VISCOUNT CHATEAUBRIAND

_ADVERTISEMENT_

_The Adventures of the last of the Abencerrages_ were written

nearly twenty years ago; the portrait which I have sketched of

the Spaniards explains sufficiently why this story could not

be printed under the Imperial government. The resistance of

the Spaniards to Buonaparte, of a defenceless nation to the

conqueror, who had vanquished the best soldiers of Europe,

excited at that time the enthusiasm of every heart susceptible

of being affected by great devotedness and noble sacrifices.

The ruins of Saragossa were still smoking, and the censorship

would not have suffered the publication of eulogiums, in which

it would have discovered, rightly enough, a concealed interest

for the victims. Pictures of the ancient manners of Europe,

recollections of the glory of former times, and those of the

court of one of our most distinguished monarchs, would not have

been more agreeable to the censorship, which besides began

to repent having so often allowed me to speak of the ancient

monarchy, and of the religion of our fathers: these departed

subjects, which I was incessantly recalling, excited too

powerfully the thoughts of the living.

It is a frequent practice, in pictures, to place some unseemly

personage for the purpose of bringing out more the beauty of

others: in this story, my idea has been to paint three men of

equally elevated character, but not out of the usual course of

nature, and retaining, along with the passions, the manners

and even the prejudices of their country. The character of the

female is also drawn in the same proportions. The world of

imagination, when we transport ourselves thither, should at

least make us amends for the world of reality.

It will readily be seen that this story is the composition

of a man who has felt the pangs of exile, and whose heart is

entirely wrapt up in his country.

The views, so to speak, which I have given of Granada, of the

Alhambra, and of the ruined mosque transformed into a church,

were taken upon the spot. The latter is nothing else than the

cathedral of Cordova. These descriptions are therefore a kind

of addition to the following passage of the _Itinerary_. “From

Cadiz, I repaired to Cordova; I admired the mosque which is now

the cathedral of that city. I traversed the ancient Betica,

described by the poets as the abode of happiness. I ascended as

far as Andujar, and retraced my steps in order to see Granada.

The Alhambra appeared to me well worthy of being looked at,

even after the temples of Greece. The valley of Granada is

delightful, and reminds one very much of that of Sparta; that

the Moors should have regretted such a country may be easily

conceived.”--(_Itinerary_, part VII. and last).

There are frequent allusions in this story to the history of

the Zegris and the Abencerrages; this history is so well known,

that I have thought it superfluous to give any sketch of it

in this advertisement. Besides, the story itself contains

sufficient details to make the text easily understood.

When Boabdil, the last king of Granada, was compelled to abandon the

kingdom of his forefathers, he halted on the top of Mount Padul. That

elevated spot commanded a view of the sea, on which the unfortunate

monarch was about to embark for Africa; from it also could be

discovered Granada, the Vega, and the Xenil, on the banks of which

were erected the tents of Ferdinand and Isabella. At the sight of this

beautiful country, and of the cypresses which still marked here and

there the tombs of the Mussulmans, Boabdil began to shed tears. The

sultana Ayxa, his mother, who accompanied him in his exile, along with

the grandees who formerly composed his court, said to him: “Weep now

like a woman, for the loss of a kingdom, which thou hast been unable

to defend like a man.” They descended from the mountain, and Granada

disappeared from their eyes for ever.

The Moors of Spain, who shared the fate of their sovereign, dispersed

themselves throughout Africa; the tribes of the Zegris and the Gomeres

settled in the kingdom of Fez, which was their aboriginal country; the

Vanegas and the Alabeses took up their abode upon the coast, from Oran

to Algiers; finally the Abencerrages established themselves in the

environs of Tunis; they formed, within sight of the ruins of Carthage,

a colony, which, even in our own times, is distinguished from the Moors

of Africa, by its elegant manners, and the mildness of its laws.

These families carried into their new country the remembrance of

their old one. The _Paradise of Granada_ lived constantly in their

memory, the mothers repeated its name to their children at the breast.

They lulled them to sleep with the romances of the Zegris and the

Abencerrages. Prayers were repeated in the mosque every five days, with

the face turned towards Granada; and Allah was implored to restore to

his chosen people that land of delights. In vain did the country of the

Lotos-eaters present to the exiles its fruits, its waters, its verdure,

and its glorious sun; far from the _Vermilion Towers_,[2] there were

neither pleasant fruits, limpid springs, fresh verdure, nor sun worthy

to be looked at. If any one shewed the plains of Bagrada to an exile,

the latter only shook his head, and exclaimed with a sigh: “Granada!”

The Abencerrages, particularly, preserved the most tender and faithful

remembrance of their country. They had quitted, with the most poignant

anguish, the theatre of their glory, and the banks which they had

made so often ring with the war-cry of “Honour and love.” Being no

longer able to lift the lance in the deserts, or to wear the helmet

in a colony of farmers, they had devoted themselves to the study of

simples, a profession in equal estimation among the Arabs with that of

arms. Thus did that race of warriors, which formerly inflicted wounds,

now make its occupation that of healing them. In this particular, it

retained something of its original genius, for the knights themselves

frequently dressed the wounds of the enemies they had overthrown.

The cottage of that family, which formerly possessed palaces, was

not placed in the hamlet of the other exiles, at the foot of Mount

Mamelife; it was built amidst the very ruins of Carthage, on the

sea-shore, in the place where St. Louis expired on the ashes, and

where a Mahometan hermitage is now to be seen. Along the walls of the

cottage were hung bucklers made of lions’ skins, bearing, impressed

upon a field of azure, two figures of savages breaking down a town with

a club; round the device was this motto: “It is but little!” the coat

of arms and device of the Abencerrages. Lances adorned with white and

blue pennons, burnouses, and cassocks of slashed satin, were ranged by

the side of the bucklers, and figured in the midst of scimitars and

poniards. Here and there also were suspended gauntlets, bits ornamented

with precious stones, large silver stirrups, long swords, whose sheaths

had been embroidered by the hands of princesses, and golden spurs,

with which the Iseults, the Guineveres and Orianas were wont of old to

invest gallant knights.

Beneath these trophies of glory, were placed upon tables the trophies

of a life of peace. These were plants culled on the summits of Mount

Atlas, and in the desert of Sahara; many of them had even been brought

from the plain of Granada. Some were intended to relieve the ailments

of the body; others were supposed to mitigate the severity of mental

suffering. The Abencerrages regarded as most valuable those which were

useful in calming vain regrets, in dissipating foolish illusions, and

the ever-reviving, ever-deceived, hopes of happiness. Unfortunately

these simples possessed qualities of an opposite nature, and the sweet

odour of a flower of their own country frequently acted as a sort of

poison to the illustrious exiles.

Twenty-four years had passed away since the taking of Granada. In that

short space of time, fourteen Abencerrages had perished, by the effects

of a new climate, the accidents of a wandering life, and principally

through grief, which imperceptibly undermines the strength of man.

One single descendant was the sole hope of that illustrious family.

Aben-Hamet bore the name of that Abencerrage, who was accused by the

Zegris of having seduced the sultana Alfayma. In him were united the

beauty, the valour, the courtesy and the generosity of his ancestors,

with that mild lustre and slight tinge of melancholy which adversity,

nobly supported, inspires. He was only twenty-two years of age when he

lost his father; he then determined to make a pilgrimage to the land of

his ancestors, in order to gratify the secret longing of his heart, and

to execute a plan which he carefully concealed from his mother.

He embarked at the port of Tunis; a favourable wind carried him to

Carthagena, where he landed, and immediately proceeded on the road to

Granada. He gave himself out for an Arabian physician, who had come

to collect plants amid the rocks of the Sierra Nevada. A quiet mule

bore him slowly along in the country where formerly the Abencerrages

were carried with the swiftness of the wind on warlike coursers; a

guide walked before, leading two other mules ornamented with bells and

parti-coloured woollen tufts. Aben-Hamet crossed the large heaths and

woods of palm-trees of the kingdom of Murcia; from the great age of

these trees, he conjectured that they must have been planted by his

ancestors, and his heart was pierced by regret. There rose a tower

in which the sentinel, in former times, kept watch, during the wars

of the Moors and Christians; here appeared a ruined building whose

architecture proved its Moorish origin; a fresh subject of grief to

Aben-Hamet! He dismounted from his mule, and, on pretence of seeking

for plants, hid himself for a few moments, in the ruins, in order

to give free vent to his tears. He then proceeded on his road, in a

state of reverie, which was encouraged by the noise of the mule-bells,

and the monotonous song of his guide. The latter only interrupted his

long-winded ditty, in order to quicken the pace of his mules by giving

them the names of _beautiful_ and _brave_, or to scold them by the

epithets of _lazy_ and _obstinate_.

Flocks of sheep, directed by a shepherd like an army, in sere and

barren plains, and occasionally a solitary traveller, far from

diffusing an appearance of life upon the road, only served, in a

manner, to make it more gloomy and desert. These travellers all wore

a sword attached to the waist; they were wrapped up in a mantle, and

a large slouched hat half covered their faces. As they passed, they

saluted Aben-Hamet, who could only make out, in their noble salutation,

the names of God, of Señor and of Knight. At the close of day, the

Abencerrage took his place in the midst of strangers at the inn,

without being troubled by their indiscreet curiosity. No one spoke

to him, no one questioned him; his turban, his robe, and his arms,

excited no surprise. As it had been the will of Allah, that the Moors

of Spain should lose their beautiful country, Aben-Hamet could not help

entertaining a feeling of esteem for its grave conquerors.

Emotions still more vivid awaited the Abencerrage at the end of his

journey. Granada is built at the foot of the Sierra Nevada, on two high

hills, separated by a deep valley. The houses, built on the declivities

in the hollow of the valley, give this city the shape and appearance

of a grenado half open, from which resemblance it derives its name.

Two rivers, the Xenil and the Darro, the sands of the first of which

contain gold, and the other silver, wash the feet of the hills, form

a junction, and afterwards take a serpentine course in the midst of a

charming valley, called the Vega. This plain, which is overlooked by

Granada, is covered with vines, with pomegranate, fig, mulberry and

orange-trees; it is surrounded by mountains of singularly beautiful

form and colour. An enchanting sky, a pure and delicious air, affect

the soul with a secret languor, from which even the passing traveller

finds it difficult to preserve himself. Every one feels that, in this

country, the tender passions would have very soon stifled the heroic

ones, if true love did not always feel the wish to have glory as its

companion.

As soon as Aben-Hamet discovered the tops of the first buildings of

Granada, his heart beat so violently, that he was obliged to stop his

mule. Crossing his arms over his breast, and fixing his eyes on the

holy city, he remained speechless and immovable. The guide halted

in his turn; and, as elevated sentiments are easily understood by

a Spaniard, he appeared affected, and conjectured that the Moor’s

feelings were excited by the sight of his former country. The

Abencerrage at last broke silence.

“Guide!” said he, “be happy! hide not the truth from me, for the waves

were calm, and the moon entered into her crescent, on the day of thy

nativity. What are these towers which shine like stars over a green

forest?”

“That is the Alhambra,” answered the guide.

“And the other castle upon the opposite hill?” said Aben-Hamet.

“It is the Generalife,” replied the Spaniard. “In that castle there is

a garden planted with myrtles, where it is said the Abencerrage was

surprised with the sultana Alfayma; farther off, you see the Albaycin,

and nearer to us the Vermilion Towers.”

Every word which the guide uttered pierced the heart of Aben-Hamet. How

cruel it is to be obliged to have recourse to strangers for information

respecting the monuments of our ancestors, and to have the history of

our family and friends related to us by indifferent persons! The guide,

putting an end to the reflections of Aben-Hamet, exclaimed: “Let us

proceed, Sir Moor; it is the will of God! Do not be downcast. Is not

Francis I., even now, a prisoner in our Madrid? It is the will of God!”

He took off his hat, crossed himself with great fervour, and drove on

his mules. The Abencerrage, spurring on his, exclaimed in his turn: “It

was thus written;” [3] and they descended towards Granada.

They passed close to the great ash-tree, memorable as the scene of the

battle between Musa and the grand-master of Calatrava, in the time of

the last king of Granada. They made the circuit of the Alameda walk,

and entered the city by the gate of Elvira. They reascended the Rambla,

and arrived shortly after at a square, surrounded on all sides by

buildings of Moorish architecture. A khan was opened in this square for

the Moors of Africa, whom the trade in silks of the Vega attracted in

crowds to Granada. Thither the guide conducted Aben-Hamet.

The Abencerrage was too agitated to enjoy much rest in his new

habitation; the idea of his country tormented him. Unable any longer

to master the feelings which preyed upon his heart, he stole out, in

the middle of the night, to wander about the streets of Granada. He

attempted to recognize, with his eyes or with his hands, some of the

monuments which the elders of his tribe had so frequently described

to him. Perhaps the lofty edifice, whose walls he could only half

distinguish through the darkness, was formerly the residence of the

Abencerrages; perhaps it was in this solitary square that those

splendid carousals were given, which raised the glory of Granada to

the skies. There it was that the troops of horsemen, superbly dressed

in brocade, marched in procession; there advanced the galleys loaded

with arms and with flowers, the dragons darting out fire, and carrying

illustrious warriors concealed in their sides; ingenious inventions of

pleasure and gallantry.

But alas! in place of the sound of _anafins_, of the noise of trumpets,

and of songs of love, the deepest silence reigned around Aben-Hamet.

This mute city had changed its inhabitants, and the victors reposed

on the couches of the vanquished. “They sleep then, these proud

Spaniards,” exclaimed the young Moor with indignation, “under the roofs

from which they have banished my ancestors! And I, an Abencerrage,

I wake, unknown, solitary and forsaken, at the gate of my fathers’

palace.”

Aben-Hamet then reflected upon the destinies of man, on the

vicissitudes of fortune, on the fall of empires, lastly on Granada

itself surprised by its enemies in the midst of pleasures, and

exchanging all at once its garlands of flowers for chains; he pictured

to himself its citizens forsaking their homes in gala dresses, like

guests, who, in the disorder of their attire, are suddenly driven from

the chambers of festivity by a conflagration.

All these images, all these ideas, crowded on one another in the

soul of Aben-Hamet; full of grief and anguish, his thoughts were

principally turned to the execution of the project which had brought

him to Granada. Day surprised him in his reverie; the Abencerrage had

lost his way: he found himself far from the khan, in a remote suburb

of the city. All was yet asleep: no noise disturbed the silence of

the streets; the doors and windows of the houses were still shut; the

clarion of the cock alone proclaimed, in the habitation of the poor,

the return of labour and of hardship.

After wandering about for a long time, without being able to find his

way, Aben-Hamet heard a door open. He saw a young female come out,

dressed nearly like the Gothic queens which we see sculptured on the

monuments of our ancient abbeys; her black corset trimmed with jet

tightened her elegant waist. Her short petticoat, narrow and without

folds, discovered a beautiful leg and charming foot; a mantilla, also

black, was thrown over her head; with her left hand she held this

mantilla crossed and drawn up close like a stomacher under her chin, in

such a manner that nothing was seen of her face but her large eyes and

rosy mouth. A duenna walked by her side; a page preceded her, carrying

a prayer-book; two footmen in livery followed at some distance the

beautiful unknown; she was repairing to morning prayers, which were

announced by the ringing of a bell in a neighbouring monastery.

Aben-Hamet fancied he saw the angel Israfel, or the youngest of

the houris. The Spanish maiden, not less surprised, looked at

the Abencerrage, whose turban, robe and arms set off to still

greater advantage his noble countenance. Recovering from her first

astonishment, she beckoned to the stranger to approach, with the grace

and freedom peculiar to the women of that country. “Sir Moor,” said she

to him, “you appear to have recently arrived at Granada; have you lost

your way?”

“Sultana of flowers,” replied Aben-Hamet, “delight of men’s eyes,

Christian slave more beautiful than the virgins of Georgia, thou hast

rightly guessed! I am a stranger in this city: having lost myself

amidst its palaces, I was unable to find my way back to the khan

of the Moors. May Mahomet touch thy heart, and reward thee for thy

hospitality!”

“The Moors are renowned for their gallantry,” replied the lady with the

sweetest smile; “but I am neither sultana of flowers, nor a slave, nor

desirous of being recommended to Mahomet. Follow me, Sir knight, I will

lead you back to the khan of the Moors.”

She walked lightly before the Abencerrage, led him to the door of the

khan, to which she pointed with her hand, then passed on to the back of

a palace, and disappeared.

To what then is the repose of life attached? His country no longer

occupies solely and exclusively the mind of Aben-Hamet; Granada

is no longer in his eyes deserted, forsaken, widowed and solitary;

she is dearer than ever to his heart, but it is a new glamour which

embellishes her ruins; with the recollection of his ancestors is now

mingled another charm. Aben-Hamet has discovered the burial-place

where the ashes of the Abencerrages repose; but while he prays, throws

himself on the ground, and sheds a flood of filial tears, he fancies

that the young Spanish maiden has sometimes passed over these tombs,

and he no longer considers his ancestors as so unfortunate.

In vain does he wish to occupy himself with nothing but his pilgrimage

to the land of his fathers; in vain does he scour the hills of the

Darro and the Xenil to gather plants from them at the morning-dawn; the

young Christian lady is the flower which he is now in search of. What

fruitless efforts he has already made to discover the palace of his

enchantress! How many times has he attempted to retrace the ground over

which his divine guide conducted him! How many times has he fancied

that he has recognized the same bell, and the same cock-crow, which

he had heard near the house of the Spanish lady! Deceived by similar

sounds, he runs immediately to the side from which they proceed; but

the magic palace nowhere presents itself to his eyes! Frequently also

the uniformity of the female dress at Granada gave him a moment of

hope: at a distance every Christian female resembled the mistress of

his heart; when close to him, not one possessed her beauty or her

grace. Finally, Aben-Hamet had made the round of the churches, in

order to discover the stranger; he had even penetrated to the tomb of

Ferdinand and Isabella, but this was the greatest sacrifice which he

had yet made to love.

One day he was herborizing in the valley of the Darro. The flowery

declivity of the southern hill supported the walls of the Alhambra,

and the gardens of the Generalife; the northern hill was adorned with

the Albaycin, with smiling orchards, and with grottoes, inhabited by

a numerous population. At the western extremity of the valley, were

descried the spires of Granada, which rose in groups from the midst

of holm-oaks and cypresses. At the other extremity, towards the east,

the eye rested upon points of rocks, convents and hermitages, some of

the ruins of the ancient Illiberia, and in the distance the heights of

the Sierra Nevada. The waters of the Darro rolled along in the middle

of the vale, and presented on the margin of its course newly erected

mills, noisy waterfalls, the broken arches of a Roman aqueduct, and the

remains of a bridge of the time of the Moors.

Aben-Hamet was neither miserable enough, nor happy enough, to enjoy

properly the charms of solitude; he roamed over these beautiful banks

with absence and indifference. In the course of his random walk, he

struck into an alley of trees which wound round the declivity of

the hill of the Albaycin. A country-house, surrounded by a grove of

orange-trees, soon presented itself to his view; as he approached the

grove, he heard the sounds of a voice and a guitar. Between the voice,

the features and looks of a woman there are relations which never

deceive a man whom love possesses. “It is my houri!” said Aben-Hamet,

and he listened with a beating heart; at the name of the Abencerrages

several times repeated, his heart beat still quicker. The fair unknown

was singing a Spanish romance retracing the history of the Abencerrages

and the Zegris. Aben-Hamet was no longer able to resist his emotion;

he darted through a hedge of myrtle, and found himself in the midst

of a party of young ladies, who were alarmed at his appearance, and,

with loud screams, fled in all directions. The Spanish lady who had

been singing, and who still held the guitar, exclaimed: “It is the

Moorish gentleman!” and called back her companions. “Favourite of the

genii,” said the Abencerrage, “I sought thee as an Arab searches for a

spring at the heat of noon. I heard the sound of thy guitar; thou wert

singing the heroes of my country. I discovered thee by the beauty of

thy accents, and I come to lay at thy feet the heart of Aben-Hamet.”

“And it was with thoughts of you,” replied Donna Blanca, “that I was

repeating the romance of the Abencerrages: ever since I saw you, I have

fancied that these Moorish knights resembled you.”

The colour mounted slightly to Blanca’s forehead as she pronounced

these words. Aben-Hamet felt as if he could have thrown himself at the

feet of the young Christian, and declared to her that he was himself

the last Abencerrage; but a remnant of prudence restrained him: he was

afraid lest his name, too celebrated at Granada, should give uneasiness

to the governor. The war with the Moriscoes was scarcely terminated,

and the presence of an Abencerrage at that moment might give the

Spaniards just cause of apprehension. It was not that Aben-Hamet was

alarmed at the prospect of danger; but he trembled at the idea of being

obliged to remove himself for ever from the daughter of Don Rodrigo.

Donna Blanca was descended from a family which derived its origin from

the Cid de Bivar, and from Ximena, the daughter of Count Gormez de

Gormas. The posterity of the conqueror of Valencia the Beautiful, owing

to the ingratitude of the court of Castille, was reduced to a state of

extreme poverty; it was even believed, for several centuries, to be

extinct, such was the obscurity into which it had fallen. But, about

the time of the conquest of Granada, a last descendant of the race of

the Bivars, the grandfather of Blanca, made himself distinguished,

less by his pedigree than by his signal valour. After the expulsion of

the infidels, Ferdinand rewarded this descendant of the Cid with the

estates of several Moorish families, and created him Duke of Santa Fé.

The newly created Duke fixed his residence at Granada, and died while

still young, leaving an only son already married, Don Rodrigo, father

of Blanca.

Donna Teresa de Xeres, the wife of Don Rodrigo, gave birth to a

son, who received, at his birth, the name of Rodrigo, like all his

ancestors, but was called Don Carlos, to distinguish him from his

father. The great events of which Don Carlos was a witness from his

earliest years, the dangers to which he was exposed while yet in his

nonage, contributed to render still more grave and severe a character

naturally disposed to austerity. Don Carlos was scarcely fourteen

years of age, when he followed Cortez to Mexico: he supported all the

dangers, and was a witness of all the horrors, of that astonishing

adventure; and he was present at the overthrow of the last king of

a world until then unknown. Three years after that catastrophe, Don

Carlos had returned to Europe, and was present at the battle of Pavia,

as if he had come to witness kingly honour and valour sinking under

the strokes of fortune. The aspect of a new world, long voyages on

seas which had never before been navigated, and the spectacle of the

revolutions and vicissitudes of fate, had made a deep impression on the

religious and melancholy imagination of Don Carlos. He entered into the

knightly order of Calatrava; and, renouncing marriage in spite of Don

Rodrigo’s prayers, destined his whole fortune to his sister.

Blanca de Bivar, the only sister of Don Carlos, and much younger than

he, was the idol of her father. She had lost her mother, and had just

entered into her eighteenth year, when Aben-Hamet made his appearance

at Granada. Everything about this enchanting woman was fascination

itself; her voice was ravishing and her dancing lighter than the

zephyr. Sometimes she delighted in directing a chariot, like Armida; at

other times she flew upon the back of the swiftest barb of Andalusia,

like those charming fairies who appeared to Tristan and to Galaor

in the forests. Athens would have taken her for Aspasia, and Paris

for Diana of Poitiers, who was then beginning to shine at the court.

But, with the charms of a Frenchwoman, she had all the passions of a

Spaniard, and her natural coquetry in no degree diminished the fixity,

the constancy, the strength and elevation of the feelings of her heart.

At the noise of the screams, which the young ladies sent forth, when

Aben-Hamet rushed into the midst of the grove, Don Rodrigo came running

up. “My father,” said Blanca, “this is the Moorish gentleman of whom I

spoke to you. He heard me singing, and recognized me; he entered the

garden to thank me for having put him in his right road.”

The Duke of Santa Fé received the Abencerrage with the grave and yet

unaffected politeness of the Spaniards. One remarks in this nation

none of those servile airs, none of those circumlocutory phrases,

which reveal the abjectness of ideas, and the degradation of the soul.

The language of the first nobleman and of the peasant is the same,

the salutation the same, the compliments, habits and customs are the

same. In proportion as the confidence and generosity of this people

to strangers is unbounded, in the same proportion is its vengeance

terrible when betrayed. Of heroic courage, of patience inexhaustible,

incapable of yielding to bad fortune, it must either vanquish or be

crushed. It has little of what is called wit, but exalted passions

are with it a substitute for that light which is derived from the

refinement and abundance of ideas. A Spaniard, who passes the day

without speaking, who has seen nothing, and cares not for seeing

anything, who has read nothing, studied nothing, compared nothing,

will yet discover, in the greatness of his resolutions, the necessary

resources at the moment of adversity.

It was Don Rodrigo’s birthday, and Blanca was giving her father a

_tertulia_, or little entertainment, in this delightful solitude.

The Duke invited Aben-Hamet to seat himself amidst the young ladies,

who were amused at the turban and robe of the stranger. Some velvet

cushions were brought, and Aben-Hamet reclined himself on these

cushions in the Moorish fashion. He was questioned respecting his

country, and his adventures; he replied to these enquiries with spirit

and vivacity. He spoke the purest Castilian; one could have taken him

for a Spaniard, if he had not almost constantly said _thou_ instead of

_you_. This word had something so sweet about it in his mouth, that

Blanca could not help feeling a secret annoyance when he addressed it

to one of her companions.

A numerous retinue of servants appeared, and were the bearers of

chocolate, of fruit cakes, and little sweet cakes from Malaga, white

as snow, porous and light as sponges. After the _refresco_, Blanca

was entreated to execute one of those national dances, in which she

excelled the most accomplished Gitanas. She was obliged to accede to

the wishes of her friends. Aben-Hamet was silent, but his supplicating

looks spoke as eloquently as his mouth would have done. Blanca chose a

_zambra_, an expressive dance which the Spaniards have borrowed from

the Moors.

One of the young ladies began to play upon the guitar the air of this

foreign dance. The daughter of Don Rodrigo took off her veil, and

fastened a pair of ebony castanets round her white hands. Her black

hair falls in ringlets on her alabaster neck; her mouth and her eyes

smile in concert; her colour is animated by the action of her heart.

All at once she makes the noisy ebony re-echo, beats time three times,

commences the song of the _zambra_, and, mingling her voice with the

sounds of the guitar, darts off like lightning.

What variety in her steps! What elegance in her attitudes! Now she

raises her arms with vivacity, then she lets them fall with languor.

Sometimes she springs forward as if intoxicated with pleasure, and then

retires as if overwhelmed with sorrow. She turns her head, seems to

call to her some invisible person, modestly holds out her rosy cheek

to receive the kiss of a newly married husband, flies back ashamed,

returns delighted and consoled, marches with a noble and almost warlike

step, afterwards skims afresh the verdant mead. The harmony between

her dancing, her singing, and the music of the guitar was perfect.

The voice of Blanca, slightly husky, had that species of accent which

stirs the passions to the very bottom of the soul. The Spanish music,

composed of sighs, of lively movements, of melancholy repetitions,

of airs suddenly stopped, presents a singular mixture of gaiety and

melancholy. This music and this dancing settled the destiny of the last

Abencerrage irrecoverably; they would have been sufficient to trouble a

heart less susceptible than his.

In the evening they returned to Granada by the valley of the Darro.

Don Rodrigo was so delighted with the noble and polished manners of

Aben-Hamet, that he would not let him depart without receiving his

promise to come frequently and amuse Blanca with the wonderful stories

of the East. The Moor, at the height of his wishes, accepted the

invitation of the Duke of Santa Fé; and, beginning with the following

day, he was regular in his visits to the palace where she breathed whom

he loved more than the light of day.

Blanca found her heart very soon engaged in a deep passion, from the

very impossibility she had fancied that ever she should feel that

passion. That any one should love an infidel, a Moor, an unknown

stranger, appeared to her so extraordinary, that she took no precaution

against the malady which began to insinuate itself into her veins. But

no sooner did she become sensible of its inroads, than she accepted

this malady like a true Spaniard. The dangers and troubles, which

she foresaw, neither made her draw back when on the brink of the

precipice, nor deliberate long with her heart. She said to herself:

“Let Aben-Hamet become a Christian, let him love me, and I will follow

him to the extremity of the earth.”

On his part, the Abencerrage also felt the full power of an

irresistible passion: he no longer lived but for Blanca; he no longer

occupied himself with the plans which had brought him to Granada. It

was easy for him to obtain the information which he came expressly in

pursuit of: but every other interest, except that of his love, had

vanished from his eyes. He even dreaded the knowledge which might

produce a change in his mode of existence. He asked for nothing; he

wished not to know anything. He said to himself: “Let Blanca become a

Mahometan, let her love me, and I will serve her to my last sigh.”

Thus determined in their resolutions, Aben-Hamet and Blanca only

waited for a favourable moment to discover their mutual sentiments

to each other. It was then the best time of the year. “You have not

yet seen the Alhambra,” said the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé to

the Abencerrage. “If I can guess, by some words which have dropped

from you, your family is originally from Granada. You will perhaps be

pleased to visit the palace of your ancient kings? I will myself, this

evening, be your guide thither.”

Aben-Hamet swore, by the prophet, that no excursion could ever be more

agreeable to him.

When the hour appointed for this pilgrimage to the Alhambra arrived,

the daughter of Don Rodrigo mounted a white hackney, accustomed to

climb the rocks like a deer. Aben-Hamet accompanied the brilliant

Spaniard on an Andalusian horse, equipped in the Turkish manner. In the

rapid course of the young Moor, his purple robe swelled out behind him,

his crooked sabre echoed on the elevated saddle, and the wind shook the

plume with which his turban was surmounted. The common people, charmed

by his graceful carriage, said as they saw him pass: “It is an infidel

prince whom Donna Blanca is going to convert.”

They first went up a long street which still bore the name of an

illustrious Moorish family. This street bordered on the exterior

inclosure of the Alhambra. They then crossed a wood of young elm-trees,

arrived at a fountain, and shortly found themselves in front of the

interior inclosure of the palace of Boabdil. In a wall flanked with

towers and surmounted by battlements, was a gate called the Gate of

Judgement. They passed through this first gate, and proceeded along a

narrow road which led them in a serpentine course between high walls

and half-ruined hovels. This road brought them to the square of the

Algibes, close to which Charles V. was then erecting a palace. From

thence, turning northward, they halted in a deserted court, at the

foot of an unornamented wall, out of repair from the effects of time.

Aben-Hamet, springing lightly to the ground, presented his hand to

Blanca, and assisted her in alighting from her mule. The servants

knocked at a deserted door, the threshold of which was concealed by the

grass; the door opened, and all at once disclosed to view the secret

recesses of the Alhambra.

All the charms of, and regrets for, his country, mingled with the

glamour of love, seized the heart of Aben-Hamet. Silent and immovable,

his wondering looks dived into this habitation of the genii. He

fancied himself transported to the entrance of one of those palaces

the account of which one reads in the Arabian tales. Light galleries,

canals of white marble bordered with lemon and orange-trees in full

bloom, fountains, and solitary courts, presented themselves in all

directions to the eyes of Aben-Hamet; and through the lengthened vaults

of the porticoes he perceived other labyrinths and fresh enchantments.

The azure of the most beautiful sky appeared between the columns,

which supported a chain of Gothic arches. The walls were covered with

arabesques, which seemed to the eye like imitations of those stuffs

of the East, which, in the ennui of the harem, are embroidered by the

caprice of a female slave. An air of voluptuousness, of religion, and

of war, seemed to breathe in this magic edifice; it was a species of

lovers’ cloister, a mysterious retreat, where the Moorish sovereigns

tasted all the pleasures, and forgot all the duties of life.

After some minutes of surprise and silence, the two lovers entered into

this residence of fallen greatness and past felicities. They first made

the round of the hall of Mexuar, in the midst of the perfume of flowers

and the freshness of waters. They then penetrated into the Court of

Lions. The agitation of Aben-Hamet increased at every step. “Didst thou

not fill my soul with delight,” said he to Blanca, “with what pain

should I find myself obliged to ask of thee, a Spaniard, the history

of this palace! Ah! these places are made to serve as a retreat for

happiness, and I!...”

Aben-Hamet perceived the name of Boabdil enchased in the mosaics: “O

my king!” exclaimed he, “what is become of thee? where shall I find

thee in thy deserted Alhambra?” And tears of fidelity, of loyalty, and

of honour suffused the eyes of the young Moor. “Your old masters,” said

Blanca, “or rather the kings of your fathers, were ungrateful.”--”What

matter!” returned the Abencerrage, “they were unfortunate!”

As he pronounced these words, Blanca conducted him into an apartment

which seemed to be the very sanctuary of the temple of love. The

elegance of this asylum could not be surpassed; the entire ceiling,

painted blue and gold, and composed of arabesques of filagree work,

allowed the light to appear as if through a tissue of flowers. A

fountain spouted in the midst of the building, the waters of which,

falling again in a shower of dew, were received in an alabaster shell.

“Aben-Hamet,” said the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé “look well at

this fountain; it received the disfigured heads of the Abencerrages.

You can still see, on the marble, the stain of the blood of the unhappy

men who were sacrificed to Boabdil’s suspicions. It is thus that, in

your country, men who seduce credulous women are treated.”

Aben-Hamet had ceased to listen to Blanca; he had prostrated himself,

and kissed respectfully the mark of the blood of his ancestors. Then

rising he exclaimed: “O Blanca! I swear, by the blood of these knights,

to love thee with the constancy, the fidelity and the ardour of an

Abencerrage!”

“You love me then?” returned Blanca, clasping her beautiful hands, and

raising her eyes to heaven; “but do you forget that you are an infidel,

a Moor, an enemy, and that I am a Christian and a Spaniard?”

“O holy prophet!” said Aben-Hamet, “be thou witness of my oaths!...”

Blanca interrupted him. “And what reliance think you can I place on the

oaths of a persecutor of my God? Do you know whether I love you? Who

has given you the assurance to use such language to me?”

Aben-Hamet in consternation replied: “True, lady, I am only thy slave;

thou hast not chosen me to be thy knight.”

“Moor,” said Blanca, “lay artifice aside. Thou hast seen, by my looks,

that I loved thee; my passion for thee exceeds all bounds: be a

Christian, and nothing shall prevent me from being thine. But, if the

daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé venture to speak to thee thus frankly,

thou mayest judge, from that very circumstance, that she will know how

to conquer herself, and that no enemy of the Christians shall ever

possess any claim on her.”

Aben-Hamet, in a transport of passion, seized the hands of Blanca,

and placed them first on his turban, and then on his heart: “Allah is

powerful,” he cried, “and Aben-Hamet is happy! O Mahomet, let this

Christian acknowledge thy law, and nothing can....”--”Thou art a

blasphemer,” said Blanca, “let us depart hence.”

Leaning on the arm of the Moor, she proceeded to the fountain of

the Twelve Lions, which gives its name to one of the courts of the

Alhambra. “Stranger,” said the artless Spanish maiden, “when I look

at thy robe, thy turban, and thy arms, and think of our loves, I

fancy I see the shade of the handsome Abencerrage walking in this

forsaken retreat with the unfortunate Alfayma. Explain to me the Arabic

inscription which is engraved on the marble of this fountain.”

Aben-Hamet read these words:

_The beautiful princess who walks, covered with pearls, in her garden,

adds to the beauty of it so prodigiously...._[4] The rest of the

inscription was effaced.

“It is for thee that this inscription was made,” said Aben-Hamet.

“Beloved Sultana, these palaces have never been so beautiful in their

youth, as they now are in their ruins. Listen to the murmur of the

fountains, the waters of which have been turned from their course by

the moss: look at the gardens, which we see through these half-ruined

arcades; contemplate the star of day, which is setting beyond all these

porticoes; how sweet it is to wander with thee in these abodes! Thy

words embalm these retreats like the roses of Hymen. With what delight

do I discover, in thy speech, some of the accents of the language of

my fathers! The mere rustling of thy dress on these marbles makes me

thrill. The air is only perfumed because it has touched thy tresses.

Beautiful art thou as the genius of my country in the midst of these

ruins! But can Aben-Hamet hope to fix thy heart? What is he, when

compared to thee! He has roamed over the mountains with his father; he

knows the plants of the desert.... Alas! there is not one of them that

can heal the wound which thou hast given him!... He carries arms, but

he is not a knight.

“I said to myself formerly: ‛The water of the sea, which sleeps under

shelter in the hollow of the rock, is tranquil and silent, while quite

near the open sea is noisy and agitated: Aben-Hamet! such will be thy

life, silent, peaceful and unheard of, in an unknown corner of the

earth, while the court of the Sultan is overturned by storms!’ I said

so to myself, young Christian, and thou hast proved to me that the

tempest may also disturb the drop of water in the hollow of the rock.”

Blanca listened with delight to a language which was so new to her, and

the oriental turn of which seemed so much in harmony with this fairy

abode, which she rambled over with her lover. Love penetrated her heart

in all directions: she felt her knees sink under her, and was obliged

to lean more heavily on the arm of her companion. Aben-Hamet supported

the sweet burden, and repeated as he walked along: “Ah! why am I not an

illustrious Abencerrage!”

“Thou wouldst please me less,” said Blanca, “for I should be more

unhappy; remain in obscurity and live for me. A brave knight often

forgets love for glory.”

“Thou wouldst not have that danger to apprehend,” replied Aben-Hamet

with quickness.

“And how wouldst thou love me then, if thou wert an Abencerrage?”

demanded the descendant of Ximena.

“I would love thee more than glory, and less than honour!” was the

answer of the Moor.

The sun had sunk beneath the horizon during the promenade of the

two lovers; they had traversed the whole of the Alhambra. What

recollections were presented by it to the mind of Aben-Hamet! Here the

Sultana received, by means of air-holes, the smoke of the perfumes

which were burnt under her; there, in that secluded retreat, she

adorned herself with the glorious attire of the East. And it was

Blanca, it was a beloved woman, who related all these details to the

handsome youth whom she idolized.

The rising moon diffused her doubtful light in the forsaken sanctuaries

and in the deserted courts of the Alhambra; her silver rays outlined,

upon the green turf of the gardens, and upon the walls of the

apartments, the lace-work of an aerial architecture, the arches of the

cloisters, the flitting shadows of the spouting waters, and those of

the shrubs agitated by the zephyr. The nightingale sang in a cypress

which pierced the domes of a ruined mosque, and the echoes repeated her

plaintive strains. By the light of the moon, Aben-Hamet wrote the name

of Blanca on the marble of the Hall of the Two Sisters; he traced it in

Arabic characters, in order that the traveller might find an additional

mystery for the exercise of his conjectures in this palace of mysteries.

“Moor,” said Blanca, “these amusements are cruel; let us quit this

spot. The destiny of my life is fixed for ever. Bear well in mind those

words: ‛Mussulman, I am thy mistress without hope; Christian, I am thy

fortunate wife.’”

Aben-Hamet answered: “Christian, I am thy despairing slave; Mussulman,

I am thy proud husband.”

And these noble lovers departed from this dangerous palace.

The passion of Blanca increased every day, and that of Aben-Hamet

became equally violent. He was so transported at the idea of being

loved for his own sake, and of owing the sentiments which he had

inspired to no foreign cause, that he did not disclose the secret of

his birth to the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé: he pictured to

himself a delicate pleasure in giving her the information that he bore

an illustrious name, on the very day when she consented to give him

her hand. But he was suddenly recalled to Tunis. His mother had been

attacked by an incurable disease, and wished to embrace and bless her

son before her death. Aben-Hamet presented himself at the palace of

Blanca. “Sultana,” said he to her, “my mother is at the point of death.

She has sent for me to close her eyes. Wilt thou continue to love me?”

“Thou leavest me then,” replied Blanca, turning pale; “shall I never

see thee more?”

“Come with me,” said Aben-Hamet; “I wish to exact an oath of thee, and

to give thee one in return, which death alone can break. Follow me.”

They go out; they reach a cemetery which was formerly that of the

Moors. Here and there were still to be seen little funeral columns

round which the sculptor had formerly figured a turban; but which the

Christians had subsequently replaced by a cross. Aben-Hamet led Blanca

to the foot of these columns.

“Blanca,” said he, “this is the place where my ancestors repose; I

swear by their ashes to love thee until the day when the angel of

judgement shall summon me to the tribunal of Allah. I promise thee

never to engage my heart to another woman, and to take thee for my

wife, as soon as thou shalt know the divine light of the prophet. Every

year, at this period, I will return to Granada, to see if thou hast

kept thy faith to me, and if thou wilt renounce thy errors.”

“And I,” said Blanca, in tears, “will expect thee every year; I will

preserve, until my latest sigh, the faith which I have sworn to thee;

and I will receive thee for my husband, when the God of the Christians,

more powerful than thy mistress, shall have melted thy infidel heart.”

Aben-Hamet departs, the winds carry him to the African shores. His

mother had just expired. He weeps for her; he embraces her coffin.

The months roll by; sometimes wandering amid the ruins of Carthage,

sometimes seated on the tomb of St. Louis, the banished Abencerrage

longs for the day which is to carry him back to Granada. That day at

last arrives: Aben-Hamet embarks, and the vessel directs her course to

Malaga. With what transport, with what joy mixed with apprehension,

did he descry the first promontories of Spain! Is Blanca awaiting him

on these shores? Does she still remember the poor Arab, who has never

ceased to adore her under the palm-tree of the desert?

The daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé was not unfaithful to her vows.

She had requested her father to convey her to Malaga. From the

mountain-tops which bordered the uninhabited coast, she followed with

her eyes the distant vessels and the flying sails. During the tempest,

she contemplated with alarm the sea, as it was raised into fury by the

winds. Then it was that she loved to lose herself in the clouds, to

expose herself in dangerous passages, to feel herself washed by the

same waves, or carried along by the same hurricane which threatened

the days of Aben-Hamet. As she saw the plaintive seamew skim the waves

with her large crooked wings, and fly towards the shores of Africa, she

charged her with all the love-messages and extravagant wishes which

proceed from a heart devoured by passion.

One day, while wandering on the beach, she discovered a long vessel,

whose elevated prow, bent mast, and triangular sail announced the

elegant genius of the Moors. Blanca ran to the port, into which she

soon saw the Barbary vessel enter, making the sea foam under her rapid

course. A Moor, most superbly dressed, was standing on the prow.

Behind him, two black slaves held by the bridle an Arabian horse,

whose smoking nostrils and dishevelled mane indicated both his natural

ardour, and the terror with which the noise of the waves affected him.

The bark arrives, lowers her sails, touches the pier, and lays to her

side; the Moor springs upon the shore, which re-echoes with the sound

of his arms. The slaves disembark the leopard-spotted courser, which

neighs and leaps with joy at once more finding himself on land. Other

slaves lower, with great care, a basket in which lay a gazelle amid

palm-tree leaves; her delicate limbs were fastened and doubled under

her, for fear of their being broken by the movement of the vessel; she

wore a collar of aloe berries, and upon the gold plate, which served to

connect the two ends of the collar, were engraved in Arabic a name and

a talisman.

Blanca recognized Aben-Hamet; fearful of betraying herself in the

presence of the crowd, she retired, and sent Dorothea, one of her

attendants, to inform the Abencerrage, that she was waiting for him

at the palace of the Moors. Aben-Hamet was at that moment presenting

to the governor his firman, written in blue characters on beautiful

vellum, and rolled up in a silk case. Dorothea approached, and

conducted the happy Abencerrage to the feet of Blanca. What transports,

when they found that both had remained faithful! What happiness in

seeing each other after having been so long separated! How many fresh

vows of eternal affection!

The two black slaves bring the Numidian courser, which, in place of a

saddle, had only a lion’s skin thrown over his back and fastened by a

purple belt. Afterwards the gazelle was introduced. “Sultana,” said

Aben-Hamet, “this is a deer of my country, almost as light-footed as

thyself.” Blanca, with her own hands, untied the beautiful animal,

which seemed to thank her, by looks of the sweetest expression. During

the absence of the Abencerrage, the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé

had been studying Arabic; she read, with tearful eyes, her own name

engraved on the gazelle’s collar. The animal, on being restored to her

liberty, could scarcely stand upon her feet, from their having been so

long tied up; she laid herself down upon the ground, and leaned her

head against the knees of her mistress. Blanca gave her some fresh

dates, and caressed this doe of the desert, whose fine coat retained

the perfume of the aloe wood and of the rose of Tunis.

The Abencerrage, the Duke of Santa Fé and his daughter departed

together for Granada. The days of the happy lovers passed like those

of the preceding year: the same walks, the same regret at the sight

of his country, the same love, or rather love always increasing, and

always mutual; but also the same attachment in the two lovers to the

religion of their fathers. “Become a Christian,” said Blanca;--“Become

a Mussulman,” said Aben-Hamet, and they separated once more, without

giving way to the passion which attracted them to each other.

Aben-Hamet reappeared the third year, like those birds of passage,

which love brings back to our climates in the spring. This time he

found not Blanca on the shore; but a letter from that adored woman

informed the faithful Arab of the departure of the Duke for Madrid, and

the arrival of Don Carlos at Granada. The latter was accompanied by

a French prisoner, friend of Blanca’s brother. The Moor’s heart sunk

within him at the perusal of this letter. He set out from Malaga for

Granada with the most melancholy forebodings; the mountains appeared to

him frightfully solitary: and he several times turned round to look at

the sea which he had just crossed.

Blanca, during her father’s absence, had been unable to quit a brother

whom she loved, a brother who intended to divest himself of all his

property in her favour, and whom she saw again after seven years’

absence. Don Carlos possessed all the courage and all the pride of

his nation: terrible as the conquerors of the New World, in whose

ranks he had first carried arms; religious like the Spanish knights

who conquered the Moors, he cherished in his heart that hatred of the

infidels which he inherited from the blood of the Cid.

Thomas de Lautrec, of the illustrious house of Foix, in which beauty

in the females and bravery in the males were regarded as hereditary

qualities, was the younger brother of the Countess de Foix, and of the

brave and unfortunate Odet de Foix, Lord of Lautrec. At the age of

eighteen, Thomas had been knighted by Bayard, in that retreat which

cost the life of the knight without fear and without reproach. Some

time after, Thomas was pierced with wounds and made prisoner at Pavia,

while defending the chivalrous monarch, who then lost all, except his

honour.

Don Carlos de Bivar, who was a witness of the gallantry of Lautrec, had

caused care to be taken of the wounds of the young Frenchman, and there

was speedily formed between them one of those heroic friendships, of

which esteem and virtue are the foundations. Francis I. had returned

to France, but Charles V. detained the other prisoners. Lautrec had

had the honour to share his sovereign’s captivity, and to lie at his

feet in prison. Having remained in Spain, after the departure of his

king, he had been handed over on his parole to Don Carlos, who had just

brought him to Granada.

When Aben-Hamet presented himself at the palace of Don Rodrigo, and

the door of the apartment in which was the Duke of Santa Fé’s daughter

was opened, he experienced torments hitherto unknown to him. At the

feet of Donna Blanca was seated a young man, who was looking at her

in silence with a species of transport. This young man wore breeches

made of buffalo’s skin, and a doublet of the same colour, fastened by

a belt from which was suspended a sword with fleurs-de-lis. A silk

mantle was thrown over his shoulders, and his head was covered with a

narrow-brimmed hat, surmounted with feathers. A lace ruff, falling back

on his bosom, allowed his neck to be seen. A pair of moustaches, black

as ebony, gave a masculine and warlike air to a countenance naturally

mild. To his large boots, which fell down and doubled over his feet,

were attached golden spurs, the marks of knightly quality.

At some distance, another knight was standing, leaning on the iron

cross of his long sword; he was dressed like his companion, but seemed

rather older. His austere look, though at the same time ardent and

passionate, inspired respect and awe. The red cross of Calatrava was

embroidered on his doublet with this device: _For it and for my king_.

When Blanca perceived Aben-Hamet, she uttered an involuntary cry.

“Knights,” said she immediately, “this is the infidel of whom I have

said so much to you; take care he does not bear away the victory. The

Abencerrages were just like him, and they were surpassed by none in

loyalty, courage and gallantry.”

Don Carlos advanced to meet Aben-Hamet. “Señor Moor,” said he, “my

father and sister have informed me of your name. They believe you are

of a noble and brave race: you are yourself distinguished for your

courtesy. My master Charles V. must soon commence war against Tunis,

and we shall, I hope, meet each other in the field of honour.”

Aben-Hamet placed his hand upon his bosom, seated himself upon the

ground without answering, and remained with his eyes fixed upon Blanca

and upon Lautrec. The latter was admiring, with the curiosity peculiar

to his countrymen, the handsome countenance of the Moor, his noble

dress and his brilliant armour. Blanca displayed not the slightest

embarrassment: her soul was completely exhibited in her eyes; the

ingenuous Spaniard made no attempt to conceal the secret of her heart.

After a silence of a few moments, Aben-Hamet rose, made his bow to the

daughter of Don Rodrigo, and retired. Astonished at the behaviour of

the Moor, and at the looks of Blanca, Lautrec left the apartment, with

a suspicion which was speedily changed into certainty.

Don Carlos remained alone with his sister. “Blanca,” said he, “explain

yourself. Whence this trouble which the sight of this stranger has

occasioned you?”

“Brother,” answered Blanca, “I love Aben-Hamet, and, if he will become

a Christian, my hand is his.”

“What!” exclaimed Don Carlos, “you love Aben-Hamet! the daughter of

the Bivars love a Moor, an infidel, an enemy, whom we have driven from

these palaces!”

“Don Carlos,” replied Blanca, “I love Aben-Hamet; Aben-Hamet loves me;

for three years he has renounced me, sooner than renounce the religion

of his forefathers. He possesses nobility, honour and knighthood: to my

last breath I will adore him.”

Don Carlos was capable of estimating, in its fullest extent, the

generous resolution of Aben-Hamet, although he lamented the infatuation

of that infidel. “Unfortunate Blanca,” said he, “whither will this

passion lead thee? I had hoped that my friend Lautrec would become my

brother.”

“Thou deceivedst thyself,” said Blanca, “I cannot love that stranger.

As to my feelings for Aben-Hamet, I am accountable to no one. Keep thy

knightly vows, as I shall keep my vows of love. For thy comfort, be

assured of this, that Blanca will never become the wife of an infidel.”

“Our family will then disappear from the earth!” said Don Carlos.

“It is thy business to revive it,” said Blanca. “Besides, of what

consequence are sons whom thou wilt never see, and who will degenerate

from thy virtues? Don Carlos, I feel that we are the last of our race;

we are too much out of the common order to expect that our blood should

flourish after us. The Cid was our ancestor: he will be our posterity;”

so saying she quitted the apartment.

Don Carlos flew to the Abencerrage. “Moor,” said he, “renounce my

sister, or meet me in single combat.”

“Art thou entrusted by thy sister,” said Aben-Hamet, “to reclaim the

vows which she has made to me?”

“No,” replied Don Carlos, “she loves thee more than ever.”

“Ah! worthy brother of Blanca!” exclaimed Aben-Hamet, interrupting him,

“I must derive all my happiness from thy noble blood! O fortunate

Aben-Hamet! O happy day! I believed that Blanca was unfaithful for this

French knight ...”

“That is thy misfortune!” angrily exclaimed Don Carlos in his turn,

“Lautrec is my friend; but for thee, he would be my brother. You must

give me satisfaction for the tears which you make my family shed.”

“I am contented to do so,” answered Aben-Hamet, “but although I am

sprung from a family, which has probably combated thine, I am not a

knight. I see no one here to confer upon me that order, which will

allow thee to measure thy strength with mine, without degrading thy

rank.”

Struck with the Moor’s observation, Don Carlos looked at him with a

mixture of admiration and rage. Then all at once, “I myself will dub

thee knight! thou art worthy of it.”

Aben-Hamet bent his knee to Don Carlos. The latter gave him the

accolade, by striking him three times on the shoulder with the flat

side of his sword; afterwards, he girded on him the same sword which

the Abencerrage, perhaps, was about to plunge into his bosom. Such was

ancient honour.

Both of them immediately sprang upon their coursers, got beyond the

walls of Granada, and flew to the Fountain of the Pine. The duels

between the Moors and Christians had for a long time given celebrity to

this spring. It was there that Malek Alabes had fought with Ponce de

Leon, and the Grand Master of Calatrava had killed the brave Abayados.

The fragments of the armour of this Moorish knight were still seen

suspended from the branches of the pine, and on the bark of the tree

some letters of a funeral inscription were still legible. Don Carlos

pointed out with his hand, to the Abencerrage, the tomb of Abayados.

“Imitate,” said he to him, “that brave infidel, and receive baptism and

death from my hand.”

“Death perhaps,” answered Aben-Hamet, “but Allah and the Prophet for

ever!”

They immediately proceeded to take their ground, and rushed against

each other with fury. They were only provided with swords: Aben-Hamet

was much less skilful than Don Carlos in combat, but the excellence of

his arms, which had been tempered at Damascus, and the fleetness of his

Arabian steed, gave him an advantage over his enemy. He gave the reins

to his courser in the Moorish manner, and with his large sharp stirrup

cut the right leg of Don Carlos’s horse under the knee. The wounded

animal fell to the ground, and Don Carlos, dismounted by this fortunate

blow, marched against Aben-Hamet, bearing his sword aloft. Aben-Hamet

sprang to the ground, and met Don Carlos with intrepidity; he warded

off the first blows of the Spaniard, who broke his sword against the

Damascus blade; twice disappointed by fortune, Don Carlos shed tears of

rage, and called out to his enemy: “Strike, Moor, strike; Don Carlos,

although disarmed, defies thee, thee and all thy infidel race.”

“Thou mightest have slain me,” replied the Abencerrage, “but I never

thought of giving thee the slightest wound. I only wished to prove to

thee that I was worthy of being thy brother, and to prevent thee from

despising me.”

At that instant, they perceived a cloud of dust: it was Lautrec and

Blanca, who were spurring on two mares of Fez, fleeter than the wind.

On arriving at the Fountain of the Pine, they saw the combat suspended.

“I am vanquished,” said Don Carlos, “this knight has given me my life.

Lautrec, you will perhaps be more fortunate than I?”

“My wounds,” replied Lautrec, in a noble and dignified tone of voice,

“allow me to decline the combat with this courteous knight. I have no

wish,” added he, with a blush, “to learn the subject of your quarrel,

or to penetrate a secret which would probably be a deathblow to

myself; my absence will speedily cause peace to be restored between

you, at least unless it be Blanca’s orders that I should remain at her

feet.”

“Sir knight,” said Blanca, “you must remain with my brother: you must

look upon me as your sister. The hearts of all present are suffering

deeply; you will learn from us to bear the ills of life.”

Blanca wished to constrain the three knights to shake each other’s

hands; all three refused to do so. “I hate Aben-Hamet,” exclaimed Don

Carlos. “I envy him,” said Lautrec. “And I,” said the Abencerrage, “I

esteem Don Carlos, and I pity Lautrec; but I can love neither of them.”

“Let us continue to see each other,” said Blanca, “and sooner or later

friendship will follow esteem. Let the fatal event which has brought us

here be for ever unknown at Granada.”

From that moment Aben-Hamet became a thousand times dearer to the

daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé: love delights in valour. Nothing was

now wanting to the Abencerrage, since he had shown himself brave, and

Don Carlos owed his life to him. Aben-Hamet, by the advice of Blanca,

abstained from appearing at the palace for several days, to allow

the wrath of Don Carlos time to cool. A mixture of mild and bitter

feelings filled the soul of the Abencerrage; if, on the one hand, the

certainty of being loved with so much fidelity and ardour was to him an

inexhaustible source of delight; on the other, the certainty of never

being happy without renouncing the religion of his fathers weighed

heavily on the courage of Aben-Hamet. Years had already elapsed without

bringing any relief to his sufferings: should he see the rest of his

life pass away in the same manner?

He was plunged into an abyss of the most serious and tender

reflections, when one evening he heard the bell ringing for that

Christian prayer which announces the close of the day. It struck him

that he would enter into the temple of the God of Blanca, and ask

further counsel of the Master of Nature.

He set out; he arrived at the door of an ancient mosque, which had been

converted into a church by the faithful. With a heart pierced by sorrow

and feelings of devotion, he penetrated into the temple which was

formerly that of his God and of his country. Prayers were just ended:

there was no longer any one in the church. A holy obscurity prevailed

amid the multitude of columns, which resembled the trunks of trees of

a regularly planted forest. The light architecture of the Arabs was

here married to the Gothic architecture, and, without losing anything

of its elegance, it had assumed a gravity better adapted to meditation.

A few lamps scarcely gave light to the hollows of the vaults; but, by

the brightness of several lighted tapers, the altar of the sanctuary

was still conspicuous: it glittered with gold and precious stones. The

Spaniards glory in stripping themselves of their riches, in order to

decorate with them the objects of their worship; and the image of the

living God, placed in the midst of lace veils, of crowns of pearls, and

bunches of rubies, receives the adoration of a half-naked people.

Not a seat was to be seen in the whole extent of this vast area: a

marble pavement, which covered coffins, served the great as well as

the little, to prostrate themselves before the Lord. Aben-Hamet walked

slowly up the deserted naves, which re-echoed with the solitary noise

of his footsteps. His mind was divided between the recollections

which this ancient edifice of the Moorish religion recalled to his

memory, and the feelings to which the religion of the Christians

gave birth in his heart. He distinguished at the foot of a column a

motionless figure, which he at first mistook for a statue on a tomb.

On approaching it, he distinguished a young knight on his knees, with

his forehead reverently bent, and his arms crossed upon his bosom. This

knight made not the slightest movement at the noise of Aben-Hamet’s

steps; no mental wandering, no external sign of life disturbed his deep

prayer; his sword was laid on the ground before him, and his plumed hat

was placed by his side on the marble: he had the appearance of being

fixed in that attitude from the effect of some enchantment. Aben-Hamet

recognized Lautrec. “Ah!” said the Abencerrage to himself, “this young

and handsome Frenchman is asking some signal favour of heaven; this

warrior, so celebrated for his courage, is here laying his heart bare

to the Sovereign of Heaven, as the humblest and the most obscure of

men! Let me also pray to the God of knights and of glory.”

Aben-Hamet was about to prostrate himself upon the marble, when he

perceived, by the glimmering of a lamp, some Arabic characters and a

verse of the Koran, which appeared upon a half-ruined tablet. His heart

again felt the pangs of remorse; and he made haste to quit a building

in which he had entertained the idea of becoming a traitor to his

religion and his country.

The cemetery which surrounded this ancient mosque was a species of

garden, planted with orange, cypress and palm-trees, and watered by two

fountains; a cloister went all round it. Aben-Hamet, in passing under

one of the porticoes, perceived a female about to enter the church.

Although she was wrapped up in a veil, the Abencerrage recognized the

daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé; he stopped her, and said to her:

“Dost thou come to seek Lautrec in this temple?”

“Dismiss this vulgar jealousy,” replied Blanca, “if I no longer loved

thee, I would tell thee so: I would scorn to deceive thee. I come here

to pray for thee. Thou alone art now the object of my wishes. I forget

my own soul for thine. Thou shouldst not have intoxicated me with the

poison of thy love, or thou shouldst have consented to serve the God

whom I serve. Thou disturbest my whole family; my brother hates thee,

my father is overwhelmed with vexation, because I refuse to marry.

Dost thou not see how much my health suffers? Behold this enchanted

asylum of death: here I shall soon be laid, if thou dost not hasten to

receive my vows at the foot of the Christian altar. The struggles which

I endure are gradually undermining my existence; the passion, with

which thou hast inspired me, will not always support this feeble frame.

Remember, oh Moor, to speak to thee in thy own language, that the flame

which lights the torch is also the fire which consumes it.”

Blanca entered the church, and left Aben-Hamet confounded with her last

words.

The struggle is ended; the Abencerrage is vanquished; he is about to

renounce the errors of his faith; he has struggled long enough; the

dread of seeing Blanca perish triumphs over every other feeling in the

breast of Aben-Hamet. “After all,” said he to himself, “perhaps the

God of the Christians is the true God? This God is always the deity

of noble souls, since he is the God of Blanca, of Don Carlos, and of

Lautrec.”

Full of this idea, Aben-Hamet waited with impatience for the following

day, to inform Blanca of his resolution, and to convert a life of

sorrow and of tears into one of joy and happiness; he was unable,

however, to repair to the palace of the Duke of Santa Fé until the

evening. He learned that Blanca was gone with her brother to the

Generalife, where Lautrec was giving an entertainment. Agitated by

fresh suspicions, Aben-Hamet flies upon the traces of Blanca. Lautrec

blushed at seeing the Abencerrage appear so suddenly; as to Don Carlos,

he received the Moor with cool politeness, through which esteem was

perceptible.

Lautrec had caused a collation to be served up of the finest fruits of

Spain and of Africa, in one of the apartments of the Generalife, styled

the _Hall of the Knights_. All round this hall were suspended the

portraits of the princes and knights, who had conquered the Moors,--of

Pelayo, the Cid, Gonzalvo de Cordova; and the sword of the last king of

Granada was hung under these portraits. Aben-Hamet did not allow the

internal pain which he felt to appear, and only said, like the lion, on

looking at these portraits, “We know not how to paint.”

The generous Lautrec, who saw the eyes of the Abencerrage turned

involuntarily towards the sword of Boabdil, said to him, “Knight of

the Moors, had I anticipated the honour of your presence at this fête,

I would not have received you here. One loses a sword every day, and

I have seen the bravest of monarchs deliver up his to his fortunate

enemy.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the Moor, hiding his face with a corner of his robe,

“one might lose it like Francis I., but like Boabdil!...”

Night came on, lights were brought, and the conversation took another

turn. Don Carlos was requested to relate the discovery of Mexico. He

spoke of that unknown world with the pompous eloquence which is natural

to the Spanish nation. He related the misfortunes of Montezuma, the

manners of the Americans, the prodigies of Spanish valour, and even

the cruelties of his countrymen, which did not, in his eyes, seem to

deserve either praise or blame.

These narratives delighted Aben-Hamet, whose passion for marvellous

tales betrayed his Arabian blood. When it came to his turn, he gave

a picture of the Ottoman empire, newly established on the ruins of

Constantinople, bestowing a tribute of passing regret to the first

empire of Mahomet; the happy days when the Commander of the Faithful

saw shining around him Zobeide, Flower of Beauty, Jalib al Koolloob,

Fetnah and the generous Ganem, Love’s Slave. As to Lautrec, he painted

the gallant court of Francis I., the arts reviving from the midst

of barbarism, the honour, the loyalty, the chivalry of the olden

time, joined to the politeness of civilized ages, the Gothic turrets

ornamented with the Grecian orders, and the French ladies setting off

their rich dresses with Athenian elegance.

After this conversation, Lautrec, wishing to amuse the divinity of the

entertainment, took his guitar, and sang this romance[5] which he had

composed to one of the mountain airs of his country:

Oft to my birthplace mem’ry’s glance

Will turn, and my rapt soul entrance!

Sister, how sweet the minutes rolled

In France!

My country! thee more dear I hold

Than gold.

Rememb’rest thou how to her breast

Our mother both her children prest,

And how her bright white looks would glister?

How blest!

While we with lips of love, sweet sister!

Kiss’d her.

Rememb’rest thou that castle dear,

By which the swift stream flowed; and near,

That Moorish tow’r, with age so worn,

From where

The trumpet sounded when the morn

Was born?

Rememb’rest thou that tranquil lake

Which the swift swallow skimmed to slake

His thirst; where zephyr the sweet rose

Would shake;

And Sol’s last rays at evening’s close

Repose?

Oh! who my Helen back will yield,

My native hill, my oak-crowned field?

Their mem’ry keeps my heart-wounds old

Unhealed;

My country! thee more dear I’ll hold

Than gold.

As he finished the last couplet, Lautrec, with his glove, brushed away

the tear which the recollection of the gentle land of France extorted

from him. The regret of the handsome prisoner was warmly participated

by Aben-Hamet, who deplored as well as Lautrec the loss of his country.

When requested to take the guitar in his turn, he excused himself,

by saying that he only knew one romance, which would not be at all

agreeable to Christian ears.

” If it is a song of the infidels smarting under our victories,” said

Don Carlos scornfully, “you may sing it; tears are allowed to the

vanquished.”

“Yes,” said Blanca, “and that is the reason why our ancestors, while

they were under the Moorish yoke, have left us so many _complaints_.”

Aben-Hamet then sang this ballad, which he had learned from a poet of

the tribe of the Abencerrages.[6]

As Royal John

Rode out one day,

Granada’s town

Before him lay,

With sudden start,

“Fair town,” said he,

“My hand and heart

I give to thee.

“Thee will I wive,

And to thee will

Cordova give,

And proud Seville.

Robes rich and fair,

And jewels fine,

Shall all declare

My love is thine.”

Granada cried,

“Great Leon’s king!

I’m the Moor’s bride,

I wear his ring.

So keep thy own;

The gems I wear

Are a gorgeous zone

And children dear.”

Thou promis’d’st thus,

But kept’st not well,

O woe for us!

Granada fell.

A Christian base,

Abencerrage,

Rules thy birthplace;

’Twas in Fate’s page.

To that tomb ne’er,

The pool so near,

Shall camel bear

Medina’s seer.

A Christian base,

Abencerrage,

Rules thy birthplace;

’Twas in Fate’s page.

Alhambra’s tow’rs!

Palace of God!

Town of fair flow’rs

And fountains broad!

A Christian base,

Abencerrage,

Rules thy birthplace;

’Twas in Fate’s page.

The plaintive artlessness of this lament affected even the proud Don

Carlos, notwithstanding the imprecations it pronounced against the

Christians. He would have wished to be excused from singing himself,

but, out of courtesy to Lautrec, he felt obliged to yield to his

entreaties. Aben-Hamet handed the guitar to Blanca’s brother, who

celebrated the exploits of the Cid, his illustrious ancestor.[7]

Bright in his mail, with love and valour fired,

The Cid, about to part for Afric’s war,

Stretched at Ximena’s feet, as love inspired,

Thus sung his parting to the sweet guitar:

“My love hath said: Go forth and meet the Moor,

Return victorious from the well-fought field;

Yes! I shall then believe thou canst adore,

If, at my wish, thy love to honour yield!

“Then give to me my helmet and my spear!

In bloody fight the Cid his love shall prove,

Amidst the din of war the Moor shall hear

His battle-cry, ‛My honour and my love!’

“O gallant Moor, vaunt not thy tuneful strain,

My song shall be a nobler theme than thine,

Ere long it will become the folly of Spain,

As one where love with honour doth combine.

“Oft in my native valleys shall be heard

In the old Christians’ mouth Rodrigo’s name,

Who nobly to inglorious life preferred

His God, his king, his honour, and his flame.”

Don Carlos appeared so proud in singing these words, in a masculine

and sonorous voice, that he might have been taken for the Cid

himself. Lautrec shared the warlike enthusiasm of his friend; but the

Abencerrage had turned pale at the name of the Cid.

“This knight,” said he, “whom the Christians denominate the Flower of

Battles, bears with us the name of the Cruel. Had his generosity but

equalled his valour!...”

“His generosity,” said Don Carlos, interrupting Aben-Hamet, warmly,

“was even greater than his courage, and none but a Moor would

calumniate the hero to whom my family owes its birth.”

“What sayest thou?” exclaimed Aben-Hamet, springing up from the seat

on which he lay half reclined: “dost thou reckon the Cid among thy

ancestors?”

“His blood flows in my veins,” replied Don Carlos, “and I recognize my

possession of that noble blood by the hatred with which my heart burns

against the foes of my God.”

“It follows then,” said Aben-Hamet, looking at Blanca, “that you belong

to the family of the Bivars who, after the conquest of Granada, invaded

the possessions of the unfortunate Abencerrages, and put to death an

ancient knight of that name, who attempted to defend the tomb of his

forefathers.”

“Moor!” exclaimed Don Carlos, inflamed with rage, “know that I do not

suffer myself to be interrogated. If I now possess the spoils of the

Abencerrages, my ancestors acquired them at the price of their blood,

and to their sword only do they owe them.”

“Only one word more,” said Aben-Hamet, with constantly increasing

emotion; “we knew not in our exile that the Bivars had the title of

Santa Fé, and it was this which was the cause of my error.”

“It was on the same Bivar,” answered Don Carlos, “who conquered the

Abencerrages, that this title was conferred by Ferdinand the Catholic.”

The head of Aben-Hamet declined upon his bosom; he remained standing

in the midst of Don Carlos, Lautrec and Blanca, who looked at him with

astonishment. Two floods of tears gushed from his eyes upon the poniard

which was fastened to his girdle. “Pardon me,” he said, “men ought

not, I know, to shed tears; from this time mine will no longer flow

externally, although I have many more to shed: listen to me.

“Blanca! my love for thee equals the ardour of the burning winds of

Arabia. I was conquered: I could no longer live without thee. Yesterday

the sight of this French knight at his prayers, and thy words in the

cemetery of the temple, had made me resolve to know thy God, and to

pledge thee my faith.”

A movement of joy from Blanca, and of surprise from Don Carlos,

interrupted Aben-Hamet; Lautrec covered his face with both hands. The

Moor divined his thoughts, and shaking his head with an agonizing smile

said, “Knight, lose not all hope; as to thee, Blanca, weep for ever

over the last of the Abencerrages.”

Blanca, Don Carlos and Lautrec all three lifted up their hands to

heaven, and exclaimed, “The last of the Abencerrages!”

There was a moment of silence; fear, hope, hatred, love, astonishment

and jealousy agitated their different hearts: Blanca shortly fell upon

her knees: “Gracious God!” she said, “thou hast justified my choice; I

could only love the descendant of heroes!”

“Sister!” said the irritated Don Carlos, “you forget that you are here

in the presence of Lautrec.”

“Don Carlos,” said Aben-Hamet, “suspend thy wrath: it is my business to

restore thee to repose.” Then, addressing himself to Blanca, who had

again taken her seat:

“Houri of heaven, Genie of love and of beauty, Aben-Hamet will be thy

slave to his latest breath; but hear the full extent of his misfortune.

The old man who was immolated by thy ancestor, while defending his

home, was the father of my father; learn also a secret which I

concealed from thee, or rather which thou madest me forget. When I came

for the first time to visit this sorrowful country, my first object was

to find out some descendant of the Bivars whom I might call to account

for the blood which his fathers had shed.”

“Well then,” said Blanca, in a voice of grief, but sustained by the

accent of a great soul, “what is thy resolution?”

“The only one which is worthy of thee,” answered Aben-Hamet: “to

restore thee thy vows, to satisfy by my eternal absence, and by my

death, what we both of us owe to the enmity of our Gods, of our

countries, and of our families. Should my image ever be blotted out

from thy heart; if time, which destroys everything, should erase from

thy memory the recollection of Abencerrage ... this French knight ...

Thou owest this sacrifice to thy brother.”

Lautrec started up impetuously, and threw himself into the arms of the

Moor. “Aben-Hamet,” he cried, “think not to outdo me in generosity; I

am a Frenchman; I was knighted by Bayard; I have shed my blood for my

king; I will be like my sponsor and my prince, without fear and without

reproach. Shouldst thou remain with us, I will entreat Don Carlos to

bestow upon thee the hand of his sister; if thou quittest Granada,

never shall thy mistress be troubled with a whisper of my love. Thou

shalt not carry with thee into thy exile the fatal idea that Lautrec

was insensible to thy virtues, and sought to take advantage of thy

misfortune.”

And the young knight pressed the Moor to his bosom with the warmth and

vivacity of a Frenchman.

“Knights,” said Don Carlos in his turn, “I expected nothing less from

the illustrious races to which ye belong. Aben-Hamet, by what mark can

I recognize you for the last Abencerrage?”

“By my conduct,” replied Aben-Hamet.

“I admire it,” said the Spaniard; “but, before I explain myself, shew

me some proof of your birth.”

Aben-Hamet took from his bosom the hereditary ring of the Abencerrages,

which he wore suspended from a golden chain.

At sight of this, Don Carlos stretched out his hand to the unfortunate

Aben-Hamet. “Sir knight,” said he, “I regard you as a man of honour,

and the real descendant of kings. You honour me by your plans connected

with my family; I accept the combat which you came privately to seek.

If I am conquered, all my property, which formerly belonged to your

family, shall be faithfully restored to you. If you have renounced

your intention to fight, accept in turn the offer which I make to you:

become a Christian, and receive the hand of my sister, which Lautrec

has solicited for you.”

The temptation was great; but it was not beyond the strength of

Aben-Hamet. If all-powerful love pleaded strongly in the heart of the

Abencerrage; on the other hand, he could not think but with terror of

uniting the blood of the persecutors with that of the persecuted. He

fancied he saw the shade of his ancestor rising from the tomb, and

reproaching him with this sacrilegious alliance. With a heart torn by

grief, Aben-Hamet exclaimed: “Ah! why do I here meet with souls so

sublime, characters so generous, to make me feel more bitterly the

value of what I lose! Let Blanca pronounce; let _her_ say what I must

do, in order to render myself more worthy of her love!”

“Return to the desert!” was the exclamation of Blanca, who immediately

sunk to the earth in a swoon.

Aben-Hamet prostrated himself, adored Blanca even more than Heaven, and

departed without uttering a word. The same night he set out for Malaga,

and took his passage on board a vessel which was to touch at Oran. Near

that city he found the caravan encamped which leaves Morocco every

three years, crosses Africa, repairs to Egypt, and rejoins the caravan

of Mecca in Yemen. Aben-Hamet joined it as one of the pilgrims.

Blanca’s life was at first considered to be in danger, but she

recovered. Faithful to the promise which he had given to the

Abencerrage, Lautrec departed, and never did a word of his love or his

sorrow trouble the melancholy of the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé.

Every year Blanca made a journey to Malaga, to wander on the mountains,

at the period when her lover was accustomed to return from Africa; she

seated herself upon the rocks, contemplated the sea, and the vessels in

the distance, and afterwards returned to Granada: she passed the rest

of her life amid the ruins of the Alhambra. She complained not; she

wept not; she never spoke of Aben-Hamet; a stranger to her would have

thought her happy. She was the only survivor of her family. Her father

died of grief, and Don Carlos was killed in a duel, in which Lautrec

acted as his second. What was the fate of Aben-Hamet no one ever knew.

In leaving Tunis, by the gate which leads to the ruins of Carthage,

the traveller finds a cemetery; under a palm-tree, in a corner of this

cemetery, a tomb was pointed out to me, which was called _the tomb

of the last of the Abencerrages_. There is nothing remarkable about

it; the sepulchral stone is perfectly smooth; only, after a Moorish

fashion, a slight hole has been excavated in the middle of it by the

chisel. The rain-water which collects in the bottom of this funeral

cup, serves, in a burning climate, to quench the thirst of the birds of

the air.