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.”
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 theHall 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 thegallant 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 glanceWill turn, and my rapt soul entrance!Sister, how sweet the minutes rolledIn France!My country! thee more dear I holdThan gold.Rememb’rest thou how to her breastOur 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 whereThe trumpet sounded when the mornWas born?Rememb’rest thou that tranquil lakeWhich the swift swallow skimmed to slakeHis thirst; where zephyr the sweet roseWould shake;And Sol’s last rays at evening’s closeRepose?Oh! who my Helen back will yield,My native hill, my oak-crowned field?Their mem’ry keeps my heart-wounds oldUnhealed;My country! thee more dear I’ll holdThan gold.
Oft to my birthplace mem’ry’s glanceWill turn, and my rapt soul entrance!Sister, how sweet the minutes rolledIn France!My country! thee more dear I holdThan gold.Rememb’rest thou how to her breastOur 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 whereThe trumpet sounded when the mornWas born?Rememb’rest thou that tranquil lakeWhich the swift swallow skimmed to slakeHis thirst; where zephyr the sweet roseWould shake;And Sol’s last rays at evening’s closeRepose?Oh! who my Helen back will yield,My native hill, my oak-crowned field?Their mem’ry keeps my heart-wounds oldUnhealed;My country! thee more dear I’ll holdThan gold.
Oft to my birthplace mem’ry’s glanceWill turn, and my rapt soul entrance!Sister, how sweet the minutes rolledIn France!My country! thee more dear I holdThan gold.Rememb’rest thou how to her breastOur 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 whereThe trumpet sounded when the mornWas born?Rememb’rest thou that tranquil lakeWhich the swift swallow skimmed to slakeHis thirst; where zephyr the sweet roseWould shake;And Sol’s last rays at evening’s closeRepose?Oh! who my Helen back will yield,My native hill, my oak-crowned field?Their mem’ry keeps my heart-wounds oldUnhealed;My country! thee more dear I’ll holdThan 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 manycomplaints.”
Aben-Hamet then sang this ballad, which he had learned from a poet of the tribe of the Abencerrages.[6]
As Royal JohnRode out one day,Granada’s townBefore him lay,With sudden start,“Fair town,” said he,“My hand and heartI give to thee.“Thee will I wive,And to thee willCordova give,And proud Seville.Robes rich and fair,And jewels fine,Shall all declareMy 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 wearAre a gorgeous zoneAnd 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 bearMedina’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’rsAnd fountains broad!A Christian base,Abencerrage,Rules thy birthplace;’Twas in Fate’s page.
As Royal JohnRode out one day,Granada’s townBefore him lay,With sudden start,“Fair town,” said he,“My hand and heartI give to thee.“Thee will I wive,And to thee willCordova give,And proud Seville.Robes rich and fair,And jewels fine,Shall all declareMy 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 wearAre a gorgeous zoneAnd 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 bearMedina’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’rsAnd fountains broad!A Christian base,Abencerrage,Rules thy birthplace;’Twas in Fate’s page.
As Royal JohnRode out one day,Granada’s townBefore him lay,With sudden start,“Fair town,” said he,“My hand and heartI give to thee.“Thee will I wive,And to thee willCordova give,And proud Seville.Robes rich and fair,And jewels fine,Shall all declareMy 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 wearAre a gorgeous zoneAnd 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 bearMedina’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’rsAnd 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 hearHis 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 heardIn the old Christians’ mouth Rodrigo’s name,Who nobly to inglorious life preferredHis God, his king, his honour, and his flame.”
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 hearHis 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 heardIn the old Christians’ mouth Rodrigo’s name,Who nobly to inglorious life preferredHis God, his king, his honour, and his flame.”
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 hearHis 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 heardIn the old Christians’ mouth Rodrigo’s name,Who nobly to inglorious life preferredHis 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: “GraciousGod!” 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 uponthee 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 sosublime, characters so generous, to make me feel more bitterly the value of what I lose! Let Blanca pronounce; lethersay 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 calledthe 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.