Chapter II: Preface (2)

“Blanca,” said he, “this is the place where my ancestors repose; I swear by their ashes to love thee until the day when the angel of judgement shall summon me to the tribunal of Allah. I promise thee never to engage my heart to another woman, and to take thee for my wife, as soon as thou shalt know the divine light of the prophet. Every year, at this period, I will return to Granada, to see if thou hast kept thy faith to me, and if thou wilt renounce thy errors.”

“And I,” said Blanca, in tears, “will expect thee every year; I will preserve, until my latest sigh, the faith which I have sworn to thee; and I will receive thee for my husband, when the God of the Christians, more powerful than thy mistress, shall have melted thy infidel heart.”

Aben-Hamet departs, the winds carry him to the African shores. His mother had just expired. He weeps for her; he embraces her coffin. The months roll by; sometimes wandering amid the ruins of Carthage, sometimes seated on the tomb of St. Louis, the banished Abencerrage longs for the day which is to carry him back to Granada. That day at last arrives: Aben-Hamet embarks, and the vessel directs her course to Malaga. With what transport, with what joy mixed with apprehension, did he descry the first promontories of Spain! Is Blanca awaiting him on these shores? Does she still remember the poor Arab, who has never ceased to adore her under the palm-tree of the desert?

The daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé was not unfaithful to her vows. She had requested her father to convey her to Malaga. From the mountain-tops which bordered the uninhabited coast, she followed with her eyes the distant vessels and the flying sails. During the tempest, she contemplated with alarm the sea, as it was raised into fury by the winds. Then it was that she loved to lose herself in the clouds, to expose herself in dangerous passages, to feel herself washed by the same waves, or carried along by the same hurricane which threatened the days of Aben-Hamet. As she saw the plaintive seamew skim the waves with her large crooked wings, and fly towards the shores of Africa, she charged her with all the love-messages and extravagant wishes which proceed from a heart devoured by passion.

One day, while wandering on the beach, she discovered a long vessel, whose elevated prow, bent mast, and triangular sail announced the elegant genius of the Moors. Blanca ran to the port, into which she soon saw the Barbary vessel enter, making the sea foam under her rapid course. A Moor, most superbly dressed, was standing on the prow. Behind him, two black slaves held by the bridle an Arabian horse, whose smoking nostrils and dishevelled mane indicated both his natural ardour, and the terror with which the noise of the waves affected him. The bark arrives, lowers her sails, touches the pier, and lays to her side; the Moor springs upon the shore, which re-echoes with the sound of his arms. The slaves disembark the leopard-spotted courser, which neighs and leaps with joy at once more finding himself on land. Other slaves lower, with great care, a basket in which lay a gazelle amid palm-tree leaves; her delicate limbs were fastened and doubled under her, for fear of their being broken by the movement of the vessel; she wore a collar of aloe berries, and upon the gold plate, which served to connect the two ends of the collar, were engraved in Arabic a name and a talisman.

Blanca recognized Aben-Hamet; fearful of betraying herself in the presence of the crowd, she retired, and sent Dorothea, one of her attendants, to inform the Abencerrage, that she was waiting for him at the palace of the Moors. Aben-Hamet was at that moment presenting to the governor his firman, written in blue characters on beautiful vellum, and rolled up in a silk case. Dorothea approached, and conducted the happy Abencerrage to the feet of Blanca. What transports, when they found that both had remained faithful! What happiness in seeing each other after having been so long separated! How many fresh vows of eternal affection!

The two black slaves bring the Numidian courser, which, in place of a saddle, had only a lion’s skin thrown over his back and fastened by a purple belt. Afterwards the gazelle was introduced. “Sultana,” said Aben-Hamet, “this is a deer of my country, almost as light-footed as thyself.” Blanca, with her own hands, untied the beautiful animal, which seemed to thank her, by looks of the sweetest expression. During the absence of the Abencerrage, the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé had been studying Arabic; she read, with tearful eyes, her own name engraved on the gazelle’s collar. The animal, on being restored to her liberty, could scarcely stand upon her feet, from their having been so long tied up; she laid herself down upon the ground, and leaned her head against the knees of her mistress. Blanca gave her some fresh dates, and caressed this doe of the desert, whose fine coat retained the perfume of the aloe wood and of the rose of Tunis.

The Abencerrage, the Duke of Santa Fé and his daughter departed together for Granada. The days of the happy lovers passed like those of the preceding year: the same walks, the same regret at the sight of his country, the same love, or rather love always increasing, and always mutual; but also the same attachment in the two lovers to the religion of their fathers. “Become a Christian,” said Blanca;--“Become a Mussulman,” said Aben-Hamet, and they separated once more, without giving way to the passion which attracted them to each other.

Aben-Hamet reappeared the third year, like those birds of passage, which love brings back to our climates in the spring. This time he found not Blanca on the shore; but a letter from that adored woman informed the faithful Arab of the departure of the Duke for Madrid, and the arrival of Don Carlos at Granada. The latter was accompanied by a French prisoner, friend of Blanca’s brother. The Moor’s heart sunk within him at the perusal of this letter. He set out from Malaga for Granada with the most melancholy forebodings; the mountains appeared to him frightfully solitary: and he several times turned round to look at the sea which he had just crossed.

Blanca, during her father’s absence, had been unable to quit a brother whom she loved, a brother who intended to divest himself of all his property in her favour, and whom she saw again after seven years’ absence. Don Carlos possessed all the courage and all the pride of his nation: terrible as the conquerors of the New World, in whose ranks he had first carried arms; religious like the Spanish knights who conquered the Moors, he cherished in his heart that hatred of the infidels which he inherited from the blood of the Cid.

Thomas de Lautrec, of the illustrious house of Foix, in which beauty in the females and bravery in the males were regarded as hereditary qualities, was the younger brother of the Countess de Foix, and of the brave and unfortunate Odet de Foix, Lord of Lautrec. At the age of eighteen, Thomas had been knighted by Bayard, in that retreat which cost the life of the knight without fear and without reproach. Some time after, Thomas was pierced with wounds and made prisoner at Pavia, while defending the chivalrous monarch, who then lost all, except his honour.

Don Carlos de Bivar, who was a witness of the gallantry of Lautrec, had caused care to be taken of the wounds of the young Frenchman, and there was speedily formed between them one of those heroic friendships, of which esteem and virtue are the foundations. Francis I. had returned to France, but Charles V. detained the other prisoners. Lautrec had had the honour to share his sovereign’s captivity, and to lie at his feet in prison. Having remained in Spain, after the departure of his king, he had been handed over on his parole to Don Carlos, who had just brought him to Granada.

When Aben-Hamet presented himself at the palace of Don Rodrigo, and the door of the apartment in which was the Duke of Santa Fé’s daughter was opened, he experienced torments hitherto unknown to him. At the feet of Donna Blanca was seated a young man, who was looking at her in silence with a species of transport. This young man wore breeches made of buffalo’s skin, and a doublet of the same colour, fastened by a belt from which was suspended a sword with fleurs-de-lis. A silk mantle was thrown over his shoulders, and his head was covered with a narrow-brimmed hat, surmounted with feathers. A lace ruff, falling back on his bosom, allowed his neck to be seen. A pair of moustaches, black as ebony, gave a masculine and warlike air to a countenance naturally mild. To his large boots, which fell down and doubled over his feet, were attached golden spurs, the marks of knightly quality.

At some distance, another knight was standing, leaning on the iron cross of his long sword; he was dressed like his companion, but seemed rather older. His austere look, though at the same time ardent and passionate, inspired respect and awe. The red cross of Calatrava was embroidered on his doublet with this device: _For it and for my king_.

When Blanca perceived Aben-Hamet, she uttered an involuntary cry. “Knights,” said she immediately, “this is the infidel of whom I have said so much to you; take care he does not bear away the victory. The Abencerrages were just like him, and they were surpassed by none in loyalty, courage and gallantry.”

Don Carlos advanced to meet Aben-Hamet. “Señor Moor,” said he, “my father and sister have informed me of your name. They believe you are of a noble and brave race: you are yourself distinguished for your courtesy. My master Charles V. must soon commence war against Tunis, and we shall, I hope, meet each other in the field of honour.”

Aben-Hamet placed his hand upon his bosom, seated himself upon the ground without answering, and remained with his eyes fixed upon Blanca and upon Lautrec. The latter was admiring, with the curiosity peculiar to his countrymen, the handsome countenance of the Moor, his noble dress and his brilliant armour. Blanca displayed not the slightest embarrassment: her soul was completely exhibited in her eyes; the ingenuous Spaniard made no attempt to conceal the secret of her heart. After a silence of a few moments, Aben-Hamet rose, made his bow to the daughter of Don Rodrigo, and retired. Astonished at the behaviour of the Moor, and at the looks of Blanca, Lautrec left the apartment, with a suspicion which was speedily changed into certainty.

Don Carlos remained alone with his sister. “Blanca,” said he, “explain yourself. Whence this trouble which the sight of this stranger has occasioned you?”

“Brother,” answered Blanca, “I love Aben-Hamet, and, if he will become a Christian, my hand is his.”

“What!” exclaimed Don Carlos, “you love Aben-Hamet! the daughter of the Bivars love a Moor, an infidel, an enemy, whom we have driven from these palaces!”

“Don Carlos,” replied Blanca, “I love Aben-Hamet; Aben-Hamet loves me; for three years he has renounced me, sooner than renounce the religion of his forefathers. He possesses nobility, honour and knighthood: to my last breath I will adore him.”

Don Carlos was capable of estimating, in its fullest extent, the generous resolution of Aben-Hamet, although he lamented the infatuation of that infidel. “Unfortunate Blanca,” said he, “whither will this passion lead thee? I had hoped that my friend Lautrec would become my brother.”

“Thou deceivedst thyself,” said Blanca, “I cannot love that stranger. As to my feelings for Aben-Hamet, I am accountable to no one. Keep thy knightly vows, as I shall keep my vows of love. For thy comfort, be assured of this, that Blanca will never become the wife of an infidel.”

“Our family will then disappear from the earth!” said Don Carlos.

“It is thy business to revive it,” said Blanca. “Besides, of what consequence are sons whom thou wilt never see, and who will degenerate from thy virtues? Don Carlos, I feel that we are the last of our race; we are too much out of the common order to expect that our blood should flourish after us. The Cid was our ancestor: he will be our posterity;” so saying she quitted the apartment.

Don Carlos flew to the Abencerrage. “Moor,” said he, “renounce my sister, or meet me in single combat.”

“Art thou entrusted by thy sister,” said Aben-Hamet, “to reclaim the vows which she has made to me?”

“No,” replied Don Carlos, “she loves thee more than ever.”

“Ah! worthy brother of Blanca!” exclaimed Aben-Hamet, interrupting him, “I must derive all my happiness from thy noble blood! O fortunate Aben-Hamet! O happy day! I believed that Blanca was unfaithful for this French knight ...”

“That is thy misfortune!” angrily exclaimed Don Carlos in his turn, “Lautrec is my friend; but for thee, he would be my brother. You must give me satisfaction for the tears which you make my family shed.”

“I am contented to do so,” answered Aben-Hamet, “but although I am sprung from a family, which has probably combated thine, I am not a knight. I see no one here to confer upon me that order, which will allow thee to measure thy strength with mine, without degrading thy rank.”

Struck with the Moor’s observation, Don Carlos looked at him with a mixture of admiration and rage. Then all at once, “I myself will dub thee knight! thou art worthy of it.”

Aben-Hamet bent his knee to Don Carlos. The latter gave him the accolade, by striking him three times on the shoulder with the flat side of his sword; afterwards, he girded on him the same sword which the Abencerrage, perhaps, was about to plunge into his bosom. Such was ancient honour.

Both of them immediately sprang upon their coursers, got beyond the walls of Granada, and flew to the Fountain of the Pine. The duels between the Moors and Christians had for a long time given celebrity to this spring. It was there that Malek Alabes had fought with Ponce de Leon, and the Grand Master of Calatrava had killed the brave Abayados. The fragments of the armour of this Moorish knight were still seen suspended from the branches of the pine, and on the bark of the tree some letters of a funeral inscription were still legible. Don Carlos pointed out with his hand, to the Abencerrage, the tomb of Abayados. “Imitate,” said he to him, “that brave infidel, and receive baptism and death from my hand.”

“Death perhaps,” answered Aben-Hamet, “but Allah and the Prophet for ever!”

They immediately proceeded to take their ground, and rushed against each other with fury. They were only provided with swords: Aben-Hamet was much less skilful than Don Carlos in combat, but the excellence of his arms, which had been tempered at Damascus, and the fleetness of his Arabian steed, gave him an advantage over his enemy. He gave the reins to his courser in the Moorish manner, and with his large sharp stirrup cut the right leg of Don Carlos’s horse under the knee. The wounded animal fell to the ground, and Don Carlos, dismounted by this fortunate blow, marched against Aben-Hamet, bearing his sword aloft. Aben-Hamet sprang to the ground, and met Don Carlos with intrepidity; he warded off the first blows of the Spaniard, who broke his sword against the Damascus blade; twice disappointed by fortune, Don Carlos shed tears of rage, and called out to his enemy: “Strike, Moor, strike; Don Carlos, although disarmed, defies thee, thee and all thy infidel race.”

“Thou mightest have slain me,” replied the Abencerrage, “but I never thought of giving thee the slightest wound. I only wished to prove to thee that I was worthy of being thy brother, and to prevent thee from despising me.”

At that instant, they perceived a cloud of dust: it was Lautrec and Blanca, who were spurring on two mares of Fez, fleeter than the wind. On arriving at the Fountain of the Pine, they saw the combat suspended.

“I am vanquished,” said Don Carlos, “this knight has given me my life. Lautrec, you will perhaps be more fortunate than I?”

“My wounds,” replied Lautrec, in a noble and dignified tone of voice, “allow me to decline the combat with this courteous knight. I have no wish,” added he, with a blush, “to learn the subject of your quarrel, or to penetrate a secret which would probably be a deathblow to myself; my absence will speedily cause peace to be restored between you, at least unless it be Blanca’s orders that I should remain at her feet.”

“Sir knight,” said Blanca, “you must remain with my brother: you must look upon me as your sister. The hearts of all present are suffering deeply; you will learn from us to bear the ills of life.”

Blanca wished to constrain the three knights to shake each other’s hands; all three refused to do so. “I hate Aben-Hamet,” exclaimed Don Carlos. “I envy him,” said Lautrec. “And I,” said the Abencerrage, “I esteem Don Carlos, and I pity Lautrec; but I can love neither of them.”

“Let us continue to see each other,” said Blanca, “and sooner or later friendship will follow esteem. Let the fatal event which has brought us here be for ever unknown at Granada.”

From that moment Aben-Hamet became a thousand times dearer to the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé: love delights in valour. Nothing was now wanting to the Abencerrage, since he had shown himself brave, and Don Carlos owed his life to him. Aben-Hamet, by the advice of Blanca, abstained from appearing at the palace for several days, to allow the wrath of Don Carlos time to cool. A mixture of mild and bitter feelings filled the soul of the Abencerrage; if, on the one hand, the certainty of being loved with so much fidelity and ardour was to him an inexhaustible source of delight; on the other, the certainty of never being happy without renouncing the religion of his fathers weighed heavily on the courage of Aben-Hamet. Years had already elapsed without bringing any relief to his sufferings: should he see the rest of his life pass away in the same manner?

He was plunged into an abyss of the most serious and tender reflections, when one evening he heard the bell ringing for that Christian prayer which announces the close of the day. It struck him that he would enter into the temple of the God of Blanca, and ask further counsel of the Master of Nature.

He set out; he arrived at the door of an ancient mosque, which had been converted into a church by the faithful. With a heart pierced by sorrow and feelings of devotion, he penetrated into the temple which was formerly that of his God and of his country. Prayers were just ended: there was no longer any one in the church. A holy obscurity prevailed amid the multitude of columns, which resembled the trunks of trees of a regularly planted forest. The light architecture of the Arabs was here married to the Gothic architecture, and, without losing anything of its elegance, it had assumed a gravity better adapted to meditation. A few lamps scarcely gave light to the hollows of the vaults; but, by the brightness of several lighted tapers, the altar of the sanctuary was still conspicuous: it glittered with gold and precious stones. The Spaniards glory in stripping themselves of their riches, in order to decorate with them the objects of their worship; and the image of the living God, placed in the midst of lace veils, of crowns of pearls, and bunches of rubies, receives the adoration of a half-naked people.

Not a seat was to be seen in the whole extent of this vast area: a marble pavement, which covered coffins, served the great as well as the little, to prostrate themselves before the Lord. Aben-Hamet walked slowly up the deserted naves, which re-echoed with the solitary noise of his footsteps. His mind was divided between the recollections which this ancient edifice of the Moorish religion recalled to his memory, and the feelings to which the religion of the Christians gave birth in his heart. He distinguished at the foot of a column a motionless figure, which he at first mistook for a statue on a tomb. On approaching it, he distinguished a young knight on his knees, with his forehead reverently bent, and his arms crossed upon his bosom. This knight made not the slightest movement at the noise of Aben-Hamet’s steps; no mental wandering, no external sign of life disturbed his deep prayer; his sword was laid on the ground before him, and his plumed hat was placed by his side on the marble: he had the appearance of being fixed in that attitude from the effect of some enchantment. Aben-Hamet recognized Lautrec. “Ah!” said the Abencerrage to himself, “this young and handsome Frenchman is asking some signal favour of heaven; this warrior, so celebrated for his courage, is here laying his heart bare to the Sovereign of Heaven, as the humblest and the most obscure of men! Let me also pray to the God of knights and of glory.”

Aben-Hamet was about to prostrate himself upon the marble, when he perceived, by the glimmering of a lamp, some Arabic characters and a verse of the Koran, which appeared upon a half-ruined tablet. His heart again felt the pangs of remorse; and he made haste to quit a building in which he had entertained the idea of becoming a traitor to his religion and his country.

The cemetery which surrounded this ancient mosque was a species of garden, planted with orange, cypress and palm-trees, and watered by two fountains; a cloister went all round it. Aben-Hamet, in passing under one of the porticoes, perceived a female about to enter the church. Although she was wrapped up in a veil, the Abencerrage recognized the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé; he stopped her, and said to her: “Dost thou come to seek Lautrec in this temple?”

“Dismiss this vulgar jealousy,” replied Blanca, “if I no longer loved thee, I would tell thee so: I would scorn to deceive thee. I come here to pray for thee. Thou alone art now the object of my wishes. I forget my own soul for thine. Thou shouldst not have intoxicated me with the poison of thy love, or thou shouldst have consented to serve the God whom I serve. Thou disturbest my whole family; my brother hates thee, my father is overwhelmed with vexation, because I refuse to marry. Dost thou not see how much my health suffers? Behold this enchanted asylum of death: here I shall soon be laid, if thou dost not hasten to receive my vows at the foot of the Christian altar. The struggles which I endure are gradually undermining my existence; the passion, with which thou hast inspired me, will not always support this feeble frame. Remember, oh Moor, to speak to thee in thy own language, that the flame which lights the torch is also the fire which consumes it.”

Blanca entered the church, and left Aben-Hamet confounded with her last words.

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 the _Hall 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 the gallant 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 glance
Will turn, and my rapt soul entrance!
Sister, how sweet the minutes rolled
In France!
My country! thee more dear I hold
Than gold.

Rememb’rest thou how to her breast
Our 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 where
The trumpet sounded when the morn
Was born?

Rememb’rest thou that tranquil lake
Which the swift swallow skimmed to slake
His thirst; where zephyr the sweet rose
Would shake;
And Sol’s last rays at evening’s close
Repose?

Oh! who my Helen back will yield,
My native hill, my oak-crowned field?
Their mem’ry keeps my heart-wounds old
Unhealed;
My country! thee more dear I’ll hold
Than 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 many _complaints_.”

Aben-Hamet then sang this ballad, which he had learned from a poet of the tribe of the Abencerrages.[6]

As Royal John
Rode out one day,
Granada’s town
Before him lay,
With sudden start,
“Fair town,” said he,
“My hand and heart
I give to thee.

“Thee will I wive,
And to thee will
Cordova give,
And proud Seville.
Robes rich and fair,
And jewels fine,
Shall all declare
My 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 wear
Are a gorgeous zone
And 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 bear
Medina’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’rs
And 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 hear
His 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 heard
In the old Christians’ mouth Rodrigo’s name,
Who nobly to inglorious life preferred
His 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: “Gracious God!” 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 upon thee 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 so sublime, characters so generous, to make me feel more bitterly the value of what I lose! Let Blanca pronounce; let _her_ say 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 called _the 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.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Published posthumously. “Stendhal” died in 1842.

[2] The towers of a palace at Granada.

[3] An expression which the Mussulmans have constantly in their mouths, and apply to almost every event in their lives.

[4] This inscription, as well as several others, is still existing. It is needless to say that I wrote this description of the Alhambra on the spot.

[5] The public is already acquainted with this romance. I composed the words for an air of the mountains of Auvergne, remarkable for its sweetness and simplicity.

[6] In crossing the mountainous country between Algeciras and Cadiz, I halted at a _venta_ situated in the midst of a wood. I found there only a little boy of fourteen or fifteen, and a little girl of nearly the same age, brother and sister, who were sitting by the fireside and twisting mats. They sang a romance, the words of which I did not understand, but the air was simple and naïve. The weather was dreadfully stormy, and I remained two hours at the _venta_. My juvenile hosts repeated so frequently the couplets of their romance, that it was easy for me to get the air by heart. To this air I composed the romance of the Abencerrage. Perhaps Aben-Hamet was mentioned in the romance of my two little Spaniards. I may add that the dialogue of Granada and the king of Leon is imitated from a Spanish romance.

[7] All the world knows the air of the _Follies of Spain_. This air had no words, at least none which expressed its grave, religious and chivalrous character. This character I have endeavoured to give in the romance of the Cid. This romance, having got into the hands of the public without my consent, some celebrated masters did me the honour to set it to music. But, as I had expressly composed it for the air of the _Follies of Spain_, one of the couplets becomes complete nonsense, unless, reference is had to my original intention.

My song shall be a nobler theme than thine, Ere long it will become _the folly of Spain_, etc.

In short, these three romances have little other merit than their adaptation to three old airs of undoubted nationality: besides this, they bring on the _dénouement_ of the story.

THE PRISONERS OF THE CAUCASUS
COUNT XAVIER DE MAISTRE

The Caucasian mountains have long been enclosed by the Russian empire without belonging to it. Their fierce inhabitants, cut off by language and by difference of interests, form a large number of petty tribes which have little political intercourse one with another, but which are all animated by the same love of independence and of plunder.

One of the most numerous and most formidable is that of the Tchetchens, who inhabit the great and the little Kabarda, provinces whose lofty valleys extend as far as the summits of the Caucasus. The men of this tribe are handsome, brave, and intelligent, but they are robbers and cruel, and in a continual state of war with the troops of “the line.”[8]

In the midst of these dangerous hordes, and in the very centre of this immense chain of mountains, Russia has established a line of communication with her possessions in Asia. Redoubts, placed at intervals, protect the road as far as Georgia, but no traveller would dare to venture alone across the space separating them. Twice a week a convoy of infantry, with cannon and a considerable party of Cossacks, escorts travellers and government dispatches. One of these redoubts, situated at the outlet of the mountains, has become a village with a fair-sized population. Its position has caused it to receive the name of Vladikavkaz:[9] it is used as the residence of the commandant of the troops who perform the troublesome duty which has just been mentioned.

Major Kaskambo, of the Vologda regiment, a Russian nobleman, belonging to a family of Greek origin, was to go and take up the command of the station at Lars, in the gorges of the Caucasus. Impatient to reach his post, and brave to rashness, he had the imprudence to undertake this journey with the escort of some fifty Cossacks whom he commanded, and the still greater imprudence to talk of his plan and boast about it before it was carried out.

The Tchetchens who live near the frontiers, and are called “peaceful Tchetchens,” are subject to Russia, and have in consequence free access to Mozdok; but most of them keep up friendly relations with the mountaineers and are very often partners in their robberies. These last, apprised of Kaskambo’s journey and of the very day of his departure, proceeded in great numbers to the road by which he was to travel, and prepared an ambush for him. About twenty versts from Mozdok, at the turn of a little hill covered with brushwood, he was attacked by seven hundred mounted men. Retreat was impossible: the Cossacks dismounted and sustained the attack with great firmness, hoping to be relieved by the troops of a redoubt which was not far distant.

The inhabitants of the Caucasus, although individually very brave, are incapable of a concerted attack, and consequently are not very dangerous to a troop that presents a firm front; but they are well armed and take excellent aim. Their large numbers, on this occasion, made the fight too unequal. After a fairly long fusillade, more than half of the Cossacks were killed or disabled; the rest had made for themselves, with their dead horses, a circular rampart, from behind which they fired their last cartridges. The Tchetchens, who are always accompanied in their expeditions by Russian deserters, whom they use if need arises as interpreters, made them shout to the Cossacks: “Surrender the major to us, or you will be killed to the last man.” Kaskambo, foreseeing the certain loss of his men, resolved to surrender himself to save the lives of those who were left: he entrusted his sword to the Cossacks and advanced alone towards the Tchetchens, who ceased firing immediately, their aim being only to take him alive in order to obtain a ransom. He had scarcely given himself up to his enemies, when he saw appearing in the distance the relief that was being sent to him: it was too late: the brigands rapidly withdrew.

His “denshchik” [10] had stayed behind with the mule that carried the major’s baggage. Hidden in a ravine, he was awaiting the issue of the fight, when the Cossacks found him and told him of his master’s misfortune. The worthy servant at once determined to share his fate, and set out in the direction whither the Tchetchens had retreated, leading his mule with him, and following the track of the horses. When he began to lose it in the darkness, he met a straggler of the enemy, who conducted him to the Tchetchens’ rendezvous.

One can imagine the feelings of the prisoner when he saw his denshchik come of his own accord to share his bad fortune. The Tchetchens at once divided amongst themselves the booty thus brought to them. They left to the major only a guitar which was with his baggage, and which they restored to him in mockery. Ivan (this was the denshchik’s name)[11] seized upon it and refused to throw it away, as his master advised him. “Why should we lose heart?” he said, “‘the God of the Russians is great’;[12] it is to the interest of the brigands to preserve you. They will do you no harm.”

After a halt of some hours the horde were going to continue their march, when one of their men, who had just joined them, announced that the Russians were still advancing, and that probably the troops from the other redoubts would unite to pursue them. The chiefs held a council; it was a question of concealing their retreat, not only in order to keep their prisoner, but also to turn the enemy aside from their villages, and thus avoid reprisals. The horde dispersed by various roads. Ten men on foot were told off to conduct the prisoners, while about a hundred horsemen remained together, and marched in a different direction from that which Kaskambo was to take. They took away from the latter his nail-studded boots, which might have left a recognizable track on the ground, and forced him, as well as Ivan, to walk barefoot for a part of the morning.

Coming near a stream, the little escort followed its course, on the grass, for a distance of half a verst, and climbed down the banks where they were steepest, among thorny bushes, being careful to avoid leaving any trace of their passage. The major was so weary, that, to bring him down to the stream, they had to hold him up with belts. His feet were bleeding; they decided to give him back his boots so that he might be able to finish what remained of the journey.

When they reached the first village, Kaskambo, still more ill with vexation than with fatigue, seemed to his guards so weak and exhausted, that they feared for his life, and treated him more humanely. They allowed him a short rest, and gave him a horse for the march; but to turn aside the Russians from the search they might prosecute, and to make it impossible for the prisoner himself to apprise his friends of the place where he was hidden, they carried him from village to village, and from one valley to another, taking the precaution of blindfolding him several times. They thus passed a large river, which he supposed to be the Sudja. They took great care of him during these journeys, allowing him sufficient food and such rest as he needed. But, when they had reached the distant village where he was to be kept definitely, the Tchetchens suddenly changed their conduct towards him, and subjected him to all kinds of ill treatment. They fettered his hands and feet, and put round his neck a chain, to the end of which a log of oak was fastened. The denshchik was less harshly treated, his fetters were lighter, and permitted of his rendering some services to his master.

Situated thus, at every fresh outrage he endured, a man who spoke Russian would come to see him and advise him to write to his friends to obtain his ransom, which had been fixed at ten thousand roubles. The unhappy prisoner was unable to pay such a large sum, and had no hope except in the protection of the government, which had redeemed, some years before, a colonel who had fallen like himself into the hands of the brigands. The interpreter promised to provide him with paper and to see that his letter reached its destination; but after obtaining his consent he did not reappear for several days, and during this time the major was made to suffer increased miseries. They deprived him of food, they took away from him the mat on which he had lain, and the pad of a Cossack saddle which had served him for a pillow; and, when at last the mediator returned, he announced, in confidence, that if the sum demanded was refused at the line, or if payment of it was delayed, the Tchetchens had decided to make away with him, in order to spare themselves the expense and anxiety which he caused them. The object of their cruel behaviour was to compel him to write more urgently. At last he was supplied with paper and a reed cut in the Tartar fashion; they took off the chains which bound his hands and neck, so that he might write freely; and when the letter was written it was translated to the chiefs, who undertook to see that it reached the commandant of the line.

From that time, he was treated less harshly, and was burdened with but a single chain, which bound his right hand and foot.

His host, or rather his gaoler, was an old man of sixty, of enormous stature, and with a savage appearance which his character did not belie. Two of his sons had been killed in an encounter with the Russians, which was the reason of his having been chosen, out of all the inhabitants of the village, to be the prisoner’s keeper.