The Alhambra 41

The Alhambra 41

“Very true, my child; and, to tell the truth, when I talked the matter

over with Hussein Baba, he promised to take care of me, if I would

accompany you in your flight; but then, bethink you, my children, are

you willing to renounce the faith of your father?”

 

“The Christian faith was the original faith of our mother,” said the

eldest princess; “I am ready to embrace it, and so, I am sure, are my

sisters.”

 

“Right again,” exclaimed the old woman, brightening up; “it was the

original faith of your mother, and bitterly did she lament, on her

death-bed, that she had renounced it. I promised her then to take care

of your souls, and I rejoice to see that they are now in a fair way to

be saved. Yes, my children, I too was born a Christian, and have

remained a Christian in my heart, and am resolved to return to the

faith. I have talked on the subject with Hussein Baba, who is a Spaniard

by birth, and comes from a place not far from my native town. He is

equally anxious to see his own country, and to be reconciled to the

Church; and the cavaliers have promised that, if we are disposed to

become man and wife, on returning to our native land, they will provide

for us handsomely.”

 

In a word, it appeared that this extremely discreet and provident old

woman had consulted with the cavaliers and the renegado, and had

concerted the whole plan of escape. The eldest princess immediately

assented to it; and her example, as usual, determined the conduct of her

sisters. It is true the youngest hesitated, for she was gentle and timid

of soul, and there was a struggle in her bosom between filial feeling

and youthful passion: the latter, however, as usual, gained the victory,

and with silent tears and stifled sighs she prepared herself for flight.

 

The rugged hill on which the Alhambra is built was, in old times,

perforated with subterranean passages, cut through the rock, and leading

from the fortress to various parts of the city, and to distant

sally-ports on the banks of the Darro and the Xenil. They had been

constructed at different times by the Moorish kings, as means of escape

from sudden insurrections, or of secretly issuing forth on private

enterprises. Many of them are now entirely lost, while others remain,

partly choked with rubbish, and partly walled up,--monuments of the

jealous precautions and warlike stratagems of the Moorish government. By

one of these passages Hussein Baba had undertaken to conduct the

princesses to a sally-port beyond the walls of the city, where the

cavaliers were to be ready with fleet steeds, to bear the whole party

over the borders.

 

The appointed night arrived; the tower of the princesses had been locked

up as usual, and the Alhambra was buried in deep sleep. Towards midnight

the discreet Kadiga listened from the balcony of a window that looked

into the garden. Hussein Baba, the renegado, was already below, and gave

the appointed signal. The duenna fastened the end of a ladder of ropes

to the balcony, lowered it into the garden and descended. The two eldest

princesses followed her with beating hearts; but when it came to the

turn of the youngest princess, Zorahayda, she hesitated and trembled.

Several times she ventured a delicate little foot upon the ladder, and

as often drew it back, while her poor little heart fluttered more and

more the longer she delayed. She cast a wistful look back into the

silken chamber; she had lived in it, to be sure, like a bird in a cage;

but within it she was secure; who could tell what dangers might beset

her, should she flutter forth into the wide world! Now she bethought her

of her gallant Christian lover, and her little foot was instantly upon

the ladder; and anon she thought of her father, and shrank back. But

fruitless is the attempt to describe the conflict in the bosom of one so

young and tender and loving, but so timid and so ignorant of the world.

 

In vain her sisters implored, the duenna scolded, and the renegado

blasphemed beneath the balcony; the gentle little Moorish maid stood

doubting and wavering on the verge of elopement; tempted by the

sweetness of the sin, but terrified at its perils.

 

Every moment increased the danger of discovery. A distant tramp was

heard. “The patrols are walking their rounds,” cried the renegado; “if

we linger, we perish. Princess, descend instantly, or we leave you.”

 

Zorahayda was for a moment in fearful agitation; then loosening the

ladder of ropes, with desperate resolution she flung it from the

balcony.

 

“It is decided!” cried she; “flight is now out of my power! Allah guide

and bless ye, my dear sisters!”

 

The two eldest princesses were shocked at the thoughts of leaving her

behind, and would fain have lingered, but the patrol was advancing; the

renegado was furious, and they were hurried away to the subterraneous

passage. They groped their way through a fearful labyrinth, cut through

the heart of the mountain, and succeeded in reaching, undiscovered, an

iron gate that opened outside of the walls. The Spanish cavaliers were

waiting to receive them, disguised as Moorish soldiers of the guard,

commanded by the renegado.

 

The lover of Zorahayda was frantic when he learned that she had refused

to leave the tower; but there was no time to waste in lamentations. The

two princesses were placed behind their lovers, the discreet Kadiga

mounted behind the renegado, and they all set off at a round pace in the

direction of the Pass of Lope, which leads through the mountains towards

Cordova.

 

They had not proceeded far when they heard the noise of drums and

trumpets from the battlements of the Alhambra.

 

“Our flight is discovered!” said the renegado.

 

“We have fleet steeds, the night is dark, and we may distance all

pursuit,” replied the cavaliers.

 

They put spurs to their horses, and scoured across the Vega. They

attained the foot of the mountain of Elvira, which stretches like a

promontory into the plain. The renegado paused and listened. “As yet,”

said he, “there is no one on our traces, we shall make good our escape

to the mountains.” While he spoke, a light blaze sprang up on the top of

the watch-tower of the Alhambra.

 

“Confusion!” cried the renegado, “that bale fire will put all the guards

of the passes on the alert. Away! away! Spur like mad,--there is no time

to be lost.”

 

Away they dashed--the clattering of their horses’ hoofs echoed from rock

to rock, as they swept along the road that skirts the rocky mountain of

Elvira. As they galloped on, the bale fire of the Alhambra was answered

in every direction; light after light blazed on the Atalayas, or

watch-towers of the mountains.

 

“Forward! forward!” cried the renegado, with many an oath, “to the

bridge,--to the bridge, before the alarm has reached there!”

 

They doubled the promontory of the mountains, and arrived in sight of

the famous Bridge of Pinos, that crosses a rushing stream often dyed

with Christian and Moslem blood. To their confusion, the tower on the

bridge blazed with lights and glittered with armed men. The renegado

pulled up his steed, rose in his stirrups and looked about him for a

moment; then beckoning to the cavaliers, he struck off from the road,

skirted the river for some distance, and dashed into its waters. The

cavaliers called upon the princesses to cling to them, and did the same.

They were borne for some distance down the rapid current, the surges

roared round them, but the beautiful princesses clung to their Christian

knights, and never uttered a complaint. The cavaliers attained the

opposite bank in safety, and were conducted by the renegado, by rude and

unfrequented paths and wild barrancos, through the heart of the

mountains, so as to avoid all the regular passes. In a word, they

succeeded in reaching the ancient city of Cordova; where their

restoration to their country and friends was celebrated with great

rejoicings, for they were of the noblest families. The beautiful

princesses were forthwith received into the bosom of the Church, and,

after being in all due form made regular Christians, were rendered happy

wives.

 

In our hurry to make good the escape of the princesses across the river,

and up the mountains, we forgot to mention the fate of the discreet

Kadiga. She had clung like a cat to Hussein Baba in the scamper across

the Vega, screaming at every bound, and drawing many an oath from the

whiskered renegado; but when he prepared to plunge his steed into the

river, her terror knew no bounds. “Grasp me not so tightly,” cried

Hussein Baba; “hold on by my belt and fear nothing.” She held firmly

with both hands by the leathern belt that girded the broad-backed

renegado; but when he halted with the cavaliers to take breath on the

mountain summit, the duenna was no longer to be seen.

 

“What has become of Kadiga?” cried the princesses in alarm.

 

“Allah alone knows!” replied the renegado; “my belt came loose when in

the midst of the river, and Kadiga was swept with it down the stream.

The will of Allah be done! but it was an embroidered belt, and of great

price.”

 

There was no time to waste in idle regrets; yet bitterly did the

princesses bewail the loss of their discreet counsellor. That excellent

old woman, however, did not lose more than half of her nine lives in the

water: a fisherman, who was drawing his nets some distance down the

stream, brought her to land, and was not a little astonished at his

miraculous draught. What further became of the discreet Kadiga, the

legend does not mention; certain it is that she evinced her discretion

in never venturing within the reach of Mohamed the Left-handed.

 

Almost as little is known of the conduct of that sagacious monarch when

he discovered the escape of his daughters, and the deceit practised upon

him by the most faithful of servants. It was the only instance in which

he had called in the aid of counsel, and he was never afterwards known

to be guilty of a similar weakness. He took good care, however, to guard

his remaining daughter, who had no disposition to elope; it is thought,

indeed, that she secretly repented having remained behind: now and then

she was seen leaning on the battlements of the tower, and looking

mournfully towards the mountains in the direction of Cordova, and

sometimes the notes of her lute were heard accompanying plaintive

ditties, in which she was said to lament the loss of her sisters and her

lover, and to bewail her solitary life. She died young, and, according

to popular rumor, was buried in a vault beneath the tower, and her

untimely fate has given rise to more than one traditionary fable.

 

* * * * *

 

The following legend, which seems in some measure to spring out of the