The unfortunate Boabdil plunged once more amidst the recesses of the
Alhambra. Whatever his anguish or his despondency, none were permitted
to share, or even to witness, his emotions. But he especially resisted
the admission to his solitude, demanded by his mother, implored by his
faithful Amine, and sorrowfully urged by Muza: those most loved, or most
respected, were, above all, the persons from whom he most shrank.
Almamen was heard of no more. It was believed that he had perished in
the battle. But he was one of those who, precisely as they are effective
when present, are forgotten in absence. And, in the meanwhile, as the
Vega was utterly desolated, and all supplies were cut off, famine, daily
made more terrifically severe, diverted the attention of each humbler
Moor from the fall of the city to his individual sufferings.
New persecutions fell upon the miserable Jews. Not having taken any
share in the conflict (as was to be expected from men who had no stake
in the country which they dwelt in, and whose brethren had been taught
so severe a lesson upon the folly of interference), no sentiment of
fellowship in danger mitigated the hatred and loathing with which they
were held; and as, in their lust of gain, many of them continued, amidst
the agony and starvation of the citizens, to sell food at enormous
prices, the excitement of the multitude against them--released by the
state of the city from all restraint and law--made itself felt by the
most barbarous excesses. Many of the houses of the Israelites were
attacked by the mob, plundered, razed to the ground, and the owner
tortured to death, to extort confession of imaginary wealth. Not to
sell what was demanded was a crime; to sell it was a crime also. These
miserable outcasts fled to whatever secret places the vaults of their
houses or the caverns in the hills within the city could yet afford
them, cursing their fate, and almost longing even for the yoke of the
Christian bigots.
Thus passed several days; the defence of the city abandoned to its naked
walls and mighty gates. The glaring sun looked down upon closed shops
and depopulated streets, save when some ghostly and skeleton band of
the famished poor collected, in a sudden paroxysm of revenge or despair,
around the stormed and fired mansion of a detested Israelite.
At length Boabdil aroused himself from his seclusion; and Muza, to his
own surprise, was summoned to the presence of the king. He found Boabdil
in one of the most gorgeous halls of his gorgeous palace.
Within the Tower of Comares is a vast chamber, still called the hall
of the Ambassadors. Here it was that Boabdil now held his court. On the
glowing walls hung trophies and banners, and here and there an Arabian
portrait of some bearded king. By the windows, which overlooked the most
lovely banks of the Llarro, gathered the santons and alfaquis, a little
apart from the main crowd. Beyond, through half-veiling draperies, might
be seen the great court of the Alberca, whose peristyles were hung with
flowers; while, in the centre, the gigantic basin, which gives its name
to the court, caught the sunlight obliquely, and its waves glittered on
the eye from amidst the roses that then clustered over it.
In the audience hall itself, a canopy, over the royal cushions on which
Boabdil reclined, was blazoned with the heraldic insignia of Granada’s
monarchs. His guard, and his mutes, and his eunuchs, and his courtiers,
and his counsellors, and his captains, were ranged in long files on
either side the canopy. It seemed the last flicker of the lamp of the
Moorish empire, that hollow and unreal pomp! As Muza approached the
monarch, he was startled by the change of his countenance: the young
and beautiful Boabdil seemed to have grown suddenly old; his eyes were
sunken, his countenance sown with wrinkles, and his voice sounded broken
and hollow on the ears of his kinsman.
“Come hither, Muza,” said he; “seat thyself beside me, and listen as
thou best canst to the tidings we are about to hear.”
As Muza placed himself on a cushion, a little below the king, Boabdil
motioned to one amongst the crowd. “Hamet,” said he, “thou hast examined
the state of the Christian camp; what news dost thou bring?”
“Light of the Faithful,” answered the Moor, “it is a camp no longer--it
has already become a city. Nine towns of Spain were charged with the
task; stone has taken the place of canvas; towers and streets arise like
the buildings of a genius; and the misbelieving king hath sworn that
this new city shall not be left until Granada sees his standard on its
walls.”
“Go on,” said Boabdil, calmly.
“Traders and men of merchandise flock thither daily; the spot is one
bazaar; all that should supply our famishing country pours its plenty
into their mart.”
Boabdil motioned to the Moor to withdraw, and an alfaqui advanced in his
stead.
“Successor of the Prophet, and darling of the world!” said the reverend
man, “the alfaquis and seers of Granada implore thee on their knees to
listen to their voice. They have consulted the Books of Fate; thy have
implored a sign from the Prophet; and they find that the glory has left
thy people and thy crown. The fall of Granada is predestined; God is
great!”
“You shall have my answer forthwith,” said Boabdil. “Abdelemic,
approach.”
From the crowd came an aged and white-bearded man, the governor of the
city.
“Speak, old man,” said the king.
“Oh, Boabdil!” said the veteran, with faltering tones, while the tears
rolled down his cheeks; “son of a race of kings and heroes! would that
thy servant had fallen dead on thy threshold this day, and that the
lips of a Moorish noble had never been polluted by the words that I
now utter! Our state is hopeless; our granaries are as the sands of the
desert: there is in them life neither for beast nor man. The war-horse
that bore the hero is now consumed for his food; the population of thy
city, with one voice, cry for chains and--bread! I have spoken.”
“Admit the Ambassador of Egypt,” said Boabdil, as Abdelmelic retired.
There was a pause: one of the draperies at the end of the hall was drawn
aside; and with the slow and sedate majesty of their tribe and land,
paced forth a dark and swarthy train, the envoys of the Egyptian soldan.
Six of the band bore costly presents of gems and weapons, and the
procession closed with four veiled slaves, whose beauty had been the
boast of the ancient valley of the Nile.
“Sun of Granada and day--star of the faithful!” said the chief of the
Egyptians, “my lord, the Soldan of Egypt, delight of the world, and
rose-tree of the East, thus answers to the letters of Boabdil. He
grieves that he cannot send the succour thou demandest; and informing
himself of the condition of thy territories, he finds that Granada no
longer holds a seaport by which his forces (could he send them) might
find an entrance into Spain. He implores thee to put thy trust in Allah,
who will not desert his chosen ones, and lays these gifts, in pledge of
amity and love, at the feet of my lord the king.”
“It is a gracious and well-timed offering,” said Boabdil, with a
writhing lip; “we thank him.” There was now a long and dead silence as
the ambassadors swept from the hall of audience, when Boabdil suddenly
raised his head from his breast and looked around his hall with a kingly
and majestic look: “Let the heralds of Ferdinand of Spain approach.”
A groan involuntarily broke from the breast of Muza: it was echoed by
a murmur of abhorrence and despair from the gallant captains who stood
around; but to that momentary burst succeeded a breathless silence, as
from another drapery, opposite the royal couch, gleamed the burnished
mail of the knights of Spain. Foremost of these haughty visitors, whose
iron heels clanked loudly on the tesselated floor, came a noble and
stately form, in full armour, save the helmet, and with a mantle of
azure velvet, wrought with the silver cross that made the badge of the
Christian war. Upon his manly countenance was visible no sign of undue
arrogance or exultation; but something of that generous pity which brave
men feel for conquered foes dimmed the lustre of his commanding eye, and
softened the wonted sternness of his martial bearing. He and his train
approached the king with a profound salutation of respect; and falling
back, motioned to the herald that accompanied him, and whose garb,
breast and back, was wrought with the arms of Spain, to deliver himself
of his mission.
“To Boabdil!” said the herald, with a loud voice, that filled the whole
expanse, and thrilled with various emotions the dumb assembly. “To
Boabdil el Chico, King of Granada, Ferdinand of Arragon and Isabel of
Castile send royal greeting. They command me to express their hope that
the war is at length concluded; and they offer to the King of Granada
such terms of capitulation as a king, without dishonour, may receive.
In the stead of this city, which their Most Christian Majesties will
restore to their own dominion, as is just, they offer, O king, princely
territories in the Alpuxarras mountains to your sway, holding them by
oath of fealty to the Spanish crown. To the people of Granada, their
Most Christian Majesties promise full protection of property, life,
and faith under a government by their own magistrates, and according
to their own laws; exemption from tribute for three years; and taxes
thereafter, regulated by the custom and ratio of their present imposts.
To such Moors as, discontented with these provisions, would abandon
Granada, are promised free passage for themselves and their wealth.
In return for these marks of their royal bounty, their Most Christian
Majesties summon Granada to surrender (if no succour meanwhile arrive)
within seventy days. And these offers are now solemnly recorded in the
presence, and through the mission, of the noble and renowned knight,
Gonzalvo of Cordova, deputed by their Most Christian Majesties from
their new city of Santa Fe.”
When the herald had concluded, Boabdil cast his eye over his thronged
and splendid court. No glance of fire met his own; amidst the silent
crowd, a resigned content was alone to be perceived: the proposals
exceeded the hope of the besieged.
“And,” asked Boabdil, with a deep-drawn sigh, “if we reject these
offers?”
“Noble prince,” said Gonzalvo, earnestly, “ask us not to wound thine
ears with the alternative. Pause, and consider of our offers; and, if
thou doubtest, O brave king! mount the towers of thine Alhambra, survey
our legions marshalled beneath thy walls, and turn thine eyes upon a
brave people, defeated, not by human valour, but by famine, and the
inscrutable will of God.”
“Your monarchs shall have our answer, gentle Christian, perchance ere
nightfall. And you, Sir Knight, who hast delivered a message bitter for
kings to bear, receive, at least, our thanks for such bearing as might
best mitigate the import. Our vizier will bear to your apartment those
tokens of remembrance that are yet left to the monarch of Granada to
bestow.”
“Muza,” resumed the king, as the Spaniards left the presence--“thou hast
heard all. What is the last counsel thou canst give thy sovereign?”
The fierce Moor had with difficulty waited this licence to utter such
sentiments as death only could banish from that unconquerable heart. He
rose, descended from the couch, and, standing a little below the
king, and facing the motley throng of all of wise or brave yet left to
Granada, thus spoke:--
“Why should we surrender? two hundred thousand inhabitants are yet
within our walls; of these, twenty thousand, at least, are Moors, who
have hands and swords. Why should we surrender? Famine presses us, it is
true; but hunger, that makes the lion more terrible, shall it make the
man more base? Do ye despair? so be it! despair in the valiant ought
to have an irresistible force. Despair has made cowards brave: shall it
sink the brave to cowards? Let us arouse the people; hitherto we have
depended too much upon the nobles. Let us collect our whole force, and
march upon this new city, while the soldiers of Spain are employed in
their new profession of architects and builders. Hear me, O God and
prophet of the Moslem! hear one who never was forsworn! If, Moors of
Granada, ye adopt my counsel, I cannot promise ye victory, but I
promise ye never to live without it: I promise ye, at least, your
independence--for the dead know no chains! If we cannot live, let us
so die that we may leave to remotest ages a glory that shall be more
durable than kingdoms. King of Granada! this is the counsel of Muza Ben
Abil Gazan.”
The prince ceased. But he, whose faintest word had once breathed fire
into the dullest, had now poured out his spirit upon frigid and lifeless
matter. No man answered--no man moved.
Boabdil alone, clinging to the shadow of hope, turned at last towards
the audience.
“Warriors and sages!” he said, “as Muza’s counsel is your king’s desire,
say but the word, and, ere the hour-glass shed its last sand, the blast
of our trumpet shall be ringing through the Vivarrambla.”
“O king! fight not against the will of fate--God is great!” replied the
chief of the alfaquis.
“Alas!” said Abdelmelic, “if the voice of Muza and your own falls thus
coldly upon us, how can ye stir the breadless and heartless multitude?”
“Is such your general thought and your general will?” said Boabdil.
An universal murmur answered, “Yes!”
“Go then, Abdelmelic;” resumed the ill-starred king; “go with yon
Spaniards to the Christian camp, and bring us back the best terms you
can obtain. The crown has passed from the head of El Zogoybi; Fate
sets her seal upon my brow. Unfortunate was the commencement of my
reign--unfortunate its end. Break up the divan.”
The words of Boabdil moved and penetrated an audience, never till then
so alive to his gentle qualities, his learned wisdom, and his natural
valour. Many flung themselves at his feet, with tears and sighs; and the
crowd gathered round to touch the hem of his robe.
Muza gazed at them in deep disdain, with folded arms and heaving breast.
“Women, not men!” he exclaimed, “ye weep, as if ye had not blood still
left to shed! Ye are reconciled to the loss of liberty, because ye are
told ye shall lose nothing else. Fools and dupes! I see, from the spot
where my spirit stands above ye, the dark and dismal future to which ye
are crawling on your knees: bondage and rapine--the violence of lawless
lust--the persecution of hostile faith--your gold wrung from ye by
torture--your national name rooted from the soil. Bear this, and
remember me! Farewell, Boabdil! you I pity not; for your gardens have
yet a poison, and your armories a sword. Farewell, nobles and santons of
Granada! I quit my country while it is yet free.”
Scarcely had he ceased, ere he had disappeared from the hall. It was as
the parting genius of Granada!