The Alhambra 46

The Alhambra 46

The captain-general was inflexible; troops were paraded in the square;

the drums beat, the bell tolled. An immense multitude of amateurs

gathered together to behold the execution. On the other hand, the

governor paraded his garrison on the bastion, and tolled the funeral

dirge of the notary from the Torre de la Campana, or Tower of the Bell.

 

The notary’s wife pressed through the crowd, with a whole progeny of

little embryo escribanos at her heels, and throwing herself at the feet

of the captain-general, implored him not to sacrifice the life of her

husband, and the welfare of herself and her numerous little ones, to a

point of pride; “for you know the old governor too well,” said she, “to

doubt that he will put his threat in execution, if you hang the

soldier.”

 

The captain-general was overpowered by her tears and lamentations, and

the clamors of her callow brood. The corporal was sent up to the

Alhambra, under a guard, in his gallows garb, like a hooded friar, but

with head erect and a face of iron. The escribano was demanded in

exchange, according to the cartel. The once bustling and self-sufficient

man of the law was drawn forth from his dungeon more dead than alive.

All his flippancy and conceit had evaporated; his hair, it is said, had

nearly turned gray with affright, and he had a downcast, dogged look, as

if he still felt the halter round his neck.

 

The old governor stuck his one arm akimbo, and for a moment surveyed him

with an iron smile. “Henceforth, my friend,” said he, “moderate your

zeal in hurrying others to the gallows; be not too certain of your

safety, even though you should have the law on your side; and above all

take care how you play off your schoolcraft another time upon an old

soldier.”

 

 

 

 

GOVERNOR MANCO AND THE SOLDIER

 

 

While Governor Manco, or “the one-armed,” kept up a show of military

state in the Alhambra, he became nettled at the reproaches continually

cast upon his fortress, of being a nestling-place of rogues and

contrabandistas. On a sudden, the old potentate determined on reform,

and setting vigorously to work, ejected whole nests of vagabonds out of

the fortress and the gypsy caves with which the surrounding hills are

honeycombed. He sent out soldiers, also, to patrol the avenues and

footpaths, with orders to take up all suspicious persons.

 

One bright summer morning a patrol, consisting of the testy old corporal

who had distinguished himself in the affair of the notary, a trumpeter,

and two privates, was seated under the garden-wall of the Generalife,

beside the road which leads down from the Mountain of the Sun, when they

heard the tramp of a horse, and a male voice singing in rough, though

not unmusical tones, an old Castilian campaigning-song.

 

Presently they beheld a sturdy, sunburnt fellow, clad in the ragged garb

of a foot-soldier, leading a powerful Arabian horse caparisoned in the

ancient Morisco fashion.

 

Astonished at the sight of a strange soldier descending, steed in hand,

from that solitary mountain, the corporal stepped forth and challenged

him.

 

“Who goes there?”

 

“A friend.”

 

“Who and what are you?”

 

“A poor soldier just from the wars, with a cracked crown and empty purse

for a reward.”

 

By this time they were enabled to view him more narrowly. He had a black

patch across his forehead, which, with a grizzled beard, added to a

certain dare-devil cast of countenance, while a slight squint threw into

the whole an occasional gleam of roguish good-humor.

 

Having answered the questions of the patrol, the soldier seemed to

consider himself entitled to make others in return. “May I ask,” said

he, “what city is that which I see at the foot of the hill?”

 

“What city!” cried the trumpeter; “come, that’s too bad. Here’s a fellow

lurking about the Mountain of the Sun, and demands the name of the great

city of Granada!”

 

“Granada! Madre di Dios! can it be possible?”

 

“Perhaps not!” rejoined the trumpeter; “and perhaps you have no idea

that yonder are the towers of the Alhambra.”

 

“Son of a trumpet,” replied the stranger, “do not trifle with me; if

this be indeed the Alhambra, I have some strange matters to reveal to

the governor.”

 

“You will have an opportunity,” said the corporal, “for we mean to take

you before him.” By this time the trumpeter had seized the bridle of the

steed, the two privates had each secured an arm of the soldier, the

corporal put himself in front, gave the word, “Forward--march!” and away

they marched for the Alhambra.

 

The sight of a ragged foot-soldier and a fine Arabian horse, brought in

captive by the patrol, attracted the attention of all the idlers of the

fortress, and of those gossip groups that generally assemble about wells

and fountains at early dawn. The wheel of the cistern paused in its

rotations, and the slipshod servant-maid stood gaping, with pitcher in

hand, as the corporal passed by with his prize. A motley train gradually

gathered in the rear of the escort.

 

Knowing nods and winks and conjectures passed from one to another. “It

is a deserter,” said one; “A contrabandista,” said another; “A

bandolero,” said a third;--until it was affirmed that a captain of a

desperate band of robbers had been captured by the prowess of the

corporal and his patrol. “Well, well,” said the old crones, one to

another, “captain or not, let him get out of the grasp of old Governor

Manco if he can, though he is but one-handed.”

 

Governor Manco was seated in one of the inner halls of the Alhambra,

taking his morning’s cup of chocolate in company with his confessor,--a

fat Franciscan friar, from the neighboring convent. A demure, dark-eyed

damsel of Malaga, the daughter of his housekeeper, was attending upon

him. The world hinted that the damsel, who, with all her demureness, was

a sly buxom baggage, had found out a soft spot in the iron heart of the

old governor, and held complete control over him. But let that pass--the

domestic affairs of these mighty potentates of the earth should not be

too narrowly scrutinized.

 

When word was brought that a suspicious stranger had been taken lurking

about the fortress, and was actually in the outer court, in durance of

the corporal, waiting the pleasure of his Excellency, the pride and

stateliness of office swelled the bosom of the governor. Giving back his

chocolate-cup into the hands of the demure damsel, he called for his

basket-hilted sword, girded it to his side, twirled up his moustaches,

took his seat in a large high-backed chair, assumed a bitter and

forbidding aspect, and ordered the prisoner into his presence. The

soldier was brought in, still closely pinioned by his captors, and

guarded by the corporal. He maintained, however, a resolute

self-confident air, and returned the sharp, scrutinizing look of the

governor with an easy squint, which by no means pleased the punctilious

old potentate.

 

“Well, culprit,” said the governor, after he had regarded him for a

moment in silence, “what have you to say for yourself--who are you?”

 

“A soldier, just from the wars, who has brought away nothing but scars

and bruises.”

 

“A soldier--humph--a foot-soldier by your garb. I understand you have a

fine Arabian horse. I presume you brought him too from the wars, besides

your scars and bruises.”

 

“May it please your Excellency, I have something strange to tell about

that horse. Indeed I have one of the most wonderful things to relate.

Something too that concerns the security of this fortress, indeed of all

Granada. But it is a matter to be imparted only to your private ear, or

in presence of such only as are in your confidence.”

 

The governor considered for a moment, and then directed the corporal and

his men to withdraw, but to post themselves outside of the door, and be

ready at a call. “This holy friar,” said he, “is my confessor, you may

say anything in his presence;--and this damsel,” nodding towards the

handmaid, who had loitered with an air of great curiosity, “this damsel

is of great secrecy and discretion, and to be trusted with anything.”

 

The soldier gave a glance between a squint and a leer at the demure

handmaid. “I am perfectly willing,” said he, “that the damsel should

remain.”

 

When all the rest had withdrawn, the soldier commenced his story. He was

a fluent, smooth-tongued varlet, and had a command of language above his

apparent rank.

 

“May it please your Excellency,” said he, “I am, as I before observed,

a soldier, and have seen some hard service, but my term of enlistment

being expired, I was discharged, not long since, from the army at

Valladolid, and set out on foot for my native village in Andalusia.

Yesterday evening the sun went down as I was traversing a great dry

plain of Old Castile.”

 

“Hold!” cried the governor, “what is this you say? Old Castile is some

two or three hundred miles from this.”

 

“Even so,” replied the soldier, coolly. “I told your Excellency I had

strange things to relate; but not more strange than true, as your

Excellency will find, if you will deign me a patient hearing.”

 

“Proceed, culprit,” said the governor, twirling up his moustaches.

 

“As the sun went down,” continued the soldier, “I cast my eyes about in

search of quarters for the night, but as far as my sight could reach

there were no signs of habitation. I saw that I should have to make my

bed on the naked plain, with my knapsack for a pillow; but your

Excellency is an old soldier, and knows that to one who has been in the

wars, such a night’s lodging is no great hardship.”

 

The governor nodded assent, as he drew his pocket-handkerchief out of

the basket-hilt to drive away a fly that buzzed about his nose.

 

“Well, to make a long story short,” continued the soldier, “I trudged