THE DOUBLE DISAPPOINTMENT.
A TALE FROM SPANISH HISTORY.
No one, save he who has witnessed with a heart all susceptible to the beauties of nature, can even picture to himself the delightful scene of a summer’s evening in the fair region of Granada. The mellowed tints of the declining sun gilding every object with a fairy brightness; the gushing fountains sending forth their drops of ruby light; the thick groves of citron and pomegranate, casting their deep shadows in the distance, seemingly inviting to repose, almost transport with rapture an inhabitant of our northern clime.
It was on such an evening, that a betrothed pair sat beneath the marble arcade at the dwelling of the Alcalde of the district. Their hearts seemed in unison with the delightful scene around them; their words were music to each other’s ears; their thoughts were of bright joys of the future,—and no one could have looked upon their innocent embrace, or listened to their words of love, without deeming their happiness complete. The youth rose to depart.
‘Nay, Muza, do not leave me yet,’ exclaimed the happy girl, as she turned her bright, half-smiling, half-imploring eyes, upon her lover; ‘but a short hour have we been together, and wilt thou leave me so soon?’
‘Leave thee, Zareda? nay, I would never leave thee.’
‘Why then dost thou look thus anxiously towards Hafiz, as if waiting but for thy steed to depart?’
‘Love, art not thou ever with me, as well in the raging of the conflict and in the exultation of victory, as when, side by side, we sit beneath the overhanging bower and by the cooling fountain? Am not I still with thee; and do not the thoughts of thee lead me on to glory? Allah be praised, that he has given me such a presiding angel.’
‘Thy praise is far too high, Muza, else, why shouldst thou not be willing to pass some longer portion of thy time in the immediate presence of such an angel?’
‘Love, think of our race, and lament not these too short moments of bliss; our race, scorned and trampled upon by the Christian, fast falling into the chains of slavery, and compelled to toil for him;—shall we endure it? No! rather let the desert be our home,—the home of our ancestors,—barren and desolate though it be, still may we breathe the air of freedom.—Yes, my country needs my sword, my country and my love. Do not then grieve for this short interview; am not I wholly thine,—and will not to-morrow join us never more to part? Farewell then, for a few short hours, made doubly brief by thoughts of thee.’ So saying, Muza sprang lightly upon his horse, which his faithful attendant had already led forward, and soon disappeared behind the trees that o’erhung the path. Zareda stood gazing in the direction, so long as the sound of trampling hoofs was audible, as he flew over the plain, and then, full of bright anticipations of the morrow, retired to her chamber.
That what follows may be readily understood, it is necessary to state, that the incidents of the present sketch occurred about the year 1450, when Mohammed X. ruled over the kingdom of Granada, but who, together with his people, was in turn experiencing the ill fortunes of war from the increasing power of the Christians, as had, nearly eight centuries before, the Goths from his predecessors. Though, at the time of which we write, the army of the Christians was not in force against them, still, a kind of partizan warfare continued,—sometimes, indeed, to the temporary triumph of the Moors, but always, eventually, to the permanent advantage of their enemy. The Christian leaders, attended by a few hundred followers, were continually ravaging the country; and one of them, Fernando Narvaez, with less than two hundred men, had more than once spread alarm to the very gates of Granada.
It was on the eve of an expedition of one of these partisan bands, as some twenty cavalry were scouring the country, seizing upon such travelers as were so unwary, or rather unfortunate, as to fall into their hands, that upon turning an acclivity rising abruptly from the road, and skirted by a grove of citrons, they came full upon a young Moorish horseman, riding leisurely forward, as though unconscious of danger. He appeared to be just in the prime of manhood; in stature rather above middling, yet finely proportioned. His noble bearing, together with the richness of his dress, proclaimed him aperson of distinction and a warrior; his turban and scarf were wrought of the most costly materials, and spangled with jewels, whilst a sword and buckler of exquisite workmanship hung by his side;—his horse was in every respect worthy of his rider. No sooner did he perceive the band of the enemy, than he turned in flight with the speed of the wind; winding rapidly round the edge of the hill, until, for a moment, he was obscured from sight, he dashed headlong into the grove, trusting to art and his knowledge of the country to elude their pursuit. But escape was vain. They hurried eagerly forward, piercing the grove in every direction, following each winding path, and seized upon him as he was emerging from the opposite side. Resistance he saw would be useless; but he deigned not a word to his captors, and there was nought betrayed emotion, save a slight curl of contempt upon his lip as he delivered his arms into their hands, and quietly took his station, as he was bid, between two of their number. They continued about an hour reconnoitering the country, but no enemy appearing, returned to their quarters, bringing with them their prisoner.
During this interval, the young Moor had had leisure to reflect upon his situation. He was a brave warrior; and like every one who is truly brave, he possessed not only a spirit of boldness and daring during the raging of the battle, and in the hour of triumph, but could yield to disappointment and defeat, and meet the reverses of fortune with equal fortitude. So now, though he knew from the first that slavery would be the mildest lot for which he could even hope, nevertheless, he willingly yielded to necessity, and seemed to the observer, as if regardless of his situation. But this appearance was not long maintained;—a tinge of melancholy stole over his countenance; the stern and fearless look of the warrior was changed to the appearance of thoughtful anxiety and inward grief;—some more powerful emotion, and apparently unconnected with the feelings of a soldier, was working at his heart. Such was his situation as they arrived at their quarters, and conducted him immediately to the presence of their leader.
All the decision and sternness of a Spanish general was depicted in the countenance of Narvaez. His authority was usually severe, and his will not to be questioned; but, at times, he would exhibit a natural disposition of kindness and benevolence, which endeared him to his followers, and rendered him none the less fitted to command.
‘Who art thou?’ said he, as the prisoner was led before him, ‘and whither wert thou going, thus unattended, through a hostile country?’
‘Christian,’ said the Moor, as he endeavored to assume an appearance becoming his rank, but which, it was evident at the time, cost him no slight exertion,—‘know that I am the son of the Alcalde of Ronda; and I was going, this very night, to claim—’ but the effort was too much for him; he burst into tears.
‘Thou astonishest me!’ cried Narvaez,—‘thy father I knew well, and, though an enemy, yet will I acknowledge him as brave a warrior as ever crossed a lance; but thou weepest like a woman! Seest thou not that this is but one of the chances of war; one, which thy noble father would have met, had fortune so ordered, with as calm a brow as if greeted with the tribute of success? Is the son so far degenerated from the sire!’
‘Nay, Christian,’ answered Muza, for it was he, ‘I hope in all things to be worthy of the fame of my father; and among my own people, the name of Muza ben Hassan is not spoken with contempt. ’Tis not for the loss of liberty that I grieve, but for something a thousand times dearer than that, of which I must be deprived;’—and as he concluded the sentence, his spirit, which for a moment had been aroused by the taunting allusion to his degeneracy, sank again. But Narvaez saw the marks of a noble mind within, as he drew up his manly figure to its height, displaying to the best advantage his finely proportioned limbs, whilst his brow contracted with a look almost of defiance. He saw that there was something more than his present misfortune which so powerfully affected him,—and at once he became deeply interested in the youth.
‘And what is that,’ said he, as he saw him a little more composed, ‘which thou valuest at a price so much dearer than liberty?’
‘Know then, since thou wishest it, that I have long been in love with the daughter of a neighboring Alcalde; that love was crowned with success, and this very night was to have made her mine, but thy arms have detained me. She is even now waiting in suspense, or perhaps accusing me of inconstancy,—wretched, wretched fate! would that I might see her yet once more.’
‘Noble cavalier! if thy wish is granted thee, wilt thou promise to return before to-morrow’s sun?’
‘Allah bless thee, generous Christian!’ exclaimed Muza, overjoyed at the proposal, ‘upon the word of a Moor, whose word, when sincerely given, has never been broken, I promise faithfully to return. Generosity, I see, belongs not to one race alone.’
‘Go then,—and remember thy promise,’ said Narvaez, as he gave orders to permit him instantly to depart.
Let us change the scene, and introduce once more the fair lady of our tale, whom we have already too long neglected. Throughout the day all had been bustle and preparation in the house of her father. The halls had been richly hung with tapestry, and put in readiness for the giddy dance; the tables were loaded with the choicest productions of that fruitful clime for the marriage banquet. Zareda had been all gayety and happiness; but towards evening she appeared more thoughtful, and her accustomed laugh and words of mirth were no longer heard. She expected to have seen him ere this, and to have met that embrace, which would crown all her love. An hour passed away, yet still he came not:—her watchfulness wasfast verging to anxiety. Another long half hour is gone—in gloomy sadness she sat herself down ’neath the arcade, where they had so often met together. ‘Why comes he not?—has any mischief befallen him?—has he fallen into the hands of any marauding company of the enemy? has he—can it be, that he has deserted me?—away, ungrateful thought! it cannot be; some accident surely has overtaken him.’ As these, and various like reflections, were passing in her mind, a song of plaintive melancholy fell softly on her ear.
The rainbow’s brightest tintSoonest fades away;The tenderest floweret’s bloomQuickest meets decay.The first bright rose of spring,That exhales its morning breath,Returning dews of evenStrike with the chill of death.So I, my love, must soonNe’er meet with thee again,—Our marriage tie is changedTo slavery’s cruel chain.Thy ruby cheek will fade,Tears dim thine eye of blue,For I, my love, must bidA long, a last adieu.
The rainbow’s brightest tintSoonest fades away;The tenderest floweret’s bloomQuickest meets decay.The first bright rose of spring,That exhales its morning breath,Returning dews of evenStrike with the chill of death.So I, my love, must soonNe’er meet with thee again,—Our marriage tie is changedTo slavery’s cruel chain.Thy ruby cheek will fade,Tears dim thine eye of blue,For I, my love, must bidA long, a last adieu.
The rainbow’s brightest tintSoonest fades away;The tenderest floweret’s bloomQuickest meets decay.The first bright rose of spring,That exhales its morning breath,Returning dews of evenStrike with the chill of death.
The rainbow’s brightest tint
Soonest fades away;
The tenderest floweret’s bloom
Quickest meets decay.
The first bright rose of spring,
That exhales its morning breath,
Returning dews of even
Strike with the chill of death.
So I, my love, must soonNe’er meet with thee again,—Our marriage tie is changedTo slavery’s cruel chain.Thy ruby cheek will fade,Tears dim thine eye of blue,For I, my love, must bidA long, a last adieu.
So I, my love, must soon
Ne’er meet with thee again,—
Our marriage tie is changed
To slavery’s cruel chain.
Thy ruby cheek will fade,
Tears dim thine eye of blue,
For I, my love, must bid
A long, a last adieu.
So deeply melancholy was the strain—so much in unison with her own increasing fears, that Zareda recognized not the cheerful voice of her Muza, till the song was finished, and he himself stood before her.
‘Muza, is it thou?—thanks to Allah! now will we indeed be happy. But why so late? Is this the eagerness with which to meet thy bride?—or why didst thou fright me with that gloomy song?’
‘Zareda, I am a prisoner; perhaps a slave—two hours ago I fell into the hands of the enemy, and I am now to behold thee for the last time.’
‘A prisoner! how so, even if thou hast been with the enemy, since thou now standest here free before me? Thy bonds are loose for a Christian’s hands to inflict. Oh Allah! hast thou too proved faithless to thy country! art thou a—’
‘Traitor! and from thee! Zareda, hear me: accuse me not of faithlessness either to thee or to my country. Though I am now before thee, still am I no less a prisoner; I must return before to-morrow’s sun—my word is pledged. Then doubt me not, but take my last farewell. Would that I might seetheehappy; then would I be content.’
‘I will not doubt thee, Muza. Oft hast thou given me proofs of thy love, but this surpasses all.—Nay, thou shalt not say farewell; I will go with thee, perhaps they may listen to my prayers. I have wealth and jewels,—they shall purchase thy freedom, or together we will share thy fate.’ Muza saw that to oppose her wishes would only increase her zeal; and, though he had no hopes for his own freedom, he knew that to her at least no injury would be suffered by his enemies. Zareda was soon in readiness to depart, and long before morning they had arrived at the station of their enemy. Narvaez was ready to receive them.
‘Ha,’ exclaimed he, as Muza again appeared before him, supporting on his arm the trembling Zareda, ‘thou hast brought thy mistress with thee, to cheer thy spirits, and soften the ills of confinement?’
‘Christian,’ said Zareda in a faltering voice, falling at the feet of Narvaez, ‘if thou hast an eye to pity, a heart to feel, do not separate us. Here is money: here are jewels—take them all, but lethimgo free.’
‘Generous maiden, fear not;’ and he raised her gently as he spoke;—‘thy devotedness is worthy the fidelity of thy lover. Cruel should I indeed be, had I the heart to mar such happiness as is in store for thee. Go, and may ye both live long to enjoy your happiness.’
But the goodness of Narvaez was not alone manifested in words. He loaded them with presents, and furnished an escort to conduct them in safety to Ronda. And long was the name of Narvaez celebrated in song and romance, as thegenerous-hearted Christian.
J.