The Alhambra 50

The Alhambra 50

Like most little men, Lope Sanchez had a strapping buxom dame for a

wife, who could almost have put him in her pocket; but he lacked the

usual poor man’s lot--instead of ten children he had but one. This was

a little black-eyed girl about twelve years of age, named Sanchica, who

was as merry as himself, and the delight of his heart. She played about

him as he worked in the gardens, danced to his guitar as he sat in the

shade, and ran as wild as a young fawn about the groves and alleys and

ruined halls of the Alhambra.

 

It was now the eve of the blessed St. John, and the holiday-loving

gossips of the Alhambra, men, women, and children, went up at night to

the Mountain of the Sun, which rises above the Generalife, to keep their

midsummer vigil on its level summit. It was a bright moonlight night,

and all the mountains were gray and silvery, and the city, with its

domes and spires, lay in shadows below, and the Vega was like a fairy

land, with haunted streams gleaming among its dusky groves. On the

highest part of the mountain they lit up a bonfire, according to an old

custom of the country handed down from the Moors. The inhabitants of the

surrounding country were keeping a similar vigil, and bonfires, here and

there in the Vega, and along the folds of the mountains, blazed up

palely in the moonlight.

 

The evening was gayly passed in dancing to the guitar of Lope Sanchez,

who was never so joyous as when on a holiday revel of the kind. While

the dance was going on, the little Sanchica with some of her playmates

sported among the ruins of an old Moorish fort that crowns the mountain,

when, in gathering pebbles in the fosse, she found a small hand

curiously carved of jet, the fingers closed, and the thumb firmly

clasped upon them. Overjoyed with her good fortune, she ran to her

mother with her prize. It immediately became a subject of sage

speculation, and was eyed by some with superstitious distrust. “Throw it

away,” said one; “it’s Moorish,--depend upon it, there’s mischief and

witchcraft in it.” “By no means,” said another; “you may sell it for

something to the jewellers of the Zacatin.” In the midst of this

discussion an old tawny soldier drew near, who had served in Africa, and

was as swarthy as a Moor. He examined the hand with a knowing look. “I

have seen things of this kind,” said he, “among the Moors of Barbary. It

is a great virtue to guard against the evil eye, and all kinds of spells

and enchantments. I give you joy, friend Lope, this bodes good luck to

your child.”

 

Upon hearing this, the wife of Lope Sanchez tied the little hand of jet

to a ribbon, and hung it round the neck of her daughter.

 

The sight of this talisman called up all the favorite superstitions

about the Moors. The dance was neglected, and they sat in groups on the

ground, telling old legendary tales handed down from their ancestors.

Some of their stories turned upon the wonders of the very mountain upon

which they were seated, which is a famous hobgoblin region. One ancient

crone gave a long account of the subterranean palace in the bowels of

that mountain where Boabdil and all his Moslem court are said to remain

enchanted. “Among yonder ruins,” said she, pointing to some crumbling

walls and mounds of earth on a distant part of the mountain, “there is a

deep black pit that goes down, down into the very heart of the mountain.

For all the money in Granada I would not look down into it. Once upon a

time a poor man of the Alhambra, who tended goats upon this mountain,

scrambled down into that pit after a kid that had fallen in. He came out

again all wild and staring, and told such things of what he had seen,

that every one thought his brain was turned. He raved for a day or two

about the hobgoblin Moors that had pursued him in the cavern, and could

hardly be persuaded to drive his goats up again to the mountain. He did

so at last, but, poor man, he never came down again. The neighbors found

his goats browsing about the Moorish ruins, and his hat and mantle

lying near the mouth of the pit, but he was never more heard of.”

 

The little Sanchica listened with breathless attention to this story.

She was of a curious nature, and felt immediately a great hankering to

peep into this dangerous pit. Stealing away from her companions, she

sought the distant ruins, and, after groping for some time among them,

came to a small hollow, or basin, near the brow of the mountain, where

it swept steeply down into the valley of the Darro. In the centre of

this basin yawned the mouth of the pit. Sanchica ventured to the verge,

and peeped in. All was as black as pitch, and gave an idea of

immeasurable depth. Her blood ran cold; she drew back, then peeped in

again, then would have run away, then took another peep,--the very

horror of the thing was delightful to her. At length she rolled a large

stone, and pushed it over the brink. For some time it fell in silence;

then struck some rocky projection with a violent crash; then rebounded

from side to side, rumbling and tumbling, with a noise like thunder;

then made a final splash into water, far, far below,--and all was again

silent.

 

The silence, however, did not long continue. It seemed as if something

had been awakened within this dreary abyss. A murmuring sound gradually

rose out of the pit like the hum and buzz of a beehive. It grew louder

and louder; there was the confusion of voices as of a distant multitude,

together with the faint din of arms, clash of cymbals and clangor of

trumpets, as if some army were marshalling for battle in the very bowels

of the mountain.

 

The child drew off with silent awe, and hastened back to the place where

she had left her parents and their companions. All were gone. The

bonfire was expiring, and its last wreath of smoke curling up in the

moonshine. The distant fires that had blazed along the mountains and in

the Vega were all extinguished, and everything seemed to have sunk to

repose. Sanchica called her parents and some of her companions by name,

but received no reply. She ran down the side of the mountain, and by the

gardens of the Generalife, until she arrived in the alley of trees

leading to the Alhambra, when she seated herself on a bench of a woody

recess, to recover breath. The bell from the watch-tower of the Alhambra

tolled midnight. There was a deep tranquillity as if all nature slept;

excepting the low tinkling sound of an unseen stream that ran under the

covert of the bushes. The breathing sweetness of the atmosphere was

lulling her to sleep, when her eye was caught by something glittering at

a distance, and to her surprise she beheld a long cavalcade of Moorish

warriors pouring down the mountain-side and along the leafy avenues.

Some were armed with lances and shields; others, with cimeters and

battle-axes, and with polished cuirasses that flashed in the moonbeams.

Their horses pranced proudly and champed upon their bits, but their

tramp caused no more sound than if they had been shod with felt, and the

riders were all as pale as death. Among them rode a beautiful lady, with

a crowned head and long golden locks entwined with pearls. The housings

of her palfrey were of crimson velvet embroidered with gold, and swept

the earth; but she rode all disconsolate, with eyes ever fixed upon the

ground.

 

Then succeeded a train of courtiers magnificently arrayed in robes and

turbans of divers colors, and amidst them, on a cream-colored charger,

rode King Boabdil el Chico, in a royal mantle covered with jewels, and a

crown sparkling with diamonds. The little Sanchica knew him by his

yellow beard, and his resemblance to his portrait, which she had often

seen in the picture-gallery of the Generalife. She gazed in wonder and

admiration at this royal pageant, as it passed glistening among the

trees; but though she knew these monarchs and courtiers and warriors, so

pale and silent, were out of the common course of nature, and things of

magic and enchantment, yet she looked on with a bold heart, such courage

did she derive from the mystic talisman of the hand, which was suspended

about her neck.

 

The cavalcade having passed by, she rose and followed. It continued on

to the great Gate of Justice, which stood wide open; the old invalid

sentinels on duty lay on the stone benches of the barbican, buried in

profound and apparently charmed sleep, and the phantom pageant swept

noiselessly by them with flaunting banner and triumphant state. Sanchica

would have followed; but to her surprise she beheld an opening in the

earth, within the barbican, leading down beneath the foundations of the

tower. She entered for a little distance, and was encouraged to proceed

by finding steps rudely hewn in the rock, and a vaulted passage here and

there lit up by a silver lamp, which, while it gave light, diffused

likewise a grateful fragrance. Venturing on, she came at last to a great

hall, wrought out of the heart of the mountain, magnificently furnished

in the Moorish style, and lighted up by silver and crystal lamps. Here,

on an ottoman, sat an old man in Moorish dress, with a long white beard,

nodding and dozing, with a staff in his hand, which seemed ever to be

slipping from his grasp; while at a little distance sat a beautiful

lady, in ancient Spanish dress, with a coronet all sparkling with

diamonds, and her hair entwined with pearls, who was softly playing on a

silver lyre. The little Sanchica now recollected a story she had heard

among the old people of the Alhambra, concerning a Gothic princess

confined in the centre of the mountain by an old Arabian magician, whom

she kept bound up in magic sleep by the power of music.

 

The lady paused with surprise at seeing a mortal in that enchanted hall.

“Is it the eve of the blessed St. John?” said she.

 

“It is,” replied Sanchica.

 

“Then for one night the magic charm is suspended. Come hither, child,

and fear not. I am a Christian like thyself, though bound here by

enchantment. Touch my fetters with the talisman that hangs about thy

neck, and for this night I shall be free.”

 

So saying, she opened her robes and displayed a broad golden band round

her waist, and a golden chain that fastened her to the ground. The child

hesitated not to apply the little hand of jet to the golden band, and

immediately the chain fell to the earth. At the sound the old man woke

and began to rub his eyes; but the lady ran her fingers over the chords

of the lyre, and again he fell into a slumber and began to nod, and his

staff to falter in his hand. “Now,” said the lady, “touch his staff with

the talismanic hand of jet.” The child did so, and it fell from his

grasp, and he sank in a deep sleep on the ottoman. The lady gently laid

the silver lyre on the ottoman, leaning it against the head of the

sleeping magician; then touching the chords until they vibrated in his

ear,--“O potent spirit of harmony,” said she, “continue thus to hold his

senses in thraldom till the return of day. Now follow me, my child,”

continued she, “and thou shalt behold the Alhambra as it was in the days

of its glory, for thou hast a magic talisman that reveals all

enchantments.” Sanchica followed the lady in silence. They passed up

through the entrance of the cavern into the barbican of the Gate of

Justice, and thence to the Plaza de los Algibes, or esplanade within the

fortress.

 

This was all filled with Moorish soldiery, horse and foot, marshalled in

squadrons, with banners displayed. There were royal guards also at the

portal, and rows of African blacks with