

would increase tenfold each day that he suffered to pass without risking

a battle.

Thus, although aware of the desperate character of his undertaking, he

nevertheless resolved to engage the Moors in defiance of their superior

advantages, relying with the most unlimited confidence on the

enthusiastic valour of his veteran troops, whose hatred to the Moors was

proverbial, and whose bravery and military conduct he had tried on many

a well-fought field.

Under this impression, Don Alonso had summoned Count Urena, and other

principal chiefs, to communicate to them his determination.

"Perhaps you will think," he said, "that the resolution I have formed is

desperate, but there is no middle course to choose; we must either

return inglorious to our homes, or attack the rebels in their strong

hold. An assault must be immediately attempted. Our soldiers burn with

impatience to meet those rebellious and ungrateful Moors. It is on the

confidence of their love to their country, and hatred to their foes,

that I found my expectations. However, we will wait until night has

closed; darkness will be more favorable to us in the passive warfare

which for some time we shall be obliged to carry on. The shafts of our

enemies cannot thus be aimed with such fatal certainty. And now, my

brave companions, to your posts, and I hope that when next we meet it

will be amidst the shouts of victory."

Aguilar divided his army into three parts, the right wing of which he

entrusted to the command of Count de Urena, the left to Don de Antonio

Leyva, whilst he, with his gallant son Don Pedro, determined to lead on

the centre to the charge by the more direct ascent, where the chief

force of the Moors was judiciously placed.

These three bodies were again sub-divided, as a large mass would afford

a conspicuous object against which the efforts of the enemy might be

more successfully directed. Thus the different commanders having

received their instructions, and the signal being given, various

columns advanced towards the mountains from their several points of

attack, whilst the war-cry, _Santiago y Cierra Espana_, was echoed from

one to another with inspiring courage and animated enthusiasm. The Moors

answered the challenge with wild acclamations, looking on the advancing

foe as a devoted prey on which they were shortly to glut their

long-desired vengeance. The Christians were, therefore, suffered to

proceed unmolested in their course lest, by a premature disclosure of

the resources of their enemies, they might be induced to retreat, and

thus prevent the Moors from obtaining a complete victory. Slowly, then,

the Christians began to ascend the rugged and difficult paths of the

mountain. The deafening shouts had for some time ceased, and were

succeeded by a dismal and deadly silence. The Christians, therefore,

continued to ascend in noiseless progression, until El Feri de

Benastepar, judging that the enemy was sufficiently drawn into his toils

to ensure success for the artful manoeuvres which he had planned, now

gave the signal of command, and again the whole mountain rung with an

overpowering tumult of cries and yells.

Suddenly the rocks above seemed to be alive, broken into numberless

fragments. With dreadful and overwhelming violence their huge disjointed

masses rolled from their elevated summits, and gathering a new impetus

in their headlong course, rushed down the sides of the mountain, and

bounding from point to point with an appalling crash, heaped destruction

on the advancing enemy. The ominous and redoubled cries from the summit

of the Sierra, rose above the terrific sound of the deadly fragments,

and were sufficient to strike dismay into the most daring. Astonishment

for a moment paralyzed the Spaniards; yet their intrepidity did not

quail in the hazardous moment, though they perceived a heap of mangled

corpses swept before them with fearful rapidity. Aguilar could not

behold unmoved the destruction wrought amongst his brave followers; and

fearing that a second discharge of those terrible missiles might

succeed in disheartening them, in a voice of enthusiasm----

"Forward, my brave comrades!" he cried: "those rebels will find that

they will sooner tire of hurling rocks than we shall of withstanding

them. By suffering we will triumph. On, brave companions, on!"

Aguilar succeeded by his example in instilling into the hearts of his

men a degree of maddened courage, which alone could carry them through

the obstacles that impeded their course. They accordingly continued

fearlessly to advance.

Night had now closed in the most dense and impenetrable darkness. The

moon seemed unsuccessfully struggling through a pile of massy clouds,

and the scanty light afforded by the dim stars was insufficient to

illumine any distant object. Thus the Christians had no means of warding

off the dreadful fate which threatened them. They heard, without the

power of resistance, the low rumbling sound of the huge rocks that were

loosened from their beds, and the crash that followed their ponderous

course, as they tore down every object which came before them, mingling

all in one vast and promiscuous ruin.

The voice of Aguilar and other chiefs, in hoarse tones, was heard at

intervals encouraging and animating their troops, who, wrought up to

madness by their loss, had now no other feeling than an ardent desire of

attaining the summit, where their enemies lay in security, and quenching

their rage in their detested blood. Indeed, the terrors of this dismal

and appalling conflict, instead of damping the courage of the soldiers,

served only to brace them with redoubled force. Dauntless, therefore,

they continued to ascend, unmindful of the cries and groans that rent

the air, and although they were sensible that a similar fate might the

next moment await themselves. On they proceeded, in the full confidence

that some amongst them would ultimately reach the summit, and take ample

vengeance for the death of those whom they left behind. Nor did the

Moors consider this stubborn constancy and self-devotion without

amazement and dread; but El Feri, who read their thoughts, immediately

took measures to prevent the consequences with which they might be

attended, if he allowed his men to indulge their fears; aware that the

best means of keeping up the mettle and ardour of his men was to employ

them actively, he ordered a considerable portion of them to descend and

meet the enemy boldly in the path. This order was joyfully obeyed, and

the Moors rushed impetuously to the attack. Aguilar, who hailed this

movement of the enemy as favorable to his troops, by affording them an

opportunity of profiting by their superiority, now rushed forward to

encounter the charge with increased energy, whilst Don Pedro, with a

chosen party, led the van.

The young warrior continued gaining ground; the Moors retreated; and the

Spaniards considering this movement as the forerunner of success, boldly

pushed on, reckless of the thousand shafts which assailed them on every

side. Fresh men supplied, according to instruction, the place of the

Moors who retreated; and the wearied Christians had nothing to carry

them through the unequal contest but the undaunted courage which had

supported them in so many battles. Still they advanced, although the

enemy, in spite of the numbers that fell, preserved a fresh and unbroken

front, disputing every inch of ground apparently with undiminished

numbers.

In the midst of his gallant achievements Don Pedro fell from the blow of

a stone, which disabled him from proceeding. His absence soon became

apparent; but Alonso de Aguilar pressing forwards to the front, by a

desperate effort soon compelled the rebels to abandon their defence, and

retreat precipitately to their stations. The Spaniards here halted for a

few moments and rallied their forces, on which dismal inroads had been

made by the late conflict. Again they advanced in silence and without

impediment. Their gallant leader, however, looked on this change with

the most gloomy apprehensions; for he conjectured that the Moors were

about to renew that system of defence which had been so destructive at

the first onset. His suspicions were well grounded. Incontinently

another ominous shout rent the air, and the tremendous fragments again

rolled down, spreading devastation wherever they passed.

And now, to render the unequal strife more terrific, there fell some

broad and scattered drops of rain, announcing the storm which had been

gathering in the dark bosom of the swollen and shapeless clouds. Hollow

gusts of wind swept through the passes of the mountains, mingling their

gloomy cadences with the loud cries of the Moors and the wild

lamentations of their victims. And now the pregnant clouds discharged

their contents, which poured like an impetuous cataract down the

channels of the mountain, whilst from those dark and impenetrable masses

fitfully glimmered the livid streaks of lightning, followed by the

hollow muttering of the distant thunder. This approaching conflict of

the elements Don Alonso beheld undismayed. Boldly he urged on his men,

whilst the power of the storm increasing apace, presented additional

obstacles to their progress. Nearer the tempest advanced, and the

flickering sudden gleams of lightning were succeeded by closely repeated

sheets of sulphurous and liquid fire, which in serpentine corruscations

illumined those scenes of carnage and devastation, while loud and

prolonged peals sounded like the ominous voice of the spirit of

destruction riding on the storm, and exulting over the scene of death.

But the Spaniards, though moved by the sight of their companions falling

around, could not be subdued by the gloomy prospect before them, for it

is the attribute of noble courage, while it sympathises with the brave,

to continue in the path of honor and duty undaunted and undismayed.

Flash now followed upon flash, and by their livid and unearthly

reflection appeared the gallant leader and his band, more resolute in

proportion to the fury of the warring elements. The caves and wild

recesses echoed with the hollow moaning of the blast, mingled with the

shouts of the combatants. Chilling was the scene; more chilling still

when the pause made by the raging storm was filled up with the more

terrific noise of the falling rocks and stones which came thundering

down. Aghast the Christians beheld, by the vivid flashes, the descending

destruction; now a block rolled along dyed in the blood of their gallant

companions, and again some uncouth and unfashioned fragment had gathered

in its career a broken limb, a nerveless arm, or a bleeding leg. The

channels were now filled with the water that rushed down the sides of

the mountain, forming gurgling eddies around the crushed bodies of the

fallen, and mingling their blood with the turbid waters in their descent

below.

Such an accumulation of misfortunes began to dishearten the Christians,

whose forces were reduced to half their number. Don Pedro, Count de

Urena, and other principal chiefs were wounded, others dead; and an

horrific shout on the left, commanded by Don Antonio de Leyva, announced

some dreadful catastrophe in that direction.

The renegade, with a valiant reinforcement, had by a dexterous

manoeuvre cut off the retreat of the Christians in that quarter; and,

though they had fought with the most desperate courage, they were

completely routed, and the greater number slaughtered on the spot.

Savagely Bermudo dealt his blows on his own countrymen, and vented his

diabolical feelings on many brave and innocent men to take vengeance for

the wrongs he had sustained from one. But few men escaped from this

promiscuous carnage, and those few cut their way with frenzied courage

through the ranks of the enemy, bearing the bleeding body of their

chief, Don Antonio de Leyva.

The rage of the storm had by this time abated, and Alonso de Aguilar,

auguring favorably of men who had withstood, undaunted, such an

accumulation of terrors, had pushed forward, and was now midway on the

mountain. The rebels beheld his progress with conscious alarm, for

though his numbers were considerably reduced and weakened by fatigue,

yet Don Alonso was about to reach a space of even ground, in which

should he succeed, it would render more doubtful the victory which they

had till now considered as certain. Still they continued to roll down

their destructive missiles, but these had lost their former power; for

though some visited the enemy, yet the greater part stopt in their

career, impeded by the trunks of trees torn up by the tempest, or stuck

in the spots of marshy ground caused by the descending torrents. The

Moors, therefore, abandoned this system of aggression, and perceiving

that the gallant band of Don Alonso de Aguilar was extremely small, and

that it could not receive assistance from the Spanish forces below, they

collected a great body, and determined to oppose the further progress of

Aguilar, before he could succeed in reaching the little plain. A

desperate contest ensued, in which every Christian exerted his remaining

strength, and their present position was so far favorable, that the

Moors were not able to overwhelm them with numbers. Thus Aguilar,

encouraging his men with the better aspect of their fortune, continued

fighting desperately, and gaining ground, whilst the affrighted Moors

retreated before his amazing efforts.

But the most exalted courage cannot support the body under the

accumulated sufferings of wounds and exhaustion, and Don Alonso at

length beheld with a look of melancholy resignation, blended with manly

fortitude, the diminution of his numbers, and the state of depression

under which they laboured. He could no longer hope to accomplish his

daring enterprise, nor effect an honorable retreat. The day, which had

now shed its first glimmering light, revealed the forlorn condition of

his men: he beheld his once gallant army stretched along the path, which

was so completely covered with the dead, that it seemed to be paved with

human victims. The Spaniards fought still, but their foes were

continually supplied with fresh men, and Aguilar foresaw with a pang of

distress that the Moors would ultimately triumph. In this emergency he

cast a desponding look on his troops below, who would in vain have

attempted to assist him, on account of the distance which separated

them.

The followers of Don Alonso were now reduced to a very limited number,

but he perceived on their countenances the noble expression of resigned

courage and high-minded patriotism. A sad smile of satisfaction was on

his lip, as with a firm voice, he exclaimed:--

"Christians, this standard must be planted on the highest point we can

attain." Then after a pause he added, pointing to the little plain;

"Behold your grave!---- advance boldly--there is the last stage of our

existence--and if any one returns to Granada, he may tell the queen that

Alonso de Aguilar has redeemed his pledge."

These words were electric--the countenances of his companions

brightened, and they seemed to acquire new vigour from the example of

their noble leader. They dealt their blows with increased energy, and

after a terrific struggle, they at length reached the fatal plain.

There they halted at the goal of their glorious career, and Alonso de

Aguilar planting the standard of the cross firmly on the ground, placed

himself near a rock which he caused to be surrounded by his men. There

the devoted warriors resolved to await their fate.

The Moors now rushed on them from all parts with a ferocious joy. But

many were those who fell before they could succeed in mastering the

brave and infuriated Christians. Man to man they fought, and round the

rock the gallant soldiers gradually fell. The heroism of the Spaniards

might protract, but could not avert their fall. Aguilar at length beheld

himself alone amongst a heap of his fallen men; his armour was broken in

many places, and stained with the life-blood which flowed through the

crevices; with his left hand he grasped the remains of a banner, and

supported himself against the rock, while his right still continued to

wield his ponderous sword. The numerous assailants looked with dread

and awe on the redoubtable champion, and for some time seemed to be

rivetted to the place. But a host was gathering around to rush at once

upon the formidable foe, when a giant figure made his way through the

crowd, crying aloud--

"Yield thee, Christian, for the Moors know how to respect courage like

thine."

"Yield! Never will I yield to a rebel. I am Alonso de Aguilar."

"Thanks to the prophet!" cried the Moor; "look then on thy

irreconcileable foe!--I am El Feri de Benastepar."

Aguilar saw the Moor-chief with the fortitude of a noble heart, and

rising superior to his adverse fortune, although covered with wounds,

and fainting from exhaustion, he sprung forward to meet the advance of

his terrible adversary, whilst the Moors awed by the meeting of such

warriors, stood around in breathless silence.

The mighty foes closed in desperate combat. But soon Aguilar conscious

of his weakness, retired to his original position against the rock, and

in that posture sustained the attack. The fresh and unabated force of

El Feri became too powerful for the Christian chief, worn out as he was

with the loss of blood, and the fatigue of many hours of battle. Aguilar

now perceived that to die nobly was the only alternative he could

embrace, and accordingly grasping firmly the banner, he continued a

resolute but unequal combat. His exhaustion, however, increased, and as

he perceived his end approach, he sprang forward, and with one desperate

blow, in which he collected his remaining energies, endeavoured to crush

his enemy. But the exertion far exceeded his strength, and the same blow

that an hour before would have cloven through buckler and hauberk, now

fell almost harmless upon the shield of El Feri. The Moor availed

himself of the moment, and before Aguilar had time to recover, the

scymitar of his foe had cleft through the helmet of Don Alonso, and sunk

deep into the brain. The hero fell; with one deep sigh his noble spirit

parted from its clay, and the brave, the generous, the heroic Don Alonso

de Aguilar was no more![45]

A tremendous shout from the exulting Moors announced the catastrophe to

the Christians below: it sounded through the mountain like the ferocious

yell of demons revelling over their victim. El Feri stood silent for a

moment gazing on his prostrate enemy, and he could not but contemplate

with veneration and awe that form which even in death preserved the

nobleness and dignity which had distinguished it through life. His

helmet had given way, and rolled to some distance on the plain. His

black hair silvered with age, and now dripping with his blood,

overshaded part of his noble countenance. Shorn of its proud device, his

broken shield lay on his left arm, as well as the remains of the banner

which he had sworn to defend with his life, whilst his right arm still

retained that sword once the terror of the Moors, now lying harmless on

the ground. Thus fell Aguilar, and the exulting Moors flocked round his

corpse, led by an instinctive curiosity to behold the prostrate warrior

so long the object of their dread.

CHAPTER VI.

Inter their bodies as becomes their births:

_Shakespeare._

Few, few shall part where many meet,

* * * *

And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

_T. Campbell._

The victory of the Moors was complete; and as they had been long

accustomed to reverses, so unusual a success elated them beyond all

bounds of moderation. They considered their independence as now firmly

established, and could scarcely be restrained from rushing, like a

disorderly horde of conquering barbarians, on their enemies below, and

ravaging the country round. But fortunately El Feri joined to great

courage and activity the rare endowments of a prudent and sagacious

chief. He foresaw that the present success, if not followed up

judiciously, would prove more prejudicial than favorable to their cause.

It was not by a confused depredatory system that this first victory

should be followed up; for their cause could only be ultimately

benefited by improving their present advantages. Besides, the fierce

courage of his followers, arising rather from a sense of injuries and

revenge, than real military bravery, was ill calculated to sustain the

superior numbers and better disciplined bands of the Christians. Nor

could El Feri be so far dazzled by one solitary success as to attribute

solely to their conduct and courage that result which was chiefly to be

ascribed to the advantages of their position, combined with a series of

fortunate circumstances that had assisted them against the Christians.

He knew that the intelligence of this victory would excite those of his

countrymen who were as yet lukewarm in the cause, to take up arms and

repair to that mountain which was now the cradle in which their infant

liberty was to be rocked. He wished to preserve and improve this

situation without risking the danger of another action, until he

possessed ample means of insuring success. A precipitate movement now

might involve the Moors in difficulties capable not only of retarding

their triumph, but even of rendering fruitless the effects of a first

victory: Gomez Arias was likewise marching with a powerful army, and it

would be madness to abandon the strong hold of the Sierra for the sake

of hazarding an encounter, when as yet they were in all respects

inferior to their enemies.

El Feri, therefore, strongly deprecated the design formed by Mohabed of

advancing at present against the Spaniards. But Mohabed, flushed with

pride and little conversant with military affairs, could only be

prevailed upon to defer his sally from the mountain for two days; and El

Feri, considering the baneful effects which any disagreement amongst the

chief leaders might produce, prudently acquiesced in his decision. He

hoped that in the meantime he should have an opportunity either of

dissuading his brother chief, or at least of organising a more

systematic and powerful invasion.

Whilst the best warrior in the Moorish ranks was deeply interested in

forwarding their views, his disorderly and savage followers were

affording proofs of their wanton cruelty and insubordination. El Feri

saw with disgust and sorrow, that the men he led to the field adhered

not to the principles which they pretended to profess. He perceived that

his army more resembled a horde of undisciplined barbarians than true

and sincere patriots; that the gratification of private animosity and

revenge had a far greater preponderance in directing their exertions,

than the heroic impulses of noble enthusiasm and public spirit. He had

been himself stimulated to take up arms solely by pure and patriotic

sentiments, without the least alloy of personal interest, or the

indulgence of a revengeful disposition. He, therefore, bitterly

lamented, for the sake of his country, when a secret voice whispered to

him, that he was less the leader of independent men, panting for

liberty, than of a lawless discontented rabble, better deserving the

name of rebels than that of liberators. Alas! how often is the lustre of

a good cause darkened by the private interests and vices of its agents!

The attention of El Feri was however diverted towards a tumult in that

part of the mountain where the mighty Aguilar had fallen: he hurried to

the spot to inquire into the cause of the commotion, when he saw the

noble form of his redoubtable foe ignominiously placed on an eminence,

round which men, women, and children were crowding, to glut their eyes

with the bleeding spectacle. While their savage disposition was

gladdened with the sight, they heaped maledictions on the dead. This

dastardly ebullition of revenge was more particularly displayed by the

weaker portion of men, and by the refuse of women. Women, fashioned by

nature to indulge every kindly feeling, and tender sentiment of

compassion for the fallen--women, when they have overstepped the

barriers of their natural delicacy, become more lawless and cruel than

the most hardened of men. An old hag was, with wanton mockery, striving

to close the eyes of the warrior; another was trampling under her foot

the cross which she had wrenched from his breast; and a dirty urchin was

rending his venerable locks, whilst some miscreants, not satisfied with

these profanations, in base revenge plunged their weapons into the

lifeless clay. But still there were some whom the great Aguilar inspired

with terrors even in death, and they shrunk from the inanimate corpse,

as if it were ready to start into life, and wreak vengeance for the

outrages sustained. Flushed with indignation at the sight, El Feri soon

dispersed the vile and motley crowd.

"Base, pitiful wretches," he cried in anger, "it well becomes your

cowardly nature thus to insult in death, the man you dared not look on

in life. Aye, quench your valour on that unconscious body, for those

weapons are unworthy of warring against the living, which cannot

respect the dead. Avaunt, miscreants! tempt no further my just anger."

The affrighted crew shrunk back in confusion, but one more daring than

the rest ventured to exclaim--

"He was the mortal foe of the Moors, and of El Feri de Benastepar----"

"In life he was," sternly replied El Feri; "but death reconciles the

bitterest enemy--for enmity must lose its fire in the cold precincts of

the grave."

"The Moor and the Christian," retorted gruffly the other, "even in

death, must be irreconcileable; even in the frost of the sepulchre, the

hate of such foes must not be extinguished.

"Cease, miscreant!" fiercely returned El Feri, "or by the mighty Allah,

a single word more, and a blow from the scymitar of El Feri shall be thy

only answer."

In speechless terror they all retreated, when El Feri turning to one of

his followers--

"Do you, Moraz," said he, "and some of your brave companions, pay the

last honors to the noble Don Alonso de Aguilar."

The Moors obeyed the orders of their chief, and forthwith a grave was

dug at the foot of the rock. No funeral pomp--no military honors graced

the obsequies of the great Aguilar--no chaunting priest was there to

rehearse the service of the dead--no friend to weep over his loss--no

grateful dependant to raise the closed hands in prayer to heaven; but in

silence his enemies laid him in his humble grave, and strewed the earth

over his warlike form. What, though no sculptured marble was there to

point out the noble dust that lay beneath; the name of the warrior will

live in the hearts of his countrymen, and will be handed to posterity as

long as the records of Spain shall exist. But, in the absence of the

pomp which marks the burial of the illustrious, Don Alonso received the

most honorable tribute that can adorn a warrior's grave--the manly and

venerating tear of his mortal foe; for, as the earth covered for ever

the remains of Aguilar, the silent tear of noble feeling fell on it

from the eye of El Feri de Benastepar.

Meantime the Christians at the foot of the mountain were making a

precipitate retreat, carrying with them a number of their wounded

companions, and leaving behind a terrible monument of their bravery and

misfortune.

How imposing is the calm, when the warm activity of action gives place

to the desolate repose of death! Now, the din of strife is over; no

longer the brazen notes of the trumpet swell in the wind--no longer the

echoes of the mountain rehearse and fling back the warlike sounds.

Hushed is the voice of command and animation--mute the cries of victory

or defeat. Even the howling blast, which lately, with its fitful voice,

increased the terrors of the scene, is now softened into a low and

mournful murmur, emblematical of the dismal tranquillity that reigns

around. The smiling face of nature is bloted and defaced by the

truculent works of men. The rich and reviving green that carpeted the

ground, now presents to the view an ensanguined plain, and the smiling

flowers, emblems of innocence and peace, bear no longer in their calice

the pearly moisture of the morn, but display the crimson evidence of

man's hatred to his kind. The soft grass is not now ruffled by the

welcome pressure of living individuals, happy in the joyous dance, or

gently reclining under the sweet influence of slumber, but by the weight

of ghastly corpses.

It was a sight fearful to behold! not a sound was heard; an unnatural

sadness prevailed over the scene; a thousand warriors lay there in the

silence of the grave, but in those colourless features still lingered a

tinge of the last feeling by which they were animated--the last passion

that raged within; the brow stiffened into gloomy fierceness--the eye

intensely fixed with bold resolve--the firmly clenched hand--bespoke the

various sensations in which they were surprised by death. Tranquil and

extended lay some who had received the summons without a throb; surely

the blow was struck, and swiftly fled the spark of life, whilst others,

in the violent contraction of the muscles, and the writhing expression

of pain, indicated how fearfully the rebellious soul had grappled with

the destroyer, before she could be dislodged from her tenement. Death

levels all distinction, and here were seen men of various ages and

ranks, so widely separated in life, promiscuously mingled in the last

repose. Youth and age alike indifferently strewed the plain, and the

silvered locks lay beside the flowing tresses; the pale hue of

protracted life, with the rosy healthful tints of commencing and hopeful

existence. Spring had mixed its blossoms with the falling leaves of

autumn. No distinction of rank was here; by the noble chief lay the

humble soldier--their attire alone could distinguish one from the other;

and even this external ornament would soon be destroyed, and all, all

would be amalgamated in one general indiscriminate dust.

But still that period was not arrived, and the encampment of corpses,

fresh in death, appeared most like an army of sleeping warriors; but for

the bloody tokens and fearful disorder which drove away every image of

natural repose, it seemed as if their departed spirits still hovered

within the bodies which they had lately abandoned. But alas! too soon

the harbinger of fading and helpless mortality would speed to dispel the

melancholy charm. The carrion birds were now hurrying to claim the

undisputed inheritance of that prey which a short time since had been

the receptacle of so many feelings and affections, while a thousand

hearts were doomed to weep for the occasion that afforded joy to the

gloomy and filthy revellers.

The routed Christians, meantime, were fast retreating, whilst the news

of their defeat and the fate of Aguilar spreading swiftly around, soon

reached the stately city of Granada, for misfortune is a most

expeditious traveller. The heroic Isabella felt an indescribable shock

at these unwelcome tidings; even victory, if purchased with the death of

Don Alonso, she would consider a reverse, but attended, as it was, with

complete overthrow, it created the most lively sensations of indignation

and sorrow. She made a solemn vow in the presence of the archbishop her

confessor, and her nobles, that she would neither wear linen nor sleep

on her royal couch until that daring rebellion had been annihilated, and

its agitators brought to retribution. She next gave orders that all her

troops should march against the rebels, and a numerous army was soon

collected, both of veterans and volunteers.

Meantime the grief of Leonor for the death of her father was exhibited

in a striking manner, but still in a manner worthy a branch of that

noble tree. She found a generous consolation in the name bequeathed to

her by her departed parent, and she fondly cherished the halo of glory

that surrounded her father's life, and now must adhere for ever to his

memory. The queen, anxious to contribute to the mitigation of her

sorrow, had kindly invited her to the palace, that by a temporary

absence from her own dwelling she might be relieved from the sight of

objects, which continually brought to her mind a train of painful

associations.

CHAPTER VII.

Padre mio, caro padre,

E tu ancor m'abbandoni!

_Guarini._

I know not how to tell thee;

Shame rises in my face and interrupts

The story of my tongue.

_Otway._

Bermudo, the renegade, having received instructions from El Feri soon

after the affair of the Sierra Bermeja, returned to Alhaurin, where he

found Caneri in an extacy of uncontrollable joy. His late extravagance

had of course been considerably augmented by the news of the recent

success. So elated were his spirits, and so confident did he feel of the

happy results which would attend all the future operations of the Moors,

that, forgetting a secret dislike he always entertained to actual

strife, he talked of heading a body, and meeting the Christians, who

were rapidly advancing upon Alhaurin: but the renegade brought

different injunctions from El Feri, who was now looked upon, by common

consent, as the supreme arbitrator of the Moorish cause. Caneri was

ordered, unfortunately for the display of his present ebullition of

valour, to fortify himself in Alhaurin, and prepare a retreat for

Mohabed, in case the rash expedition of that chief against Gomez Arias

should prove unsuccessful.

All El Feri's persuasions had been thrown away upon Mohabed, who, quite

inexperienced in war, and highly flushed by their recent victory, had

descended the Sierra Bermeja with a strong division to offer battle to

the Spaniards. Caneri submissively followed the orders of his brother in

command. Indeed in his present exhilaration of spirits, he would submit

almost to any thing, except to renounce the outward show of dignity, for

Caneri was one of those good-natured soldiers, who can be satisfied with

the shadow, whilst other leaders possessed the substance of power.

In every age and country, there needs must be warriors of all

descriptions; some are designed by nature to encounter perils, and

acquire a name to be enrolled in the temple of immortality, and there

are others whose noble achievements entitle them to the same honor,

though traced in different characters; there is also a third class of

military men, who, being neither sanguinary nor heroic, are yet intended

to shine in a more peaceful warfare,--generals of undoubted military

capacity, of extraordinary genius for the enactment of regulations and

orders, with a clear judgment for the various qualifications of staff

officers, and bearing an exceedingly martial and appropriate carriage in

courts, reviews, and parades. Now, to this last class Caneri most

assuredly belonged: his talents for military parade and shew no one

could dispute. He now approached the renegade, and in as affable a

manner as his arrogant dictatorial manner would permit:--

"Alagraf," he said, "these are joyful times for the Moors."

"Provided they last," coldly returned the renegade.

"Last," rejoined the Moor, with indignant surprise. "Behold!" and he

pointed to his men, all arrayed and equipped in a martial style, as they

were standing in review, "those men are not likely to tarnish the

laurels already culled by their companions of the Sierra Bermeja. But

you are ever sullen, Alagraf; no victory, no fortune can efface the

gloom which pervades every action of your life."

"Yours, at all events, Caneri," replied the renegade, sneeringly, "is

excessively gay; the love of your country must certainly be great, since

it can occasion such extraordinary marks of satisfaction for a temporary

success."

"My country and religion are dear to me," returned Caneri, with dignity,

"very dear, and sacred. But then," he added, relaxing, "my heart is not

wholly absorbed in the love of my country."

"That I believe," replied Bermudo, significantly. "It will easily admit

of division, and in the distribution of your lore, I dare swear you have

reserved a considerable share for yourself."

Caneri laughed affectedly, then drawing nearer to the renegade, and

taking him gently by the hand--

"My friend," he said, "much as I love myself, still have I a store left

for such as love me well, and when a lady fair----"

"Eh!" exclaimed the renegade, "what lady fair is this?"

"Oh, Alagraf," returned Caneri, unable any longer to contain himself, "I

am the happiest of men--Theodora--the beautiful Theodora has at length

yielded to the soft persuasions of love, and it is to you, my good

Alagraf, that I stand chiefly indebted for such favorable results."

The renegade started back in visible consternation. Caneri's words sent

daggers to his heart. Could it be possible? the amiable and elevated

Theodora, sunk to the base minion of so worthless a character! and all

his plans overturned for ever! It appeared unaccountable--impossible.

Theodora could not look kindly upon the object of her late mortal

abhorrence.--Such a transition was abrupt--unnatural--unless, indeed,

her reason had fallen a sacrifice to her accumulated distress.

Terrible thoughts coursed over the troubled and darkened brow of the

renegade, whilst his whole person manifested strong marks of the passion

that agitated his bosom.

"Alagraf, what means this emotion? why, you appear thunderstruck."

"Yes;" replied the renegade, assuming his composure, "with surprise. But

you said it was to my good offices you stood indebted for your success.

Now would you favour me with the particulars of such an extraordinary

conquest?"--

"Aye, my friend," returned vauntingly Caneri; "Fortune is very

capricious. She never works progressively, but by starts, and then

according to the mood she is in, a man is either overpowered with misery

or with bliss. Some time since both the affairs of my country and those

of my heart went on desperately; the scales are now turned, and I am

blessed in a double triumph.

"But," cried the renegade, "the nature of your triumph I would fain

learn."

"It is complete," replied Caneri with complacency.

"Complete!" re-echoed the renegade with emotion--"complete! how?"

"At least by anticipation," returned the Moor. "Complete by

anticipation. Nothing is yet concluded."

The renegade recovered from the suspense of agony.

"The triumph of which I speak," continued Caneri, "is yet to come,

though it is already beyond a doubt. Theodora, until now so resolutely

bent against me--Theodora, who at the very sight of me shrunk back with

horror and abhorrence--Theodora at last receives me not only without

reluctance, but even with kindness. My visits no longer create disgust

and dread, and every symptom foretels a speedy and grateful termination

to my fondest hopes." He then added with conceited vanity,--"And I

marvel how else an affair of this nature could terminate? Theodora was a

lovely woman, a woman in affliction; but she was a woman still, and

could not be expected to continue eternally in the same mind. Constancy

in any thing is against the very nature of woman; perseverance is a foe

she could never successfully withstand."

To this sapient observation the renegade made no reply. A glance of

scorn was the only sign by which he evinced his value of the chiefs

opinion. He allowed him a free range to his hopes, and when the vain

Moor had satisfied himself with aerial happiness, the renegade in a

bitter bantering tone wished him joy of his conquest, and hurried away

to certify upon what basis were founded the expectations of the Moor.

Caneri retired to his couch, when to his waking dreams succeeded those

of night, which though not wilder in their nature, were still by their

flattering prospects the source of unspeakable satisfaction. He rose,

therefore, the next morning if possible in greater exhilaration of

spirits than before, and immediately sent for his confidant the

renegade; but his confidant came not, and Caneri was in absolute

necessity of a person to whom he might communicate his hopes and his

plans. Malique was accordingly ordered into his presence.

"Malique, where is Alagraf?" inquired the chief.

"Alagraf!" exclaimed the astonished Malique; and he remained for some

time as if struck by a thunderbolt.

"Alagraf!"

"Alagraf! yes Alagraf," repeated impatiently Caneri. "What means this

confusion? speak. Where is the renegade?"

"The renegade is gone," answered the trembling Malique.

"Gone!" echoed Caneri with superadded agitation.--"Gone! where? when? to

what purpose?--gone! without my knowledge!"

"The purport of his mission," replied Malique, "I know not; nor was I

made acquainted with his departure until this morning. The guards of the

night allowed him to pass. Possessed as Alagraf was of your secrets and

unbounded confidence, it was naturally supposed that he acted under your

instructions: his egress from the town therefore caused neither surprise

nor alarm."

"My instructions!" cried fiercely the chief; "I gave him no

instructions; it is an act of insubordination. That man was ever too

proud; his accursed Christian blood still remained in his veins, when

his mouth pronounced a recantation of his creed. He renounced his

country; but could not renounce his character. By the mighty Allah! he

shall severely suffer for this breach of discipline if Caneri has power

amongst the Moors. Yes, he shall feel the bitter consequences of his

imprudence upon his return."

"Return!" cried Malique, despondingly, "If he acted not according to

your orders, I much apprehend he will never return; for his companions

in flight leave no doubt as to the motives that have directed him."

"Companions!" exclaimed Caneri, in breathless anxiety. "What

companions?"

"Even the fair captive, and the menial Roque," replied Malique, after

some hesitation.

"What! Theodora gone! gone with the renegade!--hell! furies!--unsay

those words, Malique! tremble for the villains that allowed him to leave

the town--nay, tremble for your own life!"

The fury of Caneri knew no bounds, upon the confirmation of Malique's

intelligence. He stamped and raved like a madman, and plucked his beard

in very ire: then, in the summary way of distributing Moorish justice,

he caused the chief and two or three of the guards of the night to be

slaughtered in his presence. Indeed, Malique himself would have shared

the same fate, had not the private interest of the Moor superseded his

frenzied revenge. But Caneri considered Malique as totally devoted to

his person, and he was loath to part with a man of whose aid and

counsel he stood in greater need than ever. Thus the life of Malique was

spared by the despot, as those of many other humble slaves had before

been and will again, by their despotic masters, not for the services

which they have already rendered, but in consideration of those which

they might still afford.

"Malique, quick," cried Caneri, "take the best of my troops, the

fleetest of my horses, and speed after that accursed renegade; bring

him, dead or alive;--alive, if possible; and ask for any recompence,

any, how great soever, which I can grant.--Begone!--fly!"

In a moment the faithful Malique with a chosen band was mounted, and in

a moment they started rapidly with the velocity that a hope of

recompence or a dread of punishment inspires. They sped in the direction

reported to be taken by the fugitives, but it was too late; the renegade

had devised the necessary precautions to insure success in his

undertaking. He had the advantage of a whole night's journey, and had

besides prudently changed his route as soon as he found himself out of

sight.

Thus the efforts of Malique proved as abortive as the ravings of his

master. After a day spent in fruitless pursuit, the party was compelled

to retreat before an advancing band of Christians, and returned to

Alhaurin, to witness the extravagant rage of Caneri, who was alternately

the prey of shame, disappointment, and vexation. Indeed, all the Moors

evinced signs of discontent at the disappearance of the renegade. Some,

because his presence animated their courage, and others because they

dreaded the despotic temper of Caneri, now rendered doubly formidable by

this untoward event. All the Moors were, therefore, in dismay at the

flight of the renegade, all but one, and that was Aboukar, who found

with no less surprise than joy, that amongst the companions of the

runaway was included his spouse, Marien Rufa.

Meantime, the fugitives were rapidly approaching the town of Guadix,

the native place of Theodora. But with what throbbing hearts the

travellers proceeded on their journey, and how different were the

feelings that gave expression to their features! A thousand sensations

agitated the bosom of Theodora; fear, hope, and filial love, alternately

disputed the mastery, whilst the countenance of the renegade evinced

nought but a dreary isolation of feeling; revenge alone reigned in his

heart uncontrolled, and undisputed. The two inferior personages were

likewise indulging in reflections consonant to their nature and habits.

A vacant joy, a happy riddance from a state of fear and thraldom,

predominated in the heart of Roque, whilst a curious amalgamation of

gratified spite and returning superstition claimed that of Marien Rufa.

But, however different the sentiments by which they were actuated, the

travellers evinced an equal joy when their anxious look caught the first

glimpse of Guadix, which now stood before them softly enveloped in the

twilight shadows.

"Welcome! dear lady," cried Roque, joyfully, "once more behold your

home."

Home, delightful thrilling word! It went to the heart of Theodora in a

tumultuous flow of pleasing, yet painful sensations. She now returned to

the scenes of her innocence and happiness, but it was also the theatre

of her disgrace and sorrow. What agitation did she feel as every well

known object presented itself with powerful associations to her mind.

Already she descried the stately appearance of her father's mansion,

rising majestically in the shades of approaching night. Though distant

she clearly perceived every object, every feature of the surrounding

scene.

Tranquil and quiet the country and the city lay in religious silence,

and the gentle hum of humanity that softly stole upon the ear, and the

tinkling of a bell, or the social bark of a dog, every well-known sound

struck with a congeniality of feeling on the trembling heart of

Theodora. She returned to her home like the happy traveller after a

lapse of many years, to whose memory charged with numberless objects

that have intervened since his departure, these infant scenes must

return in a confused, fading, yet pleasing sensation of delight.

Theodora came; she drew near the place of her birth with anxiety and

dread. Around she beheld every object as she had left it. Nature had

proceeded undisturbed in her accustomed rotation. Green were the fields,

and the boundless heavens still displayed their majestic grandeur. Yet,

all around, to the eyes of Theodora, bore a tint of strangeness she

could not well define. Alas! the change was not in those places, but in

the tone of mind with which she considered them. Guadix and its gardens,

and its groves, and its fountains, were still the same, but Theodora was

changed. She had left those happy scenes in all the glory of youth and

beauty. She returned experienced in grief in the beginning of life, and

bearing in those heavenly features the iron stamp of premature decay.

She had left them in the wild delirium of love,--in the intoxicating

bliss of a first all-powerful affection, lavishly bestowed, and

abundantly requited. She returned with a heart desolate and forlorn,

the pure springs of which were envenomed by the baneful effects of

passion, and embittered with shame and grief. She had left them in the

happy society of a fond lover, full of present joy and glowing hopes of

future happiness. She returned full of disappointment and remorse, under

the protection of an apostate, the dark enemy of her country. These sad

images obtruded upon her mind, and to such dismal thoughts was

superadded the load of fear and anxiety arising from the uncertainty of

her offended parent's reception. She was his only child, tenderly loved

and cherished; but yet, would not this very love offer obstacles to a

reconciliation? Would not her father's unbounded kindness serve to set

off in blacker colours her own cruel ingratitude?

With these gloomy ideas she at length reached the threshold of the

paternal dwelling. There was a melancholy calm that smote her heart--the

ponderous casements were closed--a dismal silence prevailed, and as they

entered the _Zaguan_, the echo of their steps was sent back in a

mournful sound that seemed to rebuke the intruders. The old favorite dog

of Don Manuel lay in a corner dozing a dull slumber, and Theodora, as

she fondly called him by his name, received no sign of pleased

recognition. The animal slowly raised his head, and mechanically fixed

his heavy eyes on the speaker, but he neither leaped briskly to hail an

old friend, nor resented the approach of an unwelcome stranger. The

servants, too, were long in making their appearance, and when at last

Pedro, the old major-domo, advanced to meet the party, he bore on his

countenance deep lines of affliction: for some time he gazed vacantly on

the strangers, and then in a harsh, inhospitable tone, inquired their

business.

"Pedro!" said Theodora, with faultering emotion; "Pedro, don't you know

me?"

At the sound of that voice Pedro started, and made the sign of the

cross--he gazed in astonishment, applied his hand to his dim eyes, and

then in a sort of wild stupor--

"_Santo cielo!_" he exclaimed, "Is this a dream, or a miracle? Surely

it must be an apparition!--My lady Theodora, here!"

"Yes, good Pedro," mournfully replied Theodora, "this is no delusion. I

am, in truth, Theodora, thy young mistress. But the announcement shocks

you! What means this confusion?" Her emotion redoubled--she trembled and

had scarcely strength to cry--"My father!--where is my father?"

Pedro heaved a sigh, and shook his head despondingly--"Alas! your

father!"

"What! speak!" shrieked Theodora, struck with horror--"He is not

dead!--Speak!"

"No, not dead," replied the old man, "but it seems that heaven sends you

to close his eyes, and witness his departure from this world.--Oh!" he

added, sobbing violently, "sorrow hath bowed down his venerable head:

since his daughter fled from him, this has been the home of grief and

desolation."

Theodora covered her face with her hands; the consciousness of her guilt

came with additional force to pierce her heart, as the melancholy

results of her dereliction were revealed to her. Roque and Marien Rufa

were much affected, and even the stern features of the renegade seemed

to be softened by a tinge of pity.

Theodora now could be detained by no consideration. The powerful impulse

of nature rose superior to the suggestions of fear. She hurried to her

father's chamber--she crossed the long corridor and reached her own

saloon without opposition. There she threw a melancholy glance on the

objects around, and heaved a bitter sigh when she beheld every thing in

which she formerly took delight remaining in the same situation as when

she had left them. Her books were scattered about, and her guitar was

thrown carelessly upon the sofa where she had last sung a mournful

romance previously to her meeting her lover in the garden. It was a

rapid glance Theodora cast, and yet, alas! what a world of keen

sensations did it produce. Every thing around bespoke the disconsolate

tranquillity of a deserted home. Theodora at length gained her father's

apartment; the door was closed, but she listened, and distinctly heard

the murmur of disease. She gently knocked; an old female attendant

opened the door--Theodora rushed in, and threw herself at the feet of

Monteblanco's couch.

"Oh! my father!" she cried, and her agony denying her the powers of

utterance, silent she sank by the bedside; yet the violent respiration

and the smothered groaning which escaped from her bosom but too plainly

told the full measure of her sorrow.

"Who is this?" feebly inquired the old man, as those sounds of distress

snatched him from the feverish and troubled slumber of disease.

"Your daughter! your guilty, your unfortunate Theodora! Oh, my father, I

come but to crave your forgiveness and die."

Prostrate and weakened as Don Manuel was, the sound of his daughter's

voice, and her pathetic appeal, awakened all his latent feelings, and

gave a new impulse to his decaying frame.

"Theodora! my child! my child!" he cried, raising himself on the couch;

and as the sombre reflection of a dim lamp fell on the form before him,

he was chilled with horror and amazement. He saw his Theodora; for the

eyes of a father will always recognise his child, spite of the blasting

influence of misfortune in disguising the features. He recognised his

daughter, but alas! how changed was that model of female loveliness and

beauty. Sunk was that eye, and quenched its pure and brilliant fire; the

smile of innocence had fled from those lips, and the soft delicate tint

of her countenance was chased away by a deadly paleness. But still

Theodora was interesting and lovely; still Monteblanco gazed on her with

the tender fondness of a parent. He rose superior to the malady which

confined his withered frame to the couch of sickness; the film of

decaying nature was upon his eyes; but yet he fixed them intensely on

that fading form that bore the resemblance of his once-beloved child. He

could not speak, nor did his daughter attempt to break this pause of

dreadful solemnity. Her overpowering grief burst with impetuous

effusion; in briny showers the tears fell, and her bosom seemed ready

to break under the pressure of heavy and tumultuous groans. Monteblanco

was moved to tears; his parched eyelids, which appeared unused to these

testimonies of sympathy, were bathed in moisture. He wept, while in

soothing accents he endeavoured to raise his daughter from the ground.

But she struggled to preserve her humble position.

"Oh, my father!" she cried in an agonizing tone, "your kindness will

kill me more than cruelty. I am unworthy of so much tenderness;

forgiveness, only forgiveness, is the melancholy boon that the wretched,

the guilty Theodora craves from her venerable and injured parent."

The recollection of some dark dream seemed now to absorb the senses of

the old man. The debility to which sickness had reduced his mental and

physical powers, and the overpowering efficacy of a first impression of

pleasure and surprise, had entirely banished from his mind the dreadful

image of a parent's just indignation. At first he only saw his lost

child returned to his arms, nor in that moment of agitation did he

recur to the cause of her absconding, to the state in which she

returned. All the sensations which might naturally spring in the bosom

of an injured cavalier were deadened by the more powerful feelings of a

father's love.

But now that the first emotion had subsided, and that the voice of the

guilty Theodora sounded distinctly in his ear, the attention of Don

Manuel was promptly recalled to images of a painful nature. His

daughter's desertion and the misery consequent on this first act of

guilt, rushed upon his mind in deepened and aggravated colours. He

rudely drew back the hand which the unfortunate Theodora was bathing

with her tears, and in a tone of indignant feeling--

"Say," he cried, "art thou come to hasten my departure from a wretched

state of existence?--Speak, guilty as thou art; unfold the horrid tale;

and when I am doubly cursed, when I have seen thee thus forlorn and

blasted by guilt and misfortune, then let me die!"

"Oh my father," she exclaimed with heart-rending emotion, "I am a

criminal daughter--a wretch unworthy of the name I bear--yes, I amply

merit your wrath and malediction. But oh! in pity do not deny me your

forgiveness, for I have drunk deep of sorrow; if my guilt has been

great, so have likewise been the tortures that have rent the heart of

your child, since the moment of her first transgression."

"Unfold to me those horrors," exclaimed the desolate father, in a

frantic tone; "perhaps their disclosure may break my heart, and bestow

on me the only comfort I can now expect--yes, speak, and let the last

words I hear from my daughter be my passport to the tomb!"

"Father, speak not thus--on me alone let the vengeance of the offended

heavens fall--I alone must expiate the guilt, for shame cannot be joined

with the name of Monteblanco; but you, oh! father, live--live to support

the dignity of that name."

"You have disgraced it," interrupted Don Manuel, "but I will hear

tranquilly--ere I deeply curse, I will deliberately examine the extent

of your guilt."

He seemed suddenly to acquire a dreadful composure, and Theodora, as

soon as her emotion would permit, told in the strains of deepest woe the

particulars of her sorrowful history. It was interrupted repeatedly by

her disconsolate father: rage, pride, pity, and resentment, by turns

swelled his breast, according as the circumstances related excited those

different feelings. But when the harrowing recital was finished, his

character seemed to assume a tone of energy uncongenial with his present

state of malady. Family pride, a sense of degradation and of injury

unrevenged, rose paramount in his mind, and stifling for the moment all

the pleadings of pity and parental tenderness, he felt an equal degree

of horror and resentment against the betrayer and his unfortunate

victim.

In the first impulse, therefore, of his rage, Monteblanco fixed his

despairing eyes on his daughter, and in a tone of bitterness, enough to

break the fibres of her heart, he cried out imperiously--

"Begone from my sight for ever--begone, and let me die in peace--let me

descend to my grave without the additional pang which the presence of an

ungrateful child inflicts upon me--rise and begone; and may the stings

you have planted in this withered heart, and the shame you have heaped

on my head, be your companion to the latest moment of your ignominious

life."

"Oh horror! horror!" shrieked Theodora: "Father! father, you do not--you

cannot curse your hapless child. Oh! my expiation has been

boundless--the justice of Heaven itself must be satisfied, and the heart

of a father cannot deny forgiveness to the poor wretch whose miseries

are far--far superior to her guilt. Oh pity me!--grant me your

pardon--repulse me not thus from your heart, and I will immediately

speed to bury my sufferings and my shame amidst the gloom of a

cloister."

She ceased, and the wildness of her manner, a fitful tremor that shook

her frame, and the unearthly hue that overspread her already pallid

countenance, exhibited in glowing tints the havoc that such deep anguish

had made. Her trembling arms were extended, and the thin cold fingers

clasped in agony; loosely her dishevelled tresses fell on her father's

couch, as in the earnestness of grief she appealed to him for mercy.

Monteblanco looked on her, intensely looked on that harrowing picture of

distress, and felt the burning tears that descended in copious streams

from their swollen springs. The vivid signs of her repentance, and the

excess of her affliction were inconsistent with depravity. Error more

than guilt was there, and Don Manuel could not behold unmoved his once

beloved daughter, the pride and solace of his declining years, reduced

to her present state of utter wretchedness. Dreadful was the conflict

which the noble and high-minded cavalier had to sustain between the

stern dictates of worldly prejudice, and the tender pleadings of nature.

But happily to the father's honour, nature at length prevailed. He was

softened, and in an extacy of mingled grief and affection, he clasped

his sorrowing child in his trembling arms.

Monteblanco appeared now partially relieved from a load of anguish. He

consoled the poor forlorn culprit that pathetically clung to his

protection, and his fondness for the once beautiful and accomplished

Theodora, seemed to return with additional force for the unfortunate

being that stood before him.

But now new feelings took possession of his breast. As he gazed with a

melancholy joy on his restored child--as he considered with the smile of

sadness the mournful devastation which one man's treachery had wrought

there, all his thoughts were forcibly drawn into one predominant idea,

whilst the decaying energies of his frame received a new impulse to

second the resolutions of his working mind. The cold and unnatural

atrocity of Gomez Arias burned in his brain; he felt the agonized throb

of his injury run corrosive through his veins, and impart an

uncontrollable desire of revenge; the fever of excitement rose superior

to that which had laid him prostrate, and he seemed impatient at the

weakness that confined him to his couch.

"Before I die, poor suffering mourner," he said, turning soothingly to

his daughter, "I shall see your wrongs redressed, and my insulted honor

amply revenged; this sacred duty links me yet to life, and I hope

fervently in God that my existence may be protracted until that period."

The renegade was there; for when revenge was the word, how could Bermudo

be absent from the essence of his life? Theodora, overpowered with the

emotion which her meeting with her father had produced, retired to

compose her disordered spirits, and in the mean time, Don Manuel had a

short but terrible explanation with the renegade: in few words this man

of darkness unfolded his powers of seconding Monteblanco's plans of

vengeance.

The heated mind of the old cavalier, though in need of no stimulus,

nevertheless gathered fuel from the insinuating eloquence of the

renegade. A plan was concerted, and an immediate appeal to the queen

resolved upon; but the state of Monteblanco's health did not allow him

to put in execution his determination with a promptitude consonant with

his feelings. The renegade was therefore prudently concealed for the

present, to avoid the danger of inquisitive curiosity, whilst the only

obstacle that retarded the departure of Monteblanco for Granada, was the

sickness which still confined him to his couch.

CHAPTER VIII.

Crece el tumulto, y el espanto crece:

Y todos le abandonan--uno solo

Fiel se presenta, y con valor perece.

_Anon._

Don Manuel de Monteblanco has already been described as a man weighed

down by years and the iron pressure of infirmities and sorrows. The

disappearance of his daughter, in whom all his thoughts, all the

affections of his heart were solely centred, tended to fill the measure

of his misery and reduce him to that gloomy state of despondency with

which his lost energies and increasing age in vain attempted to

struggle. Totally unsuccessful in his endeavours to discover the retreat

of Theodora, time at length reconciled him to his state of desolation,

but it was the resignation of despair; that feeling which makes man

acquiesce with gloomy calmness in the decrees of fate, and look with

tranquillity on the approach of death as the happy termination of his

sufferings.

Don Manuel had sent despatches, and made diligent inquiries to recover

his daughter, but in vain. Martha, the old duenna, from whom he might

have obtained a knowledge of the truth, had successfully baffled his

pursuit, the sanctimonious hag having embarked at Barcelona, for Italy.

The vessel was wrecked, and it was supposed she perished, as no

information of her could be afterwards obtained. Don Lope Gomez Arias

had all the time kept up a correspondence with the deluded and ill-fated

father, who, far from harbouring the least suspicion against the

betrayer of his daughter, considered him as one in whose advice and

services he could implicitly confide. Thus in proportion as the

intelligence from Gomez Arias grew more cold and less frequent, the

hopes of the old cavalier decreased, until he was at last reduced to a

state bordering upon distraction. He lay prostrate on the couch of

sickness; it was presaged he was doomed never more to rise. Slowly death

was stealing over him, and all his friends and dependants bitterly

deplored the causes which contributed to render so miserable the last

days of the good old cavalier. Indeed, it appeared as if the angel of

death hovered round his fated mansion, and awed all its inmates into a

melancholy tranquillity. At this time the sudden and unexpected

appearance of Theodora worked a powerful revolution in the feelings of

the family, whilst the frame of Don Manuel, instead of sinking under the

weight of the impression which it produced, seemed to revive. His latent

feelings were roused from their gloomy torpor, the slumbering energies

were called into action by the powerful excitement of new ideas, and the

mind rendered buoyant in proportion as new projects called for the

exertion of its faculties. The unparalleled effrontery and cruelty of

Gomez Arias formed the source from which the drooping frame of

Monteblanco gathered life. His wrongs, instead of accelerating the

progress of death, seemed instantly to check its strides, while the

desire of revenge so powerfully operated on his mind, that it warmed the

torpid energies of decaying mortality.

Three days had scarcely elapsed since the arrival of Theodora, when Don

Manuel already considered himself equal to the exertion of a journey to

Granada. The distance was short, and his feelings would not allow him a

longer delay; for he conceived every dilatory suggestion to be as

detrimental to the success of his design. The renegade, instead of

checking Monteblanco's views, contributed to encourage them by his

instigations.

Early, therefore, on the fourth day, every thing was prepared for their

departure. Theodora habited herself in robes of deep mourning, and

departed from Guadix with her father and her former companions in

flight. The presence of Roque was indispensable, and Marien Rufa went

with the pious intention of being reconciled as soon as possible to the

church, by the Archbishop of Granada.

Whilst our travellers are journeying towards that city, let me entreat

you, kind or unkind reader, to suffer them to go in peace, and accompany

me in another direction. We must now revert to the Moors, whom we left

in high excitement at Alhaurin, though the rage of Caneri at the flight

of his captive had considerably damped the joy produced by their

victory.

The disappointed Moor roamed about like a discontented mastiff, growling

and casting around his revengeful glances; whilst his dependants, awed

by his ferocity, cared not to encounter the ebullition of his wrath, but

timidly skulked away: strange phenomenon of human nature! Amongst those

Moors there was not one who did not inwardly despise the petty despot;

not one that was not endowed with a greater share of personal courage,

and yet they all trembled before the man they contemned, and shrank

from an object invested with no other terrors than those which they had

voluntarily conferred upon it. Where lies the spell of a tyrant that

enables him _alone_, hated and contemned, to tyrannize over his fellow

creatures! However, the Moors had now a respite from their fears, for

the approach of the Christians compelled Caneri to forsake the

gratification of his petty malice, and direct his thoughts to the public

danger. The town of Alhaurin, which he commanded, was well garrisoned,

and had a plentiful store of provisions; and yet the mind of the chief

sadly misgave him. Every moment straggling Moors arrived, who depicted,

in the most lively colours, the terrible appearance of the Christians.

These reports, and the names of the gallant chiefs who headed the enemy,

failed not to depress the hearts of those who a week before had looked

upon their triumph as certain, imagining that the lustre of their glory

was beyond the possibility of a blemish.

In the mean time Mohabed, contrary to the advice of El Feri, had

descended the Sierra Bermeja with the Moors under his command. El Feri

had expostulated with his brother chief, but could not persuade him to

postpone an attempt which, planned with haste, and executed with

rashness, could only be attended with disaster. The Moors, though

possessed of courage, were unskilled in the discipline of war, and

better calculated, therefore, to harrass the Spaniards by detached

bodies, in petty skirmishes, than to oppose them in the open field.

Mohabed was callous to all remonstrances; and this want of unity in the

chiefs, proved a mortal blow to the Moorish cause. El Feri saw with

grief his companions descending that mountain which, to them, had

afforded a strong hold, and a secure home, to risk, by an act of

imprudence, the advantages which they had already gained.

Mohabed boldly directed his course towards Granada, in which direction

Gomez Arias was said to be advancing. The enemies shortly came in sight;

but no sooner did they come within hearing, than the Moors sent forth a

wild shout of exultation, which was answered by the war-cry of the

Christians, who were burning to revenge the defeat of their countrymen

in the Sierra Bermeja.

Gomez Arias beheld the advance of the enemy with transports of joy. He

hailed an opportunity of avenging the death of Aguilar, and of

acquiring, by a brilliant act, fresh laurels to sanction his ambitious

and enterprizing schemes. Besides the many deceitful stratagems to which

he had resorted on account of Theodora, his unsatisfactory conduct on

the day of his intended wedding, and a degree of mystery that remained

over that affair, had combined to throw a shade over his character which

he was anxious to remove by the _eclat_ of a military exploit. The hope

of victory, the desire of retrieving the late disgrace of the

Christians, and the sweet whispers of ambition, produced a state of wild

excitation he could scarcely restrain. His soldiers were equally

impatient to signalize themselves, and every one awaited the moment of

action in a ferment of expectation.

Gomez Arias made choice of an advantageous position near _Rio Gordo_,

and there resolved to receive the attack of the enemy. Meantime Mohabed,

as if to forward the wishes of the Spaniards, hurried on without

considering the fatigue and exhaustion to which his men were reduced by

a forced march. The Christians, in their turn, beheld the approach of

the rebels, as an approaching holocaust to the spirits of those who fell

in the Sierra Bermeja with the gallant Aguilar. Don Lope commanded his

men to sustain the first attack without moving, and then, taking

advantage of the confusion excited by a repulse, suddenly to charge

their enemies with the united advantages of discipline and courage. His

wishes succeeded to their utmost extent. The Moors rushed on to the

charge in a blind and disorderly manner, totally heedless of the

consequences of their want of organization. The Spaniards suffered the

attack with the greatest coolness and intrepidity; when their fiery

courage, acquiring additional stimulus from having been compressed, now

spurred them on, and, with their entire force, they fell on the

confused and crowded masses of the enemy with an overwhelming shock.

A dreadful carnage ensued. Terror had succeeded the first ebullition of

courage, and the Moors perceived their own rout and confusion only when

it was too late. Mohabed exerted all his powers to rally his

panic-stricken followers, but it was in vain. Disorder and dismay every

where prevailed, and the Christians obtained a victory as easy as it was

complete. The greater part of the Moors were slain in the field; a few

only escaped to carry the disheartening tale to their companions. The

rest, with their chief, Mohabed, fell into the hands of the enemy.

The news of this disaster caused the wildest consternation amongst the

rebels at Alhaurin and the Sierra Bermeja. El Feri de Benastepar,

grieved but not surprised at the unfortunate results of Mohabed's

rashness, was active in repairing the loss, but his numbers being so

much reduced, he was now more fully confirmed in his design of confining

their warfare against the Christians to the Sierra Bermeja. With the

vigour of a superior character, he did not feel dejected by this

overthrow, as he had not been wildly elated by his previous success. Not

so with Caneri: the total rout of Mohabed, described in the darkest

colours by those who had succeeded in effecting their escape, began to

awaken apprehensions for his own safety. His fear was considerably

aggravated by the arrival of the Alcayde de los Donceles, who, by forced

marches, had suddenly made his appearance before Alhaurin, to which he

immediately laid siege. The disorder and discontent of the Moors hourly

increased, and the absence of the renegade was severely felt.

At this moment the Alcayde de los Donceles sent a herald to summon the

rebels to surrender, promising a full pardon should they be willing to

lay down their arms and deliver up their chiefs. But in case they

neglected to adopt in time this conciliatory measure, it was threatened

that they should all be put to the sword, and the town reduced to

ashes. Discontent and insubordination now prevailed amongst the rebels.

The sense of their danger--the formidable array of the enemy--and above

all, the unpopularity of their chief, Caneri, conspired to render a

great portion of the troops willing to accede to the proposals of the

Alcayde.

Soon a numerous and powerful cabal was formed, and the malcontents,

deciding that their cause was desperate, agreed to surrender. In a large

body they proceeded to the palace, and insolently demanded that the

gates of the town should be opened to the Christians. Caneri, and some

of his adherents, aware that they were made an exception to the amnesty,

were naturally anxious to defend the city, as the only means of averting

their fate.

Caneri, no longer an unruly despot, now crouched to the danger like an

abject slave, and in a piteous tone began to expostulate with the

mutineers. It was a striking contrast to see the man, who lately was the

terror of all, converted into so gentle an animal as to astonish even

the Moors when they contemplated the cowardly being who had held them

so long in dread. They were not moved by his entreaties; for the

supplications of a despot, instead of awakening sympathy, serve only to

augment the rage of mankind, by placing in a more striking light his

pusillanimity and unworthiness, and the shame of having suffered so

despicable a thing to tyrannize over and oppress them.

The uproar and insubordination increased as the term allowed by the

Alcayde to effect a surrender was drawing near. All obedience was now

disregarded, and a party of the most turbulent resolved to put their

chief to death, and, by this means, propitiate the favor of their

enemies. Accordingly, with wild exclamations and terrific yells, they

surrounded the mansion of Caneri, and insolently summoned the few Moors

who still adhered to him to give up the despot, or that they would

immediately commit the palace to the flames. Caneri, pale, haggard, and

trembling, stood like a convicted culprit in the scene of his former

brief authority, bewildered with fear, and without knowing what course

to pursue. To escape was utterly impossible, the palace being surrounded

by the infuriate Moors, and the town beleaguered by the Spaniards. In

this emergency he cast an imploring look on his followers, and saw with

despair the limited number of his adherents. In vain he attempted to

harangue the infuriated throng from the window; he was driven back by a

shower of stones and other missiles. In this suspense and agony he

remained some time, during which he had the mortification to behold his

few remaining friends gradually deserting his side in proportion as the

danger became more imminent. All was tumult and anarchy, and the cries

which proceeded from without, predicted to Caneri's ears his approaching

and terrible fate. To the curses heaped on his devoted and abhorred

person, succeeded the appalling threats and the wild savage laugh of

exultation over his near downfall. Those who were formerly the most

abject of his slaves, were now more particularly conspicuous in

manifesting their revengeful disposition.

The outward gates had now given way to the ponderous hammers with a

terrible crash, and the frenzied mutineers rushing impetuously in,

traversed the hall and gallery without opposition, and directed their

course to the apartment of the chief.

The wretched Caneri, alike unable to meet his death like a man, by

opposing his rebellious soldiers, or to prevent by his own hand the

ignominy which threatened him, awaited in stupor the crisis of the

bursting storm. Aghast he rolled his starting eyes, glazed with agonized

terror; and he saw himself deserted in that dreadful moment by all his

dependants. All had forsaken him--all but one man; he alone, in spite of

the fate which inevitably awaited his adherence to the fallen chief,

still remained faithful to his side: it was Malique. There is an

instinctive fidelity, existing sometimes in the most unrefined and

barbarous minds, honorable to human nature,--the uncouth Malique was of

this stamp; he had received no favors from his master when in

prosperity, yet he now scorned to abandon him in adversity.

Caneri looked at him, and in spite of his forlorn and perilous

situation, could not but be moved at the sight of the faithful Malique.

The noble minded Moor stood by his side, his scymitar drawn, and

evincing on his countenance no signs of terror or dismay. Caneri, frail

as was the protection that could be derived from a single man, still

fondly clung to hope with the sordidness of a cowardly mind.

"My faithful Malique," he cried in a tone of agony; "Is there no hope?"

"None," replied Malique, sadly, but resolutely: "none, but to die like

brave Moors; draw your weapon, noble Caneri, and perish as becomes your

race." The trembling chief answered with a groan, for the mutinous

soldiers had succeeded in bursting the door of the apartment, and now

with a dreadful clamour poured in, eager to strike the first blow at

their wretched and defenceless chief. Their very impatience retarded the

accomplishment of their fell desire, for as they thronged the narrow

passages, some were thrown down, the impatience of the one impeding the

progress of the other.

His suspense between life and death was protracted by the confusion; and

the miserable Caneri suffered the additional torture of hearing for some

time the appalling heralds of his fate, before the blow was struck. The

door burst open, and the savage eyes of his enemies glared upon their

victim, and the glitter of their weapons struck fearfully on his

sickening sight. He stood gazing with the petrified look of despair;

Malique boldly advanced and placed himself before his master, with the

resolute courage of one who has determined upon his part.

"Malique," cried the foremost of the conspirators, who happened to be

one whom Caneri had favored; "Sheath thy weapon; we seek not for thy

life." Malique made no reply, but with a single blow he levelled the

traitor with the ground; he then sprung fearlessly amongst the

rebellious crowd, and after having laid prostrate two or three of the

most infuriated, he was himself struck down, and met his death with the

courage of a soldier, and the coolness of a man, who dies in the

discharge of his duty.

Grown desperate by the very impulse of terror, and moved by the sight of

Malique bleeding at his feet, Caneri assumed a courage arising from

desperation, and as the mutineers closed round him, he dealt several

blows with a stubborn resistance that might have done him honour in the

field. He was, however, soon overpowered, and fell covered with

innumerable wounds. His head was immediately severed from the body, and

being affixed to a long pole, the disorderly and motley crowd now

proceeded to the camp of the Spaniards, bearing before them the bleeding

and ghastly token of their surrender.

The whole town now became the scene of indiscriminate riot; men and

women, old and young, ran about in a tumult of hope and fear, whilst the

discordant shouts of the soldiery, and the appalling sight of the

procession, bearing the ensanguined trophy, greatly contributed to

increase the confusion.

El Alcayde de los Donceles having taken the necessary precautions to

insure the safety of his men, in case of treason, now entered the town

of Alhaurin amidst the acclamations of his late foes; the chiefs of the

rebels had already been secured, and the disorderly multitude taking

advantage of the proffered pardon, soon evacuated the place, and

dispersed in every direction.

Meantime the Alcayde, having left a garrison in the town to prevent any

further trouble, proceeded towards the Sierra Bermeja, the last and only

refuge of the Moors; for the little villages where the fire of sedition

yet burned, were too insignificant to engross his attention. The

Christians therefore continued their march towards the dreadful spot,

where the spirit of the noble Aguilar seemed to hover, in expectation of

redress, and where the terrible El Feri, the most valiant of the Moors,

still kept his ground.

CHAPTER IX.

Cuan breve y cuan caduca resplandece

Nuestra gloria! Cuan subito, en el punto

Que deleita a los ojos, desparece!

_Herrera._

Che piu si apera, o che s'attende omai?

Dopo trionfo e palma

* * * *

Luto e lamenti, e lagrimosi lai;

_Tasso._