The Alhambra 52

The Alhambra 52

When Lope Sanchez heard of this second donation to the church, he had

wellnigh lost his senses. “Unfortunate man,” cried he, “what will become

of me? I shall be robbed by piecemeal; I shall be ruined and brought to

beggary.”

 

It was with the utmost difficulty that his wife could pacify him, by

reminding him of the countless wealth that yet remained, and how

considerate it was for San Francisco to rest contented with so small a

portion.

 

Unluckily, Fray Simon had a number of poor relations to be provided for,

not to mention some half-dozen sturdy bullet-headed orphan children and

destitute foundlings that he had taken under his care. He repeated his

visits, therefore, from day to day, with solicitations on behalf of

Saint Dominick, Saint Andrew, Saint James, until poor Lope was driven to

despair, and found that unless he got out of the reach of this holy

friar, he should have to make peace-offerings to every saint in the

calendar. He determined, therefore, to pack up his remaining wealth,

beat a secret retreat in the night, and make off to another part of the

kingdom.

 

Full of his project, he bought a stout mule for the purpose, and

tethered it in a gloomy vault underneath the tower of the seven floors;

the very place whence the Belludo, or goblin horse, is said to issue

forth at midnight, and scour the streets of Granada, pursued by a pack

of hell-hounds. Lope Sanchez had little faith in the story, but availed

himself of the dread occasioned by it, knowing that no one would be

likely to pry into the subterranean stable of the phantom steed. He sent

off his family in the course of the day, with orders to wait for him at

a distant village of the Vega. As the night advanced, he conveyed his

treasure to the vault under the tower, and having loaded his mule, he

led it forth, and cautiously descended the dusky avenue.

 

Honest Lope had taken his measures with the utmost secrecy, imparting

them to no one but the faithful wife of his bosom. By some miraculous

revelation, however, they became known to Fray Simon. The zealous friar

beheld these infidel treasures on the point of slipping forever out of

his grasp, and determined to have one more dash at them for the benefit

of the church and San Francisco. Accordingly, when the bells had rung

for animas, and all the Alhambra was quiet, he stole out of his convent,

and descending through the Gate of Justice, concealed himself among the

thickets of roses and laurels that border the great avenue. Here he

remained, counting the quarters of hours as they were sounded on the

bell of the watchtower, and listening to the dreary hootings of owls,

and the distant barking of dogs from the gypsy caverns.

 

At length he heard the tramp of hoofs, and, through the gloom of the

overshading trees, imperfectly beheld a steed descending the avenue. The

sturdy friar chuckled at the idea of the knowing turn he was about to

serve honest Lope.

 

Tucking up the skirts of his habit, and wriggling like a cat watching a

mouse, he waited until his prey was directly before him, when darting

forth from his leafy covert, and putting one hand on the shoulder and

the other on the crupper, he made a vault that would not have disgraced

the most experienced master of equitation, and alighted well-forked

astride the steed. “Ah ha!” said the sturdy friar, “we shall now see who

best understands the game.” He had scarce uttered the words when the

mule began to kick, and rear, and plunge, and then set off full speed

down the hill. The friar attempted to check him, but in vain. He bounded

from rock to rock, and bush to bush; the friar’s habit was torn to

ribbons and fluttered in the wind, his shaven poll received many a hard

knock from the branches of the trees, and many a scratch from the

brambles. To add to his terror and distress, he found a pack of seven

hounds in full cry at his heels, and perceived, too late, that he was

actually mounted upon the terrible Belludo!

 

Away then they went, according to the ancient phrase, “pull devil, pull

friar,” down the great avenue, across the Plaza Nueva, along the

Zacatin, around the Vivarrambla--never did huntsman and hound make a

more furious run, or more infernal uproar. In vain did the friar invoke

every saint in the calendar, and the holy Virgin into the bargain; every

time he mentioned a name of the kind it was like a fresh application of

the spur, and made the Belludo bound as high as a house. Through the

remainder of the night was the unlucky Fray Simon carried hither and

thither, and whither he would not, until every bone in his body ached,

and he suffered a loss of leather too grievous to be mentioned. At

length the crowing of a cock gave the signal of returning day. At the

sound the goblin steed wheeled about, and galloped back for his tower.

Again he scoured the Vivarrambla, the Zacatin, the Plaza Nueva, and the

avenue of fountains, the seven dogs yelling, and barking, and leaping

up, and snapping at the heels of the terrified friar. The first streak

of day had just appeared as they reached the tower; here the goblin

steed kicked up his heels, sent the friar a summerset through the air,

plunged into the dark vault followed by the infernal pack, and a

profound silence succeeded to the late deafening clamor.

 

Was ever so diabolical a trick played off upon a holy friar? A peasant

going to his labors at early dawn found the unfortunate Fray Simon lying

under a fig-tree at the foot of the tower, but so bruised and bedevilled

that he could neither speak nor move. He was conveyed with all care and

tenderness to his cell, and the story went that he had been waylaid and

maltreated by robbers. A day or two elapsed before he recovered the use

of his limbs; he consoled himself, in the mean time, with the thoughts

that though the mule with the treasure had escaped him, he had

previously had some rare pickings at the infidel spoils. His first care

on being able to use his limbs, was to search beneath his pallet, where

he had secreted the myrtle wreath and the leathern pouches of gold

extracted from the piety of Dame Sanchez. What was his dismay at finding

the wreath, in effect, but a withered branch of myrtle, and the leathern

pouches filled with sand and gravel!

 

Fray Simon, with all his chagrin, had the discretion to hold his tongue,

for to betray the secret might draw on him the ridicule of the public,

and the punishment of his superior. It was not until many years

afterwards, on his death-bed, that he revealed to his confessor his

nocturnal ride on the Belludo.

 

Nothing was heard of Lope Sanchez for a long time after his

disappearance from the Alhambra. His memory was always cherished as that

of a merry companion, though it was feared, from the care and melancholy

observed in his conduct shortly before his mysterious departure, that

poverty and distress had driven him to some extremity. Some years

afterwards one of his old companions, an invalid soldier, being at

Malaga, was knocked down and nearly run over by a coach and six. The

carriage stopped; an old gentleman, magnificently dressed, with a

bag-wig and sword, stepped out to assist the poor invalid. What was the

astonishment of the latter to behold in this grand cavalier his old

friend Lope Sanchez, who was actually celebrating the marriage of his

daughter Sanchica with one of the first grandees in the land.

 

The carriage contained the bridal party. There was Dame Sanchez, now

grown as round as a barrel, and dressed out with feathers and jewels,

and necklaces of pearls, and necklaces of diamonds, and rings on every

finger, altogether a finery of apparel that had not been seen since the

days of Queen Sheba. The little Sanchica had now grown to be a woman,

and for grace and beauty might have been mistaken for a duchess, if not

a princess outright. The bridegroom sat beside her--rather a withered

spindle-shanked little man, but this only proved him to be of the

true-blue blood; a legitimate Spanish grandee being rarely above three

cubits in stature. The match had been of the mother’s making.

 

Riches had not spoiled the heart of honest Lope. He kept his old comrade

with him for several days; feasted him like a king, took him to plays

and bull-fights, and at length sent him away rejoicing, with a big bag

of money for himself, and another to be distributed among his ancient

messmates of the Alhambra.

 

Lope always gave out that a rich brother had died in America and left

him heir to a copper mine; but the shrewd gossips of the Alhambra insist

that his wealth was all derived from his having discovered the secret

guarded by the two marble nymphs of the Alhambra. It is remarked that

these very discreet statues continue, even unto the present day, with

their eyes fixed most significantly on the same part of the wall; which

leads many to suppose there is still some hidden treasure remaining

there well worthy the attention of the enterprising traveller. Though

others, and particularly all female visitors, regard them with great

complacency as lasting monuments of the fact that women can keep a

secret.

 

 

 

 

THE CRUSADE OF THE GRAND MASTER OF ALCÁNTARA

 

 

In the course of a morning’s research among the old chronicles in the

Library of the University, I came upon a little episode in the history

of Granada, so strongly characteristic of the bigot zeal which sometimes

inflamed the Christian enterprises against this splendid but devoted

city, that I was tempted to draw it forth from the parchment-bound

volume in which it lay entombed, and submit it to the reader.

 

In the year of redemption, 1394, there was a valiant and devout grand

master of Alcántara, named Martin Yañez de Barbudo, who was inflamed

with a vehement desire to serve God and fight the Moors. Unfortunately

for this brave and pious cavalier, a profound peace existed between the

Christian and Moslem powers. Henry III had just ascended the throne of

Castile, and Yusef ben Mohammed had succeeded to the throne of Granada,

and both were disposed to continue the peace which had prevailed between

their fathers. The grand master looked with repining at Moorish banners

and weapons, which decorated his castle-hall, trophies of the exploits

of his predecessors; and repined at his fate to exist in a period of

such inglorious tranquillity.

 

At length his impatience broke through all bounds, and seeing that he

could find no public war in which to engage, he resolved to carve out a

little war for himself. Such at least is the account given by some

ancient chronicles, though others give the following as the motive for

this sudden resolution to go campaigning.

 

As the grand master was one day seated at table with several of his

cavaliers, a man suddenly entered the hall,--tall, meagre, and bony,

with haggard countenance and fiery eye. All recognized him for a hermit,

who had been a soldier in his youth, but now led a life of penitence in

a cave. He advanced to the table and struck upon it with a fist that

seemed of iron. “Cavaliers,” said he, “why sit ye here idly, with your

weapons resting against the wall, while the enemies of the faith lord it