10085	----	Proofreading Team. MOORISH LITERATURE COMPRISING ROMANTIC BALLADS, TALES OF THE BERBERS, STORIES OF THE KABYLES, FOLK-LORE, AND NATIONAL TRADITIONS TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH FOR THE FIRST TIME WITH A SPECIAL INTRODUCTION BY RENÉ BASSET, PH.D. OF THE UNIVERSITY OF FRANCE, AND DIRECTOR OF THE ACADÉMIE D'ALGER 1901 SPECIAL INTRODUCTION. The region which extends from the frontiers of Egypt to the Atlantic Ocean, and from the Mediterranean to the Niger, was in ancient times inhabited by a people to whom we give the general name of Berbers, but whom the ancients, particularly those of the Eastern portion, knew under the name of Moors. "They were called Maurisi by the Greeks," said Strabo, "in the first century A.D., and Mauri by the Romans. They are of Lybian origin, and form a powerful and rich nation."[1] This name of Moors is applied not only to the descendants of the ancient Lybians and Numidians, who live in the nomad state or in settled abodes, but also to the descendants of the Arabs who, in the eighth century A.D., brought with them Islamism, imposed by the sabre of Ogbah and his successors. Even further was it carried, into Spain, when Berbers and Arabs, reunited under the standard of Moussa and Tarik, added this country to the empire of the Khalifa. In the fifteenth century the Portuguese, in their turn, took the name to the Orient, and gave the name of Moors to the Mussulmans whom they found on the Oriental coast of Africa and in India. [1] Geographica, t. xviii, ch. 3, Section ii. The appellation particularizes, as one may see, three peoples entirely different in origin--the Berbers, the Arabs of the west, and the Spanish Mussulmans, widely divided, indeed, by political struggles, but united since the seventh and eighth centuries in their religious law. This distinction must be kept in mind, as it furnishes the necessary divisions for a study of the Moorish literature. The term Moorish Literature may appear ambitious applied to the monuments of the Berber language which have come down to us, or are gathered daily either from the lips of singers on the mountains of the Jurgura, of the Aures, or of the Atlas of Morocco; under the tents of the Touaregs of the desert or the Moors of Senegal; in the oases of the south of Algeria or in Tunis. But it is useless to search for literary monuments such as have been transmitted to us from Egypt and India, Assyria and Persia, ancient Judea, Greece and Rome; from the Middle Ages; from Celt, Slav, and German; from the Semitic and Ouralo-altaique tongues; the extreme Orient, and the modern literature of the Old and New World. But the manifestations of thought, in popular form, are no less curious and worthy of study among the Berbers. I do not speak of the treatises on religion which in the Middle Ages and in our day were translated from the Arabic into certain dialects: that borrowed literature, which also exists among the Sonalulis of Eastern Africa and the Haussas and the Peuls of the Soudan, has nothing original. But the popular literature--the stories and songs--has an altogether different importance. It is, above all, the expression of the daily life, whether it relates to fêtes or battles or even simple fights. These songs may be satirical or laudatory, to celebrate the victory of one party or deplore the defeat of the True Believers by the Christians, resounding on the lips of children or women, or shouted in political defiance. They permit us, in spite of a coarse rhythm and language often incorrect, an insight into their manner of life, and to feel as do peoples established for centuries on African soil. Their ancestors, the Machouacha, threatened Egypt in the time of Moses and took possession of it, and more than twenty centuries later, with the Fatimides, converted Spain to the Mussulman faith. Under Arab chiefs they would have overcome all Eastern Europe, had it not been for the hammer of Charles Martel, which crushed them on the field of Poitiers. The richest harvest of Berber songs in our possession is, without doubt, that in the dialect of the Zouaous, inhabiting the Jurgura mountains, which rise some miles distant from Algiers, their crests covered with snow part of the year.[2] All kinds of songs are represented; the rondeaux of children whose inspiration is alike in all countries: [2] Hanoteau, Poésies Populaires de la Khabylie du Jurgura, Paris, 1867, 8vo. "Oh, moonlight clear in the narrow streets, Tell to our little friends To come out now with us to play-- To play with us to-night. If they come not, then we will go To them with leather shoes. (Kabkab.)[3] "Rise up, O Sun, and hie thee forth, On thee we'll put a bonnet old: We'll plough for thee a little field-- A little field of pebbles full: Our oxen but a pair of mice." "Oh, far distant moon: Could I but see thee, Ali! Ali, son of Sliman, The beard[4] of Milan Has gone to draw water. Her cruse, it is broken; But he mends it with thread, And draws water with her: He cried to Ayesha: 'Give me my sabre, That I kill the merle Perched on the dunghill Where she dreams; She has eaten all my olives.'"[5] [3] A sort of sandal. [4] Affectionate term for a child. [5] Hanoteau, v. 441-443. In the same category one may find the songs which are peculiar to the women, "couplets with which they accompany themselves in their dances; the songs, the complaints which one hears them repeat during whole hours in a rather slow and monotonous rhythm while they are at their household labors, turning the hand-mill, spinning and weaving cloths, and composed by the women, both words and music."[6] One of the songs, among others, and the most celebrated in the region of the Oued-Sahal, belonging to a class called Deker, is consecrated to the memory of an assassin, Daman-On-Mesal, executed by a French justice. As in most of these couplets, it is the guilty one who excites the interest: "The Christian oppresses. He has snatched away This deserving young man; He took him away to Bougre, The Christian women marvelled at him. Pardieu! O Mussulmans, you Have repudiated Kabyle honor." [7] [6] Hanoteau, Preface, p. iii. [7] Hanoteau, p. 94. With the Berbers of lower Morocco the women's songs are called by the Arab name Eghna. If the woman, as in all Mussulman society, plays an inferior rôle--inferior to that allowed to her in our modern civilizations--she is not less the object of songs which celebrate the power given her by beauty: "O bird with azure plumes, Go, be my messenger-- I ask thee that thy flight be swift; Take from me now thy recompense. Rise with the dawn--ah, very soon-- For me neglect a hundred plans; Direct thy flight toward the fount, To Tanina and Cherifa. "Speak to the eyelash-darkened maid, To the beautiful one of the pure, white throat; With teeth like milky pearls. Red as vermillion are her cheeks; Her graceful charms have stol'n my reason; Ceaselessly I see her in my dreams."[8] "A woman with a pretty nose Is worth a house of solid stone; I'd give for her a hundred reaux,[9] E'en if she quitted me as soon. "Arching eyebrows on a maid, With love the genii would entice, I'd buy her for a thousand reaux, Even if exile were the price. "A woman neither fat nor lean Is like a pleasant forest green, When she unfolds her budding charms, She gleams and glows with springtime sheen."[10] [8] Hanoteau, p. 350-357 [9] Reais [10] Hanoteau, pp. 302, 303 The same sentiment inspires the Touareg songs, among which tribe women enjoy much greater liberty and possess a knowledge of letters greater than that of the men, and know more of that which we should call literature, if that word were not too ambitious: "For God's sake leave those hearts in peace, 'Tis Tosdenni torments them so; She is more graceful than a troop Of antelopes separated from gazelles; More beautiful than snowy flocks, Which move toward the tents, And with the evening shades appear To share the nightly gathering; More beautiful than the striped silks Enwrapped so closely under the haiks, More beautiful than the glossy ebon veil, Enveloped in its paper white, With which the young man decks himself, And which sets off his dusky cheek."[1] [1] Masqueray, Observations grammaticales sur la grammaire Touareg et textes de la Tourahog des Tailog, pp. 212, 213. Paris, 1897. The poetic talent of the Touareg women, and the use they make of this gift--which they employ to celebrate or to rail at, with the accompaniment of their one-stringed violin, that which excites their admiration or inspires them with disdain--is a stimulant for warriors: "That which spurs me to battle is a word of scorn, And the fear of the eternal malediction Of God, and the circles of the young Maidens with their violins. Their disdain is for those men Who care not for their own good names.[2] "Noon has come, the meeting's sure. Hearts of wind love not the battle; As though they had no fear of the violins, Which are on the knees of painted women-- Arab women, who were not fed on sheep's milk; There is but camel's milk in all their land. More than one other has preceded thee and is widowed, For that in Amded, long since, My own heart was burned. Since you were a young lad I suffered-- Since I wore the veil and wrapped My head in the folds of the haik."[3] [2] Masqueray, p. 220. [3] Masqueray, p. 227. War, and the struggle of faction against faction, of tribe against tribe, of confederation against confederation, it is which, with love, above all, has inspired the Berber men. With the Khabyles a string of love-songs is called "Alamato," because this word occurs in the first couplet, always with a belligerent inspiration: "He has seized his banner for the fight In honor of the Bey whose cause he maintains, He guides the warriors with their gorgeous cloaks, With their spurs unto their boots well fastened, All that was hostile they destroyed with violence; And brought the insurgents to reason." This couplet is followed by a second, where allusion is made to the snow which interrupts communication: "Violently falls the snow, In the mist that precedes the lightning; It bends the branches to the earth, And splits the tallest trees in twain. Among the shepherds none can pasture his flock; It closes to traffic all the roads to market. Lovers then must trust the birds, With messages to their loves-- Messages to express their passion. "Gentle tame falcon of mine, Rise in thy flight, spread out thy wings, If thou art my friend do me this service; To-morrow, ere ever the rise of the sun, Fly toward her house; there alight On the window of my gracious beauty."[4] [4] Hanoteau, pp. 348-350. With the Khabyles of the Jurgura the preceding love-songs are the particular specialty of a whole list of poets who bear the Arab name of _T'eballa_, or "tambourinists." Ordinarily they are accompanied in their tours by a little troop of musicians who play the tambourine and the haut-boy. Though they are held in small estimation, and are relegated to the same level as the butchers and measurers of grain, they are none the less desired, and their presence is considered indispensable at all ceremonies--wedding fêtes, and on the birth of a son, on the occasion of circumcision, or for simple banquets. Another class, composed of _Ameddah_, "panegyrists," or _Fecia_, "eloquent men," are considered as much higher in rank. They take part in all affairs of the country, and their advice is sought, for they dispense at will praise or blame. It is they who express the national sentiment of each tribe, and in case of war their accents uplift warriors, encourage the brave, and wither the cowardly. They accompany themselves with a Basque drum. Some, however, have with them one or two musicians who, after each couplet, play an air on the flute as a refrain.[5] [5] Hanoteau, Introduction. In war-songs it is remarkable to see with what rapidity historical memories are lost. The most ancient lay of this kind does not go beyond the conquest of Algiers by the French. The most recent songs treat of contemporary events. Nothing of the heroic traditions of the Berbers has survived in their memory, and it is the Arab annalists who show us the role they have played in history. If the songs relating to the conquest of Algeria had not been gathered half a century ago, they would doubtless have been lost, or nearly so, to-day. At that time, however, the remembrance was still alive, and the poets quickly crystallized in song the rapidity of the triumph of France, which represents their civilization: "From the day when the Consul left Algiers, The powerful French have gathered their hosts: Now the Turks have gone, without hope of return, Algiers the beautiful is wrested from them. "Unhappy Isle that they built in the desert, With vaults of limestone and brick; The celestial guardian who over them watched has withdrawn. Who can resist the power of God? "The forts that surround Algiers like stars, Are bereft of their masters; The baptized ones have entered. The Christian religion now is triumphant, O my eyes, weep tears of blood, weep evermore! "They are beasts of burden without cruppers, Their backs are loaded, Under a bushel their unkempt heads are hidden, They speak a _patois_ unintelligible, You can understand nothing they say. "The combat with these gloomy invaders Is like the first ploughing of a virgin soil, To which the harrowing implements Are rude and painful; Their attack is terrible. "They drag their cannons with them, And know how to use them, the impious ones; When they fire, the smoke forms in thick clouds: They are charged with shrapnel, Which falls like the hail of approaching spring. Unfortunate queen of cities-- City of noble ramparts, Algiers, column of Islam, Thou art like the habitation of the dead, The banner of France envelops thee all."[6] [6] Hanoteau, pp. 2, 3, 5, 7, 9, 11. It is, one may believe, in similar terms that these songs, lost to-day, recount the defeat of Jugurtha, or Talfarinas, by the Romans, or that of the Kahina by the Arabs. But that which shows clearly how rapidly these songs, and the remembrance of what had inspired them, have been lost is the fact that in a poem of the same kind on the same subject, composed some fifty years ago by the Chelha of meridional Morocco, it is not a question of France nor the Hussains, but the Christians in general, against whom the poet endeavors to excite his compatriots. It is so, too, with the declamatory songs of the latest period of the Middle Ages, the dialects more or less precise, where the oldest heroic historical poems, like the Song of Roland, had disappeared to leave the field free for the imagination of the poet who treats the struggles between Christians and Saracens according to his own fantasy. Thanks to General Hanoteau, the songs relating to the principal events of Khabyle since the French conquest have been saved from oblivion, viz., the expedition of Marêchal Bugeaud in 1867; that of General Pelissier in 1891; the insurrection of Bon Bar'la; those of Ameravun in 1896, and the divers episodes of the campaign of 1897 against the Aith Traten, when the mountains were the last citadel of the Khabyle independence: "The tribe was full of refugees, From all sides they sought refuge With the Aith Traten, the powerful confederation. 'Let us go,' said they, 'to a sure refuge,' For the enemy has fallen on our heads,' But in Arba they established their home."[7] [7] Hanoteau, p. 124. The unhappy war of 1870, thanks to the stupidity of the military authorities, revived the hope of a victorious insurrection. Mograne, Bon Mazrag, and the Sheikh Haddad aroused the Khabyles, but the desert tribes did not respond to their appeal. Barbary was again conquered, and the popular songs composed on that occasion reproached them for the folly of their attempt. Bon Mezrah proclaimed in the mountains and on the plain: "Come on, a Holy War against the Christians, He followed his brother until his disaster, His noble wife was lost to him. As to his flocks and his children, He left them to wander in Sahara. Bon Mezrag is not a man, But the lowest of all beings; He deceived both Arabs and Khabyles, Saying, 'I have news of the Christians.' "I believed Haddad a saint indeed, With miracles and supernatural gifts; He has then no scent for game, And singular to make himself he tries. "I tell it to you; to all of you here (How many have fallen in the battles), That the Sheikh has submitted. From the mountain he has returned, Whoever followed him was blind. He took flight like one bereft of sense. How many wise men have fallen On his traces, the traces of an impostor, From Babors unto Guerrouma! This joker has ruined the country-- He ravaged the world while he laughed; By his fault he has made of this land a desert."[8] [8] R. Basset, L'insurrection Algerienne, de 1871 dans les chansons populaires Khabyles Lourain, 1892. The conclusion of poems of this kind is an appeal to the generosity of France: "Since we have so low fallen,[9] You beat on us as on a drum; You have silenced our voices. We ask of you a pardon sincere, O France, nation of valorous men, And eternal shall be our repentance. From beginning to the end of the year We are waiting and hoping always: My God! Soften the hearts of the authorities." [9] J.D. Luciani, Chansons Khabyles de Ismail Azekkion. Algiers, 1893. With the Touaregs, the civil, or war against the Arabs, replaces the war against the Christians, and has not been less actively celebrated: "We have saddled the shoulders of the docile camel, I excite him with my sabre, touching his neck, I fall on the crowd, give them sabre and lance; And then there remains but a mound, And the wild beasts find a brave meal."[10] [10] Masqueray, pp. 228, 229. One finds in this last verse the same inspiration that is found in the celebrated passage of the Iliad, verses 2 and 5: "Anger which caused ten thousand Achaeans to send to Hades numerous souls of heroes, and to make food of them for the dogs and birds of prey." It is thus that the Arab poet expresses his ante-Islamic "Antarah": "My pitiless steel pierced all the vestments, The general has no safety from my blade, I have left him as food for savage beasts Which tear him, crunching his bones, His handsome hands and brave arms."[1] [1] Mo'allagah, v. 49, 50. The Scandinavian Skalds have had the same savage accents, and one can remember a strophe from the song of the death of Raynor Lodbrog: "I was yet young when in the Orient we gave the wolves a bloody repast and a pasture to the birds. When our rude swords rang on the helmet, then they saw the sea rise and the vultures wade in blood."[2] [2] Marmier, Lettres sur l'Islemde. Robbery and pillage under armed bands, the ambuscade even, are celebrated among the Touaregs with as great pleasure as a brilliant engagement: "Matella! May thy father die! Thou art possessed by a demon, To believe that the Touaregs are not men. They know how to ride the camel; they Ride in the morning and they ride at night; They can travel; they can gallop: They know how to offer drink to those Who remain upon their beasts. They know how to surprise a Courageous man in the night. Happy he sleeps, fearless with kneeling camels; They pierce him with a lance, Sharp and slender as a thorn, And leave him to groan until His soul leaves his body: The eagle waits to devour his entrails."[3] [3] Hanoteau, Essaie de grammaire de la langue Tamachek, pp. 210, 211. Paris, 1860. They also show great scorn for those who lead a life relatively less barbarous, and who adorn themselves as much as the Touaregs can by means of science and commerce: "The Tsaggmaren are not men, Not lance of iron, nor yet of wood, They are not in harness, not in saddles, They have no handsome saddle-bags, They've naught of what makes mankind proud; They've no fat and healthy camels, The Tsaggmaren; don't speak of them; They are people of a mixed race, There is no condition not found with them. Some are poor, yet not in need; Others are abused by the demon, Others own nothing but their clubs. There are those who make the pilgrimage, and repeat it, There are those who can read the Koran and learn by that They possess in the pasturage camels, and their little ones, Besides nuggets of gold all safely wrapped."[4] [4] Hanoteau, p. 213. Another style, no less sought for among the Berbers inhabiting cities, is the "complaint" which flourished in lower Morocco, where it is known under the Arab name of Lqist (history). When the subject is religious, they call it _Nadith_ (tradition). One of the most celebrated is that wherein they tell of the descent into the infernal regions of a young man in search of his father and mother. It will give an idea of this style of composition to recite the beginning: "In the name of God, most clement and merciful, Also benediction and homage to the prophet Mohammed, In the name of God, listen to the words of the author, This is what the Talebs tell, according to the august Koran. Let us begin this beautiful story by Invoking the name of God. Listen to this beautiful story, O good man, We will recite the story of a young man In Berbere; O God, give to us perfection; That which we bring to you is found in truthful tradition, Hard as a rock though thy heart be, it will melt; The father and mother of Saba died in his childhood And left him in great poverty; Our compassionate Lord guided him and showed him the way, God led him along toward the Prophet, And gave to him the Koran."[5] [5] R. Basset, Le Poème de Sabi, p. 15 et suis. Paris, 1879. Other poems--for instance, that of Sidi Hammen and that of Job--are equally celebrated in Morocco. The complaints on religious subjects are accompanied on the violin, while those treating of a historical event or a story with a moral have the accompaniment of a guitar. We may class this kind of poems among those called _Tandant_, in lower Morocco, which consist in the enumeration of short maxims. The same class exist also in Zouaona and in Touareg. But the inspiration of the Khabyle poets does not always maintain its exaltation. Their talents become an arm to satirize those who have not given them a sufficiently large recompense, or--worse still, and more unpardonable--who have served to them a meagre repast: "I went to the home of vile animals, Ait Rebah is their name; I found them lying under the sun like green figs, They looked ill and infirm. They are lizards among adders, They inspire no fear, for they bite not. Put a sheepskin before them, they Will tear your arms and hands; Their parched lips are all scaly, Besides being red and spotted. "As the vultures on their dung heaps, When they see carrion, fall upon it, Tearing out its entrails, That day is for them one of joy. Judging by their breeches, And the headdresses of their wives, I think they are of Jewish origin."[6] [6] Hanoteau, Poèmes Populaires de la Khabyle, pp. 179-181, Du Jurgura. This song, composed by Mohammed Said or Aihel Hadji, is still repeated when one wishes to insult persons from Aith Erbah, who have tried several times to assassinate the poet in revenge. Sometimes two rival singers find themselves together, and each begins to eulogize himself, which eulogy ends in a satire on the other. But the joust begun by apostrophes and Homeric insults finishes often with a fight, and the natural arm is the Basque drum until others separate, the adversaries.[7] We have an example in a dialogue of this kind between Youssuf ou Kassi, of the Aith Djemnad, and Mohand ou Abdaha, of the Aith Kraten. The challenge and the jousts--less the blows--exist among the chellahs of lower Morocco, where they are called _Tamawoucht_; but between man and woman there is that which indicates the greatest liberty of manners. The verses are improvised, and the authors are paid in small money. Here is a specimen: _The woman_: "When it thunders and the sky is overcast, Drive home the sheep, O watchful shepherd." _The man_: "When it thunders, and the sky is overcast, We will bring home the sheep." _The woman_: "I wish I had a bunch of switches to strike you with! May your father be accursed, Sheepkeeper!" _The man_: "Oh, God, I thank thee for having created Old maids to grind meal for the toilers."[8] [7] Hanoteau, p. 275 et seq. [8] Stemme, p. 7, 8. Another manifestation, and not less important of the popular Berber literature, consists in the stories. Although no attempt has been made in our days to gather them, many indications permit us to believe that they have been at all times well treasured by these people. In the story of Psyche that Apuleius inserted at the end of the second century A.D., in the romance of Metamorphoses,[9] we read that Venus imposed on Psyche, among other trials, that of sorting out and placing in separate jars the grains of wheat, oats, millet and poppy pease, lentils and lima beans which she had mixed together. This task, beyond the power of Psyche, was accomplished by the ants which came to her aid, and thus she conquered the task set by her cruel mother-in-law. [9] Hanoteau, Essai de Grammaire Khabyle, p. 282 et seq. Alger. This same trial we find in a Berber story. It is an episode in a Khabyle story of the Mohammed ben Sol'tan, who, to obtain the hand of the daughter of a king, separated wheat, corn, oats, and sorghum, which had been mingled together. This trait is not found in Arab stories which have served as models for the greater part of Khabyle tales. It is scarcely admissible that the Berbers had read the "Golden Ass" of Apuleius, but it is probable that he was born at Madaure, in Algeria, and retained an episode of a popular Berber tale which he had heard in his childhood, and placed in his story. The tales have also preserved the memory of very ancient customs, and in particular those of adoption. In the tales gathered in Khabyle by General Hanoteau,[10] T. Rivière,[1] and Moulieras,[2] also that in the story of Mizab, the hero took upon himself a supernatural task, and succeeded because he became the adopted son of an ogress, at whose breast he nursed.[3] This custom is an ancient one with the Berbers, for on a _bas relief_ at Thebes it shows us a chief of the Machouacha (the Egyptian name of the Berbers) of the XXII Dynasty nursed and adopted by the goddess Hathor. Arab stories of Egypt have also preserved this trait--for instance, "The Bear of the Kitchen,"[4] and El Schater Mohammed.[5] [10] Hanoteau, p. 266. Le chasseur. [1] Contes Populaires de la Khabylie du Jurgura, p. 239. Paris, 1892. Le chausseur. [2] Legendes et contes merveilleuses de la grande Khabylie, p. 20. 2 vols. Tunis, 1893-1898. Le fils du Sultan et le chien des Chrétiens, p. 90. Histoire de Ali et sa mère. [3] R Basset, Nouveaux Contes Berbers, p. 18. Paris, 1897. La Pomme de jeunesse. [4] Spitta-bey, Contes Arabes modernes, p. 12. Ley de 1883. [5] Arless Pasha, Contes Populaire de la vallée du Nil. Paris, 1895. During the conquest of the Magreb by the Arabs in the seventh century A.D., Kahina, a Berber queen, who at a given moment drove the Mussulman invaders away and personified national defiance, employed the same ceremony to adopt for son the Arab Khaled Ben Yazed, who was to betray her later. Assisted by these traits of indigenous manners, we can call to mind ogres and pagans who represent an ancient population, or, more exactly, the sectarians of an ancient religion like the Paganism or the Christianity which was maintained on some points of Northern Africa, with the Berbers, until the eleventh century A.D. Fabulous features from the Arabs have slipped into the descriptions of the Djohala, mingled with the confused souvenirs of mythological beings belonging to paganism before the advent of Christianity. It is difficult to separate the different sources of the Berber stories. Besides those appearing to be of indigenous origin, and which have for scene a grotto or a mountain, one could scarcely deny that the greater part, whether relating to stories of adventure, fairy stories, or comical tales, were borrowed from foreign countries by way of the Arabs. Without doubt they have furnished the larger part, but there are some of which there are no counterparts in European countries. "Half a cock," for instance, has travelled into the various provinces of France, Ireland, Albania, among the Southern Slavs, and to Portugal, from whence it went to Brazil; but the Arabs do not know it, nor do they know Tom Thumb, which with the Khabyles becomes H'ab Sliman. In the actual state of our knowledge, we can only say that there is a striking resemblance between a Berber tale and such or such a version. From thence comes the presumption of borrowed matter. But, for the best results to be gained, one should be in possession of all the versions. When it relates to celebrated personages among the Mussulmans, like Solomon, or the features of a legend of which no trace remains of the names, one can certainly conclude that it is borrowed from the Arabs. It is the same with the greater number of fairy tales, whose first inventors, the Arabs, commenced with the "Thousand and One Nights," and presented us with "The Languages of the Beasts," and also with funny stories. The principal personage of these last is Si Djeha, whose name was borrowed from a comic narrative existing as early as the eleventh century A.D. The contents are sometimes coarse and sometimes witty, are nearly all more ancient, and yet belong to the domain of pleasantries from which in Germany sprung the anecdotes of Tyll Eulenspiegel and the Seven Suabians, and in England the Wise Men of Gotham. In Italy, and even in Albania, the name of Djeha is preserved under the form of Guifa and Guicha; and the Turks, who possess the richest literature on this person, have made him a Ghadji Sirii Hissar, under the name of Nasr-eddin Hodja (a form altered from Djoha). The traits attributed to such persons as Bon Idhes, Bon Goudous, Bon Kheenpouch, are equally the same as those bestowed upon Si Djeha. But if the Berbers have borrowed the majority of their tales, they have given to their characters the manners and appearance and names of their compatriots. The king does not differ from the Amir of a village, or an Amanokul of the Touaregs. The palace is the same as all those of a Haddarth, and Haroun al Raschid himself, when he passes into Berber stories, is plucked of the splendor he possesses in the "Thousand and One Nights," and in Oriental stories. This anachronism renders the heroes of the tales more real, and they are real Berbers, who are alive, and who express themselves like the mountaineers of Jurgura, the Arabs of the Atlas; like the men of Ksour, or the nomads of Sahara. In general there is little art in these stories, and in style they are far below other collections celebrated through the entire world. An important place is given to the fables or stories of animals, but there is little that is not borrowed from foreign lands, and the animals are only such as the Berbers are familiar with. The adventures of the jackal do not differ from those of the fox in European stories. An African trait may be signalled in the prominence which it offers the hare, as in the stories of _Ouslofs_ and _Bantous_. Also, the hedgehog, neglected so lamentably in our fables, holds an important place; and if the jackal manages to deceive the lion, he is, in spite of his astute nature, duped by the hedgehog when he tries a fall with him. As to the lion, the serpent, the cock, the frog, the turtle, the hyena, the jackal, the rat, their rôles offer little of the place they play in the Arab tales, or even the Europeans. If we pass from Berber we find the Arab tongue as spoken among the Magreb, and will see that the literature is composed of the same elements, particularly in the tales and songs. There are few special publications concerning the first, but there are few travellers who have not gathered some, and thus rendered their relations with the people more pleasant. In what concerns the fairy tales it is, above all, the children for whom they are destined, "when at night, at the end of their wearisome days, the mothers gather their children around them under the tent, under the shelter of her Bon Rabah, the little ones demand with tears a story to carry their imaginations far away." "Kherrfin ya summa" ("Tell us a story"), they say, and she begins the long series of the exploits of Ah Di Douan.[6] Even the men do not disdain to listen to the tales, and those that were gathered from Tunis and Tripoli by Mr. Stemme,[7] and in Morocco by Messrs. Souin and Stemme,[8] show that the marvellous adventures, wherein intervene the Djinns, fairies, ogres, and sorcerers, are no less popular among the Arab people than among the Berbers. [6] Deeplun, Recueil de textes pour l'étude de l'Arabe parlé, v. 12, p. iv. Paris, 1891. [7] Iumsche Märchen und Gedichte. Leipzig, 1898. 2 vols. Märchen und Gedichte. Aus der Stadt Tripolis in Nord Afrika. Leipzig. [8] Zum Arabischen Dialekt. Von Markko. Leipzig, 1893. Vers. 8. We must not forget that these last-named have borrowed much from the first ones, and it is by them that they have known the celebrated Khalif of Bagdad, one of the principal heroes of the "Thousand and One Nights," Haroun al Raschid, whose presence surprises us not a little when figuring in adventures incompatible with the dignity of a successor of the Prophet. As in the Berber tales, one finds parallels to the Arab stories among the folk-lore of Europe, whether they were borrowed directly or whether they came from India. One will notice, however, in the Arab tales a superior editing. The style is more ornate, the incidents better arranged. One feels that, although it deals with a language disdaining the usage of letters, it is expressed almost as well as though in a cultivated literary language. The gathering of the populations must also be taken into consideration; the citizens of Tunis, of Algiers, and even in the cities of Morocco, have a more exact idea of civilized life than the Berber of the mountains or the desert. As to the comic stories, it is still the Si Djeha who is the hero, and his adventures differ little with those preserved in Berber, and which are common to several literatures, even when the principal person bears another name. The popular poetry consists of two great divisions, quite different as to subject. The first and best esteemed bears the name of Klam el Djedd, and treats of that which concerns the Prophet, the saints, and miracles. A specimen of this class is the complaint relative to the rupture of the Dam of St. Denis of Sig, of which the following is the commencement: "A great disaster was fated:[9] The cavalier gave the alarm, at the moment of the break; The menace was realized by the Supreme Will, My God! Thou alone art good. The dam, perfidious thing, Precipitated his muddy Legions, With loud growlings. No bank so strong as to hold him in check. "He spurred to the right, The bridges which could not sustain his shock fell Under his added weight; His fury filled the country with fear, and he Crushed the barrier that would retain him." [9] Delphin et Genis. Notes sur la Poesie et la musique Arabes dans le Maghreb Algerien, pp. 14-16. Paris, 1886. As to the class of declamatory poems, one in particular is popular in Algiers, for it celebrates the conquest of the Maghreb in the eleventh century by the divers branches of the Beni-Hilal, from whom descend almost the whole of the Arabs who now are living in the northwest of Africa. This veritable poem is old enough, perhaps under its present form, for the historian, Ten Khaldoun, who wrote at the end of the fourteenth century and the beginning of the fifteenth, has preserved the resumé of the episode of Djazza, the heroine who abandoned her children and husband to follow her brothers to the conquest of Thrgya Hajoute. To him are attributed verses which do not lack regularity, nor a certain rhythm, and also a facility of expression, but which abound in interpolations and faults of grammar. The city people could not bear to hear them nor to read them. In our days, for their taste has changed--at least in that which touches the masses--the recital of the deeds of the Helals is much liked in the Arab cafés in Algeria and also in Tunis. Still more, these recitals have penetrated to the Berbers, and if they have not preserved the indigenous songs of the second Arab invasion, they have borrowed the traditions of their conquerors, as we can see in the episode of Ali el Hilalien and of Er-Redah. The names of the invading chiefs have been preserved in the declamatory songs: Abou Zeid, Hassan ben Serhan, and, above all, Dyab ben Ghanum, in the mouth of whom the poet puts at the end of the epic the recital of the exploits of his race: "Since the day when we quitted the soil and territory of the Medjid, I have not opened my heart to joy; We came to the homes of Chokir and Cherif ben Hachem who pours upon thee (Djazzah) a rain of tears; We have marched against Ed-Dabis ben Monime and we have overrun his cities and plains. We went to Koufat and have bought merchandise from the tradesmen who come to us by caravan. We arrived at Ras el Ain in all our brave attire and we mastered all the villages and their inhabitants. We came to Haleb, whose territory we had overrun, borne by our swift, magnificent steeds. We entered the country of the Khazi Mohammed who wore a coat of mail, with long, floating ends, We traversed Syria, going toward Ghaza, and reached Egypt, belonging to the son of Yakoub, Yousof, and found the Turks with their swift steeds. We reached the land of Raqin al Hoonara, and drowned him in a deluge of blood. We came to the country of the Mahdi, whom we rolled on the earth and as to his nobles their blood flowed in streams. We came to the iron house of Boraih, and found that the Jewish was the established religion. We arrived at the home of the warrior, El Hashais: The night was dark, he fell upon us while we slept without anxiety, He took from us our delicate and honored young girls, beauties whose eyes were darkened with kohol. Abou Zeid marched against him with his sharp sword and left him lying on the ground. Abou So'dah Khalifah the Zemati, made an expedition against us, and pursued us with the sword from all sides. I killed Abou So'dah Khalifah the Zemati, and I have put you in possession of all his estates. They gave me three provinces and So'dah, this is the exact truth that I am telling here. Then came an old woman of evil augur and she threw dissension among us, and the Helals left for a distant land. Then Abou Ali said to me: 'Dyab, you are but a fool,' I marched against him under the wing of the night, and flames were lighted in the sheepfolds. He sent against me Hassan the Hilali, I went to meet him and said, 'Seize this wretched dog.' These are the words of the Zoght Dyab ben Ghanem and the fire of illness was lighted in his breast."[10] [10] R. Basset. Un Episode d'une chanson de geste Arabe sur la seconde conquête de l'Afrique Septentrionale par les Mussulmans. Bulletin de Correspondence Africaine, p. 147. Alger, 1885, in 8vo. See also Stemme. Tripolitanisches Bederinenlieder. Leipzig, 1804, in 8vo. The second style of modern Arabic poetry is the "Kelamel hazel." It comprises the pieces which treat of wine, women, and pleasures; and, in general, on all subjects considered light and unworthy of a serious mind. One may find an example in the piece of "Said and Hyza," and in different works of Mr. Stemme cited above. It is particularly among the nomad Arabs that this style is found, even more than the dwellers in cities, on whom rests the reproach of composing verses where the study and sometimes the singularity of expression cannot replace the inspiration, the energy, and even the delicacy of sentiment often found among the nomads: "The country remains a desert, the days of heat are ended, the trees of our land have borne the attack of Summer, that is my grief. After it was so magnificent to behold, its leaves are fallen, one by one, before my eyes. But I do not covet the verdure of a cypress; my sorrow has for its cause a woman, whose heart has captivated mine. I will describe her clearly; you will know who she is; since she has gone my heart fails me. Cheika of the eye constantly veiled, daughter of Mouloud, thy love has exhausted me. I have reached a point where I walk dizzily like one who has drunken and is drunk; still am I fasting; my heart has abandoned me. Thy thick hair is like the ostrich's plumes, the male ostrich, feeding in the depressions of the dunes; thy eyebrows are like two _nouns_ [Arab letters] of a Tlemcen writing. Thy eyes, my beautiful, are like two gleaming gun barrels, made at Stamboul, city defiant of Christians. The cheek of Cherikha is like the rose and the poppy when they open under the showers. Thy mouth insults the emerald and the diamond; thy saliva is a remedy against the malady; without doubt it is that which has cured me[1]." [1] Joly, Poesie Arnaduno chez les Nomades Algeriennes. Revue Africaine, XLV, pp. 217-219. Alger, 1901, 8vo. To finish with the modern literature of the northwest of Africa, I should mention a style of writings which played a grand rôle some five centuries ago, but that sort is too closely connected with those composing the poems on the Spanish Moors, and of them I shall speak later. It remains now to but enumerate the enigmas found in all popular literature, and the satiric sayings attributed to holy persons of the fifteenth century, who, for having been virtuous and having possessed the gift of miracles, were none the less men, and as such bore anger and spite. The most celebrated of all was Sidi Ahmed ben Yousuf, who was buried at Miliana. By reason of the axiom, "They lend but to the rich," they attributed to him all the satirical sayings which are heard in the villages and among the tribes of Algeria, of which, perhaps, he did pronounce some. Praises are rare: "He whom you see, wild and tall, Know him for a child of Algiers," "Beni Menaur, son of the dispersed, Has many soldiers, And a false heart." "Some are going to call you Blida (little village), But I have called you Ourida (little rose)." "Cherchel is but shame, Avarice, and flight from society, His face is that of a sheep, His heart is the heart of a wolf; Be either sailor or forge worker, Or else leave the city."[2] [2] R. Basset. Les dictionnaires satiriques attribues à Sidi ben Yousof. Paris, 1890, 8vo. "He who stands there on a low hill All dressed in a small mantle, Holding in his hand a small stick And calling to sorrow, 'Come and find me,' Know him for a son of Medea." "Miliana; Error and evil renown, Of water and of wood, People are jealous of it, Women are Viziers there, And men the captives." "Ténès; built upon a dunghill, Its water is blood, Its air is poison, By the Eternal! Sidi Ahmed will not pass the night here, Get out of the house, O cat!" "People of Bon Speur, Women and men, That they throw into the sea." "From the Orient and Occident, I gathered the scamps, I brought them to Sidi Mohammed ben Djellal. There they escaped me, One part went to Morocco, And the rest went down into Eghrès." "Oran the depraved, I sold thee at a reasonable price; The Christians have come there, Until the day of the resurrection." "Tlemcen: Glory of the chevaliers; Her water, her air, And the way her women veil themselves Are found in no other land." "Tunis: Land of hypocrisy and deceit, In the day there is abundance of vagabonds, At night their number is multiplied, God grant that I be not buried in its soil." Another no less celebrated in Morocco, Sidi Abdan Rahman el Medjidont, is, they say, the author of sentences in four verses, in which he curses the vices of his time and satirizes the tribes, and attacks the women with a bitterness worthy of Juvenal: "Morocco is the land of treason; Accursed be its habitants; They make guests sleep outside, And steal their provisions."[3] [3] H.J. Castries. Les Gnomes de Sidi Abdir Rahman El Medjedoub. Paris, 1896. "Deceptive women are deceivers ever, I hastened to escape them. They girdle themselves with vipers, And fasten their gowns with scorpions." "Let not thyself fall victim to a widow, Even if her cheeks are bouquets, For though you are the best of husbands, She will repeat ceaselessly, 'God, be merciful to the dead.'" "No river on the mountains, No warm nights in the winter, No women doing kind actions, No generous-hearted enemies." The battle of the Guadalete, where sank the Visigoth empire, delivered Spain almost defenceless to the Arab and Berber conquest. There developed then a civilization and an intellectual culture far superior to those of the barbarous Christian refugees in the Asturias, where they led a rude and coarse life which but seasoned them for future struggles. Of their literary monuments, there remain to us but mediocre Latin chronicles. The court of the Omayades at Cordova saw a literature blossom which did not disappear even after the fall of the Khalifate. On the contrary, it seemed to regain a new vigor in the small states which surged up about the Iberian Peninsula. The Christians, under the domination of the Mussulmans, allowed themselves to be seduced by the Arabian literature. "They loved to read their poems and romances. They went to great expense and built immense libraries. They scarcely knew how to express themselves in Latin, but when it was necessary to write in Arabic, they found crowds of people who understood that language, wrote it with the greatest elegance, and composed poems even preferable in point of view to the art of the Arab poets themselves."[4] [4] Dozy. Histoire des Mussulmans de l'Espagne, pp. 103-166. Leyden, 1861, in 12mo, 4to. In spite of the complaints of fanatics like Euloge and Alvaro, the literary history of that time was filled with Christian names, either those of Spanish who had remained faithful to the ancient faith, or renegades, or children of renegades. By the side of the Arab names, like that of the Bishop Arib ben Said of Cordova, are found those of Ibn Guzman (Son of Guzman), Ibn el Goutya (son of Gothe), Ibn Loyon (son of Leon), Ibn er Roumaye (son of the Greek), Ibn Konbaret (son of Comparatus), Ibn Baschkoual (son of Paschal), and all have left a name among letters. One magnificent period in literature unfolded itself in the eleventh century A.D., in the little courts of Seville, of Murcie, of Malaga, Valence, Toledo, and Badajos. The kings, like El Nis Sasim, El Mo'hadhid, El Mishamed, Hbn Razin, rank among the best poets, and even the women answered with talent to the verses which they inspired. They have preserved the names and the pieces of some of them: Aicha, Rhadia, Fatima, Maryam, Touna, and the Princess Ouallada. Greek antiquity has not left us more elegant verses, nor elegies more passionate, than these, of which but a small portion has been saved from forgetfulness in the anthologies of Hbn Khayan, Hbn el Abbar, Hbn Bassam de Turad-eddin, and Ibn el Khatib el Maggari. They needed the arrival of the Berbers to turn them into Almoran. Those Berbers hastened there from the middle of Sahara and the borders of Senegal to help the cause of Islamism against Spanish rule, as it was menaced through the victories of Alfonso of Castile. The result would have been to stifle those free manifestations of the literary art under a rigorous piety which was almost always but the thin varnish of hypocrisy. To the Almoravides succeeded the Almohades coming from the Atlas of Morocco. To the Almohades, the Merias coming from Sahara in Algeria, but in dying out each of these dynasties left each time a little more ground under the hands of the Christians, who, since the time in Telage, when they were tracked into the caverns of Covadonga, had not ceased, in spite of ill fortune of all sorts, to follow the work of deliverance. It would have been accomplished centuries before if the internal struggle in Christian Spain in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries had not accorded some years of respite to the kingdom which was being founded at Granada, and revived, although with less brilliancy, the splendor of the times before the twelfth century. In the course of the long struggle the independent Christians had not been able to avoid feeling in a certain measure something of the influence of their neighbors, now their most civilized subjects. They translated into prose imitations of the tales such as those of the book of Patronis, borrowing from the general chronicles or in translations like the "Kalila and traditions, legendary or historic, as they found them in the Dimna," or the book of "The Ruses of Women," in verse. In their oldest romances--for instance, that of the "Children of Sara,"[5] and in those to which they have given the name of _romances fronterizos_, or romances of the frontier--they give the facts of the war between the Mussulmans and the Christians. [5 ] T. Ramon Manendez Pidal. La legende de les Infantes de Sara. Madrid, 1896. 8vo. But they gave the name of Mauresques to another and different class of romances, of which the heroes are chevaliers, who have nothing of the Mussulman but the name. The talent of certain _littérateurs_ of the sixteenth century exercised itself in that class where the persons are all conventional, or the descriptions are all imaginative, and made a portrait of the Mussulman society so exact that the romances of Esplandian, Amadis de Gaul, and others, which evoked the delicious knight-errantry of Don Quixote, can present a picture of the veritable chivalry of the Middle Ages. We possess but few verses of the Mussulmans of Granada. Argot de Moll preserved them in Arabic, transcribed in Latin characters, one piece being attributed to Mouley Abou Abdallah: "The charming Alhambra and its palaces weep Over their loss, Muley Boabdil (Bon Abdallah), Bring me my horse and my white buckler, That I may fight to retake the Alhambra; Bring me my horse and my buckler blue, That I may go to fight to retake my children. "My children are at Guadia, my wife at Jolfata; Thou hast caused my ruin, O Setti Omm el Fata. My children are at Guadia, my wife at Jolfata, Thou hast caused my ruin, O Setti Omm el Fata!"[6] [6] A. de Circourt. Histoire des Moors mudijares et des Moresques. Paris, 1846. As may be seen, these verses have no resemblance to those called Moorish. These are of a purely Spanish diction.[7] [7] T.A. de Circourt. I. iii., p. 327-332. Some romances, but not of these last-named, have kept traces of the real legends of the Arabs. There is among them one which treats of the adventures of Don Rodrigues, the last king of the Visigoths--"The Closed House of Toledo."[8] "The Seduction of la Cava," "The Vengeance of Count Julien," "The Battle of Guadalete," are brought back in the same fashion by the historians and writers of Mussulman romances. [8] R. Basset. Legendes Arabes d'Espagne. La Maison fermée de Tolède. Oran, 1898, in 8vo. The romance on the construction of the Alhambra has preserved the character of an Arabic legend which dates from before the prophet.[9] There is also a romance on the conquest of Spain, attributed to an Arab writer, the same man whom Cervantes somewhat later feigned to present as the author of Don Quixote, the Moor, Cid Hamet ben Engels.[10] [9] R. Basset. D'Alhambra et le Chateau de Khanumag: Revue des traditions populaires. Fairier, 1871, p. 459-465. [10] Histoire des Conquêtes d'Espagne par les Mores. Par Ali Aven Sufran. Paris, 1720. It is another style of writing, less seductive, perhaps, than that of the Moorish romances, in spite of their lack of vivacity and their bad taste. But why mark this as the expression of the Mussulman sentiment under Christian domination? Conquered by the Castilians, the Aragons, and the Portuguese, the Moors had lost the use of Arabic, but they had preserved the exterior sign-writing, just as their new converts retained their usages and their national costumes. We possess a complete literature composed in Spanish, but written in Arabic characters. They called it by the name of _Aljaniado_. Its chief characteristic is that it treats of the principal legends of the Mussulmans; those of Solomon and Moses, of Jesus; the birth, childhood, and the marriage of Mohammed; Temins ed Daria, the war of the king El Mohallal, the miracle of the moon, the ascension of Mohammed to heaven, the conversion of Omar, the battle of Yarmouk, the golden castle, the marvels that God showed to Abraham, Ali and the forty young girls, the anti-Christ and the day of judgment[1] etc.; the legend of Joseph, son of Jacob; that of Alexander the Great,[2] to which could be added the story of the princess Zoraida,[3] without speaking of the pious exhortations, magic formulas, conjurations, and charms.[4] [1] Guillon Robles. Legendas Moriscas. Madrid, 1885-86. 36 petit in 8vo. [2] Guillon Robles. La Legenda de Jose, hijo de Jacob, ye do Alexandro Magna. Zaragoza, 1888, en 8vo. [3] L de Eguilas el Hditz, de La Princess Zoraida. Granada, 1892, 16mo. [4] P. Gil y Ribera et Mar Sanches. Colleccion el textos Aljamiados. Zaragoza, 1888, 8vo. The Moors held to these documents all the more that they were written in Arabic, and that the fury of the Inquisition was let loose upon them. To save them from the flames, their owners hid them with the greatest care, and but recently, at El Monacid, they found a whole library in Arabic and Aljamiado, hidden more than two centuries between the double walls of an old house.[5] The Mussulman proprietor of these books and his descendants were dead, or had emigrated to Africa, abandoning the treasure which was to see the light in a more tolerant epoch. [5] Pamo. Las coplas del Peregrino de Puey Monçon. Zaragoza, 1897. Pet. en 8vo. Political relations also existed between those of the Moors who remained in Spain as converts and such as had fled from persecution and carried to the populations of the north of Africa the hatred of the Spanish Christians. Thus we find among the popular literature of the Magreb the same legends, but edited in Arabic. Only a small number has been published.[6] Whether in one language or the other, editing does not offer anything remarkable. The stories have been developed, after the traditions of the Mussulmans, by the _demi-littérateurs,_ and by that means they have become easier and more accessible to the multitude. [6] R. Basset. Les Aventures Merveilleuses de Tunis et Dais. Rome, 1891, en 8vo. L'expédition du Chateau d'or, et la combat d'Ali et du dragon. Rome, 1893, en 8vo. M'lle Florence Groff. Les sept dormants, La ville de Tram, et l'excursion contre la Makke, Alger, 1891, en 8vo. It is thus that a literature in Spain sadly ends which, during seven centuries, had counted historians and poets, philologists, philosophers and savants, and which the Christian literature replacing it can possibly equal in some points, but never surpass.[7] [Illustration (Signature Facsimile): Rene Basset] [7] M. Basset's "Special Introduction" was written in French; the English translation was made by Robert Arnot. PREFACE The Moorish ballads which appear in this volume are selected from a unique department of European literature. They are found in the Spanish language, but their character is oriental; their inspiration comes from the Mahometan conquerors of northern Africa, and while they exhibit a blending of Spanish earnestness and chivalry with the wild and dashing spirit of the Arab, they present a type of literature which is quite unparalleled in the Latin and Teutonic countries of the Mediterranean basin. Spain is especially rich in ballad literature, infinitely richer than any other civilized nation. These ballads take various forms. By Cervantes and his countrymen they are styled romances, and the romance generally consists in a poem which describes the character, sufferings, or exploits of a single individual. The language is simple; the versification, often artless though melodious, is seldom elaborated into complexity of rhyme. But the heroic Moor is set before us in the most vivid colors. The hues and material of his cloak, his housings, his caftan, and his plumes are given, and quite a vocabulary is exhausted in depicting the color, sex, and breed of his war-horse. His weapons, lance, scimitar, and corslet of steel are dwelt upon with enthusiasm. He is as brave as Mars, and as comely as Adonis. Sometimes he dashes into a bull-ring and slays wild creatures in the sight of fair ladies and envious men. He throws his lance of cane, which is filled with sand, so high that it vanishes in the clouds. He is ready to strike down, in his own house, the Christian who has taken from him and wedded the lady of his choice. He is almost always in love with some lady who is unkind and cold, and for her he wanders at times in dark array, expressing his sombre mood in the device and motto which he paints upon his shield. Some of the ballads picture love more fortunate in the most charming manner, and the dark tortures of jealousy are powerfully described in others. The devotion of the Moor to his lady is scarcely caricatured in the mocking language of Cervantes, and is not exceeded by anything to be found in the history of French chivalry. But the god of these ballads is Allah, and they sometimes reveal a trace of ferocity which seems to be derived from religious fanaticism. Nor can the reader fail to be struck by the profound pathos which many of them express so well. The dirges are supremely beautiful, their language simple and direct, but perfect in descriptive touches and in the cadence of the reiterated burden. Beside the ballads of warlike and amorous adventures, there are sea-songs, songs of captivity, and songs of the galley slave. The Spanish Moor is seized by some African pirate and carried away to toil in the mill of his master on some foreign shore, or he is chained to the rowing-bench of the Berber galley, thence to be taken and sold when the voyage is over to some master who leaves him to weep in solitary toil in the farm or garden. Sometimes he wins the love of his mistress, who releases him and flies in his company. All these ballads have vivid descriptions of scenery. The towers of Baeza, the walls of Granada, the green _vegas_ that spread outside every city, the valley of the Guadalquivir, and the rushing waters of the Tagus, the high cliffs of Cadiz, the Pillars of Hercules, and the blue waves of the Mediterranean make a life-like background to every incident. In the cities the ladies throng the balconies of curling iron-work or crowd the plaza where the joust or bull-fight is to be witnessed, or steal at nightfall to the edge of the _vega_ to meet a lover, and sometimes to die in his arms at the hands of bandits. There is a dramatic power in these ballads which is one of their most remarkable features. They are sometimes mere sketches, but oftener the story is told with consummate art, with strict economy of word and phrase, and the _dénouement_ comes with a point and power which show that the Moorish minstrel was an artist of no mean skill and address. The authors of the Moorish romances, songs, and ballads are unknown. They have probably assumed their present literary form after being part of the _répertoire_ of successive minstrels, and some of the incidents appear in more than one version. The most ancient of them are often the shortest, but they belong to the period when southern Spain under Mahometan rule was at the height of its prosperity, and Arabian learning, art, and literature made her rank among the first countries in Europe. The peninsula was conquered by the Moors in the caliphate of Walid I, 705-715 A.D., and the independent dynasty of the Ommiades was founded by Abderrhaman at Granada in 755 A.D. It was from this latter date that the Spanish Moors began to assume that special character in language, manners, and chivalric enthusiasm which is represented in the present ballads; the spirit of Christian knighthood is here seen blended with Arabian passion, impetuosity, and impulsiveness, and the Spanish language has supplanted, even among Mahometan poets, the oriental idiom. We may roughly estimate the period in which the Moorish romance flourished as comprised in the years between 1100 and 1600 A.D. The term Moorish is somewhat indefinite, and is used in Spanish history as a synonym of Saracen or Mahometan. It cannot be called a national appellation, though originally in the Augustan age it was applied to the dwellers in Mauretania, with whom the Romans had first come in contact when the war with Hannibal was transferred from Italy and Spain to Africa. In the present day, it may be applied to all the races of northwestern Africa who have accepted Mahometanism; in which case it would include the aborigines of that region, who live not on the coast and in towns, but in the Atlas Mountain and the Sahara Desert. While these races, all Berbers under different local names, are Mussulmans in profession, they are not so highly civilized as their co-religionists who people the coast of the Mediterranean. They live a tribal life, and are blood-thirsty and predatory. They are of course mixed in race with the Arabians, but they are separate in their life and institutions, and they possess no written literature. Their oral literature is, however, abundant, though it is only within quite recent years that it has become known to America and Europe. The present collection of tales and fables is the first which has hitherto been made in the English language. The learned men who collected the tales of the Berbers and Kabyles (who are identical in ethnical origin) underwent many hardships in gathering from half-savage lips the material for their volume. They were forced to live among the wild tribesmen, join their nomad life, sit at their feasts, and watch with them round their camp-fire, while it was with difficulty they transferred to writing the syllables of a barbarous tongue. The memory of the Berber story-teller seems to be incredibly capacious and retentive, and the tales were recited over and over again without a variation. As is to be expected these tales are very varied, and many of them are of a didactic, if not ethical, cast. They are instructive as revealing the social life and character of these mountain and desert tribes. We find the spirit of the vendetta pervading these tales with more than Corsican bitterness and unreasoning cruelty, every man being allowed to revenge himself by taking the life or property of another. This private and personal warfare has done more than anything else to check the advance in civilization of these tribesmen. The Berbers and Kabyles are fanatical Mahometans and look upon Christians and Jews as dogs and outcasts. It is considered honorable to cheat, rob, or deceive by lies one who does not worship Allah. The tales illustrate, moreover, the degraded position of women. A wife is literally a chattel, not only to be bought, but to be sold also, and to be treated in every respect as man's inferior--a mere slave or beast of burden. Yet the tribesmen are profoundly superstitious, and hold in great dread the evil spirits who they think surround them and to whom they attribute bodily and mental ills. An idiot is one who is possessed by a wicked demon, and is to be feared accordingly. There are found current among them a vast number of fairy tales, such as equal in wildness and horror the strangest inventions of oriental imagination. Their tales of ogres and ogresses are unsoftened by any of that playfulness and bonhomie which give such undying charm to the "Thousand and One Nights." The element of the miraculous takes many original forms in their popular tales, and they have more than their share of the folk-lore legends and traditions such as Herodotus loved to collect. It was said of old that something new was always coming out of Africa, and certainly the contribution which the Berbers and Kabyles have made to the fund of wonder-stories in the world may be looked upon as new, in more than one sense. It is new, not only because it is novel and unexpected, but because it is fresh, original and highly interesting. The fables of these tribes are very abundant and very curious. The great hero of the animal fable in Europe has always been the fox, whose cunning, greed, and duplicity are immortalized in the finest fable the world's literature possesses. The fables of northwest Africa employ the jackal instead of Reynard, whose place the sycophant of the lion not inaptly fills. There are a number of men among the Kabyles and other Berber tribes who make a profession of reciting poems, tales, and proverbs, and travel from one village or encampment to another in search of an audience. They know the national traditions, the heroic legends, and warlike adventures that pertain to each community, and are honored and welcomed wherever they go. It was from these men that the various narratives contained in this collection were obtained, and the translation of them has engaged the talents and labors of some of the world's foremost oriental scholars. [Illustration (Facsimile Signature): Epiphanius Wilson] CONTENTS MOORISH BALLADS Fatima's Love The Braggart Rebuked The Admiral's Farewell Moriana and Galvan The Bereaved Father The Warden of Molina The Loves of Boabdil and Vindaraja The Infanta Sevilla and Peranguelos Celin's Farewell Celin's Return Baza Revisited Captive Zara The Jealous King The Lovers of Antequera Tarfe's Truce The Two Moorish Knights The King's Decision Almanzar and Bobalias The Moorish Infanta and Alfonzo Ramos The Bull-fight of Zulema The Renegade The Tower of Gold The Dirge for Aliatar The Ship of Zara Hamete Ali Zaide's Love Zaida's Jealousy Zaida of Toledo Zaide Rebuked Zaida's Inconstancy Zaide's Desolation Zaida's Lament Zaida's Curse The Tournament of Zaide Zaide's Complaint Guhala's Love Azarco of Granada Azarco Rebuked Adelifa's Farewell Azarco's Farewell Celinda's Courtesy Gazul's Despondency Gazul in Love Celinda's Inconstancy The Bull-fight Lovers Reconciled Call to Arms Gazul Calumniated Gazul's Despair Vengeance of Gazul Gazul and Albenzaide Gazul's Arms The Tournament Abunemeya's Lament The Despondent Lover Love and Jealousy The Captive of Toledo The Blazon of Abenamar Woman's Fickleness King Juan Abenamar's Jealousy Adelifa's Jealousy Funeral of Abenamar Ballad of Albayaldos The Night Raid of Reduan Siege of Jaen Death of Reduan The Aged Lover Fickleness Rebuked The Galley Slave of Dragut The Captive's Lament Strike Sail The Captive's Escape The Spaniard of Oran MOORISH ROMANCES The Bull-fight of Gazul The Zegri's Bride The Bridal of Andalla Zara's Ear-rings The Lamentation for Celin THE STORY OF SIDI BRAHIM OF MASSAT FIVE BERBER STORIES Djokhrane and the Jays The Ogre and the Beautiful Woman The False Vezir The Soufi and the Targui Ahmed el Hilalieu and El Redah POEMS OF THE MAGHREB Ali's Answer In Honor of Lalla Sayd and Hyzyya The Aïssaoua in Paris Song of Fatima The City Girl and the Country Girl POPULAR TALES OF THE BERBERS The Turtle, the Frog, and the Serpent The Hedgehog, the Jackal, and the Lion The Stolen Woman The King, the Arab, and the Monster The Lion, the Jackal, and the Man Salomon and the Griffin Adventure of Sidi Mahomet The Haunted Garden The Woman and the Fairy Hamed ben Ceggad The Magic Napkin The Child and the King of the Genii The Seven Brothers Half-a-Cock Strange Meetings The King and His Family Beddou The Language of the Beasts The Apple of Youth POPULAR TALES OF THE KABYLES Ali and Ou Ali The Infidel Jew The Sheik's Head The Wagtail and the Jackal The Flute-player The Child The Monkey and the Fisherman The Two Friends The Robber and the Two Pilgrims The Little Child The Wren The Mule, the Jackal, and the Lion Thadhellala The Good Man and the Bad One The Crow and the Child H'ab Sliman The King and His Son Mahomet ben Soltan MOORISH BALLADS ROMANCEROS MORISCOS [_Metrical Translation by Epiphanius Wilson, A.M._] MOORISH BALLADS FATIMA'S LOVE On the morn of John the Baptist, just at the break of day, The Moors upon Granada's fields streamed out in bright array. Their horses galloped o'er the sod, their lances flashed in air, And the banners that their dames had wrought spread out their colors fair. Their quivers bright flashed in the light with gold and silk brocade, And the Moor who saw his love was there looked best in the parade, And the Moor who had no lady love strove hard some love to gain. 'Mong those who from Alhambra's towers gazed on that warrior train, There were two Moorish ladies there whom love had smitten sore; Zarifa one, and Fatima the name the other bore. Knit by warm friendship were their hearts till, filled with jealous pain, Their glances met, as one fair knight came prancing o'er the plain. Zarifa spoke to Fatima, "How has love marred thy face! Once roses bloomed on either cheek, now lilies take their place; And you, who once would talk of love, now still and silent stay. Come, come unto the window and watch the pageant gay! Abindarraez is riding by; his train is full in view; In all Granada none can boast a choicer retinue." "It is not love, Zarifa, that robs my cheek of rose; No fond and anxious passion this mournful bosom knows; My cheeks are pale and I am still and silent, it is true,-- For, ah! I miss my father's face, whom fierce Alabey slew. And did I crave the boon of love, a thousand knights were fain To fight for me in service true on yonder flowery plain. And all the love I give to each to give me back again. And for Abindarraez, whose heart and valiant might, You praise and from the window watch, with rapturous delight----" The lady stopped, for at their feet knelt down the well-loved knight. THE BRAGGART REBUKED "If thou art brave in battle's hour As thou art bold in pleasure's rout; If thou canst make the lances fly As thou canst fling thy words about; "If thou canst in the vega fight As thou the ladies' eyes canst praise; And show on horseback half the skill That marks thee in the dance's maze; "Meet with the briskness of the joust The challenge of the deadly lance, And in the play of scimitars Be sprightly as in festive dance; "If thou art ready in the field As thou art nimble on the square; And canst the front of battle face As though thou flirtest with the fair; "If thou dost don thy shining mail As lightly as thy festive suit, And listenest to the trumpet call As though it were thy lady's lute; "And if, as in the gamesome hour Thou flingest round the rattling reed Against the foeman's moated camp, Thou spurrest on thy thundering steed; "If, when the foe is face to face, Thou boastest as thou oft hast done When far away his ranks were ranged, And the fierce fight had not begun;-- "Go, Zaide, to the Alhambra go, And there defend thy soldier fame; For every tongue is wagging there, And all, derisive, speak thy name. "And if thou fear to go alone, Take others with thee to thine aid; Thy friends are ready at thy beck, And Zaide need not be afraid! "It is not in the palace court, Amid the throng of ladies bright, That the good soldier, by his tongue, Proves himself valorous in the fight. "It is not there his hands can show What in the battle he can do; But where the shock of onset tests The fearless heart, the iron thew. "Betake thee to the bloody field And let thy sword thy praises sing; But silence is most eloquent Amid the courtiers of the King." Thus Tarfe wrote, the Moorish knight, His heart so filled with furious rage That where his fiery pen had passed It pierced and rent the flimsy page. He called his varlet to his side, "Now seek the Alhambra's hall," said he, "And privately to Zaide say That this epistle comes from me; "And whisper, that none else may hear, And say that I his coming wait, Where Genil's crystal torrent laves The pillars of yon palace gate." THE ADMIRAL'S FAREWELL The royal fleet with fluttering sail is waiting in the bay; And brave Mustapha, the Admiral, must start at break of day. His hood and cloak of many hues he swiftly dons, and sets Upon his brow his turban gay with pearls and amulets; Of many tints above his head his plumes are waving wide; Like a crescent moon his scimitar is dangling at his side; And standing at the window, he gazes forth, and, hark! Across the rippling waters floats the summons to embark. Blow, trumpets; clarions, sound your strain! Strike, kettle-drum, the alarum in refrain. Let the shrill fife, the flute, the sackbut ring A summons to our Admiral, a salvo to our King! The haughty Turk his scarlet shoe upon the stirrup placed, Right easily he vaulted to his saddle-tree in haste. His courser was Arabian, in whose crest and pastern show A glossy coat as soft as silk, as white as driven snow. One mark alone was on his flank! 'twas branded deep and dark; The letter F in Arab script, stood out the sacred mark. By the color of his courser he wished it to be seen That the soul of the King's Admiral was white and true and clean. Oh, swift and full of mettle was the steed which that day bore Mustapha, the High Admiral, down to the wave-beat shore! The haughty Turk sails forth at morn, that Malta he may take, But many the greater conquest his gallant men shall make; For his heart is high and his soul is bent on death or victory, And he pauses, as the clashing sound comes from the distant sea; Blow, trumpets; clarions, sound your strain! Strike, kettle-drum, the alarum in refrain. Let fife and flute, and sackbut in accord Proclaim, Aboard! Aboard! Thy pinnace waits thee at the slip, lord Admiral, aboard! And as he hears the summons Love makes for him reply, "O whither, cruel fortune, wilt thou bid the warrior fly? Must I seek thee in the ocean, where the winds and billows roar? Must I seek thee there, because in vain I sought thee on the shore? And dost thou think the ocean, crossed by my flashing sail, With all its myriad waters and its rivers, can avail To quench the ardent fire of love that rages in my breast, And soothe the fever of my soul into one hour of rest?" And as he mused, in bitter thought, Mustapha reached in haste A balcony; till dawn of day before that house he paced, And all his heart's anxieties he counted o'er and o'er, And, when the darkness of the night toward opening twilight wore, Upon the balcony there came the cause of all his sighs, But a smile was on her rosy lips and a light was in her eyes. "O lovely Zaida," he began, and gazed into her face, "If my presence at thy window is a burden to thy peace, One pledge bestow upon me, one pledge of love, I pray, And let me kiss thy lily hand before I sail away." "I grieve for thy departure," the lady made reply, "And it needs no pledge to tell thee I am faithful till I die, But if one token thou must have, take this ere thou depart; ('Twas fashioned by these hands of mine) and keep it on thy heart!" The Moor rose in his stirrups, he took it from her hand, 'Twas a piece of lace of gold and silk shaped for a helmet band. There was the wheel of fortune with subtile needle drawn, (Ah, Fortune that had left him there dejected and forlorn!) And as he paused, he heard the sound tumultuous come again, 'Twas from the fleet, down in the bay, and well he knew the strain. Blow, trumpets; clarions, sound your strain; Strike, kettle-drum, the alarum in refrain. Let fife and flute, and sackbut in accord Proclaim, Aboard! Aboard! Thy pinnace waits thee at the slip, lord Admiral, aboard! Oh, stay my foes, nor in such haste invite me to the field! Here let me take the triumphs that softer conquests yield! This is the goal of my desire, the aim of my design, That Zaida's hand in mine be placed and her heart beat close to mine! Then spake the fair Sultana, and she dropped a tender tear, "Nay mourn not for the present pain, for future bliss is near. The wings of Time are swift, and they bear a brighter day; And when once the longed-for gift is here 'twill never pass away!" Then the Moor's heart beat high with joy; to smiles were changed his sighs, In silent ecstasy he gazed into the lady's eyes. He rode to meet his waiting fleet, for favoring was the wind, But while his body went on board, he left his heart behind! Blow, trumpets; clarions, sound your strain! Strike, kettle-drum, the alarum in refrain. Let the shrill fife, the flute, the sackbut ring A summons to our Admiral, a salvo to our King. MORIANA AND GALVAN Twas Princess Moriana, Upon a castle's height, That played with Moorish Galvan At cards for her delight; And oft he lost the stakes he set, Full many a coin I wis; When Moriana lost, she gave Her hand for him to kiss. And after hours of pleasure Moor Galvan sank to sleep; And soon the lady saw a knight Descend the mountain steep; His voice was raised in sorrow, His eyes with tears were wet, For lovely Moriana His heart could ne'er forget. For her, upon St. John's Day, While she was gathering flowers, The Moors had made a captive, Beneath her father's towers. And Moriana raised her eyes And saw her lover ride, And on her cheeks her Moorish lord The sparkling tears descried. With anger raged his spirit, And thus to her he cried: "What ails thee, gentle lady? Why flows with tears thine eye? If Moors of mine have done thee wrong, I swear that they shall die; If any of thy maidens Have caused thee this distress, The whip across their shoulders Shall avenge their wickedness. Or, if the Christian countrymen Have sorrow for thee made, I will, with conquering armies, Their provinces invade. The warlike weapons that I don Are festal robes to me; To me the din of battle Is sweet tranquillity; The direst toils the warrior bears With steadfast joy I meet; To me the watch that nightlong lasts Is like a slumber sweet." "No Moors of thine within these halls Have caused to me this pain; No maidens waiting in my bower Have showed to me disdain; Nor have my Christian kinsmen To mourn my spirit made, Provoking thee in vengeance Their province to invade. Vain the deep cause of my distress From Galvan's eye to hide-- 'Tis that I see down yonder mount A knight in armor ride. 'Tis such a sight that does my tears From very heart-springs move; For yonder knight is all to me, My husband and my love." Straight the Moor's cheek with anger flushed, Till red eclipsed the brown, And his clenched fist he lifted As if to strike her down. He gnashed his teeth with passion, The fangs with blood were red, He called his slaves and bade them Strike off the lady's head. He bade them bind and take her First to the mountain's height, That she the doom might suffer Within her husband's sight; But all the lady answered, When she was brought to death, Were words of faith and loyalty Borne on her parting breath: "Behold, I die a Christian, And here repeat my vows Of faithfulness to yonder knight, My loved and lawful spouse." THE BEREAVED FATHER "Rise up, rise up, thou hoary head, What madness causes thy delay? Thou killest swine on Thursday morn, And eatest flesh on fasting day. "'Tis now seven years since first I trod The valley and the wandering wood; My feet were bare, my flesh was torn, And all my pathway stained in blood. "Ah, mournfully I seek in vain The Emperor's daughter, who had gone A prisoner made by caitiff Moors, Upon the morning of St. John. "She gathered flowers upon the plain, She plucked the roses from the spray, And in the orchard of her sire They found and bore the maid away." These words has Moriana heard, Close nestled in the Moor's embrace; The tears that welled from out her eyes Have wet her captor's swarthy face. THE WARDEN OF MOLINA The warden of Molina, ah! furious was his speed, As he dashed his glittering rowels in the flank of his good steed, And his reins left dangling from the bit, along the white highway, For his mind was set to speed his horse, to speed and not to stay. He rode upon a grizzled roan, and with the wind he raced, And the breezes rustled round him like a tempest in the waste. In the Plaza of Molina at last he made his stand, And in a voice of thunder he uttered his command: To arms, to arms, my captains! Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe. "Now leave your feasts and banquetings and gird you in your steel! And leave the couches of delight, where slumber's charm you feel; Your country calls for succor, all must the word obey, For the freedom of your fathers is in your hands to-day. Ah, sore may be the struggle, and vast may be the cost; But yet no tie of love must keep you now, or all is lost. In breasts where honor dwells there is no room in times like these To dally at a lady's side, kneel at a lady's knees. To arms, to arms, my captains! Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe. "Yes, in the hour of peril away with pleasure's thrall! Let honor take the lance and steed to meet our country's call. For those who craven in the fight refuse to meet the foe Shall sink beneath the feet of all struck by a bitterer blow; In moments when fair honor's crown is offered to the brave And dangers yawn around our State, deep as the deadly grave, 'Tis right strong arms and sturdy hearts should take the sword of might, And eagerly for Fatherland descend into the fight. To arms, to arms, my captains! Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe. "Then lay aside the silken robes, the glittering brocade; Be all in vest of leather and twisted steel arrayed; On each left arm be hung the shield, safe guardian of the breast, And take the crooked scimitar and put the lance in rest, And face the fortune of the day, for it is vain to fly, And the coward and the braggart now alone are doomed to die. And let each manly bosom show, in the impending fray, A valor such as Mars himself in fury might display. To arms, to arms, my captains! Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe. He spoke, and at his valiant words, that rang through all the square, The veriest cowards of the town resolved to do and dare; And stirred by honor's eager fire forth from the gate they stream, And plumes are waving in the air, and spears and falchions gleam; And turbaned heads and faces fierce, and smiles in anger quenched, And sweating steeds and flashing spurs and hands in fury clenched, Follow the fluttering banners that toward the vega swarm, And many a voice re-echoes the words of wild alarm. To arms, to arms, my captains! Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe. And, like the timid lambs that crowd with bleatings in the fold, When they advancing to their throats the furious wolf behold, The lovely Moorish maidens, with wet but flashing eyes, Are crowded in a public square and fill the air with cries; And tho', like tender women, 'tis vain for them to arm, Yet loudly they re-echo the words of the alarm. To heaven they cry for succor, and, while to heaven they pray, They call the knights they love so well to arm them for the fray. To arms, to arms, my captains! Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe. The foremost Moorish nobles, Molina's chosen band, Rush forward from the city the invaders to withstand. There marshalled in a squadron with shining arms they speed, Like knights and noble gentlemen, to meet their country's need. Twelve thousand Christians crowd the plain, twelve thousand warriors tried, They fire the homes, they reap the corn, upon the vega wide; And the warriors of Molina their furious lances ply, And in their own Arabian tongue they raise the rallying cry. To arms, to arms, my captains! Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe. THE LOVES OF BOABDIL AND VINDARAJA Where Antequera's city stands, upon the southern plain, The captive Vindaraja sits and mourns her lot in vain. While Chico, proud Granada's King, nor night nor day can rest, For of all the Moorish ladies Vindaraja he loves best; And while naught can give her solace and naught can dry her tear, 'Tis not the task of slavery nor the cell that brings her fear; For while in Antequera her body lingers still, Her heart is in Granada upon Alhambra's hill. There, while the Moorish monarch longs to have her at his side, More keen is Vindaraja's wish to be a monarch's bride. Ah! long delays the moment that shall bring her liberty, A thousand thousand years in every second seem to fly! For she thinks of royal Chico, and her face with tears is wet, For she knows that absence oft will make the fondest heart forget. And the lover who is truest may yet suspicion feel, For the loved one in some distant land whose heart is firm as steel. And now to solve her anxious doubts, she takes the pen one day And writes to royal Chico, in Granada far away. Ah! long the letter that she wrote to tell him of her state, In lonely prison cell confined, a captive desolate! She sent it by a Moorish knight, and sealed it with her ring; He was warden of Alhambra and stood beside the King, And he had come sent by the King to Antequera's tower, To learn how Vindaraja fared within that prison bower. The Moor was faithful to his charge, a warrior stout and leal, And Chico took the note of love and trembling broke the seal; And when the open page he saw and read what it contained, These were the words in which the maid of her hard lot complained: THE LETTER OF VINDARAJA "Ah, hapless is the love-lorn maid like me in captive plight, For freedom once was mine, and I was happy day and night. Yes, happy, for I knew that thou hadst given me thy love, Precious the gift to lonely hearts all other gifts above. Well mightest thou forget me, though 'twere treachery to say The flame that filled thy royal heart as yet had passed away. Still, though too oft do lovers' hearts in absent hours repine. I know if there are faithful vows, then faithful will be thine! 'Tis hard, indeed, for lovers to crush the doubting thought Which to the brooding bosom some lonely hour has brought. There is no safety for the love, when languish out of sight The form, the smile, the flashing eyes that once were love's delight; Nor can I, I confess it, feel certain of thy vow! How many Moorish ladies are gathered round thee now! How many fairer, brighter forms are clustered at thy throne, Whose power might change to very wax the heart of steel or stone! And if, indeed, there be a cause why I should blame thy heart, 'Tis the delay that thou hast shown in taking here my part. Why are not armies sent to break these prison bars, and bring Back to her home the Moorish maid, the favorite of the King? A maid whose eyes are changed to springs whence flow the flood of tears, For she thinks of thee and weeps for thee through all these absent years. Believe me, if 'twere thou, who lay a captive in his chain, My life of joy, to rescue thee, my heart of blood I'd drain! O King and master, if, indeed, I am thy loved one still, As in those days when I was first upon Alhambra's hill, Send rescue for thy darling, or fear her love may fade, For love that needs the sunlight must wither in the shade. And yet I cannot doubt thee; if e'er suspicion's breath Should chill my heart, that moment would be Vindaraja's death. Nor think should you forget me or spurn me from your arms, That life for Vindaraja could have no other charms. It was thy boast thou once did love a princess, now a slave, I boasted that to thy behest I full obedience gave! And from this prison should I come, in freedom once again, To sit and hear thy words of love on Andalusia's plain, The brightest thought would be to me that thou, the King, has seen 'Twas right to free a wretched slave that she might be thy Queen. Hard is the lot of bondage here, and heavy is my chain, And from my prison bars I gaze with lamentation vain; But these are slight and idle things--my one, my sole distress Is that I cannot see thy face and welcome thy caress! This only is the passion that can my bosom rend; 'Tis this alone that makes me long for death, my sufferings end. The plagues of life are naught to me; life's only joy is this-- To see thee and to hear thee and to blush beneath thy kiss! Alas! perchance this evening or to-morrow morn, may be, The lords who hold me here a slave in sad captivity, May, since they think me wanton, their treacherous measures take That I should be a Christian and my former faith forsake. But I tell them, and I weep to tell, that I will ne'er forego The creed my fathers fought for in centuries long ago! And yet I might forswear it, but that that creed divine 'Tis vain I struggle to deny, for, ah, that creed is thine!" King Chico read his lady's note and silent laid it down; Then to the window he drew nigh, and gazed upon the town; And lost in thought he pondered upon each tender line, And sudden tears and a sigh of grief were his inward sorrow's sign. And he called for ink and paper, that Vindaraja's heart Might know that he remembered her and sought to heal its smart. He would tell her that the absence which caused to her those fears Had only made her dearer still, through all those mournful years. He would tell her that his heart was sad, because she was not near-- Yes, far more sad than Moorish slave chained on the south frontier. And then he wrote the letter to the darling Moorish slave, And this is the tender message that royal Chico gave: THE LETTER OF THE KING "Thy words have done me grievous wrong, for, lovely Mooress, couldst thou think That he who loves thee more than life could e'er to such a treachery sink? His life is naught without the thought that thou art happy in thy lot; And while the red blood at his heart is beating thou art ne'er forgot! Thou woundest me because thy heart mistrusts me as a fickle fool; Thou dost not know when passion true has one apt pupil taken to school. Oblivion could not, could not cloud the image on his soul impressed, Unless dark treachery from the first had been the monarch of his breast And if perhaps some weary hours I thought that Vindaraja's mind Might in some happier cavalier the solace of her slavery find, I checked the thought; I drove away the vision that with death was rife, For e'er my trust in thee I lost, in battle I'd forego my life! Yet even the doubt that thou hast breathed gives me no franchise to forget, And were I willing that thy face should cease to fill my vision, yet 'Tis separation's self that binds us closer though the centuries roll, And forges that eternal chain that binds together soul and soul! And even were this thought no more than the wild vision of my mind, Yet in a thousand worlds no face to change for thine this heart could find. Thro' life, thro' death 'twere all the same, and when to heaven our glance we raise, Full in the very heart of bliss thine eyes shall meet my ardent gaze. For eyes that have beheld thy face, full readily the truth will own That God exhausted, when he made thee, all the treasures of his throne! And my trusting heart will answer while it fills my veins with fire That to hear of, is to see thee; and to see, is to desire! Yet unless my Vindaraja I could look upon awhile, As some traveller in a desert I should perish for her smile; For 'tis longing for her presence makes the spring of life to me, And allays the secret suffering none except her eye can see. In this thought alone my spirit finds refreshment and delight; This is sweeter than the struggle, than the glory of the fight; And if e'er I could forget her heaving breast and laughing eye, Tender word, and soft caresses--Vindaraja, I should die! If the King should bid me hasten to release thee from thy chain, Oh, believe me, dearest lady, he would never bid in vain; Naught he could demand were greater than the price that I would pay, If in high Alhambra's halls I once again could see thee gay! None can say I am remiss, and heedless of thy dismal fate; Love comes to prompt me every hour, he will not let my zeal abate. If occasion call, I yield myself, my soul to set thee free; Take this offering if thou wilt, I wait thy word on bended knee. Dost thou suffer, noble lady, by these fancies overwrought? Ah, my soul is filled with sorrow at the agonizing thought; For to know that Vindaraja languishes, oppressed with care, Is enough to make death welcome, if I could but rescue her. Yes, the world shall know that I would die not only for the bliss Of clasping thee in love's embrace and kindling at thy tender kiss. This, indeed, would be a prize, for which the coward death would dare-- I would die to make thee happy, tho' thy lot I might not share! Then, though I should fail to lift the burden on my darling laid, Though I could not prove my love by rescuing my Moorish maid, Yet my love would have this witness, first, thy confidence sublime, Then my death for thee, recorded on the scroll of future time! Yes, my death, for should I perish, it were comfort but to think Thou couldst have henceforth on earth no blacker, bitterer cup to drink! Sorrow's shafts would be exhausted, thou couldst laugh at fortune's power. Tho' I lost thee, yet this thought would cheer me in my parting hour. Yet I believe that fate intends (oh, bear this forecast in thy mind!) That all the love my passions crave will soon a full fruition find; Fast my passion stronger grows, and if of love there measure be, Believe it, dearest, that the whole can find its summary in me! Deem that thou art foully wronged, whose graces have such power to bless, If any of thy subject slaves to thee, their queen, should offer less, And accept this pledged assurance, that oblivion cannot roll O'er the image of thy beauty stamped on this enamored soul. Then dismiss thy anxious musings, let them with the wind away, As the gloomy clouds are scattered at the rising of the day. Think that he is now thy slave, who, when he wooed thee, was thy King; Think that not the brightest morning can to him contentment bring, Till the light of other moments in thy melting eyes he trace, And the gates of Paradise are opened in thy warm embrace. Since thou knowest that death to me and thee will strike an equal blow, It is just that, while we live, our hearts with equal hopes should glow. Then no longer vex thy lover with complaints that he may change; Darling, oft these bitter questions can the fondest love estrange; No, I dream not of estrangement, for thy Chico evermore Thinks upon his Vindaraja's image only to adore." THE INFANTA SEVILLA AND PERANZUELOS Upon Toledo's loftiest towers Sevilla kept the height; So wondrous fair was she that love Was blinded at the sight. She stood amid the battlements, And gazed upon the scene Where Tagus runs through woodland And flowers and glades of green. And she saw upon the wide highway The figure of a knight; He rode upon a dappled steed, And all his arms were bright. Seven Moors in chains he led with him, And one arm's length aloof Came a dog of a Moor from Morocco's shore In arms of double proof. His steed was swift, his countenance In a warlike scowl was set, And in his furious rage he cursed The beard of Mahomet! He shouted, as he galloped up: "Now halt thee, Christian hound; I see at the head of thy captive band My sire, in fetters bound. "And the rest are brothers of my blood, And friends I long to free; And if thou wilt surrender all, I'll pay thee gold and fee." When Peranzuelos heard him, He wheeled his courser round. With lance in rest, he hotly pressed To strike him to the ground; His sudden rage and onset came Swift as the thunder's sound. The Moor at the first encounter reeled To earth, from his saddle bow; And the Christian knight, dismounting, Set heel on the neck of his foe. He cleft his head from his shoulders, And, marshalling his train, Made haste once more on his journey Across Toledo's plain. CELIN'S FAREWELL He sadly gazes back again upon those bastions high, The towers and fretted battlements that soar into the sky; And Celin, whom the King in wrath has from Granada banned Weeps as he turns to leave for aye his own dear native land; No hope has he his footsteps from exile to retrace; No hope again to look upon his lady's lovely face. Then sighing deep he went his way, and as he went he said: "I see thee shining from afar, As in heaven's arch some radiant star. Granada, queen and crown of loveliness, Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress. "I see outstretched before my eyes thy green and beauteous shore, Those meadow-lands and gardens that with flowers are dappled o'er. The wind that lingers o'er those glades received the tribute given By many a trembling calyx, wet with the dews of heaven. From Genil's banks full many a bough down to the water bends, Yon vega's green and fertile line from flood to wall extends; There laughing ladies seek the shade that yields to them delight, And the velvet turf is printed deep by many a mounted knight. I see thee shining from afar, As in heaven's arch some radiant star. Granada, queen and town of loveliness, Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress. "Ye springs and founts that sparkling well from yonder mountain-side, And flow with dimpling torrent o'er mead and garden wide, If e'er the tears that from my breast to these sad eyes ascend Should with your happy waters their floods of sadness blend, Oh, take them to your bosom with love, for love has bidden These drops to tell the wasting woe that in my heart is hidden. I see thee shining from afar, As in heaven's arch some radiant star. Granada, queen and crown of loveliness, Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress. "Ye balmy winds of heaven, whose sound is in the rippling trees, Whose scented breath brings back to me a thousand memories, Ye sweep beneath the arch of heaven like to the ocean surge That beats from Guadalquivir's bay to earth's extremest verge. Oh, when ye to Granada come (and may great Allah send His guardian host to guide you to that sweet journey's end!), Carry my sighs along with you, and breathe them in the ear Of foes who do me deadly wrong, of her who holds me dear. Oh, tell them all the agony I bear in banishment, That she may share my sorrow, and my foe the King relent. I see thee shining from afar, As in heaven's arch some radiant star. Granada, queen and crown of loveliness, Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress." CELIN'S RETURN Now Celin would be merry, and appoints a festal day, When he the pang of absence from his lady would allay: The brave Abencerrages and Gulanes straight he calls, His bosom friends, to join him as he decks his stately halls. And secretly he bids them come, and in secret bids them go; For the day of merriment must come unnoticed by his foe; For peering eyes and curious ears are watching high and low, But he only seeks one happy day may reparation bring For the foul and causeless punishment inflicted by the King. "For in the widest prison-house is misery for me, And the stoutest heart is broken unless the hand is free." His followers all he bade them dress in Christian array, With rude and rustic mantles of color bright and gay; With silken streamers in their caps, their caps of pointed crown, With flowing blouse, and mantle and gaberdine of brown. But he himself wore sober robes of white and lion gray, The emblems of the hopeless grief in which the warrior lay. And the thoughts of Adalifa, of her words and glancing eyes, Gave colors of befitting gloom to tint his dark disguise. And he came with purpose to perform some great and glorious deed, To drive away the saddening thoughts that made the bosom bleed. "For in the widest prison-house is misery to me, And the stoutest heart is broken unless the arm be free." There streams into Granada's gate a stately cavalcade Of prancing steeds caparisoned, and knights in steel arrayed; And all their acclamations raise, when Celin comes in sight-- "The foremost in the tournament, the bravest in the fight"-- And Moorish maiden Cegri straight to the window flies, To see the glittering pageant and to hear the joyous cries. She calls her maidens all to mark how, from misfortune free, The gallant Celin comes again, the ladies' knight is he! They know the story of his fate and undeserved disgrace, And eagerly they gaze upon the splendor of his face. Needs not his exploit in the fields, his valorous deeds to tell-- The ladies of Granada have heard and know them well! "For in the widest prison-house is misery to me, And the stoutest heart must break unless the warrior's arm be free." The beauty of Granada crowds Elvira's gate this night; There are straining necks and flushing cheeks when Celin comes in sight; And whispered tales go round the groups, and hearts indignant swell, As they think what in Granada that hero knight befell. Now a thousand Moorish warriors to Celin's fame aspire, And a thousand ladies gaze on him with passionate desire. And they talk of Adalifa, to whom he made his vow, Though neither speech nor written page unites them longer now. "For in the widest prison-house is misery to me, And the stoutest heart must break unless the warrior's arms be free." The city waits his coming, for the feast has been prepared, By rich and poor, by high and low the revel shall be shared; And there are warriors high in hope to win the jousting prize, And there are ladies longing for a smile from Celin's eyes. But when the news of gladness reached Adalifa's ear, Her loving heart was touched with grief and filled with jealous fear; And she wrote to Celin, bidding him to hold no revel high, For the thought of such rejoicing brought the tear-drop to her eye; The Moor received the letter as Granada came in sight, And straight he turned his courser's head toward Jaen's towering height, And exchanged for hues of mourning his robe of festal white. "For in the widest prison-house is misery to me, And the stoutest heart is broke unless the warrior's arm be free." BAZA REVISITED Brave Celin came, the valiant son of him the _castelain_ Of the fortress of Alora and Alhama's windy plain. He came to see great Baza, where he in former days Had won from Zara's father that aged warrior's praise. The Moor gazed on that fortress strong, the towers all desolate, The castle high that touched the sky, the rampart and the gate. The ruined hold he greeted, it seemed its native land, For there his bliss had been complete while Zara held his hand. And Fortune's cruel fickleness he furiously reviled, For his heart sent madness to his brain and all his words were wild. "O goddess who controllest on earth our human fate, How is it I offend thee, that my life is desolate? Ah! many were the triumphs that from Zara's hands I bore, When in the joust or in the dance she smiled on me of yore. And now, while equal fortune incessantly I chase, Naught can I gather from thy hand but disaster and disgrace. Since King Fernando brought his host fair Baza to blockade, My lot has been a wretched lot of anguish unalloyed. Yet was Fernando kind to me with all his kingly art, He won my body to his arms, he could not win my heart." While thus he spoke the mantle that he wore he cast away; 'Twas green, 'twas striped with red and white, 'twas lined with dismal gray. "Best suits my fate, best suits the hue, in this misfortune's day; Not green, not white nor purple, but the palmer's garb of gray. I ask no plumes for helm or cap of nature's living green, For hope has vanished from my life of that which might have been! And from my target will I blot the blazon that is vain-- The lynx whose eyes are fixed upon the prey that it would gain. For the glances that I cast around meet fortune's foul disdain; And I will blot the legend, as an accursed screed. 'Twas writ in Christian letters plain that all the world might read: 'My good right arm can gain me more altho' its range be short, Then all I know by eye-sight or the boundless range of thought.' The blue tahala fluttering bright upon my armored brow In brilliant hue assorts but ill with the lot I meet with now. I cast away this gaudy cap, it bears the purple dye; Not that my love is faithless, for I own her constancy; But for the fear that there may be, within the maiden's sight, A lover worthier of her love than this unhappy knight." With that he took his lance in hand, and placed it in its rest, And o'er the plain with bloody spur the mournful Celin pressed. On his steed's neck he threw the reins, the reins hung dangling low, That the courser might have liberty to choose where he would go; And he said: "My steed, oh, journey well, and make thy way to find The bliss which still eludes me, tho' 'tis ever in my mind. Nor bit nor rein shall now restrain thy course across the lea, For the curb and the bridle I only use from infamy to flee." CAPTIVE ZARA In Palma there was little joy, so lovely Zara found; She felt herself a slave, although by captive chain unbound. In Palma's towers she wandered from all the guests apart; For while Palma had her body, 'twas Baza held her heart. And while her heart was fixed on one, her charms no less enthralled The heart of this brave cavalier, Celin Andalla called. Ah, hapless, hapless maiden, for in her deep despair She did not know what grief her face had caused that knight to bear; And though the Countess Palma strove with many a service kind To show her love, to soothe the pang that wrung the maiden's mind, Yet borne upon the tempest of the captive's bitter grief, She never lowered the sail to give her suffering heart relief. And, in search of consolation to another captive maid, She told the bitter sorrow to no one else displayed. She told it, while the tears ran fast, and yet no balm did gain, For it made more keen her grief, I ween, to give another pain. And she said to her companion, as she clasped her tender hand: "I was born in high Granada, my loved, my native land; For years within Alhambra's courts my life ran on serene; I was a princess of the realm and handmaid to a queen. Within her private chamber I served both night and day, And the costliest jewels of her crown in my protection lay. To her I was the favorite of all the maids she knew; And, ah! my royal mistress I loved, I loved her true! No closer tie I owned on earth than bound me to her side; No closer tie; I loved her more than all the world beside. But more I loved than aught on earth, the gallant Moorish knight, Brave Celin, who is solely mine, and I his sole delight. Yes, he was brave, and all men own the valor of his brand; Yes, and for this I loved him more than monarchs of the land. For me he lived, for me he fought, for me he mourned and wept, When he saw me in this captive home like a ship to the breakers swept. He called on heaven, and heaven was deaf to all his bitter cry, For the victim of the strife of kings, of the bloody war, was I; It was my father bade him first to seek our strong retreat. Would God that he had never come to Baza's castle seat! Would God that he had never come, an armored knight, to stand Amid the soldiers that were ranked beneath my sire's command. He came, he came, that valiant Moor, beneath our roof to rest. His body served my father; his heart, my sole behest; What perils did he face upon that castle's frowning height! Winning my father's praise, he gained more favor in my sight. And when the city by the bands of Christians was assailed, My soul 'neath terrors fiercer still in lonely terror quailed. For I have lost my sire, and I have lost my lover brave, For here I languish all alone, a subject and a slave. And yet the Moor, altho' he left with me his loving heart, I fear may have forgotten that I own his better part. And now the needle that I ply is witness to the state Of bondage, which I feel to-day with heart disconsolate. And here upon the web be writ, in the Arabian tongue, The legend that shall tell the tale of how my heart is wrung. Here read: 'If thou hast ta'en my heart when thou didst ride away, Remember that myself, my living soul, behind thee stay.' And on the other side these words embroidered would I place: 'The word shall never fail that once I spake before thy face.' And on the border underneath this posy, written plain: 'The promise that I made to thee still constant shall remain.' And last of all, this line I add, the last and yet the best: 'Thou ne'er shalt find inconstancy in this unchanging breast.' Thus runs the embroidery of love, and in the midst appears A phoenix, painted clear, the bird that lives eternal years. For she from the cold ashes of life at its last wane, Takes hope, and spreads her wings and soars through skyey tracks again. And there a hunter draws his bow outlined with skilful thread, And underneath a word which says, 'Nay, shoot not at the dead.'" Thus spake the Moorish maiden, and in her eyes were tears of grief, Tho' in her busy needle she seemed to find relief. And the kindly countess called from far: "Zara, what aileth thee? Where art thou? For I called, and yet thou didst not answer me." THE JEALOUS KING 'Twas eight stout warriors matched with eight, and ten with valiant ten, As Aliatare formed a band allied with Moslem men, To joust, with loaded canes, that day in proud Toledo's ring, Against proud Adelifa's host before their lord the King. The King by proclamation had announced the knightly play, For the cheerful trumpets sang a truce upon that very day; And Zaide, high Belchite's King, had sworn that war should cease, And with Tarfe of Valentia had ratified the peace. But others spread the news, that flew like fire from tongue to tongue, That the King was doting-mad with love, for then the King was young; And had given to Celindaja the ordering of the day. And there were knights beside the King she loved to see at play. And now the lists are opened and, lo! a dazzling band, The Saracens, on sorrel steeds leap forth upon the sand; Their trailing cloaks are flashing like the golden orange rind, The hoods of green from their shoulders hang and flutter in the wind. They carry targets blazoned bright with scimitars arow, But each deadly blade is deftly made into a Cupid's bow. A shining legend can be seen in letters ranged above; And "Fire and Blood" the motto runs. It speaks of war and love. In double file a company of warriors succeed; The bold Aliatares come mounted on Arab steeds. The livery that they wear is dyed in tint of crimson red; And flower and leaf in white relief its surface overspread. The globe of heaven, which many a star and constellation strow, Borne upon Atlas' shoulders, is the blazon that they show. And a Moor of Aliatar this motto does express, Written upon a streamer, "I Endure through Weariness." The Adelifas follow; a mighty race are they. Their armor is more costly, their mantles are more gay. Of bright carnation is the web, enriched with saffron streaks, And for favors there are fluttering veils upon their helmet peaks. A globe they blazon on their shields, but it is bruised and broke By a savage with a bludgeon, who deals it many a stroke; And a rod, and underneath it this motto tells the tale, All written in Arabian scrip. It says, "The Strong Prevail." The eight Azarques following these into the plaza spring, With air of haughty arrogance they gallop round the ring. Of blue and purple and pale gold are the mantles that they wear, And for plumes they carry amulets that dangle high in air. On their left arm are their targets, painted a dazzling green. The orb of heaven is outlined there on which two hands are seen, The motto, "Green is paramount," is lettered full in view; Its arrogance explains to all those targets' vivid hue. Then foams the King in rage to see his doting love was fleered, And his heart is filled with bitter thought as that proud shield appeared. And he called the warden of his keep, Celin his henchman tried, And he pointed to Azarque, and, flushed with anger, cried-- "The sun upon that haughty shield myself will bid it set; It works some mischief upon me, like an evil amulet." Azarque drew his ready lance, his strong arm hurled it high, The light shaft soared amid the clouds, and vanished in the sky. And those whose vision followed it grew dizzy at the sight, They knew not whither it had flown, nor where it would alight. The ladies of the burgesses at many a window press To see the javelin from his hand rise with such readiness, And those who on the platform were seated with the King Bent back to see how well the cane that gallant Moor could fling. And as Azarque forward rides, as in retreat he flies, "Now, Allah guard thee, gallant knight," with shouts the people cries. "My curse upon him; he shall die," the jealous King replies. But Celindaja paid no heed to all that cavalcade; Her lips were parched, her throat was dry, her heart was sore dismayed. She asked that they would bring her fruit, but yet she strove in vain With juice of any earthly tree to slake her fevered pain. "Now let the sport be ended," the angry King decreed. The joust was late, and every judge in weariness agreed. And as they closed the empty lists, they heard the King's command, "Now seize, now seize Azarque, a traitor to this land." The double lines of cavaliers who led the jousting train Threw down upon the open square the spear of idle cane; Then swiftly seized the lance of steel and couching it for fight, According to the royal wish rode down upon the knight. For arms and plea must ever bootless prove To curb the passions of a king in love. The other band came forth to save Azarque from his foes, But the stout Moor waves his hand to them ere they in battle close. Then calmly cries: "Tho' love, it seems, has no respect for law, 'Tis right that ye keep peace to-day and from the lists withdraw! Nay, gentlemen, your lances lower before it be too late; And let our foes their lances raise, in sign of passion's hate; Thus without blood accorded be a victory and defeat. 'Tis only bloodshed makes the one more bitter or more sweet, For arms or reason unavailing prove To curb the passions of a king in love." At last they seize the struggling Moor, the chains are on his hands; And the populace, with anger filled, arrange themselves in bands. They place a guard at every point, in haste to set him free, But where the brave commander who shall lead to victory? And where the leader who shall shout and stir their hearts to fight? These are but empty braggarts, but prowlers of the night, Cut-throats and needy idlers--and so the tumult ends-- Azarque lies in prison, forsaken by his friends. For, ah, both arms and reason powerless prove To turn the purpose of a king in love. Alone does Celindaja the coward crowd implore, "Oh, save him, save him, generous friends, give back to me my Moor." She stands upon the balcony and from that lofty place Would fling herself upon the stones to save him from disgrace. Her mother round the weeping girl has flung her withered arm. "O fool," she whispers in her ear, "in Mary's name be calm!" Thou madly rushest to thy death by this distracted show. Surely thou knowest well this truth, if anyone can know, How arms and reason powerless prove To turn the purpose of a king in love. Then came a message of the King, in which the monarch said That a house wherein his kindred dwelt must be a prison made. Then Celindaja, white with rage: "Go to the King and say I choose to be my prison-house for many and many a day, The memory of Azarque, in which henceforth I live: But the treachery of a monarch my heart will not forgive. For the will of one weak woman shall never powerless prove To turn the foolish purpose of a king who is in love. "Alas for thee, Toledo! in former times they said That they called thee for vengeance upon a traitor's head. But now 'tis not on traitors, but on loyal men and true That they call to thee for vengeance, which to caitiff hearts are due. And Tagus gently murmurs in his billows fresh and free And hastens from Toledo to reach the mighty sea." E'er she said more, they seized the dame, and led her to the gate, Where the warden of the castle in solemn judgment sate. THE LOVERS OF ANTEQUERA The brave Hamete reined his steed and from the crupper bent, To greet fair Tartagona, who saw him with content, The daughter of Zulema, who had many a foe repelled From the castle on the hill, which he in Archidora held; For six-and-thirty years he kept the Christian host at bay, A watchful warden, fearless of the stoutest foes' array. And now adown the well-known path, a secret path and sure, Led by the noble lady, hurried the gallant Moor. The sentinels beneath the wall were careless, or they slept; They heeded not Hamete as down the slope he crept. And when he reached the level plain, full twenty feet away, He hobbled fast his courser, lest he should farther stray. Then to the Moorish lady he turned, as if to speak, Around her waist he flung his arms and kissed her on the cheek. "O goddess of my heart," he said, "by actions I will prove, If thou wilt name some high emprise, how faithful is my love! And in Granada I am great, and have much honored been, Both by the King Fernando and Isabel his Queen. My name is high, my lineage long, yet none of all my line Have reached the pitch of glory which men allow is mine. Narvarez is a knight of name, in love and arms adept, In Antequera's castle he well the marches kept. Jarifa was a captive maid, he loved Jarifa well, And oft the maiden visited within her prison cell. And, if the thing with honor and virtuous heart may be, What he did with Jarifa, that would I do with thee." A star was shining overhead upon the breast of night, The warrior turned his course, and led the lady by its light. They reached the foot of one tall rock, and stood within the shade, Where thousand thousand ivy leaves a bower of beauty made. They heard the genet browsing and stamping as he fed, And smiling Love his pinions over the lovers spread. But ere they reached the pleasant bower, they saw before them stand, Armed to the teeth, with frowning face, a strange and savage band. Yes, seventy men with sword in hand surrounded dame and knight, The robbers of the mountain, and they trembled at the sight! With one accord these freebooters upon Hamete fell, Like hounds that on the stag at bay rush at the hunter's call, Burned the Moor's heart at once with wrath, at once with passion's flame, To save the life and, more than life, the honor of his dame. Straight to his feet he sprung and straight he drew his mighty sword, And plunged into the robber crowd and uttered not a word. No jousting game was e'er so brisk as that which then he waged; On arm and thigh with deadly blow the slashing weapon raged; Though certain was his death, yet still, with failing heart, he prayed That till his lady could escape, that death might be delayed. But, in the dark, a deadly stone, flung with no warning sound, Was buried in his forehead and stretched him on the ground. The breath his heaving bosom left and, from his nerveless hand, The sword fell clattering to the ground, before that bloody band. And when the damsel saw herself within those caitiffs' power, And saw the city mantled in the darkness of the hour, No grief that ever woman felt was equal to her pain, And no despair like that of hers shall e'er be known again. Those villains did not see those locks, that shone like threads of gold; Only the summer sunlight their wondrous beauty told. They did not mark the glittering chain of gold and jewels fine, That in the daylight would appear her ivory throat to twine. But straight she took the scimitar, that once her lover wore, It lay amid the dewy grass, drenched to the hilt in gore. And, falling on the bloody point, she pierced her bosom through, And Tartagona breathed her last, mourned by that robber crew. And there she lay, clasping in death her lover's lifeless face, Her valor's paragon, and she the glass of woman's grace. And since that hour the tale is told, while many a tear-drop falls, Of the lovers of the vega by Antequera's walls. And they praise the noble lady and they curse the robber band, And they name her the Lucretia of fair Andalusia's land. And if the hearer of the tale should doubt that it be true, Let him pass along the mountain road, till Ronda comes in view, There must he halt and searching he may the story trace In letters that are deeply cut on the rocky mountain's face. TARFE'S TRUCE "Oho, ye Catholic cavaliers Who eye Granada day and night, On whose left shoulder is the cross, The crimson cross, your blazon bright. "If e'er your youthful hearts have felt The flame of love that brings delight, As angry Mars, in coat of steel, Feels the fierce ardor of the fight; "If 'tis your will, within our walls, To join the joust, with loaded reed, As ye were wont, beneath these towers The bloody lance of war to speed; "If bloodless tumult in the square May serve instead of battle's fray, And, donning now the silken cloak, Ye put the coat of steel away; "Six troops of Saracens are here; Six Christian troops, with targe and steed Be ready, when the day is fixed, To join the jousting of the reed. "For 'tis not right that furious war, Which sets the city's roofs in flames, Should kindle with a fruitless fire The tender bosom of our dames. "In spite of all we suffer here Our ladies are with you arrayed, They pity you in this fierce war, This labor of the long blockade. "Amid the hardships of the siege Let pleasure yield a respite brief; (For war must ever have its truce) And give our hardships some relief. "What solace to the war-worn frame, To every soul what blest release, To fling aside the targe and mail, And don one hour the plumes of peace! "And he who shall the victor be Among the jousters of the game, I pledge my knightly word to him, In token of his valorous fame, "On his right arm myself to bind The favor of my lady bright; 'Twas given me by her own white hand, The hand as fair as it is white." 'Twas thus that Tarfe, valiant Moor, His proclamation wrote at large; He, King Darraja's favored squire, Has nailed the cartel to his targe. 'Twas on the day the truce was made, By Calatrava's master bold, To change the quarters of his camp, And with his foes a conference hold. Six Moorish striplings Tarfe sent In bold Abencerraje's train-- His kindred both in race and house-- To meet the leaguers on the plain. In every tent was welcome warm; And when their challenge they display, The master granted their request To join the joust on Easter day. In courteous words that cartel bold He answered; and a cavalcade Of Christians, with the Moorish guards, Their journey to Granada made. The guise of war at once was dropped; The armory closed its iron door; And all put on the damask robes That at high festival they wore. The Moorish youths and maidens crowd, With joyful face, the city square; These mount their steeds, those sit and braid Bright favors for their knights to wear. Those stern antagonists in war, Like friends, within the town are met; And peacefully they grasp the hand, And for one day the past forget. And gallant Almarada comes (Not Tarfe's self more brave, I ween), Lord of a lovely Moorish dame, Who rules her lover like a queen. A hundred thousand favors she In public or in private gives, To show her lover that her life Is Almarada's while she lives! And once upon a cloudy night, Fit curtain for his amorous mood, The gallant Moor the high hills scaled And on Alhambra's terrace stood. Arrived, he saw a Moorish maid Stand at a window opened wide; He gave her many a precious gem; He gave her many a gift beside. He spoke and said: "My lady fair, Though I have never wronged him, still Darraja stands upon the watch, By fair or foul, to do me ill. "Those eyes of thine, which hold more hearts Than are the stars that heaven displays; That slay more Moors with shafts of love Than with his sword the master slays; "When will they soften at my smile? And when wilt thou, my love, relent? Let Tarfe go, whose words are big, While his sword-arm is impotent! "Thou seest I am not such as he; His haughty words, so seldom true, Are filled with boasting; what he boasts This sturdy arm of mine can do. "My arm, my lance, ah! well 'tis known How oft in battle's darkest hour They saved Granada's city proud From yielding to the Christian's power." Thus amorous Almarada spoke When Tarfe came and caught the word; And as his ear the message seized, His right hand seized upon his sword. Yet did he deem some Christian troop Was in the darkness hovering by; And at the thought, with terror struck, He turned in eager haste to fly! Darraja roused him at the din; And with loud voice to Tarfe spoke; He knew him from his cloak of blue, For he had given the Moor that cloak! THE TWO MOORISH KNIGHTS Upon two mares both strong and fleet, White as the cygnet's snowy wing, Beneath Granada's arching gate Passed Tarfe and Belchite's King. Like beauty marks the dames they serve; Like colors at their spear-heads wave; While Tarfe kneels at Celia's feet, The King is Dorelice's slave. With belts of green and azure blue The gallant knights are girded fair; Their cloaks with golden orange glow, And verdant are the vests they wear. And gold and silver, side by side, Are glittering on their garment's hem; And, mingled with the metals, shine The lights of many a costly gem. Their veils are woven iron-gray, The melancholy tint of woe-- And o'er their heads the dusky plumes Their grief and desolation show. And each upon his target bears Emblazoned badges, telling true Their passion and their torturing pangs, In many a dark and dismal hue. The King's device shines on his shield-- A seated lady, passing fair; A monarch, with a downcast eye, Before the dame is kneeling there. His crown is lying at her feet That she may spurn it in disdain; A heart in flames above is set; And this the story of his pain. "In frost is born this flame of love"-- Such legend circles the device-- "And the fierce fire in which I burn Is nourished by the breath of ice." Upon her brow the lady wears A crown; her dexter hand sustains A royal sceptre, gilded bright, To show that o'er all hearts she reigns. An orb in her left hand she bears, For all the world her power must feel; There Fortune prostrate lies; the dame Halts with her foot the whirling wheel. But Tarfe's shield is blank and bare, Lest Adelifa should be moved With jealous rage, to learn that he Her Moorish rival, Celia, loved. He merely blazons on his targe A peaceful olive-branch, and eyes That sparkle in a beauteous face, Like starlets in the autumn skies. And on the branch of olive shines This legend: "If thy burning ray Consume me with the fire of love, See that I wither not away." They spurred their horses as they saw The ladies their approach surveyed; And when they reached their journey's end The King to Dorelice said: "The goddesses who reign above With envy of thy beauty tell; When heaven and glory are thy gifts, Why should I feel the pangs of hell? "Oh, tell me what is thy desire? And does heaven's light more pleasure bring Than to own monarchs as thy slaves, And be the heiress to a king? "I ask from thee no favor sweet; Nor love nor honor at thy hand; But only that thou choose me out The servant of thy least command. "The choicest nobles of the realm The glory of this office crave; The lowliest soldier, with delight, Would die to prove himself thy slave. "Each life, each heart is at thy feet; Thou with a thousand hearts mayst live; And if thou wouldst not grant my prayer, Oh, take the warning that I give. "For there are ladies in the court To my desires would fain consent, And lovely Bendarrafa once These jealous words but lately sent: "'Those letters and those written lines, Why dost thou not their sense divine? Are they not printed on thy heart As thy loved image is on mine? "'Why art thou absent still so long? It cannot be that thou art dead?'" Then ceased the King and silent stood, While Tarfe to his Celia said: "Celestial Celia be thy name; Celestial calm is on thy brow; Yet all the radiance of thy face Thy cruelty eclipses now. "A witch like Circe dost thou seem; For Circe could o'ercloud the sky; Oh, let the sun appear once more, And bid the clouds of darkness fly! "Ah, would to God that on the feast, The Baptist's consecrated day, I might my arms about thee fling And lead thee from thy home away. "Yet say not that 'tis in thy power To yield or all my hopes to kill; For thou shalt learn that all the world, In leaguer, cannot bend my will. "And France can tell how many a time I fought upon the tented field, And forced upon their bended knee Her loftiest paladins to yield. "I vanquished many a valiant knight Who on his shield the lilies bore; And on Vandalia's plain subdued Of Red Cross warriors many a score. "The noblest I had brought to yield Upon Granada's gory plain, Did I not shrink with such vile blood The honor of my sword to stain." At this the trumpets called to arms; Without one farewell word each knight Turned from the lady of his heart And spurred his steed in headlong flight. THE KING'S DECISION Amid a thousand sapient Moors From Andalusia came, Was an ancient Moor, who ruled the land, Rey Bucar was his name. And many a year this sage had dwelt With the lady he loved best; And at last he summoned the Cortes, As his leman made request. The day was set on which his lords And commoners should meet, And they talked to the King of his wide realm's need, As the King sat in his seat. And many the laws they passed that day; And among them a law that said That the lover who took a maid for his love The maid of his choice must wed; And he who broke this ordinance Should pay for it with his head. And all agreed that the law was good; Save a cousin of the King, Who came and stood before him, With complaint and questioning; "This law, which now your Highness Has on your lieges laid, I like it not, though many hearts It has exultant made. "Me only does it grieve, and bring Disaster on my life; For the lady that I love the best, Is already wedded wife; "Wedded she is, wedded amiss; Ill husband has she got. And oft does pity fill my heart For her distressful lot. "And this one thing I tell thee, King, To none else has it been told: If I think her love is silver, She thinks my love is gold." Then spake Rey Bucar in reply, This sentence uttered he: "If thy love be wedded wife, the law Hath no penalty for thee." ALMANZOR AND BOBALIAS The King Almanzor slept one night, And, oh! his sleep was blest; Not all the seven Moorish kings Could dare to break his rest. The infante Bobalias Bethought of him and cried: "Now rouse thee, rouse thee, uncle dear! And hasten to my side. "And bid them fetch the ladders Owned by my sire the King; And the seven mules that carry them Into my presence bring. "And give to me the seven stout Moors Who shall their harness set, For the love, the love of the countess I never can forget." "Ill-mannered art thou, nephew, And never wilt amend; The sweetest sleep I ever slept, Thou bringest to an end." Now they have brought the ladders Owned by his sire the King. And, to bear the load along the road, Seven sturdy mules they bring; And seven stout Moors, by whom the mules In housings are arrayed. And to the walls of the countess Their journey have they made. There, at the foot of yonder tower, They halt their cavalcade. In the arms of the count Alminique The countess lay at rest; The infante has ta'en her by the hand, And caught her to his breast. THE MOORISH INFANTA AND ALFONZO RAMOS Beneath the shade of an olive-tree Stood the infanta fair; A golden comb was in her hands, And well she decked her hair. To heaven she raised her eyes, and saw, That early morning-tide, A clump of spears and an armored band From Guadalquivir ride. Alfonzo Ramos with them came, The admiral of Castile. "Now welcome, Alfonzo Ramos! Now welcome, steed and steel, What tidings do you bring of my fleet, What tidings of woe or weal?" "I'll tell thee tidings, lady, If my life thou wilt assure." "Tell on, Alfonzo Ramos, Thy life shall be secure." "Seville, Seville has fallen, To the arms of the Berber Moor." "But for my word thy head this day To the vultures had been tost!" "If head of mine were forfeited, Tis thine must pay the cost." THE BULL-FIGHT OF ZULEMA He was a valorous gentleman, a gay and gallant knight, Like stars on heaven's fifth circle was the splendor of his might. In peace, accomplished in the arts of great Apollo's choir, In war, the brilliant swordsman that Mars might well admire. His great exploits were written on history's brightest page, And rightly was he reckoned as the mirror of his age; Great deeds he did with point of lance and won bright honor's crown, Before the year when each red cheek was clothed in manly down. And such he was through all the world by minstrel harps extolled, Both for the vigor of his arm and for his bearing bold. His very foes, whom he had made surrender in the fight, While trembling at his valor, asked blessings on the knight. And Fame herself, whose pace is swift, whose voice like fire can run, Grew weary with reciting the deeds that he had done. To tell aright his jeopardies, escapes, and rescues wrought, A swifter-flying pinion and a louder tongue she sought! Such was Zulema, such was he, the warrior of renown, The son of that Zulema who ruled Toledo's town. Ah! bright the fame the father left, for it shall never die-- The glory of his greater son shall keep its memory. Now once it happened that he reached a city's towering gate; 'Twas Avila, and there that day the games they celebrate. The mighty square, when he arrived, was changed into a bower; And every knight wore fluttering plumes and every dame a flower. The scene was strange, because the Moor, in southern cities reared, Had never seen how gay Castile on festal days appeared. He marked the Adelifas in the King's pavilion stand, And he asked, and his prayer was granted, to join the champion band. Yet when they gave consent they feared that great Zulema's might Would surely quite excel in joust the best Castilian knight. But a thousand times they asked that heaven would give to him success, And a thousand times they wondered at his glorious Moorish dress. Full many a lady's beck and smile were on the warrior bent, And they looked on his manly beauty and they sighed with deep content. But now Zulema by the hand the wardens take and greet, And 'mid the highest noblemen they yield the knight a seat. His seat was placed in honor 'mid ladies gay and bright, Mid warriors of Castile, the first in courage and in might. Then suddenly, more swift than wind, more wild than comet's glare, Jerama's bull, far famed was he, rushed on the crowded square. Ah! brave was he in flashing eyes, and fierce was he in heart, His brow was like a storm-cloud, each horn a giant's dart, His wide-spread nostrils snorted fire, his neck was short and deep, His skin was black as the thunder-cloud that crowns the mountain's steep. Before his coming fled the crowd, until the sunny square Was emptied of the multitude, and every stone was bare. Those only who on horseback sat remained to face the foe. Now trembling with alarm they stand, and now with hope they glow. Good sport they looked to have with him, and lay him in the dust, But the Andalusian hero evaded every thrust. And sometimes, with a gallant charge he threw them from their seat, He gored them with his savage horn, and trod them with his feet! Ah! great the shame of the vanquished knights; they dared not raise their eyes To the ladies who looked down and smiled from banks and balconies. For those soft eyes were fixed no more upon each vanquished knight, But on the monster proud and strong who conquered them in fight. The dames upon the royal seat to Zulema turned their eyes, And one, the loveliest of them all, who wore a strange disguise, Yet through her veil such rays she shot that she seemed like the sun on high When he rises, quenching all the stars that filled the midnight sky. She made a sign to him and spoke directly from her heart, Whose tongue is in a woman's eye. Ah! well it plays its part! She bade him to redeem the day and avenge each gallant knight Who had fallen in the dust before the foe in stubborn fight. And the Moor with gracious mien assents, and from his seat descends; But first with glance and waving scarf a tender message sends To the lovely Moorish damsel who had called him to the fray, And had filled his heart with sudden love upon the festal day. And as he leapt into the sand it was as if he flew, For love lent wings at his lady's nod, some glorious deed to do. And when the bull beheld approach, upon the bloody sand, His bold and tall antagonist, a dagger in his hand, He roared like thunder, with his hoofs he pawed the dusty ground, The plaza shook, the castle tower re-echoed to the sound! Long subject to the hand of man, and in subjection born, He thought to subject human foe to hoof and mighty horn. Zulema started toward the beast, loud cries would hold him back, But well he knew that victory would follow his attack. The bull was on him with a bound, and, glaring face to face, They stood one moment, while a hush fell on the crowded place. With bold right hand Zulema drew his keen and mighty blade; Blow after blow 'mid blood and dust upon his foe he laid; The startled beast retired before such onslaught of his foe, And the people shouted loud applause and the King himself bowed low. The bull with tossing head roared forth a challenge to the knight, As Zulema turned, and with a bound rushed to the desperate fight. Ah! cruel were the strokes that rained upon that foaming flank! Into the sand that life-blood like a shower of autumn sank. He roars, he snorts, he spurns the ground, the bloody dust flies high, Now here, now there, in angry pain they see the monster fly. He turns to see what new-found foe has crossed his path to-day; But when Zulema faces him he stops to turn away. For the third time the fight begins; the bull with many a roar Turns to his foe, while from his lips run mingled foam and gore. The Moor enraged to see the beast again before him stand, Deals him the deep, the fatal wound, with an unerring hand. That wound, at last, has oped the gate through which may enter death, And staggering to the dust the beast snorts forth his latest breath. As the bull falls, the crowded square rings with a loud acclaim, And envy burns in many a knight, and love in many a dame. The highest nobles of the land the conqueror embrace; He sees the blush of passion burn on many a damsel's face. And Fame has blown her trumpet and flies from town to town, And Apollo takes his pen and writes the hero's title down. THE RENEGADE Through the mountains of Moncayo, Lo! all in arms arrayed, Rides pagan Bobalias, Bobalias the renegade. Seven times he was a Moor, seven times To Christ he trembling turned; At the eighth, the devil cozened him And the Christian cross he spurned, And took back the faith of Mahomet, In childhood he had learned. He was the mightiest of the Moors, And letters from afar Had told him how Sevila Was marshalling for war. He arms his ships and galleys, His infantry and horse, And straight to Guadalquivir's flood His pennons take their course. The flags that on Tablada's plain Above his camp unfold, Flutter above three hundred tents Of silk brocade and gold. In the middle, the pavilion Of the pagan they prepare; On the summit a ruby stone is set, A jewel rich and rare. It gleams at morn, and when the night Mantles the world at length, It pours a ray like the light of day, When the sun is at its strength. THE TOWER OF GOLD Brave Arbolan a prisoner lay Within the Tower of Gold; By order of the King there stood Four guards to keep the hold. 'Twas not because against his King He played a treacherous part; But only that Guhala's charms Had won the captive's heart. "Guhala, Guhala, My longing heart must cry; This mournful vow I utter now-- To see thee or to die." No longer free those sturdy limbs! Revenge had bid them bind The iron chain on hands and feet; They could not chain his mind! How dolorous was the warrior's lot! All hope at last had fled; And, standing at the window, With sighing voice he said: "Guhala, Guhala, My longing heart must cry; This mournful vow I utter now-- To see thee or to die." He turned his eyes to where the banks Of Guadalquivir lay; "Inhuman King!" in grief he cried, "Thy mandates I obey; Thou bidst them load my limbs with steel; Thy cruel sentinel Keeps watch beside my prison door; Yet who my crime can tell? "Guhala, Guhala, My longing heart must cry; This mournful vow I utter now-- To see thee or to die." THE DIRGE FOR ALIATAR No azure-hued tahalia now Flutters about each warrior's brow; No crooked scimitars display Their gilded scabbards to the day. The Afric turbans, that of yore Were fashioned on Morocco's shore, To-day their tufted crown is bare; There are no fluttering feathers there. In mourning garments all are clad, Fit harness for the occasion sad; But, four by four the mighty throng In slow procession streams along. Ah! Aliatar! well he knew The soldiers of his army true, The soldiers whose afflicted strain Gives utterance to their bosom's pain. Sadly we march along the crowded street, While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat. The phoenix that would shine in gold On the high banner's fluttering fold, Scarce can the breeze in gladness bring To spread aloft its waving wing. It seemed as if the fire of death For the first time had quenched her breath. For tribulation o'er the world The mantle of despair had furled; There was no breeze the ground to bless, The plain lay panting in distress; Beneath the trailing silken shroud Alfarez carried through the crowd. Sadly we march along the crowded street, While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat. For Aliatar, one sad morn, Mounted his steed and blew his horn; A hundred Moors behind him rode; Fleeter than wind their coursers strode. Toward Motril their course is made, While foes the castle town blockade; There Aliatar's brother lay, Pent by the foes that fatal day. Woe work the hour, the day, when he Vaulted upon his saddle-tree! Ne'er from that seat should he descend To challenge foe or welcome friend, Nor knew he that the hour was near, His couch should be the funeral bier. Sadly we march along the crowded street, While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat. That day the master's knights were sent, As if on sport and jousting bent; And Aliatar, on his way, By cruel ambush they betray; With sword and hauberk they surround And smite the warrior to the ground. And wounded deep from every vein He bleeding lies upon the plain. The furious foes in deadly fight His scanty followers put to flight, In panic-stricken fear they fly, And leave him unavenged to die. Sadly we march along the crowded street, While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat. Ah sadly swift the news has flown To Zaida in the silent town; Speechless she sat, while every thought Fresh sorrow to her bosom brought; Then flowed her tears in larger flood, Than from his wounds the tide of blood. Like dazzling pearls the tear-drops streak The pallid beauty of her cheek. Say, Love, and didst thou e'er behold A maid more fair and knight more bold? And if thou didst not see him die, And Zaida's tears of agony, The bandage on thine orbs draw tight-- That thou mayst never meet the sight! Sadly we march along the crowded street, While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat. Not only Zaida's eyes are wet, For him her soul shall ne'er forget; But many a heart in equal share The sorrow of that lady bare. Yes, all who drink the water sweet Where Genil's stream and Darro meet, All of bold Albaicins's line, Who mid Alhambra's princes shine-- The ladies mourn the warrior high, Mirror of love and courtesy; The brave lament him, as their peer; The princes, as their comrade dear; The poor deplore, with hearts that bleed, Their shelter in the time of need. Sadly we march along the crowded street, While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat. THE SHIP OF ZARA It was the Moorish maiden, the fairest of the fair, Whose name amid the Moorish knights was worshipped everywhere. And she was wise and modest, as her race has ever been, And in Alhambra's palace courts she waited on the Queen, A daughter of Hamete--of royal line was he, And held the mighty castle of Baja's town in fee. Now sad and mournful all the day the maiden weeping sat, And her captive heart was thinking still of the distant caliphat, Which in the stubborn straits of war had passed from Moslem reign, And now was the dominion of King Ferdinand of Spain. She thought upon the dreary siege in Baja's desert vale When the fight was long and the food of beasts and men began to fail, And her wretched father, forced to yield, gave up his castle hold, For falling were the towers, falling fast his warriors bold. And Zara, lovely Zara, did he give into the care Of the noble Countess Palma, who loved the maiden fair. And the countess had to Baja come when Queen Isabella came, The lovely vega of the town to waste with sword and flame. And the countess asked of Zara if she were skilled in aught, The needle, or the 'broidery frame, to Christian damsels taught. And how she made the hours go by when, on Guadalquivir's strand, She sat in the Alhambra, a princess of the land. And, while her eyes were full of tears, the Moorish maid replied: "'Twas I the silver tinsel fixed on garments duly dyed; 'Twas I who with deft fingers with gold lace overlaid The dazzling robes of flowery tint of velvet and brocade. And sometimes would I take my lute and play for dancers there; And sometimes trust my own weak voice in some romantic air; But now, this moment, I retain but one, one mournful art-- To weep, to mourn the banishment that ever grieves my heart. And since 'tis thou alone whose bread, whose roof my life didst save, I weep the bitterest tears of all because I am a slave! Yet wouldst thou deign, O lady dear, to make more light to me The hours I pass beneath thy roof, in dark captivity,-- I bid thee build for me, if thou approve of the design, An ocean bark, well fitted to cross the surging brine; Let it be swift, let it be strong, and leave all barks behind, When on the surges of the main it feels the favoring wind. We'll launch it from the sloping shore, and, when the wind is high, And the fierce billows threatening mix their foam-tops with the sky, We'll lower the mainsail, lest the storm should carry us away, And sweep us on the reefs that lurk in some deep Afric bay. And on the lofty topmast shall this inscription stand, Written in letters which they use in every Christian land: 'This ship is tossed in many a storm, it lands on many a shore, And the wide sea, beneath the wind, it swiftly travels o'er; 'Tis like the human heart which brings no treasure and no gain, Till, tossed by hard misfortune, it has known the sea of pain.' And let there be upon the fringe round this inscription hung Another legend which shall say in the Arabian tongue: 'Oh, might it be that Allah, the merciful, would send To all my captive miseries a swift and happy end.'" The countess said: "To build this ship methinks would please me well, Such tasks the sorrows of thy heart might lighten or dispel; And, Zara, when the summer comes, and winds and floods are free, We'll build our bark, we'll hoist our sail, and start across the sea." HAMETE ALI Hamete Ali on his way toward the city goes, His tunic is a brilliant green with stripes of crimson rose, In sign that no despondency this daring wanderer knows. His arm, that wears the twisted steel, reflects the sunlight sheen, And bound to it by many a knot is hung his hood of green. And o'er his bonnet azure-blue, two feathery plumes there fly; The one is green as the summer and one is blue as sky. He does not wear these hues to show that he is passion's slave, They are emblems of the life that beats within his bosom brave. Yet dusky is his lance's hue and dusky is his shield, On which are serpents scattered upon a golden field. Their venomed tongues are quivering and ears before them stand, To show how slanderous hearts can spread their poison o'er the land. A lettered motto in the midst which everyone may read, Is written in Arabian script, ah! good that all should heed! "'Tis naught but innocence of heart can save me from the blow With which the slanderous serpents would lay their victim low." Upon a piebald colt he rode along the valley's side, The bravest of the valiant Moors and once Granada's pride. In furious rage descending from bold Ubeda's steep, He crossed the vale and mounted to Baza's castle keep. Defiant still of Fortune's power, his thoughts at last found vent, For Fortune had been cruel, and in words of discontent, As if he blamed the serpent upon his shield displayed, The torrent of his heart broke forth and in wrath the warrior said: "O wasters of the brightest hope I knew in years long past! O clouds by which the blazing sun of bliss is overcast! O blight of love, O ruin of aspirations pure! Vile worms, that gnaw and waste away the treasures most secure! Attempt no more to banish me from my own native land, That in my place of honor ye, envious slaves, may stand; I, too, have friends, whose swords are keen, whose love is strong and leal. To them I look for my defence by stratagem or steel. And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant, By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment. "Permit it not that in the generous breasts of those whose blood Flows in my veins, who by my side as faithful champions stood, Those cursed asps, whose effigies my shield's circumference fill, Could plant the thoughts of villany by which they work me ill. Just heaven forbids their words should blot the honor of my name, For pure and faithful is my heart, howe'er my foes defame; And Zaida, lovely Zaida, at a word that did me wrong, Would close her ears in scornful ire and curse the slanderous tongue. And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant, By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment. "Nay, Fortune, turn no more thy wheel, I care not that it rest, Nor bid thee draw the nail that makes it stand at man's behest Oh, may I never say to thee, when for thy aid I call, Let me attain the height of bliss whate'er may be my fall! And when I roam from those I love, may never cloud arise To dim my hope of a return and hide me from their eyes. Yet doubtless, 'tis the absent are oftenest forgot, Till those who loved when they were near in absence love them not. And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant, By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment. "And since 'tis my unhappy lot, through slander's cruel wiles, I should be robbed so many years of Zaida's cheering smiles, Yet those who say that I am false, and name Celinda's name, Oh, may they gain no end at length but obloquy and shame! It is not just that to these words and to these anxious fears, These wild complaints, the god of love should close his heedless ears! Yes, I deserve a better fate, the fate that makes more sure; The fame of those whose slanderous tongue in banishment endure. And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant, By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment." He spoke, and, lo! before him he saw the city stand, With walls and towers that frowned in might upon that fertile land. And he saw the glittering banners of Almanzor set on high, And swaying in the gentle breeze that filled the summer sky. And those who stood upon the walls, soon as he came in sight, Streamed forth from the portcullis with welcome for the knight, For they marvelled at the prancing steed that rushed across the plain, They marvelled at his thundering voice and words of deep disdain. And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant, By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment. And as he rode into the town and galloped to the square, Upon the balconies he saw bright dames with faces bare; They stood, they gazed with eyes of love and gestures of delight, For they joyed to see among them so stout, so fair a knight. And all of Baza's people with cries his coming greet, And follow at his horse's tail from street to crowded street. His heart with gratitude was filled, his bosom filled with pride, And with doffed bonnet, lo, he bowed and once again he cried: "And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant, By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment." They led him to the warden's house, and there was feasting high. Brave men and beauteous women in crowds were standing by. The trumpets blew in merry strain, the Moorish horns resound, And the strain of joy was echoed from every castle round. And from his colt dismounting he laid his lance aside, And greeted all the multitude that filled the plaza wide. Then to the strong tower of the place he hurried from the street, And as he went a thousand times his lips would still repeat: "And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant, By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment." ZAIDE'S LOVE Then Zaide stood enraptured and gazed with placid eye, For the moment when his heart's desire should be fulfilled was nigh. Propitious was the moment, and happy was the hour, When all that he had longed for had come into his power. And he said: "Thrice happy is the wall, and happy is the bar, Tho' from my fond embraces, Zaida, it keeps thee far; For long as thou shalt live on earth, my Zaida, thou art mine; And the heart that in my bosom beats, long as it beats, is thine. And happy is the green, green sod on which thy feet are set, For the pressure of thy tender foot the grass shall ne'er forget, Shall ne'er forget the white, white heel that o'er the pathway came, Leaving behind it, everywhere, the print of snow and flame. But far more happy is the knight, if e'er should Allah send To this dark separation a bright and peaceful end. For seems to me the hours that pass, without thy presence dear, Wear the dark robe of sorrow, that orphaned children wear. I seek to have thee with me, for it is only to the weak That the happiness is wanting that they do not dare to seek. And if the doom of death is ours, it will not haste the more Because we scorn to think of it upon this happy shore. But ere it come, that doom of death which fills us with alarms, May Allah grant to me the boon of resting in thine arms! And if, in that supremest bliss, fate favors my design, And love is crowned, the lot of life contented I resign. O darling Zaida, blest is he, 'mid thousands, who can say That on that bosom, in those arms he for one moment lay! Come, darling, to thy Zaide's side, and yield to him thy love; Thou knowest him brave and good and kind, all other knights above; In owning him thy lover true, thou wilt a partner count Who above all in valor's list is champion paramount. Thy beauty's sway should be unchecked as death's prevailing might, But, ah, how many worlds would then sink into endless night! But come, fair Zaida, quickly come to these expectant arms, And let me win at last the prize of victory o'er thy charms. It is a debt thou owest me, oh, let the debt be paid." Then Zaida rose and showed herself in beauty's robe arrayed, And the Moor cried: "May Allah grant thy sun may ever shine, To light with its full splendor this lonely life of mine! And tho' my stammering tongue be dumb, and like a broken lute, And in its loudest efforts to speak thy praise be mute, It can at least announce to thee, loud as the thunder's peal, The service that I owe to thee, the passion that I feel." The Moorish lady smiled at this, and spake in tender tone; "If all this silent tongue of thine has said be loyal shown, If all thy vows be from thy heart, and all thy heavy sighs From out a breast unchanging, a constant spirit rise, I swear that I would grant thy wish and follow thy behest; But, ah, I fear lest thy fierce love should bring to me no rest, I fear these honeyed words that from thy lips so lightly fly At last should prove a serpent's fang to sting me till I die." Then swore to her the Moor: "If this the end should ever be, May the firm earth beneath my feet yawn wide and swallow me! And may the blessed sunlight, the symbol of my hope, Wither these orbs and leave me in eternal night to grope!" At this the lovers joined their hands and hearts, and, with a kiss, Sealed all their vows of friendship and promises of bliss-- Their love was strong and solid and constant should remain, Till death should end their bondage and break the golden chain. ZAIDA'S JEALOUSY. Kind friend of Bencerraje's line, what judgment dost thou hold Of all that Zaida's changeful moods before thine eyes unfold? Now by my life I swear that she to all would yield her will; Yet by my death I swear that she to all is recreant still. Come near, my friend, and listen while I show to you this note, Which to the lovely lady in bitter grief I wrote; Repeat not what I read to thee, for 'twere a deadly shame, Since thou her face admirest, should slander smirch her name: "O Moorish maiden, who like time, forever on the wing, Dost smiles and tears, with changing charm, to every bosom bring, Thy love is but a masquerade, and thou with grudging hand Scatterest the crumbs of hope on all the crowds that round thee stand. With thee there is no other law of love and kindliness But what alone may give thee joy and garland of success. With each new plume thy maidens in thy dark locks arrange, With each new tinted garment thy thoughts, thy fancies change. I own that thou art fairer than even the fairest flower That at the flush of early dawn bedecks the summer's bower. But, ah, the flowers in summer hours change even till they fade, And thou art changeful as the rose that withers in the shade. And though thou art the mirror of beauty's glittering train, Thy bosom has one blemish, thy mind one deadly stain; For upon all alike thou shed'st the radiance of thy smile, And this the treachery by which thou dost the world beguile. I do not plead in my complaint thy loveliness is marred, Because thy words are cruel, because thy heart is hard; Would God that thou wert insensible as is the ocean wild And not to all who meet thee so affable and mild; Ah, sweetest is the lingering fruit that latest comes in time, Ah, sweetest is the palm-tree's nut that those who reach must climb. Alas! 'twas only yesterday a stranger reached the town-- Thou offeredst him thy heart and bade him keep it for his own! O Zaida, tell me, how was this? for oft I heard thee say That thou wert mine and 'twas to me thy heart was given away. Hast thou more hearts than one, false girl, or is it changefulness That makes thee give that stranger guest the heart that I possess? One heart alone is mine, and that to thee did I resign. If thou hast many, is my love inadequate to thine? O Zaida, how I fear for thee, my veins with anger glow; O Zaida, turn once more to me, and let the stranger go. As soon as he hath left thy side his pledges, thou wilt find, Were hollow and his promises all scattered to the wind. And if thou sayst thou canst not feel the pains that absence brings, 'Tis that thy heart has never known love's gentle whisperings. 'Tis that thy fickle mind has me relinquished here to pine, Like some old slave forgotten in this palace court of thine. Ah, little dost thou reck of me, of all my pleasures flown, But in thy pride dost only think, false lady, of thine own. And is it weakness bids me still to all thy faults be blind And bear thy lovely image thus stamped upon my mind? For when I love, the slight offence, though fleeting may be the smart, Is heinous as the treacherous stroke that stabs a faithful heart. And woman by one look unkind, one frown, can bring despair Upon the bosom of the man whose spirit worships her. Take, then, this counsel, 'tis the last that I shall breathe to thee, Though on the winds I know these words of mine will wasted be: I was the first on whom thou didst bestow the fond caress, And gave those pledges of thy soul, that hour of happiness; Oh, keep the faith of those young days! Thy honor and renown Thou must not blight by love unkind, by treachery's heartless frown. For naught in life is safe and sure if faith thou shouldst discard, And the sunlight of the fairest soul is oft the swiftest marred. I will not sign this letter nor set to it my name; For I am not that happy man to whom love's message came, Who in thy bower thy accents sweet enraptured heard that day, When on thy heaving bosom, thy chosen love, I lay. Yet well thou'lt know the hand that wrote this letter for thine eye, For conscience will remind thee of thy fickle treachery. Dissemble as thou wilt, and play with woman's skill thy part, Thou knowest there is but one who bears for thee a broken heart." Thus read the valiant castellan of Baza's castle tower, Then sealed the scrip and sent it to the Moorish maiden's bower. ZAIDA OF TOLEDO Upon a gilded balcony, which decked a mansion high, A place where ladies kept their watch on every passer-by, While Tagus with a murmur mild his gentle waters drew To touch the mighty buttress with waves so bright and blue, Stands Zaida, radiant in her charms, the flower of Moorish maids, And with her arching hand of snow her anxious eyes she shades, Searching the long and dusty road that to Ocaña leads, For the flash of knightly armor and the tramp of hurrying steeds. The glow of amorous hope has lit her cheek with rosy red, Yet wrinkles of too anxious love her beauteous brow o'er-spread; For she looks to see if up the road there rides a warrior tall-- The haughty Bencerraje, whom she loves the best of all. At every looming figure that blots the vega bright, She starts and peers with changing face, and strains her eager sight; For every burly form she sees upon the distant street Is to her the Bencerraje whom her bosom longs to greet. And many a distant object that rose upon her view Filled her whole soul with rapture, as her eager eyes it drew; But when it nearer came, she turned away, in half despair, Her vision had deceived her, Bencerraje was not there. "My own, my Bencerraje, if but lately you descried That I was angry in my heart, and stubborn in my pride, Oh, let my eyes win pardon, for they with tears were wet. Why wilt thou not forgive me, why wilt thou not forget? And I repented of that mood, and gave myself the blame, And thought, perhaps it was my fault that, at the jousting game, There was no face among the knights so filled with care as thine, So sad and so dejected, yes, I thought the blame was mine! And yet I was, if thou with thought impartial wilt reflect, Not without cause incensed with thee, for all thy strange neglect. Neglect that not from falseness or words of mine had sprung But from the slanderous charges made by a lying tongue; And now I ask thee pardon, if it be not too late, Oh, take thy Zaida to thy heart, for she is desolate! For if thou pardon her, and make her thine again, I swear Thou never wilt repent, dear love, thou thus hast humored her! It is the law of honor, which thou wilt never break, That the secret of sweet hours of love thou mayst not common make. That never shouldst thou fail in love, or into coldness fall, Toward thy little Moorish maiden, who has given thee her all." She spoke; and Bencerraje, upon his gallant bay, Was calling to her from the street, where he loitered blithe and gay, And quickly she came down to him, to give him, e'er they part, Her rounded arms, her ivory neck, her bosom, and her heart! ZAIDE REBUKED "See, Zaide, let me tell you not to pass along my street, Nor gossip with my maidens nor with my servants treat; Nor ask them whom I'm waiting for, nor who a visit pays, What balls I seek, what robe I think my beauty most displays. 'Tis quite enough that for thy sake so many face to face Aver that I, a witless Moor, a witless lover chase. I know that thou art a valiant man, that thou hast slaughtered more, Among thy Christian enemies, than thou hast drops of gore. Thou art a gallant horseman, canst dance and sing and play Better than can the best we meet upon a summer's day. Thy brow is white, thy cheek is red, thy lineage is renowned, And thou amid the reckless and the gay art foremost found. I know how great would be my loss, in losing such as thee; I know, if I e'er won thee, how great my gain would be: And wert thou dumb even from thy birth, and silent as the grave, Each woman might adore thee, and call herself thy slave. But 'twere better for us both I turn away from thee, Thy tongue is far too voluble, thy manners far too free; Go find some other heart than mine that will thy ways endure, Some woman who, thy constancy and silence to secure, Can build within thy bosom her castle high and strong, And put a jailer at thy lips, to lock thy recreant tongue. Yet hast thou gifts that ladies love; thy bearing bold and bright Can break through every obstacle that bars them from delight. And with such gifts, friend Zaide, thou spreadest thy banquet board, And bidst them eat the dish so sweet, and never say a word! But that which thou hast done to me, Zaide, shall cost thee dear; And happy would thy lot have been hadst thou no change to fear. Happy if when thy snare availed to make the prize thine own, Thou hadst secured the golden cage before the bird was flown. For scarce thy hurrying footsteps from Tarfe's garden came, Ere thou boastedst of thine hour of bliss, and of my lot of shame. They tell me that the lock of hair I gave thee on that night, Thou drewest from thy bosom, in all the people's sight, And gav'st it to a base-born Moor, who took the tresses curled, And tied them in thy turban, before the laughing world. I ask not that thou wilt return nor yet the relic keep, But I tell thee, while thou wearest it, my shame is dire and deep: They say that thou hast challenged him, and swearest he shall rue For all the truths he spake of thee--would God they were not true! Who but can laugh to hear thee blame the whispers that reveal Thy secret, though thy secret thyself couldst not conceal. No words of thine can clear thy guilt nor pardon win from me, For the last time my words, my glance, have been addressed to thee." Thus to the lofty warrior of Abencerraje's race The lady spoke in anger, and turned away her face: "'Tis right," she said, "the Moor whose tongue has proved to me unkind Should in the sentence of my tongue fit retribution find." ZAIDA'S INCONSTANCY O fairest Zaida, thou whose face brings rapture to mine eyes! O fairest Zaida, in whose smile my soul's existence lies! Fairest of Moorish maidens, yet in revengeful mood, Above all Moorish maidens, stained by black ingratitude. 'Tis of thy golden locks that love has many a noose entwined, And souls of free men at thy sight full oft are stricken blind; Yet tell me, proud one, tell me, what pleasure canst thou gain From showing to the world a heart so fickle and so vain? And, since my adoration thou canst not fail to know, How is it that thy tender heart can treat thy lover so? And art thou not content my fondest hopes to take away, But thou must all my hope, my life, destroy, in utter ruin lay? My faithful love, sweet enemy! how ill dost thou requite! And givest in exchange for it but coldness and despite; Thy promises, thy pledge of love, thou to the gale wouldst fling; Enough that they were thine, false girl, that they should all take wing. Remember how upon that day thou gavest many a sign Of love and lavished'st the kiss which told me thou wert mine. Remember, lovely Zaida, though memory bring thee pain, Thy bliss when 'neath thy window I sang my amorous strain. By day, before the window, I saw my darling move, At night, upon the balcony, I told thee of my love. If I were late or absence detained me from thy sight, Then jealous rage distraught thy heart, thine eyes with tears were bright. But now that thou hast turned from me, I come thy face to greet, And thou biddest me begone, and pass no longer through thy street. Thou biddest me look on thee no more, nor even dare to write The letter or the _billet-doux,_ that caused thee once delight. Yes, Zaida, all thy favors, thy love, thy vows, are shown To be but false and faithless, since thou art faithless grown. But why? thou art a woman, to fickle falseness born; Thou prizest those who scorn thee--those who love thee thou dost scorn. I change not, thou art changed, whose heart once fondly breathed my name; But the more thy bosom turns to ice, the fiercer burns my flame; For all thy coldness I with love and longing would repay, For passion founded on good faith can never die away. ZAIDE'S DESOLATION It was the hour when Titan from Aurora's couch awoke, And on the world her radiant face in wonted beauty broke, When a Moor came by in sad array, and Zaide was his name. Disguised, because his heart was sad with love's consuming flame; No shield he bore, he couched no lance, he rode no warrior steed; No plume nor mantle he assumed, motto or blazon screed; Still on the flank of his mantle blank one word was written plain, In the Moorish of the people, "I languish through disdain." A flimsy cape his shoulders clad, for, when the garb is poor, Nobility is honored most because 'tis most obscure. If he in poverty appeared, 'twas love that made him so; Till love might give the wealth he sought thus mourning would he go. And still he journeys through the hills and shuns the haunts of men; None look upon his misery in field or lonely fen. Fair Zaida ne'er forgets that he is prince of all the land, And ruler of the castles that at Granada stand; But gold or silver or brocade can ne'er supply the lack Of honor in a noble line whose crimes have stained it black; For sunlight never clears the sky when night has spread her cloak, But only when the glory of the morning has awoke. He lives secure from jealous care, holding the priceless dower Which seldom falls to loving hearts or sons of wealth and power. Poor is his garb, yet at his side a costly blade appears, 'Tis through security of mind no other arms he bears. 'Tis love that from Granada's home has sent him thus to rove, And for the lovely Zaida he languishes with love-- The loveliest face that by God's grace the sun e'er shone above. From court and mart he lives apart, such is the King's desire; Yet the King's friend Alfaqui is the fair maiden's sire. Friend of the King, the throne's support, a monarch's son is he, And he has sworn that never Moor his daughter's spouse shall be. He has no ease till the monarch sees his daughter's loveliness. But she has clasped brave Zaide's hand, and smiled to his caress, And said that to be his alone is her sole happiness. And after many journeys wide, wearied of banishment, He sees the lofty tower in which his Moorish maid is pent. ZAIDA'S LAMENT Now the hoarse trumpets of the morn were driving sleep away; They sounded as the fleeting night gave truce unto the day. The hubbub of the busy crowd ceased at that dulcet sound, In which one moment high and low peace and refreshment found. The hoot of the nocturnal owl alone the silence broke, While from the distance could be heard the din of waking folk; And, in the midst of silence, came the sound as Zaida wept, For all night long in fear of death she waked while others slept. And as she sighed, she sang aloud a melancholy strain; "And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from pain?" For evil tongues, who thought to win her favor with a lie, Had told her that the bold Gazul ordained that she should die; And so she donned a Moor's attire, and put her own away, And on the stroke of midnight from Xerez took her way. And as she sighed, she sang aloud a melancholy strain; "And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from pain?" She rode a nimble palfrey and scarce could great Gazul Excel the ardent spirit with which her heart was full. Yet at every step her palfrey took, she turned her head for fear, To see if following on her track some enemy were near. And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain; "And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from pain?" To shun suspicion's eye, at last she left the king's highway, And took the journey toward Seville that thro' a bypath lay; With loosened rein her gallant steed right swiftly did she ride, Yet to her fear he did appear like a rock on the rough wayside. And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain; "And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from pain?" So secretly would she proceed, her very breath she held, Tho' with a rising storm of sighs her snowy bosom swelled. And here and there she made a halt, and bent her head to hear If footsteps sounded; then, assured, renewed her swift career. And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain; "And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from pain?" Her fancy in the silent air could whispering voices hear; "I'll make of thee a sacrifice, to Albenzaide dear;" This fancy took her breath away, lifeless she sank at length, And grasped the saddle-bow; for fear had sapped her spirit's strength. And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain; "And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from pain?" She came in sight of proud Seville; but the darkness bade her wait Till dawn; when she alighted before a kinsman's gate. Swift flew the days, and when at last the joyful truth she learned, That she had been deceived; in joy to Xerez she returned. And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain; "And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from pain?" ZAIDA'S CURSE And Zaida Cegri, desolate, Whom by the cruel cast of fate, Within one hour, the brandished blade From wife had mourning widow made, On Albenzaide's corse was bowed, Shedding hot tears, with weeping loud. Bright as the gold of Araby Shone out her locks unbound; And while, as if to staunch the blood, Her hand lay on the wound, She fixed her glances on Gazul, Still by his foes attacked. "'Twas cruel rage, not jealous love, That urged this wicked act." (Thus she began with trembling voice.) "And I to God will pray That for thy treacherous violence Thy dastard life shall pay. And midway, on thy journey down To fair Sidonia's castled town, Mayst thou alone, with no retreat, The valiant Garci-Perez meet; And mayst thou, startled at the sight, Lose all the vigor of thy might; Thy reins with palsied fingers yield; And find no shelter in thy shield. There sudden death or captive shame Blot all thy valor but the name. Thy warrior garb thou turnest To the livery of the slave; Thy coat of steel is no cuirass, No harness of the brave; When to Sidonia thou art come, To meet thy amorous mate, May foul suspicion turn her heart From love to deadly hate. Begone! no more the course pursue Of faithless love and vows untrue. To remain true to such as thee Were naught but blackest perjury. I fear not, hound, thy sword of might; Turn, traitor, turn and leave my sight, For thou wert born to change thy mind, And fling all fealty to the wind. Ignoble origin is thine, For lovers of a noble line Have no such rancorous hearts as thine. And here I pray that God will bring His curse upon thy soul, That thou in war, in peace, in love May meet with failure foul, And that Sanlucar's lady, Whom thou wishest for a bride, Thee from her castle entrance May spurn thee in her pride. A widowed wife with bleeding heart, Hear me one moment ere we part! Thy knightly service I distrust, I hear thy voice with deep disgust." Cut to the heart by words so rude, The Moor within the palace stood; Say what he could, 'twas but to find His vain word wasted on the wind. THE TOURNAMENT OF ZAIDE By Zaide has a feast been pledged to all Granada's dames, For in his absence there had been dire lack of festive games, And, to fulfil the promise the noble man had made, He called his friends to join him in dance and serenade. There should be sport of every kind; the youths in white arrayed Were, to the ladies all unknown, to lead the camisade. And ere the radiance of dawn could tint the valley-side, The merry Moor had come abroad, his friends were at his side. He gathered round a company, they formed a joyous train; There were fifty gentlemen, the noblest names in Spain. Before the dawn they sallied forth the ladies to surprise And all that snowy gowns conceal to see with open eyes. They bound their brows with garlands of flowerets sweet and bright, In one hand each a cane-stalk bore, in one a taper white, And the clarions began to blow, and trump and Moorish horn, And whoop and shout and loud huzzas adown the street were borne. From right to left the clamor spread along the esplanade. And envious Abaicin a thousand echoes made. The startled horses galloped by, amid the people's yells; The town to its foundation shook with the jingle of their bells. Amid the crowd some run, some shout, "Stop, stop!" the elders say; Then all take order and advance to Alcazaba's way; Others from Vavataubin to Alpujarra fare, Down the street of the Gomelas or to Vivarrambla Square. Now the whole town is on its feet, from wall to towering wall They surge with shouts or flock around the tower and castle tall. The ladies who are tenderest and given most to sleep Awaken at the hubbub and from their windows peep. And there are seen dishevelled locks clasped by the lily hand; And snowy throat and bosom bare, revealed in public, stand; And in their drowsy disarray, and in their anxious fear, Each Moorish lady is surprised with many a sudden tear; And many a heart was filled that night with feverish unrest, As one tall maid looked through the pane with white and heaving breast. And many a Moorish girl was seen by revellers that night Or running in confusion or halting from affright; But no one saw fair Zaida, except by memory's sight; And Zaide in the darkness, with Muza as his guide, Hurried about the city; what a crowd was at their side! What racket, and what riot, what shout and prank and play! It would have had no end unless the sun had brought the day, And now the leading revellers mustered their ranks once more; To close the frolic with one word; "Go home; the game is o'er." ZAIDE'S COMPLAINT Brave Zaide paces up and down impatiently the street Where his lady from the balcony is wont her knight to greet, And he anxiously awaits the hour when she her face will show Before the open lattice and speak to him below. The Moor is filled with desperate rage, for he sees the hour is fled When day by day the dazzling ray of sunlight gilds that head, And he stops to brood in desperate mood, for her alone he yearns Can aught soothe the fire of fierce desire with which his bosom burns. At last he sees her moving with all her wonted grace, He sees her and he hastens to their old trysting-place; For as the moon when night is dark and clouds of tempest fly Rises behind the dim-lit wood and lights the midnight sky, Or like the sun when tempests with inky clouds prevail, He merges for one moment and shows his visage pale; So Zaida on her balcony in gleaming beauty stood, And the knight for a moment gazed at her and checked his angry mood. Zaide beneath the balcony with trembling heart drew near; He halted and with upward glance spoke to his lady dear: "Fair Moorish maiden, may thy life, by Allah guarded still, Bring thee the full fruition of that that thou dost will; And if the servants of thy house, the pages of my hall, Have lied about thine honor, perdition seize them all; For they come to me and murmur low and whisper in my ear That thou wishest to disown me, thy faithful cavalier; And they say that thou art pledged to one a Moor of wealth and pride, Who will take thee to his father's house and claim thee as his bride, For he has come to woo thee from the wide lands of his sire; And they say that his scimitar is keen and his heart a flame of fire. And if, fair Zaida, this is true, I kneel before thy feet Imploring thou wilt tell me true, and fling away deceit; For all the town is talking, still talking of our love, And the tongues of slander, to thy blame, to my derision move." The lady blushed, she bowed her head, then to the Moor replied: "Dear heart of mine, of all my friends the most undoubted friend, The time has come our friendship should have an early end; If all, indeed, these tidings know, as you yourself declare, Pray tell me who of all the town first laid this secret bare. For if the life that now I lead continue, I shall die. 'Tis cheered by love, but tortured by hopeless agony. God only knows why I the sport of cruel fate should be. God only knows the man who says that I am false to thee. Thou knowest well that Zaida has loved thee long and true, Tho' her ancient lineage, Moorish knight, is more than is thy due, And thou knowest well the loud expostulations of my sire. Thou knowest how my mother curses me with curses dire Because I wait for thee by day, for thee by night I wait. Tho' far thou comest in the eve, yet dost thou tarry late. They say to hush the common talk 'tis time that I be wed, And to his home by some fond Moor in bridal veil be led. Ah! many are the lovely dames, tall and of beauteous face, Who are burning in Granada to take my envied place. They look at thee with loving eyes and from the window call; And, Zaide, thou deservest well the brightest of them all, For thou thyself thine amorous eyes have turned and yet will turn Upon the Moorish maidens who for thy embraces burn." Then with dejected visage the Moor this answer made, While a thousand thoughts of sorrow his valorous breast invade: "Ah, little did I think," he said, "and little did I know That thou, my lovely Zaida, would ever treat me so; And little did I think thou wouldst have done this cruel deed And by thy changeful heart would thus have made my heart to bleed. And this for one unworthy, a man who could not claim That thou should sacrifice to him thy love, thy life, thy name. And art thou she who long ago, when evening veiled the sky, Didst say to me with tender smile from the lofty balcony, 'Zaide, I am thine own, thine own, thine own I still shall be, And thou the darling of my soul art life itself to me'?" GUHALA'S LOVE The bravest youth that e'er drew rein Upon Granada's flowery plain, A courteous knight, of gentle heart, Accomplished in the jouster's art; Well skilled to guide the flying steed, And noted for each warlike deed; And while his heart like steel was set When foeman in the battle met, 'Twas wax before his lady's eyes And melted at her amorous sighs; And he was like a diamond bright Amid the sword-thrusts of the fight, And in the zambra's festive hour Was gracious as the summer's flower. In speech he showed the generous mind, Where wit and wisdom were combined; And, while his words no envy woke, He weighed each sentence that he spoke. And yet his mantle was of blue, And tinged with sorrow's violet hue; For fair Guhala, Moorish maid, Her spell upon his heart had laid; And thus his cape of saffron bare The color emblem of despair; On turban and on tassel lie The tints that yield an August sky; For anxious love was in his mind; And anxious love is ever blind. With scarce a word did he forsake The lady pining for his sake; For, when the festal robe he wore, Her soul the pall of sorrow wore. And now he journeyed on his way To Jaen, for the jousting day, And to Guhala, left alone, All relic of delight was gone. Tho' the proud maid of matchless face A thousand hearts would fain embrace, She loved but one, and swiftly ran And spake her mind to Arbolan. "O Arbolan, my Moor, my own, Surely thy love is feeble grown! The least excuse can bid thee part, And tear with pain this anxious heart. Oh, that it once were granted me To mount my steed and follow thee; How wouldst thou marvel then to see That courage of true love in me, Whose pulse so feebly throbs in thee." Thus to see Arbolan depart So fills with grief Guhala's heart. The Moorish maid, while on he sped, Lies sickening on her mournful bed. Her Moorish damsels strive to know The secret of this sudden blow; They ask the cause that lays her low; They seek the sad disease to heal, Whose cause her feigning words conceal. And less, indeed, the doubling folds The Moor within his turban holds, Than are the wiles Guhala's mind In search of secrecy can find. To Zara only, whom she knows, Sole friend amid a ring of foes, The sister of her lover leal, She will the secret cause reveal. And seeking an occasion meet To tell with truth and tongue discreet, While from her eyes the tear-drops start, She opens thus her bleeding heart: "O Zara, Zara, to the end, Thou wilt remain my faithful friend. How cruel is the lot I bear, Thy brother's peril makes me fear! 'Tis for his absence that I mourn. I sicken, waiting his return!" Such were the words Guhala said. The love-lorn and afflicted maid Nor further power and utterance found, But, fainting, sank upon the ground; For strength of love had never art To fill with life a pining heart. AZARCO OF GRANADA Azarco left his heart behind When he from Seville passed, And winsome Celindaja As hostage held it fast. The heart which followed with the Moor Was lent him by the maid, And at their tearful parting, "Now guard it well," she said. "O light of my distracted eyes, When thou hast reached the fight, In coat of double-proof arrayed, As fits a gallant knight, Let loyal love and constancy Be thy best suit of mail, In lonely hours of absence, When faith is like to fail. The Moorish girls whom thou shalt meet Are dazzling in their grace, Of peerless wit and generous heart, And beautiful of face. These in the dance may lure thy heart To think of me no more, But none will e'er adore thee As I, thy slave, adore. For to live lonely without thee Untouched by jealous fear, Is more than my poor heart can brook, Thou art to me so dear. If e'er in festal halls thou meet Some peril to my peace, Azarco, turn thy look away, And check thine eyes' caprice. For 'tis by wandering eyes the foes Of constancy increase. May Allah and the prophet Make thy pathway safe and clear; And may one thought be thine abroad And Celindaja's here." AZARCO REBUKED "Draw rein, draw rein one moment, And calm thy hurrying steed, Who bounds beneath the furious spur That makes his flank to bleed. Here would I, by my grief distraught, Upon the very spot, Remind thee of the happy hours Thou, faithless, hast forgot. When thou, upon thy prancing barb, Adown this street would pace, And only at my window pause To gaze into my face. At thought of all thy cruelty A stricken slave I pine; My heart is burning since it touched That frozen breast of thine. How many pledges didst thou give, To win me for thine own! Our oaths were mutual; I am true, Whilst thou art recreant grown. My eyes, they thrilled thee yesterday, To-day thou hast no fears; For love is not alike two days Within a thousand years. I thought thy name a pledge to me Of fondest hope; no less That thou wouldst take as pledges true My kiss and soft caress. What were thy glowing words but lures Thy victim's eyes to blind? Now safe from treachery's hour I bear No rancor in my mind. But better had I known the truth, When I desired to know, And listened to thy pleading words, And read thy written vow. Nay, give me no excuses vain, For none of them I ask, Plead truth to her thou cozenest now-- They'll serve thee in the task. And if my counsel thou wilt take, Forget these eyes, this heart, Forget my grief at thy neglect-- Forget me--and depart." Thus to the Moor, Azarco, The lovely Zaida cried, And closed her lattice, overwhelmed With sorrow's rising tide. He spurred his barb and rode away, Scattering the dust behind, And cursed the star that made his heart Inconstant as the wind. ADELIFA'S FAREWELL Fair Adelifa tore her hair, Her cheeks were furrowed o'er with care, When brave Azarco she descried Ascending the tall galley's side. She flung the dust upon her head, She wrung her lily hands and shed Hot tears, and cursed the bitter day That bore her heart's delight away. "Thou, who my glory's captain art, And general of my bleeding heart, Guardian of every thought I know, And sharer of my lot of woe; Light that illumes my happy face, The bliss of my soul's dwelling-place; Why must thou disappear from me, Thou glass wherein myself I see? Azarco, bid me understand What is it thou dost command-- Must I remain and wait for thee? Ah, tedious will that waiting be. To war thou farest, but I fear Another war awaits thee here. Thou thinkest in some rural nest Thou'lt set me to be safe at rest. Ah, if my absence cause thee pain, My love attend thee on yon plain. Thy valiant arms' unaided might Shall win thee victory in the fight. My faith, Azarco, is thy shield; It will protect thee in the field. Thou shalt return with victory, For victory embarks with thee. But thou wilt say, Azarco dear, That women's lightness is to fear. As with armed soldiers, so you find, Each woman has a different mind. And none shall ever, without thee, Me in the dance or revel see; Nor to the concert will I roam, But stay in solitude at home. The Moorish girls shall never say I dress in robes of holiday; 'Twere vain to make the body fine Whose soul is on the sea with thine." With this Celinda came in sight, Bahata's sister tall and bright; This to an end her farewell brought, But not her dark and anxious thought. AZARCO'S FAREWELL "Now saddle me the silver gray, The steed of noble race, And give to me the shield of Fez, And my strong corslet lace; Give me a double-headed lance, With points of temper fine; And, with the casque of stubborn steel, That purple cap of mine. Its plumes unite the saffron's tint With heron's crest of snow, And one long spray of fluttering gray. Then give it e'er I go, And I'll put on the hood of blue That Celin's daughter fair, My Adelifa, best-beloved, Once gave to me to wear. And the square boss of metal bring, That circling boughs entwine With laurels, in whose leaves of gold The clustered emeralds shine. Adonis, hastening to the hunt, His heavenly mistress shuns, The mountain boars before him flee, And, 'Die,' the motto runs." 'Twas thus the Moor Azarco spoke, Just as the war begun, To stout Almoralife Of Baza, Zelma's son. Almoralife, brave and wise, Full many a minstrel sings, A knight who in Granada Was counted with its kings. And when they bring the boss of gold He heaves a thousand sighs O'er brave Adonis and his doom, Who by the wild boar dies. "O Adelifa, soul of mine, Rejoice, and murmur not, Up to the end be merry, When worms shall be thy lot. My day of life must needs be short, Thy firmness must be long; Although thou art a woman, Unlike thy sex, be strong. Be not like Venus, tho' in form Thou art indeed her peer, For she forgot in absence, And did to death her dear. And when alone, upon my face And likeness fix thine eyes, And none admit to do me wrong, And thy soft heart surprise. 'Twixt sadness and repining Love runs his changing way, The gay he oft makes sorrowful, The sorrowful makes gay. Then, mark, love, in my portrait mark, The wide eyes' mute appeal, For this enchanted painting Can speak and breathe and feel. Think how those eyes shed many a tear, When for thy face they yearn; And let those tears thy patience win To tarry my return." At this Galvano came to say That ship and favoring gale Awaited him, and all his host Were eager to set sail. The Moor went forth to victory, He was not pleasure's slave; His gallant heart was ever prompt To keep the pledge he gave. CELINDA'S COURTESY Azarco on his balcony With humble Cegri stood. He talked, and Cegri listened In a sad and listless mood; For of his own exploits he read, Writ in an open scroll, But envious Cegri heard the tale With rage and bitter dole. And thro' Elvira's gate, where spreads A prospect wide and free, He marked how Phoebus shot his rays Upon the Spanish sea; And bending to the land his eye To notice how the scene Of summer had its color changed To black from radiant green, He saw that, thro' the gate there passed A light that was not day's, Whose splendor, like a dazzling cloud, Eclipsed the solar rays. That presence changed the tint of earth, Drew off the dusky veil, And turned to living verdure The leafage of the dale. "Till now," Azarco said, "the scene Has filled my heart with pain; 'Tis freshened by Celinda's face, Or passion turns my brain. Ah, well may men her beauty praise, For its transcendent might Elates the human spirit, And fills it with delight." And as he saw her coming in, The Moor his bonnet doffed, And bowed to do her honor, And spoke in accents soft. Celinda court'sied to the ground, Such favor was not slight, Her kindly greeting gratified The fond hopes of the knight. And glad and gloomy, each in turn, For such a quick success, He checked a thousand words of love, That might his joy express. And following her with eager eyes-- "I owe thee much," said he, "Who dost reward with such a boon My merest courtesy. That favor, tho' unmerited, Sweet lady, shall remain Counted among those choicest gifts Our reckoning cannot gain. Its memory shall suffice to chase The grinding pangs of care; And softening turn the ills of life To glory's guerdon rare." On this Celinda took her leave, And vanished from his view, And, thinking proudly of her smile, Azarco straight withdrew. GAZUL'S DESPONDENCY Scarce half a league from Gelva the knight dismounted stood, Leaning upon his upright spear, and bitter was his mood. He thought upon Celinda's curse, and Zaida's fickle mind, "Ah, Fortune, thou to me," he cried, "hast ever proved unkind." And from his valiant bosom burst a storm of angry sighs, And acts and words of anguish before his memory rise. "Celinda's loss I count as naught, nor fear her wicked will; I were a fool, thus cursed by her, to love the lady still." In rage from out the sod he drew his spear-head, as he spoke, And in three pieces shivered it against a knotted oak. He tore away the housings that 'neath his saddle hang, He rent his lady's favor as with a lion's fang-- The silken ribbon, bright with gold, which in his crest he bore, By loved Celinda knotted there, now loved by him no more. He drew, as rage to madness turned, her portrait from his breast; He spat on it, and to that face derisive jeers addressed. "Why should I dress in robes of joy, whose heart is wounded sore, By curses, that requite so ill the duteous love I bore? Stripped as I am of every hope, 'tis better I go bare, For the black mantle of my soul is but tormenting care; I vengeance take on yonder oak, pierced by my lance's steel-- I dote, for, ah! the trees I wound, cannot, like women, feel." He took the bridle off his steed, "Roam as thou wilt," said he. "As I gave Zaida her release, I give release to thee." The swift horse galloped out of sight; in melancholy mood, The knight, unhorsed and helmetless, his lonely path pursued. GAZUL IN LOVE Not greater share did Mars acquire of trophies and renown, Than great Gazul took with him from Gelva's castled town; And when he to Sanlucar came his lady welcomed him, His cup of happiness at last was beaded to the brim. Alone the joyful lovers stood within a garden glade; Amid the flowers, those happy hours fled to the evening shade. With fingers deft Celinda wove a wreath, in which were set The rose's rudy petals and the scented mignonette. She plaited him a baldric, with violets circled round, For violets are for lovers, and with this his waist she bound. And then the flowery garland she tied upon his head, "Thy face is delicate and fair as Ganymede's," she said; "And if great Jove beheld thee now, he'd send his eagle down, To take thee to the palace halls that high Olympus crown." The brave Gazul his lady took and kissed her with a smile; "She could not be so fair," said he, "the girl, who by her guile Brought ruin on the Trojan realm, and set its towers afire, As thou art, lady of my heart and queen of my desire." "If I, indeed, seem fair to thee, then let the bridal rite Me and the husband of my heart for evermore unite." "Ah, mine will be the gain," he said, and kissed her with delight. CELINDA'S INCONSTANCY Gazul, like some brave bull that stands at bay to meet his fate, Has fled from fair Celinda's frown and reached Sanlucar's gate. The Moor bestrides a sorrel mare, her housings are of gray, The desperate Moor is clad in weeds that shall his grief display. The white and green that once he wore to sable folds give room, Love's purple tints are now replaced by those of grief and gloom. His Moorish cloak is white and blue, the blue was strewn with stars, But now a covering like a cloud the starry radiance mars. And from his head with stripes of black his silken streamers flow, His bonnet blue he dyes anew in tints of grief and woe. Alone are seen the tints of green upon his sword-belt spread, For by that blade the blood of foes in vengeance shall be shed. The color of the mantle which on his arm he bore Is like the dark arena's dust when it is drenched in gore. Black as the buskins that he wears, and black his stirrup's steel, And red with rust of many a year the rowels at his heel. He bears not lance or headed spear, for that which once he bore Was shivered into splinters beside Celinda's door. He bears a rounded target, whose quarterings display The full moon darting through the clouds her ineffectual ray. For though her orb be full the clouds eclipse her silver light; The motto: "Fair but cruel, black-hearted though so bright." And as Celinda stripped the wings which on adventure brave Sustained his flight--no more shall plume above his helmet wave. 'Twas noon one Wednesday when Gazul to Gelva's portal came, And straight he sought the market-place to join the jousting game; The ruler of the city looked at him with surprise, And never lady knew the knight, so dark was his disguise. As they had been as soft as wax, he pierced the targets through With javelins of the hollow cane that in the vega grew; Not one could stand before the Moor; the tilters turned and fled, For by his exploits was revealed the warrior's name of dread. The lists were in confusion, but calm was on his brow, As, lifting up his eyes to heaven, he breathed a desperate vow; "Would God the malediction of Celinda had come true! And the spears of my assailant had pierced my bosom through! And that the dames who pitied me had cursed me where I stand! And bravely falling I became a hero of the land! That never succor came to me, for that were rapture high To her the angry lioness who prays that I may die!" He spoke, he spurred his courser fleet, and started for the plain, And swore within Celinda's sight he'd ne'er return again. THE BULL-FIGHT The zambra was but ended, and now Granada's King Abdeli called his court to sit on Vivarrambla's ring; Of noble line the bride and groom whose nuptials bade prepare, The struggle between valiant knights and bulls within the square. And, when on the arena the mighty bull was freed, Straight to the deadly conflict one warrior spurred his steed; His mantle was of emerald of texture damascene, And hope was in his folded hood as in his mantle green; Six squires went with him to the ring beside their lord to stand; Their livery was brilliant green, so did their lord command. Hope was the augury of his love; hope's livery he wore; Yet at his side each squire of his a trenchant rapier bore. Each rapier true was black in hue and sheathed in silver ore; At once the people knew the knight from his audacious mien-- Gazul the brave was recognized as soon as he was seen! With graceful dignity he took his station on the sand, And like a second Mars he seized his rapier in his hand; With courage strong he eyed the bull, who pawed the ground till high The dust of the arena was mingled with the sky. All at the sight were terrified, and now with deadly speed, His horns as keen as points of steel, he rushes at the steed. The brave Gazul was on the watch, to ward the threatened blow, And save his steed, and with one stroke to lay the assailant low. The valiant bull, with lowered head advancing to the strife, Felt from skilled hand the tempered brand pierce to his very life. Deep wounded to the gory ground, where he had stoutly stood, The hornèd warrior sank at last, bathed in his own heart's blood. Still, on his ruddy couch he lay, his courage quenched at last. At this exploit the plaudits of the assembly filled the blast; They hailed the knight whose bravery and skill had done the deed, And slain the hero of the ring, and saved his goodly steed, And done such pleasure to the King, and to Celinda fair, To the Queen of Spain and all her train who sat assembled there. LOVERS RECONCILED Soon as in rage Celinda had closed her lattice fast And scorned the Moor ungrateful for his service in the past, Her passion with reflection turns and in repentance ends; She longs to see the Moor again and make to him amends; For in the dance of woman's love through every mood they range And those whose hearts are truest are given most to change. And when she saw the gallant knight before the people all Shiver his lance to splinters against her palace wall, And when she saw his cloak of green was changed to mourning gray, She straightway took her mantle with silver buttons gay, She took her hood of purple pleached with the gold brocade, Whose fringes and whose borders were all in pearls arrayed, She brought a cap with sapphires and emeralds bespread; The green was badge of hope, the blue of jealous rancor dead. With waving plumes of green and white she decked a snowy hood, And armed with double heads of steel a lance of orange-wood-- For colors of the outer man denote the inner mood. A border too of brilliant green around a target set, The motto this, "Tis folly a true lover to forget." And first she learned where bold Gazul was entertained that day, And they told her how his coming had put off the tilters' play, And at her pleasure-house she bade him meet her face to face; And they told him how Celinda longed for his loved embrace, And thrice he asked the messenger if all were not a jest, For oft 'tis dangerous to believe the news we love the best, For lovers' hopes are often thorns of rancor and unrest. They told him that the words were true; and without further speech The glory of his lady's eyes he sallied forth to reach. He met her in a garden where sweet marjoram combined With azure violets a scent that ravished every wind. The musk and jasmine mingled in leaf and branch and flower, Building about the lovers a cool and scented bower. The white leaf matched her lily skin, the red his bounding heart. For she was beauty's spotless queen, he valor's counterpart. For when the Moor approached her he scarcely raised his eye, Dazed by the expectation that she had raised so high. Celinda with a trembling blush came forth and grasped his hand; They talked of love like travellers lost in a foreign land. Then said the Moor, "Why give me now love's sweetest paths to trace, Who in thy absence only live on memories of thy face? If thou should speak of Xerez," he said with kindling eye, "Now take my lance, like Zaida's spouse this moment let me die, And may I some day find thee in a rival's arms at rest, And he by all thy arts of love be tenderly caressed; Unless the Moor whose slander made me odious in thy eyes In caitiff fraud and treachery abuse thine ear with lies." The lady smiled, her heart was light, she felt a rapture new; And like each flower that filled their bower the love between them grew, For little takes it to revive the love that is but true; And aided by his lady's hand he hastes her gems to don, And on his courser's back he flings a rich caparison, A head-stall framed of purple web and studded o'er with gold; And purple plumes and ribbons and gems of price untold; He clasped the lady to his heart, he whispered words of cheer, And then took horse to Gelva to join the tilting there. CALL TO ARMS What time the sun in ocean sank, with myriad colors fair, And jewels of a thousand hues tinted the clouds of air, Brave Gazul at Acala, with all his host, drew rein-- They were four hundred noblemen, the stoutest hearts in Spain-- And scarcely had he reached the town when the command was given: "Now let your shots, your cross-bows, sound to the vault of heaven! Let kettle-drums and trumpets and clarions blend their strain; Zulema, Tunis' King, now lands upon the coast of Spain, And with him ride, in arms allied, Marbello and his train." And though at night he entered no torch or lamp he hath, For glorious Celinda is the sun upon his path; And as he enters in the town at once the word is given: "Now let your shots, your cross-bows, sound to the vault of heaven! Let kettle-drums and trumpets and clarions blend their strain; Zulema, Tunis' King, now lands upon the coast of Spain, And with him ride, in arms allied, Marbello and his train." Gazul dismounted from his steed and hastened to his bride; She sat there mournful and alone and at his sight she sighed; He flung his arms about the girl; she shrank from his embrace, And while he looked in wonder, she hid her blushing face; He said, "And can it be that thou should'st shrink from my embrace?" Before she answered with one voice the air around was riven-- "Now let your shots, your cross-bows, sound to the vault of heaven! Let kettle-drums and trumpets and clarions blend their strain; Zulema, Tunis' King, now lands upon the coast of Spain, And with him ride, in arms allied, Marbello and his train." "Ah, traitor," she replied to him, "four months wert thou away, And I in vain expected some tidings day by day." And humbly did the Moor reply, "Do I deserve the blame? Who drops the lance to take the pen, he does a deed of shame." They sank into each other's arms just as the word was given: "Now let your shots, your cross-bows, sound to the vault of heaven! Let kettle-drums and trumpets and clarions blend their strain; Zulema, Tunis' King, now lands upon the coast of Spain, And with him ride, in arms allied, Marbello and his train." GAZUL CALUMNIATED Gazul, despairing, issues From high Villalba's gate, Cursing the evil fortune That left him desolate. Unmoved he in Granada saw What feuds between the foes The great Abencerrajes And the Andallas rose. He envied not the Moors who stood In favor with the King! He did not crave the honors That rank and office bring. He only cared that Zaida, Her soft heart led astray By lying words of slander, Had flung his love away. And thinking on her beauteous face, Her bearing proud and high, The bosom of the valiant Moor Heaved with a mournful sigh. "And who has brought me this disdain, And who my hope betrayed, And thee, the beauteous Zaida, False to thy purpose made? And who has caused my spoils of war, The palm and laurel leaf, To wither on my forehead, bowed Beneath the load of grief?' 'Tis that some hearts of treachery black With lies have crossed thy way, And changed thee to a lioness, By hunters brought to bay. O tongues of malediction! O slanderers of my fame! Thieves of my knightly honor! Ye lay up naught but shame. Ye are but citadels of fraud, And castles of deceit; When ye your sentence pass, ye tread The law beneath your feet. May Allah on your cruel plots Send down the wrath divine, That ye my sufferings may feel, In the same plight as mine. And may ye learn, ye pitiless, How heavy is the rod That brings on human cruelty The chastisement of God. Ye who profess in word and deed The path of truth to hold Are viler than the nightly wolves That waste the quiet fold." So forth he rode, that Moorish knight, Consumed by passion's flame, Scorned and repulsed by Zaida, The lovely Moorish dame. Then spake he to the dancing waves Of Tagus' holy tide, "Oh, that thou hadst a tongue, to speak My story far and wide! That all might learn, who gaze on thee At evening, night, or morn, Westward to happy Portugal, The sufferings I have borne." GAZUL'S DESPAIR Upon Sanlucar's spacious square The brave Gazul was seen, Bedecked in brilliant array Of purple, white, and green. The Moor was starting for the joust, Which many a warrior brings To Gelva, there to celebrate The truce between the kings. A fair Moor maiden he adored, A daughter of the brave, Who struggled at Granada's siege; Granada was their grave. And eager to accost the maid, He wandered round the square; With piercing eyes he peered upon The walls that held the fair. And for an hour, which seemed like years, He watched impatient there; But when he saw the lady mount Her balcony, he thought, That the long hour of waiting That vision rendered short. Dismounting from his patient steed, In presence of his flame, He fell upon his knees and kissed The pavement in her name. With trembling voice he spoke to her, "I cannot, cannot meet, In any joust where you are near, Disaster and defeat. Of yore I lived without a heart, Kinsmen, or pedigree; But all of these are mine, if thou Hast any thought of me. Give me some badge, if not that thou Mayst recognize thy knight, At least to deck him, give him strength, And succor in the fight." Celinda heard in jealous doubt; For some, with envious art, Had told her that fair Zaida still Ruled o'er the warrior's heart. She answered him in stormy rage: "If in the joust thou dost engage With such success as I desire, And all thy broken oaths require, Thou wilt not reach Sanlucar's square So proud as when thou last wert there. But there shalt meet, disconsolate, Eyes bright with love and dark with hate. God grant that in the deadly joust The enemies that thou hast roused, May hurl at thee the unparried dart And pierce thee, liar, to the heart. Thy corpse within thy mantle bound May horses trail along the ground. Thou comest thy revenge to seek, But small the vengeance thou shalt wreak. Thy friends shall no assistance yield; Thy foes shall tread thee in the field; For thou the woman-slayer, then, Shall meet thy final fate from men. Those damsels whom thou hast deceived Shall feel no pang of grief; Their aid was malediction, Thy death is their relief. The Moor was true in heart and soul, He thought she spake in jest. He stood up in his stirrups, Her hand he would have pressed. "Lady," he said, "remember well That Moor of purpose fierce and fell On whom my vengeance I did wreak Hast felt the curse that now you speak. And as for Zaida, I repent That love of mine on her was spent. Disdain of her and love of thee Now rule my soul in company. The flame in which for her I burned To frost her cruelty has turned. Three cursed years, to win her smile, In knightly deeds I wrought, And nothing but her treachery My faithful service brought, She flung me off without a qualm, Because my lot was poor, And gave, because the wretch was rich, Her favor to a Moor." Celinda as these words she heard Impatiently the lattice barred, And to the lover's ardent sight It seemed that heaven was quenched in night. A page came riding up the street, Bringing the knight his jennets fleet, With plumes and harness all bedight And saddled well with housings bright; The lance which he on entering bore Brandished the knight with spirit sore, And dashed it to the wall, And head and butt, at that proud door, In myriad fragments fall. He bade them change from green to gray; The plumes and harness borne that day By all the coursers of his train. In rage disconsolate, He rode from Gelva, nor drew rein Up to Sanlucar's gate. VENGEANCE OF GAZUL Not Rodamont the African, The ruler of Argel, And King of Zarza's southern coast, Was filled with rage so fell, When for his darling Doralice He fought with Mandricard, As filled the heart of bold Gazul When, past Sidonia's guard, He sallied forth in arms arrayed, With courage high prepared To do a deed that mortal man Never before had dared. It was for this he bade them bring His barb and coat of mail; A sword and dusky scabbard 'Neath his left shoulder trail; In Fez a Christian captive Had forged it, laboring At arms of subtile temper As bondsman of the King. More precious 'twas to bold Gazul Than all his realms could bring. A tawny tinted _alquizel_ Beneath his arms he wore; And, to conceal his thoughts of blood, No towering spear he bore. He started forth for Jerez, And hastening on his course, Trampled the vega far and wide With hoof-prints of his horse. And soon he crossed the splashing ford Of Guadelate's tide, Hard by the ancient haven Upon the valley-side. They gave the ford a famous name The waters still retain, Santa Maria was it called, Since Christians conquered Spain. The river crossed, he spurred his steed, Lest he might reach the gate Of Jarez at an hour unfit, Too early or too late. For Zaida, his own Zaida, Had scorned her lover leal, Wedding a rich and potent Moor A native of Seville; The nephew of a castellan, A Moorish prince of power, Who in Seville was seneschal Of castle and of tower. By this accursed bridal Life's treasure he had lost; The Moor had gained the treasure, And now must pay the cost. The second hour of night had rung When, on his gallant steed, He passed thro' Jerez' gate resolved Upon a desperate deed. And lo! to Zaida's dwelling With peaceful mien he came, Pondering his bloody vengeance Upon that house of shame. For he will pass the portal, And strike the bridegroom low; But first must cross the wide, wide court, Ere he can reach his foe. And he must pass the crowd of men, Who in the courtyard stand, Lighting the palace of the Moor, With torches in their hand. And Zaida in the midst comes forth, Her lover at her side; He has come, amid his groomsmen, To take her for his bride. And bold Gazul feels his heart bound With fury at the sight; A lion's rage is in his soul, His brow is black as night. But now he checks his anger, And gently on his steed Draws near, with smile of greeting, That none may balk the deed. And when he reached the bridal, Where all had taken their stand, Upon his mighty sword-hilt He sudden laid his hand; And in a voice that all could hear "Base craven Moor," said he, "The sweet, the lovely Zaida Shall ne'er be bride to thee. And count me not a traitor, I Defy thee face to face, Lay hand upon thy scimitar If thou hast heart of grace." And with these words he dealt one stroke, A cruel stroke and true, It reached the Moor, it struck his heart And pierced it through and through. Down fell the wretch, that single stroke Had laid him with the dead-- "Now let him die for all his deeds," The assembled people said. Gazul made bravely his defence, And none could check his flight; He dashed his rowels in his steed, And vanished in the night. GAZUL AND ALBENZAIDE "Tho' thou the lance can hurl as well As one a reed might cast, Talk not of courage for thy crimes Thy house's honor blast. Seek not the revel or the dance, Loved by each Moorish dame. The name of valor is not thine, Thou hast a coward's name; And lay aside thy mantle fair Thy veil and gaberdine, And boast no more of gold and gems-- Thou hast disgraced thy line. And see thine arms, for honor fit, Are cheap and fashioned plain; Yet such that he whose name is lost May win it back again. And Albenzaide keep thy tastes Proportioned to thy state; For oft from unrestrained desires Spring hopes infatuate. Flee from thy thoughts, for they have wings, Whose light ambition lifts Thy soul to empty altitudes, Where purpose veers and drifts. Fling not thyself into the sea, From which the breezes blow Now with abrupt disdain, and now With flattering whispers low. For liberty once forfeited Is hard to be regained, And hardest, when the forfeit falls On heart and hand unstained." Thus spake Gazul, the Moorish lord Of fame and honor bright; Yet, as a craven beggar, Fair Zaida scorned the knight. GAZUL'S ARMS "Now scour for me my coat of mail, Without delay, my page, For, so grief's fire consumes me, Thy haste will be an age; And take from out my bonnet The verdant plumes of pride, Which once Azarco gave me, When he took to him his bride. And in their place put feathers black, And write this motto there: 'Heavy as lead is now his heart, Oppressed with a leaden care,' And take away the diamonds, And in their place insert Black gems, that shall to all proclaim The deed that does me hurt, For if thou take away those gems It will announce to all The black and dismal lot that does Unfortuned me befall. And give to me the buskins plain, Decked by no jewels' glow, For he to whom the world is false Had best in mourning go. And give to me my lance of war, Whose point is doubly steeled, And, by the blood of Christians, Was tempered in the field. For well I wish my goodly blade Once more may burnished glow; And if I can to cleave in twain The body of my foe. And hang upon my baldric, The best of my ten swords. Black as the midnight is the sheath, And with the rest accords. Bring me the horse the Christian slave Gave to me for his sire, At Jaen; and no ransom But that did I require. And even though he be not shod, Make haste to bring him here; Though treachery from men I dread, From beasts I have no fear. The straps with rich enamel decked I bid you lay aside; And bind the rowels to my heel With thongs of dusky hide." Thus spake aloud the brave Gazul, One gloomy Tuesday night; Gloomy the eve, as he prepared For victory in the fight. For on that day the news had come That his fair Moorish maid Had wedded with his bitterest foe, The hated Albenzaide. The Moor was rich and powerful, But not of lineage high, His wealth outweighed with one light maid Three years of constancy. Touched to the heart, on hearing this, He stood in arms arrayed, Nor strange that he, disarmed by love, 'Gainst love should draw his blade. And Venus, on the horizon, Had shown her earliest ray When he Sidonia left, and straight To Jerez took his way. THE TOURNAMENT His temples glittered with the spoils and garlands of his love, When stout Gazul to Gelvas came, the jouster's skill to prove. He rode a fiery dappled gray, like wind he scoured the plain; Yet all her power and mettle could a slender bit restrain; The livery of his pages was purple, green, and red-- Tints gay as was the vernal joy within his bosom shed. And all had lances tawny gray, and all on jennets rode, Plumes twixt their ears; adown their flanks the costly housings flowed. Himself upon his gallant steed carries the circling shield, And a new device is blazoned upon its ample field. The phoenix there is figured, on flaming nest it dies, And from its dust and ashes again it seems to rise. And on the margin of the shield this motto is expressed: "Tis hard to hide the flames of love once kindled in the breast." And now the ladies take their seats; each jouster mounts his steed; From footmen and from horsemen flies fast the loaded reed. And there appears fair Zaida, whom in a luckless day The Moor had loved, but since, that love in loathing passed away. Her treachery had grieved his heart, and she who did the wrong Mourned with repentant heart amid that gay and happy throng. And with her was Zafira, to whom her husband brings More bliss and happiness than reign amid Granada's kings. And when she looked at brave Gazul his deeds her grief renew; The more she sees, the more her heart is ravished at the view. And now she blushes with desire, now grows with envy pale; Her heart is like the changing beam that quivers in the scale. Alminda sees the lovely dame with sudden anguish start, And speaks with hope she may reveal the secret of her heart. And troubled Zaida makes reply, "A sudden thought of ill Has flashed across my mind and caused the anguish that I feel." "'Twere better," said Alminda, "to check thy fancy's flight, For thought can rob the happiest hours of all their deep delight." Then said the maid of Xerez, "To me thou showest plain Thou hast not felt black envy's tooth nor known what is disdain. To know it, would thy spirit move to pity my despair, Who writhe and die from agony, in which thou hast no share." Zafira seized the lady's hand, and silence fell around, As mixed in loud confusion brushed the jousters to the ground. In came the Berber tribesmen, in varied cloaks arrayed; They ranged themselves in companies against the palisade. The sound of barbarous trumpets rang, the startled horses reared, And snort and neigh and tramp of hoofs on every side was heard, Then troop meets troop, and valiant hearts the mimic fight pursue; They hurl their javelins o'er the sand and pierce the bucklers through. Long time the battling hosts contend, until that festive day, The shout, the clash, the applauding cry, in silence die away. They fain had prayed that time himself would stop Apollo's car. They hate to see the sunset gloom, the rise of evening's star. And even when the sun is set, he who a foe discerns, With no less vigor to his targe the loaded javelin turns, The onset joined, each lance discharged, the judge's voice is heard; He bids the heralds sound a truce, and the wide lists are cleared. ABENUMEYA'S LAMENT The young Abenumeya, Granada's royal heir, Was brave in battle with his foe and gallant with the fair. By lovely Felisarda his heart had been ensnared, The daughter of brave Ferri; the captain of the guard. He through the vega of Genii bestrode his sorrel steed, Alone, on melancholy thoughts his anxious soul to feed, The tints that clothed the landscape round were gloomy as the scene Of his past life, wherein his lot had naught but suffering been. His mantle hue was of iron gray bestrewn with purple flowers, Which bloomed amid distress and pain, like hope of happier hours. And on his cloak were columns worked, (his cloak was saffron hued,) To show that dark suspicion's fears had tried his fortitude; His shield was blazoned with the moon, a purple streak above, To show that fears of fickleness are ever born with love. He bore an azure pennant 'neath the iron of his spear, To show that lovers oft go wrong deceived by jealous fear. The hood he wore was wrought of gold and silk of crimson clear; His bonnet crest was a heron plume with an emerald stone beneath; And under all a motto ran, "Too long a hope is death." He started forth in such array, but armed from head to heel With tempered blade and dagger and coat of twisted steel. And hangling low at his saddle-bow was the helmet for his head; And as he journeyed on his way the warrior sighed and said: "O Felisarda, dearest maid, him in thy memory keep Who in his soul has writ thy name in letters dark and deep. Think that for thee in coat of mail he ever rides afield, In his right hand the spear must stand, his left must grasp the shield. And he must skirmish in the plain and broil of battle brave, And wounded be, for weapons ne'er from jealousy can save." And as he spoke the lonely Moor from out his mantle's fold With many a sigh, that scorched the air, a lettered page unrolled. He tried in vain to read it but his eyes with tears were blind, And mantling clouds of sorrow hid the letters from his mind. The page was moistened by the tears that flowed in plenteous tide, But by the breath of sighs and sobs the softened page was dried. Fresh wounds he felt at sight of it, and when the cause he sought, His spirit to Granada flew upon the wings of thought. He thought of Albaicin, the palace of the dame, With its gayly gilded capitals and its walls of ancient fame. And the garden that behind it lay in which the palm was seen Swaying beneath the load of fruit its coronet of green. "O mistress of my soul," he said, "who callest me thine own, How easily all bars to bliss thy love might trample down! But time, that shall my constancy, thy fickleness will show, The world shall then my steadfast heart, thy tongue of treachery know. Woe worth the day when, for thy sake, I fair Granada sought, These anxious doubts may cloud my brow, they cannot guard thy thought. My foes increase, thy cruelty makes absence bitterer still, But naught can shake my constancy, and none can do me ill." On this from Alpujarra the tocsin sounded high. He rushed as one whose life is staked to save the maid or die. THE DESPONDENT LOVER He leaned upon his sabre's hilt, He trod upon his shield, Upon the ground he threw the lance That forced his foes to yield. His bridle hung at saddle-bow, And, with the reins close bound, His mare the garden entered free To feed and wander round. Upon a flowering almond-tree He fixed an ardent gaze; Its leaves were withered with the wind That flowers in ruin lays. Thus in Toledo's garden park, Did Abenamar wait, Who for fair Galliana Watched at the palace gate. The birds that clustered on the towers Spread out their wings to fly, And from afar his lady's veil He saw go floating by. And at this vision of delight, Which healed his spirit's pain, The exiled Moor took courage, And hope returned again. "O Galliana, best beloved, Whom art thou waiting now? And what has treacherous rendered My fortune and thy vow? Thou swearedst I should be thine own, Yet 'twas but yesterday We met, and with no greeting Thou wentest on thy way. Then, in my silence of distress, I wandered pondering-- If this is what to-day has brought, What will to-morrow bring? Happy the Moor from passion free, In peace or turmoil born, Who without pang of hate or love, Can slumber till the morn. O almond-tree, thou provest That the expected hours Of bliss may often turn to bane, As fade thy dazzling flowers. A mournful image art thou Of all that lays me low, And on my shield I'll bear thee As blazon of my woe. For thou dost bloom in many a flower, Till blasted by the wind, And 'tis of thee this word is true-- 'The season was not kind.'" He spoke and on his courser's head He slipped the bridle rein, And while he curbed his gentle steed He could not curb his pain, And to Ocana took his course, O'er Tagus' verdant plain. LOVE AND JEALOUSY "Unless thou wishest in one hour Thine April hope shouldst blighted be, Oh, tell me, Tarfe, tell me true, How I may Zaida chance to see. I mean the foreigner, the wife New wedded, her with golden hair, And for each lock a charm besides She counts--for she is passing fair. Her, whom the Moorish nobles all To heaven in their laudation raise, Till the fine ladies of the land Are left to languish in dispraise. The mosque I visit every day, And wait to see her come in sight; I wait to see her, where the rout And revel lengthen out the night. However, cost me what it may, I cannot meet the lovely dame. Ah, now my eyes are veiled in tears, Sure witness of my jealous flame. And tell me, Tarfe, that my rage Has cause enough, for since I've been Granada's guest (and would to God Granada I had never seen!) My lord forsakes me every night, Nor till the morning comes again; He shuns as painful my caress, My very presence brings him pain; Little indeed he recks of me, If only he may elsewhere reign. For if we in the garden meet, Or if we in the chamber be, His actions his estrangement prove, He has not even words for me. And if I say to him, 'My life!' He answers me, 'My dearest dear,' Yet with a coldness that congeals My very heart with sudden fear. And all the while I strive to make His soul reveal a traitorous thought, He turns his back on me, as if To him my trembling fear was naught. And when about his neck I cling, He drops his eyes and bows his face, As if, from thought of other arms He longed to slip from my embrace. His bosom heaves with discontent, Deep as from hell the sigh is wrenched; My heart with dark suspicion beats, And all my happiness is quenched. And if I ask of him the cause, He says the cause in me is found; That I am vain, the rover I, And to another's bosom bound. As if, since I have known his love, I at the window show my face, Or take another's hand in mine, Or seek the bull-ring, joust, or race; Or if my footsteps have been found To wander a suspected place, The prophet's curse upon me fall, Unless to keep the nuptial pact And serve the pleasure of my lord. I kept the Koran's law exact! But wherefore should I waste the time These tedious questions to recall? Thou knowest the chase on which he hies, And yet in silence hidest all. Nay, swear not--I will naught believe; Thine oaths are but a fowler's net, And woe betide the dame who falls Into the snare that thou hast set. For men are traitors one and all; And all their promises betray; Like letters on the water writ, They vanish, when love's fires decay. For to fulfil thy promise fair, What hours thou hast the whole day long, What chances on the open road, Or in the house when bolts are strong. O God! but what a thought is this? I strangle, in the sudden thrall Of this sharp pang of agony, Oh, hold me, Tarfe, lest I fall." Thus Adelifa weeping cried At thought of Abenamar's quest: In Moorish Tarfe's arms she fell, And panting lay upon his breast. THE CAPTIVE OF TOLEDO Upon the loftiest mountain height That rises in its pride, And sees its summits mirrored In Tagus' crystal tide, The banished Abenamar, Bound by a captive chain, Looks on the high-road to Madrid That seams the dusty plain. He measures, with his pining eyes, The stretching hills that stand Between his place of banishment And his sweet native land. His sighs and tears of sorrow No longer bear restraint, And thus in words of anguish He utters his complaint: "Oh, dismal is the exile That wrings the heart with woes And locks the lips in silence, Amid unfeeling foes. O road of high adventure, That leadest many a band To yon ungrateful country where My native turrets stand, The country that my valor Did oft with glory crown, The land that lets me languish here, Who won for her renown. Thou who hast succored many a knight, Hast thou no help for me, Who languish on Toledo's height In captive misery? 'Tis on thy world-wide chivalry I base my word of blame, 'Tis that I love thee most of all, Thy coldness brings me shame. Oh, dismal is the exile, That wrings my heart with woes, And locks my lips in silence Among unfeeling foes. The warden of fierce Reduan With cruelty more deep That that of a hidalgo, Has locked this prison keep; And on this frontier set me, To pine without repose, To watch, from dawn to sunset, Over his Christian foes. Here like a watch-tower am I set For Santiago's lord, And for a royal mistress Who breaks her plighted word. And when I cry with anguish And seek in song relief, With threats my life is threatened, Till silence cloak my grief. Oh, dismal is the exile, That wrings my heart with woes, And locks my lips in silence Among unfeeling foes. And when I stand in silence, Me dumb my jailers deem, And if I speak, in gentle words, They say that I blaspheme. Thus grievously perverting The sense of all I say, Upon my lips the raging crowd The gag of silence lay. Thus heaping wrong on wrong my foes Their prisoner impeach, Until the outrage of my heart Deprives my tongue of speech. And while my word the passion Of my sad heart betrays, My foes are all unconscious Of what my silence says. Now God confound the evil judge Who caused my misery, And had no heart of pity To soften his decree. Oh, dismal is the exile, That wrings my heart with woes, And locks my lips in silence Among unfeeling foes. THE BLAZON OF ABENAMAR By gloomy fortune overcast, Vassal of one he held in scorn, Complaining of the wintry world, And by his lady left forlorn, The wretched Abenamar mourned, Because his country was unkind, Had brought him to a lot of woe, And to a foreign home resigned. A stranger Moor had won the throne, And in Granada sat in state. Many the darlings of his soul He claimed with love insatiate, He, foul in face, of craven heart, Had won the mistress of the knight; Her blooming years of beauteous youth Were Abenamar's own by right. But royal favor had decreed A foreign tyrant there should reign, For many a galley owned him lord And master, in the seas of Spain. Oh, haply 'twas that Zaida's self, Ungrateful like her changing sex, Had chosen this emir, thus in scorn Her Abenamar's soul to vex. This was the thought that turned to tears The eyes of the desponding knight, As on his sufferings past he thought, His labors and his present plight; His hopes, to disappointment turned; His wealth, now held in alien hands, His agony o'er love betrayed, Lost honor, confiscated lands. And as his loyalty had met Such ill requital from the King, He called his page and bade him straight A limner deft before him bring. For he would have him paint at large, In color, many a new device And write his sufferings on his shield. No single blazon would suffice. And first a green field parched and seared; A coal, in myriad blazes burned, And like his ardent hopes of yore, At length to dust and ashes turned. And then a miser, rich in gold, Who locks away some jewel bright, For fear the thief a gem may steal, Which yet can yield him no delight. A fair Adonis done to death Beneath the wild boar's cruel tusk. A wintry dawn on pallid skies, A summer's day that turns to dusk. A lovely garden green and fair Ravaged and slashed by strokes of steel; Or wasted in its trim parterres And trampled by the common heel. So spake the brave heart-broken Moor; Until his tears and struggling sighs Turned to fierce rage; the painting then He waited for with eager eyes. He asks that one would fetch a steed, Of his good mare no more he recks, For womankind have done him wrong, And she is woman in her sex. The plumes of yellow, blue, and white From off his bonnet brim he tears, He will no longer carry them; They are the colors Zaida wears. He recks no more of woman's love, His city now he bids farewell, And swears he will no more return Nor in Granada seek to dwell. WOMAN'S FICKLENESS A stout and valorous gentleman, Granada knew his worth, And rich with many a spoil of love, Went Abenamar forth. Upon his bonnet, richly dyed, He bore a lettered scroll, It ran, "'Tis only love that makes The solace of my soul." His bonnet and his brow were hid Beneath a hood of green, And plumes of violet and white Above his head were seen. And 'twixt the tassel and the crown An emerald circlet shone. The legend of the jewel said, "Thou art my hope alone." He rode upon a dappled steed With housings richly dight, And at his left side clanking hung A scimitar of might. And his right arm was sleeved in cloth Of tawny lion's hue, And at his lance-head, lifted high, A Turkish pennon flew. And when he reached Daraja's camp He saw Daraja stand Beside his own perfidious love, And clasp her by the hand. He made to her the wonted sign, Then lingered for a while, For jealous anguish filled his heart To see her tender smile. He spurred his courser to the blood; One clattering bound he took, The Moorish maiden turned to him. Ah, love was in her look! Ah, well he saw his hopeless fate, And in his jealous mood The heart that nothing feared in fight Was whelmed in sorrow's flood. "O false and faithless one," he said, "What is it that I view? Thus the foreboding of my soul I see at last come true; Shame that a janizary vile, Of Christian creed and race, A butt of bright Alhambra's feasts, Has taken now my place. Where is the love thou didst avow, The pledge, the kiss, the tear, And all the tender promises Thou whisperedst in my ear? Thou, frailer than the withered reed, More changeful than the wind, More thankless than the hardest heart In all of womankind; I marvel not at what I see, Nor yet for vengeance call; For thou art woman to the core, And in that name is all." The gallant Moor his courser checked, His cheek with anger burned, Men saw, that all his gallant mien To gloom and rage was turned. KING JUAN "Abenamar, Abenamar," said the monarch to the knight, "A Moor art thou of the Moors, I trow, and the ladies' fond delight, And on the day when first you lay upon your mother's breast, On land and sea was a prodigy, to the Christians brought unrest; The sea was still as a ruined mill and the winds were hushed to rest. And the broad, broad moon sank down at noon, red in the stormy west. If thus thou wert born thou well mayst scorn to ope those lips of thine, That out should fly a treacherous lie, to meet a word of mine." "I have not lied," the Moor replied, and he bowed his haughty head Before the King whose wrath might fling his life among the dead. "I would not deign with falsehood's stain my lineage to betray; Tho' for the truth my life, in sooth, should be the price I pay. I am son and squire of a Moorish sire, who with the Christians strove, And the captive dame of Christian name was his fair wedded love; And I a child from that mother mild, who taught me at her knee Was ever told to be true and bold with a tongue that was frank and free, That the liar's art and the caitiff heart would lead to the house of doom; And still I must hear my mother dear, for she speaks to me from the tomb. Then give me my task, O King, and ask what question thou mayst choose; I will give to you the word that is true, for why should I refuse?" "I give you grace for your open face, and the courteous words you use. What castles are those on the hill where grows the palm-tree and the pine? They are so high that they touch the sky, and with gold their pinnacles shine." "In the sunset's fire there glisten, sire, Alhambra's tinted tiles; And somewhat lower Alijire's tower upon the vega smiles, And many a band of subtile hand has wrought its pillared aisles. The Moor whose thought and genius wrought those works for many moons Received each day a princely pay--five hundred gold doubloons-- Each day he left his labor deft, his guerdon was denied; Nor less he lost than his labor cost when he his hand applied. And yonder I see the Generalifé with its orchard green and wide; There are growing there the apple and pear that are Granada's pride. There shadows fall from the soaring wall of high Bermeja's tower; It has flourished long as a castle strong, the seat of the Soldan's power." The King had bent and his ear had lent to the words the warrior spoke, And at last he said, as he raised his head before the crowd of folk: "I would take thee now with a faithful vow, Granada for my bride, King Juan's Queen would hold, I ween, a throne and crown of pride; That very hour I would give thee dower that well would suit thy will; Cordova's town should be thine own, and the mosque of proud Seville. Nay, ask not, King, for I wear the ring of a faithful wife and true; Some graceful maid or a widow arrayed in her weeds is the wife for you, And close I cling to the Moorish King who holds me to his breast, For well I ween it can be seen that of all he loves me best." ABENAMAR'S JEALOUSY Alhambra's bell had not yet pealed Its morning note o'er tower and field; Barmeja's bastions glittered bright, O'ersilvered with the morning light; When rising from a pallet blest With no refreshing dews of rest, For slumber had relinquished there His place to solitary care, Brave Abenamar pondered deep How lovers must surrender sleep. And when he saw the morning rise, While sleep still sealed Daraja's eyes, Amid his tears, to soothe his pain, He sang this melancholy strain: "The morn is up, The heavens alight, My jealous soul Still owns the sway of night. Thro' all the night I wept forlorn, Awaiting anxiously the morn; And tho' no sunlight strikes on me, My bosom burns with jealousy. The twinkling starlets disappear; Their radiance made my sorrow clear; The sun has vanished from my sight, Turned into water is his light; What boots it that the glorious sun From India his course has run, To bring to Spain the gleam of day, If from my sight he hides away? The morn is up, The heavens are bright, My jealous soul Still owns the sway of night." ADELIFA'S JEALOUSY Fair Adelifa sees in wrath, kindled by jealous flames, Her Abenamar gazed upon by the kind Moorish dames. And if they chance to speak to him, or take him by the hand, She swoons to see her own beloved with other ladies stand. When with companions of his own, the bravest of his race, He meets the bull within the ring, and braves him to his face, Or if he mount his horse of war, and sallying from his tent Engages with his comrades in tilt or tournament, She sits apart from all the rest, and when he wins the prize She smiles in answer to his smile and devours him with her eyes. And in the joyous festival and in Alhambra's halls, She follows as he treads the dance at merry Moorish balls. And when the tide of battle is rising o'er the land, And he leaves his home, obedient to his honored King's command, With tears and lamentation she sees the warrior go With arms heroic to subdue the proud presumptuous foe. Though 'tis to save his country's towers he mounts his fiery steed She has no cheerful word for him, no blessing and godspeed; And were there some light pretext to keep him at her side, In chains of love she'd bind him there, whate'er the land betide. Or, if 'twere fair that dames should dare the terrors of the fight, She'd mount her jennet in his train and follow with delight. For soon as o'er the mountain ridge his bright plume disappears, She feels that in her heart the jealous smart that fills her eyes with tears. Yet when he stands beside her and smiles beneath her gaze, Her cheek is pale with passion pure, though few the words she says. Her thoughts are ever with him, and they fly the mountain o'er When in the shaggy forest he hunts the bristly boar. In vain she seeks the festal scene 'mid dance and merry song, Her heart for Abenamar has left that giddy throng. For jealous passion after all is no ignoble fire, It is the child of glowing love, the shadow of desire. Ah! he who loves with ardent breast and constant spirit must Feel in his inmost bosom lodged the arrows of distrust. And as the faithful lover by his loved one's empty seat Knows that the wind of love may change e'er once again they meet, So to this sad foreboding do fancied griefs appear As he who has most cause to love has too most cause for fear. And once, when placid evening was mellowing into night, The lovely Adelifa sat with her darling knight; And then the pent-up feeling from out her spirit's deeps Rose with a storm of heavy sighs and trembled on her lips: "My valiant knight, who art, indeed, the whole wide world to me, Clear mirror of victorious arms and rose of chivalry, Thou terror of thy valorous foe, to whom all champions yield, The rampart and the castle of fair Granada's field, In thee the armies of the land their bright example see, And all their hopes of victory are founded upon thee; And I, poor loving woman, have hope in thee no less, For thou to me art life itself, a life of happiness. Yet, in this anxious trembling heart strange pangs of fear arise, Ah, wonder not if oft you see from out these faithful eyes The tears in torrents o'er my cheek, e'en in thy presence flow. Half prompted by my love for thee and half by fears of woe, These eyes are like alembics, and when with tears they fill It is the flame of passion that does that dew distil. And what the source from which they flow, but the sorrow and the care That gather in my heart like mist, and forever linger there. And when the flame is fiercest and love is at its height, The waters rise to these fond eyes, and rob me of my sight, For love is but a lasting pain and ever goes with grief, And only at the spring of tears the heart can drink relief. Thus fire and love and fear combined bring to my heart distress, With jealous rage and dark distrust alarm and fitfulness. These rage within my bosom; they torment me till I'd weep. By day and night without delight a lonely watch I keep. By Allah, I beseech thee, if thou art true to me, That when the Moorish ladies turn round and gaze on thee, Thou wilt not glance again at them nor meet their smiling eye, Or else, my Abenamar, I shall lay me down and die. For thou art gallant, fair, and good; oh, soothe my heart's alarms, And be as tender in thy love as thou art brave in arms. And as they yield to thee the prize for valor in the field Oh, show that thou wilt pity to thy loving lady yield." Then Abenamar, with a smile, a kiss of passion gave. "If it be needful," he replied, "to give the pledge you crave To tell thee, Adelifa, that thou art my soul's delight And lay my inmost bosom bare before thy anxious sight, The bosom on whose mirror shines thy face in lines of light, Here let me ope the secret cell that thou thyself may see, The altar and the blazing lamp that always burn for thee. And if perchance thou art not thus released from torturing care, Oh, see the faith, the blameless love that wait upon thee there. And if thou dost imagine I am a perjured knight, I pray that Allah on my head may call down bane and blight, And when into the battle with the Christian I go I pray that I may perish by the lances of the foe; And when I don my armor for the toils of the campaign, That I may never wear the palm of victory again, But as a captive, on a shore far from Granada, pine, While the freedom that I long to have may never more be mine. Yes, may my foes torment me in that sad hour of need; My very friends, for their own ends, prove worthless as a reed. My kin deny, my fortune fly, and, on my dying day, My very hopes of Paradise in darkness pass away. Or if I live in freedom to see my love once more, May I meet the fate which most I hate, and at my palace door Find that some caitiff lover has won thee for his own, And turn to die, of mad despair, distracted and alone. Wherefore, my life, my darling wife, let all thy pain be cured; Thy trust in my fidelity be from this hour assured. No more those pearly tears of thine fall useless in the dust No more the jealous fear distract thy bosom with mistrust. Believe me by the oath I swear my heart I here resign, And all I have of love and care are, Adelifa, thine. Believe that Abenamar would his own life betray If he had courage thus to throw life's choicest gem away." Then Adelifa smiled on him and at the words he said, Upon his heaving bosom her blushing cheek she laid. And from that hour each jealous thought far from her mind she thrust And confidence returned again in place of dark distrust. FUNERAL OF ABENAMAR The Moors of haughty Gelves have changed their gay attire. The caftan and the braided cloak, the brooch of twisted wire, The gaudy robes, the mantles of texture rich and rare, The fluttering veils and tunic bright the Moors no longer wear. And wearied is their valorous strength, their sinewy arms hang down; No longer in their lady's sight they struggle for the crown. Whether their loves are absent or glowing in their eyes, They think no more of jealous feud nor smile nor favor prize; For love himself seems dead to-day amid that gallant train And the dirge beside the bier is heard and each one joins the strain, And silently they stand in line arrayed in mourning black For the dismal pall of Portugal is hung on every back. And their faces turned toward the bier where Abenamar lies, The men his kinsmen silent stand, amid the ladies' cries And thousand thousands ask and look upon the Moorish knight, By his coat of steel they weeping kneel, then turn them from the sight. And some proclaim his deeds of fame, his spirit high and brave, And the courage of adventure that had brought him to the grave. Some say that his heroic soul pined with a jealous smart, That disappointment and neglect had broke that mighty heart; That all his ancient hopes gave way beneath the cloud of grief, Until his green and youthful years were withered like a leaf; And he is wept by those he loved, by every faithful friend, And those who slandered him in life speak evil to the end. They found within his chamber where his arms of battle hung A parting message written all in the Moorish tongue: "Dear friends of mine, if ever in Gelves I should die, I would not that in foreign soil my buried ashes lie. But carry me, and dig my grave upon mine own estate, And raise no monument to me my life to celebrate, For banishment is not more dire where evil men abound, Than where home smiles upon you, but the good are never found." BALLAD OF ALBAYALDOS Three mortal wounds, three currents red, The Christian spear Has oped in head and thigh and head-- Brave Albayaldos feels that death is near. The master's hand had dealt the blow, And long had been And hard the fight; now in his heart's blood low He wallows, and the pain, the pain is keen. He raised to heaven his streaming face And low he said: "Sweet Jesus, grant me by thy grace, Unharmed to make this passage to the dead. "Oh, let me now my sins recount, And grant at last Into thy presence I may mount, And thou, dear mother, think not of my past. "Let not the fiend with fears affright My trembling soul; Though bitter, bitter is the night Whose darkling clouds this moment round me roll. "Had I but listened to your plea, I ne'er had met Disaster; though this life be lost to me, Let not your ban upon my soul be set. "In him, in him alone I trust, To him I pray, Who formed this wretched body from the dust. He will redeem me in the Judgment Day. "And Muza, one last service will I ask, Dear friend of mine: Here, where I died, be it thy pious task To bury me beneath the tall green pine. "And o'er my head a scroll indite, to tell How, on this sod, Fighting amid my valiant Moors, I fell. And tell King Chico how I turned to God, "And longed to be a Christian at the last, And sought the light, So that the accursed Koran could not cast My soul to suffer in eternal night." THE NIGHT RAID OF REDUAN Two thousand are the Moorish knights that 'neath the banner stand Of mighty Reduan, as he starts in ravage thro' the land. With pillage and with fire he wastes the fields and fruitful farms, And thro' the startled border-land is heard the call to arms; By Jaen's towers his host advance and, like a lightning flash, Ubeda and Andujar can see his horsemen dash, While in Baeza every bell Does the appalling tidings tell, "Arm! Arm!" Rings on the night the loud alarm. So silently they gallop, that gallant cavalcade, The very trumpet's muffled tone has no disturbance made. It seems to blend with the whispering sound of breezes on their way, The rattle of their harness and the charger's joyous neigh. But now from hill and turret high the flaming cressets stream And watch-fires blaze on every hill and helm and hauberk gleam. From post to post the signal along the border flies And the tocsin sounds its summons and the startled burghers rise, While in Baeza every bell Does the appalling tidings tell, "Arm! Arm!" Rings on the night the loud alarm. Ah, suddenly that deadly foe has fallen upon the prey, Yet stoutly rise the Christians and arm them for the foe, And doughty knights their lances seize and scour their coats of mail, The soldier with his cross-bow comes and the peasant with his flail. And Jaen's proud hidalgos, Andujar's yeomen true, And the lords of towered Ubeda the pagan foes pursue; And valiantly they meet the foe nor turn their backs in flight, And worthy do they show themselves of their fathers' deeds of might, While in Baeza every bell Does the appalling tidings tell, "Arm! Arm!" Rings on the night the loud alarm. The gates of dawn are opened and sunlight fills the land, The Christians issuing from the gates in martial order stand, They close in fight, and paynim host and Christian knights of Spain, Not half a league from the city gate, are struggling on the plain. The din of battle rises like thunder to the sky, From many a crag and forest the thundering echoes fly, And there is sound of clashing arms, of sword and rattling steel, Moorish horns, the fife and drum, as the scattering squadrons reel, And the dying moan and the wounded shriek for the hurt that none can heal, While in Baeza every bell Does the appalling tidings tell, "Arm! Arm!" Rings on the night the loud alarm. SIEGE OF JAEN Now Reduan gazes from afar on Jaen's ramparts high, And tho' he smiles in triumph yet fear is in his eye, And vowed has he, whose courage none charged with a default, That he would climb the ramparts and take it by assault, Yet round the town the towers and walls the city's streets impale, And who of all his squadrons that bastion can scale? He pauses until one by one his hopes have died away, And his soul is filled with anguish and his face with deep dismay. He marks the tall escarpment, he measures with his eye The soaring towers above them that seem to touch the sky. Height upon height they mount to heaven, while glittering from afar Each cresset on the watch-towers burns like to a baleful star. His eyes and heart are fixed upon the rich and royal town, And from his eye the tear of grief, a manly tear, flows down. His bosom heaves with sighs of grief and heavy discontent, As to the royal city he makes his sad lament: "Ah, many a champion have I lost, fair Jaen, at thy gate, Yet lightly did I speak of thee with victory elate, The prowess of my tongue was more than all that I could do, And my word outstripped the lance and sword of my squadron strong and true. And yet I vowed with courage rash thy turrets I would bring To ruin and thy subjects make the captives of my King. That in one night my sword of might, before the morrow's sun, Would do for thy great citadel what centuries have not done. I pledged my life to that attempt, and vowed that thou shouldest fall, Yet now I stand in impotence before thy castle tall. For well I see, before my might shall win thee for my King, That thou, impregnable, on me wilt rout and ruin bring, Ah, fatal is the hasty tongue that gives such quick consent, And he who makes the hasty vow in leisure must repent. Ah! now too late I mourn the word that sent me on this quest, For I see that death awaits me here whilst thou livest on at rest, For I must enter Jaen's gates a conqueror or be sent Far from Granada's happy hills in hopeless banishment; But sorest is the thought that I to Lindaraja swore: If Jaen should repulse me I'd return to her no more; No more a happy lover would I linger at her side, Until Granada's warrior host had humbled Jaen's pride." Then turning to his warriors, the Moorish cavalier Asks for their counsel and awaits their answer while with fear. Five thousand warriors tried and true the Moors were standing near, All armed with leathern buckler, all armed with sword and spear. "The place," they answer, "is too strong, by walls too high 'tis bound, Too many are the watch-towers that circle it around. The knights and proud hidalgos who on the wall are seen, Their hearts are bold, their arms are strong, their swords and spears are keen. Disaster will be certain as the rising of the day, And victory and booty are a slippery prize," they say, "It would be wise in this emprise the conflict to forego; Not all the Moors Granada boasts could lay proud Jaen low." THE DEATH OF REDUAN He shrank not from his promise, did Reduan the brave, The promise to Granada's King with daring high he gave; And when the morning rose and lit the hills with ruddy glow, He marshalled forth his warriors to strike a final blow. With shouts they hurry to the walls, ten thousand fighting men-- Resolved to plant the crescent on the bulwarks of Jaen. The bugle blast upon the air with clarion tone is heard, The burghers on the city wall reply with scoffing word; And like the noise of thunder the clattering squadrons haste, And on his charger fleet he leads his army o'er the waste. In front of his attendants his march the hero made, He tarried not for retinue or clattering cavalcade, And they who blamed the rash assault with weak and coward minds Deserted him their leader bold or loitered far behind. And now he stands beneath the wall and sees before him rise The object of the great campaign, his valor's priceless prize; He dreams one moment that he holds her subject to his arms, He dreams that to Granada he flies from war's alarms, Each battlement he fondly eyes, each bastion grim and tall, And in fancy sees the crescents rise above the Christian wall. But suddenly an archer has drawn his bow of might, And suddenly the bolt descends in its unerring flight, Straight to the heart of Reduan the fatal arrow flies, The gallant hero struck to death upon the vega lies. And as he lies, from his couch of blood, in melancholy tone, Thus to the heavens the hero stout, though fainting, makes his moan, And ere his lofty soul in death forth from its prison breaks, Brave Reduan a last farewell of Lindaraja takes: "Ah, greater were the glory had it been mine to die, Not thus among the Christians and hear their joyful cry, But in that happy city, reclining at thy feet, Where thou with kind and tender hands hast wove my winding-sheet. Ah! had it been my fate once more to gaze upon thy face, And love and pity in those eyes with dying glance to trace, Altho' a thousand times had death dissolved this mortal frame, Soon as thy form before me in radiant beauty came, A thousand times one look of thine had given me back my breath, And called thy lover to thy side even from the gate of death. What boots it, Lindaraja, that I, at Jaen's gate, That unsurrendered city, have met my final fate? What boots it, that this city proud will ne'er the Soldan own, For thee and not for Jaen this hour I make my moan; I weep for Lindaraja, I weep to think that she May mourn a hostage and a slave in long captivity. But worse than this that some proud Moor will take thee to his heart, And all thy thoughts of Reduan new love may bid depart. And dwelling on thy beauty he will deem it better far, To win fair Lindaraja than all the spoils of war, Yet would I pray if Mahomet, whose servant I have been, Should ever from the throne of God look on this bloody scene, And deem it right to all my vows requital fit to make, And for my valor who attacked the town I could not take, That he would make thy constancy as steadfast as the tower Of Jaen's mighty fortress, that withstood the Moorish power; Now as my life be ebbing fast, my spirit is oppressed, And Reduan the warrior bold is sinking to his rest, Oh, may my prayers be answered, if so kind heaven allow, And may the King forgive me for the failure of my vow, And, Lindaraja, may my soul, when it has taken its flight, And for the sweet Elysian fields exchange these realms of night, Contented in the joys and peace of that celestial seat, Await the happy moment when we once more shall meet." THE AGED LOVER 'Twas from a lofty balcony Arselia looked down On golden Tagus' crystal stream that hemmed Toledo's town; And now she watched the eddies that dimpled in the flood And now she landward turned her eye to gaze on waste and wood, But in all that lay around her she sought for rest in vain, For her heart, her heart was aching, and she could not heal the pain. 'Tis of no courtly gallant the Moorish damsel dreams, No lordly emir who commands the fort by Tagus' streams, 'Twas on the banks of Tornes stood the haughty towers of note Where the young alcaydé loved by the maid from cities dwelt remote. And never at Almanzor's court had he for honor sought, Though he dwelt in high Toledo in fair Arselia's thought; And now she dreams of love's great gift, of passion's deep delight, When far away from her palace walls a stranger came in sight. It was no gallant lovelorn youth she saw approaching fast, It was the hero Reduan whose vernal years were past. He rode upon a sorrel horse and swiftly he came nigh, And stood where the dazzling sun beat down upon her balcony; And with a thoughtful air upon the maiden turned his eye, For suddenly the aged knight feels all his heart on fire, And all the frost of his broken frame is kindling with desire. And while he fain would hide his pain he paces up and down Before the palace turrets that Toledo's rampart crown. With anger glows the maiden's mind, "Now get thee gone," she cries, "For can it be that love of me in blood like thine can rise? I sicken at the very thought; thy locks, old man, are gray, Thy baldness and thy trembling hand a doting age betray. Ah, little must thou count my years of beauty and of bloom, If thou wouldst wed them with a life thus tottering to the tomb, Decrepitude is now thy lot, and wherefore canst thou dare To ask that youthful charms these vile infirmities should share?" And Moorish Reduan heard her words, and saw the meaning plain. Advancing to the balcony he answered her again: "The sun is king of everything, o'er all he holds his sway, And thou art like the sun--thy charms I own and I obey; Thy beauty warms my veins again, and in its rays, forsooth, I feel the blithe, courageous mood of long-forgotten youth; Sure love of mine can harm thee not, as sunlight is not lost When its kind radiance dissolves the fetters of the frost." Then turning round, a parchment did Reduan unfold, And on it was a writing in characters of gold; The meaning of the posy at once the maiden caught: "Since I can venture, I can have; as yet, I am not naught." He shows upon his shield a sun, circled with burning rays; And on the rim was written a little verse which says, "Two suns, one on my shield, and one in beauty's eyes, I trace." Then at the cold disdain he saw upon her lovely face, He covered with a gauzy veil the blazon of his shield, "The sun upon my targe," he cried, "before thy light must yield." But as the maid still pouted and eyed him with disdain, "The mimic sun," continued he, "which here is blazoned plain, Is overcast and hides itself from the true orb of day, And I by beauty's radiance eclipsed must ride away." And as he spoke the Moor struck deep the rowels in his steed, And rode away from Tagus' side across the grassy mead. The Moorish maiden recked not if he were far or near, Her thoughts returned to fancies sweet of her absent cavalier. FICKLENESS REBUKED While in the foeman's ruddy gore I waded to the breast, And for mine own, my native shore Fought braver than the best, While the light cloak I laid aside, And doffed the damask fold, And donned my shirt of mail, the spoil Of foeman brave and bold, Thou, fickle Mooress, puttest on Thine odorous brocade, And hand in hand with thy false love Wert sitting in the shade. Thus on the scutcheon of thy sires Thou plantest many a stain; The pillars of thine ancient house Will ne'er be firm again. But, oh, may Allah vengeance take For thine unkind deceit, And sorely weeping mayst thou pay The vengeance that is meet. Thus shalt thou pay--thy lover's bliss Thou shalt not, canst not share, But feel the bitter mockery Thy day-long shame must bear. And what revenge 'twill be to note When thou dost kiss his brow, How thy gold tresses, soft and light, Blend with his locks of snow; And what revenge to hear him To thee his loves recount, Praising some Moorish lass, or mark His sons thy staircase mount. Yes, thou shalt pay the penalty, When, from sweet Genil's side, Thou passest to the stormy waves Of Tagus' rushing tide; Abencerrajes are not there, And from thy balcony Thou shalt not hear the horsemen With loud hoof rushing by. Thoughts of lost days shall haunt thee then And lay thy spirit waste, When thy past glories thou shalt see All faded and effaced; All gone, those sweet, seductive wiles-- The love note's scented scroll-- The words, and blushing vows, that brought Damnation to thy soul. Thus the bright moments of the past Shall rise to memory's eye, Like vengeance-bearing ministers To mock thy misery. For time is father of distress; And he whose life is long Experiences a thousand cares, A thousand shapes of wrong. Thou shalt be hated in the court, And hated in the stall, Hated in merry gathering, In dance and festival. Thou shalt be hated far and wide; And, thinking on this hate, Wilt lay it to the black offence That thou didst perpetrate. Then thou wilt make some weak defence, And plead a father's will, That forced thee shuddering to consent To do the act of ill. Enjoy then him whom thus constrained Thou choosest for thine own; But know, when love would have his way, He scorns a father's frown. THE GALLEY-SLAVE OF DRAGUT Ah, fortune's targe and butt was he, On whom were rained the strokes from hate From love that had not found its goal, From strange vicissitudes of fate. A galley-slave of Dragut he, Who once had pulled the laboring oar, Now, 'mid a garden's leafy boughs, He worked and wept in anguish sore. "O Mother Spain! for thy blest shore Mine eyes impatient yearn; For thy choicest gem is bride of mine, And she longs for my return. They took me from the galley bench; A gardener's slave they set me here, That I might tend the fruit and flowers Through all the changes of the year; Wise choice, indeed, they made of me! For when the drought has parched the field, The clouds that overcast my heart Shall rain in every season yield. O mother Spain! for thy blest shore Mine eyes impatient yearn; For thy choicest gem is bride of mine, And she longs for my return. "They took me from the galley's hold; It was by heaven's all-pitying grace. Yet, even in this garden glade, Has fortune turned away her face. Though lighter now my lot of toil, Yet is it heavier, since no more My tear-dimmed eyes, my heart discern, Across the sea, my native shore. O mother Spain! for thy blest shore Mine eyes impatient yearn; For thy choicest gem is bride of mine, And she longs for my return. "And you, ye exiles, who afar In many a foreign land have strayed; And from strange cities o'er the sea A second fatherland have made-- Degenerate sons of glorious Spain! One thing ye lacked to keep you true, The love no stranger land could share; The courage that could fate subdue. O mother Spain! for thy blest shore Mine eyes impatient yearn; For thy choicest gem is bride of mine, And she longs for my return." THE CAPTIVE'S LAMENT Where Andalusia's plains at length end in the rocky shore, And the billows of the Spanish sea against her boundaries roar, A thousand ruined castles, that were once the haughty pride Of high Cadiz, in days long past, looked down upon the tide. And on the loftiest of them all, in melancholy mood, A solitary captive that stormy evening stood. For he had left the battered skiff that near the land wash lay, And here he sought to rest his soul, and while his grief away, While now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow, And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below. Ah, yes, beneath the fierce levant, the wild white horses pranced; With rising rage the billows against those walls advanced; But stormier were the thoughts that filled his heart with bitter pain, As he turned his tearful eyes once more to gaze upon the main. "O hostile sea," these words at last burst from his heaving breast; "I know that I return to die, but death at least is rest. Then let me on my native shore again in freedom roam, For here alone is shelter, for here at last is home." And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow, And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below. 'Twas Tagus' banks to me a child my home and nurture gave; Ungrateful land, that lets me pine unransomed as a slave. For now to-day, a dying man, am I come back again, And I must lay my bones on this, the farthest shore of Spain. It is not only exile's sword that cuts me to the heart; It is not only love for her from whom they bade me part; Nor only that I suffer, forgot by every friend, But, ah! it is the triple blow that brings me to my end." And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow, And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below. "The fire with which my bosom burns, alas! thy coolest breeze Can never slake, nor can its rage thy coolest wave appease; The earth can bring no solace to the ardor of my pain, And the whole ocean waters were poured on it in vain. For it is like the blazing sun that sinks in ocean's bed, And yet, with ardor all unquenched, next morning rears its head. Thus from the sea my suffering's flame has driven me once more, And here I land, without a hope, upon this arid shore." And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow, And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below. "Oh, call me not, oh, call me not, thou voice of other years, The fire that flames within my heart has dried the spring of tears. And, while my eyes might well pour forth those bitter drops of pain, The drought of self-consuming grief has quenched the healing rain. Here, let me cry aloud for her, whom once I called mine own, For well I wot that loving maid for me has made her moan. 'Tis for her sake my flight I urge across the sea and land, And now 'twixt shore and ocean's roar I take my final stand." And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow, And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below. Then stooping to the earth he grasped the soil with eager hand, He kissed it, and with water he mixed the thirsty sand. "O thou," he said, "poor soil and stream, in the Creator's plan Art the end and the beginning of all that makes us man! From thee rise myriad passions, that stir the human breast, To thee at last, when all is o'er, they sink to find their rest. Thou, Earth, hast been my mother, and when these pangs are o'er, Thou shalt become my prison-house whence I can pass no more." And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow, And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below. And now he saw the warring winds that swept across the bay Had struck the battered shallop and carried it away. "O piteous heaven," he cried aloud, "my hopes are like yon bark: Scattered upon the storm they lie and never reach their mark." And suddenly from cloudy heavens came down the darkling night And in his melancholy mood the captive left the height. He gained his boat, with trembling hand he seized the laboring oar And turning to the foaming wave he left his native shore. "Ah, well I wot on ocean's breast when loud the tempest blows Will rest be found when solid ground denies the heart repose. Now let the hostile sea perceive no power of hers I dread, But rather ask her vengeance may fall upon my head." Into the night the shallop turned, while floated far behind The captive's lamentation like a streamer on the wind. And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow, And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below. STRIKE SAIL! A Turkish bark was on the sea, the sunny sea of Spain, In sight of cliffs that Hercules made boundaries of the main; And one, Celimo's captive slave, as fierce the billows grew, Was listening as the ship-master this order gave the crew: "Strike sail! Strike sail! The furious gale Is rising fast! Strike sail!" Fierce fell on them the opposing winds, the ship was helpless driven; And with the ocean's flood were blent the thunder-drops of heaven. And as the inky clouds were rent, the fiery lightning flared, And 'mid the terror-stricken crew one voice alone was heard: "Strike sail! Strike sail! The furious gale Is rising fast! Strike sail!" And one there sat upon the deck, in captive misery, Whose tears ran mingling with the flood, the flood of sky and sea. Lost in the tempest of his thoughts, he fondly breathed a prayer, Whose mournful words were echoed by the mount of his despair: "Strike sail! Strike sail! The furious gale Is rising fast! Strike sail!" "If I am captive and a slave, the time shall come when God Will bring me freed, to tread once more my own, my native sod! Then all my ancient glory shall return to me for aye. Till then, my soul, be patient and wait that happy day!" "Strike sail! Strike sail! The furious gale Is rising fast! Strike sail!" THE CAPTIVE'S ESCAPE The fair Florida sat at ease, upon a summer's day, Within a garden green and fair that by the river lay, And gayly asked that he her spouse would tell his darling wife The cause of his captivity, the history of his life. "Now tell me, dearest husband, I pray thee tell me true, Who were thy parents, and what land thy birth and nurture knew? And wherefore did they take thee a captive from that place, And who has given thee liberty, thy homeward path to trace?" "Yes, I will tell thee, gentle wife, and I will tell thee true, For tender is the light I see within thine eyes of blue. In Ronda did my father raise his castle on the height; And 'twas in Antequera first my mother saw the light. Me, to this dark captivity, the dastard Moors ensnared, Just as the peace had ended and war was not declared. They took me off in fetters, to barter me for gold, Velez-de-la-Gomèra was the town where I was sold. Seven weary days, and for each day a long and weary night, They set me on the auction-block, before the people's sight. Yet not a Moorish gentleman and not a Moorish wife A maravedi offered for the mournful captive's life. At last there came a Moorish dog, in rich attire, and gave A thousand golden pieces to have me for his slave. He led me to his lofty house, and bade me there remain, Mocked by his lowest underlings, and loaded with a chain. Ah! vile the life he led me, and deep revenge I swore; Ah! black the life he gave me, and hard the toils I bore! By day I beat the piled-up hemp cut from the vega plain; By night, within the darkened mill, I ground for him the grain. And though the very corn I ground, I longed to take for meat, He placed a bridle on my mouth that I should nothing eat! Therefore, it pleased the God who rules the heavens, the land, the sea, That the mistress of that mighty house looked tenderly on me. And when the Moor a-hunting went, one happy autumn day, She came into my prison-house and took my chains away; She bade me sit upon her lap, I answered with delight; Ah, many a gallant present she made to me that night! She bathed me and she washed my wounds, and garments fresh she gave, Far brighter than were fit to deck the body of a slave; And love's delight we shared that night, for I grew gay and bold! And in the morn she gave to me a hundred crowns of gold. She oped the gates, she bade me, with smiles, once more be free; We fled, for fear that Moorish hound would slay both her and me. And so it pleased the God who rules the earth and heavens above, To prove his deep compassion and the greatness of his love; And thus my sad captivity, my days of wandering, o'er, Florida, in thy loving arms I nestle as of yore!" THE SPANIARD OF ORAN Right gallant was that gentleman, the warlike knight of Spain, Who served the King in Oran, with sword and lances twain; But, with his heart's devotion and passion's ardent fire, He served a gentle Afric maid of high and noble sire. And she was fair as noble, and well could she requite The devotion of a lover and the courage of a knight. And when one summer evening they paid their vows again, They heard the alarum ring to arms across the darkling plain; For the foes' approach had roused the watch and caused the war-like sound. The silver moon had shed its ray upon their targes round, The targes shot the message to the silent watch-towers by, And watch-towers sent their tidings by flames that lit the sky; And the fires had called the bells on high to ring their clear alarms-- That tocsin roused the lover locked in the lady's arms. Ah, sorely felt he in his heart the spur of honor prick, But love's appeal that held him, it pierced him to the quick. 'Twas cowardice to dally and shrink that foe to face, But, ah, it was ingratitude to leave her in that case. And hanging round her lover's neck, she saw that he turned pale, And seized his sword and cast one glance upon his coat of mail; And, with a burst of sighs and tears she bowed her beauteous head; "Oh, rise, my lord, gird on thy arms, and join the fray," she said; "Oh, let my tears this couch bedew; this couch of joy shall be As dolorous as the dreary field of battle, without thee! Arm, arm thyself and go to war! Hark, hark! the foes approach. Thy general waits; oh, let him not thy knightliness reproach! Oh, direly will he visit thee for cowardice to-day, For dire the crime in any clime of soldiers who betray. Well canst thou glide unnoticed to the camp, without thy sword; Wilt thou not heed my tears, my sighs--begone without a word! Thy bosom is not made of flesh, for, ah! thou canst not feel, Thou hast no need of arms in fight, for it is hard as steel." The Spaniard gazed upon her, his heart was full of pride; She held him fast and even her words retained him at her side. "Lady," he said, and kissed her, "spite of thy words unwise, Thou art as sweet as ever in thy lover's faithful eyes. And since to love and honor this night thou hast appealed, I take my arms and go, for right it is to thee I yield; I go into the battle and my body seeks the fight, But my soul behind me lingers in thy bosom of delight; Oh, grant me, Lord and Master, to seek the camp below, Oh, let me take the name to-night and I will cheerful go, Bearing the sword, the lance, and coat of mail against the foe!" MOORISH ROMANCES [_Metrical Translation by J. Lockhart_] MOORISH ROMANCES THE BULL-FIGHT OF GAZUL [Gazul is the name of one of the Moorish heroes who figure in the "_Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada_." The following ballad is one of very many in which the dexterity of the Moorish cavaliers in the bull-fight is described. The reader will observe that the shape, activity, and resolution of the unhappy animal destined to furnish the amusement of the spectators, are enlarged upon, just as the qualities of a modern race-horse might be among ourselves: nor is the bull without his name. The day of the Baptist is a festival among the Mussulmans, as well as among Christians.] King Almanzor of Granada, he hath bid the trumpet sound, He hath summonded all the Moorish lords, from the hills and plains around; From vega and sierra, from Betis and Xenil, They have come with helm and cuirass of gold and twisted steel. Tis the holy Baptist's feast they hold in royalty and state, And they have closed the spacious lists beside the Alhambra's gate; In gowns of black and silver laced, within the tented ring, Eight Moors to fight the bull are placed in presence of the King. Eight Moorish lords of valor tried, with stalwart arm and true, The onset of the beasts abide, as they come rushing through; The deeds they've done, the spoils they've won, fill all with hope and trust, Yet ere high in heaven appears the sun they all have bit the dust. Then sounds the trumpet clearly, then clangs the loud tambour, Make room, make room for Gazul--throw wide, throw wide the door; Blow, blow the trumpet clearer still, more loudly strike the drum, The Alcaydé of Algava to fight the bull doth come. And first before the King he passed, with reverence stooping low, And next he bowed him to the Queen, and the Infantas all a-row; Then to his lady's grace he turned, and she to him did throw A scarf from out her balcony was whiter than the snow. With the life-blood of the slaughtered lords all slippery is the sand, Yet proudly in the centre hath Gazul ta'en his stand; And ladies look with heaving breast, and lords with anxious eye, But firmly he extends his arm--his look is calm and high. Three bulls against the knight are loosed, and two come roaring on, He rises high in stirrup, forth stretching his rejón; Each furious beast upon the breast he deals him such a blow He blindly totters and gives back, across the sand to go. "Turn, Gazul, turn," the people cry--the third comes up behind, Low to the sand his head holds he, his nostrils snuff the wind; The mountaineers that lead the steers, without stand whispering low, "Now thinks this proud alcaydé to stun Harpado so?" From Guadiana comes he not, he comes not from Xenil, From Gaudalarif of the plain, or Barves of the hill; But where from out the forest burst Xarama's waters clear, Beneath the oak-trees was he nursed, this proud and stately steer. Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within doth boil, And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as he paws to the turmoil. His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal rings of snow; But now they stare with one red glare of brass upon the foe. Upon the forehead of the bull the horns stand close and near, From out the broad and wrinkled skull, like daggers they appear; His neck is massy, like the trunk of some old knotted tree, Whereon the monster's shaggy mane, like billows curled, ye see. His legs are short, his hams are thick, his hoofs are black as night, Like a strong flail he holds his tail in fierceness of his might; Like something molten out of iron, or hewn from forth the rock, Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the alcaydé's shock. Now stops the drum--close, close they come--thrice meet, and thrice give back; The white foam of Harpado lies on the charger's breast of black-- The white foam of the charger on Harpado's front of dun-- Once more advance upon his lance--once more, thou fearless one! Once more, once more;--in dust and gore to ruin must thou reel-- In vain, in vain thou tearest the sand with furious heel-- In vain, in vain, thou noble beast, I see, I see thee stagger, Now keen and cold thy neck must hold the stern alcaydé's dagger! They have slipped a noose around his feet, six horses are brought in, And away they drag Harpado with a loud and joyful din. Now stoop thee, lady, from thy stand, and the ring of price bestow Upon Gazul of Algava, that hath laid Harpado low. THE ZEGRI'S BRIDE [The reader cannot need to be reminded of the fatal effects which were produced by the feuds subsisting between the two great families, or rather races, of the Zegris and the Abencerrages of Granada. The following ballad is also from the "_Guerras Civiles_."] Of all the blood of Zegri, the chief is Lisaro, To wield rejón like him is none, or javelin to throw; From the place of his dominion, he ere the dawn doth go, From Alcala de Henares, he rides in weed of woe. He rides not now as he was wont, when ye have seen him speed To the field of gay Toledo, to fling his lusty reed; No gambeson of silk is on, nor rich embroidery Of gold-wrought robe or turban--nor jewelled tahali. No amethyst nor garnet is shining on his brow, No crimson sleeve, which damsels weave at Tunis, decks him now; The belt is black, the hilt is dim, but the sheathed blade is bright; They have housened his barb in a murky garb, but yet her hoofs are light. Four horsemen good, of the Zegri blood, with Lisaro go out; No flashing spear may tell them near, but yet their shafts are stout; In darkness and in swiftness rides every armed knight-- The foam on the rein ye may see it plain, but nothing else is white. Young Lisaro, as on they go, his bonnet doffeth he, Between its folds a sprig it holds of a dark and glossy tree; That sprig of bay, were it away, right heavy heart had he-- Fair Zayda to her Zegri gave that token privily. And ever as they rode, he looked upon his lady's boon. "God knows," quoth he, "what fate may be--I may be slaughtered soon; Thou still art mine, though scarce the sign of hope that bloomed whilere, But in my grave I yet shall have my Zayda's token dear." Young Lisaro was musing so, when onward on the path, He well could see them riding slow; then pricked he in his wrath. The raging sire, the kinsmen of Zayda's hateful house, Fought well that day, yet in the fray the Zegri won his spouse. THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA [The following ballad has been often imitated by modern poets, both in Spain and in Germany: "_Pon te a las rejas azules, dexa la manga que labras, Melancholica Xarifa, veras al galan Andalla." etc_.] "Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town. From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are flowing, And the lovely lute doth speak between the trumpet's lordly blowing, And banners bright from lattice light are waving everywhere, And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom floats proudly in the air: Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town. "Arise, arise, Xarifa, I see Andalla's face, He bends him to the people with a calm and princely grace. Through all the land of Xeres and banks of Guadalquivir Rode forth bridegroom so brave as he, so brave and lovely never. Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow of purple mixed with white, I guess 'twas wreathed by Zara, whom he will wed to-night; Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town. "What aileth thee, Xarifa, what makes thine eyes look down? Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze with all the town? I've heard you say on many a day, and sure you said the truth, Andalla rides without a peer, among all Granada's youth. Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white horse doth go Beneath his stately master, with a stately step and slow; Then rise, oh, rise, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down; Unseen here through the lattice, you may gaze with all the town." The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her cushion down, Nor came she to the window to gaze with all the town; But though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in vain her fingers strove, And though her needle pressed the silk, no flower Xarifa wove; One bonny rose-bud she had traced, before the noise drew nigh-- That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow drooping from her eye. "No--no," she sighs--"bid me not rise, nor lay my cushion down, To gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing town." "Why rise ye not, Xarifa, nor lay your cushion down? Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, with all the gazing town? Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells, and how the people cry! He stops at Zara's palace gate--why sit ye still--oh, why?" "At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate; in him shall I discover The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth with tears, and was my lover? I will not rise, with dreary eyes, nor lay my cushion down, To gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing town!" ZARA'S EAR-RINGS "My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they've dropped into the well, And what to say to Muça, I cannot, cannot tell." 'Twas thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daughter, "The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water-- To me did Muça give them, when he spake his sad farewell, And what to say when he comes back, alas! I cannot tell. "My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they were pearls in silver set, That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget, That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on other's tale, But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings pale-- When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in the well, Oh, what will Muça think of me, I cannot, cannot tell. "My ear-rings! my ear-rings! he'll say they should have been, Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen, Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear, Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere-- That changeful mind unchanging gems are not befitting well-- Thus will he think--and what to say, alas! I cannot tell. "He'll think when I to market went, I loitered by the way; He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say; He'll think some other lover's hand, among my tresses noosed, From the ears where he had placed them, my rings of pearl unloosed; He'll think, when I was sporting so beside this marble well, My pearls fell in,--and what to say, alas! I cannot tell. "He'll say, I am a woman, and we are all the same; He'll say I loved when he was here to whisper of his flame-- But when he went to Tunis my virgin troth had broken, And thought no more of Muça, and cared not for his token. My ear-rings! my ear-rings! O luckless, luckless well, For what to say to Muça, alas! I cannot tell. "I'll tell the truth to Muça, and I hope he will believe-- That I thought of him at morning, and thought of him at eve; That, musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone, His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone; And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they fell, And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the well." THE LAMENTATION FOR CELIN At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are barred, At twilight at the Vega gate there is a trampling heard; There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow, And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of woe. "What tower is fallen, what star is set, what chief come these bewailing?" "A tower is fallen, a star is set. Alas! alas for Celin!" Three times they knock, three times they cry, and wide the doors they throw; Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go; In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath the hollow porch, Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and flaming torch; Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wailing, For all have heard the misery. "Alas! alas for Celin!"-- Him yesterday a Moor did slay, of Bencerraje's blood, 'Twas at the solemn jousting, around the nobles stood; The nobles of the land were by, and ladies bright and fair Looked from their latticed windows, the haughty sight to share; But now the nobles all lament, the ladies are bewailing, For he was Granada's darling knight. "Alas! alas for Celin!" Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two, With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to view; Behind him his four sisters, each wrapped in sable veil, Between the tambour's dismal strokes take up their doleful tale; When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their brotherless bewailing, And all the people, far and near, cry--"Alas! alas for Celin!" Oh! lovely lies he on the bier, above the purple pall, The flower of all Granada's youth, the loveliest of them all; His dark, dark eyes are closed, his rosy lip is pale, The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his burnished mail, And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks in upon their wailing, Its sound is like no earthly sound--"Alas! alas for Celin!" The Moorish maid at the lattice stands, the Moor stands at his door, One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weeping sore-- Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes black they strew Upon their broidered garments of crimson, green, and blue-- Before each gate the bier stands still, then bursts the loud bewailing, From door and lattice, high and low--"Alas! alas for Celin!" An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the people cry; Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazèd eye. Twas she that nursed him at her breast, that nursed him long ago; She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she well shall know. With one deep shriek she thro' doth break, when her ears receive their wailing-- "Let me kiss my Celin ere I die--Alas! alas for Celin!" THE STORY OF SIDI BRAHIM OF MASSAT [_Translated by Réne Basset and Chauncey C. Starkweather_] THE STORY OF SIDI BRAHIM OF MASSAT I The Taleb Sidi Brahim, son of Amhammed of Massat, in the province of Sous, tells the following story about himself: When he was still a child at his father's house he went to the mosque to read with a taleb. He studied with him for twelve and a half years. His father gave him bread and kouskous, and he ate eight deniers' worth a day. I will make known the country of Massat. It contains seventeen towns. In the middle of these is a market. The Jews have a refuge in the village of the chief named Mobarek-ben-Mahomet. He lives with a sheik called Brahim-Mahomet-Abon-Djemaa. These two chiefs levy a tax on the Jews. They receive from them four ounces per family at the beginning of each month. If the festival of the Mussulmans coincides with the Sabbath of the Jews, the latter pay to each of the chiefs one ounce for a Jew or a Jewess, boy or girl, little or big. The following are the details of the population of Massat. It includes 1,700 men. As to the women, little boys or girls, only the Lord knows their number. There are 1,250 houses. The horses amount to 180. They ride them and make them work like oxen and mules. They also fight on horseback. The country has trees, vines, figs, cacti, dates, oranges, lemons, apples, apricots, melons, and olives. There is a river which flows from there to the sea. The commerce is considerable. There are Jews and Mussulmans. The number of books in the mosque is unknown, unless it be by God. The teachers are numerous as well as the pilgrims, the descendants of Mahomet, and the saints. May God aid us with his blessing! We will now speak of the tribute which the people of Massat pay yearly to Prince Mouley-Abd-Er-Rahman. Up to our days they had, for fifty-one years, given him 5,000 livres of silver. The prince said to them, "You must pay 1,000 livres more." They answered, "By the Lord, we will only give you as before, 5,000 livres, a slave, a servant, and a horse." The kaid Abd-el-Cadik, who was caliph of the King of Taroundant, hastened to send against them forty-five horsemen, and said to them: "You must give me six thousand livres of silver, and a slave, a servant, and a horse in addition." They refused and drove away the cavalry, saying, "Return to the kaid who sent you against us, and say to him that we will not increase our tribute as he demands." The horsemen returned and arrived at Taroundant. The kaid asked him, "Tell me what happened to you with the people of Massat." They answered him, "They read in their assembly the letter that you sent them, and told us to go back, and that they would pay no larger sum." The kaid called a council and asked what had better be done with the people of Massat. The sheiks of the Achtouks answered, "Make complaints to the Sultan at Morocco." He wrote to the Sultan, asking him to send an army to destroy the rebels of Massat. The Sultan sent a force of 3,500 horsemen, to whom he gave for chief, Ettaib Eddin, who rejoined them near the khalifah of the King at Taroundant. When the royal troops arrived, the fourth night, he started and led them to the taleb Mahomet of the Aggars, in the midst of the country of the Achtouks. The taleb said to him: "Return to Taroundant. Let your lieutenant go with them and we will talk about it." The kaid answered, "Very well." The chiefs of the Achtouks mounted their horses and led the army toward the country of Hama, in the mountain which is between the Achtouks and Ida-Oultit. The troops hastened toward the foot of the mountain, near the river Alras, in the country of Takourt. The mountaineers marched against them and fought for three days until the holy men and the sherifs arrived and quieted them. The mountaineers came down toward the army. The kaid betrayed them. He seized fourteen of their leaders and sent them to the kaid at Taroundant. He cut off their heads and hung them up at the gate. As to the army that was above the river Alras, it attacked the people of Massat on account of the tribute demanded by the kaid. It made the onset with cavalry, and destroyed the country. The natives received them with powder, and they fought half a day. The natives gained the advantage in the fight. The enemy abandoned their cannons. The natives slew them until the Sultan's troops retreated. They captured 700 horses. The troops of the Sultan abandoned their baggage except six chests of silver. Many guns were broken on that day, until the flying invaders reached, the country of the Achtouks. The people of Massat had for allies the tribes of Aglou and Tizpit, who equalled them in number. As for the cannons abandoned the day of the battle, the conquerors took two of them to their country. They kept them until they were repaid the 6,500 livres of silver, which had been taken from them. Then they gave back the cannons. Such is the complete story of that which happened between the tribe of Massat, the Khalifah of the King, and the neighboring tribes. II Information about the country of Tazroualt. The Taleb Sidi Brahim, son of Mahomet, of Massat in Sous, tells the following: He started for the zaouiah of Tazroualt, to study there during seven months with the taleb Sidi Mahomet Adjeli, one of the greatest lights. The number of students was seventy-four. Forty-two of these studied the law. The others read the Koran. None of the students paid for his living. It was furnished by the chief of the country, Hecham. He gave to the zaouiah mentioned, six servants and six slaves to cook the food of the students. The number of the villages of this country is nine. The Kashlah of Hecham is situated in the middle of the country. The Jewish quarter is at the left. The market is held every day at the entrance to the fort. This latter is built of stone, lime, and pine planks and beams. Riches abound. Caravans go from there to Timbuctoo, the Soudan, Sahara, and Agadir-Ndouma. They go to these countries to buy ivory, ostrich feathers, slaves, gold and silver. If it hurries, a caravan consumes a whole year in visiting these places. The people of the different countries buy from them and give in exchange other merchandise, such as linen, cotton, silks, iron, steel, incense, corals, cloves, spikenard, haberdashery, pottery, glass, and everything that comes, as they say, from the country of Christians. When these goods enumerated above have arrived, the merchants, both Jews and Mussulmans, come forward and buy them according to the needs of their business. I will add here, with more details, some words about Hecham. He has twelve sons, all horsemen, who have thirty-six horses. As for oxen, sheep, and camels, God alone could tell the figure. The number of the wives that Hecham has married is four white and six slaves--the latter black. His only son has as many white wives as his father, but more black ones. The men of Tizeroualt are of the number of 1,400. But for the women, boys, and girls, God alone knows the figure. They possess 200 horses, beside those of Hecham. There are 750 houses; the number of books in the mosque is 130--in the Chelha language. III The sheik Sidi Hammad, son of Mahomet Mouley Ben-Nacer, has written his book in Amazir. It is entitled the "Kitab-amazir." This work treats of obligations and traditions of things permitted and forbidden. IV There are 3,500 men in the Aglou country. They have 2,200 houses and 960 horses. This district is on the sea-coast and possesses a stone-harbor. There are barks which are used in fishing. The inhabitants were living in tranquillity when one day, as they were starting out to fish, a ship arrived off shore. They fled in fear and left it in the sea. The ship waited till midnight. Then it entered the port and ran up a red flag. It remained at anchor for fifteen days. The people of Aglou assembled day and night, big and little, even the horsemen before it. No one was missing. The chiefs of the town wrote letters which they sent to all the villages. They sent one to Sidi Hecham couched in these words: "Come at once. The Christians have made an expedition against us, and have taken this port." Sidi Hecham sent messengers to all the provinces over which he ruled and said in his letters: "You must accompany me to the country of Aglou, for the Christians have made an expedition against us." All the neighboring tribes assembled to march against the Christians. When Sidi Hecham had joined them he said, "You must raise a red flag like theirs." They raised it. When it was seen by those on the ship, a sailor came ashore in a small boat and approached the Mussulmans there assembled. "Let no one insult the Christian," said Sidi Hecham, "until we learn his purpose in landing here." They asked him, "What do you want?" The Christian replied, "We wish to receive, in the name of God, pledges of security." All who were present said, "God grants to you security with us." The Christian then continued, "My object is to trade with you." "That is quite agreeable to us," answered Hecham. Then Hecham asked the Christian what he wanted to purchase." "Oil, butter, wheat, oxen, sheep, and chickens," said he. When the Mussulmans heard this they gathered together wheat, oil, oxen, and everything he had mentioned. He made his purchases, and was well supplied. The master of the ship then said: "Our business is finished. We must go back home. But we shall return to you." Hecham answered: "That which I have done for you is not pleasing to the people of Aglou. It is only on account of the pledge of security that I have been able to restrain them. I have given you all you asked. Next time you come, bring us fifty cannons and ten howitzers." "Very well," answered the Christian, "I shall return this time next year." "Do as you promise," replied Hecham, "and I will give you whatever you want in the country of the Mussulmans." V A STORY ABOUT THE COUNTRY OF AIT-BAMOURAN There arrived in this country at the beginning of the year another ship which stopped at a place called Ifni, in the tribe of Ait-Bamouran, and stayed there three days. Then one of the sailors got into a small boat, came ashore, and said to the inhabitants, "I will buy bread, meat, and water from you." The Mussulmans brought him bread, figs, and water, saying: "You must send two of your men ashore while we go on board the ship with you." "It is well," replied the Christian. Then he went to get two of his men whom he brought ashore and said to the Mussulmans: "You must give me one of your men." They gave him a hostage to remain on board the Christian ship. Then they filled a boat, and boarded the ship themselves to deliver what they had sold. They ran all over the ship looking at everything. Then they said, "Come with us to the spring and we will draw water." The Christians accompanied them to the fountain to fill their water-casks. The other natives, to the number of fifteen, got into a boat and went to the ship. With the water-party and the hostages ashore there were only four Christians on the ship when the Mussulmans boarded it. "Don't come aboard till our men have come back," said the Christians. "We will come aboard by force," he was answered, and the attack began. One of the Christians killed a native with a gun. Then they fought until the Christians were overcome. Two Christians were killed and the rest captured and taken ashore and imprisoned with the others of the water-party. The ship was sold for 180 mithkals. The Christians were all sold and dispersed among the tribes. The news of this spread to Taccourt. The merchants there sent to Ait-Bamouran and bought all the Christians at any price. They secured seven. Three were missing, of whom two were in the country of Ait-bou-Bekr with the chief of that tribe named Abd-Allah, son of Bou-Bekr. The third, who was a boy, was with the sheik of Aglou, who said: "I will not sell this one, for he has become as dear to me as a son." Then addressing the young boy he said, "I wish to convert you; be a Mussulman." The boy acquiesced and embraced Islamism. The day of his abjuration the sheik killed in his honor an ox for a festival, and gave to the convert the name of Mahomet. Then he sent to say to all his tribe: "Come to my house. I have prepared a repast." The Mussulmans came and diverted themselves with their horses and gunpowder. The chief told them, "I have given a fourth of my possessions, a slave, and a servant to this young man." He added, "He shall live with my son." They both occupied the same room, and the master taught the young convert the whole Koran. The Mussulmans called him Sidi Mahomet, son of AH. Seven Christians were ransomed and sent back to their own country. VI Information about the country Tiznit: This place is a kind of a city surrounded on all sides by a wall, and having only two gates. The water is in the centre, in a fountain. The fortress is built above the fountain, in the middle of the city. It is entirely constructed of mortar, cut stone, marble, and beams, all from Christian countries. It was the residence of the khalifah of the King in the time of Mouley-Soliman. When this prince died, the people of Tiznit revolted, drove away the lieutenant, and made a concerted attack upon the citadel, which they completely destroyed. They took the stones and beams and built a mosque on the spot, near the fountain of which we have spoken. But when Mouley-Abd-Er-Rahman came to the throne he sent a caliph to Tiznit. He gave him 300 horsemen. When the caliph arrived near the town he waited three days and they gave him food and barley. At the end of this time he made a proclamation summoning all the people to him. When they came he read them the royal edict and said: "I must enter your city to occupy the fortress of the King!" They said: "No; go back whence you came and say to your master: 'You shall not rule over us. Your fortress is totally destroyed, and with the material we have built a big mosque in the middle of our city.'" Prince Mouley-Abd-Er-Rahman sent at once against them his son Sidi-Mahomet with the khalifah and 6,000 horsemen. The people of Tiznit were informed of the approach of the army under the Sultan's son, and that the advancing guard was near. The soldiers arrived in the middle of the country of the Achtouks and camped in the city of Tebouhonaikt near the river Alras. There was a day's march between them and Tiznit. The inhabitants, frightened, sent deputies to the other districts, saying: "Come and help us, for the Sultan's son has come and ordered us to build him a fort in the space of one month or he will fall upon us, cut a passage, and destroy our city." The tribes around Tiznit assembled and marched against the royal army. The Sultan's son stayed twenty-two days at Tebouhonaikt, then he crossed the river Alras and marched against the rebels. He surrounded Tiznit on all sides. The inhabitants made a sortie, engaged in battle, and fought till the morning star. At the fall of day the battle recommenced. The royal army was defeated and driven across the river Alras. The son of the Sultan killed eight rebels and thirty-five horses, but many of his soldiers fell. He retreated to Morocco. VII Information about the country of Taragoust: This is a unique district situated near the source of the Ourd-Sous. It is distant from Taroundant about a day and a half's march. When a young man becomes of age his father buys him a gun and a sabre. The market is in the middle of the country. But no man goes there without his weapons. The sheiks judge each one in the market for four months in the year in turn and during their period of office. They decided who was guilty and demanded price of blood for those killed in the market. One of them said: "I will give nothing. Find the murderer. He will give you the price of blood." The sheik replied: "Pay attention. Give us part of your goods." "I will give you nothing," he answered. In this way they quarrelled, until they began fighting with guns. Each tried to steal the other's horses and oxen in the night and kill the owner. They kept acting this way toward each other until Ben-Nacer came to examine the villages where so many crimes were committed, and he reestablished peace and order. VIII Concerning guns and sabres: They were all brought into the city of Adjadir in the government of Sidi Mahomet-ben-Abd-Alla. They introduced guns, poniards, sabres, English powder, and everything one can mention from the country of the Christians. Sidi Mahomet-ben-Abd-Allah sent there his khalifah, called Ettaleb Calih. He busied himself during his administration in amassing a great fortune. The guns imported into the provinces were called merchandise of the taleb Calih. This officer revolted against the Sultan, sent him no more money, and consulted him no longer in the administration of affairs. When the prince ordered him to do such and such a thing with the Christians, Mussulmans, or others, he replied: "I shall do as I please, for all the people of Sous are under my hand. I leave the rest to you." The Sultan sent much money to Sidi Mahomet-ben-Abd-Allah, and ordered him with troops against the rebel. The latter fought against the divan until he was captured and put in fetters and chains. The partisans of the Emperor said to him: "We have captured your khalifah Ettaleb Calih and his accomplices." The prince responded: "Make him a bonnet of iron and a shirt of iron, and give him but a loaf of bread a day." In a letter that he sent he said also: "Collect all the goods you can find and let the Christian ships take them all to Taccourt, leaving nothing whatever." Guns, sabres, powder, sulphur, linens, cottons, everything was transported. During the reign of Sidi Mouley Soliman he built the city as it is at present. He increased it, and said to the Christians: "You must bring me cannons, mortars, and powder, and I will give you in exchange wheat, oil, wool, and whatever you desire." The Christians answered: "Most willingly, we shall return with our products." They brought him cannons, mortars, and powder. In return he supplied them with woollens, wheat, oil, and whatever they desired. The Ulmas reproached him, saying: "You are not fulfilling the law in giving to the Christians wheat, oil, and woollens. You are weakening the Mussulmans." He answered them: "We must make sacrifices of these goods for two or three years, until the Christians have stocked us with cannons, powder, and so forth. These I will place in the coast towns to drive off the infidels when they arrive." IX More words about guns: They only make them in three cities in the interior of Sous. The workmen are very numerous. They make also gun-barrels, pistols, gun-locks, and all such things. As for sabres and poniards, they are made by Arab armorers. They make powder in every province, but only in small quantities. FIVE BERBER STORIES [_Translated by G. Mercier and Chauncey C. Starkweather_] DJOKHRANE AND THE JAYS The ancestor of the grandfather of Mahomet Amokrane was named Djokhrane. He was a Roman of old times, who lived at T'kout at the period of the Romans. One of his countrymen rose against them, and they fought. This Roman had the advantage, until a bird of the kind called jays came to the assistance of Djokhrane, and pecked the Roman in the eyes until he saved his adversary. From that time forth he remained a friend to Djokhrane. The latter said to his children: "As long as you live, never eat this bird. If you meet anyone who brings one of these birds to eat, buy it and set it free." To this day when anyone brings a jay to one of his descendants, he buys it for silver and gives it liberty. This story is true, and is not a lie. THE OGRE AND THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN Some hunters set out with their camels. When they came to the hunting-ground they loosed their camels to let them graze, and hunted until the setting of the sun, and then came back to their camp. One day while one of them was going along he saw the marks of an ogre, each one three feet wide, and began to follow them. He proceeded and found the place where the ogre had lately made his lair. He returned and said to his companions: "I've found the traces of an ogre. Come, let us seek him." "No," they answered, "we will not go to seek him, because we are not stronger than he is." "Grant me fourteen days," said the huntsman. "If I return, you shall see. If not, take back my camel with the game." The next day he set out and began to follow the traces of the ogre. He walked for four days, when he discovered a cave, into which he entered. Within he found a beautiful woman, who said to him: "What brings thee here, where thou wilt be devoured by this ogre?" "But thou," answered the hunter, "what is thy story and how did the ogre bring thee here?" "Three days ago he stole me," she replied. "I was betrothed to the son of my uncle, then the ogre took me. I have stayed in the cavern. He often brings me food. I stay here, and he does not kill me." "Where does he enter," asked the hunter, "when he comes back here?" "This is the way," she answered. The hunter went in to the middle of the cave, loaded his gun, and waited. At sunset the ogre arrived. The hunter took aim and fired, hitting the ogre between the eyes as he was sitting down. Approaching him he saw that he had brought with him two men to cook and eat them. In the morning he employed the day in collecting the hidden silver, took what he could, and set out on the return. On the fourteenth day he arrived at the place where he had left his comrades, and found them there. "Leave the game you have secured and return with me to the cave," he said to them. When they arrived they took all the arms and clothing, loaded it upon their camels, and set out to return to their village. Half way home they fought to see which one should marry the woman. The powder spoke between them. Our man killed four, and took the woman home and married her. THE FALSE VEZIR A king had a wife who said to him: "I would like to go and visit my father." "Very well," said he; "wait to-day, and to-morrow thou shalt go with my vezir." The next day they set out, taking the children with them, and an escort lest they should be attacked on the way. They stopped at sunset, and passed the night on the road. The vezir said to the guards, "Watch that we be not taken, if the robbers should come to seize us." They guarded the tent. The vezir asked the King's wife to marry him, and killed one of her sons because she refused. The next day they set out again. The next night he again asked the King's wife to marry him, threatening to kill a second child should she refuse. She did refuse, so he killed the second son. The next morning they set out, and when they stopped at night again he asked the King's wife to marry him. "I'll kill you if you refuse." She asked for delay, time to say her prayers. She prayed to God, the Master of all worlds, and said: "O God, save me from the vezir." The Master of the worlds heard her prayer. He gave her the wings of a bird, and she flew up in the sky. At dawn she alighted in a great city, and met a man upon the roadside. She said: "By the face of God, give me your raiment and I'll give thee mine." "Take it, and may God honor you," he said. Then she was handsome. This city had no king. The members of the council said: "This creature is handsome; we'll make him our king." The cannon spoke in his honor and the drums beat. When she flew up into the sky, the vezir said to the guards: "You will be my witnesses that she has gone to the sky, so that when I shall see the King he cannot say, 'Where is she?'" But when the vezir told this story, the King said: "I shall go to seek my wife. Thou hast lied. Thou shalt accompany me." They set out, and went from village to village. They inquired, and said: "Has a woman been found here recently? We have lost her." And the village people said, "We have not found her." They went then to another village and inquired. At this village the Sultan's wife recognized them, called her servant, and said to him, "Go, bring to me this man." She said to the King, "From what motive hast thou come hither?" He said, "I have lost my wife." She answered: "Stay here, and pass the night. We will give thee a dinner and will question thee." When the sun had set she said to the servant, "Go, bring the dinner, that the guests may eat." When they had eaten she said to the King, "Tell me your story." He answered: "My story is long. My wife went away in the company of a trusted vezir. He returned and said: 'By God, your wife has gone to heaven.' "I replied: 'No, you have lied. I'll go and look for her.'" She said to him, "I am your wife." "How came you here?" he asked. She replied: "After having started, your vezir came to me and asked me to marry him or he would kill my son, 'Kill him,' I said, and he killed them both." Addressing the vezir, she said: "And your story? Let us hear it." "I will return in a moment," said the vezir, for he feared her. But the King cut off his head. The next day he assembled the council of the village, and his wife said, "Forgive me and let me go, for I am a woman." THE SOUFI AND THE TARGUI Two Souafa were brothers. Separating one day one said to the other: "O my brother, let us marry thy son with my daughter." So the young cousins were married, and the young man's father gave them a separate house. It happened that a man among the Touareg heard tell of her as a remarkable woman. He mounted his swiftest camel, ten years old, and went to her house. Arrived near her residence, he found some shepherds. "Who are you?" he said. "We are Souafa." He confided in one of them, and said to him: "By the face of the Master of the worlds, O favorite of fair women, man of remarkable appearance, tell me if the lady so and so, daughter of so and so, is here." "She is here." "Well, if you have the sentiments of most men, I desire you to bring her here, I want to see her." "I will do what you ask. If she'll come, I'll bring her. If not, I will return and tell you." He set out, and, arriving at the house of the lady, he saw some people, and said "Good-evening" to them. "Come dine with us," they said to him. "I have but just now eaten and am not hungry." He pretended to amuse himself with them to shorten the night, in reality to put to sleep their vigilance. These people went away to amuse themselves while he met the lady. "A man sends me to you," he said, "a Targui, who wants to marry you. He is as handsome as you are, his eyes are fine, his nose is fine, his mouth is fine." "Well, I will marry him." She went to him and married him, and they set out on a camel together. When the first husband returned, he found that she had gone. He said to himself: "She is at my father's or perhaps my uncle's." When day dawned he said to his sister, "Go see if she is in thy father's house or thy uncle's." She went, and did not find her there. He went out to look for her, and perceived the camel's traces. Then he saddled his own camel. The women came out and said: "Stay! Do not go; we will give thee our own daughters to marry." "No," he replied, "I want to find my wife." He goes out, he follows the tracks of the camel, here, here, here, until the sun goes down. He spends the night upon the trail. His camel is a runner of five years. When the sun rises he starts and follows the trail again. About four o'clock he arrives at an encampment of the Touareg, and finds some shepherds with their flocks. He confides in one of these men, and says to him: "A word, brave man, brother of beautiful women, I would say a word to thee which thou wilt not repeat." "Speak." "Did a woman arrive at this place night before last?" "She did." "Hast thou the sentiments of a man of heart?" "Truly." "I desire to talk to her." "I will take thee to her. Go, hide thy camel; tie him up. Change thy clothing. Thou wilt not then be recognized among the sheep. Bring thy sabre and come. Thou shalt walk as the sheep walk." "I will walk toward you, taking the appearance of a sheep, so as not to be perceived." "The wedding-festival is set for to-night, and everybody will be out of their houses. When I arrive at the tent of this lady I will strike a stake with my stick. Where I shall strike, that is where she lives." He waits and conceals himself among the flocks, and the women come out to milk. He looks among the groups of tents. He finds his wife and bids her come with him. "I will not go with thee, but if thou art hungry, I will give thee food." "Thou'lt come with me or I will kill thee!" She goes with him. He finds his camel, unfastens him, dons his ordinary clothing, takes his wife upon the camel's back with him, and departs. The day dawns. She says: "O thou who art the son of my paternal uncle, I am thirsty." Now she planned a treachery. He said to her: "Is there any water here?" "The day the Targui took me off we found some in that pass." They arrived at the well. "Go down into the well," said the Soufi. "I'm only a woman. I'm afraid. Go down thyself." He goes down. He draws the water. She drinks. He draws more water for the camel, which is drinking, when she pours the water on the ground. "Why dost thou turn out the water?" "I did not turn it out; thy camel drank it." And nevertheless she casts her glances and sees a dust in the distance. The Targui is coming. The woman says: "Now I have trapped him for thee." "Brava!" he cries, and addressing the Soufi: "Draw me some water that I may drink." He draws the water, and the Targui drinks. The woman says to him: "Kill him in the well. He is a good shot. Thou art not stronger than he is." "No," he answered, "I do not want to soil a well of the tribes. I'll make him come up." The Soufi comes up till his shoulders appear. They seize him, hoist and bind him, and tie his feet together. Then they seize and kill his camel. "Bring wood," says the Targui to the woman; "we'll roast some meat." She brings him some wood. He cooked the meat and ate it, while she roasted pieces of fat till they dripped upon her cousin. "Don't do that," says the Targui. She says, "He drew his sword on me, crying, 'Come with me or I will kill thee.'" "In that case do as you like." She dropped the grease upon his breast, face, and neck until his skin was burnt. While she was doing this, the Targui felt sleep coming upon him, and said to the woman, "Watch over him, lest he should slip out of our hands." While he slept the Soufi speaks: "Word of goodness, O excellent woman, bend over me that I may kiss thy mouth or else thy cheek." She says: "God make thy tent empty. Thou'lt die soon, and thou thinkest of kisses?" "Truly I am going to die, and I die for thee. I love thee more than the whole world. Let me kiss thee once. I'll have a moment of joy, and then I'll die." She bends over him, and he kisses her. She says, "What dost thou want?" "That thou shalt untie me." She unties him. He says to her: "Keep silent. Do not speak a word." Then he unfastens the shackles that bind his feet, puts on his cloak, takes his gun, draws out the old charge and loads it anew, examines the flint-lock and sees that it works well. Then he says to the woman, "Lift up the Targui." The latter awakes. "Why," says he, "didst thou not kill me in my sleep?" "Because thou didst not kill me when I was in the well. Get up. Stand down there, while I stand here." The Targui obeys, and says to the Soufi: "Fire first." "No, I'll let thee fire first." The woman speaks: "Strike, strike, O Targui, thou art not as strong as the Soufi." The Targui rises, fires, and now the woman gives voice to a long "you--you." It strikes the _chechias_ that fly above his head. At his turn the Soufi prepares himself and says: "Stand up straight now, as I did for thee." He fires, and hits him on the forehead. His enemy dead, he flies at him and cuts his throat. He then goes to the camel, cuts some meat, and says to the woman: "Go, find me some wood, I want to cook and eat." "I will not go," she says. He approaches, threatening her, and strikes her. She gets up then and brings him some wood. He cooks the meat and eats his fill. He thinks then of killing the woman, but he fears that the people of his tribe will say, "Thou didst not bring her back." So he takes her on the camel and starts homeward. His cousins are pasturing their flocks on a hill. When he had nearly arrived a dust arose. He draws near, and they see that it is he. His brother speaks, "What have they done to thee?" He answers, "The daughter of my uncle did all this." Then they killed the woman and cut her flesh in strips and threw it on a jujube-tree. And the jackals and birds of prey came and passed the whole day eating it, until there was none left. AHMED EL HILALIEU AND EL REDAH Ahmed el Hilalieu was not loved by people in general. His enemies went and found an old sorceress, and spoke to her as follows: "O sorceress, we want you to drive this man out of our country. Ask what you will, we will give it to you!" She said to them: "May God gladden your faces. Call aloud. Our man will come out and I will see him." They obeyed her, crying out that a camel had escaped. Straightway Ahmed goes to find his father, and tells him his intention of going to join in the search. He starts forth mounted on his courser, and on the way meets some people, who tell him, "It is nothing." He makes a half turn, not forgetting to water his horse, and meets at the fountain the sorceress, who was drawing water. "Let me pass," he said to her, "and take your buckskin out of my way." "You may pass," she answered. He started his horse, which stepped on the buckskin and tore it. "You who are so brave with a poor woman," she said, "would you be able to bring back Redah Oum Zaid?" "By the religion of Him whom I adore, you shall show me where this Redah lives or I'll cut off your head." "Know, then, that she lives far from here, and that there is between her and you no less than forty days' journey." Ahmed went home, and took as provisions for the journey forty dates of the deglet-nour variety, putting them into his pocket. He mounted his steed and departed. He goes and goes without stopping, until he comes to the country of the sand. The charger throws his feet forward and buries himself in the sand up to his breast, but soon stops, conquered and worn out by fatigue. Ahmed el Hilalieu then addresses him: "My good gray horse, of noble mien, the sand, The cruel sand would eat your very eyes. The air no longer thy loud whinnies bears, No strength is left thee in thy head or heart. The prairies of Khafour I'll give to thee, With Nouna's eyes I'll quench thy thirst, by God A mule's whole pack of barley shalt thou have That Ben Haddjouna shall bring here for thee." In his turn the steed spoke and said: "Dismount, unfasten the breast-strap, tighten the girth, for some women are coming to show themselves to us in this country." Ahmed unfastened the breast-strap, then remounts and departs. While he proceeds he sees before him the encampment of a tribe, and perceives a horseman coming, mounted on a white mare, engaged in herding camels. "Blessings upon you!" cried Ahmed; "you behind the camels!" The horseman kept silence, and would not return his salutations. "Greetings to you," cried Ahmed again, "you who are in the middle of the camels." The same obstinate silence. "Greetings to you, you who are before the camels." The horseman still was silent. Ahmed then said: "Greetings to you, you who own the white mare." "Greetings to you!" replied the horseman. "How comes it that you would not answer my greetings for so long?" The horseman answered: "You cried to me, 'Greetings to you, you who are behind the camels,' Now, behind them are their tails. Then you said, 'Greetings to you, you who are in the middle of the camels,' In the middle of them are their bellies. You said, again, 'Greetings to you, you who are before the camels.' Before them are their heads. You said, 'Greetings to you, O master of the white mare,' And then I answered to you, 'Greetings to you also,'" Ahmed el Hilalieu asked of the shepherd, "What is your name?" "I am called Chira." "Well, Chira, tell me where Redah lives. Is it at the city of the stones or in the garden of the palms?" "Redah dwells in the city. Her father is the Sultan. Seven kings have fought for her, and one of them has refreshed his heart. He is named Chalau. Go, seek the large house. You will be with Redah when I see you again." Ahmed sets out, and soon meets the wife of the shepherd, who comes before him and says, "Enter, be welcome, and may good luck attend you!" She ties his horse, gives him to drink, and goes to find dates for Ahmed. She takes care to count them before serving him with them. He takes out a pit, closes the date again, puts them all together, and puts down the pit. He ate nothing, and he said to the woman: "Take away these dates, for I have eaten my fill." She looks, takes up the tray, counts the dates again, and perceives that none of them has been eaten. Nevertheless, there is a pit, and not a date missing. She cries out: "Alas! my heart for love of this young man Is void of life as is this date of pit." Then she heaved a sigh and her soul flew away. Ahmed remained there as if in a dream until the shepherd came back. "Your wife is dead," he said to him, "and if you wish, I'll give you her weight in gold and silver." But the shepherd answers: "I, too, am the son of a sultan. I have come to pay this woman a visit and desire to see her. Calm yourself. I will take neither your gold nor silver. This is the road to follow; go, till you arrive at the castle where she is." Ahmed starts, and when he arrives at the castle, he stands up in his stirrups and throws the shadow of his spear upon the window. Redah, addressing her negress, said to her: "See now what casts that shadow. Is it a cloud, or an Arab's spear?" The negress goes to see, comes back to her mistress, and says to her, "It is a horseman, such as I have never seen the like of before in all my life." "Return," said Redah, "and ask him who he is." Redah goes to see, and says: "O horseman, who dost come before our eyes, Why seekest thou thy death? Tell me upon Thine honor true, what is thine origin?" He answers: "Oh, I am Ahmed el Hilalieu called. Well known 'Mongst all the tribes of daughters of Hilal. I bear in hand a spear that loves to kill, Who'er attacks me counts on flight and dies." She says to him: "Thou'rt Ahmed el Hilalieu? Never prowls A noble bird about the Zeriba; The generous falcon turns not near the nests, O madman! Why take so much care About a tree that bears not any dates?" He answers: "I will demand of our great Lord of all To give us rain to cover all the land With pasturage and flowers. And we shall eat Of every sort of fruit that grows on earth." Redah: "We women are like silk. And only those Who are true merchants know to handle us." Ahmed el Hilalieu then says: "I've those worth more than thou amid the girls Of Hilal, clad in daintiest of silk Of richest dye, O Redah, O fifth rite." And, turning his horse's head, he goes away. But she recalls him: "I am an orange, them the gardener; I am a palm and thou dost cut my fruit; I am a beast and thou dost slaughter me. I am--upon thine honor--O gray steed, Turn back thy head. For we are friends henceforth." She says to the negress, "Go open wide the door that he may come." The negress admits him, and ties up his horse. On the third day he sees the negress laughing. "Why do you laugh, negress?" "You have not said your prayers for three days." POEMS OF THE MAGHREB [_Translated by M.C. Sonneck and Chauncey C. Starkweather_] ALI'S ANSWER [ARGUMENT.--It is related that a young man named Aly ben Bou Fayd, falling in love with a young woman, begged his father to ask her in marriage for him. His father refused. Angered, Aly procured a gun, engraved his name upon it, and betook himself to the chase. His father having claimed this gun he answered:] You ask the gun I have that bears my name. I will not give it, save against my will. How comes it, father, that you treat me thus? You say, "Bring back the gun to put in pledge." Now, may God pardon you for acting thus! I leave you in your land, and, all for you, I swear by God I never shall return. Your conduct is unwise. Our enemies Insult me, O my father. And I think That you will give up your ancestral home And garden too. And can I after that Recover my good gun? I shall not be Enfeebled that I am no more with you. No longer are you father unto me, And I shall be no more your cherished son. I think, my sire, that you are growing old. Your teeth are falling out from day to day. They whom you visit will not serve you more. Your friends won't serve you longer, and your sire, He who begot you, will not help you now. In your adversity no help will come From all your kindred's high nobility. May God make easy all the paths you tread! His uncle having threatened him with death, he answered: Keep far away from him who has not come To thee in his misfortune. Leave him free. My uncle writes to me this very day That if he held in his own hands the leaf Of my life's destiny he'd blot it out. If he had in his hands this leaf, O say to him: Let him efface it openly, nor hide You'll not be able, save with God's own help To bear the separation. As for those Who are so evil, we will spare them now. The barrel of this gun is rusted red. The lock is forceless, 'twill no longer act. Misfortune overtake the man who leaves His child to perish! For the least of things He says to me, "Come, give me up this gun." I go to seek the desert. I will go Among the tribe they call Oulad Azyz, And live by force. But, pray you say to her, The fair one with the deftly braided hair, I leave the tribe, but shall return for her. I disappear, but shall come back for her. And while I live, I never shall forget. I swear it by the head of that sweet one Who for the sake of Ali was accused. The cup of passion which I offered her O'ercame her lovely spirit's tenderness. The cup of love intoxicated her. O God, Creator of us all, give her The strength to bear my absence! Sad for me The hour I dream of her I love so well. Her love is in my heart and burns it up. My heart is sad. 'Tis love that crushes it. It leaves my heart reduced to naught but dust. So that I am consumed by vigils long, And never taste refreshing sleep at all. So that I'm like a bird with broken wings, Just like a bird who tries to lift its wings! And so my spirit is not healed. There comes To me no comfort nor relief. The eyes Of my beloved are as bright as day. One word from her would send the friends to death. IN HONOR OF LALLA AYCHA-EL-MANNOUBYYA A fire burns at the bottom of my heart, For love has conquered me, and I am now His hostage and his prisoner. My soul Is torn out from my body, and sweet sleep Keeps far aloof from my tired eyelids' need. 'Tis Aycha causes this, the pretty one. With blackest eyes, Aycha the pure, from whom I'm parted now, whose name is finest gold. Why? why? Oh, tell me, El Mannoubyya. Why all this coldness, O my best beloved? For thy dear love I have drunk deep of scorn. For thy love, maiden with the darksome looks, I wither while thou bear'st a port of oak. The fire that burns me eats my very soul. My spirit is distracted by these proofs. O thou, rebellious to my warm desires, My black-eyed beauty, if thou'rt vexed with me I'll make apology before the world, I'll bring an offering to thee at once, The symbol of my homage. May it please! Instruct me, sympathetic with my pain Have you not said: "I'll bring thee soon good news"? O come! That in my sleep my eyes may see Thee coming toward me, my black-pupilled one! Awaiting thy fair image I'm consumed, I am exhausted. Why, El Mannoubyya? I long have hoped to see thee, O my sweet. And ever farther off appears the end Of my awaiting. All my nights are passed In cries for thee, as some poor mariner Cries to the angry floods that dash aloft. For thee I'm mad with love, my pretty one, Struck with thy mien so full of nobleness. And I alone must wither, 'mongst my friends. O unpersuadable, with teasing eyes, I am in a most pitiable state. Since thou repell'st me and declin'st to keep Thy promise to me, I'll not hesitate To call thee before God. Unless thou deign'st To cast thy looks on me the coming day, I shall, all clad in vestments rich, make plaint Unto the envoy of our God, the last Of all the prophets. For thou said'st to me, "I'll draw thee from the sea of thy despair." I worship at thy sanctuary, sweet, My beauty, with large eyes of darkest night. Why? why? El Mannoubyya, tell me why. Let thyself bend and call thy servitor, Inhabitant of Tunis--city green. I will apologize and come to thee, O cruel one, with heavy frontlets dark. We've heard the story of thy deeds so fine. From common brass whene'er thou walk'st abroad, Thou drawest silver pure, queen of thy time, 'Mongst men illumined by thy piety. The wretch, led on by love, accosted thee. Receiving grace, despite his base design He was, nathless, forgiven and saved from sin; So was it from eternity decreed. They all consulted thee, queen of thy day, And thou didst answer: "This man truly loved. Pour him a cup of wine." By thee he came Unto perfection's acme, step by step. Our Lord, all-powerful, gave to thee this power. These are thy merits, fairest citizen! To whom God gave strength irresistible. O beauty with enchanting eyes, Aycha, Our queen. Si Alimed Khoudja, greatest bard Of all that time, has said: "I wrote these words The year one thousand one hundred just, But thou who read'st these lines, where'er it be, Add to these numbers, after ninety-eight." Now I salute all those united here And him who hates me here I steep in scorn. Why? why? El Mannoubyya! Why? SAYD AND HYZYYA Give me your consolation, noble friends; The queen of beauties sleeps within the tomb. A burning fire consumes my aching breast; I am undone. Alas! O cruel fate! My heart's with slim Hyzyya in the grave. Alas! we were so happy a short while Ago, just like the prairie flow'rs in spring; How sweet to us was life in those dear days! Now like a phantom's shadow she has gone, That young gazelle, of utter loveliness. Removed by stern, inevitable fate. When she walked forth, not looking right or left, My beauteous loved one rendered fools the wise. Impressed thus was the great bey of the camp. A gleaming poniard rested in his belt. He went hemmed in by soldiers and a horde Of horsemen, glad to follow where he led. All haste to bring him costly gifts. He bore A sabre of the Ind, and with one stroke He cleaved a bar of iron, split a rock. How many rebels fell beneath his blow! Haughty and proud, he challenged all who came. Enough now we have glorified the bey. Speak, singer, in a song that's sweet and new, The praises of the dainty girl I loved, The daughter of good Ahmed ben el Bey. Give me your consolation, noble friends; The queen of beauties sleeps within the tomb. A burning fire consumes my aching breast; I am undone! Alas! O cruel fate! She lets her tresses flow in all the breeze, Exhaling sweet perfume. Thy brows are arched In beauty's curve. Thy glance is like a ball Shot from a Christian's gun, which hits the mark. Thy cheek is lovely as the morning rose Or bright carnation, and thy ruby blood Gives it the shining brightness of the sun. Thy teeth are ivory-white, and thy warm kiss Is sweet as milk or honey loved by all. Oh, see that neck, more white than palm-tree's heart, That sheath of crystal, bound with bands of gold. Thy chest is marble, and thy tender breasts Are apples whose sweet scent makes well the ill. Thy body is, like paper, shining, white, Or cotton or fine linen, or, again, Just like the snow that falls in a dark night. Hyzyya lets her sash hang gracefully, Down-falling to the earth, in fold on fold. Her fine limbs jingle with gems she wears. Her slippers clink with coupled rings of gold. We were encamped at Bazer. Every day At dawn I saw the beauty, and we were So glad together! Every dawn I brought My wishes to my love and followed fate More happy than if I alone possessed All riches and all treasures of the earth. Wealth equals not the tinkle of her gems. When I had crossed the mountain there I met Hyzyya, and she walked amid the fields With every grace, and made her bracelets ring. My reason wandered, heart and head were vexed. After a happy summer passed at Tell, We came, my dearest one and I, Sahara-ward. The litters now are closed, the powder sounds. My gray horse to Hyzyya bears me swift. The palanquin of my coquette's on route. At Azal when night comes we pitch our tents. Sydy-l-Ahsen is before us now: Ez-Zerga, too. Then faring on we go To Sydy Sayd, and Elmetkeouk, And Medoukal-of-palms, where we arrive At eventide. We saddle up at dawn, Just when the breeze begins. Our halting-place, Sydy Mehammed, decks this peaceful earth. From there the litters seek El Mekheraf. My charger gray straight as an eagle goes. I wend to Ben Seryer with my love, Of tattooed arms. When we had crossed Djedy We passed the wide plain, and we spent the night At Rous-et-toual, near the gleaming sands. Ben Djellal was our next day's resting-place; And, leaving there, I camped at El Besbas, And last at El-Herymek, with my love. How many festivals beheld us then! In the arena my good steed of gray Fled like a ghost. And sweet Hyzyya there, Tall as a flagstaff, bent her gaze on me, Her smile disclosing teeth of purest pearl. She spoke but in allusions, causing thus That I should understand whate'er she meant. Hamyda's daughter then might be compared Unto the morning-star or a tall palm, Alone, erect among the other trees. The wind uprooted it, and dashed it down. I did not look to see it fall, this tree I hoped forever to protect. I thought That God, divinely good, would let it live. But God, the Master, dashed it to the earth. I take up now my song. We made but one Encampment, at Oned Itel. 'Twas there My friend, the queen of damsels, said farewell. 'Twas in the night she paid the debt of death. 'Twas there my dark-eyed beauty passed away. She pressed her heart to mine and, sighing, died. My cheeks were flooded with a sea of tears. I thought to lose my reason. I went forth And wandered through the fields, ravines, and hills. She bore my soul away, my black-eyed love. The daughter of a noble race. Alas! She still increased the burnings of my heart. They wrapped her in a shroud, my noble love. The fever took me, burning up my brain. They placed her on a bier, all decked with gems. And I was in a stupor, dull to see All that was passing on that dreadful day. They bore my beauty in a palanquin-- Her pretty palanquin--this lovely girl, Cause of my sorrows, tall as a straight staff. Her litter is adorned with odd designs, Shining as brilliant as the morning-star, And like the rainbow glowing 'midst the clouds, All hung with silk and figured damask-cloth. And I, like any child, was in despair, Mourning Hyzyya. Oh, what pangs I felt For her whose profile was so pure! She nevermore Will reappear upon this earth again. She died the death of martyrs, my sweet love, My fair'st one, with Koheul-tinted lids! They took her to a country that is called Sydy Kaled, and buried her at night, My tattooed beauty. And her lovely eyes, Like a gazelle's, have never left my sight. O sexton, care now for my sweet gazelle, And let no stones fall on Hyzyya's grave. I do adjure thee by the Holy Book And by the letters which make up the name Of God, the Giver of all good, let no Earth fall upon the dame with mirror decked. Were it to claim her from a rival's arms I would attack three troops of warriors. I'd take her from a hostile tribe by force. Could I but swear by her dear head, my love, My black-eyed beauty--I would never count My enemies, 'though they a hundred were. Were she unto the strongest to belong I swear she never would be swept from me. In the sweet name Hyzyya I'd attack And fight with cavaliers innumerable. Were she to be the spoil of conqueror, You'd hear abroad the tale of my exploits. I'd take her by main strength from all who vied. Were she the meed of furious encounters I'd fight for years for her, and win at last! For I am brave. But since it is the will Of God, the mighty and compassionate, I cannot ward away from me this blow. I'll wait in patience for the happy day When I shall join thee. For I only think Of thee, my dearest love, of thee alone! My gray steed fell dead as he leaped. O friends, After my love, he's gone and left me, too. My charger, 'mid these hills, was of all steeds The fleetest, and in fiercest war's attack All saw him at the head of the platoon. What prodigies he wrought in war's red field! He showed himself ahead of all his peers. A blood-mare was his mother. He excelled In all the contests 'twixt the wandering camps; I tourneyed with him careless of my fate. When just a month had passed I lost the steed. Hyzyya first, and then this noble horse. He did not long survive my well-beloved. They both are gone, leaving their last farewells. O grief! my charger's reins have fallen down. God made my life a death, in leaving me Behind. For them I die. Oh, cruel hurt! I weep for this just as a lover weeps. Each day my heart burns fiercer, and my joy Has fled away. Now tell me, O my eyes, Why shed so many tears? Beyond a doubt The pleasures of the world will capture you. And will you grant no mercy? My sad soul But sees its torments grow. My pretty one, With lashes black, who was my heart's delight, Now sleeps beneath the sod. I do but weep And my head whitens for the beauteous one, With pearly teeth. My eyes no longer can Endure the separation from their friend. The sun that lights us to the zenith climbs, Then gains the west. It disappears from sight When it has gained the summit of the vault Celestial. And the moon, which comes and shines At Ramadan, beholds the hour approach Of sleep, and says farewell to all the world. To these would I compare the lovely queen Of all this age, the daughter of Ahmed, Descendant of a race illustrious, The daughter of Donaonda. Such is The will of God, all-powerful Lord of men. The Lord hath shown his will and borne away Hyzyya. Grant me patience, O my Lord! My heart dies of its hurt. Hyzyya's love Did tear it from me when she left the earth. She's worth a hundred steeds of noble race, A thousand camels, and a grove of palms In Zyban. Yes, all Djryd is she worth, From near to far. The country of the blacks, Haoussa and its people is she worth, Arabians of Tell and dry Sahara, And the encampments of the tribes, as far As caravans can reach by all the ways, All nomads and all travellers, she's worth, And those who settle down as citizens. The treasurer of all riches is she worth, My black-eyed beauty. And if thou dost think This all too small, add all the cities' folk. She's worth all flocks and nicely chisel'd gold, She's worth the palms of Dra and Chaouyya; All that the sea contains, my love is worth, The fields and cities from beyond Djebel Amour, as far as Ghardaya. She is worth All Mzab, the plains of Zab. She pleases, too, The people of the Goubba, holy folk, And friends of God. She's worth all noble steeds However richly housed--or evening's star When twilight comes. Too small--'tis all too small For my sweet love, sole cure of all my woes. O God majestic, pardon this poor wretch! Pardon, O Lord and Master, him who grieves! Just three-and-twenty years! That was the age Of her who wore the silken sash. My love Has followed her, ne'er to revive within My widowed heart. Console me, Mussulmans, My brothers, for the loss of my sweet one, Gazelle of all gazelles, who dwelleth now In her cold, dark, eternal home. Console me, O young friends, for having lost Her whom you'd call a falcon on its nest. Naught but a name she left behind which I Gave to the camp wherein she passed away. Console me, men, for I have lost my fair, Dear one, that silver _khelkals_ wore. Now is she covered with a veil of stone, On strong foundation laid. Console me, friends, For all this loss, for she loved none but me. With my own hands my love's chest I tattooed, Likewise her wrists, with checkered patterns odd, Blue as the collar of the gentle dove. Their outlines did not clash, so deftly drawn, Although without _galam_--my handiwork. I drew them 'twixt her breasts, and on her wrists I marked my name. Such is the sport of fate! Now Sa'yd, always deep in love with thee, Shall never see thee more! The memory Of thy dear name fills all his heart, my sweet. Oh, pardon, God compassionate, forgive Us all. Sa'yd is sad, he weeps for one Dear as his soul. Forgive this love, Lord! Hyzyya--join them in his sleep, O God most high. Forgive the author of these verses here! It is Mahomet that recites this tale. O Thou who hast the future in thy hand, Give resignation to one mad with love! Like one exiled from home, I weep and mourn. My enemies might give me pity now. All food is tasteless, and I cannot sleep. I write this with my love but three days dead. She left me, said farewell, and came not back. This song, O ye who listen, was composed Within the year twelve hundred finished now, The date by adding ninety-five years more. [1295.] This song of Ould-es-Serge we have sung In Ayd-el-Rebye, in the singing month, At Sydy-Khaled-ben Sinan. A man, Mahomet ben Guytoun, this song has sung Of her you'll never see again alive. My heart lies there in slim Hyzyya's tomb. THE AÏSSAOUA IN PARIS[A] Come, see what's happened in this evil year. The earthquake tumbled all the houses down, Locusts and crickets have left naught behind. Hear what has happened to those negro scamps, Musicians--rogues, and Aïssaoua. They spoke of nothing but their project great. Bad luck to him who lacks sincerity! On learning of the tour of Rayyato They all began to cry and run about, Half with bare feet, although the rest were shod. The Lord afflicts them much in this our world. 'Twas only negroes, poor house-colorers, Who did not follow them about in crowds. The Christian Salvador put them on ship. One felt his breast turn and exclaimed, "I'm sick." A wench poured aromatics on the fire, And thus perfumed the air. For Paris now They're off, to see the great Abd-el-Azyz. The Christians packed them like a cricket-swarm, Between the sea and church, upon the wharf He drew them, wonders promising, and led Them but to beggary. He takes them to His land to show them to the chief of all His masters, to the Emperor. He hopes To get a present and thus pay them back, Retaining all the money he advanced. [A] Former student of the Medersa of Algiers, bookbinder, lutemaker, and copier of manuscripts, Qaddour ben Omar ben Beuyna, best known among his coreligionists as Qaddour el Hadby (the hunchback), who died during the winter of 1897-1808, has sung for thirty years about all the notables of his city. This lively poem was composed by him on they occasion of the departure for Paris of a band of musicians, singers, and Aissaoua, who figured at the Exposition of 1867, under the direction of a professor of music named Salvador Daniel. The original is in couplets of six hemistichs. Perhaps they'll show themselves upon some stage Or elsewhere as his fancy leads. The blacks Begin to dance to sound of castanets. The Christians bet on what will happen next. They say a letter has arrived which says That they've suppressed ablutions and their prayers. One has been very ill--"I do not know What is the matter with me"--but the cause Of all his illness was because he fell On the perfuming-pans that they had brought. For Imam they have ta'en the dancing-girl Who leads the dances. With her boxes small In basket made of grass, a picture fine! Come, see it now; you'd think it was a ghost. The Christian works them all, and most are seized With folly. Would you know the first of all? Well, sirs, 'tis Et-Try, and he is the son Of one Et-Germezlyya. Never has He thought of doing well, he lives for crime. The shrewd "Merkanty" made a profit on them. Et-Try served them as an interpreter. The Christian ought to make them this year gain A thousand d'oros. But I pray to God To send those two men to the fires of hell. Now Aly Et-Try is their manager; He runs about all day, with naught achieved. The Christian kept them in a stable shut, And like a squad of soldiers took them out. He herded them like oxen there, and naught Was lacking but the drover's lusty cries. Consider now the plight of Ould Sayyd, The big-jawed one. He gained ten thousand francs, And lost them all at gambling. Naught remains Except the benches and some coffee-grounds. The leader of musicians, wholly daft, Whose beard is whiter than the whitest wool, Has gone to Paris gay to see the sights. (I hope he'll bring up in the fires of hell!) If he comes back deceived, at least he'll say He's been abroad, and dazzle all his friends. The oboe-player, Sydy Ali, was Barber and cafekeeper, eager for A change, and crazy to get gold. "This trip," He told his friends, "is but a pilgrimage." There's nothing lacking but the telbyya. "I've taken trips before and with good luck. I was the master, with my art acclaimed. I was director of the Nouba, at The court, when Turkey held the reins of power. I was a court buffoon and broke my heart. O Lord, why send'st thou not thy servant death? "I left a workman in my shop so that I might not lose my trade. I went to show My oboe, for someone might ask for it. I used to travel with musicians once." God bless him!--what a workman. He conversed With all the customers who passed that way. He took them in the shop and told his case-- "I'm here for a short while." Then he began To praise his patron, who, he said, would have A gift for him. And his lieutenant, named Oulyd-el-Hadj Oualy, is a fool Who thinks his word superior to all, And that there's no one like him in this world. When he has gone there and come back again, He will be perfect. All he contradicts Who speak to him, and will not let them lift A finger. Little love he hath for those Who speak with candor, but he's very fond Of liars, and always bids them come to him. "My childhood was so pampered!" he remarks, And flies into a passion if one doubts. He only lives on semolina coarse, And empty is his paunch, all slack and limp. Yet every day he tells you how he's dined. "I have discovered," he is wont to say "A certain semolina lately brought By a Maltese, who lives some distance off. You never saw the like. I'm going to have Some fine cakes made of it, and some _meqrout_." And El-Hadj Mostefa was dragged along By all these lies and by the love of gain. If God had not abandoned him, he'd be Still making lasts. But 'twas the crowd that led Him on, and that is how it came to pass. With them is donkey-faced Hamyda, who Sold flowers in the market-place. He left His family no coins to live upon, But told them only: "Moderate your pace. I'll buy a house for you when I get back, And we shall live in plenty evermore." Sydy Ahmed et Tsoqba timbals had As big as goat-skin bottles. He desired To play in unison, but the musicians all Abhorred him, for he could not keep in time. The heart of Sydy Ahmed glows with love For Ayn-bou-Sellouf, who is very fair. I hope that cares and fainting-fits may swell Him out, and yellow he will straight become As yellow as a carrot in a field. I love Sydy-t-Tayyeb when he sings And plays the tambourine. Such ugliness My eyes have never seen. You'd think he was A clown. He says: "No one could vanquish me Were I not just a trifle ill to-day." Qaddour, the little cock, the drummer-boy, Who hangs on walls and colors houses here Or tars roofs with his mates, exclaims: "I took This voyage just to get a bit of air." Koutchouk stayed here, he did not go away. Fresh apricots he sells down in the square. "Repose," he murmurs, "is the best of foods, And here my little heart shall stay in peace." When Abd-el-Quader, undertaker's son. Falls in his fits of folly, he binds round His figure with a cord and does not lie Inert and stiff. But still they scorpions see In Altai's hand, Chaouch of Aïssaoua. Faradjy--fop--eats fire and fig-leaves now; The while Hasan the Rat excites him on To doughty deeds with his loud tambourine. Playing with all his might and all his soul. They dragged the hedge-rows green of El Qettár To pay this tribute to the Emperor. That fop, Ben Zerfa, who chopped hashish seeds Among us here, said: "We have had good luck This summer, and I'm going to pay my debts. I'll execute my drill with stick and sword And serve my sheik the very best I can." If you had seen Ben Zerfa as he ran, So lightly, bearing on his sturdy back A basket filled with, heaven alone knows what! It looked like cactus-pears, the basket closed. El Hadj Batâta--see his silly trance! With shirt unbuttoned and with collar off, And cap on eyes, at beating of the drums, He shows his tuft denuded all of hair. Even Móstafa ben el Meddâh desired To go to Paris and his fortune make. "On my return," he said, "I'll buy a lamp, A coffee-tray, and goodly sugar-bowl; A big and little mattress, too, I'll buy, A carpet and a rug so soft and fine." Es Snybla, bellows-faced, who used to work For our good mayor, off to Paris went To make the soldiers' coffee. When he comes Back home again, so much he will have earned. He will be richer than a merchant great. Oh, welcome, Sydy Omar! All of Paris Is charmed to see you, O my Snybla dear! If he would only go to Mexico, And stay there it would be a riddance good. He is a cafékeeper, and his son A baker. For associate he has Sydy Aly Mehraz, who does his work Astride a thorn; he surely doth deserve Our compliments. All three you see are dressed In duck, in fashion of the Christian men. There's de Merzong; the people say he's good, But still they fear him, he is so uncouth. Good God! When he begins aloud to cry In Soudanese, it is enough to make You fly to the antipodes away. Oulyd ben Zamoum saw his cares increase-- Since he is a musician, as he thinks, The world is rid of him. And when he starts To play the first string of the violin, The while the Jewess doth begin to sing! With him two Jews departed, and the like You never saw on earth. A porcupine The first resembled, and the other one Was one-eyed. You should hear them play the lute! Some persons heard my story from afar, Oulyd Sydy Sáyd, among them, and Brymat, who laughed abundantly. And with Them was the chief of Miliana. All Were seated on an iron bench, within The right-hand shop. They called me to their booth Where I had coffee and some sweets. But when They said, "Come take a smoke," I was confused. "Impossible," I answered, "for I have With Sydy Hasan Sydy Khelyl studied, And the Senousyya. So I cannot." Ben Aysa came to me, with angry air, "The Antichrist," he said, "shall spring from thee. I saw within that book you have at home His story truly told." "You're right," said I, "Much thanks!" And then I laughed to see Him turn his eyes in wrath. He said to me 'Tis not an action worthy of a man; He glared at me with eyes as big as cups And face an egg-plant blue. He wanted to Get at me, in his rage, and do me harm. With him my uncle was, Mahomet-ben-El-Haffaf, who remains at prayer all day. He heard this prelude and he said to them, "It is not an affair." "Fear not," they said, "For they will put you also in the song." He's tickled by the urchins' eulogies, Who praise him as the master of chicane. "'Tis finished now for thee to climb up masts." They add: "You're but a laughing-stock for all. You've stayed here long enough. You'd better go And teach Sahary oxen how to read!" When I recited all these lines to Sy Mahomet Oulyd el-Isnam, who has To the supreme degree the gift of being A bore he said to me, "Now this is song Most flat." The mice in droves within his shop Have eaten an ounce of wool. He is installed Within the chamber of El Boukhary. In posture of a student, in his hands Some sky-blue wool. "It is," he says, "to make Some socks for little children, for I have But little wool." When I had finished quite This dittyramb, and El-Hadj-ben-er-Rebha Became acquainted with it, he began To laugh, telling his beads the while, and then His decoration from his wallet took, Which had been there enclosed. My song spread wide. They found it savory. Respected sirs, It is the latest Friday in the month Of El Mouloud and in the year we call Twelve hundred ninety-four, that I complete This tale fantastic. Would you know my name? I am Qaddour, well known to all the world, Binder to Sydy Boû Gdour, and attired In gechchabyya-blouse. And if my back Were not deformed, none could compete with me. They told me, "When those folk come back again Thou'd better hide thyself for fear of harm. They'll break thy hump and send thee home to heaven." "Oh, I'll protect myself," I said, "or else complain To the police." If I were not so busy I'd still have many other things to say. Those who have heard my prattle say it's good; So say the singers and musicians, too, Ez Zohra ben-el-Foul among them, who Pays compliments to me, from window-seat. He who hath nothing found that's useful here Will find in this my song what suits him best. But if he wants to see here something more, Then stretch him 'neath the stick and give him straight A thousand blows upon the belly; then Take him away to the physician, who Will bleed him well. And now may hearts not be Made sad by what I have so lightly said. I've placed myself among you, so that I May not incur your blame, O brothers mine. I've told you my deformity, and all My miseries unveiled before your gaze. SONG OF FATIMA[1] My spirit is in pain, for it cannot Forget my sweet gazelle, with eyes so black. A fire burns in my heart, and all my frame But wastes and withers. Where's thy cure, O Taleb? I find no medicine that cureth love, In vain I search. Sweet Fatima's the cause Of all my woes, with _khelkal_ tinted blue. My heart endureth passion's pangs, my grief Continues. Where's thy remedy, O Taleb? Thy remedy is lost, my good Lord Taleb. Pray God for me, O Taleb, I implore. But how to cure the malady of love? There is no remedy, and all is lost. I die for lack of strength to bear my trials. It is to thee that I intrust myself, The healer who must bring rest to my heart; For now a living brand burns in my breast. If thou art skilful, find a cure for me. [1] This elegy is the work of a celebrated sheik of Tlemcen, Mahomet-Ben-Sahla, whose period was the first half of the eighteenth century. He left a son, Ben Medien, a poet, too, and his descendants still live, near Tlemcen, in a village called Feddan-es-Seba. Look in thy book and calculate for me If thou canst quench the burning brand within. I will become thy slave, and thou may'st keep Me or at auction sell. Where is thy cure! Thy remedy is lost, my good Lord Taleb. The Taleb looked at me and said: "Take heart, O lover, courage! Thou hast sipped, I see, The cup of death already, and thou hast Not long to live. But hear my counsel now. Have patience! Tis the only thing that will Sustain thee. Thou shalt thus obtain the gifts Of Him who only knows thy future days. Thy fate shall be unrolled according to The will of God, the sovereign Lord most high. "Turn to thy God. Beseech him constantly. He hears with mercy and he knows all souls. He turns away no one who comes to him. He sees the bottom of their hearts, and lists. Bear his decrees with patience camels show. They walk from land to land and hope to lose At last their burdens." Where's thy cure, O Taleb? Thy remedy is lost, my good Lord Taleb. O Taleb, search within thy book and find The letters that give birth to friendship sweet. Write them for me, and skilful be, I pray, So God may give me happiness by them, And cause my dear gazelle to pardon me, And drive nay bitter sorrows all away. My punishment too long has lasted. I Am tired of waiting. Never was adventure More strange than mine. My cares continue, and I am fatigued with efforts obstinate. The trouble that I've taken to deserve That pretty one, has been for me like that Of daring merchant who doth undertake A venture and gets nothing back but loss And weariness. Where is thy cure, O Taleb? Thy remedy is lost, my good Lord Taleb. The Taleb answered unto me and said: "Support her rigors. Listen now to me, And I will give thee counsel sound and good. Turn thy true heart aside from memory. Forget thy love as she's forgotten thee. Courage! Her loss now wastes and makes thee pale. For her thou hast neglected everything. And sacrificed a good part of thy days. "My counsels heed and turn me not aside. Hear what sages in their proverbs say: 'That which is bitter never can turn sweet,' 'Leave him whose intercourse is troublesome, And cleave to one who hath an easy way,' 'Endure the pangs of love until they pass,'" Where is thy cure, O Taleb? Tell me where. Thy remedy is lost, O good Lord Taleb. If thou art powerful, Taleb, my excuse Accept, and give assistance to my cause. Thy words are all in vain, they but increase My woes. For ne'er can I forget my love, My dear accomplished beauty. While I live, I love her, queen of beauties, and she is Soul of my soul, light of my eyes, my sweet. And, oh, how grows my love! A slave I'd be, Obedient to a man despised. Perhaps That which is far removed, the nearest comes. And if the moment comes, thou know'st it well Who knoweth all the proverbs! He that's well Shall perish, and the invalid be cured. Where is thy cure, O Taleb? Tell me where. Thy remedy is lost, my good Lord Taleb. And then the Taleb answered him and said: "Thou'rt taken in the snares of Qeys--thou know'st. He laid strong siege to Leyla's heart and then Awaited trembling at the trysting-place. Thou now hast wooed thy love for two long years And she will not relent, nor speak to thee. God bless us both!" The Lord is generous. He sees. If trouble comes, he'll make it pass. My lot is sad and I am full of fear. The mountains tall would melt and turn to sand If I to them my sorrows should relate. Where is thy cure, O Taleb? Tell me where. Thy remedy is lost, O good Lord Taleb. O Taleb, should I tell my tale of grief Unto a sabre of the Ind, 'twould melt On hearing my laments. My heart cannot Endure these tortures, and my breast's on fire. My tale is finished, here I end my song, And publish forth my name along with it; It is Ben Sahla. I do not conceal How I am called, and in my black despair I do not cease my lamentations loud. O ye who have experienced the stings Of love, excuse me now and blame me not In this affair. I know that I shall die, O'ercome by woe. The doctor of my heart Protracts my suffering. He cures me not, Nor yet cuts short the thread of my sad life. Where is thy cure, O Taleb? Tell me where. Thy remedy is lost, O good Lord Taleb. THE CITY GIRL AND THE COUNTRY GIRL O thou who hearest me, I will recite One of these stories I am master of-- A tale that's true. By these I move the hearts Of lovers like to thee, and I divert Their minds with pleasant stories. As I hear, So I relate them, and they please my friends, By flow of wit and eloquence of thought. I tell of beauties' battle. And my song Is written in perfection, straight and clear. Thinking of naught I walked along one day When I had gone to see some beauties fair Whose like I ne'er have seen in city nor In country yet. I should have said That they were sun and moon, and that the girls Of that time were bright stars surpassing far The Pleiades. The stars are envious In their far firmaments, each of The other. That's the reason why we see Eclipses of the sun and moon. My tale Is true. The women, like unto the stars, Are jealous also. Two young virgins met The day I saw them, a sad day for them, For one was jealous of the other one. The citizeness said to the Bedouine: "Look at thy similars and thou shalt see In them but rustics, true dogs of the camp. Now what art thou beside a city girl? Thou art a Bedouine. Dost thou not dream Of goat-skin bottles to be filled at dawn? And loads of wood that thou must daily cut? And how thou'rt doomed to turn the mill all night, Fatigued, harassed? Thy feet, unshod, are chapped And full of cracks. Thy head can never feel The solace of uncovering, and thou, All broken with fatigue, must go to sleep Upon the ground, in soot and dust to lie, Just like a serpent coiled upon himself. Thy covering is the tatters of old tents, Thy pillow is the stones upon the hearth. All clad in rags thou hast a heavy sleep Awaking to another stupid day. Such is the life of all you country folk. What art thou then compared to those who live In shade of walls, who have their mosques for prayer Where questions are discussed and deeds are drawn?" The Arab woman to the city girl Replied: "Get out! Thou'rt like a caverned owl. And who art thou beside the Arab girls, The daughters of those tribes whose standards wave Above brave bands of horsemen as they speed? Look at thy similars. The doctor ne'er Can leave their side. Without an illness known They're faded, pale, and sallow. The harsh lime Hath filled thy blood with poison. Thou art dead, Although thou seem'st alive. Thou ne'er hast seen Our noble Arabs and their feats of strength, Who to the deserts bring prosperity By their sharp swords! If thou could'st see our tribe When all the horsemen charge a hostile band, Armed with bright lances and with shields to break The enemy's strong blow! Those who are like To them are famed afar and glorified. They're generous hosts and men of nature free. Within the mosques they've built and lodgings made For _tolba_ and for guests. All those who come To visit them, bear gifts away, and give Them praises. Why should they reside in town Where everything's with price of silver bought?" The city girl replied: "Oh, Bedouine, Thou dost forget all that thou hast to do. Thou go'st from house to house, with artichokes And mallows, oyster-plants, and such, Thy garments soaked all through and through with grease. This is thy daily life. I do not speak Of what is hid from view. Thy slanders cease! What canst thou say of me? Better than thee I follow all the precepts of the Sonna And note more faithfully the sacred hours. Hid by my veil no eye hath seen my face: I'm not like thee, forever in the field. I've streets to go on when I walk abroad. What art thou, then, beside me? I heard not The cows and follow them about all day. Thou eatest sorrel wild and heart of dwarf Palm-tree. Thy feet are tired with walking far, And thy rough hands with digging in the earth." "Now what impels you, and what leads you on," The country girl of city girl inquired, "To outrage us like this and say such words Against us, you who are the very worst Of creatures, in whom all the vices are Assembled? You are wicked sinners all, And Satan would not dare to tell your deeds. You are all witches. And you would betray Your brother, not to speak of husbands. You Walk all unguarded in the street alone, Against your husband's will. And you deny Your holy faith. The curse of heav'n will weigh Upon you when you go to meet your God. Not one of you is honest. O ye blind Who do not wish to see, whence comes your blindness? You violate the law divine, and few Among you fear the Lord. 'Tis in the country, Amid the fields, that women worship God. Why say'st thou that the city women sole Are pious? Canst thou say my prayers for me?" "What pleasure have the country girls?" replied The city girl. "They've no amusements there. There's nothing to divert the eyes. Their hands They do not stain with henna, setting off A rounded arm. Rich costumes they wear not, Which cost some hundred silver pieces each, Nor numerous garments decked with precious stones. They are not coifed with kerchiefs of foulard With flowers brocaded. Neither have they veils Nor handkerchiefs of silk and broidered gold. They never have a negress nurse to bring Their children up and run on services Throughout the house. And yet they boast as loud As any braggart. Why bring'st thou the charge That I a blameful life do lead, whilst thine Deserves reproof? Dirt in the country holds Supreme control. The water's scarce enough To drink, with none left for the bath. The ground Serves you as bed, and millet is your food, Or rotten wheat and barley." Then took up The word, and spoke the Arab woman dark: "Who are thy ancestors? Which is thy tribe Among all those that fill the mighty world? You're only Beny Leqyt, and the scum Of people of all sorts. Thou call'st thyself A city woman. What are city men? Thy lords don't slander folk. 'Tis only those Who come whence no one knows who have so rude A tongue. Thou wouldst insult me, thou, of stock Like thine, with such a name abroad! And thou Wouldst taunt a Qorechyte, a Hachemite Of glorious ancestors who earned their fame. Tis proper for a woman born of such A stock illustrious to vaunt herself Upon her origin. But thou, a vile Descendant of a conquered race! "Thou call'st Thyself a Sunnite, yet thou knowest not The three great things their Author gave to us: (He knows all secrets.) First is Paradise, Then the Koran, and then our Prophet great, Destroyer of false faiths and for all men The interceder. Whosoe'er loves him Doth love the Arabs, too, and cleaves to them. And whosoe'er hates them hates, too, in truth, The chosen one of God. Thou hatest him, For thou revil'st my ancestors, and seek'st To lower their rank and vilify their fame. Think on thine evil deeds, against the day When in thy grave thou'lt lie, and that one, too, When thou shalt rise again, insulter of The Arabs, king of peoples on the earth." "The Arabs I do not at all despise," The city woman said, "nor yet decry Their honor, and 'tis only on account Of thee I spoke against them. But 'tis thou Who hast insulted all my family, and placed Thy race above. He who begins is e'er At fault, and not the one who follows. Thou The quarrel didst commence. Pray God, our Lord, To pardon me, as I will pray him, too, And I the Arabs will no more attack. If they offend me I will pardon them And like them for our holy prophet's sake. I shall awake in Paradise some day. From them 'tis given, far beyond all price. Frankly, I love them more than I do love Myself. I love them from my very heart. He who a people loveth shall arise With them. And here's an end to all our words Of bickering and mutual abuse." I told them that it was my duty plain To reconcile them. I accorded both Of them most pure intentions. Then I sent Them home, and made agreeable the way. Their cares I drove away with honeyed words. I have composed the verses of this piece, With sense more delicate than rare perfume Of orange-flower or than sugar sweet, For those kind hearts who know how to forgive. As for the evil-minded, they should feel The _zeqqoum_. With the flowers of rhetoric My song is ornamented: like the breast Of some fair virgin all bedecked with stones Which shine like bright stars in the firmament. Some of its words will seem severe to those Who criticise. I culled them like unto A nosegay in the garden of allusions. May men of lion hearts and spirit keen-- Beloved by God and objects of his care-- Receive my salutations while they live, My countless salutations. I should let My name be known to him who's subject to The Cherfa and obeys their mighty power. The _mym_ precedes, then comes the written _ha_. The _mym_ and _dal_ complete the round and make It comprehensible to him who reads Mahomet. May God pardon me this work So frivolous, and also all my faults And errors. I place confidence in him, Creator of all men, with pardon free For all our sins, and in his mercy trust, Because he giveth it to him who seeks. The country girl and city girl appeared Before the judge, demanding sentence just. In fierce invectives for a while they joined, But after all I left them reconciled. POPULAR TALES OF THE BERBERS [_Translated by René Basset and Chauncey C. Starkweather_] STORIES OF ANIMALS THE TURTLE, THE FROG, AND THE SERPENT Once upon a time the turtle married a frog. One day they quarrelled. The frog escaped and withdrew into a hole. The turtle was troubled and stood in front of his door very much worried. In those days the animals spoke. The griffin came by that way and said: "What is the matter with you? You look worried this morning." "Nothing ails me," answered the turtle, "except that the frog has left me." The griffin replied, "I'll bring him back." "You will do me a great favor." The griffin took up his journey and arrived at the hole of the frog. He scratched at the door. The frog heard him and asked, "Who dares to rap at the door of a king's daughter?" "It is I, the griffin, son of a griffin, who lets no carrion escape him." "Get out of here, among your corpses. I, a daughter of the King, will not go with you." He departed immediately. The next day the vulture came along by the turtle and found it worrying before its door, and asked what was the trouble. It answered: "The frog has gone away." "I'll bring her back," said the vulture. "You will do me a great favor." The vulture started, and reaching the frog's house began to beat its wings. The frog said: "Who conies to the east to make a noise at the house of the daughter of kings, and will not let her sleep at her ease?" "It is I, the vulture, son of a vulture, who steals chicks from under her mother." The frog replied: "Get away from here, father of the dunghill. You are not the one to conduct the daughter of a king." The vulture was angry and went away much disturbed. He returned to the turtle and said: "The frog refuses to come back with me. Seek someone else who can enter her hole and make her come out. Then I will bring her back even if she won't walk." The turtle went to seek the serpent, and when he had found him he began to weep. "I'm the one to make her come out," said the serpent. He quickly went before the hole of the frog and scratched at the door. "What is the name of this other one?" asked the frog. "It is I, the serpent, son of the serpent. Come out or I'll enter." "Wait awhile until I put on my best clothes, gird my girdle, rub my lips with nut-shells, put some _koheul_ in my eyes; then I will go with you." "Hurry up," said the serpent. Then he waited a little while. Finally he got angry, entered her house, and swallowed her. Ever since that time the serpent has been at war with the frog. Whenever he sees one he chases her and eats her. * * * * * THE HEDGEHOG, THE JACKAL, AND THE LION Once upon a time the jackal went in search of the hedgehog and said to it: "Come along. I know a garden of onions. We will fill our bellies." "How many tricks have you?" asked the hedgehog. "I have a hundred and one." "And I," said the other, "have one and a half." They entered the garden and ate a good deal. The hedgehog ate a little and then went to see if he could get out of the entrance or not. When he had eaten enough so that he could just barely slip out, he stopped eating. As for the jackal, he never stopped eating until he was swollen very much. As these things were going on, the owner of the garden arrived. The hedgehog saw him and said to his companion: "Escape! the master is coming." He himself took flight. But in spite of his exhortations the jackal couldn't get through the opening. "It is impossible," he said. "Where are those one hundred and one tricks? They don't serve you now." "May God have mercy on your parents, my uncle, lend me your half a trick." "Lie down on the ground," answered the hedgehog. "Play dead, shut your mouth, stretch out your paws as if you were dead, until the master of the garden shall see it and cast you into the street, and then you can run away." On that the hedgehog departed. The jackal lay down as he had told him until the owner of the garden came with his son and saw him lying as if dead. The child said to his father: "Here is a dead jackal. He filled his belly with onions until he died." Said the man, "Go, drag him outside." "Yes," said the child, and he took him and stuck a thorn into him. "Hold on, enough!" said the jackal. "They play with reeds, but this is not sport." The child ran to his father and said, "The jackal cried out, 'A reed! a reed!'" The father went and looked at the animal, which feigned death. "Why do you tell me that it still lives?" "It surely does." "Come away and leave that carrion." The child stuck another thorn into the jackal, which cried, "What, again?" The child went to his father. "He has just said, 'What, again?'" "Come now," said the man, and he sent away his son. The latter took the jackal by the motionless tail and cast him into the street. Immediately the animal jumped up and started to run away. The child threw after him his slippers. The jackal took them, put them on, and departed. On the way he met the lion, who said, "What is that footwear, my dear?" "You don't know, my uncle? I am a shoemaker. My father, my uncle, my mother, my brother, my sister, and the little girl who was born at our house last night are all shoemakers." "Won't you make me a pair of shoes?" replied the lion. "I will make you a pair. Bring me two fat camels. I will skin them and make you some good shoes." The lion went away and brought the two fat camels. "They are thin," said the jackal. "Go change them for others." He brought two thin ones. "They are fat," said the jackal. He skinned them, cut some thorns from a palm-tree, rolled the leather around the lion's paws and fastened it there with the thorns. "Ouch!" screamed the lion. "He who wants to look finely ought not to say, 'Ouch.'" "Enough, my dear." "My uncle, I will give you the rest of the slippers and boots." He covered the lion's skin with the leather and stuck in the thorns. When he reached the knees, "Enough, my dear," said the lion. "What kind of shoes are those?" "Keep still, my uncle, these are slippers, boots, breeches, and clothes." When he came to the girdle the lion said, "What kind of shoes are those?" "My uncle, they are slippers, boots, breeches, and clothing." In this way he reached the lion's neck. "Stay here," he said, "until the leather dries. When the sun rises look it in the face. When the moon rises, too, look it in the face." "It is good," said the lion, and the jackal went away. The lion remained and did as his companion had told him. But his feet began to swell, the leather became hard, and he could not get up. When the jackal came back he asked him, "How are you, my uncle?" "How am I? Wretch, son of a wretch, you have deceived me. Go, go; I will recommend you to my children." The jackal came near and the lion seized him by the tail. The jackal fled, leaving his tail in the lion's mouth. "Now," said the lion, "you have no tail. When my feet get well I will catch you and eat you up." The jackal called his cousins and said to them, "Let us go and fill our bellies with onions in a garden that I know." They went with him. Arriving he tied their tails to the branches of a young palm-tree, and twisted them well. "Who has tied our tails like this?" they asked. "No one will come before you have filled your bellies. If you see the master of the garden approach, struggle and fly. You see that I, too, am bound as you are." But he had tied an onion-stalk on himself. When the owner of the garden arrived, the jackal saw him coming. They struggled, their tails were all torn out, and stayed behind with the branches to which they were fastened. When the jackal saw the man, he cut the onion stem and escaped the first of all. As for the lion, when his feet were cured, he went to take a walk and met his friend the jackal. He seized him and said, "Now I've got you, son of a wretch." The other answered, "What have I done, my uncle?" "You stuck thorns in my flesh. You said to me, 'I will make you some shoes.' Now what shall I do to you?" "It was not I," said the jackal. "It was you, and the proof is that you have your tail cut off." "But all my cousins are without tails, like me." "You lie, joker." "Let me call them and you will see." "Call them." At his call the jackals ran up, all without tails. "Which of you is a shoemaker?" asked the lion. "All of us," they answered. He said to them: "I am going to bring you some red pepper. You shall eat of it, and the one who says, 'Ouch!' that will be the one I'm looking for." "Go and get it." He brought them some red pepper, and they were going to eat it when the first jackal made a noise with his shoes, but he said to the lion, "My uncle, I did not say, 'Ouch!'" The lion sent them away, and they went about their business. * * * * * THE STOLEN WOMAN It is related that a man of the Onlad Draabad married his cousin, whom he loved greatly. He possessed a single slave and some camels. Fearing lest someone should carry off his wife on account of her beauty, he resolved to take her to a place where no one should see her. He started, therefore, with his slave, his camels, and his wife, and proceeded night and day until he arrived at the shore of the great salt sea, knowing that nobody would come there. One day when he had gone out to see his camels and his slave, leaving his wife alone in the tent, she saw a ship that had just then arrived. It had been sent by a sultan of a far country, to seek in the islands of the salt sea a more beautiful wife for him than the women of his land. The woman in the tent, seeing that the ship would not come first to her, went out first in front. The people said to her, "Come on board in order to see the whole ship." She went aboard. Finding her to be just the one for whom they were seeking, they seized her and took her to their Sultan. On his return, the husband, not finding his wife, realized that she had been stolen. He started to find the son of Keij, the Christian. Between them there existed a friendship. The son of Keij said to him: "Bring a ship and seven men, whose guide I will be on the sea. They need not go astray nor be frightened. The city is three or four months' journey from here." They set sail in a ship to find the city, and were on the way the time that he had said. Arriving they cast their anchor near the city, which was at the top of a high mountain. Their chief went ashore and saw a fire lighted by someone. He went in that direction. It was an old woman, to whom he told his story. She gave him news of his wife. They agreed to keep silence between themselves. Then the old woman added: "In this place there are two birds that devour people. At their side are two lions like to them, and two men. All of these keep guard over your wife." He bought a sheep, which he killed; then he went to the two birds and threw them a part of it. While they were quarrelling over it he passed by them and came near to the two lions, to which he did the same. Approaching the two men, he found them asleep. He went as far as the place where his wife was in prison, and attracted her attention by scratching her foot. He was disguised and said to her, "I have sought you to tell you something." He took her by the hand. They both went out, and he swore that if she made the slightest noise he would kill her. He also asked her which was the swiftest boat for the journey. She pointed out the best boat there, and they embarked in it. There were some stones on board, and when he threw one at a ship it was crushed from stem to stern, and all on board perished. He started to find the son of Keij. While they were at sea a marine monster swallowed them and the ship on which they were sailing. The chief took some pitch and had it boiled in a kettle. The monster cast up the ship on the shore of the sea. They continued their journey, proceeding by the seaside. Behold one day they came to a deserted city. They desired to take what it contained of riches, silver, and gold. All of a sudden the image of an armed man appeared to them. They could not resist or kill him at first, but finally they destroyed him and took all the riches of the houses. When they arrived near the son of Keij he said to them: "I want only the ship." So the other man took the treasures and returned home with his wife. * * * * * THE KING, THE ARAB, AND THE MONSTER In former times there was a king of the At Taberchant (the son of a negress), whose city was situated at the foot of a mountain. An enormous beast came against them, entered the city, and devoured all the people. The beast established itself in the city and stayed there a century. One day it was hungry. It came out into the plain, found some Arabs with their tents, their sheep, their oxen, their mares, and their camels. The beast fell upon them in the night and ate them all up, leaving the earth all white with their bones; then it went back to the city. A single man escaped, thanks to his good mare. He arrived at a city of the At Taberchant and, starving, began to beg. The King of the Jews said to him: "Whence do you come into our country--you who invoke the lord of men [Mahomet]? You don't know where you are. We are Jews. If you will embrace our religion, we will give you food." "Give me some food," said the Arab, "and I will give you some good advice." The King took him to his house and gave him some supper, and then asked him what he had to say. "An enormous monster has fallen upon us," said the Arab. "It ate up everybody. I will show you its city. It has two gates, one at the north and the other at the south." "To-morrow," said the King. When he awoke the next day, they mounted horses and followed the way to the gate of the monster's city. They looked at it and went away. "What shall we do?" said the King. "Let us make a great trap of the size of the entrance to the city, at the southern gate. At the northern gate we will place a forty-mule load of yellow sulphur. We will set it on fire, and then escape and see what will happen." "Your advice is good," said the King. They returned to the city of the Jews, ordered the smiths to make a big trap and commanded the citizens to furnish the sulphur. When all was ready, they loaded the mules, went to the monster's city, set the trap at the southern gate, and at the northern they placed the sulphur, which they set on fire, and then fled. The monster came out by the southern gate. Half of his body was caught in the trap that the two men had set. He was cut in two, filling the river with blood. The King and the Arab entered the city and found a considerable treasure, which they removed in eighty loads to the city of the Jews. When they had got back to the palace the King said to his companion: "Be my caliph. My fortune and thine shall be the same." They sat down and had supper. The prince put in the stew some poison and turned it to the Arab. The latter observed what he had done and said, "Where did that bird come from?" When the King of the Jews raised his head to look, the Arab turned the dish around, placing the poison side of it in front of the King. He did not perceive the trick, and died on the spot. The Arab went to the gate of the city and said to the inhabitants: "I am your King. You are in my power. He who will not accept my religion, I will cut off his head." They all embraced Islamism and practised fasting and prayer. * * * * * THE LION, THE JACKAL, AND THE MAN In times past, when the animals spoke, there existed, they say, a laborer who owned a pair of oxen, with which he worked. It was his custom to start out with them early in the morning, and in the evening he returned with one ox. The next day he bought another and went to the fallow land, but the lion came and took one ox from him and left him only one. He was in despair, seeking someone to advise him, when he met the jackal and told him what had taken place between him and the lion. The jackal demanded: "What will you give me if I deliver you from the lion?" "Whatever you wish I will give it to you." "Give me a fat lamb," answered the jackal. "You will follow my advice. To-morrow when the lion comes, I will be there. I will arrive on that hill on the other side. You will bring your axe very well sharpened and when I say to you, 'What is that which I see with you now?' you must answer, 'It is an ass which I have taken with me to carry barley.' I will say to you, 'I am looking for the lion, and not for an ass,' Then he will ask you, 'Who is speaking to you?' Answer him, 'It is the nems!' He will say to you, 'Hide me, for I am afraid of him,' When I ask you, 'Who is that stretched there before you?' answer, 'It is a beaver,' I will say, 'Take your axe and strike, to know if it be not the lion,' You will take your axe and you will strike the lion hard between the eyes. Then I will continue: 'I have not heard very well. Strike him again once more until he shall really be dead,'" The next day he came to him as before to eat an ox. When the jackal saw him he called his friend and said, "Who is that with you?" "It is a beaver which is before me." The jackal answered: "Where is the lion? I am looking for him." "Who is talking to you?" asked the lion, of the laborer. "The 'nems.'" "Hide me," cried the lion, "for I fear him." The laborer said to him, "Stretch yourself out before me, shut your eyes, and don't move." The lion stretched out before him, shut his eyes, and held his breath. The peasant said to the jackal, "I have not seen the lion pass to-day." "What is that stretched before you?" "It is a beaver." "Take your axe," said the jackal, "and strike that beaver." The laborer obeyed and struck the lion violently between the eyes. "Strike hard," said the jackal again; "I did not hear very well." He struck him three or four times more, until he had killed him. Then he called the jackal: "See, I have killed him. Come, let me embrace you for your good advice. To-morrow you must come here to get the lamb which I will give you." They separated and each went his way. As for the peasant, the next day, as soon as dawn, he took a lamb, put it into a sack, tied it up, went into the court-yard and hung it up. Then while he went to get his oxen to till his fields, at that moment, his wife opened the sack, set the lamb free, and replaced it by a dog. The peasant took the sack and went to his work. He attached his oxen and set to work, till the arrival of the jackal. The jackal said to him, "Where is that promise you made me?" "It is in the sack. Open it and you'll find the lamb which I give you." He followed his advice, opened the sack, and saw two eyes which shone more brightly than those of a lamb, and said to the laborer, "My friend, you have deceived me." "How have I deceived you?" asked the other. "As for the lamb, I put him in the sack. Open it well; I do not lie." The jackal followed his advice, he opened the sack, a dog jumped fiercely out. When the jackal saw the dog he ran away, but the dog caught him and ate him up. * * * * * SALOMON AND THE GRIFFIN Our Lord Salomon was talking one day with the genii. He said to them: "There is born a girl at Dabersa and a boy at Djaberka. This boy and this girl shall meet," he added. The griffin said to the genii: "In spite of the will of the divine power, I shall never let them meet each other." The son of the King of Djaberka came to Salomon's house, but hardly had he arrived when he fell ill; then the griffin carried away the daughter of the King of Djaberka and put her upon a big tree at the shore of the sea. The wind impelled the prince, who had embarked. He said to his companions, "Put me ashore." He went under the big tree and fell asleep. The young girl threw leaves at him. He opened his eyes, and she said to him: "Beside the griffin, I am alone here with my mother. Where do you come from?" "From Djaberka." "Why," she continued, "has God created any human beings except myself, my mother, and our Lord Salomon?" He answered her, "God has created all kinds of human beings and countries." "Go," she said, "bring a horse and kill it. Bring also some camphor to dry the skin, which you will hang on the top of the mast." The griffin came, and she began to cry, saying, "Why don't you conduct me to the house of our Lord Salomon?" "To-morrow I will take you." She said to the son of the King, "Go hide inside the horse." He hid there. The next day the griffin took away the carcass of the horse, and the young girl departed also. When they arrived at the house of our Lord Salomon, the latter said to the griffin, "I told you that the young girl and the young man should be united." Full of shame the griffin immediately fled and took refuge in an island. * * * * * ADVENTURE OF SIDI MAHOMET One day Mouley Mahomet summoned Sidi Adjille to come to Morocco, or he would put him in prison. The saint refused to go to the city until the prince had sent him his chaplit and his "dalil" as pledges of safety. Then he started on the way and arrived at Morocco, where he neither ate nor drank until three days had passed. The Sultan said to him: "What do you want at my palace? I will give it to you, whatever it may be." Sidi Adjille answered, "I ask of you only one thing, that is, to fill with wheat the feed-bag of my mule." The prince called the guardian, and said to him, "Fill the feed-bag of his mule." The guardian went and opened the door of the first granary and put wheat in the feed-bag until the first granary was entirely empty. He opened another granary, which was soon equally exhausted, then a third, and so on in this fashion until all the granaries of the King were emptied. Then he wanted to open the silos, but their guardian went and spoke to the Sultan, together with the guardian of the granaries. "Lord," they said, "the royal granaries are all empty, and yet we have not been able to fill the feed-bag of the saint's mule." The donkey-drivers came from Fas and from all countries, bringing wheat on mules and camels. The people asked them, "Why do you bring this wheat?" "It is the wheat of Sidi Mahomet Adjille that we are taking." The news came to the King, who said to the saint, "Why do you act so, now that the royal granaries are empty?" Then he called together the members of his council and wanted to have Sidi Mahomet's head cut off. "Go out," he said to him. "Wait till I make my ablutions" [for prayer], answered the saint. The people of the makhzen who surrounded him watched him among them, waiting until he had finished his ablutions, to take him to the council of the King and cut off his head. When Sidi Mahomet had finished washing, he lifted his eyes to heaven, got into the tub where was washing, and vanished completely from sight. When the guardians saw that he was no longer there, they went vainly to continue the search at his house at Tagountaft. * * * * * THE HAUNTED GARDEN A man who possessed much money had two daughters. The son of the caliph of the King asked for one of them, and the son of the cadi asked for the other, but their father would not let them marry, although they desired it. He had a garden near his house. When it was night, the young girls went there, the young men came to meet them, and they passed the night in conversation. One night their father saw them. The next morning he killed his daughters, buried them in his garden, and went on a pilgrimage. That lasted so until one night the son of the cadi and the son of the caliph went to a young man who knew how to play on the flute and the rebab. "Come with us," they said to him, "into the garden of the man who will not give us his daughters in marriage. You shall play for us on your instruments." They agreed to meet there that night. The musician went to the garden, but the two young men did not go. The musician remained and played his music alone. In the middle of the night two lamps appeared, and the two young girls came out of the ground under the lamps. They said to the musician: "We are two sisters, daughters of the owner of the garden. Our father killed us and buried us here. You, you are our brother for this night. We will give you the money which our father has hidden in three pots. Dig here," they added. He obeyed, found the three pots, took them away, and became rich, while the two girls returned to their graves. * * * * * THE WOMAN AND THE FAIRY A woman who was named Omm Halima went one day to the stream to wash at the old spring. Alone, in the middle of the day, she began her work, when a woman appeared to her and said: "Let us be friends, you and I, and let us make a promise. When you come to this spring, bring me some herma and perfumes. Cast them into the fountain which faces the qsar. I will come forth and I will give you money." And so the wife of Ben Sernghown returned every day and found the other woman, who gave her pieces of money. Omm Khalifah was poor. When she "became friends" with the fairy she grew rich all of a sudden. The people were curious to know how she had so quickly acquired a fortune. There was a rich man, the possessor of much property. He was called Mouley Ismail. They said to Omm Khalifah: "You are the mistress of Mouley Ismail, and he gives you pieces of money." She answered, "Never have I been his mistress." One day, when she went to the spring to bathe, the people followed her until she arrived. The fairy came to meet her as usual, and gave her money. The people surprised them together. But the fairy never came out of the fountain again. * * * * * HAMED-BEN-CEGGAD There was in a city a man named Hamed-ben-Ceggad. He lived alone with his mother. He lived upon nothing but the chase. One day the inhabitants of the city said to the King: "Hamed-ben-Ceggad is getting the better of you." He said to them, "Tell me why you talk thus to me, or I will cut off your heads." "As he only eats the flesh of birds, he takes advantage of you for his food." The King summoned Hamed and said to him, "You shall hunt for me, and I will supply your food and your mother's, too." Every day Hamed brought game to the prince, and the prince grew very proud of him. The inhabitants of the city were jealous of him, and went to the Sultan and said: "Hamed-ben-Ceggad is brave. He could bring you the tree of coral-wood and the palm-tree of the wild beasts." The King said to him, "If you are not afraid, bring me the tree of coral-wood and the palm-tree of the wild beasts." "It is well," said Hamed. And the next day he took away all the people of the city. When he came to the tree, he killed all the wild beasts, cut down the palm-tree, loaded it upon the shoulders of the people, and the Sultan built a house of coral-wood. Seeing how he succeeded in everything, they said to the King, "Since he achieves all that he attempts, tell him to bring you the woman with the set of silver ornaments." The prince repeated these words to Hamed, who said: "The task you give me is harsh, nevertheless I will bring her to you," He set out on the way, and came to a place where he found a man pasturing a flock of sheep, carrying a millstone hanging to his neck and playing the flute. Hamed said to him: "By the Lord, I cannot lift a small rock, and this man hangs a millstone to his neck." The shepherd said: "You are Hamed-ben-Ceggad, who built the house of coral-wood?" "Who told you?" "A bird that flew into the sky." He added, "I will go with you." "Come," said Hamed. The shepherd took the millstone from his neck, and the sheep were changed into stones. On the way they met a naked man, who was rolling in the snow. They said [to themselves], "The cold stings us, and yet that man rolls in the snow without the cold killing him." The man said to them, "You are Hamed-ben-Ceggad, who built the house of coral-wood?" "Who told you that?" "A bird that passed flying in the sky told me. I will accompany you." "Come," said Hamed. After they had pursued their way some time, they met a man with long ears. "By the Lord," they said, "we have only small ears, and this man has immense ones." "It is the Lord who created them thus, but if it pleases God I will accompany you, for you are Hamed-ben-Ceggad." They arrived at the house of the woman with the silver ornaments, and Hamed said to the inhabitants, "Give us this woman, that we may take her away." "Very well," said her brother, the ogre. They killed an ox, placed it upon a hurdle, which they lifted up and put down with the aid of ninety-nine men. "Give us one of your men who can lift this hurdle." He who wore millstones hanging from his neck said, "I can lift it." When he had placed it on the ground, they served a _couscous_ with this ox. The ogre said, "Eat all that we give you." They ate a little, and the man with the long ears hid the rest of the food. The brother continued: "You give us one of you who will go to gather a branch of a tree that stands all alone on the top of a mountain two days' march in the snow." The one who had rolled in the snow departed, and brought back the branch. "There remains one more proof," said the ogre. "A partridge is flying in the sky; let one of you strike it." Hamed-ben-Ceggad killed it. They gave him the woman, but before her departure her brother gave her a feather and said to her, "When anyone shall try to do anything to you against your will, cast this feather on the hearth and we will come to you." People told the woman, "The old Sultan is going to marry you." She replied, "An old man shall never marry me," and cast the feather into the fire. Her brother appeared, and killed all the inhabitants of the city, as well as the King, and gave the woman to Hamed-ben-Ceggad. * * * * * THE MAGIC NAPKIN A taleb made a proclamation in these terms: "Is there anyone who will sell himself for 100 mitquals?" A man agreed to sell himself. The stranger took him to the cadi, who wrote out the bill of sale. He took the 100 mitquals and gave them to his mother and departed with the taleb. They went to a place where the latter began to repeat certain formulas. The earth opened and the man entered it. The other said to him, "Bring me the candlestick of reed and the box." He took this and came out keeping it in his pocket. "Where is the box?" asked the taleb. "I did not find it." "By the Lord, let us go." He took him to the mountains, cast a stone at him, and went away. He lay on the ground for three days. Then he came to himself, went back to his own country, and rented a house. He opened the box, found inside a silk napkin, which he opened, and in which he found seven folds. He unfolded one. Genii came around the chamber, and a young girl danced until the day dawned. The man stayed there all that day until night. The King came out that night, and, hearing the noise of the dance, he knocked at the door, with his vezir. They received him with a red _h'aik._ He amused himself until the day dawned. Then he went home with his vezir. The latter sent for the man and said, "Give me the box which you have at home." He brought it to the King, who said to him: "Give me the box which you have so that I may amuse myself with it, and I will marry you to my daughter." The man obeyed and married the Sultan's daughter. The Sultan amused himself with the box, and after his death his son-in-law succeeded him. * * * * * THE CHILD AND THE KING OF THE GENII There was a sheik who gave instruction to two talebs. One day they brought to one of them a dish of _couscous_ with meat. The genius stole him and bore him away. When they had arrived down there he taught him. One day the child was crying. The King of the genii asked him, "Why do you cry?" "I am crying for my father and my mother. I don't want to stay here any longer." The King asked his sons, "Who will take him back?" "I," said one of them; "but how shall I take him back?" "Carry him back after you have stuffed his ears with wool so that he shall not hear the angels worshipping the Lord." They had arrived at a certain place, the child heard the angels worshipping the Lord, and did as they did. His guide released him and he remained three days without awaking. When he came to himself, he took up his journey and found a mother-dog which slept while her little ones barked, although yet unborn. He proceeded and met next an ass attacked by a swarm of flies. Further on he saw two trees, on one perched a blue bird. Afterward it flew upon the other tree and began to sing. He found next a fountain of which the bottom was of silver, the vault of gold and the waters white. He went on and met a man who had been standing for three days without saying a word. Finally he arrived at a village protected by God, but which no one entered. He met a wise man and said to him: "I want to ask you some questions." "What do you wish to ask me?" "I found a mother-dog which was asleep while her little ones were barking, although yet unborn." The sage answered, "It is the good of the world that the old man should keep silence because he is ashamed to speak." "I saw an ass attacked by a swarm of flies." "It is Pjoudj and Madjoudj of God (Gog and Magog) and the Antichrist." "I met two trees, a blue bird perched on one, then flew upon the other and began to sing." "It is the picture of the man who has two wives. When he speaks to one the other gets angry." "I saw a fountain of which the bottom was of silver, the vault of gold, and the waters white." "It is the fountain of life; he who drinks of it shall not die." "I found a man who was praying. I stayed three days and he did not speak." "It is he who never prayed upon the earth and is now making amends." "Send me to my parents," concluded the child. The old man saw a light cloud and said to it, "Take this human creature to Egypt." And the cloud bore him to his parents. * * * * * THE SEVEN BROTHERS Here is a story that happened once upon a time. A man had seven sons who owned seven horses, seven guns, and seven pistols for hunting. Their mother was about to increase the family. They said to their father: "If we have a little sister we shall remain. If we have a little brother we shall go." The woman had a little boy. They asked, "Which is it?" "A boy." They mounted their horses and departed, taking provisions with them. They arrived at a tree, divided their bread, and ate it. The next day they started and travelled as far as a place where they found a well, from which they drew water. The older one said, "Come, let us put the young one in the well." They united against him, put him in, and departed, leaving him there. They came to a city. The young man remained some time in the well where they had put him, until one day a caravan passing that way stopped to draw water. While the people were drinking they heard something moving at the bottom of the well. "Wait a moment," they said; they let down a rope, the young man caught it and climbed up. He was as black as a negro. The people took him away and sold him to a man who conducted him to his house. He stayed there a month and became white as snow. The wife of the man said: "Come, let us go away together." "Never!" he answered. At evening the man returned and asked, "What is the negro doing?" "Sell him," said the woman. He said, "You are free. Go where you please." The young man went away and came to a city where there was a fountain inhabited by a serpent. They couldn't draw water from this fountain without his eating a woman. This day it was the turn of the King's daughter to be eaten. The young man asked her: "Why do you weep?" "Because it is my turn to be devoured to-day." The stranger answered, "Courage, I will kill the serpent, if it please God." The young girl entered the fountain. The serpent darted toward her, but as soon as he showed his head the young man struck it with his stick and made it fly away. He did the same to the next head until the serpent was dead. All the people of the city came to draw water. The King said: "Who has done this?" "It is he," they cried, "the stranger who arrived yesterday." The King gave him his daughter and named him his lieutenant The wedding-feast lasted seven days. My story is finished before my resources are exhausted. * * * * * HALF-A-COCK In times past there was a man who had two wives, and one was wise and one was foolish. They owned a cock in common. One day they quarrelled about the cock, cut it in two, and each took half. The foolish wife cooked her part. The wise one let her part live, and it walked on one foot and had only one wing. Some days passed thus. Then the half-a-cock got up early, and started on his pilgrimage. At the middle of the day he was tired and went toward a brook to rest. A jackal came there to drink. Half-a-Cock jumped on his back, stole one of his hairs, which it put under its wing and resumed its journey. It proceeded until evening and stopped under a tree to pass the night there. It had not rested long when it saw a lion pass near the tree where it was lying. As soon as it perceived the lion it jumped on its back and stole one of its hairs, which it put with that of the jackal. The next morning it got up early and took up its journey again. Arrived at the middle of a forest, it met a boar and said: "Give me a hair from your back, as the king of the animals and the trickiest of them have done--the jackal and the lion." The boar answered, "As these two personages so important among the animals have done this, I will also give you what you request." He plucked a hair from his back and gave it to Half-a-Cock. The latter went on his way and arrived at the palace of a king. It began to crow and to say: "To-morrow the King will die, and I will take his wife." Hearing these words the King gave to his negroes the command to seize Half-a-Cock, and cast him into the middle of the sheep and goat-pen to be trampled upon and killed by them, so that the King might get rid of his crowing. The negroes seized him and cast him into the pen to perish. When he got there Half-a-Cock took from under his wing the jackal's hair and burnt it in the fire. As soon as it was near the fire the jackal came and said: "Why are you burning my hair? As soon as I smelled it, I came running." Half-a-Cock replied, "You see what situation I am in. Get me out of it." "That is an easy thing," said the jackal, and immediately blowed in order to summon his brothers. They gathered around him, and he gave them this command: "My brothers, save me from Half-a-Cock, for it has a hair from my back which it has put in the fire. I don't want to burn. Take Half-a-Cock out of the sheep-pen, and you will be able to take my hair from its hands." At once the jackals rushed to the pen, strangled everything that was there, and rescued Half-a-Cock. The next day the King found his stables deserted and his animals killed. He sought for Half-a-Cock, but in vain. The latter, the next day at the supper hour, began to crow as it did the first time. The prince called his negroes and said to them: "Seize Half-a-Cock and cast him into the cattle-yard so that it may be crushed under their feet." The negroes caught Half-a-Cock and threw him into the middle of the cow-pen. As soon as it reached there, it took the lion's hair and put it into the fire. The lion came, roaring, and said: "Why do you burn my hair? I smelled from my cave the odor of burning hair, and came running to learn the motive of your action." Half-a-Cock answered: "You see my situation. Help me out of it." The lion went out and roared to call his brothers. They came in great haste and said to him, "Why do you call us now?" "Take the Half-a-Cock from the ox-yard, for it has one of my hairs, which it can put into the fire. If you don't rescue Half-a-Cock, it will burn the hair, and I don't want to smell the odor of burning hair while I am alive." His brothers obeyed. They at once killed all the cattle in the pen. The King saw that his animals were all dead, and he fell into such a rage that he nearly strangled. He looked for Half-a-Cock to kill it with his own hands. He searched a long time without finding it, and finally went home to rest. At sunset Half-a-Cock came to his usual place and crowed as on the former occasions. The King called his negroes and said to them: "This time when you have caught Half-a-Cock, put it in a house and shut all the doors till morning. I will kill it myself." The negroes seized him immediately and put him in the treasure-room. When it got there, it saw money under its feet. It waited till it had nothing to fear from the masters of the house, who were all sound asleep, took from under its wing the hair of the boar, started a fire, and placed the hair in it. At once the boar came running and shaking the earth. It thrust its head against the wall. The wall shook and half of it fell down, and going to Half-a-Cock the boar said: "Why are you burning my hair at this moment?" "Pardon me, you see the situation in which I am, without counting what awaits me in the morning, for the King is going to kill me with his own hands if you don't get me out of this prison." The boar replied: "The thing is easy; fear not, I will open the door so that you may go out. In fact, you have stayed here long enough. Get up, go and take money enough for you and your children." Half-a-Cock obeyed. It rolled in the gold, took all that stuck to its wing and its foot, and swallowed as much as it could hold. It took the road it had followed the first day and when it had arrived near the house it called the mistress and said: "Strike now, be not afraid to kill me." His mistress began to strike until Half-a-Cock called from beneath the mat: "Enough now. Roll the mat." She obeyed and saw the earth all shining with gold. * * * * * At the time when Half-a-Cock returned from his pilgrimage the two women owned a dog in common. The foolish one seeing that her companion had received much money said to her: "We will divide the dog between us." The wise woman answered: "We can't do anything with it. Let it live, I will give you my half. Keep it for yourself. I have no need of it." The foolish one said to the dog, "Go on a pilgrimage as Half-a-Cock did and bring me some gold." The dog started to carry out the commands of his mistress. She began her journey in the morning and came to a fountain. As she was thirsty she started to drink. As she stopped she saw in the middle of the fountain a yellow stone. She took it in her mouth and ran back home. When she reached the house she called her mistress and said to her: "Get ready the mats and the rods, you see that I have come back from the pilgrimage." The foolish one prepared the mats under which the dog ran as soon as she heard the voice of her mistress and said, "Strike gently." The woman seized the rods and struck with all the force possible. The dog cried out to her a long while for her to stop the blows. Her mistress refused to stop until the animal was cold. She lighted up the mats and found the dog dead with the yellow stone in its mouth. * * * * * STRANGE MEETINGS Once upon a time a man was on a journey and he met a mare who grazed in the meadow. She was thin, lean, and had only skin and bone. He went on until he came to a place where he found a mare which was fat, although she did not eat. He went on further until he met a sheep which kicked against a rock till evening to pass the night there. Advancing he met a serpent which hung in a hole from which it could not get out. Farther on, he saw a man who played with a ball, and his children were old men. He came to an old man who said to him: "I will explain all that to you. The lean mare which you saw represents the rich man whose brothers are poor. The fat mare represents the poor man whose brothers are rich. The serpent which swings unable to enter nor to leave the hole is the picture of the word which once spoken and heard can never go back. The sheep which kicks against the rock to pass the night there, is the man who has an evil house. The one whose children you saw aged while he was playing ball, what does he represent? That is the man who has taken a pretty wife and does not grow old. His children have taken bad ones." * * * * * THE KING AND HIS FAMILY In times gone by a king reigned over Maghreb. He had four sons. He started, he, his wife, and his children, for the Orient. They set sail, but their ship sank with them. The waves bore them all in separated directions. One wave took the wife; another bore the father alone to the middle of the sea on an island where he found a mine of silver. He dug out enough silver until he had a great quantity and he established himself in the country. His people after heard tell of him and learned that he dwelt in the midst of the sea. They built houses until there was a great city. He was king of that country. Whoever came poor to him he gave him pieces of money. A poor man married his wife. As for his sons, they applied themselves to a study, each in a different country. They all became learned men and feared God. The King had a search made for _tolbas_ who should worship God. The first of the brothers was recommended to him. He sent for him. He sought also a _khodja_. The second brother was designated. He summoned him to the court. The prince also especially wanted an _adel_. Another brother was pointed to him. He made him come to him as, indeed, he also did the imam, who was none other than the fourth brother. They arrived at their father's without knowing him or being known by him. The wife and the man who had espoused her also came to the King to make complaint. When they arrived the wife went alone that night to the palace. The prince sent for the four _tolba_ to pass the night with him until morning. During the; night he spied upon them to see who they were. One of them said to the others, "Since sleep comes not upon us, let each one make known who he is." One said: "My father was a king. He had much money and four sons whose names were like yours." Another said: "My father was a king. My case is like yours." Another said: "My father was a king. My case is like yours." The fourth said in his turn: "My father, too, was a king. My case is like that of your three. You are my brothers." Their mother overheard them and took to weeping until day. They took her to the prince, who said, "Why do you weep?" She answered: "I was formerly the wife of a king and we had four sons. We set sail, he, our children, and I. The ship which bore us was wrecked. Each one was borne away alone, until yesterday when they spoke before me during the night and showed me what had happened to them, to their father, and to their mother." The King said, "Let me know your adventure." They told him all that had happened. Then the prince arose, weeping, and said, "You are my children," and to the woman, "You are my wife." God reunited them. * * * * * BEDDOU Two men, one of whom was named Beddou and the other Amkammel, went to market bearing a basket of figs. They met a man who was working, and said to him: "God assist you!" "Amen!" he answered. One of them wanted to wash himself, but there was no water. The laborer, him who was with him (_sic_), said, "What is your name?" "Beddou." "By the Lord, Beddou, watch my oxen while I go to drink." "Go!" When he had gone, he took away one of the oxen. On his return the laborer saw that one was missing. He went to the other traveller and asked him: "By my father, what is your name?" "Amkammel Ouennidhui" ("The Finisher"), he answered. "By the Lord, Amkammel Ouennidhui, watch this ox for me while I go look for the one that is gone." "Go!" He stole the other one. When the laborer returned he didn't even find the second. The two thieves went away, taking the oxen. They killed them to roast them. One drank all the water of the sea, the other all the fresh water, to wash it down. When they had finished, one stayed there to sleep, the other covered him with ashes. The former got up to get a drink and the ashes fell on the road. When he came back, the second covered himself with the ox-head. His brother, who had gone to get a drink, was afraid, and ran away. They divided the other ox to eat it. The one who had drunk the sea-water now drank fresh water, and the one who had drunk fresh water now drank sea-water. When they had finished their repast they took up their journey. They found an old woman who had some money, upon which she was sitting. When they arrived they fought. She arose to separate them. One of them took her place to pass the night, and pretended that he was dead. The old woman said to him: "Get up, my son." He refused. In the evening one of them stole the money, and said to his brother: "Arise! Let us go!" They went away to a place where was sleeping the one who had taken the money. The other took away the _dirkhems_ and departed, leaving the first asleep. When he awaked he found nothing. He started in pursuit of the other, and when he arrived he found him dying of illness. The latter had said to his wife, "Bury me." She buried him. He who had first stolen the money went away. He said, "It is an ox." "It is I, my friend," he cried. "Praise be to God, my friend! May your days pass in happiness!" Beddou said to him: "Let us go for a hunt." They went away alone. Beddou added: "I will shave you." He shaved him, and when he came to the throat he killed him and buried his head. A pomegranate-tree sprang up at this place. One day Beddou found a fruit, which he took to the King. When he arrived he felt that it was heavy. It was a head. The King asked him: "What is that?" "A pomegranate." "We know what you have been doing," said the King, and had his head cut off. My story is finished. * * * * * THE LANGUAGE OF THE BEASTS Once upon a time there was a man who had much goods. One day he went to market. There came a greyhound, which ate some meat. The butcher gave it a blow, which made it yelp. Seeing this, the heart of the man was touched with compassion. He bought of the butcher half a piece of meat and flung it to the greyhound. The dog took it and went away. It was the son of a king of the nether world. Fortune changed with the man. He lost all his possessions, and began to wash for people. One day, he had gone to wash something, he stretched it on the sand to dry. A jerboa appeared with a ring in its ear. The man ran after it, killed it, hid the ring, made a fire, cooked the jerboa and ate it. A woman came out of the earth, seized him, and demanded, "Haven't you seen my son, with an ear-ring?" "I haven't seen anybody," he answered; "but I saw a jerboa which had a ring in its ear." "It is my son." She drew him under the earth and told him: "You have eaten my son, you have separated me from him. Now I will separate you from your children, and you shall work in the place of my son." He who was changed into a greyhound saw this man that day, and said to him: "It is you who bought some meat for a greyhound and threw it to him?" "It is I." "I am that greyhound. Who brought you here?" "A woman," answered the man, and he recounted all his adventure. "Go and make a complaint to the King," answered the other. "I am his son. I'll tell him: 'This man did me a good service,' When he asks you to go to the treasure and take as much money as you wish, answer him: 'I don't want any. I only want you to spit a benediction into my mouth,' If he asks you, 'Who told you that?' answer, 'Nobody.'" The man went and found the King and complained of the woman. The King called her and asked her: "Why have you taken this man captive?" "He ate my son." "Why was your son metamorphosed into a jerboa? When men see one of those they kill him and eat him." Then addressing the man: "Give her back the ear-ring." He gave it to her. "Go," said the King, "take this man to the place from which you brought him." The son of the King then said to his father: "This man did me a favor; you ought to reward him." The King said to him: "Go to the treasure, take as much money as you can." "I don't want money," he answered; "I want you to spit into my mouth a benediction." "Who told you that?" "Nobody." "You will not be able to bear it." "I will be able." "When I have spat into your mouth, you will understand the language of beasts and birds; you will know what they say when they speak; but if you reveal it to the people you will die." "I will not reveal it." So the King spat into his mouth and sent him away, saying to the woman, "Go and take him back where you found him." She departed, and took him back there. He mounted his ass and came back to his house. He arranged the load and took back to the people the linen he had washed. Then he remounted the beast to go and seek some earth. He was going to dig when he heard a crow say in the air: "Dig beneath; you will sing when God has made you rich." He understood what the crow said, dug beneath, and found a treasure. He filled a basket with it. On the top he put a little earth and went home, but often returned to the spot. On one of these occasions his ass met a mule, which said: "Are you working still?" The ass replied: "My master has found a treasure and he is taking it away." The mule answered: "When you are in a crowd balk and throw the basket to the ground. People will see it, all will be discovered, and your master will leave you in peace." The man had heard every word of this. He filled his basket with earth only. When they arrived at a crowd of people the ass kicked and threw the load to the ground. Her master beat her till she had enough. He applied himself to gathering the treasure, and became a rich merchant. He had at home some chickens and a dog. One day he went into the granary, and a hen followed him and ate the grain. A cock said to her: "Bring me a little." She answered, "Eat for yourself." The master began to laugh. His wife asked him: "What are you laughing at?" "Nothing." "You are laughing at me." "Not at all." "You must tell me what you are laughing at." "If I tell you I shall die." "You shall tell me, and you shall die." "To-night." He brought out some grain and said to his wife, "Give alms." He invited the people, bade them to eat, and when they had gone he brought food to the dog, but he would not eat. The neighbor's dog came, as it did every day, to eat with his dog. To-day it found the food intact. "Come and eat," it said. "No," the dog answered. "Why not?" Then the dog told the other: "My master, hearing the chickens talk, began to laugh. His wife asked him: 'Why are you laughing?' 'If I tell you, I shall die.' 'Tell me and die,' That is why," continued the dog, "he has given alms, for when he reveals his secret he will die, and I shall never find anyone to act as he has." The other dog replied: "As he knows our language, let him take a stick and give it to his wife until she has had enough. As he beats her let him say: 'This is what I was laughing at. This is what I was laughing at. This is what I was laughing at,' until she says to him, 'Reveal to me nothing.'" The man heard the conversation of the dogs, and went and got a stick. When his wife and he went to bed she said to him, "Tell me that now." Then he took the stick and beat her, saying: "This is what I was laughing at. This is what I was laughing at. This is what I was laughing at," until she cried out: "Don't tell it to me. Don't tell it to me. Don't tell it to me." He left her alone. When the dogs heard that, they rejoiced, ran out on the terrace, played, and ate their food. From that day the wife never again said to her husband, "Tell me that!" They lived happy ever after. If I have omitted anything, may God forgive me for it. * * * * * THE APPLE OF YOUTH There once lived a king who had five daughters and no sons. They grew up. He wanted them to marry, but they would not have any of the young men of the city. A youth came from a far country and stood under the castle, beneath the window of the youngest daughter. She saw him, and told her father she would marry him. "Bring him in," said the King. "He will come to-morrow." "God be praised," said the King, "that you are pleased with us." The young man answered, "Give me your daughter for a wife." "Advise me," said the King. The stranger said, "Go and wait till to-morrow." The next day the young man said to the King: "Make all the inhabitants of the city come out. You will stand with the clerks at the entrance to the gate. Dress your daughters and let them choose their husbands themselves." The people began to come out. The eldest daughter struck one of them on the chest with an apple, and they said: "That daughter has chosen a husband. Bravo!" Each one of the daughters thus selected a husband, and the youngest kept hers. A little while afterward, the King received a visit from one of his sons-in-law, who said to him, "What do you want us to give you?" "I'll see what my daughters want," he answered. "Come back in six days." When they went to see their wives the King said to them, "I will ask of you a thing about which they have spoken to me." "What is it? We are anxious to know." "It is an apple, the odor of which gives to the one who breathes it youth, no matter what his age may be." "It is difficult," they answered. "We know not where it can be found." "If you do not bring it to me, you cannot marry my daughter." They kept silent, and then consulted with each other. The youngest said to them, "Seek the means to satisfy the King." "Give us your advice----" "Father-in-law, to-morrow we shall bring you the apple." His brothers-in-law added: "Go out. To-morrow we will meet you outside the city." The next day they all five met together. Four of them said to the other, "Advise us or we will kill you." "Cut off your fingers," he said. The first one began, and the three others did the same. The youngest one took them and put them into his game-bag, and then he added, "Wait near the city till I come back." He went out into the desert and came to the city of the ogress. He entered, and found her ready to grind some wheat. He said to the ogress, "Show me the apple whose color gives eternal youth to the old man who smells it." "You are in the family of ogres," she said. "Cut a hair from the horse of their King. When you go into the garden cast this hair into the fire. You will find a tree, from which you must pick five fruits. When plucking them do not speak a word, and keep silence on your return. It is the smallest fruit that possesses the magic power." He took the apple and went back to the city, where he found his companions. He concealed in his breast the wonderful fruit, and gave the others to his brothers-in-law, one to each. They entered the palace of the King, who was overjoyed to see them, gave them seats, and asked them, "Have you brought it or not?" "We have brought it," they answered. He said to the eldest, "Give me your apple first." He took a mirror in his left hand, and the fruit in the right hand, bent down, and inhaled the odor of the apple, but without results. He threw it down upon the ground. The others gave him their apples, with no more success. "You have deceived me," he said to them. "The apples do not produce the effect that I sought." Addressing, then, the stranger, he said, "Give me your apple." The other son-in-law replied: "I am not of this country. I will not give you my fruit." "Give it to me to look at," said the King. The young man gave it to him, saying, "Take a mirror in your right hand and the apple in your left hand." The King put the apple to his nose, and, looking at his beard, saw that it became black. His teeth became white. He grew young again. "You are my son," he said to the young man. And he made a proclamation to his subjects, "When I am dead he shall succeed me on the throne." His son-in-law stayed some time with him, and after the death of the King he reigned in his place and did not marry the other daughters of the King to his companions. POPULAR TALES OF THE KABYLES [_Translated by J. Rivière and Chauncey C. Starkweather_] ALI AND OU ALI Ali and Ou Ali were two friends. One day they met at the market. One of them bore ashes and the other carried dust. The first one had covered his goods with a little flour. The other had concealed his merchandise under some black figs. "Come, I will sell you some flour," said Ali. "Come, I will sell you some black figs," answered Ou Ali. Each regained his own horse. Ali, who thought he was carrying flour, found, on opening his sack, that it was only ashes. Ou Ali, who thought he was bearing black figs, found on opening his sack that it was nothing but dust. Another day they again greeted each other in the market. Ali smiled. Ou Ali smiled, and said to his friend: "For the love of God, what is your name?" "Ali; and yours?" "Ou Ali." Another time they were walking together, and said to each other: "Let us go and steal." One of them stole a mule and the other stole a rug. They passed the night in the forest. Now, as the snow was falling, Ali said to Ou Ali: "Give me a little of your rug to cover me." Ou Ali refused. "You remember," he added, "that I asked you to put my rug on your mule, and you would not do it." An instant afterward Ali cut off a piece of the rug, for he was dying of cold. Ou Ali got up and cut the lips of the mule. The next morning, when they awaked, Ou Ali said to Ali: "O my dear friend, your mule is grinning." "O my dear friend," replied Ali, "the rats have gnawed your rug." And they separated. Some time afterward they met anew. Ali said to Ou Ali: "Let us go and steal." They saw a peasant, who was working. One of them went to the brook to wash his cloak there, and found it dry. He laid the blade of his sabre so that it would reflect the rays of the sun, and began to beat his cloak with his hands as if to wash it. The laborer came to the brook also, and found the man who was washing his cloak without water. "May God exterminate you," said he, "who wash without water." "May God exterminate you," answered the washer, "who work without a single ox." The other robber watched the laborer, and had already stolen one of his oxen. The laborer went back to his plough, and said to the washer, "Keep this ox for me while I go and hunt for the other." As soon as he was out of sight the robber took away the ox left in his charge. The laborer returned, and seizing the goad by one end he gave a great blow on the plough-handle, crying: "Break, now. It matters little." The robbers met in a wood and killed the oxen. As they lacked salt, they went to purchase it. They salted the meat, roasted it, and ate it. Ali discovered a spring. Ou Ali not being able to find water, was dying of thirst. "Show me your spring," he said to Ali, "and I will drink." "Eat some salt, my dear friend," answered Ali. What could he do? Some days afterward Ou Ali put ashes on the shoes of Ali. The next day he followed the traces of the ashes, found the spring, and discovered thus the water that his friend was drinking. He took the skin of one of the oxen and carried it to the fountain. He planted two sticks above the water, hung the skin on the sticks, and placed the horns of the ox opposite the road. During the night his friend went to the spring. At the sight of the skin thus stretched out, fear seized him, and he fled. "I am thirsty," said Ou Ali. "Eat some salt, my dear friend," answered Ali, "for salt removes thirst." Ali retired, and, after having eaten, ran to examine the skin that he had stretched out. Ou AH ate the salt, and was dying of thirst. "For the love of God," he said finally, "show me where you drink." Ali was avenged. "Come, Jew-face, and I will show you the water." He made him drink at the spring, and said to him: "See what you were afraid of." The meat being finished, they started away. Ou Ali went to the house of Ali, and said to him: "Come, we will marry you to the daughter of an old woman." Now, the old woman had a herd of oxen. She said to Ali: "Take this drove to the fields and mount one of the animals." Ali mounted one of the oxen. He fell to the ground; the oxen began to run and trample on him. Ou Ali, who was at the house, said to the old woman: "O my old woman, give me your daughter in marriage." She called her daughter. "Take a club," she said to her, "and we will give it to him until he cries for mercy." The daughter brought a club and gave Ou AH a good beating. Ali, who was watching the herd, came at nightfall and met his friend. "Did the old woman accept you?" he asked him. "She accepted me," answered Ali. "And is the herd easy to watch?" "From morning till night I have nothing to do but to repose. Take my place to-morrow, and mount one of the oxen." The next day Ou Ali said to the old woman, "To-day I will take care of the herd." And, on starting, he recommended Ali to ask the old woman for her daughter's hand. "It is well," answered Ali. Ou Ali arrived in the fields; one of the oxen seized him with his horns and tossed him into the air. All the others did the same thing. He regained the horse half dead. Ali, who had remained at the house, asked the old woman for her daughter's hand. "You ask me again?" said she. She took a club and gave it to him till he had had enough. Ou Ali said to Ali: "You have played me a trick." Ali answered him: "Without doubt they gave me the stick so hard that I did not hear the last blow." "It is well, my dear friend. Ali owes nothing to Ou Ali." They went away. The old woman possessed a treasure. Ou Ali therefore said to Ali: "I will put you in a basket, for you know that we saw that treasure in a hole." They returned to the old woman's house. Ali goes down into the hole, takes the treasure, and puts it into the basket. Ou Ali draws up the basket, takes it, abandons his friend, now a prisoner, and runs to hide the treasure in the forest. Ali was in trouble, for he knew not how to get out. What could he do? He climbed up the sides of the hole. When he found himself in the house, he opened the door and fled. Arriving at the edge of the forest he began to bleat. Ou Ali, thinking it was a ewe, ran up. It was his friend. "O my dear," cried Ali, "I have found you at last." "God be praised. Now, let us carry our treasure." They started on the way. Ou Ali, who had a sister, said to Ali: "Let us go to my sister's house." They arrived at nightfall. She received them with joy. Her brother said to her: "Prepare some pancakes and some eggs for us." She prepared the pancakes and the eggs and served them with the food. "O my sister," cried Ou Ali, "my friend does not like eggs; bring us some water." She went to get the water. As soon as she had gone, Ali took an egg and put it into his mouth. When the woman returned, he made such efforts to give it up that he was all out of breath. The repast was finished, and Ali had not eaten anything. Ou Ali said to his sister: "O my sister, my friend is ill; bring me a skewer." She brought him a skewer, which he put into the fire. When the skewer was red with the heat, Ou Ali seized it and applied it to the cheek of Ali. The latter uttered a cry, and rejected the egg. "Truly," said the woman, "you do not like eggs." The two friends started and arrived at a village. "Let us go to my sister's house," said Ali to his friend. She received them with open arms. Ali said to her: "O my sister, prepare a good stew for us." They placed themselves at the table at nightfall, and she served them with food. "O my sister," cried Ali, "my friend does not like stew." Ali ate alone. When he was satisfied, the two friends started, without forgetting the treasure. On the way Ali said to Ou Ali: "Give it to me to-day and I will deposit it in my house." He took it and gave it to his wife. "Bury me," he said to her. "And if Ou Ali comes tell him that his old friend is dead, and receive him with tears." Ou Ali arrived, and asked the woman in tears to see the tomb of his dead friend. He took an ox-horn and began to dig in the earth that covered the body. "Behind! behind!" cried the pretended dead man. "Get up, there, you liar," answered Ali. They went away together. "Give me the treasure," asked Ou Ali; "to-day I will take it to my house." He took it to his house, and said to his wife: "Take this treasure. I am going to stretch myself out as if I were dead. When Ali comes receive him weeping, and say to him: 'Your friend is dead. He is stretched out in the bedroom.'" Ali went and said to the woman: "Get me some boiling water, for your husband told me to wash him when he should die." When the water was ready the woman brought it. Ali seized the kettle and poured it on the stomach of Ou Ali, who sprang up with a bound. Thus he got even for the trick of his friend. The two friends divided the treasure then, and Ali went home. * * * * * THE INFIDEL JEW A man went on a journey. At the moment of departure he placed with a Jew, his friend, a jar filled with gold. He covered the gold with butter and said to the Jew: "I trust to your care this jar of butter, as I am going on a journey." On his return he hastened to the house of his friend. "Give me the jar of butter that I left with you," he said. The Jew gave it to him. But the poor traveller found nothing but butter, for the Jew had taken the gold. Nevertheless, he did not tell anybody of the misfortune that had happened to him. But his countenance bore traces of a secret sorrow. His brother perceived it, and said to him: "What is the matter with you?" "I intrusted a jar filled with gold to a Jew," he answered, "and he only returned a jar of butter to me. I don't know what to do to recover my property." His brother replied: "The thing is easy. Prepare a feast and invite your friend the Jew." The next day the traveller prepared a feast and invited the Jew. During this time the brother of the traveller ran to a neighboring mountain, where he captured a monkey. During the night he entered the house of the Jew and found a child in the cradle. He took the child away and put the monkey in its place. When day had come the mother perceived the monkey tied in the cradle. She called her husband with loud cries, and said to him: "See how God has punished us for having stolen your friend's gold. Our child is changed into a monkey. Give back the stolen property." They immediately had the traveller summoned, and returned his gold to him. The next night the child was taken back to the cradle and the monkey was set free. As I can go no further, may God exterminate the jackal and pardon all our sins! * * * * * THE SHEIK'S HEAD A man died, leaving a son. The child spent day and night with his mother. The sheik chanted a prayer every morning and waked him up. The child went to find the sheik, and said: "Ali Sheik, do not sing so loudly, you wake us up every morning--my mother and me." But the sheik kept on singing. The child went to the mosque armed with a club. At the moment when the sheik bowed to pray he struck him a blow and killed him. He ran to his mother, and said to her: "I have killed that sheik; come, let us bury him." They cut off his head and buried his body. The child went to the Thadjeinath, where the men of the village were assembled. In his absence his mother killed a sheep. She took the head and buried it in place of the sheik's head. The child arrived at the Thadjeinath and said to those present: "I have killed the sheik who waked us up every morning." "It is a lie," said they. "Come to my mother's house and we will show you where we buried his head." They went to the house, and the mother said to them: "Ali Sidi, this child is mad. It is a sheep that we have killed. Come and see where we buried its head." They went to the spot, dug, and found a sheep's head. * * * * * THE WAGTAIL AND THE JACKAL At the time when all the animals spoke, a wagtail laid her eggs on the ground. The little ones grew up. A jackal and a fox came to them. The jackal said to the fox: "Swear to me that the wagtail owes me a pound of butter." The fox swore to it. The bird began to weep. A greyhound came to her and asked her what was the matter. She answered him: "The fox has calumniated me." "Well," said the hound, "put me in this sack of skin." She put him in the sack. "Tie up the top well," said the hound. When the jackal returned she said to him: "Come and measure out the butter." The jackal advanced and unfastened the sack. He saw the hound, who stretched out his paws and said to the fox: "I am ill; come and measure, fox." The fox approached. The hound seized him. The jackal said, "Remember your false testimony." * * * * * THE FLUTE-PLAYER A servant tended the sheep of his master. Arrived in the meadow, he played the flute. The sheep heard him, and would not browse. One day the master perceived that his sheep did not graze. He followed the servant to the fields and hid himself in the bush. The shepherd took his flute and began to play. His master began to dance so that the bushes brought blood upon him. He returned home. "Who scratched you so?" asked his wife. "The servant played on the flute, and I began to dance." "That is a lie," said she; "people don't dance against their will." "Well," answered the husband, "tie me to this post and make the servant play." She tied him to the post and the servant took the flute. Our man began to dance. He struck his head against a nail in the post and died. The son of the dead man said to the servant: "Pay me for the loss of my father." They went before the cadi. On the way they met a laborer, who asked them where they were going. "Before the cadi." "Could you tell me why?" "This man killed my father," answered the son of the dead man. "It was not I that killed him," answered the shepherd; "I played on the flute, he danced and died." "That is a lie!" cried the laborer. "I will not dance against my will. Take your flute and we shall see if I dance." The shepherd took his flute. He began to play, and the laborer started dancing with such activity that his oxen left to themselves fell into the ravine. "Pay me for my oxen," he cried to the shepherd. "Come before the cadi," he answered. They presented themselves before the cadi, who received them on the second floor of the house. They all sat down. Then the cadi said to the servant: "Take your flute and play before me. I will see how you play." The servant took his flute and all began to dance. The cadi danced with the others, and they all fell down to the ground floor and were killed. The servant stayed in the house of the cadi and inherited the property of all. * * * * * THE CHILD A child had a thorn in his foot. He went to an old woman and said to her: "Take out this thorn for me." The old woman took out the thorn and threw it away. "Give me my thorn," and he began to cry. "Take an egg." He went to another old woman, "Hide me this egg." "Put it in the hen's nest." In the night he took his egg and ate it. The next day he said to the old woman: "Give me my egg." "Take the hen," she answered. He went to another old woman, "Hide my hen for me." "Put her on the stake to which I tie my he-goat." At night he took away the hen. The next morning he demanded his hen. "Look for her where you hid her." "Give me my hen." "Take the he-goat." He went to another old woman, "O old woman, hide this goat for me." "Tie him to the sheep's crib." During the night he took away the buck. The next day he claimed the buck. "Take the sheep." He went to another old woman, "O old woman, keep my sheep for me." "Tie him to the foot of the calf." During the night he took away the sheep. Next morning he demanded his sheep. "Take the calf." He went to another old woman, "Keep my calf for me." "Tie him to the cow's manger." In the night he took away the calf. The next morning he asked for his calf. "Take the cow." He went to another old woman, "Keep my cow for me." "Tie her to the foot of the old woman's bed." In the night he took away the cow. The next morning he demanded his cow. "Take the old woman." He went to another old woman and left the old dame, whom he killed during the night. The next morning he demanded his old woman. "There she is by the young girl." He found her dead. "Give me my old woman." "Take the young girl." He said to her: "From the thorn to the egg, from the egg to the hen, from the hen to the buck, from the buck to the sheep, from the sheep to the calf, from the calf to the cow, from the cow to the old woman, from the old woman to the young girl, and now come and marry me." * * * * * THE MONKEY AND THE FISHERMAN A fisherman went one day to the sea to catch some fish. In the evening he sold his catch, and bought a little loaf of bread, on which he made his supper. The next day he returned to his fishing and found a chest. He took it to his house and opened it. Out jumped a monkey and said to him: "Bad luck to you. I am not the only one to conquer. You may bewail your sad lot." "My lot is unbearable," he answered. The next day he returned to his fishing. The monkey climbed to the roof of the house and sat there. A moment afterward he cut all the roses of the garden. The daughter of the King saw him, and said to him: "O Sidi Mahomet, what are you doing there? Come here, I need you." He took a rose and approached. "Where do you live?" asked the princess. "With the son of the Sultan of India," answered the monkey. "Tell him to buy me." "I will tell him, provided he will accept." The next day he stayed in the house and tore his face. The princess called him again. The monkey brought her a rose. "Who put you in that condition?" she cried. "It was the son of the Sultan of India," answered the monkey. "When I told him to buy you he gave me a blow." The princess gave him 100 ecus, and he went away. The next day he scratched his face worse and climbed on the house. The daughter of the King called him: "Sidi Mahomet!" "Well?" "Come here. What did you say to him?" "I told him to buy you, and he gave me another blow." "Since this is so, come and find me to-morrow." The next day the monkey took the fisherman to a shop and bought him some clothes. He took him to the baths and made him bathe. Then he went along the road and cried: "Flee, flee, here is the son of the Sultan of India!" They went into a coffee-house, and Si Mahomet ordered two coffees. They drank their coffees, gave an ecu to the proprietor, and went out. While going toward the palace Si Mahomet said to-the fisherman: "Here we are at the house of your father-in-law. When he serves us to eat, eat little. When he offers us coffee, drink only a little of it. You will find silken rugs stretched on the floor; keep on your sandals." When they arrived the fisherman took off his sandals. The King offered them something to eat; the fisherman ate a great deal. He offered them some coffee, and the fisherman did not leave a drop of it. They went out. When they were outside the palace Si Mahomet said to the fisherman: "Jew of a fisherman, you are lucky that I do not scratch your face." They returned to their house. Si Mahomet climbed upon the roof. The daughter of the King perceived him, and said: "Come here." The monkey approached. "Truly you have lied. Why did you tell me that the son of the Sultan of India was a distinguished person?" "Is he a worthless fellow?" "We furnished the room with silken rugs, he took off his sandals. We gave him food, and he ate like a servant. We offered him some coffee, and he licked his fingers." The monkey answered: "We had just come out of the coffeehouse. He had taken too much wine and was drunken, and not master of himself. That is why he ate so much." "Well," replied the princess, "come to the palace again tomorrow, but do not take him to the coffee-house first." The next day they set out. On the way the monkey said to the fisherman: "Jew of a fisherman, if to-day you take off your sandals or eat too much or drink all your coffee, look out for yourself. Drink a little only, or I will scratch your eyes out." They arrived at the palace. The fisherman walked on the silken rugs with his sandals. They gave him something to eat, and he ate little. They brought him some coffee, and he hardly tasted it. The King gave him his daughter. Si Mahomet said to the King: "The son of the Sultan of India has quarrelled with his father, so he only brought one chest of silver." In the evening the monkey and the fisherman went out for a walk. The fisherman said to Si Mahomet: "Is it here that we are going to find the son of the Sultan of India?" "I can show him to you easily," answered the monkey. "Tomorrow I will find you seated. I will approach, weeping, with a paper in my hands; I will give you the paper, and you must read it and burst into tears. Your father-in-law will ask you why you weep so. Answer him: 'My father is dead. Here is the letter I have just received. If you have finally determined to give me your daughter, I will take her away and we will go to pay the last duties to my father.'" "Take her," said the King. He gave him an escort of horsemen and soldiers. Arriving at the place, Si Mahomet said to the soldiers: "You may return to the palace, for our country is far from here." The escort went back to the palace, and the travellers continued on their journey. Soon Si Mahomet said to the fisherman: "Stay here till I go and look at the country of your father." He started, and arrived at the gates of a city he found closed he mounted upon the ramparts. An ogress perceived him, "I salute you, Si Mahomet." "May God curse you, sorceress! Come, I am going to your house." "What do you want of me, Si Mahomet?" "They are seeking to kill you." "Where can I hide?" He put her in the powder-house of the city, shut the door on her, and set the powder on fire. The ogress died. He came back to the fisherman. "Forward," he said. They entered the city and established themselves there. One day Si Mahomet fell ill and died The two spouses put him in a coffin lined with silk and buried him. My story is told. * * * * * THE TWO FRIENDS Sidi El-Marouf and Sidi Abd-el-Tadu were travelling in company. Toward evening they separated to find a resting-place. Sidi Abd-el-Tadu said to his friend: "Let us say a prayer, that God may preserve us from the evil which we have never committed." Sidi El-Marouf answered, "Yes, may God preserve us from the evil that we have not done!" They went toward the houses, each his own way. Sidi El-Marouf presented himself at a door. "Can you entertain a traveller?" "You are welcome," said a woman to him. "Enter, you may remain for the night." Night came. He took his supper. The woman spread a mat on the floor and he went to sleep. The woman and her husband slept also. When all was quiet, the woman got up, took a knife, and killed her husband. The next day at dawn she began to cry: "He has killed my husband!" The whole village ran up to the house and seized the stranger. They bound him, and everyone brought wood to burn the guilty man. Sidi Abd-el-Tadu came also, and saw his friend in tears. "What have you done?" he asked. "I have done no evil," answered Sidi El-Marouf. "Did I not tell you yesterday," said Sidi Abd-el-Tadu, "that we would say the prayer that God should preserve us from the evil we had never committed? And now you will be burned for a crime of which you are innocent!" Sidi El-Marouf answered him, "Bring the woman here." "Did he really kill your husband?" asked Sidi Abd-el-Tadu. "He killed him," she replied. There was a bird on a tree nearby. Sidi Abd-el-Tadu asked the bird. The bird answered: "It was the woman who killed her husband. Feel in her hair and you will find the knife she used." They searched her hair and found the knife still covered with blood, which gave evidence of the crime. The truth was known and innocence was defended. God avenged the injustice. * * * * * THE ROBBER AND THE TWO PILGRIMS Two robbers spent their time in robbing. One of them got married, and the other continued his trade. They were a long time without seeing each other. Finally the one who was not married went to visit his friend, and said to him: "If your wife has a daughter, you must give her to me." "I will give her to you seven days after her birth." The daughter was born, and the robber took her to bring up in the country. He built a house, bought flocks, and tended them himself. One day some pilgrims came to the house. He killed a cow for them and entertained them. The next day he accompanied them on their pilgrimage. The pilgrims said to him: "If you come with us, two birds will remain with your wife." The woman stayed in the country. One day the son of the Sultan came that way to hunt. One of the birds saw him and said to the woman, "Don't open the door." The prince heard the bird speak, and returned to the palace without saying a word. An old woman was called to cast spells over him, and said to the King: "He could not see a woman he has never seen." The prince spoke and said to her: "If you will come with me, I will bring her here." They arrived. The old dame called the young woman, "Come out, that we may see you." She said to the bird, "I am going to open the door." The bird answered: "If you open the door you will meet the same fate as Si El-Ahcen. He was reading with many others in the mosque. One day he found an amulet. His betrothed went no longer to school, and as she was old enough he married her. Some days after he said to his father, 'Watch over my wife.' 'Fear nothing,' answered the father. "He started, and came back. 'Watch over my wife,' he said to his father again. 'Fear nothing,' repeated his father. The latter went to the market. On his return he said to his daughter-in-law, 'There were very beautiful women in the market,' 'I surpass them all in beauty,' said the woman; 'take me to the market.' "A man offered 1,000 francs for her. The father-in-law refused, and said to her: 'Sit down on the mat. The one that covers you with silver may have you,' A man advanced. 'If you want to marry her,' said her father-in-law, 'cover her with silver, and she will be your wife.' "Soon Si El-Ahcen returned from his journey and asked if his wife were still living. 'Your wife is dead,' said his father; 'she fell from her mule,' Si El-Ahcen threw himself on the ground. They tried to lift him up. It was useless trouble. He remained stretched on the earth. "One day a merchant came to the village and said to him, 'The Sultan married your wife,' She had said to the merchant, 'The day that you leave I will give you a message,' She wrote a letter to her husband, and promised the bearer a flock of sheep if he would deliver it. "Si El-Ahcen received the letter, read it, was cured, ran to the house, and said to his father: 'My wife has married again in my absence; she is not dead. I brought home much money. I will take it again.' "He took his money and went to the city where his wife lived. He stopped at the gates. To the first passer-by he gave five francs, to the second five more. "'What do you want, O stranger?' they asked. 'If you want to see the Sultan we will take you to him,' They presented him to the Sultan. "'Render justice to this man,' 'What does he want?' 'My lord,' answered Sidi El-Ahcen, 'the woman you married is my wife,' 'Kill him!' cried the Sultan. 'No,' said the witnesses, 'let him have justice,' "'Let him tell me if she carries an object,' Si El-Ahcen answered: 'This woman was betrothed to me before her birth. An amulet is hidden in her hair,' He took away his wife, returned to the village, and gave a feast. "If you open the door," continued the bird, "you will have the same fate as Fatima-ou-Lmelh. Hamed-ou-Lmelh married her. Fatima said to her father-in-law, 'Take me to my uncle's house,' Arriving there she married another husband. Hamed-ou-Lmelh was told of this, and ran to find her. At the moment he arrived he found the wedding over and the bride about to depart for the house of her new husband. Then Hamed burst into the room and cast himself out of the window. Fatima did the same, and they were both killed. "The intended father-in-law and his family returned to their house, and were asked the cause of the misfortune. 'The woman was the cause,' they answered. "Nevertheless, the father of Hamed-ou-Lmelh went to the parents of Fatima and said: 'Pay us for the loss of our son. Pay us for the loss of Fatima.' "They could not agree, and went before the justice. Passing by the village where the two spouses had died they met an old man, and said, 'Settle our dispute,' 'I cannot,' answered the old man. Farther on they met a sheep, which was butting a rock. 'Settle our dispute,' they said to the sheep. 'I cannot,' answered the sheep. Farther on they met a serpent. 'Settle our dispute,' they said to him. 'I cannot,' answered the serpent. They met a river. 'Settle our dispute,' they said to it. 'I cannot,' answered the river. They met a jackal. 'Settle our dispute,' they said to him. 'Go to the village where your children died,' answered the jackal. They went back to the village, and applied to the Sultan, who had them all killed." The bird stopped speaking, the pilgrims returned. The old woman saw them and fled. The robber prepared a feast for the pilgrims. * * * * * THE LITTLE CHILD "Come, little child, eat your dinner." "I won't eat it." "Come, stick, beat the child." "I won't beat him." "Come, fire, burn the stick." "I won't burn it." "Come, water, quench the fire." "I won't quench it." "Come, ox, drink the water." "I won't drink it." "Come, knife, kill the ox." "I won't kill him." "Come, blacksmith, break the knife." "I won't break it." "Come, strap, bind the blacksmith." "I won't bind him." "Come, rat, gnaw the strap." "I won't gnaw it." "Come, cat, eat the rat." "Bring it here." "Why eat me?" said the rat; "bring the strap and I'll gnaw it." "Why gnaw me?" said the strap; "bring the blacksmith and I'll bind him." "Why bind me?" said the blacksmith; "bring the knife and I'll break it." "Why break me?" said the knife; "bring the ox and I'll kill him." "Why kill me?" said the ox; "bring the water and I'll drink it." "Why drink me?" said the water; "bring the fire and I'll quench it." "Why quench me?" said the fire; "bring the stick and I'll burn it." "Why burn me?" said the stick; "bring the child and I'll strike him." "Why strike me?" said the child; "bring me my dinner and I'll eat it." * * * * * THE WREN A wren had built its nest on the side of a road. When the eggs were hatched, a camel passed that way. The little wrens saw it, and said to their father when he returned from the fields: "O papa, a gigantic animal passed by." The wren stretched out his foot. "As big as this, my children?" "O papa, much bigger." He stretched out his foot and his wing. "As big as this?" "O papa, much bigger." Finally he stretched out fully his feet and legs. "As big as this, then?" "Much bigger." "That is a lie; there is no animal bigger than I am." "Well, wait," said the little ones, "and you will see." The camel came back while browsing the grass of the roadside. The wren stretched himself out near the nest. The camel seized the bird, which passed through its teeth safe and sound. "Truly," he said to them, "the camel is a gigantic animal, but I am not ashamed of myself." On the earth it generally happens that the vain are as if they did not exist. But sooner or later a rock falls and crushes them. * * * * * THE MULE, THE JACKAL, AND THE LION The mule, the jackal, and the lion went in company. "We will eat the one whose race is bad," they said to each other. "Lion, who is your father?" "My father is a lion and my mother is a lioness." "And you, jackal, what is your father?" "My father is a jackal and my mother, too." "And you, mule, what is your father?" "My father is an ass, and my mother is a mare." "Your race is bad; we will eat you." He answered them: "I will consult an old man. If he says that my race is bad, you may devour me." He went to a farrier, and said to him, "Shoe my hind feet, and make the nails stick out well." He went back home. He called the camel and showed him his feet, saying: "See what is written on this tablet." "The writing is difficult to decipher," answered the camel. "I do not understand it, for I only know three words--_outini, ouzatini, ouazakin_." He called a lion, and said to him: "I do not understand these letters; I only know three words--_outini, ouzatini, ouazakin_" "Show it to me," said the lion. He approached. The mule struck him between the eyes and stretched him out stiff. He who goes with a knave is betrayed by him. * * * * * THADHELLALA A woman had seven daughters and no son. She went to the city, and there saw a rich shop. A little farther on she perceived at the door of a house a young girl of great beauty. She called her parents, and said: "I have my son to marry; let me have your daughter for him." They let her take the girl away. She came back to the shop and said to the man in charge of it: "I will gladly give you my daughter; but go first and consult your father." The young man left a servant in his place and departed. Thadhellala (that was her name) sent the servant to buy some bread in another part of the city. Along came a caravan of mules. Thadhellala packed all the contents of the shop on their backs and said to the muleteer: "I will go on ahead; my son will come in a moment. Wait for him--he will pay you." She went off with the mules and the treasures which she had packed upon them. The servant came back soon. "Where is your mother?" cried the muleteer; "hurry and, pay me." "You tell me where she is and I will make her give me back what she has stolen." And they went before the justice. Thadhellala pursued her way, and met seven young students. She said to one of them, "A hundred francs and I will marry you." The student gave them to her. She made the same offer to the others, and each one took her word. Arriving at a fork in the road, the first one said, "I will take you," the second one said, "I will take you," and so on to the last. Thadhellala answered: "You shall have a race as far as that ridge over there, and the one that gets there first shall marry me." The young men started. Just then a horseman came passing by. "Lend me your horse," she said to him. The horseman jumped off. Thadhellala mounted the horse and said: "You see that ridge? I will rejoin you there." The scholars perceived the man. "Have you not seen a woman?" they asked him. "She has stolen 700 francs from us." "Haven't you others seen her? She has stolen my horse?" They went to complain to the Sultan, who gave the command to arrest Thadhellala. A man promised to seize her. He secured a comrade, and they both pursued Thadhellala, who had taken flight. Nearly overtaken by the man, she met a negro who pulled teeth, and said to him: "You see my son coming down there; pull out his teeth." When the other passed the negro pulled out his teeth. The poor toothless one seized the negro and led him before the Sultan to have him punished. The negro said to the Sultan: "It was his mother that told me to pull them out for him." "Sidi," said the accuser, "I was pursuing Thadhellala." The Sultan then sent soldiers in pursuit of the woman, who seized her and hung her up at the gates of the city. Seeing herself arrested, she sent a messenger to her relatives. Then there came by a man who led a mule. Seeing her he said, "How has this woman deserved to be hanged in this way?" "Take pity on me," said Thadhellala; "give me your mule and I will show you a treasure." She sent him to a certain place where the pretended treasure was supposed to be hidden. At this the brother-in-law of Thadhellala had arrived. "Take away this mule," she said to him. The searcher for treasures dug in the earth at many places and found nothing. He came back to Thadhellala and demanded his mule. She began to weep and cry. The sentinel ran up, and Thadhellala brought complaint against this man. She was released, and he was hanged in her place. She fled to a far city, of which the Sultan had just then died. Now, according to the custom of that country, they took as king the person who happened to be at the gates of the city when the King died. Fate took Thadhellala there at the right time. They conducted her to the palace, and she was proclaimed Queen. * * * * * THE GOOD MAN AND THE BAD ONE Two men, one good and the other bad, started out together to do business, and took provisions with them. Soon the bad one said to the good one: "I am hungry; give me some of your food." He gave him some, and they both ate. They went on again till they were hungry. "Give me some of your food," said the bad one. He gave him some of it, and they ate. They went on until they were hungry. "Give me some of your food," said the bad one. He gave him some, and they ate. They went on until they were hungry. The good man said to his companion: "Give me some of your food." "Oh, no, my dear," said the bad one. "I beg you to give me some of your food," said the good one. "Let me pluck out one of your eyes," answered the bad one. He consented. The bad one took his pincers and took out one of his eyes. They went on until they came to a certain place. Hunger pressed them. "Give me some of your food," said the good man. "Let me pluck out your other eye," answered his companion. "O my dear," replied the good man, "leave it to me, I beg of you." "No!" responded the bad one; "no eye, no food." But finally he said, "Pluck it out." They proceeded until they came to a certain place. When hunger pressed them anew the bad one abandoned his companion. A bird came passing by, and said to him: "Take a leaf of this tree and apply it to your eyes." He took a leaf of the tree, applied it to his eyes, and was healed. He arose, continued on his way, and arrived at a city where he found the one who had plucked out his eyes. "Who cured you?" "A bird passed near me," said the good man. "He said to me, 'Take a leaf of this tree.' I took it, applied it to my eyes, and was cured." The good man found the King of the city blind. "Give me back my sight and I will give you my daughter." He restored his sight to him, and the King gave him his daughter. The good man took his wife to his house. Every morning he went to present his respects to the King, and kissed his head. One day he fell ill. He met the bad one, who said to him: "Eat an onion and you will be cured; but when you kiss the King's head, turn your head aside or the King will notice your breath and will kill you." After these words he ran to the King and said: "O King, your son-in-law disdains you." "O my dear," answered the King, "my son-in-law does not disdain me." "Watch him," answered the bad one; "when he comes to kiss your head he will turn away from you." The King remarked that his son-in-law did turn away on kissing his head. "Wait a moment," he said to him. Immediately he wrote a letter to the Sultan, and gave it to his son-in-law, commanding him to carry it to the Sultan. Going out of the house he met the bad one, who wanted to carry the letter himself. The good man gave it to him. The Sultan read the letter, and had the bad one's head cut off. The good man returned to the King. "What did he say?" asked the King. "Ah, Sidi, I met a man who wanted to carry the letter. I intrusted it to him and he took it to the Sultan, who condemned him to death in the city." * * * * * THE CROW AND THE CHILD A man had two wives. He was a rich merchant. One of them had a son whose forehead was curved with a forelock. Her husband said to her: "Don't work any more, but only take care of the child. The other wife will do all the work." One day he went to market. The childless wife said to the other, "Go, get some water." "No," she answered, "our husband does not want me to work." "Go, get some water, I tell you." And the woman went to the fountain. On the way she met a crow half dead with fatigue. A merchant who was passing took it up and carried it away. He arrived before the house of the woman who had gone to the fountain, and there found the second woman. "Give something to this crow," demanded the merchant. "Give it to me," she answered, "and I will make you rich." "What will you give me?" asked the merchant. "A child," replied the woman. The merchant refused, and said to her, "Where did you steal it?" "From whom did I steal it?" she cried. "It is my own son." "Bring him." She brought the child to him, and the merchant left her the crow and took the boy to his home and soon became very, rich. The mother came back from the fountain. The other woman said: "Where is your son? Listen, he is crying, that son of yours." "He is not crying," she answered. "You don't know how to amuse him. I'll go and take him." "Leave him alone," said the mother. "He is asleep." They ground some wheat, and the child did not appear to wake up. At this the husband returned from the market and said to the mother, "Why don't you busy yourself looking after your son?" Then she arose to take him, and found a crow in the cradle. The other woman cried: "This is the mother of a crow! Take it into the other house; sprinkle it with hot water." She went to the other house and poured hot water on the crow. Meanwhile, the child called the merchant his father and the merchant's wife his mother. One day the merchant set off on a journey. His mother brought some food to him in the room where he was confined. "My son," she said, "will you promise not to betray me?" "You are my mother," answered the child; "I will not betray you." "Only promise me." "I promise not to betray you." "Well, know that I am not your mother and my husband is not your father." The merchant came home from his journey and took the child some food, but he would not eat it. "Why won't you eat?" asked the merchant. "Could your mother have been here?" "No," answered the child, "she has not been here." The merchant went to his wife and said to her, "Could you have gone up to the child's chamber?" The woman answered, "I did not go up to the room." The merchant carried food to the child, who said: "For the love of God, I adjure you to tell me if you are my father and if your wife is my mother." The merchant answered: "My son, I am not your father and my wife is not your mother." The child said to her, "Prepare us some food." When she had prepared the food the child mounted a horse and the merchant a mule. They proceeded a long way, and arrived at the village of which the real father of the child was the chief. They entered his house. They gave food to the child, and said, "Eat." "I will not eat until the other woman comes up here." "Eat. She is a bad woman." "No, let her come up." They called her. The merchant ran to the child. "Why do you act thus toward her?" "Oh!" cried those present, "she had a child that was changed into a crow." "No doubt," said the merchant; "but the child had a mark." "Yes, he had one." "Well, if we find it, we shall recognize the child. Put out the lamp." They put it out. The child threw off its hood. They lighted the lamp again. "Rejoice," cried the child, "I am your son!" * * * * * H'AB SLIMAN A man had a boy and a girl. Their mother died and he took another wife. The little boy stayed at school until evening. The school-master asked them: "What do your sisters do?" One answered, "She makes bread." A second, "She goes to fetch water." A third, "She prepares the _couscous_." When he questioned H'ab Sliman, the child played deaf, the master struck him. One day his sister said to him: "What is the matter, O my brother? You seem to be sad." "Our schoolmaster punishes us," answered the child. "And why does he punish you?" inquired the young girl. The child replied: "After we have studied until evening he asks each of us what our sisters do. They answer him: she kneads bread, she goes to get water. But when he questions me I have nothing to say, and he beats me." "Is it nothing but for that?" "That is all." "Well," added the young girl, "the next time he asks you, answer him: 'This is what my sister does: When she laughs the sun shines; when she weeps it rains; when she combs her hair, legs of mutton fall; when she goes from one place to another, roses drop.'" The child gave that answer. "Truly," said the schoolmaster, "that is a rich match." A few days after he bought her, and they made preparations for her departure for the house of her husband. The stepmother of the young girl made her a little loaf of salt bread. She ate it and asked some drink from her sister, the daughter of her stepmother. "Let me pluck out one of your eyes," said the sister. "Pluck it out," said the promised bride, "for our people are already on the way." The stepmother gave her to drink and plucked out one of her eyes. "A little more," she said. "Let me take out your other eye," answered the cruel woman. The young girl drank and let her pluck out the other eye. Scarcely had she left the house than the stepmother thrust her out on the road. She dressed her own daughter and put her in the place of the blind one. They arrive. "Comb yourself," they told her, and there fell dust. "Walk," and nothing happened. "Laugh," and her front teeth fell out. All cried, "Hang H'ab Sliman!" Meanwhile some crows came flying near the young blind girl, and one said to her: "Some merchants are on the point of passing this way. Ask them for a little wool, and I will restore your sight." The merchants came up and the blind girl asked them for a little wool, and each one of them threw her a bit. The crow descended near her and restored her sight. "Into what shall we change you?" they asked. "Change me into a pigeon," she answered. The crows stuck a needle into her head and she was changed into a pigeon. She took her flight to the house of the schoolmaster and perched upon a tree near by. The people went to sow wheat. "O master of the field," she said, "is H'ab Sliman yet hanged?" She began to weep, and the rain fell until the end of the day's work. One day the people of the village went to find a venerable old man and said to him: "O old man, a bird is perched on one of our trees. When we go to work the sky is covered with clouds and it rains. When the day's work is done the sun shines." "Go," said the old man, "put glue on the branch where it perches." They put glue on its branch and caught the bird. The daughter of the stepmother said to her mother: "Let us kill it." "No," said a slave, "we will amuse ourselves with it." "No; kill it." And they killed it. Its blood spurted upon a rose-tree. The rose-tree became so large that it overspread all the village. The people worked to cut it down until evening, and yet it remained the size of a thread. "To-morrow," they said, "we will finish it." The next morning they found it as big as it was the day before. They returned to the old man and said to him: "O old man, we caught the bird and killed it. Its blood gushed upon a rose-tree, which became so large that it overspreads the whole village. Yesterday we worked all day to cut it down. We left it the size of a thread. This morning we find it as big as ever." "O my children," said the old man, "you are not yet punished enough. Take H'ab Sliman, perhaps he will have an expedient. Make him sleep at your house." H'ab Sliman said to them, "Give me a sickle." Someone said to him: "We who are strong have cut all day without being able to accomplish it, and do you think you will be capable of it? Let us see if you will find a new way to do it." At the moment when he gave the first blow a voice said to him: "Take care of me, O my brother!" The voice wept, the child began to weep, and it rained. H'ab Sliman recognized his sister. "Laugh," he said. She laughed and the sun shone, and the people got dried. "Comb yourself," and legs of mutton fell. All those who were present regaled themselves on them. "Walk," and roses fell. "But what is the matter with you, my sister?" "What has happened to me." "What revenge does your heart desire?" "Attach the daughter of my stepmother to the tail of a horse that she may be dragged in the bushes." When the young girl was dead, they took her to the house, cooked her, and sent her to her mother and sister. "O my mother," cried the latter, "this eye is that of my sister Aftelis." "Eat, unhappy one," said the mother, "your sister Aftelis has become the slave of slaves." "But look at it," insisted the young girl. "You have not even looked at it. I will give this piece to the one who will weep a little." "Well," said the cat, "if you give me that piece I will weep with one eye." * * * * * THE KING AND HIS SON He had a son whom he brought up well. The child grew and said one day to the King, "I am going out for a walk." "It is well," answered the King. At a certain place he found an olive-tree on fire. "O God," he cried, "help me to put out this fire!" Suddenly God sent the rain, the fire was extinguished, and the young man was able to pass. He came to the city and said to the governor: "Give me a chance to speak in my turn." "It is well," said he; "speak." "I ask the hand of your daughter," replied the young man. "I give her to you," answered the governor, "for if you had not put out that fire the city would have been devoured by the flames." He departed with his wife. After a long march the wife made to God this prayer: "O God, place this city here." The city appeared at the very spot. Toward evening the Marabout of the city of which the father of the young bridegroom was King went to the mosque to say his prayers. "O marvel!" he cried, "what do I see down there?" The King called his wife and sent her to see what was this new city. The woman departed, and, addressing the wife of the young prince, asked alms of him. He gave her alms. The messenger returned and said to the King: "It is your son who commands in that city." The King, pricked by jealousy, said to the woman: "Go, tell him to come and find me. I must speak with him." The woman went away and returned with the King's son. His father said to him: "If you are the son of the King, go and see your mother in the other world." He regained his palace in tears. "What is the matter with you," asked his wife, "you whom destiny has given me?" He answered her: "My father told me, 'Go and see your mother in the other world.'" "Return to your father," she replied, "and ask him for the book of the grandmother of your grandmother." He returned to his father, who gave him the book. He brought it to his wife, who said to him, "Lay it on the grave of your mother." He placed it there and the grave opened. He descended and found a man who was licking the earth. He saw another who was eating mildew. And he saw a third who was eating meat. "Why do you eat meat?" he asked him. "Because I did good on earth," responded the shade. "Where shall I find my mother?" asked the prince. The shade said, "She is down there." He went to his mother, who asked him why he came to seek her. He replied, "My father sent me." "Return," said the mother, "and say to your father to lift up the beam which is on the hearth." The prince went to his father. "My mother bids you take up the beam which is above the hearth." The King raised it and found a treasure. "If you are the son of the King," he added, "bring me someone a foot high whose beard measures two feet." The prince began to weep. "Why do you weep," asked his wife, "you whom destiny has given me?" The prince answered her, "My father said to me, 'Bring me someone a foot high whose beard measures two feet." "Return to your father," she replied, "and ask him for the book of the grandfather of your grandfather." His father gave him the book and the prince brought it to his wife. "Take it to him again and let him put it in the assembly place, and call a public meeting." A man a foot high appeared, took up the book, went around the city, and ate up all the inhabitants. * * * * * MAHOMET-BEN-SOLTAN A certain sultan had a son who rode his horse through the city where his father reigned, and killed everyone he met. The inhabitants united and promised a flock to him who should make him leave the city. An old woman took it upon herself to realize the wishes of her fellow-citizens. She procured some bladders and went to the fountain to fill them with the cup of an acorn. The old man came to water his horse and said to the old woman: "Get out of my way." She would not move. The young man rode his horse over the bladders and burst them. "If you had married Thithbirth, a cavalier," cried the old woman, "you would not have done this damage. But I predict that you will never marry her, for already seventy cavaliers have met death on her account." The young man, pricked to the quick, regained his horse, took provisions, and set out for the place where he should find the young girl. On the way he met a man. They journeyed together. Soon they perceived an ogress with a dead man at her side. "Place him in the earth," said the ogress to them; "it is my son; the Sultan hanged him and cut off his foot with a sword." They took one of the rings of the dead man and went on their way. Soon they entered a village and offered the ring to the governor, who asked them for another like it. They went away from there, returned through the country which they had traversed, and met a pilgrim who had made the tour of the world. They had visited every place except the sea. They turned toward the sea. At the moment of embarking, a whale barred their passage. They retraced their steps, and met the ogress, took a second ring from the dead man, and departed. At a place they found sixty corpses. A singing bird was guarding them. The travellers stopped and heard the bird say: "He who shall speak here shall be changed into a rock and shall die. Mahomet-ben-Soltan, you shall never wed the young girl. Ninety-nine cavaliers have already met death on her account." Mahomet stayed till morning without saying one word. Then he departed with his companion for the city where Thithbirth dwelt. When they arrived they were pressed with hunger. Mahomet's companion said to him: "Sing that which you heard the bird sing." He began to sing. The young girl, whom they meant to buy, heard him and asked him from whom he had got that song. "From my head," he answered. Mahomet's companion said: "We learned it in the fields from a singing bird." "Bring me that bird," she said, "or I'll have your head cut off." Mahomet took a lantern and a cage which he placed upon the branch of the tree where the bird was perching. "Do you think to catch me?" cried the bird. The next day it entered the cage and the young man took it away. When they were in the presence of the young girl the bird said to her: "We have come to buy you." The father of the young girl said to Mahomet: "If you find her you may have her. But if not, I will kill you. Ninety-nine cavaliers have already met death thus. You will be the hundredth." The bird flew toward the woman. "Where shall I find you?" it asked her. She answered: "You see that door at which I am sitting; it is the usual place of my father. I shall be hidden underneath." The next day Mahomet presented himself before the Sultan: "Arise," he said, "your daughter is hidden there." The Sultan imposed this new condition: "My daughter resembles ninety-nine others of her age. She is the hundredth. If you recognize her in the group I will give her to you. But if not, I will kill you." The young girl said to Mahomet, "I will ride a lame horse." Mahomet recognized her, and the Sultan gave her to him, with a serving-maid, a female slave, and another woman. Mahomet and his companion departed. Arriving at a certain road they separated. Mahomet retained for himself his wife and the slave woman, and gave to his companion the two other women. He gained the desert and left for a moment his wife and the slave woman. In his absence an ogre took away his wife. He ran in search of her and met some shepherds. "O shepherds," he said, "can you tell me where the ogre lives?" They pointed out the place. Arriving, he saw his wife. Soon the ogre appeared, and Mahomet asked where he should find his destiny. "My destiny is far from here," answered the ogre. "My destiny is in an egg, the egg in a pigeon, the pigeon in a camel, the camel in the sea." Mahomet arose, ran to dig a hole at the shore of the sea, stretched a mat over the hole; a camel sprang from the water and fell into the hole. He killed it and took out an egg, crushed the egg in his hands, and the ogre died. Mahomet took his wife and came to his father's city, where he built himself a palace. The father promised a flock to him who should kill his son. As no one offered, he sent an army of soldiers to besiege him. He called one of them in particular and said to him: "Kill Mahomet and I will enrich you." The soldiers managed to get near the young prince, put out his eyes, and left him in the field. An eagle passed and said to Mahomet: "Don't do any good to your parents, but since your father has made you blind take the bark of this tree, apply it to your eyes, and you will be cured." The young man was healed. A short time after his father said to him, "I will wed your wife." "You cannot," he answered. The Sultan convoked the Marabout, who refused him the dispensation he demanded. Soon Mahomet killed his father and celebrated his wedding-feast for seven days and seven nights. 
38530	----	Gutenberg. LEGENDS & ROMANCES OF SPAIN By LEWIS SPENCE F.R.A.I. Author of "Legends and Romances of Brittany" "Hero-Tales and Legends of the Rhine" "A Dictionary of Medieval Romance and Romance-writers" Etc. Etc. London George G. Harrap & Company Ltd. 2 & 3 Portsmouth Street Kingsway W.C. and at Sydney PREFACE Since the days of Southey the romantic literature of Spain has not received from English writers and critics the amount of study and attention it undoubtedly deserves. In no European country did the seeds of Romance take root so readily or blossom so speedily and luxuriantly as in Spain, which perhaps left the imprint of its national character more deeply upon the literature of chivalry than did France or England. When we think of chivalry, do we not think first of Spain, of her age-long struggle against the pagan invaders of Europe, her sensitiveness to all that concerned personal and national honour, of the names of the Cid Campeador, Gayferos, and Gonzalvo de Cordova, gigantic shadows in harness, a pantheon of heroes, which the martial legends of few lands can equal and none surpass. The epic of our British Arthur, the French chansons de gestes, are indebted almost as much to folklore as to the imagination of the singers who first gave them literary shape. But in the romances of Spain we find that folklore plays an inconsiderable part, and that her chivalric fictions are either the offspring of historic happenings or of that brilliant and glowing imagination which illumines the whole expanse of Peninsular literature. I have given more space to the proofs of connexion between the French chansons de gestes and the Spanish cantares de gesta than most of my predecessors who have written of Castilian romantic story. Indeed, with the exception of Mr Fitzmaurice Kelly, whose admirable work in the field of Spanish letters forms so happy an exception to our national neglect of a great literature, I am aware of no English writer who has concerned himself with this subject. My own opinion regarding the almost total lack of Moorish influence upon the Spanish romanceros is in consonance with that of critics much better qualified to pass judgment upon such a question. But for my classification of the ballad I am indebted to no one, and this a long devotion to the study of ballad literature perhaps entitles me to make. I can claim, too, that my translations are not mere paraphrases, but provide renderings of tolerable accuracy. I have made an earnest endeavour to provide English readers with a conspectus of Spanish romantic literature as expressed in its cantares de gesta, its chivalric novels, its romanceros or ballads, and some of its lighter aspects. The reader will find full accounts and summaries of all the more important works under each of these heads, many of which have never before been described in English. If the perusal of this book leads to the more general study of the noble and useful Castilian tongue on the part of but a handful of those who read it, its making will have been justified. The real brilliance and beauty of these tales lie behind the curtains of a language unknown to most British people, and can only be liberated by the spell of study. This book contains merely the poor shadows and reflected wonders of screened and hidden marvels. L. S. Edinburgh June 1920 CONTENTS Chapter Page I The Sources of Spanish Romance 11 II The "Cantares de Gesta" and the "Poema del Cid" 48 III "Amadis de Gaul" 90 IV The Sequels to "Amadis de Gaul" 139 V The Palmerin Romances 169 VI Catalonian Romances 187 VII Roderic, Last of the Goths 201 VIII "Calaynos the Moor," "Gayferos," and "Count Alarcos" 213 IX The Romanceros, or Ballads 222 X The Romanceros, or Ballads--continued 245 XI Moorish Romances of Spain 263 XII Tales of Spanish Magic and Sorcery 333 XIII Humorous Romances of Spain 351 Bibliography 407 CHAPTER I: THE SOURCES OF SPANISH ROMANCE Romance, Romance, the songs of France, The gestes of fair Britaine, The legends of the sword and lance That grew in Alemaine, Pale at thy rich inheritance, Thou splendour of old Spain! Anon. If, spent with journeying, a stranger should seat himself in some garden in old Granada, and from beneath a tenting of citron and mulberry leaves open his ears to the melody of the waters of the City of Pomegranates and his spirit to the sorcery of its atmosphere, he will gladly believe that in the days when its colours were less mellow and its delicious air perhaps less reposeful the harps of its poets were the looms upon which the webs of romance were woven. Almost instinctively he will form the impression that the Spaniard, having regained this paradise after centuries of exile, and stirred by the enchanted echoes of Moorish music which still lingered there, was roused into passionate song in praise of those heroes of his race who had warred so ceaselessly and sacrificed so much to redeem it. But if he should climb the Sierra del Sol and pass through the enchanted chambers of the Alhambra as a child passes through the courts of dream, he will say in his heart that the men who builded these rooms from the rainbow and painted these walls from the palette of the sunset raised also the invisible but not less gorgeous palace of Spanish Romance. Or if one, walking in the carven shadows of Cordova, think on the mosque Maqsura, whose doors of Andalusian brass opened to generations of poets and astrologers, or on the palace of Azzahra, built of rose and sea-coloured marbles rifled from the Byzantine churches of Ifrikia, will he not believe that in this city of shattered splendours and irretrievable spells the passion-flower of Romance burst forth full-blown? But we cannot trace the first notes of the forgotten musics nor piece together the mosaic of broken harmonies in the warm and sounding cities of the Saracens, neither in "that mine of silk and silver," old Granada, nor among the marble memories of Cordova, whose market-place overflowed with the painted parchments of Moorish song and science. We must turn our backs on the scarlet southern land and ascend to the bare heights of Castile and Asturias, where Christian Spain, prisoned for half a thousand years upon a harsh and arid plateau, and wrought to a high passion of sacrifice and patriotism, burst into a glory of martial song, the echoes of which resound among its mountains like ghostly clarions on a field of old encounter. Isolation and devotion to a national cause are more powerful as incentives to the making of romance than an atmosphere of Eastern luxuriance. The breasts of these stern sierras were to give forth milk sweeter than the wine of Almohaden, and song more moving if less fantastic arose in Burgos and Carrión than ever inspired the guitars of Granada. But the unending conflict of Arab and Spaniard brought with it many interchanges between the sensuous spirit of the South and the more rugged manliness of the North, so that at last Saracen gold damascened the steel of Spanish song, and the nets of Eastern phantasy wound themselves about the Spanish soul. In a later day an openly avowed admiration for the art and culture of the Moslem leavened the ancient hate, and the Moorish cavalier imitated the chivalry, if not the verse, of the Castilian knight. [1] The Cradle of Spanish Song The homeland of Spanish tradition was indeed a fitting nursery for the race which for centuries contested every acre of the Peninsula with an enemy greatly more advanced in the art of warfare, if inferior in resolution and the spirit of unity. Among the flinty wastes of the north of Spain, which are now regarded as rich in mineral resources, are situated at intervals luxuriant and fertile valleys sunk deep between the knees of volcanic ridges, the lower slopes of which are covered with thick forests of oak, chestnut, and pine. These depressions, sheltered from the sword-like winds which sweep down from the Pyrenees, reproduce in a measure the pleasant conditions of the southern land. Although their distance one from another tended to isolation, it was in these valleys that Christian Spain received the respite which enabled her to collect her strength and school her spirit for the great struggle against the Saracen. In this age-long contest she was undoubtedly inspired by that subtle sense of nationhood and the possession of a common tongue which have proved the salvation of many races no less desperately situated, and perhaps her determination to redeem the lost Eden of the South is the best measure of the theory that, prior to the era of Saracen conquest, the Castilian tongue was a mere jargon, composed of the elements of the Roman lingua rustica and the rude Gothic, and, according to some authorities, still lacking in grammatical arrangement and fixity of idiom. [2] It is certainly clear that the final phases in the evolution of Castilian took place subsequently to the Arabic invasion, but it is a straining of such scanty evidence as we possess to impute to the form of Castilian speech current immediately before that time the character of an undisciplined patois. Roman and Visigoth When in the early part of the fifth century the Visigoths, following in the wake of the Vandal folk, entered Romanized Spain, they did not build upon the ruins of its civilization, but retained the habits of their northern homeland and for some generations seem to have been little impressed with Roman culture. Nor did the Latin speech of the people they had conquered at first find favour among them, although, dwelling as they had done on the very flanks of the Empire, they were certainly not ignorant of it. They found the people of the Peninsula as little inclined to relinquish the cultivated language in which their compatriots Martial, Lucan, and Seneca had contributed to the triumphs of Roman letters. A military autocracy is not usually successful in imposing its language upon a subject people unless it possesses the dual advantages of an ascendancy in arms and literary capacity, and the Visigoths, unable to compete in this latter respect with the highly civilized colonists of Hispania, fell, with the passing of the generations, into the easy acceptance of the Roman tongue. Their illiteracy, however, was not the sole reason for their partial defeat in the give-and-take of linguistic strife, for, though powerful in military combination, they were greatly outmatched in numbers. As invaders they had brought few women with them, and had perforce to intermarry with native wives, who taught their children the Roman tongue. The necessary intercourse between conqueror and conquered in time produced a sort of pidgin-Latin, which stood in much the same relation to the classic speech of Rome as the trade languages of the Pacific did to English. [3] The use of Latin as a literary tongue in that part of Spain where the Castilian speech was evolved considerably retarded its development from the condition of a patois to a language proper. Nevertheless it continued to advance. The processes by which it did so are surprisingly obscure, but the circumstance of its literary fixity in the early eleventh century is proof that it must have achieved colloquial perfection at least before the era of the Moorish invasion. The Saracen conquest, by forcing it into the bleak north-west, did it small disservice, for there it had to contend with other dialects of the Roman tongue, which enriched its vocabulary, and over which, ultimately, it gained almost complete ascendancy as a literary language. The Romance Tongues of Spain Three Romance or Roman languages were spoken in that portion of Spain which remained in Christian hands: in Catalonia and Aragon the Provençal, Catalan, or Limousin; in Asturias, Old Castile, and Leon the Castilian; and in Galicia the Gallego, whence the Portuguese had its origin. The Catalan was almost entirely similar to the Provençal or langue d'oc of Southern France, and the accession of Raymond Berenger, Count of Barcelona, to the throne of Provence in 1092 united the Catalonian and Provençal peoples under one common rule. Provençal, the language of the Troubadours, was of French origin, and bears evidence of its evolution from the Latin of Provincial Gaul. It appears to have been brought into Catalonia by those Hispani who had fled to Provence from Moorish rule, and who gradually drifted southward again as the more northerly portions of Spain were freed from Arab aggression. The political connexion of Catalonia with Provence naturally brought about a similarity of custom as well as of speech, and indeed we find the people of the Catalan coast and the province of Aragon deeply imbued with the chivalry and gallantry of the more northerly home of the Gai Saber. Throughout the whole Provençal-Catalan [4] tract were held those romantic courts of love in which the erotic subtleties of its men and women of song were debated with a seriousness which shows that the art of love had entered into competition with the forces of law and religion, and had, indeed, become the real business of life with the upper classes of the country. Out of this glorification of the relations of the sexes arose the allied science of chivalry, no less punctilious or extravagant in its code and spirit. This spirit of Provençal chivalry gradually found its way into Castile, heightened and quickened the imagination of its people, and prepared the Spanish mind for the acceptance and appreciation of Romantic literature. But at no time was Castilian imagination passively receptive. It subjected every literary force which invaded it to such a powerful alchemy of transmutation that in time all foreign elements lost their alien character and emerged from the crucible of Spanish thought as things almost wholly Castilian. The perfection of rhyming verse was undoubtedly accomplished by the Troubadour poets of Provence and Catalonia, and opened the way for a lyric poetry which, if it never attained any loftiness of flight or marked originality of expression, has seldom been surpassed in melody and finish. But it is remarkable that this extensive body of verse, if a few political satires be excepted, has but one constant theme--the exaltation of love. A perusal of the poetry of the pleasant Provençal tongue pleases the ear and appeals to the musical sense. The melody is never at fault, and we can count upon the constancy of a pavane-like stateliness, which proceeds, perhaps, as much from the genius of the language as from the metrical excellences of its singers. But the monotonous repetition of amatory sentiment, for the expression of which the same conceptions and even the same phrases are again and again compelled to do duty, the artificial spirit which inspires these uniform cadences, and the lack of real human warmth soon weary and disappoint the reader, who will gladly resign the entire poetical kingdom of Provence to the specialist in prosody or the literary antiquary in exchange for the freer and less formal beauties of a music better suited to human needs and less obviously designed for the uses of a literary caste. The poetry of Provence reminds us of those tapestries in which the scheme is wholly decorative, where stiff, brocaded flowers occupy regular intervals in the pattern and a monotonous sameness of colour is the distinctive note. No episode of the chase nor pastoral scene charms us by its liveliness or reality, nor do we find the silken hues distributed in a natural and pleasing manner. [5] The Provençal and Catalan troubadours had, indeed, a certain influence upon the fortunes of Castilian poetry and romance, and proofs of their early intercourse with Castile are numerous. The thirteenth-century Book of Apollonius, an anonymous poem, is full of Provençalisms, as is the rather later History of the Crusades. During the persecution they suffered at the period of the Albigensian wars numbers of them fled into Spain, where they found a refuge from their intolerant enemies. Thus Aimeric de Bellinai fled to the Court of Alfonso IX, [6] and was later at the Court of Alfonso X, as were Montagnagunt and Folquet de Lunel, as well as Raimond de Tours and Bertrand Carbunel, who, with Riquier, either dedicated their works to that monarch or composed elegies on the occasion of his death. King Alfonso himself wrote verses of a decidedly Provençal cast, and even as late as 1433 the Marquis de Villena, a kinsman of the famous Marquis de Santillana, whom we shall encounter later, wrote a treatise upon the art of the Troubadours, [7] which, following the instincts of a pedant, he desired to see resuscitated in Castile. [8] The Galician, a Romance language which sprang from the same root as the Portuguese, is nearly allied to the Castilian. But it is not so rich in guttural sounds, from which we may be correct in surmising that it has less of the Teutonic in its composition than the sister tongue. Like Portuguese, it possesses an abundance of hissing sounds, and a nasal pronunciation not unlike the French, which was in all probability introduced by the early establishment of a Burgundian dynasty upon the throne. But Galician influence upon Castilian literature ceased at an early period, although the reverse was by no means the case. The Rise of Castilian The evolution of Castilian from the original Latin spoken by the Roman colonists in Spain was complicated by many local circumstances. Thus in contracting the vocables of the Roman tongue it did not omit the same syllables as the Italian, nor did it give such brevity to them as Provençal or Galician. Probably because of the greater admixture of Gothic blood among those who spoke it, it is rich in aspirates, and has a stronger framework than almost any of the Romance tongues. Thus the Latin f is in Castilian frequently altered to h, as hablar = fabulari, 'to speak.' The letter j, which is strongly aspirated, is frequently substituted for the liquid l, so that filius, 'a son,' becomes hijo. Liquid ll in its turn takes the place of Latin pl, and we find Latin planus, 'smooth,' appearing in Castilian as llano (pron. lyáh-no). The Spanish ch supplies the place of the Latin ct, as facto = hecho, dictu = dicho, and so on. Other proofs of Teutonic association are not lacking. Thus the g before c and i, which in Gothic and German is a guttural, has the same character in Castilian. The Spanish conversion of o into ue also resembles the similar change in German, if, for example, we compare Castilian cuerpo and pueblo with the German Körper and Pöbel. Southward Spread of Castilian The rise of Castilian as a colloquial and literary tongue was achieved by the ceaseless struggle of the hardy race who spoke it against the Saracen occupation of their native land. As the Castilian warriors by generations of hard fighting gradually regained city after city and district by district rather than province by province, their language encroached by degrees upon the area of that of their Arab enemies, [9] until at length the last stronghold of the Moors fell and left them not a foothold in the Peninsula. "It was indeed a rude training which our forefathers, mighty and hardy, had as a prelude to so many glories and to the conquest of the world," says Martinez in his novel Isabel de Solis. [10] "Weighed down by their harness and with sword in hand, they slept at ease no single night for eight centuries." From the period of the defeat of Roderic, "last of the Visigoths," at the battle of Xerez de la Frontera in 711 until the fall of Granada in 1492, Spain was indeed a land of battles. Almost immediately after their first defeat by Arab arms the armies of the Visigoths were pursued to the north-western limits of the Peninsula, where they, found a rallying-place in the mountains of Biscay and Asturias. There, like the Welsh after the Saxon invasion of Britain, they might have become reconciled to the comparatively narrow area left to them, but the circumstances of their virtual imprisonment served only to unite them more closely in a common nationality and a common resolve to win back their original possessions. For many generations their efforts were confined to border forays and guerrilla fighting, in which they were by no means uniformly successful, for the fiery courage of the Saracens would permit of no mere defensive policy, and nearly every victory of which the Castilians could boast was counterbalanced by reverses and losses which their inferior numbers could ill sustain. But by degrees their valorous obstinacy was rewarded, and ere a century had passed they had regained the greater part of Old Castile. The very name of this province, meaning as it does 'the Land of Castles,' shows that even when regained it was held only by fortifying its every hill-top with strongholds, so that at last this castellated tract gave its name to the race which held it so dearly. Before another twenty years had passed the Castilian warriors had established a footing in New Castile, and from this time onward seem to have been assured of ultimate success. The fall of Toledo in 1085, after three centuries and a half of Saracen occupation, marked a further epoch in the southern advance of the Castilians, and by the taking of Saragossa in 1118 the tables were turned upon the Arab invaders, who were now driven into a more confined part of the country, to the south and south-west. This circumstance, however, seems to have consolidated rather than crippled their resisting powers, and they had yet to be reckoned with for nearly four centuries ere, with the fall of Granada, Boabdil, or Abu-Abdallah, the last of the Moorish kings, gave up its keys to Ferdinand of Castile, looked his last upon the city, and crossed to Africa to fling away his life in battle. In these circumstances of constant strife and unrest the Romantic literature of Spain was born. It is by no means remarkable that its development coincided with the clash of arms. Trumpets re-echo in its every close. As it expresses the spirit of a martial race, it was also the nursling of necessity, for from the songs and fables of mighty heroes the knights of Castile drew a new courage and experienced an emulous exhilaration which nerved them on the day of battle. Well might the wandering knight of Castile chant, as in the old ballad: Oh, harness is my only wear, The battle is my play: My pallet is the desert bare, My lamp yon planet's ray. [11] Border warfare, with its frequent change of scene and constant alarms, was a fitting introduction to errantry. The Literary Development of Castilian Castilian, although more than one alien influence impinged upon it, evolved a literary shape peculiarly its own, especially as regards its verse, as will be seen when we come to deal separately with its several Romantic forms. Thus it owed nothing to the literary methods of Provençal or Catalan, though much to their spirit and outward manners. When the courtly and rather pedantic poetic system of the Troubadours encountered the grave and vigorous Castilian, it was ill fitted to make any prolonged resistance. As political causes had hastened their encounter, so they quickened the victory of the Castilian. The ruling power in Aragon had from an early period been connected with Castilian royalty, and Ferdinand the Just, who came to the throne of Aragon in 1412, was a Castilian prince. The Courts of Valencia and Burgos were, therefore, practically open to the same political influences. If our conclusions are correct, it was during the reigns of Ferdinand the Just and Alfonso V (1412-58) that the influence of Castilian first invaded the sphere of Catalan. We find it definitely recognized as a poetic tongue on the occasion of a contest of song in honour of the Madonna held at Valencia in 1474, the forty poems sung at which were afterward collected in the first book printed in Spain. Four of these are in the Castilian tongue, which was thus evidently regarded as a literary medium sufficiently developed to be represented at such a contest. Valencia, indeed, at first wholly Catalan in speech and art, seems to have possessed a school of Castilian poets of its own from 1470 to 1550, who did much to popularize their adopted tongue. But the Catalonians were not minded that their language should lose the literary hegemony of Spain so easily, and they made every endeavour to sustain it by instituting colleges of professional troubadours and vaunting its beauties at their great public contests of song. It was in vain. They had encountered a language more vigorous, more ample in vocabulary, more rich in idiomatic construction, and backed by a stronger political power than their own. The Poetical Courts of Castile The evolution of Castilian as a literary language was also assiduously fostered by the scholarly character of many of the rulers of Castile. Alfonso the Wise was himself a poet, and cultivated his native tongue with judiciousness and care, affording it purity and precision of expression. Under his supervision the Scriptures were translated into Castilian, and a General Chronicle of Spain as well as a history of the First Crusade were undertaken at his instance. He made it the language of the law-courts, and attempted to infuse into its verse a more exact spirit and poetical phraseology by the imitation of Provençal models. Alfonso XI composed a General Chronicle in the easy, flowing rhyme of the native redondillas, instead of the stiff, monkish Alexandrines then current in literary circles, and caused books to be written in Castilian prose on the art of hunting and the genealogy of the nobility. [12] His relative Don Juan Manuel did much to discipline Spanish imagination and give fixity to Spanish prose in his Conde Lucanor, [13] a volume of ethical and political maxims, the morals of which are well pointed by tales and fables drawn from history and classical literature. Juan II, [14] although a weak and idle monarch, was a great patron of letters, wrote verses, associated with poets, and caused a large collection of the best existing Spanish verse to be made in 1449. But the spirit of his Court was a pedantic one; it strayed after Italian models, and he himself affected the Provençal manner. Despite such artificial barriers, however, Castilian speech continued to advance upon its conquering way. It had definitely become the language of Romance, and Romance, within a generation of this period, was to become the most powerful literary form in the Peninsula. The Rise of Romance The development of Romance in Spain, its evolution and the phases through which it passed, has not, as a theme, met with that painstaking treatment at the hands of English writers on Spanish literature that might have been expected at this late day, when the literary specialist has to search diligently into the remotest corners of the earth if he seek new treasures to assay. Its several phases are rather hinted at than definitely laid down, not because of the poverty or dubiety of the evidential material so much as through the laxity and want of thoroughness which characterize most Britannic efforts at epochal fixation or attempts to elucidate the connexion between successive literary phases. I can scarcely hope to succeed in a task which other and better equipped authorities have neglected, perhaps for sound reasons. But I had rather fail in an attempt to reduce the details of the evolution of Spanish Romance to orderly sequence than place before the reader an array of unrelated facts and isolated tags of evidence which, however interesting, present no definite picture, permit of no reasonable deduction, and are usually accompanied by a theoretical peradventure or so by way of dubious enlightenment. If we regard the literary map of Europe from the eleventh to the thirteenth century we behold the light shining from two quarters--Jewish-Arabic Spain and France. With the first we have, at the moment, no concern. Its literature was at the time alien and inimical to Christian Spain, which, as we shall see later, did not regard anything Saracen with complacence until its sword crossed no longer with the scimitar. But in France Castile had an illustrious exemplar, whose lessons it construed in its own peculiar manner--a manner dictated both by national pride and political necessity. With the influence of Southern France we have already dealt. At the era alluded to, Northern France, the country of the langue d'oïl, although in a measure disturbed by unrest, was yet in a much better case to produce great literature than Castile, whose constant vendetta with the Moslem left her best minds only a margin of leisure for the production of pure literature--a margin, however, of which the fullest advantage was taken. The rise of a caste of itinerary poets in France supplied the popular demand for story-telling, and the trouvères of the twelfth century recognized in the glorious era of Charlemagne a fitting and abundant source for heroic fiction such as would appeal to medieval audiences. The poems, or rather epics, which they based upon the history of the Carlovingian period were known as chansons de gestes, 'songs of the deeds' of the great Frankish emperor and his invincible paladins, or, to the trouvères themselves, as matière de France, as the Arthurian tales were designated matière de Bretagne, and those based upon classical history matière de Rome. Until comparatively recent times these immense works, many of which comprise six or seven thousand lines of verse, were practically unknown, even to the generality of literary authorities. [15] As we now possess them they are comparatively late in form, and have undergone much revisal, probably for the worse. But they are the oldest examples of elaborate verse in any modern language, with the exception of English and Norse, and undoubtedly stand in an ancestral relation to all modern European literature. These chansons were intended to be sung in the common halls of feudal dwellings by the itinerant trouvères, who composed or passed them on to one another. Their subject-matter deals more with the clash of arms than the human emotions, though these are at intervals depicted in a masterly manner. The older examples among them are written in batches of lines, varying from one to several score, each of which derives unity from an assonant vowel-rhyme, and known as laisses or tirades. Later, however, rhyme crept into the chansons, the entire laisse, or batch, ending in a single rhyme-sound. Castilian Opposition to the Chansons de Gestes In these poems, which probably originated in the north of France, the genre spreading southward as time progressed, Charlemagne is represented as the great bulwark of Christianity against the Saracens of Spain. Surrounded by his peers, Roland, Oliver, Naymes, Ogier, and William of Orange, he wages constant warfare against the Moors or the 'Saracens' (pagans) of Saxony. Of these poems Gautier has published a list of one hundred and ten, a moiety of which date from the twelfth century. A number of the later chansons are in Provençal, but all attempts to refer the entire cycle in its original condition to that literature have signally failed. That this immense body of romantic material found its way into Castile is positively certain. Whether it did so by way of Provence and Catalonia is not clear, but it is not impossible that such was the case. It might be thought that Christian Spain, in the throes of her struggle with the Moors, took kindly to a literature so constant in its reference to the discomfiture of her hereditary foes. At first she did so, and certainly accepted the chanson form. But two barriers to her undivided appreciation of it presently appeared. In the first place, the Castilian of the twelfth century seems to have been aware that if Charlemagne invaded Spain at all, he encountered not only the Moor but the Spaniard as well. This is not borne out, as some authorities imply, by a piece in the popular poetry of the Basques known as the Altobiskarko Cantar, or Song of Altobiskar, which tacitly asserts that the defeat of Charlemagne's rearguard at Roncesvalles was due not to Saracens, but to Basques, who resented the passage of the Frankish army through their mountain passes. The whole piece is an effusion written in Basque by a Basque student named Duhalde, who translated it from the French of François Garay de Montglave (c. 1833). [16] A second battle of Roncesvalles took place in the reign of Louis le Debonair in 824, when two Frankish counts returning from Spain were again surprised and defeated by the Pyrenean mountaineers. But there appears to have been a still earlier battle between Franks and Basques in the Pyrenees in the reign of Dagobert I (631-638). The folk-memory of these contests seems to have been kept alive, so that the Spaniard felt that the Frank was somewhat of a traditional enemy. Archbishop Roderic of Toledo inveighed against those Spanish juglares who sang the battles of Charlemagne in Spain, and Alfonso the Learned belittles the mythical successes of the Frankish emperor. But this was not all. The idea that Charlemagne had entered Spain as a conqueror, carrying all before him, was offensive to the highly wrought pride and patriotism of the Castilians, who chose to interpret the spirit of the chansons de gestes in their own way, and, instead of copying them slavishly, raised an opposing body of song to their detriment. Accepting as the national hero of the Carlovingian era an imaginary knight, Bernaldo de Carpio, they hailed him as the champion of Castile, and invented songs of their own in which he is spoken of as slaying and defeating Roland at Roncesvalles at the head of a victorious army composed not of Arabs or Basques, but Castilians. The Cantares de Gesta But if the Castilians did not accept the matter of the chansons, they assuredly adopted their form. Their literary revolt against the alien spirit and politics of the chansons seems to have taken place at some time soon after the diffusion of these throughout Spain. A Spanish priest of the early twelfth century wrote the fabulous chronicle of Archbishop Turpin of Rheims, which purported to be the work of that warlike cleric, but in reality was intended to popularize the pilgrimage to Compostella to which it had reference. Many Franks travelled to the shrine, among them trouvères, who in all likelihood passed on to the native Castilian singers the spirit and metrical system of the chansons, so that later we hear of Spanish cantares de gesta, most of which, however, unlike their French models, are lost to us. The famous Poema del Cid, dealing with the exploits of a great Castilian hero, is nothing but a cantar de gesta in form and spirit, and we possess good evidence that many of the late romanceros or ballads upon such heroes as Bernaldo de Carpio, Gonzalvo de Cordova, and Gayferos are but ancient cantares 'rubbed down,' or in a state of attrition. As in France, so in Spain, degeneration overtook the cantares de gesta. In course of time they were forced into the market-place and the scullions' hall. Many of them were worked into the substance of chronicles and histories; but the juglares who now sang them altered them, when they passed out of fashion, into corrupt abridgments, or broke them up into ballads to suit the taste of a more popular audience. [17] The Chronicles But if the majority of the cantares de gesta are irreplaceable as regards their original form, we find fragments of them in the ancient chronicles of Spain. Thus the General Chronicle of Spain (c. 1252), which, according to the latest research, is believed to have undergone at least three specific alterations or rearrangements of its text, tells the stories of Bernaldo de Carpio, Fernán González, and the seven Children of Lara, and provides sketches of Charlemagne, while its latter portion recounts the history of the Cid, and at times even appeals to the cantares as its authority for such and such an episode. Many of the passages in the chronicles, too, are obviously copied in their entirety from certain cantares. So strongly, indeed, do they retain the assonant verse-formation typical of the cantares that many of the later balladeers seem easily to have cast them into verse again, especially those relating to Bernaldo de Carpio and the Infantes de Lara, and in this manner they appeared once more in the cancioneros, or collections of folk-songs. The Ballads The immortal ballads of Spain have been the subject of the sharpest controversy, and their importance as Romantic material demands special treatment in a separate chapter. Regarding the period to which they belong and their relations to the larger narrative poems and chronicles, we must deal briefly with them here. Some authorities ascribe them to an early age and insist upon their priority to such poems as the Poema del Cid and such chronicles as that of Alfonso the Learned, while others are equally assured of the late date of the greater number. It seems to me that the truth resides in both hypotheses, and that in this case, as frequently in literary navigation, it is wise to steer a middle course. In my view the ballads of Spain are of four fundamental types: those which arose spontaneously in Northern Spain at some time subsequent to the formation of the Castilian language, and which, if we possess any remnants of them at all, have probably come down to us in such a form as would render them unrecognizable to those who first sang them; ballads which are based on passages in cantares de gesta as chronicles; folk-ballads of a later date, more or less altered; and, lastly, the more modern productions of conscious art. I also believe that the ballads or romanceros are again of two broad classes: those of spontaneous folk-origin, owing nothing to literary sources, and those which are mainly cantares de gesta, or chronicle passages in a lyric state of attrition. With the great body of authorities upon ancient Spanish literature I do not believe that the cantares or chronicles owe anything to the ballads of any age, which seem to me wholly of popular origin. Of course the two classes lastly indicated do not include the more 'poetic' or sophisticated ballads written after the ballad became an accepted form for experiments in conscious versification, and it is plain that such efforts could belong to neither category. No definite proof exists as to the degree of sophistication and alteration which the ballads underwent before their ultimate collection and publication. It would be strange, however, if no ballads of relatively early date had reached us, altered or otherwise, and it seems to me merely a piece of critical affectation to deny antiquity to a song solely because it found its way into print at a late period, or because it is not encountered in ancient MSS., just as it would be to throw doubt upon the antiquity of a legend or folk-custom current in our own day--unless; indeed, such should display obvious marks of recent manufacture. At the same time few of these ballads seem to me to bear the stamp of an antiquity more hoary than, for example, those of Scotland or Denmark. Few of the ballad systems of Europe are better worthy of study than that of Spain. But in this place we are considering it merely from the point of view of its bearings upon Romance. That it has a close affinity with the Romantic literature of the Peninsula is evident from the name given to these poems by the Spaniards, who call them romanceros. [18] Some of them are, indeed, romances or cantares de gesta in little, and in fact they deal with all the great subjects sung of in the cantares or prosed upon in the chronicles, such as the Cid, Bernaldo de Carpio, Count Alarcos, and so forth. But they seem to have little in common with the later romances proper, such as Amadis, Palmerin, or Felixmarte, for the good reason that by the time these were in fashion the ballad had become the sole property of the common people. As the Marquis de Santillana (1398-1458), himself a poet of note, remarks in a letter famous for the light it throws on the condition of Spanish literature in his day: "There are contemptible poets who, without order, rule, or rhythm, make those songs and romances in which vulgar folk and menials take delight." So might Lovelace or Drummond of Hawthornden have written of our own balladeers. The ballads thus relegated to the peasantry and lower classes, those of the upper classes who found time for reading were accordingly thrown back upon the chronicles and the few cantares de gesta which had been reduced to writing. But on the destruction of the Moorish states in Spain the increase in wealth and leisure among the upper classes, and the introduction of printing, aroused a demand for books which would provide amusement. A great spirit of invention was abroad. At first it resuscitated the Romantic matter lying embedded and almost fossilized in the chronicles. It is, indeed, but a step from some of these to the romances proper. But Spain hungrily craved novelty, and the eyes of romance-makers were turned once more to France, whose fictional wealth began to be exploited by Spanish writers about the beginning of the fifteenth century. The Heyday of Romance Perhaps the first literary notice that we possess of the romance proper in Spain is that by Ayala, Chancellor of Castile (d. 1407), who, in his Rimado de Palacio, deplores the time he has wasted in reading such "lying stuff" as Amadis de Gaul. He might have been much worse occupied, but, be that as it may, in his dictum we scarcely have a forecast of the manner in which this especial type of romance was to seize so mightily upon the Castilian imagination, which, instead of being content with mere servile copying from French models, was to re-endow them with a spirit and genius peculiarly Spanish. Perhaps in no other European country did the seed of Romance find a soil so fitting for its germination and fruition, and certainly nowhere did it blossom and burgeon in such an almost tropical luxuriance of fruit and flower. Amadis had for sequel a long line of similar tales, all of which the reader will encounter later in these pages. By general consent of critics, from Cervantes onward, it is the best and most distinctive of the Spanish romances, and was translated into French, Italian, and indeed into most European languages, [19] a special translation, it is said, even being made for Jewish readers. At a stroke Peninsular romanticism had beaten French chivalric fiction upon its own ground. But Amadis was not, as Cervantes seems to think, the first book of chivalry printed in Spain, for this distinction belongs to Tirante the White (1490) which, according to Southey, is lacking in the spirit of chivalry. [20] Among other figures it introduces that of Warwick the King-maker, who successfully withstands an invasion of England by the King of the Canary Islands, and ultimately slays the invader single-handed and routs his forces. But if Cervantes errs in his bibliography, his barber's summing-up of Amadis as "the best of all books of its kind that has been written" is not far from the truth. [21] Tasso thought it "the most beautiful and perhaps the most profitable story of its kind that can be read." Did he merely follow the tonsorial critic's opinion, as his language would tempt one to believe? Amadis was followed by a host of imitations. Its enormous success, from a popular point of view, brought into being a whole literature of similar stamp and intention, if not of equal quality. The first of such efforts, in consequence if not in chronology, is that of Palmerin de Oliva, the earliest known edition of which appeared at Seville in 1525, and was followed, like the Amadis, by similar continuations, Primaleón, Platir, and Palmerin of England, perhaps the best of the series. [22] Regarding the alleged Portuguese origin of Amadis and Palmerin I have more to say elsewhere, and will content myself here by observing that no Portuguese original, printed or manuscript, exists, although the priority of such seems undoubted. But these romances became as Castilian as the Arthurian series became English, despite the latter's Brythonic or other origin, and Spanish they have remained in the belief and imagination of all Europe, popular as well as critical. The Palmerin series only fed and increased the passion for romantic fiction, so hungry was Spain for a literary diet which seemed so natural and acceptable to her appetite that those who sought to provide her with romantic reading could scarce cope with the call for it. The natural result ensued. A perfect torrent of hastily written and inferior fiction descended upon the public. Invention, at first bold, became shameless, and in such absurdities of distorted imagination as Belianis of Greece, Olivante de Laura, and Felixmarte of Hyrcania the summit of romantic extravagance was reached. But ridiculous and insulting to human intelligence and decent taste as most of these productions were, still they found countless thousands of readers, and there is every indication that publishing in the Spain of the late sixteenth and the seventeenth centuries must have been extremely lucrative. These preposterous and chimerical tales, lacking the beauty and true imaginative skill and simplicity of the older romances, stood in much the same relation to them as a host of imitative novels published in the early years of the nineteenth century did to the romances of Scott. Mexia, the sarcastic historian of Charles V, writing of romance in 1545, deplores the public credulity which battened on such feeble stuff. "For," he says, "there be men who think all these things really happened, just as they read or hear them, though the greater part of the things themselves are absurd." So might a critic of our own day descant upon the popular predilection for the cheap novel, or the whole desert of sensation-fodder which pours from the all too rapid machines of the Fiction Trusts. Still another extravagant and more unpleasant manifestation of the popular craze for romance arose in such religious tales as The Celestial Chivalry, The Knight of the Bright Star, and others of little worth, in which Biblical characters are endowed with the attributes of chivalry and go on adventure bound. The time occupied by the appearance of these varying types, and indeed in the whole latter-day evolution of Spanish romance, was strikingly brief. But half a century elapsed between the publication of Amadis and the most extreme of its worthless imitations. But it is not difficult to account for the rapid manufacture and dissemination of such a mass of literature, good and bad, when we recall that Spain had been for ages the land of active knighthood, that her imagination had been wrought to a high pitch of fervour in her long struggle with her pagan enemies, and that in the tales of chivalry she now gazed upon with such admiration she saw the reflection of her own courtly and heroic spirit--the most sensitive and most fantastically chivalrous in Europe. Possible Moorish Influence on Spanish Romance There is indeed evidence--pressed down and flowing over--that the age-long death-grapple with the Saracen powerfully affected Spanish romantic fiction. But was this influence a direct one, arising out of the contiguity and constant perusal of the body of Moorish fiction, or did it proceed from the atmosphere of wonder which the Saracen left behind him in Spain, the illusions of which were mightily assisted by the marvels of his architecture and his art? One can scarcely find a Spanish romance that is not rich in reference to the Moor, who is usually alluded to as a caballero and a worthy foe. But is it the real Moor whom we encounter in these tall folios, which beside our modern volumes seem as stately galleons might in the company of ocean-going tramps, or is it the Saracen of romance, an Oriental of fiction, like the Turk of Byronic literature? The question of the influence of Moorish literature upon Spanish romance has been shrouded by the most unfortunate popular misconceptions. Let us briefly examine the spirit of Arabic literary invention, and see in how far it was capable of influencing Castilian art and imagination. The history of the development of the Arabic language from the dialect of a wandering desert people to a tongue the poetic possibilities and colloquial uses of which are perhaps unrivalled is in itself sufficient to furnish a whole volume of romantic episode. The form in which it was introduced into Spain in the early eighth century can scarcely fail to arouse the admiration of the lover of literary perfection. As a literary medium its development was rapid and effective. It is, indeed, as if the tones of a harsh trumpet had by degrees become merged into those of a silver clarion whose notes ring out ever more clearly, until at length they arrive at a keenness so intense as to become almost intolerably piercing. This eloquent language, the true speech of the literary aristocrat, has through the difficulty of its acquirement and the bewildering nature of its written characters remained almost unknown to the great mass of Europeans--unknown, too, because the process of translation is inadequate to the proper conveyance of its finer shades and subtler intimations. Even to the greater number of the Arabs of Spain the highly polished verse in which their literature was so rich was unknown. How much more, then, was it a force removed from the Castilian or the Catalan? Arabic Poetry The desert life of the Arabs while they were yet an uncultured people, although it did not permit of the development of a high standard of literary achievement, fostered the growth of a spirit of observation so keen as to result in the creation of a wealth of synonyms, by means of which the language became greatly enriched. Synonymous meaning and the discovery of beautiful and striking comparisons are the very pillars of poetry, and within a century of the era of Moslem ascendancy in the East we find the brilliant dynasty of the Abbassides (c. A.D. 750) the generous patrons of a poetic literature which the language was so well prepared to express. Story-telling had been a favourite amusement among the Arabs of the desert, and they now found the time-honoured, spontaneous exercise of the imaginative faculty stand them in good stead. The rapidity of the progress of Arabic literature at this period is, indeed, difficult of realization. Poetry, which we are now assured has 'no market value,' was to the truly enlightened upper classes of this people an art of the first importance, more precious than those bales of the silks of Damascus, those gems of Samarkand, or those perfumes of Syria the frequent allusion to which in their legends encrusts them, like the walls of the cavern of Ala-ed-din, with fairy jewels. But words were jewels to the Arab. When Al-Mamoun, the son of Haroun-al-Raschid, dictated terms of peace to the Greek emperor Michael the Stammerer, the tribute which he demanded from his conquered enemy was a collection of manuscripts of the most famous Greek authors. A fitting indemnity to be demanded by the prince of a nation of poets! But conquered Spain was more especially the seat and centre of Arabian literature and learning. Cordova, Granada, Seville--indeed, all the cities of the Peninsula occupied by the Saracens--rivalled one another in the celebrity of their schools and colleges, their libraries, and other places of resort for the scholar and man of letters. The seventy libraries of Moorish Spain which flourished in the twelfth century put to shame the dark ignorance of Europe, which in time rather from the Arab than from fallen Rome won back its enlightenment. Arabic became not only the literary but the colloquial tongue of thousands of Spaniards who dwelt in the south under Moorish rule. Even the canons of the Church were translated into Arabic, about the middle of the eighth century, for the use of those numerous Christians who knew no other language. The colleges and universities founded by Abderahman and his successors were frequented by crowds of European scholars. Thus the learning and the philosophy if not the poetry of the Saracens were enabled to lay their imprint deeply upon plastic Europe. If, however, we inquire more closely into the local origins of this surprising enlightenment, we shall find it owing even more to the native Jews of Spain than to the Moors themselves. The phase of Arabian culture with which we are most nearly concerned is its poetic achievement, and the ultimate influence which it brought to bear upon Spanish literary composition. The poetry of this richly endowed and imaginative people had at the period of their entrance into Spain arrived, perhaps, at the apogee of splendour. Its warm and luxuriant genius was wholly antagonistic to the more restrained and disciplined verse of Greece and Rome, which it regarded as cold, formal, and quite unworthy of translation. It surpassed in bold and extravagant hyperbole, fantastic imagery, and emotional appeal. The Arab poet heaped metaphor upon metaphor. He was incapable of seeing that that which was intrinsically beautiful in itself might appear superfluous and lacking in taste when combined with equally graceful but discordant elements. Many critics hasten to reassure us regarding his judgment and discrimination. But even a slight acquaintance with Arabic literature will show that they have been carried away by their prejudice in favour of the subject on which they wrote. In the garden of the Arabian poet every flower is a jewel, every plot is a silken carpet, tapestried with the intricate patterns of the weavers of Persia, and every maiden is a houri, each of whose physical attributes becomes in turn the subject of a glowing quatrain. The constant employment of synonym and superlative, the extravagance of amorous emotion, and the frequent absence of all message, of that large utterance in which the poets of the West have indicated to the generation they served how it might best grapple with problems of mind and soul--these were the weaknesses of the Arab singers. They made apophthegm take the place of message. They were unaware that the fabric of poetry is not only a palace of pleasure, but a great academy of the soul. The true love of nature, too, seems to have been as much lacking in the Arab as in the Greek and the Roman. He enamelled his theme with the meticulous care of a jeweller. Not content with painting the lily, he burnished it until it seemed a product of the goldsmith's art. To him nature was a thing not only to be improved upon, but to be surpassed, a mine of gems in the rough, to be patiently polished. But it would be wrong to refuse to the imaginative literature of the Arabs a high place among the world's achievements, and we must regret that, for causes into which we cannot enter here, opportunities for development and discipline were not vouchsafed it. As we read the history of the Arabian states with their highly developed civilization, their thronged academies, and their far-flung dominions, reaching from Central Asia to the western gates of the Mediterranean, and turn, to-day to the scenes where such things flourished, we must indeed be unimaginative if we fail to be impressed by the universal wreck and ruin to which these regions have been exposed. The great, emulous, and spirited race which conquered and governed them gathered the world to its doors, and the rude peoples of Europe clustered about its knees to listen to the magical tales of unfolding science which fell from its lips. From the desert it came, and to the desert it has returned. Djamshîd, the palace is a lions' lair Where ye held festival with houris fair; The desert ass bounds upon Barlaam's tomb: Where are the pomps of yesterday, ah, where? Moorish 'Fashion' in Spanish Romance Of Moorish grandeur of thought and luxuriance of emotion we find little in Spanish literature, at least until the beginning of the fifteenth century. Its note is distinctively, nay almost aggressively, European, as will be readily understood from the circumstances of its origin. [23] But it would seem that with the Castilian occupation of the Moorish parts of Spain the atmosphere which the Saracen had left behind him powerfully affected the Spaniard, who appears to have cast a halo of romance round the character of his ancient foe, with whose civilization, as expressed in its outward manifestations of architecture and artifact, he could scarcely have failed to be deeply impressed. If our conclusions are well founded it would appear that about the era alluded to a Moorish 'fashion' set in in Spanish literature, just as did an Oriental craze in the England of Byron and Moore, when English people began to travel in the Levantine countries. But this fashion was in great measure pseudo-Saracenic, unaffected by literary models and derived indirectly more from atmosphere and art than directly from men or books. Long before the fifteenth century, however, with its rather artificial mania for everything Moresque, the Arab spirit had been at work upon Spanish literature, although in a feeble and unconscious manner. Spanish literary forms, whether in verse or prose, owe absolutely nothing to it, and especially is this the case in regard to the assonance which characterizes Castilian poetry, a prosodic device found in the verse of all Romance tongues at an early period. The Moors, however, seem to have sophisticated, if they did not write, the ballads of the Hispano-Moorish frontiers, especially those which have reference to the loss of Alhamia. In any case these are founded upon Moorish legends. Certain metrical pedants, like the Marquis de Santillana, toyed with Arabic verse-forms as Swinburne did with the French rondeau or Dobson with the ballade, or as the dry-as-dusts of our universities with Greek hexameters, neglecting for the alien and recondite the infinite possibilities of their mother-tongue. These preciosities, to which many men of letters in all ages have been addicted, had no more effect upon the main stream of Castilian literature than such attempts ever have upon the literary output of a country. Some of the popular coplas, or couplets, however, seem to be direct translations from the Arabic, which is not surprising when we remember the considerable number of half-breeds to be found in the Peninsula until the middle of the seventeenth century. There can be no doubt, too, that Arabic was the spoken language of thousands of Christians in Southern Spain. But that it had a determined opponent in the native Spanish is becoming more and more clear--an opponent which it found as merciless as the Moor found the Spaniard. [24] Perhaps the best measure of the decline of Arabic as a spoken language in Spain is the fact that the authors of many romances declare them to be mere translations from the Arabic--usually the writings of Moorish magicians or astrologers. These pretensions are easily refuted by means of internal evidence. But regarding the question broadly and sanely, Spanish literature could no more remain unaffected by Arab influence than could Spanish music, architecture, or handicrafts. All such influences, however, were undoubtedly late, and, as regards the romances, were much more 'spiritual' than 'material.' Christian Spain had held off the Saracen for eight hundred years, and when at last she consented to drink out of the Saracen cup she filled it with her own wine. But the strange liquor which had brimmed it before left behind it the mysterious odours and scents of the Orient, faint, yet unmistakable. The Type of Spanish Romance The type of Spanish romance at its best is that in which the spirit of wonder is mingled with the spirit of chivalry. Old Spain, with her glorious ideas of honour, her finely wrought sense of chivalry, and her birthright of imagination, provided almost a natural crucible for the admixture of the elements of romance. Every circumstance of climate and environment assisted and fostered the illusions with which Spanish story teemed, and above all there was a more practical interest in the life chivalric in Spain than, perhaps, in any other country in Europe. The Spaniard carried the insignia of chivalry more properly than Frenchman or Englishman. It was his natural apparel, and he brought to its wearing a dignity, a gravity, and a consciousness of fitness unsurpassed. If he degenerated into a Quixote it was because of the whole-hearted seriousness with which he had embraced the knightly life. He was certainly the first to laugh when he found that his manners, like his mail, had become obsolete. But even the sound of that laughter is knightly, and the book which aroused it has surely won at least as many hearts for romanticism as ever it disillusioned. The history of Spanish conquest is a chronicle of champions, of warriors almost superhuman in ambition and endurance, mighty carvers of kingdoms, great remodellers of the world's chart, who, backed by a handful of lances, and whether in Valencia, Mexico, Italy, or Araucan, surpassed the fabulous deeds of Amadis or Palmerin. In a later day the iron land of Castile was to send forth iron men who were to carry her banners across an immensity of ocean to the uttermost parts of the earth. What inspired them to live and die in harness surrounded by dangers more formidable than the enchantments of malevolent sorcerers or than ever confronted knights-errant in the quest of mysterious castles? What heartened them in an existence of continuous strife, privation, and menace? Can we doubt that the hero-tales of their native land magically moved and inspired them--that when going into battle the exploits of the heroes of romance rang in their ears like a fanfare from the trumpets of heralds at a tournament? And as we gat us to the fight Our armour and our hearts seemed light Thinking on battle's cheer, Of fierce Orlando's high prowess, Of Felixmarte's knightliness And the death of Olivier. [25] CHAPTER II: THE "CANTARES DE GESTA" AND THE "POEMA DEL CID" When meat and drink is great plentye Then lords and ladyes still will be, And sit and solace lythe. Then it is time for mee to speake Of kern knights and kempes great, Such carping for to kythe. "Guy and Colbrand," a romance The French origin of the cantares de gesta has already been alluded to. Their very name, indeed, bespeaks a Gallic source. But in justice to the national genius of Spain we trust that it has been made abundantly clear that the cantares speedily cast off the northern mode and robed themselves in Castilian garb. Some lands possess an individuality so powerful, a capacity for absorption and transmutation so exceptional, that all things, both physical and spiritual, which invade their borders become transfigured and speedily metamorphosed to suit their new environment. Of this magic of transformation Spain, with Egypt and America, seems to hold the especial secret. But transfigure the chansons of France as she might, the mould whence they came is apparent to those who are cognisant of their type and machinery. Nor could the character of their composers and professors be substantially altered, so that we must not be surprised to find in Spain the trouvères and jongleurs of France as trovadores and juglares. The trovador was the poet, the author, the juglar merely the singer or declaimer, although no very hard-and-fast line was drawn betwixt them. Some juglares of more than ordinary distinction were also the authors of the cantares they sang, while an unsuccessful trovador might be forced to chant the verses of others. Instrumentalists or accompanists were known as juglares de péñola in contradistinction to the reciters or singers, juglares de boca. The Singers of Old Spain With the juglar, indeed, was left the final form of the cantar, for he would shape and shear it, add to or suppress, as his instinct told him the taste of his audience demanded. Not infrequently he would try to pour the wine of a cantar into the bottle of a popular air, and if it overflowed and was spilt, so much the worse for the cantar. Frequently he was accompanied not only by an instrumentalist, but by a remendador, or mimic, who illustrated his tale in dumb show. These sons of the gay science were notoriously careless of their means of livelihood, and lived a hand-to-mouth existence. A crust of bread and a cup of wine sufficed them when silver was scarce. Unsullied by the lust of hire, they journeyed from hall to hall, from castle to castle, unmindful of all but their mission--to soothe the asperities of a barbarous age. Our long-dead brothers of the roundelay, Whose meed was wine, who held that praise was pay, Hearten ye by their lives, ye singers of to-day! But this simple state did not last. As the taste for the cantares grew, the trovadores and their satellites, after the manner of mankind, became clamorous for the desirable things of life, making the age-long plea of the artist that the outward insignia of beauty are his very birthright, and forgetting how fatal it is to Stain with wealth and power The poet's free and heavenly mind. These "spirits from beyond the moon" did not, alas! "refuse the boon." Kings, infantes, and peers indulged the trovador out of full purses, flattered him by imitating his art and his life, and even enrolled themselves in his brotherhood. Few men of genius are so constituted as to be able to control altogether a natural hauteur and superiority. In these early days poetical arrogance seems to have been as unchecked as military boastfulness, and the trovadores, pampered and fêted by prince and noble, at length grew insufferable in their insolence and rapacity. The land swarmed with singers, real and pretended, the manner of whose lives became a scandal, even in a day when scandal was cheap. The public grew weary of the repetition of the cantares and the harping on a single string. It became fashionable to read romances instead of listening to them, and eventually we see the juglares footing it on the highways of Spain, and declaiming at street-corners in a state of mendicancy more pitiable by far than their old indigent yet dignified conditions. Few of the ancient cantares of Spain have survived, in contradistinction to the hundred or more chansons that France can show. But what remains of them suffices to distinguish their type with sufficient clearness. As has been indicated, we owe our knowledge of more than one of them to the circumstance that they became embedded in the ancient chronicles of Spain. An excellent illustration of this process of literary embalming is provided by the manner in which the cantar of Bernaldo de Carpio has become encrusted in the rather dreary mass of the General Chronicle of Spain which was compiled by King Alfonso the Wise (c. 1260), in which it will be found in the seventh and twelfth chapters of the third part. The poet-king states that he has founded his history of Bernaldo upon "old lays," and in the spirit as well as the form of his account of the legendary champion we can trace the influence of the cantar. The Story of Bernaldo de Carpio Young Bernaldo de Carpio, when he arrived at manhood, was, like many another hero of romance, unaware that he was of illustrious parentage, for his mother was a sister of Don Alfonso of Castile, and had wed in secret the brave and noble Count de Sandias de Saldaña. King Alfonso, bitterly offended that his sister should mate with one who was her inferior in rank, cast the Count into prison, where he caused him to be deprived of sight, and immured the princess in a cloister. Their son Bernaldo, however, he reared with care. While still a youth, Bernaldo rendered his uncle important services, but when he learned that his father languished in prison a great melancholy settled upon him, and he cared no more for the things that had once delighted him. Instead of mingling in the tourney or the dance, he put on deep mourning, and at last presented himself before King Alfonso and beseeched him to set his father at liberty. Now Alfonso was greatly troubled when he knew that Bernaldo was aware of his lineage and of his father's imprisonment, but his hatred for the man who had won his sister was greater than his love for his nephew. At first he made no reply, but sat plucking at his beard, so taken aback was he. But kings are not often at a loss, and Alfonso, thinking to brush the matter aside by brusque words, frowned, and said sternly: "Bernaldo, as you love me, speak no more of this matter. I swear to you that never in all the days of my life shall your father leave his prison." "Sire," replied Bernaldo, "you are my king and may do whatsoever you shall hold for good, but I pray God that He will change your heart in this matter." King Alfonso had no son of his own, and in an ill moment proposed that Charlemagne, the mighty Emperor of the Franks, should be regarded as his successor. But his nobles remonstrated against his choice, and refused to receive a Frank as heir to the throne of Christian Spain. Charlemagne, learning of Alfonso's proposal, prepared to invade Spain on the pretext of expelling the Moors, but Alfonso, repenting of his intention to leave the crown to a foreigner, rallied his forces around him and allied himself with the Saracens. A battle, fierce and sustained, took place in the Pass of Roncesvalles, in which the Franks were signally defeated, chiefly by the address of Bernaldo, who slew the famous champion Roland with his own hand. These and the other services of Bernaldo King Alfonso endeavoured to reward. But neither gift nor guerdon would young Bernaldo receive at his hands, save only the freedom of his father. Again and again did the King promise to fulfil his request, but as often found an excuse for breaking his word, until at last Bernaldo, in bitter disappointment, renounced his allegiance and declared war against his treacherous uncle. The King, in dread of his nephew's popularity and warlike ability, at last had recourse to a stratagem of the most dastardly kind. He assured Bernaldo of his father's release if he would agree to the surrender of the great castle of Carpio. The young champion immediately gave up its keys in person, and eagerly requested that his father might at once be restored to him. The treacherous Alfonso in answer pointed to a group of horsemen who approached at a gallop. "Yonder, Bernaldo, is thy father," he said mockingly. "Go and embrace him." "Bernaldo," says the chronicle, "went toward him and kissed his hand. But when he found it cold and saw that all his colour was black, he knew that he was dead; and with the grief he had from it he began to cry aloud and to make great moan, saying: 'Alas! Count Sandias, in an evil hour was I born, for never was man so lost as I am now for you; for since you are dead and my castle is gone, I know no counsel by which I may do aught.'" Some say in their cantares de gesta that the King then said: "Bernaldo, now is not the time for much talking, and therefore I bid you go straightway forth from my land." Broken-hearted and utterly crushed by this final blow to his hopes, Bernaldo turned his horse's head and rode slowly away. And from that day his banner was not seen in Christian Spain, nor the echoes of his horn heard among her hills. Hopeless and desperate, he took service with the Moors. But his name lives in the romances and ballads of his native country as that of a great champion foully wronged by the treachery of an unjust and revengeful King. Although the cantares of Fernán González and the Children of Lara also lie embedded in the chronicles, I have preferred to deal with them in the chapter on the ballads, the form in which they are undoubtedly best known. The "Poema del Cid" But by far the most complete and characteristic of the cantares de gesta is the celebrated Poema del Cid, the title which has become attached to it in default of all knowledge of its original designation. That it is a cantar must be plain to all who possess even a slight familiarity with the chansons de gestes of France. Like many of the chansons heroes, the Cid experiences royal ingratitude, and is later taken back into favour. The stock phrases of the chansons, too, are constantly to be met with in the poem, and the atmosphere of boastful herohood arising from its pages strengthens the resemblance. There is also pretty clear proof that the author of the Poema had read or heard the Chanson de Roland. This is not to say that he practised the vile art of adaptation or the viler art of paraphrase, or in any way filched from the mighty epic of Roncesvalles. But superficial borrowings of incident appear, which are, however, amply redeemed by originality of treatment and inspiration. The thought and expression are profoundly national; nor does the language exhibit French influence, save, as has been said, in the matter of well-worn expressions, the clichés of medieval epic. Its Only Manuscript But one manuscript of the Poema del Cid is known, the handiwork of a certain Per or Pedro the Abbot. About the third quarter of the eighteenth century, Sanchez, the royal librarian, was led to suspect through certain bibliographical references that such a manuscript might exist in the neighbourhood of Bivar, the birthplace of the hero of the poem, and he succeeded in unearthing it in that village. The date at the end is given as Mille CCXLV, and authorities are not agreed as to its significance, some holding that a vacant space showing an erasure after the second C is intentional, and that it should read 1245 (1207 new style). Others believe that 1307 is the true date of the MS. However that may be, the poem itself is referred to a period not earlier than the middle of the twelfth nor later than the middle of the thirteenth century. As we possess it, the manuscript is in a rather mutilated and damaged condition. The commencement and title are lost, a page in the middle is missing, and the end has been sadly patched by an unskilful hand. Sanchez states, in his Poesías Castellanas anteriores al Siglo XV (1779-90) that he had seen a copy made in 1596 which showed that the MS. had the same deficiencies then as now. Its Authorship Unknown The personality of the author of the Poema del Cid will probably for ever remain unknown. He may have been a churchman, as Ormsby suggests, but I am inclined to the opinion that he was a professional trovador. The trouvères, rather than ecclesiastics, were responsible for such works in France, and why not the trovadores in Spain? [26] That the writer lived near the time of the events he celebrated is plain, probably about half a century after the Cid sheathed his famous sword Colada for the last time. On the ground of various local allusions in the poem he has been claimed as a native of the Valle de Arbujuelo and as a monk of the monastery of Cardeña, near Burgos. But these surmises have nothing but textual references to recommend them, and are only a little more probable than that which would make him an Asturian because he does not employ the diphthong ue. We have good grounds, however, for the assumption that he was at least a Castilian, and these are to be found in his fierce political animus against the kingdom of Leon and all that pertained to it. That Pedro the Abbot was merely a copyist is clear from his mishandling of the manuscript; for though we have to thank him for the preservation of the Poema, our gratitude is dashed with irritation at the manner in which he has passed it on to us, for his copy is replete with vain repetitions, he frequently runs two lines into one, and occasionally even transfers the matter of one line to another in his haste to be free of his task. Other Cantares of the Cid That other cantares relating to the Cid existed is positively known through the researches of Señor Don Ramón Menéndez Pidal, who has demonstrated that one of them was used in the most ancient version of the Crónica General, of which three recensions evidently existed at different periods, and it is now clear that the passage in question does not come from the Poema as we have it, as was formerly believed. [27] The passages on the Cid in the second version of the Crónica are also derived from still another cantar on the popular hero, known as the Crónica Rimada, [28] or Cantar de Rodrigo, evidently the work of a juglar of Palencia, and which seems to be a mélange of several lost cantares relating to the Cid, as well as to other Spanish traditions. This version, however, is much later than the Poema, and is chiefly interesting as enshrining many traditions relative to the Cid as well as to the ancient folk-tales of Spain. Metre of the "Poema del Cid" It would certainly seem as if, like all cantares, the poem had been especially written for public recitation. The expression "O señores," encountered in places, may be taken as the equivalent of the English "Listen, lordings," of such frequent occurrence in our own lays and romances, which was intended to appeal to the attention or spur the flagging interest of a medieval audience. The metre in which the poem is written is almost as unequal as its poetic quality. The prevailing line is the Alexandrine or fourteen-syllabled verse, but some lines run far over this average, while others are truncated in barbarous fashion, probably through the inattention or haste of the copyist. [29] It seems to me that the Poema, although of the highest merit in many of its finest passages, has received the most extravagant eulogy, and I suspect that many of the English critics who descant so glibly upon its excellences have never perused it in its entirety. Considerable tracts of it are of the most pedestrian description, and in places it descends to a doggerel which recalls the metrical barbarities of the pantomime. But when the war-trump gives him the key it arouses the singer as it arouses Scott--the parallel is an apt and almost exact one--and it is a mighty orchestra indeed which breaks upon our ears. The lines surge and swell in true Homeric tempest-sound, and as we listen to the crash of Castilian spears upon the Moorish ranks we are reminded of those sounding lines in Swinburne's Erechtheus beginning: With a trampling of drenched, red hoofs and an earthquake of men that meet, Strong war sets hand to the scythe, and the furrows take fire from his feet. But the music of the singer of the Poema does not depend upon reverberative effect alone. His is the true music of battle, burning the blood with keenest fire, and he has no need to rely solely upon the gallop of his metrical war-horse to excite our admiration, as does the English poet. The Poem Opens The opening of the Poema del Cid, as we possess it, is indeed sufficiently striking and dramatic to console us for the loss of the original commencement. The great commander, banished (c. 1088) by royal order from the house of his father through the treachery of the Leonese party at the Court of King Alfonso, rides away disconsolately from the broken gates of his castle. A fairly accurate translation of this fine passage might read as follows: He turns to see the ruined hold, the tears fall thick and fast, The empty chests, the broken gates, all open to the blast. Sans raiment are the wardrobes, reft of mantle and of vair, The empty hollow of the hall of tapestry is bare. No feather in the falconry, no hawk to come to hand, A noble beggar must the Cid renounce his fathers' land. He sighed, but as a warrior sighs. "Now I shall not repine. All praise to Thee, our Father, for Thy grace to me and mine. The slanderous tongue, the lying tale, have wrought my wreck to-day, But Thou in Thy good time, O Lord, the debt wilt sure repay." As they rode out of Bivar flew a raven to the right, By Burgos as they bridled the bird was still in sight. The Cid he shrugged his shoulders as the omen he espied; "Greetings, Cousin Alvar Fañez, we are exiles now," he cried. The sixty lances of the Cid rode clattering through the town; From casement and from turret-top the burgher-folk looked down. Sore were their hearts and salt their eyen as Roderick rode by; "There goes a worthy vassal who has known bad mastery." And many a roof that night had sheltered Roderick and his band But for the dread in Burgos of Alfonso's heavy hand. The missive broad with kingly seals had run throughout the town: "Who aids the Cid in banishment, his house shall be cast down." So as the train rode through the streets each eye was turned aside, All silent was the town-house where the Cid was wont to bide; Both lock and bar were on the gates, he might not enter there. Then from a casement spoke a maid who had the house in care: "My lord Don Roderick, who took the sword in happy hour, The King hath sent a letter broad to ban from hall and bower Both thee and all thy company, 'tis doom to shelter one; Never again who aids thee shall his eyes look on the sun. Now go, and Goddës help with thee, thy pity we implore; In all broad Spain thou canst not lack, O Cid Campéador." Finding no place to lay their heads within the town, the Cid with his men rode disconsolately to the plain of Glera, to the east of Burgos, where he pitched his tents on the banks of the river Arlanzon. To him came Martin Antolinez, one of his former vassals, who brought food and wine for all his train and strove to comfort him. Not a maravedi had the Cid, and how to furnish his men with arms and food he knew not. But he and Antolinez took counsel together, and hit upon a plan by which they hoped to procure the necessary sinews of war. Taking two large chests, they covered them with red leather and studded them with gilt nails, so that they made a brave outward show. Then they filled the chests with sand from the river-banks and locked them securely. Money-lending in the Eleventh Century "Martin Antolinez," said the Cid, "thou art a true man and a good vassal. Go thou to the Jews Raquel and Vidas, and tell them I have much treasure which I desire to leave with them since it is too weighty to carry along with me. Pledge thou these chests with them for what may seem reasonable. I call God and all His saints to witness that I do this thing because I am driven to extremity and for the sake of those who depend upon me." Antolinez, rather fearful of his mission, sought out the Jews Raquel and Vidas where they counted out their wealth and their profits. He told them that the Cid had levied much tribute which he found it impossible to carry with him, and that he would pledge this with them if they would lend him a reasonable sum upon it. But he stipulated that they must solemnly bind themselves not to open the chests for a year to come. The Jews took counsel together, and consented to hide the chests and not to look upon their contents for a year at least. "But tell us," they said, "what sum will content the Cid, and what interest will he give us for the year?" "Needy men gather to my lord the Cid from all sides," replied Antolinez. "He will require at least six hundred marks." "We will willingly give that sum," said Raquel and Vidas, "for the treasure of such a great lord as the Cid must indeed be immense." "Hasten then," said Antolinez, "for night approaches, and my lord the Cid is under decree of banishment to quit Castile at once." "Nay," said the Jews, after the manner of their kind. "Business is not done thus, but by first taking and then giving." They then requested to be taken to where the Cid lay, and having greeted him, paid over the sum agreed upon. They were surprised and delighted at the weight of the chests, and departed well satisfied, giving Antolinez a present or commission of thirty golden marks for the share he had taken in the business. Donna Ximena When they had gone the Cid struck his camp and galloped through the night to the monastery of San Pedro de Cardeña, where his lady, Donna Ximena, and his two young daughters lay. He found them deeply engaged in prayer for his welfare, and they received him with heartfelt expressions of joy. Taking the Abbot aside, the Cid explained to him that he was about to fare forth on adventure in the country of the Moors, and tendered him such a sum as would provide for the maintenance of Donna Ximena and her daughters until his return, as well as a goodly bounty for the convent's sake. By this time tidings of the Cid's banishment had gone through the land broadcast, and so great was the fame of his prowess that cavaliers from near and far flocked to his banner. When he put foot in stirrup at the bridge of Arlanza a hundred and fifty gentlemen had assembled to follow his fortunes. The parting with his wife and daughters presents a poignant picture of leave-taking: Sharp as the pain when finger-nails are wrenched from off the hand, So felt the Cid this agony, but turned him to his band, And vaulted in the saddle, and forth led his menie, But ever and anon he turned his streaming eyes to see Dear faces he might see no more, till blunt Minaya, irked To see the yearning and regret that on his heartstrings worked, Cried out, "O born in happy hour, [30] let not thy soul be sad: The heart of knight on venture bound should never but be glad. The heavy sorrow of to-day will prove to-morrow's joy. What grief can bide the trumpets' sound, what woe the battle's ploy?" Giving rein to their steeds, they galloped forth of the bounds of Christian Spain and, crossing the river Duero on rafts, stood upon Moorish soil. Far to the west they could see the slender minarets of the Saracen city of Ahilon glittering in the high sun of noon, emblematic of the rich treasure they had come to win in the land of the paynim. At Higeruela still more good lances rallied to the Cid's banners, border men to whom the foray was a holiday and the breaking of spears the sweetest music. As he slept that night the Cid dreamed that the Archangel Gabriel appeared to him and said: "Mount, O Cid Campeador, mount and ride. Thy cause is just. Whilst thou livest thou shalt prosper!" With three hundred lances behind him, the Cid rode into the land of the Moors. He lay in ambush while Alvar Fañez and other knights made a foray toward Alcalá. In their absence the Cid observed that the men of Castijon, a Moorish town hard by, came out of the place to work in the fields, leaving the gates open. He and his men made a dash at the gates, slew the handful of heathens who guarded them, and took the town without striking a score of blows. The men were well content at the treasure of gold and silver they found in the quaint Moorish houses. But they were merciful to the inhabitants, of whom they made servitors rather than slaves. The Taking of Alcocer After they had rested at Castijon, the Cid and his array rode down the valley of the Henares, passing by way of Alhamia to Bubierca and Ateca, and as he was in unknown country, and environed round by hosts of enemies, he took up a position upon a "round hill" near the strong Saracen city of Alcocer, to which he set siege. But the place was well guarded, and he saw that if he were to penetrate its defences it must be by stratagem and not by fighting alone. So one morning, after he had beleaguered Alcocer for full fifteen weeks, he withdrew his men as if retreating in disgust, leaving but one pavilion behind him. When the Moors beheld his withdrawal they exulted, and in their eagerness to see what spoil the solitary tent might contain they rushed out of the town, leaving the gates open and unguarded. Now when the Cid saw that there was a wide space between the Moors and the gates of Alcocer, he ordered his men to turn and fall upon the excited rabble of Saracens. Small need had he to ask them to smite the paynim. Dashing among the dense crowd with levelled lances, the cavaliers of Castile did fearful execution. The wretched Moors, taken completely by surprise, fled wildly in all directions, and soon the plain was littered with white-robed corpses. Meanwhile the Cid himself, with a few trusted followers, galloped to the gates and secured them, so that with, much triumph the Spaniards entered Alcocer. As before, the Campeador was merciful to such of the Moors as made full surrender, saying: "We cannot sell them, and we shall gain nothing by cutting off their heads. Let us make them rather serve us." The Saracens of the neighbouring towns of Ateca and Zerrel were aghast at the manner in which Alcocer had been taken, and sent word to the Moorish King of Valencia how one called Roderigo Diaz of Bivar, a Castilian outlaw, had come into their land to spoil it, and had already taken the strong city of Alcocer. When King Tamin of Valencia heard these tidings he was greatly wroth, and sent an army of three thousand well-appointed men against the Campeador. In his anger he charged his captains that they should take this Spanish renegade alive, and bring him where justice might be done upon him. The Cid knew nothing of the coming of this host, and one morning his sentinels, pacing the walls of Alcocer, were surprised to see the surrounding country alive with Moorish scouts, flitting from point to point upon their active jennets, and shaking their scimitars in menace. His own outposts soon brought in word that he was surrounded, and his knights and men-at-arms clamoured to be led forth to do battle with the infidels. But the Cid was old in Moorish warfare, and denied them for the moment. For days the enemy paraded around the walls of Alcocer. But the Cid, with three hundred men, knew well the folly of attacking three thousand, and bided his time. The Combat with the Moorish King At last the Moors succeeded in cutting off the water-supply of Alcocer. Provisions, too, were running low, and the Cid saw clearly that such a desperate situation demanded a desperate remedy. Alvar Fañez, ever panting for the fight like a war-horse that hears the trumpet, urged an immediate sally in force, and the Cid, knowing the high spirit of his men, consented. First he sent all the Moors out of the city and looked to its defences. Then, leaving but two men to guard the gate, he marshalled his array and issued forth from Alcocer with dressed ranks and in strict order of battle. And here prose must once more give place to verse. [31] Huzza! huzza! the Moorman mounts and waves his crescent blade Hark to the thunder of the drums, the trump's fanfaronade! Around two glittering gonfanons the paynim take their stand, Beneath each waving banner's folds is massed a swarthy band. The turbaned sons of Termagaunt sweep onward like the sea; So trust they to engulf and drown the Christian chivalry. "Now gentles, keep ye fast your seats," cries the Campeador, "And hold your ranks, for such a charge saw never knight before." But the fierce heart of Bermuez that echoed to the drum, Cried, "Santiago, shall I stay the while these heathen come? With this bold banner shall I pierce yon pride of paynimrie. So follow, follow, cavaliers, for Spain and Christendie!" "Nay, comrade, stay!" implored the Cid, but Pero shook his head. His hand was loose upon the rein. "It may not be," he said; Then in his destrier's flank he drove the bright speed-making spur: Like a spray-scattering ship he clove the sands of Alcocer. Lost in a sea of Saracens, whose turbans surge as foam, He stands unshaken as a cliff when on its bosom come Madness of ocean and the wrath of seas that overwhelm. So rain the hounds of Máhomet fierce blows on shield and helm. "A rescue, rescue," cries the Cid, "and strike for Holy Rood! Up, gentlemen of Old Castile, and charge the heathen brood!" As forth the hound when from the leash the hunter's hand is ta'en, As the unhooded falcon bounds, her jesses cast amain, But fiercer far than falcon or the hound's unleashèd zeal Comes crashing down upon the foe the fury of Castile. Now rally, rally, to the flash of Roderigo's blade, The champion of Bivar is here who never was gainsaid. Three hundred levelled lances strike as one upon the foe. Down, down in death upon the sand three hundred heathen go. The lances rise, the lances fall, how fast the deadly play! Ah, God! the sundered shields that lie in dreadful disarray. The snow-white bannerets are dyed with blood of Moorish slain, And chargers rush all masterless across the littered plain. As lightning circles Roderick's sword above the huddled foe, With Alvar Fañez, Gustioz, and half a hundred moe He reaps right bloodily. But stay, the Saracens have slain Bold Alvar Fañez' destrier; to aid him comes amain The Cid Campeador, for sore the brave Minaya's need. His way is barred, his stride is marred by a tall emir's steed. His falchion swoops, his falchion stoops, down sinks the turbaned lord. "Mount in his place, Minaya, mount! I need thy trenchant sword. The phalanx of the foe is firm, unbroken still they stand." The stout Minaya leaps in selle, and falchion in hand Strews death to left and right, his trust to rout the Moor right soon. But see, the Cid hath fiercely rid with blood-embroidered shoon Upon the Moorish capitan, he cleaves his shining shield: The haughty Moslem turns to fly--that blow hath won the field. Bold Martin Antolinez aims a stroke at Galve's head; The jewelled casque it cracks in twain, the infidel hath fled Rather than bide its fellow; he and Fariz make retreat: They caracoled to victory, they gallop from defeat. Ne'er was a field so worthy sung since first men sang of war. Its laurels unto thee belong, O Cid Campeador! Fierce and sanguinary was the pursuit. The Moorish rout was complete, and the little Castilian band had lost but fifteen men. Five hundred Arab horses, heavily caparisoned, each with a splendid sword at the saddle-bow, fell into the hands of the Cid, who kept a fifth share for himself, as was the way with the commanders of such free companies as he led. But greatly desiring to make his peace with King Alfonso of Castile, he sent the trusty Alvar Fañez to Court with thirty steeds saddled and bridled in the Moorish fashion. But the Moors, even with the dust of defeat in their mouths, were not minded to leave the Cid the freedom of their borders, and seeing that he would not be able to hold Alcocer for long against their numbers, he bargained with the Saracens of the neighbouring cities for the ransom of Alcocer. This they gladly agreed to for three thousand marks of gold and silver, so, quitting the place, the Campeador pushed southward, and took up a position on a hill above the district of Mont'real. He laid all the Moorish towns in the neighbourhood under tribute, remaining in his new encampment full fifteen weeks. Meanwhile Alvar Fañez had journeyed to the Court and had presented the King with the thirty good steeds taken in battle. "It is yet too soon to take the Cid back into favour," said Alfonso, "but since these horses come from the infidel, I scruple not to receive them. I pardon thee, Alvar Fañez, and withdraw my banishment from thee. But as to the Cid, I say no more than that any good lance who cares to join him may do so without hindrance from me." The War with Raymond Berenger Now the Count of Barcelona, Raymond Berenger, a haughty and arrogant lord, conceived the presence of the Cid in a territory so near his own dominions to be an insult to himself, and in a high passion he mustered all his forces, Moorish as well as Christian, so that he might drive the Cid from the lands he held in tribute. The Campeador, hearing of the advance of this host, sent a courteous message to Count Raymond, assuring him of pacific intentions toward himself. But the Count felt that his personal dignity had been offended, and refused to receive the messenger. When the Cid beheld the army of Raymond marching against his position on the heights of Mont'real, he knew that his overtures for peace had been in vain, and, dressing his ranks for the fierce combat that he knew must follow, took up a position upon the plain suitable for cavalry. The lightly armed Moorish horsemen of Berenger's host rushed precipitately to the attack, but were easily routed by the Castilian cavaliers. The Count's Frankish men-at-arms, a band of skilful and warlike mercenaries, then thundered down-hill upon the lances of the Cid. The shock was terrific, but brief was the combat, for the knights of Castile, hardened by constant warfare, speedily overthrew the Frankish horsemen. The Cid himself attacked Count Berenger, took him prisoner, and forced him to deliver up his famous sword Colada, which figures so prominently in the mighty deeds which follow. A falchion which tradition states is none other than this celebrated blade, the Spanish Excalibur, is still shown at the Armeria at Madrid, and all pious lovers of chivalry will gladly believe that it is the sword taken by the Campeador from the haughty Berenger, even though the profane point out that its hilt is obviously of the fifteenth century! Greatly content were they of the Cid's company with the victory no less than with the spoil, and a feast worthy of princes was prepared to celebrate the occasion. In courtesy the Cid invited the defeated Count Raymond to feast with him, but he refused the invitation with hauteur, saying that his capture by outlaws had taken away his appetite. Nettled at this display of rudeness, the Cid told him that he would not see his realms again until he broke bread and drank wine with him. Three whole days did the Count refuse to touch all provender, and on the third day the Cid promised him immediate freedom if he would break his fast. This was too much for the haughty Berenger, whose hunger now outmatched his scruples. "Powers above!" exclaims the poet, "with what gust did he eat! His hands plied so quickly that my Cid [32] might not see their play." The Cid then gave him his liberty, and they parted on good terms. "Ride on, ride on, my noble Count, a free Frank as thou art; For all the spoil thou leavest me I thank thee from my heart. And if to turn the chance of fate against me thou shalt come, Right gladly shall I listen for the echoes of thy drum." "Nay, Roderick, I leave in peace and peace I shall maintain; From me thou sure hast spoil enow to count a twelvemonth's gain." He drove the spur, but backward glanced, he feared for treachery; So black a thought the Cid had harboured not for Christendie. No, not for all the wealthy world, who kept his soul in light. Whose heart as his so free from guile, the very perfect knight? The Cid Makes War Seaward Turning from Huesca and Montalvan, the Cid began to make war toward the salt sea. His eastward march struck terror to the hearts of the Moors of Valencia. They took counsel together, and resolved to send such a host against him as they thought he might not withstand. But he routed them with such a slaughter that they dared face him no more. Three years did the Cid war in that country, and his many conquests there were long to tell. He and his men sat themselves down in the land as kings, reaped its corn, and ate its bread. And a great famine came upon the Moors, so that thousands perished. Now the Cid sent messengers to Castile and Aragon, who made it known that all Christians who came to dwell beneath his rule should fare well. Hearing this, thousands flocked to his banner, and so greatly was he reinforced that in time he was able to march against Valencia itself, the capital of the Moors of that country. With all his host he sat down before that city and beleaguered it. Nine months he environed it, and in the tenth month the men of Valencia opened the gates and surrendered the place. Great was the booty of gold and silver and precious stuffs, so that there fell to his share alone treasure to the amount of thirty thousand marks, and he grew in greatness so that not only his own followers but the Moors of Eastern Spain began to look upon him almost as their rightful lord. Beholding his puissance, the Moorish King of Seville grew greatly afraid, and resolved to bring the whole power of his kingdom against him. Collecting an army of thirty thousand men, he marched against Valencia. But the Cid encountered him on the banks of the Huerta, and defeated him so completely that never again was he able to do him scathe. The heart of the Cid now began to grow hopeful that his King would receive him into friendship and confidence once more. And he swore a great oath that for love of Alfonso he would never let his beard be shorn. "So," he said, "will my beard be famous among both Moors and Christians." Once more he sent Alvar Fañez to Court with the gift of a hundred splendidly appointed horses of the purest Arab blood, praying that he might be permitted to bring his wife, Donna Ximena, and their daughters, to the possessions which he had carved out for himself by his good sword. Meanwhile there had come to Valencia from the East a holy man, one Bishop Don Jerome, who had heard afar of the prowess of the Cid and longed to cross swords with the infidel. The Cid was well pleased with him, and founded a bishopric of Valencia for the doughty Christian, whose one thought was but to spread the worship of God and slay Saracens. When Alvar Fañez reached the Court, he sought audience of King Alfonso, who was heartened to hear of the deeds of the Campeador, how he had routed the Moors in five pitched battles, made their lands subject to the crown of Castile, and erected a bishopric in the heart of paynimrie, so that he readily granted permission that Donna Ximena and the ladies Elvira and Sol should go to Valencia. Hearing this, Count Garcia Ordoñez, of the Leonese party, who had secured the Cid's banishment and who cordially hated him, was greatly vexed. But the two Infantes or Princes of Carrión, in Leon, seeing how the Cid grew in power and importance, resolved to ask his daughters in marriage from the King, but meanwhile kept their counsel. The time had long passed when the Cid should have discharged his debt to the Jews Raquel and Vidas, and hearing that Alvar Fañez was at Court they came to him and begged that it might be paid. Fañez assured them that all should be done as the Cid had promised, and that only stress of constant warfare had kept his master from fulfilling his obligation to them. They were perfectly satisfied with this assurance, and so greatly had they trusted the Cid that they had never opened the chests to examine the nature of the security he had given them. The Cid Welcomes his Family Alvar Fañez now made ready to set out for Valencia with Donna Ximena and the Cid's daughters, whom he safely conveyed to their new home. When he heard that they were near at hand, the Cid, who had only a few days before won his famous steed Babieca in a skirmish with the Moors, leapt upon the charger's back, and rode off at a gallop to meet them and welcome them to their new possessions. Greeting them with much affection, he led them to the castle, from the towers of which he showed them the lands he had won for them. And they gave thanks to God for a gift so fair. Now there was great stirring among the Moors of Africa when they heard of the deeds of the Cid, and they held it for dishonour that he should have redeemed so great a part of Spain from their brothers of the Peninsula. Their king, Yussef, levied a mighty army of fifty thousand men, and, crossing the seas to Spain, marched upon Valencia, hoping to regain it for the Crescent. When the Cid heard this, he exclaimed: "I thank God and the blessed Mother that I have my wife and daughters here. Now shall they see how we do battle with the Moors and win our bread in the land of the stranger!" The host of Yussef soon came in sight, and environed Valencia so closely that none might enter or leave it, and when the ladies beheld the great army which surrounded the city they were much afraid. But the Cid bade them be of good cheer. "Hearten ye," he said, "for, see, marvellous great wealth comes to us. Here comes a dowry against the marriage of your daughters!" [33] The Battle with King Bucar Springing upon Babieca, the Cid led his lances against the Moors of Africa. Then began a contest great and grim. The Spanish spears were red that day, and the Cid plied his good blade Colada so terribly that the Saracens fell before his strokes like corn before the sickle. He aimed a great blow at King Yussef's helm, but the Moorish chieftain, avoiding it, gave his horse the rein and galloped off the field, his dusky host following him in headlong rout. Countless was the spoil in gold, silver, richly caparisoned horses, shields, swords, and body-armour. Too wearied with ceaseless slaughter to give chase, the Cid rode back to where his wife and daughters had sat watching the progress of the battle, his dripping sword in his hand. "Homage to you, ladies," he cried. "Thus are Moors vanquished on the field of battle." But ever mindful of his King and liege-lord, he at once dispatched Alvar Fañez and Pero Bermuez to Court, with the tent of King Yussef and two hundred horses with their caparisons. Greatly pleased was Alfonso. "I receive the gift of the Cid willingly," he said, "and may the day of our reconciliation soon arrive." The Infantes of Carrión, seeing that the reputation of the Cid increased daily, were now fully resolved to ask the daughters of the Campeador in marriage from the King. Alfonso agreed to enter into negotiations with the Cid, not only for the hands of his daughters, but with the idea of effecting a reconciliation with him, for he was well aware of all the service which the Campeador had done him. So he sent for Alvar Fañez and Pero Bermuez and acquainted them with the offer of the Infantes of Carrión, requesting them to convey it to the Cid without loss of time and assuring him of his esteem. The envoys hastened to Valencia and told the Cid how the King had sent him a gracious message, asking for the hands of his daughters for the Infantes of Carrión. The Cid was right joyful on hearing this. "What the King desires is my pleasure," he said, "though the Infantes of Carrión are haughty, and bad vassals to the Throne. But be it as God and the King wills." Then the Campeador made great preparations and set out for the Court, and when the King knew he was approaching he went out to meet him. And the Cid went on his knees before the King and took the grass of the field in his teeth to humble himself before his lord. But Don Alfonso was troubled at the sight, and, raising him, assured him of his grace and affection, at which the Cid was greatly moved and wept joyfully. Then the King feasted the Cid bravely, and when the banquet was at an end asked for the hands of his daughters for the Infantes of Carrión. The Cid made reply that he and his daughters were in the King's hands and that Alfonso himself might give the damsels in marriage. The Cid's Daughters Wed After some days spent in feasting and rejoicing, the Campeador returned to Valencia with the two Infantes of Carrión. He told his wife and daughters that the marriage was of the King's making and not of his, as he was not without misgivings as to the result of the alliance. Nevertheless he made great preparations, as befitted the importance of such a ceremony with two of the greatest lords in Spain, and Donna Elvira and Donna Sol were espoused to the Infantes of Carrión in the church of Santa Maria by the good warrior-bishop Jerome. The wedding celebrations lasted fifteen days, and the Cid had no reason to be dissatisfied with his sons-in-law, who bore themselves as gallantly in the lists as in the dance. The Adventure of the Lion The Infantes of Carrión and their wives had remained in Valencia for about two years when a mishap befell. One day, during the time of the afternoon siesta, a lion, kept for baiting in the ring, broke loose from its cage and made its way into the palace. The Campeador reclined upon a couch asleep, but his dauntless followers gathered round him to protect him, all except the Infantes of Carrión, one of whom crept beneath the couch on which the Cid slept, while the other made such speed to quit the palace that he fell across the beam of a wine-press and rent his robes. The clamour awoke the Cid, who rose, and, going to where the lion crouched, firmly placed his hand on the brute's bristling mane and led him back to his cage. Nor did the lion resist, evidently knowing his master. The Infantes of Carrión, when they knew all danger was past, came out of hiding, looking so pale and terrified that the hardy soldiers of the Cid could not restrain their laughter. At this the haughty northern grandees felt deep insult and resentment and an unmanly feeling of revenge awoke in their hearts. Within a few days of this incident news reached Valencia that Abu Bekr, the commander of the armies of the King of Morocco, was marching upon the city. The Cid and his captains rejoiced at the news, but not so the Infantes of Carrión, who took counsel together as to how they might avoid the fighting and return to their own territories. Here a break occurs in the narrative, and from a later passage it is clear that the missing lines relate to a test of the courage of at least one of the Infantes, who, stung by an imputation of cowardice, armed himself and set out to fight a Moor, who, however, put him to flight. But Pero Bermuez, to save the Cid's feelings, slew the Saracen and made it appear that the Infante had done so. A 'Secret Service' Story of "The Cid" A most romantic tale hangs upon the first line of the next passage: "May the time come when I deserve as much of both of you." The line is supposed to be the last in the speech of Pero Bermuez to the Infante Don Ferrando, who had probably expressed gratitude to him. The first English author to attempt a translation of the Poema del Cid was John Hookham Frere, the translator of the plays of Aristophanes, who was for some years British Minister at Madrid. He made a conjectural reading of the above line, which he communicated to the Marquis de la Romana. Some years later, in 1808, when the Marquis was commanding a body of troops in the French service in Denmark, Frere was able to accredit a confidential messenger to him, assuring the Spanish commander of the genuineness of the message he carried by mention of the amended line, the correction in which was known only to the Marquis and himself. The circumstance led to one of the most important movements in the war against Napoleon. The Fighting Bishop The Infantes of Carrión, who did not relish the idea of a protracted struggle with the Moors, resolved to betake themselves to the security of their own estates at the first opportunity. But, as if to shame them, the warlike Bishop Jerome appeared before the Cid armed cap-à-pie and entreated his permission to take part in the fighting. The Cid smilingly gave his assent, and no sooner had he done so than the doughty churchman mounted a great war-horse and, issuing out of the gates, galloped headlong against the Saracens. At the first onset he slew two of them outright, but had the misfortune to break his lance. Nothing daunted, however, this ardent disciple of the Church militant drew his sword and, brandishing it about his head like a trained knight-at-arms, flung himself once more upon the Moorish ranks with all the weight of his charger. Laying about him left and right, he killed or wounded a heathen with every blow. But the enemy closed round him, and it would have gone hard indeed with the fighting bishop had not the Cid, who had witnessed his gallantry with all a warrior's admiration for the deeds of another brave man, laid his lance in rest and, setting spurs to Babieca, plunged into the thickest of the fray. Beneath his terrific onset the lightly armed Moors gave way in terror. Wheeling, he came at them again, crashing through their ranks like a tempest, and dealing death and destruction wherever he went. The Moors wavered, broke, and fled amain. The whole army of the Cid now bore down upon them, horse and man, bursting into their camp, breaking the tent-ropes, and dashing aside the gaudy Eastern pavilions where they had lodged. Upon the terror-stricken ranks the horsemen of Castile Came thundering down; King Bucar's men the iron tempest feel. And down to dust the severed arm, the severed steel-capped head Fall lifeless, and the charger's hoofs trample the gory dead. "Ha! stay, King Bucar!" cries the Cid. "Now tarry, Moorish lord; You came to seek me o'er the sea, mine is the peaceful word." "If peace is in thy naked sword and in thy charging steed, Then I would flee it," cried the King, and spurred his horse to speed. With hasty stride the King doth ride straight for the open sea; Spain's champion is at his side, never again will he Know the delights of Algiers' halls; Colada shines on high: Now whether by the sword or sea, King Bucar, wilt thou die? The good blade shears the Moor in twain, down to the saddle-bow; So perished the Algerian lord--may every Moor die so! And thus upon this day of fame the Cid his guerdon won, Worth many a purse of minted marks, the noble blade Tizon! Riding back from the fray, the Cid espied the Infantes of Carrión and welcomed them. "Now that they are brave will they be welcomed by the brave," he said, rather wistfully, to Alvar Fañez. The proud and shallow princes were wrathful when they overheard this, and the shadow of vengeance once more arose within their haughty hearts. "Let us take our leave of the Cid and return to Carrión," they said. "We have been flouted and insulted here by these banditti and their leader. On the way home we shall know how to avenge ourselves upon his daughters." With this cowardly purpose they smilingly requested the Campeador to permit them to depart. Sorrowfully he granted it, and loading them with presents and bestowing upon them the famous swords Colada and Tizon, which he had himself taken in battle from the Moors, he requested Feliz Muñoz, his nephew, to accompany the Infantes and his daughters to Carrión. The Infantes' Revenge Great was the grief of the Cid and Donna Ximena at parting with the ladies Elvira and Sol, and they were not without some misgivings. But they charged Feliz Muñoz to keep good watch over their daughters, and this he promised to do. After journeying for some days the party had to traverse the great forest of Corpes, where in a glade they pitched pavilions and spent the night. In the morning the Infantes sent their suite on ahead, and, taking the saddle-girths from the horses, beat the unfortunate daughters of the Cid most cruelly. The wretched ladies begged for death rather than suffer such disgrace, but the cowardly Infantes, laughing scornfully, mocked them, cast them off, and so dealt with them that they left them for dead. "Thus," they said, "the dishonour of the affair of the lion is avenged," and mounting their horses they rode off. As the deserted and dishonoured wives of the cowardly pair lay bleeding on the grass, Feliz Muñoz, their cousin, who had lodged during the night in another part of the forest, rode up, and seeing their piteous condition hastened to their relief. Having dressed their hurts to the best of his ability, he rode quickly to the nearest town and purchased clothing and horses for them as befitted their station. When these tidings reached the Cid in Valencia great anger rose in his heart. He did not give it vent, however, but sat moodily pondering upon the dishonour done to his daughters. At last, after many hours, he spoke. "By my beard!" he cried, "the Infantes of Carrión shall not profit by this." Soon the ladies Sol and Elvira arrived at Valencia, and he received them lovingly, but not compassionately. "Welcome, my daughters," said he. "God keep ye from evil! I accepted this marriage, for I dared not gainsay it. God grant that I see you better married hereafter, and that I have my revenge upon my sons-in-law of Carrión." The Court at Toledo Then the Cid dispatched messengers to King Alfonso, acquainting him of the great wrong done to his daughters by the Infantes, and pleading for justice. The King was greatly wroth at the news, and ordered the Court to sit at Toledo and the Infantes to be summoned before him to answer for their crime. They begged to be excused attendance, but the King peremptorily refused to accept any apology or subterfuge, and demanded their instant compliance with his summons. With great misgivings they journeyed to Toledo, taking with them the Count Don Garcia, Asur González, Gonzalo Asurez, and a great band of dependents, thinking thereby to overawe the Cid. The Campeador himself soon arrived at Court, with many a trusted veteran, all armed to the teeth. He wore a rich robe of red fur broidered with gold, and his beard was bound with a cord to preserve it. When he entered the Court with his men all rose to greet him save the Infantes of Carrión and their party, for he seemed a great baron and the Infantes might not look at him for shame. "Princes, barons, and hidalgos," said King Alfonso, "I have summoned ye here that justice may be done the Cid Campeador. As ye all know, foul wrong has been done his daughters, and I have set judges apart to moderate in this business and to search out the right, for wrong I will not have in Christian Spain. I swear by the bones of San Isidro that he who disturbs my Court shall quit my kingdom and forfeit my love, and he who shall prove his right, on his side am I. Now let the Cid make his demand and we shall hear the answer of the Infantes of Carrión." Then rose the Cid, and in the Court among all these great barons and lords there was no nobler figure. "My lord the King," he said, "it is not I alone whom the Infantes of Carrión have wronged, but yourself also, who gave them my daughters in marriage. Let them first restore my swords Colada and Tizon, since they are no longer my sons-in-law." The Infantes, hearing the Cid speak thus, thought that he would urge no more against them if they restored the swords, and so they formally handed them over to the King. But it was the Campeador's intention to punish them by every means in his power, so when he received the wondrous falchions from the hands of Alfonso he at once presented them to Feliz Muñoz and Martin Antolinez, thus showing that it was not for himself that he desired them. Having done this, he turned once again to the King. "My liege," he said, "when the Infantes left Valencia I bestowed upon them three thousand marks in gold and silver. Let them now restore this, since they are no longer my sons-in-law." "Nay, if we do this," cried the Infantes, "we must even pay it out of our lands in Carrión." But the judges demanded that the sum be paid in Court without delay. The treacherous princelings could not raise such a treasure in money, so the Court decided that it must be paid in kind. Then the Infantes saw that there was no help but to acquiesce, and brought many a steed and trained palfrey with their furniture to repay the Cid, borrowing from the members of their suite and entering into such obligations as would burden them for many a day. Redress by Combat When this matter had at last been settled, the Cid then advanced his principal grievance against the Infantes, and asked for redress by combat in the lists for the great wrong they had done his daughters. At this Count Garcia, their spokesman, rose to defend the Infantes. He pleaded that they were of princely degree, and for that reason alone were justified in casting off the daughters of the Cid. Then Fernán González, the elder of the Infantes, himself rose to approve the speech of his vassal, and cast fresh scorn upon the alliance he had made, justifying his cowardly action by his princely rank as a thing quite natural and fitting. At this Pero Bermuez opened the vials of his wrath upon the Infantes, taunting them with cowardice in the affair of the lion and casting defiance of battle in their teeth. Enter Asur González The argument waxed high, when at that moment Asur González, a haughty vassal of the Infantes, entered the hall. With early viands and with wine flushed were his face and brow, Disordered were his garments and his mantle hung full low. He scanned the Court with bearing rude, right clownish was his vaunt: "How now, my lords? What have we here? Thinkst Carrión to daunt? What bruit is this about the Cid, the lordling of Bivar? At drawing tithes from dusty millers better is he far Than ruffling at a Cortés; he to match with Carrión!" Then up leapt Muño Gustioz: "Ha' done, thou knave, ha' done! Drunkard, who lookest on the wine before ye tell a bead, Who never yet did keep thy troth, evil in word and deed, The only boon I crave is but to have thee where my sword May cut the false tongue from thy throat and cease thy lying word." "Enough, enough," Alfonso cried, "I give thee my consent To meet each other in the lists; so ends this Parliament." The tumult which the King had endeavoured to abate had hardly died away when two cavaliers entered the Court. The new-comers were ambassadors from the Infantes of Navarre and Aragon, who had come to request the King to bestow the hands of the Cid's daughters upon their masters. Alfonso turned to the Cid and requested his permission to ratify the marriage at once, and when the Campeador had humbly given his consent he answered to the assembled nobles that the espousals would duly take place, adding that the combat between the disputants would be fought out on the morrow. This was right woeful news to the Infantes of Carrión, who, in great fear, requested him to permit them some delay to procure fitting horses and arms, so that at last the King scornfully fixed the day of combat at three weeks from that date, and the place where it was to be fought out as Carrión itself, so that the Infantes should have no grounds of excuse for absence or be able to plead that the champions of the Cid had been granted any undue advantage. The Cid then took his leave of the King, and on parting pressed him to accept his courser Babieca. But Alfonso refused the proffered gift, saying courteously that if he accepted it Babieca would not have so good a lord. Turning to those who were to uphold his cause in the lists, the Campeador bade them an affectionate farewell, and so he departed for Valencia, and the King for Carrión to see justice done. The Trial by Combat When the time of truce was over the contending parties sought the lists. The Cid's men did not waste much time in arming themselves, but the treacherous Infantes of Carrión had brought with them a number of their vassals in the hope that they might be able to slay the Cid's champions by night, when they were off their guard. But Antolinez and his comrades kept good watch and frustrated their design. When they saw that there was no help for it but to meet their challengers à outrance, they prayed the King that the Cid's men might not be permitted to use the famous swords Colada and Tizon, for they superstitiously dreaded the trenchancy of these marvellous weapons, and bitterly repented that they had restored them. Alfonso, however, refused to listen to this appeal. "Ye have swords of your own," he said brusquely. "Let them suffice you, and see that you wield them like men, for, believe me, there will be no shortcoming on the side of the Campeador." The trumpets sounded and the Cid's three champions leapt upon their impatient destriers, first having made the sign of the Cross upon their saddles. The Infantes of Carrión also mounted, but none so blithely. The marshals or heralds who were to decide the rules of the combat, and give judgment in case of dispute, took their places. Then said King Alfonso: "Hear what I say, Infantes of Carrión. This combat ye should have fought at Toledo, but ye would not, so I have brought these three cavaliers in safety to the land of Carrión. Take your right; seek no wrong: who attempts it, ill betide him." The description of the scene that follows has more than once been compared with Chaucer's description of the combat between Palamon and Arcite in The Knight's Tale, and, as will be seen, a resemblance certainly exists. [34] And now the marshals quit the lists and leave them face to face; Their shields are dressed before their breasts, their lances are in place. Each charger's flank now feels the spur, each helm is bending low, The earth doth shake as horse and man hurl them upon the foe. The echo of their meeting is a sound of meikle dread, And all who hear the deadly shock count them as good as sped. The false Ferrando and Bermuez strike lance on either's shield, The Infant's spear goes through the boss, but the stout shaft doth yield And splinters ere the point can pass thorough the other's mail. But Pero's shaft struck home, nor did the seasoned timber fail; It pierced Ferrando's corselet and sank into his breast, And to the trampled ground there drooped the Infant's haughty crest. Bermuez then drew Tizon's bright blade; ere ever he could smite The Infant yielded him and cried, "Thou hast the victor's right." While this combat was proceeding Antolinez and the other Infante came together. Each of their lances smote the other's shield and splintered. Then, drawing their swords, they rode fiercely against one another. Antolinez, flourishing Colada, struck so mightily at Diego that the good blade shore its way clean through the steel plates of his casque, and even cut half the hair from Diego's head. The terrified princeling wheeled his courser and fled, but Antolinez pursued him with mock fury and struck him across the shoulders with the flat of his sword. So had the hound the chastisement of cowards. As he felt the blade across his withers Diego shrieked aloud and spurred past the boundaries of the lists, thus, according to the rules of the combat, admitting himself vanquished. When the trumpets of the pursuivants sounded, Muño Gustioz and Asur González ran swiftly and fiercely together. The point of Asur's spear glanced off Muño's armour, but that of the Cid's champion pierced the shield of his opponent and drove right through his breast, so that it stuck out a full fathom between the shoulder-blades. The haughty Asur fell heavily to the ground, but had enough of life left in him to beg for mercy. King Alfonso then duly credited the Cid's champions with the victory, and without loss of time they returned to Valencia to acquaint their master with the grateful news that his honour had been avenged. Shortly afterward the espousals of the Cid's daughters to the noble Infantes of Navarre and Aragon were celebrated with much pomp. The Poema del Cid, however, concludes as abruptly as it begins: So in Navarre and Aragon his daughters both did reign, And princes of his blood to-day sit on the thrones of Spain. Greater and greater grew his name in honour and in worth; At last upon a Pentecost he passed away from earth. Upon him be the grace of Christ, Whom all of us adore. Such is the story, gentles, of the Cid Campeador. The Real Cid Cervantes' summing-up upon the Poema del Cid is perhaps the sanest on record. The Cid certainly existed in the flesh; what matter, then, whether his achievements occurred or not? For the Cid of romance is a very different person from the Cid of history, who was certainly a born leader of men, but crafty, unscrupulous, and cruel. The Poema is thus romance of no uncertain type, and as this book deals with romance and not with history, there is small need in this place to provide the reader with a chronicle of the rather mercenary story of Roderigo of Bivar the real. "Mio Cid," the title under which he is most frequently mentioned, is a half Arabic, half Spanish rendering of the Arabic Sid-y, "My lord," by which he was probably known to his Moorish subjects in Valencia, and it is unlikely that he was given this appellation in Spain during his lifetime. But even to this day it is a name to conjure with in the Peninsula. So long as the heart of the Briton beats faster at the name of Arthur and the Frenchman is thrilled by the name of Roland the Spaniard will not cease to reverence that of the great romantic shadow which looms above the early history of his land like a very god of war--the Cid Campeador. CHAPTER III: "AMADIS DE GAUL" There stands a castle on a magic height Whose spell-besetten pathways ye may climb If that ye love fair chivalry sublime. Come, its enchanted turrets yield the sight, As long ago to demoiselle and knight, Of many a satrapy of ancient rhyme, And in its carven corridors shall Time Display us trophies of a dead delight: The damascene of armour in the dusk, Shadows of banners torn from infidels, The fragments of an unremembered glory, Fragrant with faint, imperishable musk Of Moorish fantasy. Dissolve, ye spells! Open, ye portals of Castilian story! L. S. Many a casement in the grey castle of Spanish Romance opens upon vistas of fantastic loveliness or gloomy grandeur, but none commands a prospect so brilliant, so infinitely varied, or so rich in the colours of fantasy as that aery embrasure overlooking the region of marvel and high chivalry where is enacted the gallant and glorious history of Amadis de Gaul. The window of which I speak is perched high in a turret of the venerable fortalice, and displays such a landscape as was dear to the weavers of ancient tapestries or the legend-loving painters of old Florence. Beneath is spread a princely domain of noble meadow-land, crossed and interlaced by the serpent-silver of narrow rivers and rising northward to dim, castellated hills. Far beyond these, remote and seeming more of sky than of earth, soar the blue and jagged peaks of dragon-haunted mountains. This scene of almost supernatural beauty presents, at the first glance, an unbroken richness of colour and radiance. The meadow-land is populous with pavilions and the air is painted with pennons and gilded with the blazonry of banners. The glitter of armour thrills the blood like the challenge of martial music. Strange palaces of marble, white as sculptured ice, rise at the verges of magic forests, or glitter on the edges of the promontories, their gardens and terraces sloping to silent and forlorn beaches. The scene is indeed "Beautiful as a wreck of Paradise." Such seems the book of Amadis when first we glance through its rainbow-coloured pages. But when we gain a nearer view by the aid of the romancer's magical glass we find that the radiant scene is deeply shadowed in places. Ravines profound as night lie near the castled hills, in which all manner of noxious things swarm and multiply. The princely fortresses, the gay palaces, are often the haunts of desperate outlaws or malignant sorcerers. Hideous giants dwell in the mountains, or in the shadowy islands which rise from the pale sea, and dragons have their lairs in fell and forest. But whether it breed light or gloom, the atmosphere of Amadis is suffused with such a glamour that we come to love the darker places; we feel that the horror they hold is but the stronger wine of romance, a vintage which intoxicates. And if we remain at our point of vantage until nightfall and watch the illumination of this wondrous region by the necromancy of moonshine we shall be granted an even more inspiring draught from the strange chalice of romance. In the mystery of moonlight armour is silvered to an unearthly whiteness, blood-red lights gleam from the turrets of the magicians, and the sylph-like shapes of sorceresses flit from sea to forest like living moonbeams. From the deserts between the hills and the distant mountains come the cries of ravening monsters, and all the fantastic world of Faëry is vivid with life. What marvel then that when this surpassing picture was unveiled to the eyes of a nation of knights it aroused such a fervour of applause and appreciation as has been granted to few works in the history of literary effort? The author of Amadis displayed to the chivalry of Spain such a world as it had dreamed of. Every knight felt himself a possible Amadis and every damsel deemed herself an Oriana. The philosophy and atmosphere of the book took complete possession of the soul of Spain, banishing grosser ideals and introducing a new code of manners and sentiment. The main plot and the manifold incidents which arise from it were coherently and skilfully arranged, and were not made up of isolated and disconnected accounts of combats, or tedious descriptions of apparel, appointments, or architecture, interspersed with the boastful bellowings of rude paladins or vociferous kings, as the 'plots' of the cantares de gesta had been. Moreover, the whole was powerfully infused with the love-philosophy of chivalry, in which woman, instead of being the chattel and plaything of man, found herself exalted to heights of worship, and even of omnipotence, undreamed of by the ruder singers of the cantares. Origin of the "Amadis" Romances The first Peninsular version of Amadis appeared in a Portuguese dress, and was the work of a Lusitanian knight, Joham de Lobeira (1261-1325), who was born at Porto, fought at Aljubarrota, where he was knighted upon the field by King Joham of happy memory, and died at Elvas. But Southey's protestations notwithstanding, everything points to France as being the original home of the romance, and there is even a reference in Portuguese literature to the circumstance that a certain Pedro de Lobeira translated Amadis from the French by order of the Infante Dom Pedro, son of Joham I. The original French tale has vanished without leaving a trace that it ever existed, save in the Peninsular versions to which it gave birth, and we are no more fortunate as regards the Portuguese rendering. A manuscript copy of Lobeira's romance was known to exist at the close of the sixteenth century in the archives of the Dukes of Arveiro at Lisbon, and appears to have been extant as late as 1750. After that period, however, it disappears from the sight of the bibliophile, and all the evidence points to its having been destroyed at the earthquake at Lisbon in 1755, along with the ducal palace in which it was housed. Its fame, as well as its matter, was, however, kept alive by the Spanish version, and if we must regard Portugal as the original home of Amadis in the Peninsula, it is to the genius of Castile that we owe not only its preservation, but its possible improvement. At some time between 1492 and 1508 Garcia Ordoñez de Montalvo, governor of the city of Medina del Campo, addressed himself to the task of its translation and adaptation. At what precise date it was first printed is obscure. Early copies are lacking, but we learn that the Spanish conquerors of Mexico remarked upon the resemblance of that city to the places of enchantment spoken of in Amadis. This occurred in 1519, not 1549, as stated by Southey. They may, perhaps, have referred to the Portuguese version, but in any case an edition of Amadis is known to have been published in that year, and another at Seville in 1547. Reference has already been made to the numerous translations of the romance in all languages, and to the equally manifold continuations of it by several hands, but it is necessary to remark that only the first four books of Amadis--that is, those which constitute the Amadis proper--were written by Montalvo, the remainder being the independent and original work of imitators. [35] Elisena and Perion The action of the romance begins at an obscure and indefinite period, described as following almost immediately upon the death of our Redeemer, at which time, we are told, there flourished in Brittany a Christian king named Garinter, who was blessed with two lovely daughters. The elder, known as 'the Lady of the Garland,' because of her fondness for wearing a coronel of flowers, had some years before the period of the story's commencement been wed to King Languines (Angus) of Scotland, and had two beautiful children, Agrayes and Mabilia. Elisena, the younger daughter, was famed for her beauty throughout the lands of Christendom, but though many powerful monarchs and princes had asked her hand in marriage, she would wed with none, but gave herself up to a life of holiness and good works. In the opinion of all the knights and ladies of her father's realm, one so fair grievously transgressed the laws of love by remaining single, and it came to pass that the beautiful and saintly Elisena earned from the more worldly of her gay critics the name of 'the Lost Devotee.' If Elisena was devoted to a life of austerity her royal father was equally partial to the pleasures of the chase, and spent much of his time in the green forest-land which occupied the greater part of Lesser Britain in those remote days. On one of those occasions, as he rode unattended in the greenwood, as was his wont, he chanced to hear the clash of arms, and, riding to a clearing whence came the sounds of combat, he saw two knights of Brittany attacking an armed stranger, whom he guessed by his armour and bearing to be a person of rank and distinction, and who bore himself with such courage and address that he succeeded in slaying both his opponents. As the stranger was in the act of sheathing his weapon he observed Garinter, and rode forward to meet him, saluting him with a courteous mien. He complained that in a Christian country an errant knight did not expect such treatment from its inhabitants as had been meted out to him, to which the King sagely replied that in all countries evilly disposed people were to be found as well as good folk, and that the slain knights had been traitors to their liege lord and well deserved their fate. The stranger then proffered the information that he sought the King of Brittany with tidings of a friend, and on learning this Garinter revealed his identity. The knight then informed him that he was King Perion of Gaul, who had long desired his friendship. Garinter insisted that his brother monarch should accompany him to his palace, and Perion consenting, they turned their horses' heads toward the city. Arrived at the palace, they sat down to a rich banquet, which was graced by the Queen and the Princess Elisena. No sooner did Elisena and Perion behold one another than they knew that a great and deathless love had sprung up between them. When the Queen and Princess had risen from the banquet Elisena divulged her love for Perion to her damsel and confidante, Darioleta, and asked her to discover whether the King of Gaul had pledged his troth to any other lady. Darioleta, who was not easily abashed, went straight to Perion, who avowed his love for Elisena in passionate terms and promised to take her to wife. He begged the damsel to bring him to where Elisena was, that he might have the happiness of expressing his love in person, and she returned to the Princess with his message. So impatient was Elisena to hear from Perion's own lips that he loved her, that, recking not of time or tide, she sought the apartment in which he was lodged, where she remained until dawn, detained by his protestations of affection and her own devotion to the noble and knightly monarch who had so suddenly made her regard her former mode of life as savourless and melancholy. Ten days did Perion sojourn at the Court of Garinter. At the end of that time it became necessary that he should depart, but before he took his leave he plighted his troth to Elisena, and left her one of two duplicate rings he wore, as a pledge of his faith. Search as he might, however, he failed to find his good sword, a tried and trusty weapon, and at last was forced to abandon the search for it. The Birth and Casting Away of Amadis When her lover had gone Elisena was plunged in the deepest grief, and all the comfort which Darioleta could bestow upon her failed to rouse her from the lethargy of sorrow into which she had fallen. In her father's kingdom, as in modern Scotland, an old law existed which provided that if two persons solemnly took each other in marriage by oath no further ceremony was necessary to render the union legal, although it was usual to have it ratified later by both Church and law. Perion and Elisena had taken these vows upon themselves, but the Princess dreaded the wrath of her father, whom the lovers had not consulted, and when a little son was born to her she was in great fear of the consequences, for she knew her father to be both proud and hasty and prone to act before he learned the truth of a matter. The worldly and quick-witted Darioleta had, however, no scruples regarding the manner in which she resolved to save her mistress and herself from the King's wrath, and despite the protestations of Elisena, who in her weakness was unable to restrain her, she built a little ark of wood, made it water-tight with pitch, and, regardless of the tears and lamentations of her mistress, placed the new-born baby boy therein with Perion's sword, which she had abstracted from his sleeping-chamber. Then she wrote upon a piece of parchment, "This is Amadis, son of a king," covered the writing with wax so that it might be preserved from obliteration, and, securing it to the betrothal ring which Perion had given to Elisena, fastened it by a silken cord round the infant's neck. Then with the utmost caution, lest any one should observe her action, she carried the tiny vessel to the river which ran at the foot of the palace garden and launched it upon the swift, deep waters. The little ark was rapidly carried out to sea, which was not more than half a league distant, and it had scarcely emerged upon the tossing billows when it was sighted by the mariners of a Scottish vessel which bore a Caledonian knight, Gandales, back from Gaul to his home in the North. At his orders the sailors launched a boat, and having secured the tiny vessel, brought it to the ship, when the wife of Gandales, delighted with the beauty of the infant it held, decided to adopt him as her own. In a few days the vessel put into the Scottish port of Antalia, [36] and Gandales carried the little Amadis to his castle, where he brought him up with his own son, Gandalin. Some years afterward, when Amadis was about five years old, Languines, the King of Scotland, and his Queen, 'the Lady of the Garland,' and sister to Elisena, paid a visit to the castle of Gandales, and were so greatly attracted by the child's grace and beauty that they expressed a desire to adopt him as their own. Gandales acquainted them with what he knew of Amadis's history, and the royal pair promised to regard him as their own son. Amadis, because of the circumstances of his strange discovery, was known to every one as 'the Child of the Sea,' and indeed this mysterious and poetic name cleaved to him until his identity had been proven beyond cavil. He showed no reluctance to accompany his new guardians, although he was grieved at having to part with his first foster-parents, but the little Gandalin would in no wise be separated from him, and begged so hard to be permitted to share his fortunes that at last King Languines took both the boys under his protection. Perion's Dream Let us return to King Perion. Occupied once more with the affairs of his kingdom, he still knew great heaviness of spirit because of a dream that he had had while at the Court of Garinter. It seemed to him in his dream that some one entered his sleeping-apartment, thrust a hand through his side, and, taking out his heart, cast it into the river that flowed through King Garinter's garden. Crying out in his anguish, he was answered by a voice that another heart was still left to him. Troubled by memory of the dream, which he could not unriddle, he called together all the wise men of his realm and requested them to attempt its solution. Only one of them could unravel the mystery, and the sage who did so assured him that the heart which had been abstracted represented a son which a noble lady had borne him, while the remaining heart symbolized another son who would in some manner be taken away against the will of her who had cast away the first. As the King left the wise man's presence he encountered a mysterious damsel, who saluted him and said: "Know, King Perion, that when thou recoverest thy loss the kingdom of Ireland shall lose its flower"; and ere the King could detain or question her she had gone. In course of time King Garinter died, and Perion and Elisena were formally wedded. But when Perion asked his wife if she had borne him a son, so bitterly ashamed was she of the part she had been forced to play in the matter of the child's disappearance that she denied everything. Later, two beautiful children were born to them, a son and a daughter, called Galaor and Melicia. When Galaor was but two and a half years old, the King and Queen, at that time sojourning at a town called Banzil, near the sea, were walking in the gardens of the palace there, when suddenly a monstrous giant rose out of the waves and, catching up the little Galaor, made off with him before anyone could prevent him. The monster, dashing into the water, clambered on board a ship and put out to sea, crying out joyfully, as he did so: "The damsel told me true!" The parents were deeply afflicted at the loss of their son, and in her grief Elisena admitted the casting away of Amadis. Then Perion knew that what the wise man had told him regarding the loss of the two hearts was the truth indeed. Now the giant who had stolen the little Galaor was not of the race of evil monsters, but was generous in disposition and gentle in demeanour. Indeed, he took as much care of the child as if he had been one of his own gigantic brood. He was a native of Lyonesse, was known as Gandalue, and was the master of two castles in an island of the sea. He had peopled this island with Christian folk, and gave the little Galaor into the keeping of a holy hermit, with strict orders to educate him as a brave and loyal knight. He told the hermit that a damsel--the same who had addressed King Perion so strangely, and who was a powerful sorceress--had assured him that only a son of Perion could conquer his lifelong and ruthless enemy, the giant Albadan, [37] who had slain his father, and had taken from him the rock Galtares. And so Galaor was left in the care of the hermit. Oriana About this time King Lisuarte of Britain chanced to put into a port of Scotland, where he was honourably received by King Languines. With Lisuarte was his wife Brisena, and his beautiful little daughter Oriana, the fairest creature in the world. And because she suffered so much at sea, her parents decided to leave her for a space at the Court of Scotland. Amadis was now twelve years old, but seemed fifteen, so tall and hardy was he, and the Queen bestowed him upon Oriana for her service. Oriana said that 'it pleased her,' and Amadis cherished those words in his heart, so that they never faded from his memory. But he knew not that Oriana loved him, and was greatly in awe of the lovely and serious little maiden of ten, for whom he conceived a high and noble affection. Very beautiful was the silent love of these children for one another. But silent it remained, for Amadis was fearful of presumption and Oriana the most modest of little damsels. High thoughts of chivalry now began to stir in the heart of Amadis, so that at last he requested King Languines to grant him the boon of knighthood. Languines was greatly surprised that a mere boy should crave such a heavy burden of honour, but approved his desire, and gave orders that arms should be made for him. He sent to Gandales, the knight who had found Amadis in the sea, acquainting him with the lad's purpose, and Gandales dispatched a messenger to Court with the sword, ring, and parchment which he had found in the ark along with the sea-borne baby. [38] These things were delivered to Amadis as belonging to him, and when he showed them to Oriana she begged for the wax that contained the parchment, not knowing it held anything of moment, and accordingly he gave it to her. Shortly after this King Perion arrived on a visit to Languines, to ask his help against King Abies of Ireland, who had invaded Gaul with all the force of his kingdom. Amadis, knowing Perion's great reputation as a warrior, much desired to be knighted by his hand, and asked the Queen to crave the boon on his behalf. But she seemed sad and distraught, and heeded him not. He inquired of Oriana the cause of the Queen's sadness, and she replied: "Child of the Sea, this is the first thing ye ever asked of me." "Ah, lady," replied Amadis, "I am not worthy to ask anything from such as you." "What?" she exclaimed. "Is then your heart so feeble?" "Aye, lady," he replied, "in all things toward you, save that it would serve you like one who is not his own, but yours." "Mine!" said Oriana, mystified; "since when?" "Since 'it pleased you,'" replied Amadis, with a smile. "Do you not remember your words when the Queen offered me for your service?" "I am well pleased that it should be so," said Oriana shyly, and beholding Amadis much overcome at her gracious answer, she slipped away to ask the Queen the cause of her sorrow. The Queen told her that she was deeply distressed because of her sister Elisena, whose kingdom had been invaded, and, returning to Amadis, Oriana explained to him why his royal mistress had left his appeals unanswered. Amadis at once expressed a desire to proceed to Gaul to fight against the Irish invaders, and Oriana applauded his intention. "You shall go to the wars as my knight," she said, simply but graciously. Amadis kissed her hand, and requested her to ask the Princess Mabilia, Perion's daughter (and Amadis's sister) to bring it about that her father should confer the honour of knighthood upon him. The little damsel readily consented to do so, and King Perion joyfully acquiesced in the young man's eager desire to embrace the profession of arms. So, asking him to kneel, he bestowed upon him the accolade, fastened the knightly spurs upon his heels, and girded the sword to his side. Amadis Goes on Adventure Now Amadis resolved to set out for Gaul at once, so, taking a tender leave of Oriana and accompanied by Gandalin, his foster-brother, he rode off from the palace at nightfall. They had not gone far when they encountered the mysterious sorceress who, as we have seen, took such an interest in the fate of our hero, and whose name was Urganda. [39] The fay greeted Amadis in a most gracious manner, and presented him with a lance, which she told him would, within three days, "preserve the house from which he was descended from death." With her was another damsel, and when Urganda had departed her companion remained and announced to Amadis that she would journey with him for three days, and that she was not a familiar of the sorceress, but had encountered her by chance. They had not ridden far when they came to a castle, where they heard a squire lamenting loudly that his master was beset therein by its inmates. Amadis spurred his horse into the courtyard, and beheld King Perion fiercely attacked by two knights and a number of men-at-arms. With a cry of defiance he fell upon the attackers, striking left and right and dealing such terrific blows that the caitiff knights who had assailed the King were slain and their retainers put to flight. Perion at once recognized Amadis as the youth he had knighted not long since. Leaving the castle, they came to a fork in the road, where they parted, with mutual promises to meet in Gaul. The damsel who had so far accompanied him now told Amadis that she was in reality a messenger from Oriana, whereat Amadis trembled so with joy at hearing his lady's name that had not Gandalin supported him he had fallen from the saddle. The damsel then took her leave, saying that she would acquaint her mistress of his welfare. After several other adventures which it would be tedious to recount, Amadis arrived with Gandalin at the Court of King Perion, in Gaul. They had scarcely rested themselves when they heard the clarions of King Abies of Ireland sound for an attack upon the city, and, mounting their destriers, sallied forth, with Agrayes and other knights, to give the men of Ireland battle. A stubborn contest ensued, in which Amadis performed prodigies of valour. Perion came up with his men, but they found themselves greatly outnumbered by the host of King Abies, and were forced to give ground. However, the day was retrieved by Amadis, who charged with such fury that neither horse nor man might withstand him, and in the press he slew, among others, Daugavel, a favourite of Abies. Hearing this, Abies grieved full sorely, and, encountering Amadis, challenged him to a mortal combat on the following day. They met, and after a fierce duel, which lasted several hours, Abies was slain, and the war was thus ended at a blow. Now Melicia, Perion's daughter, lost a ring which had been given her by her father, the same indeed as that which the King had worn when first he met Elisena, and the exact counterpart of the ring he had bestowed upon her, and which she had tied to the neck of Amadis when he was cast adrift. Rather than that her father should know of this loss, Amadis gave Melicia his own ring. But the King himself recovered the lost jewel, and made inquiries regarding the resemblance between the rings, asking his daughter where she had procured its counterpart. Through her explanation, and his recognition of the sword which Amadis wore, Perion felt certain that Amadis could be no other than his long-lost son, and when the young knight recounted the circumstances of his history, how that he had been found in the sea, the last doubts of his parents regarding his identity were quite dissipated, and they were overjoyed at recovering him, publicly acknowledging him as prince of the realm. We must now follow the fortunes of Galaor, brother of Amadis, who had been so suddenly snatched away in his infancy by the giant. In due time he grew to be a youth of courage and address, and as he had heard that at no Court did chivalry flourish so gallantly as at that of King Lisuarte of Britain, he resolved to journey thither in the hope of receiving the honour of knighthood. His giant foster-father accompanied him, and they had travelled but two days when they came to the castle of a felon knight, whom, with his retainers, they saw attacking a single champion. Galaor spurred to the rescue, and by his aid the caitiff crew were slain or routed. Galaor conceived such an affection for the stranger that he requested knighthood at his hands. This was cheerfully granted, and after Amadis--for the stranger knight was none other--had taken his departure, Galaor, beholding a damsel close at hand, asked her if she was aware of the name of the knight he had assisted. The damsel, who was the sorceress Urganda, replied that his name was Amadis, and that he was own brother to Galaor. On hearing this Galaor was overjoyed, but his satisfaction was mingled with a deep regret that he had not discovered their relationship ere they had taken leave of one another. Not content with having enlightened Galaor, Urganda hastened after Amadis, who was on his way to the Court of King Lisuarte at Windsor. She told him that his rescuer was his brother Galaor, who had been stolen in youth, whereat he was both overjoyed and sorrowful. Greatly heartened by the strange encounter, Galaor still pressed on to the goal of his adventure, the rock Galtares, which he hoped to free for ever from the tyrannous rule of the monster who usurped it. A few days' journey brought him to the fortalice, and at his defiance the giant issued from his castle, armed at all points, mounted upon a gigantic charger, and mouthing the most terrible threats imaginable. He rode fiercely at the young knight, hoping to end the combat at a blow. But, striking out wildly with his club, he smote down his own horse, came thundering to the ground, and Galaor spurred his courser over his prostrate body. In doing so, however, he fell from his charger, and received a terrible buffet from the giant. Recovering himself, he drew his sword and severed the monster's arm at the shoulder. This blow practically ended the combat, for Galaor with another sweep of his good blade beheaded his gigantic adversary. Amadis, arriving at the Court of King Lisuarte, mingled with its chivalry, and partook of its adventures with such zest that he came to be known as one of the most illustrious knights in Christendom. His adventures at the Court of Lisuarte would fill a goodly volume, and included a war of extermination against the giants, the defeat of the usurper Barsinan and the enchanter Archelaus, as well as a score of other exploits, even a meagre account of which would overflow the pages set apart for the description of this romance. His adventures are intertwined with those of his brother Galaor, whom he even once meets in fierce combat, neither recognizing the other because of his armour. Lisuarte's Vow Now, while Lisuarte held court in London an aged knight entered and displayed such a marvellously wrought crown and mantle that the King eagerly offered him any price he might ask for them. The knight declared that he would return on a certain day and claim his reward, and the King agreed to keep the crown and mantle with all care, upon pain of losing that which he loved best. The knight was an emissary of the false enchanter Archelaus, and the gauds he had shown Lisuarte were made by magic art, so that when the King desired to wear them and unlocked the coffer in which they were kept he found they had vanished. The aged knight returned, and demanded his recompense. Lisuarte was forced to admit the loss of the crown and mantle, and the creature of the cunning magician demanded the Princess Oriana in pledge of the King's vow. In true romantic compliance with his promise, Lisuarte weakly acquiesced, and the knight rode off with Oriana, whom he at once placed in the power of Archelaus, and Lisuarte himself fell into a trap set by the artful enchanter. Learning of this treason while at some distance from the Court, Amadis and Galaor hurried to Windsor, resolved to frustrate the necromancer's wicked intention, which was to wed Oriana to the pretender to the British throne, the false Barsinan, whom Amadis had already worsted. Galaor speedily delivered Lisuarte from his enemies, and Amadis, searching high and low for his lady, at last encountered her in a forest, through which she was being carried by Archelaus. On beholding the doughty champion, whose reputation was only too well known to him, the enchanter hastily made off, leaving Oriana with her lover, who conducted her back to Court. The Firm Island With the commencement of the Second Book we enter a strange and mystic atmosphere. Indeed the book may be called the cor cordium of romance, its mirror, its quintessence. It introduces us to Apolidon, son of a King of Greece, who is described as a valiant knight and powerful necromancer. Abandoning his inheritance to a younger brother, he sailed from Greece into the Great Sea, where he discovered an island inhabited by peasants only, and ruled by a frightful giant, which was known as the Firm Island, fated to be celebrated in the pages of romance along with many another insular paradise. Slaying the monstrous tyrant, Apolidon dwelt in the isle until, on the death of his brother, he returned to sit upon the Grecian throne. But ere he left the place he laid a potent enchantment upon it to the purpose that no knight or lady might dwell there save such as were equal in valour to himself or in beauty to his lady Grymenysa. The wonders of this magical island well merit description, and as much of the action of our romance centres there let us embark upon the fairy galley which lies ever ready in the harbours of legend, sail thither, and set foot upon its enchanted beaches. Perhaps it is only through the rainbow lenses of poesy that we can view this wondrous region aright, so I have essayed a description of the isle in verse. THE FIRM ISLAND Prince Apolidon the Mage Raised a mystic hermitage On an island in a shipless sea By necromantic potency, Carving the granite gateways of its cliffs With interdicting seals and hieroglyphs, That his unequals might not habit there, Nor drink that island's consecrated air. White terraces o'erhung the black abyss, Fair as the gardens Queen Semiramis Piled above Babylon: the glittering height Seemed as the day empillared on the night. And from the ocean-green of myrtle's shadow Rose a pavilion, which from afar Seemed to the eyes of shipmen as a star Shattered on a distant meadow. Betwixt this palace and the shipless sea The wizard set an arch of glamourie, Byzantine, builded as from golden air. Its fretted alcove held an image rare, In whose uplifted hand there burned and shone The brazen brightness of a clarion. And should a lady or a knight, Lesser in beauty or in might Than wise Apolidon the wight Or Grymenysa fair Seek to traverse the magic vault, Or make the palace by assault, The brazen trump would blare, And vomit such a horrid blast That, fainting from the garden cast, The wretch would perish there. But, should a knight of equal fame Or lady of unblemished name Seek entrance by the port, The trumpet, with a high fanfare Of praise, would waken all the air Of that celestial court. Two crystal pillars marked the magic line; A tablature of jasper, serpentine, Surround by arabesques like carven flame, On which would flash the lineage and name Of that illustrious paladin or dame, Gleamed in the Grecian pavement; who did pass Those pillars frozen in Phoenician glass Would see, 'mid splendour like reflecting ice, The lord and lady of that paradise Moulded in immortality of brass. Still deeper in those labyrinths of pleasure A siege right perilous the Mage did make For Grymenysa's fair, mysterious sake, For glory of a love withouten measure, Setting nine seals of Babylonian doom Upon the entrance to her ivory room, That but the highest hearts the world had seen Might know the rapture of its air serene. And that no sordidness might pass therein He sentinelled the door with savage jinn, Invisible and with the flaming powers Of Sheol in their guarding scimitars. And all the webs of his weird soul were woven, In mazy mystery of charm and spell, Around the shadows of that citadel, Where oft his wizard prowess had been proven. So did he leave the place of his delight To sinful spirits in a magic night, Calling on Siduri and Sabitu, And Baphomet, in syllables of might. And when the moon was in her thinnest phase He left that island in the shipless sea, No man knew how, nor evermore did he Return unto its labyrinthine ways. Still in the dawn's white fire the shepherd sees Shapes whiter than the dawn, and whisperings Sigh through the shadows of the myrtle-trees, Like to the mutterings of invisible kings Who speak of blessed, heart-remembered things. Before he had quitted this marvellous island Prince Apolidon had placed a governor over it, and had commanded that any who failed to pass the Arch of Honour and still survived the dread blast of the trumpet should without ceremony be cast out of the island, but that such as sustained the ordeal were to be entertained and served with all honour. And he willed that when the island should have another lord the enchantment should cease. Now the spell had been laid upon the island for about a hundred years when Amadis, who had taken a fond farewell of Oriana, and was on adventure bound, encountered a damsel who told him of the wonders of the Firm Island, which, she said, was scarcely two days' sail from where he then sojourned. Amadis replied that he could desire nothing better than to essay such an adventure, and the damsel's father, a knight of large estate, agreed to guide him there so that he might essay the perilous adventure. When at last they came to the Firm Island they beheld the pavilion, the walls of which were hung with the shields of those who had tried the adventure but failed, for though several had passed the arch none had penetrated to the pavilion. And when Amadis saw that so many good knights had been undone his heart misgave him. Amadis Passes the Archway Amadis was accompanied by Agrayes, son of King Languines of Scotland, who decided to attempt the passage of the arch at once. As he passed through it the trumpet held by the image emitted sweet music, and he entered the pavilion. Then Amadis approached the archway, and the trumpet blew louder and more melodiously than it had ever done before. Both knights approached the forbidden chamber. They saw the jasper slab, on which they read: "This is Amadis of Gaul, the true lover, son of King Perion." As they looked upon it Amadis's dwarf, Ardian, ran to his master and told him that Galaor and Florestan, his brothers, who had also accompanied him on the adventure, had attempted the passage of the arch, but had been attacked on all sides by unseen hands, and left for dead. Amadis and Agrayes at once retraced their steps, and found the young knights lying as in a deep swoon. While Amadis was giving his brothers such assistance as he could, Agrayes tried to enter the forbidden chamber, but he too was struck senseless. When Galaor and Florestan had somewhat recovered from the effects of the blows they had received from invisible assailants, Amadis felt that for the honour of his lady, Oriana, he must attempt the great adventure of entering the forbidden chamber, into which no knight had yet penetrated. Summoning all his courage to his aid, he crossed the line of the spell between the pillars, and immediately felt himself assaulted by the unseen warriors who had defeated his comrades. A terrific uproar of voices arose, as if all the knights in the world were assailing him, and the blows were doubled in force and violence. But, nothing daunted, and strong in memory of his lady, he fought on. Sometimes he was beaten to his knees, and once his sword fell from his hand, yet he struggled on until he reached the door of the chamber, which opened as if to admit him. A hand came forth and, seizing his, drew him in, and a voice exclaimed: "Welcome is the knight who shall be lord here, because he surpasses in prowess him who made the enchantment and who had no peer in his time." The hand that led him was large and hard, like that of an old man, and the arm was sleeved with green satin. As soon as he was in the chamber it vanished, and Amadis felt his strength return to him. When Florestan and Galaor and the people of the island heard that the adventure had at last been achieved, they crowded into the now disenchanted palace and gazed upon its wonders. It was full of the most marvellous treasures and works of art, but nothing more excellent was there than the statues of Apolidon and Grymenysa. Oriana's Cruelty At the time Amadis had left Britain and had said farewell to Oriana he dispatched his dwarf, Ardian, back to the palace for the pieces of a sword which a lady had given him in all good faith, asking him to avenge her father's death on a cowardly murderer. Amadis, like a good knight, had promised to keep the broken blade until he had avenged the dead man. Oriana, seeing the dwarf return, asked him the reason, and Ardian told her that Amadis had promised a lady ever to keep a certain sword, for which he had been sent back. Then he fetched the blade and galloped off. Oriana, putting a wrong construction upon the dwarf's words, and suspecting Amadis of unfaithfulness to her, wrote him a cruel letter, which she entrusted to a page with instructions to find him at all costs. After much journeying he traced Amadis to the Firm Island, and delivered the letter into his hands. When Amadis had perused the cold and bitter words of his lady he seemed to the messenger as a man distraught. The page told him that he was forbidden to carry any reply to Oriana. Amadis in terrible grief called for Ysanjo, the governor of the island, and requested him as a loyal knight to keep secret all that he might see till after his brothers had heard Mass on the morrow. Then he commanded Ysanjo to open the gate of the palace privily so that he might withdraw his horse and arms therefrom without being observed by anyone. Accompanied by the honest Ysanjo, for whom he had formed a high esteem, he betook himself to a chapel of the Virgin hard by. He prayed fervently that she would intercede with her Divine Son to have mercy upon him, as he felt that his days would be few. Then he rose and, taking an affectionate leave of the Governor, mounted his horse and, without shield, spear, or helmet, rode off. Now Gandalin, squire to Amadis, and son of the Scottish knight Gandales, who throughout all these adventures had never left his master, took counsel with Durin, the messenger who had brought Oriana's cruel letter to the Firm Island, and resolved to follow the distraught knight, lest he should come to harm. They soon found him sleeping beside a fountain, worn out with the violence of his sorrow, and mercifully allowed him to slumber on. But when night had fallen Amadis awoke and, remembering his wretchedness, broke into pitiful lamentations for his evil fate. The youths concealed themselves, for they did not wish him to know of their presence. But Amadis, catching sight of Gandalin, was angry with him for having followed him. To arouse him from his lethargy Gandalin told him that a knight, like himself abandoned by his lady, was in the neighbourhood, threatening vengeance upon any whom he might encounter. Amadis, minded to throw away his life, leapt on his horse at hearing this, and accompanied Gandalin in search of the crazy challenger. They soon came up with the unknown, and Amadis hurled a fierce defiance at him. A stubborn combat ensued, and Amadis, by a desperate blow, struck his opponent senseless. Leaving the wounded knight with Durin, Amadis rode on, still followed by the faithful Gandalin. Galaor, Florestan, and Agrayes, hearing of Amadis's plight and his hurried departure, resolved to follow him. Meanwhile the object of their search rode onward, allowing his horse to choose its own path, and given over to weeping and lamentation. While the anxious Gandalin slept, the crazed lover eluded him, and traversed the wildest parts of the savage country which they had penetrated. Ere long he came to a plain at the foot of a mountain, where he encountered a hermit, and begged the holy man for leave to remain with him. The hermit greeted him kindly, and Amadis confided his history to the good old man, who told him that he dwelt on a high rock full seven leagues out at sea. And the hermit gave him the name Beltenebros, or 'the Fair Forlorn,' as he was at once so comely and so sore distracted. The Poor Rock In due time they reached the sea-shore, and, giving his horse to the mariners, Amadis accompanied the hermit on board a vessel and sailed to the Poor Rock, as the holy man had named his place of hermitage. And here Amadis partook of the austerities of the hermit, "not for devotion but for despair, forgetting his great renown in arms and hoping and expecting death--all for the anger of a woman!" Durin, Oriana's messenger, journeyed back to the British Court and told his mistress how Amadis had received her letter, and of the manner in which her knight had achieved the adventure of the Firm Island. Then Oriana knew that Amadis must have remained true to her. When she learned that he had gone into the desert to die, her shame and anguish knew no bounds, and she wrote a letter of deep contrition to her lover, and dispatched it to him by one of her women called 'the Damsel of Denmark,' a sister of Durin. After they had set out, the knight whom Amadis had vanquished on the evening of the day on which he learned of Oriana's cruelty arrived at the British Court, bringing with him the armour of Amadis, which he had found, some time after his encounter with him, at the edge of a deep fountain. And when she heard his story Oriana believed her lover to be dead, and in great grief shut herself in her apartments, refusing all comfort. Meanwhile, calling to mind the great misery he had endured, Amadis made this song in his passion: Farewell to victory, To warlike glory and to knightly play. Ah, wherefore should I live to weep and sigh? Far greater honour would it be to die! With kindly death my wretchedness shall cease, And from my torments shall I find release. Love will be unremembered in the shade, The deep unkindness of a cruel maid, Who in her pride hath slain not me alone, But all the deeds for glory I have done! [40] At this time the lady Corisanda, who loved Florestan, chanced to visit the Poor Rock, and her damsels heard the story of Amadis, who told them that his name was Beltenebros, but that the song had been made by one Amadis, whom he had known. On her return to the British Court, Corisanda's maidens sang the song to Oriana as the composition of Amadis. And she knew that Amadis and Beltenebros were one and the same. Now the Damsel of Denmark, who had been sent to search for Amadis, was driven by tempest to the foot of the Poor Rock. [41] Landing with Durin and an attendant, Enil, she found Amadis praying in the chapel, and when he beheld the Damsel's face he fainted away. This extreme sensitiveness to love is characteristic of the late Middle Ages, however absurd and overdrawn it may appear to us. That Amadis fainted at the mere sight of one who had served his lady seems to us ridiculous, and that he should imprison himself upon a barren rock for the remainder of his life because she had been unkind to him is to the modern reader more than a little grotesque. Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair? But we must deal gently with the ideas of the past, as with one of those faded samplers of our great-grandmothers, which, if we handle it carelessly, is apt to fall to pieces. When we think of the manner in which Dante and Petrarch had established the worship of woman, and how the Courts of Love had completed the work they had begun, can we wonder that men bred in this creed, and regarding the worship of womankind as second to that of God alone, were apt to become disconsolate and despairing if the object of their devotion condemned or deserted them? Again, exalted and sensitive minds in all ages have been peculiarly amenable to feminine criticism, as we can see in perusing the biographies of such men as Goethe. Genius, too, which itself nearly always abundantly partakes of the nature of the feminine, is prone to adopt this ultra-reverent attitude, as the sonnets of Shakespeare and the poems of Lovelace and many another singer show. The rough, manly common sense of the average male is too often denied it, and, man and woman in itself, it must suffer the emotions of both sexes. But, if maintained within rational bounds, this reverence for women in general and for the best type of woman in particular must be regarded as one of the great binding forces of humanity, a thing which has accomplished perhaps more than aught else for the world's refinement and advance. And here, even in a work of romance, which perhaps, after all, is the fitting place for such an exhortation, I would appeal to the younger generation of to-day to look backward with eyes of kindness upon the tender beauty and infinite charm of a creed which, if it is not entirely dead, is in a manner moribund. I do not ask our youths and maidens to imitate its fantastic features or its extravagances. But I do entreat them to regard its fine spirit, its considerate chivalry, and, above all, the modest reserve and lofty intention which were its chief characteristics. It is a good sign of the times that the sexes are growing to know each other better. But we must be wary of the familiarity that breeds contempt. Let us retain a little more of the serious beauty of the old intercourse between man and woman, and learn to beware of a flippancy of attitude and laxity of demeanour which in later years we shall certainly look back upon with a good deal of vexation and self-reproach. When he had regained consciousness, the Damsel of Denmark gave Amadis Oriana's letter, beseeching him to return to her and receive her atonement for the wrong she had done him. He took leave of the good hermit, and, embarking upon the ship in which the Damsel had arrived, set sail for the Firm Island, where he rested, as he was yet too weak to make the long journey to England. But at the end of ten days he took Enil for his squire and, accompanied by Durin and the Damsel, set out for the English Court. Oriana Repentant Meanwhile Galaor, Florestan, and Agrayes, having searched in vain for Amadis, arrived at London in a most disconsolate frame of mind. Oriana, hearing of their want of success, betook her to the castle of Miraflores, some leagues from the city. In its ancient garden she came to feel that Amadis was still alive, and, full of remorse for the manner in which she had dealt with him, she resolved that no further shadow should fall upon their love. The description of Miraflores in the romance is very beautiful, and the impression we receive of Oriana walking in its quiet and umbrageous alleys may perhaps best be rendered in verse. Miraflores, fountain-girded, Where the trees are many-birded, And the orchard and the garden Of the forest seem a part; In the stillness of thy meadows, In the solace of thy shadows, I await the blessed pardon That will ease a breaking heart. Miraflores, name of beauty! May I learn a lover's duty, In the evening and the morning, In this fair and fragrant place; May I know the bliss of pardon In thy battlemented garden; Come to hate the hate of scorning, And to love the love of grace! Now a herald came to King Lisuarte at Windsor giving him defiance in the name of Famongomadan, the giant, Cartadaque, his nephew, giant of the Defended Mountain, and Madanfaboul, giant of the Vermilion Tower; from Quadragante, brother of King Abies of Ireland, and Archelaus the Enchanter, all of whom were to join against Britain on behalf of King Cildadan [42] of Ireland, who had quarrelled with Lisuarte. The knight, however, made one condition which he said would ensure peace, and that degrading enough. For he announced that, should Lisuarte give his daughter Oriana as damsel and servant to Madasima, the daughter of Famongomadan, or in marriage to Basagante, his son, the allied giants and kings would not advance against him, but would remain in their own lands. Lisuarte rejected the proffered terms with quiet dignity. Now Amadis had slain King Abies long before, and it was revenge against him the ill-assorted allies desired, and Florestan, who was present, hearing this, challenged the ambassador to battle. This the knight, whose name was Landin, promised him on the completion of the war, and they exchanged gages of battle. When the knight had departed, Lisuarte called for his little daughter Leonora to come with her damsels and dance before him, a thing he had not done since the news that Amadis was lost. And he asked her to sing a song which Amadis, in sport, had made for her. So the child and her companions made music and chanted this little lay: White rosebud, Leonore, Unblemished flower, Pure as a morning in the fields of May, Thy perfume haunts my heart, Why dost thou bloom apart, Hid in the shadows of thy modesty? Or, if thou mayst not be, Blossom of purity, Mine own to wear and cherish, as the leaves Embrace thee and enfold, Be not so white, so cold: Bloom also for the lonely heart that grieves! [43] Gandalin journeyed to Miraflores to acquaint Oriana with the news that Corisanda had arrived at Court and had been reunited to Florestan. Delighted as she was at this intelligence, she could not help comparing the happy condition of the lovers with her own, and burst into tears. But even as she wept the Damsel of Denmark was announced. Oriana listened to her tidings with a beating heart, and when the Damsel gave her a letter from Amadis, in which she found his ring enclosed, she all but swooned with excess of joy. Amadis lay in a distant nunnery, recovering from the wasting sorrow from which he had suffered so long. When he felt stronger, he donned green armour, so that he might not be known, and travelled toward London. On the eighth day of his journey he encountered the giant knight Quadragante, he who among others had defied King Lisuarte. Amadis unhorsed the gigantic warrior, who yielded himself vanquished and promised to deliver himself up to Lisuarte. Amadis Slays Famongomadan Proceeding on his way, Amadis passed some tents pitched in a meadow which were occupied by a party of knights and damsels in the service of the Princess Leonora. The knights insisted upon his breaking a lance with them. He unhorsed them all and rode on. While he was in the act of drinking from a well not many miles farther on, he espied a wagon full of captive knights and damsels in chains. Before it, on a huge black horse, rode a giant so immense that he was terrible to behold, and Amadis knew him for Famongomadan, who had sent his challenge to Lisuarte. Amadis, who was much wearied by his recent encounter with the knights, did not then desire to meet him, but when he saw that Leonora was in the wagon along with the other damsels he leapt on his destrier and, looking toward Miraflores, where Oriana was, awaited the giant's onset. Seeing him, Famongomadan thundered down upon him like a human avalanche. His great boar-spear transfixed Amadis's horse, but the lance of the paladin ran its way clean through the monster's carcass and broke off short in his body. At this his son Basagante ran to the rescue, but Amadis, disengaging himself from his fallen steed, drew his sword and severed one of Basagante's legs from the trunk. But his falchion snapped in twain with the violence of the blow, and a fierce struggle for Basagante's axe ended in Amadis wrenching it from his opponent's grasp and smiting off his head. Then he slew Famongomadan with his own spear, and, releasing the knights in the wagon, requested them to carry the bodies of the dead giants to King Lisuarte and say that they were sent by a strange knight, Beltenebros. And mounting the great black horse of Famongomadan, he galloped off. At long last Amadis came to Miraflores and met with Oriana, and great was the love between them. Eight days he sojourned in the castle with his lady; then he rode away to assist Lisuarte in his war against Cildadan of Ireland, who, as we have seen, had challenged the King's supremacy in Britain. Cildadan and his giant allies were vanquished and the Irish king sorely wounded by Amadis. Now Briolania, the lady from whom Amadis had received the broken sword, visited Oriana, and told her in confidence that she was enamoured of Amadis, who on his part had told her that he loved her not, whereat Oriana was both relieved and not a little amused. And now the whole Court knew that Beltenebros and Amadis were one and the same, and great was the wonder at the puissance of his single arm. But Amadis, who knew that adventure was the duty and lot of a knight, desired once more to go in quest of it, and with him went ten knights, his friends and kinsmen, greatly to the discontent of Lisuarte, whom mischief-makers tried to incense against Amadis, for removing the best and bravest of his Court. Meanwhile Briolania had betaken herself to the Firm Island, where she was much disturbed by signs and portents of a very terrible nature. She passed between the Arch of True Lovers. But when she attempted to penetrate to the Forbidden Chamber she was violently cast out. So, sad at heart, she returned to her own country. Shortly after this Amadis arrived at the island, greatly to the joy of all therein. Here we learn something further regarding the topography and natural history of the Firm Island, which was nine leagues long and seven wide, full of villages and rich dwelling-houses. Apolidon had built himself four wonderful palaces in the isle. One was that of the Serpent and the Lions, another that of the Hart and the Dogs. The third was called the Whirling Palace, for three times a day, and as often in the night, it whirled round, so that they who were in it thought it would be dashed to pieces. The fourth was that of the Bull, because every day a wild bull issued out of an old covered way and ran among the people as though he would destroy them. Then he entered a tower, from which he emerged ridden by an aged ape, which flogged him back to the place whence he had come. [44] News reached the island that Gromadaza of the Boiling Lake, the wife of Famongomadan, had sent her defiance to Lisuarte, who in consequence had resolved to behead her daughter Madasima and other damsels of the race of giants unless she gave up her castles and yielded her kingdom to him. Amadis and his knights thought it ill in Lisuarte to take such measures against women, and dispatched twelve of their number to act as champions to the distressed giantesses. This action naturally gave colour to the stories of the mischief-makers at Lisuarte's Court, who desired to put Amadis to shame. But Lisuarte was of too noble a mind to listen to them, and on the arrival of the knights he set the damsels free. Amadis Quarrels with Lisuarte But Fate and the counsels of wicked men are often stronger than the nobility of kings. His advisers urged Lisuarte to attempt the siege of the Island of Mongaza, the last stronghold of the giants, and held only by their womenkind. Amadis and his company conceived this proposal as unchivalrous, and when Lisuarte heard of their opinion he grew wroth and sent his defiance to Amadis in the Firm Island. Amadis replied that Madasima, the daughter of Famongomadan, having wed with Galvanes, a friend of both Lisuarte and himself, the island could not be held as sheltering the enemies of Lisuarte any longer, and that he would defend it with his whole force. And he set sail for the island with a large and well-equipped army. There they found a garrison which had taken possession in the name of Lisuarte, and which they dispossessed. Leaving a suitable force in the island, Amadis, who was becoming anxious regarding Oriana, set sail for his own land of Gaul, and, putting in at an island for supplies, chanced then to rescue his brother Galaor and King Cildadan from the clutches of a tyrannous giant, who had entrapped them. Arrived in Gaul, Amadis greeted his parents, whom he had not seen for some years. In the meantime Lisuarte had himself landed in the Isle of Mongaza, and had defeated the troops of Galvanes, its rightful lord, but he dealt reasonably and kindly with his vanquished foes and contented himself with making Galvanes, and Madasima, his wife, do homage to him. For some time Amadis led a life of ease, hunting and feasting, and contenting himself with such news of his lady as he could obtain. We are told that by these means his great renown became obscured, although the unbiased reader might think that he had already achieved sufficient fame to last a lifetime. "Damsels who went to him to seek revenge for their wrongs cursed him for forsaking arms in the best of his life." But Amadis had strong reasons for acting as he did, for a letter from Oriana had informed him that she had borne him a little son, and she beseeched him not to leave Gaul until such time as he heard further from her. She did not acquaint him with the circumstance that the infant had been lost, but of this we shall hear more anon. Later Oriana wrote desiring Amadis not to take arms against her father, and not to quit Gaul, unless it were to take his part. So Amadis resolved to assist Lisuarte against the Kings of the Isles, with whom he was about to do battle, and who had invaded his kingdom. Now the Damsel of Denmark had taken the little son of Amadis and Oriana and had carried him by night through a gloomy forest, in order that her mistress might not be disgraced. Left alone for a moment, the child had been carried off by a lioness, from which it had been rescued by a hermit, Nasciano, who had called him Esplandian, and educated him along with his own nephew. The good man brought the lads up as hunters, and not the least strange thing about this remarkable child was the circumstance that a lioness had affectionately attached herself to him, refusing to leave him, either when at home or in the chase. Meanwhile Amadis, calling himself 'Knight of the Green Sword,' had resolved to do away with the ill reports of his unchivalrous sloth. Taking only Ardian the dwarf with him, he entered Germany, where he passed four years in adventure without word or message from Oriana. Passing into Bohemia, he remained at its Court for a space. One day Lisuarte, going to the chase with the Queen and his daughters, came to the mountain where the hermit Nasciano dwelt, and encountering Esplandian, resolved to adopt him, and the hermit showed him a letter, written by Urganda, which had been tied to Esplandian's neck when Nasciano found him. The letter was addressed to King Lisuarte himself, and advised him to cherish the boy, who one day would deliver him from the greatest danger. So Lisuarte resolved to attach Esplandian, and Sargil, his foster-brother, to his service. And when the hermit told how he had rescued Esplandian from the lioness Oriana knew him to be none other than her own son, for she had heard that the infant left on the threshold of the nunnery had been seized by a wild beast and carried off. In the course of his adventures, which were numerous and stirring, Amadis was sorely wounded by a monster which he had slain, and was cured of his hurt by a certain lady called Grasinda, to whom he was grateful for her kindness and assistance, and he promised to do her will in any adventure she might choose for him. About the same time El Patin, Emperor of Rome, resolved to ask King Lisuarte for the hand of Oriana. Hearing this, Queen Sardamira of Sardinia, who loved El Patin, came to Britain along with the ambassadors of the Roman Emperor, and, meeting Oriana, gave her some account of Amadis, telling her how on one occasion he had conquered El Patin in battle and how that emperor owed him a mortal grudge. Galaor, who suspected the love of Amadis and Oriana, went to Lisuarte, strongly advising him not to give Oriana in marriage to the Emperor, and set out for Gaul, hoping to receive some news of Amadis. At the same time Florestan betook himself to the Firm Island, to acquaint Agrayes of the troubles besetting Oriana, and to carry him news of his lady Mabilia, who longed to see him once more. 'The Greek Knight' But, as fortune would have it, Amadis, now calling himself 'the Greek Knight,' accompanied by the lady Grasinda, arrived in Britain. Amadis, desiring to remain incognito, gave explicit orders to all in his train not to divulge his name. He learned that Oriana was about to be given to the Emperor, and resolved to take his measures accordingly. Grasinda, however, mindful of his vow to her to embark in any adventure she might choose for him, sent a letter to King Lisuarte stating that she held herself fairer than any lady at his Court, and that did any knight deny this he must do battle with her champion, the Greek Knight. The Roman ambassadors requested of Lisuarte that they might be permitted to take up the challenge, and to this he acceded. The combat duly took place between Amadis and the knights of Rome, to the entire discomfiture of the latter. But the day came on which Lisuarte had promised the Emperor to send Oriana to him, and although she swooned at the thought of being taken to Rome, her stubborn father had her carried on board ship, said farewell to her, not unkindly, and watched the Roman galley as it bore his daughter from the white shores of Britain. Amadis, hearing of the King's intention, went on board his own ship, and lay in wait for the Roman vessel which was carrying off his adored lady. Attacking the Italian craft with impetuosity, he quickly overcame those on board, rescued Oriana, and at once set sail with her for the golden shores of the Firm Island. After a voyage of seven days the vessel of Amadis anchored in the haven of the Firm Island. The lady Grasinda had by this time arrived there, and now came out to welcome Oriana, whom of all ladies in the world she most desired to see, because of her great renown, which was everywhere spread abroad. And when she beheld Oriana "she could not believe that such beauty was possible in any mortal creature." Oriana and the other ladies were lodged in a tower of the palace wrought by the magic skill of Apolidon, and by her request no knight was permitted to enter this tower till some terms might be made with the King, her father. Amadis was well aware that the defiance he had thrown in the teeth of Lisuarte and the Emperor of Rome by his abduction of Oriana must lead to serious consequences, so he dispatched messengers to his many friends throughout the world asking that they would send succour to him in his necessity. The enmity which had arisen betwixt his two ancient enemies, Amadis and King Lisuarte, presented an opportunity to the wily enchanter Archelaus which he had no intention of letting slip. He therefore approached several other spirits of discord and proposed to them that if strife commenced between Amadis and the British King they with their forces should conceal themselves in the neighbourhood of the engagement, and when one side or the other had achieved victory, they should fall upon the remnants of both armies and overwhelm them in a common ruin. This dastardly plan commended itself to the malcontent lords and petty kings to whom the wizard proposed it, and they resolved to carry it into effect. War with Lisuarte Meanwhile Amadis had dispatched an embassy to the Court of Lisuarte, requesting the hand of Oriana, but the stubborn old monarch gave a stern refusal and sent him his defiance. El Patin, Emperor of Rome, had by this time arrived in Britain, and was busy concerting measures against Amadis. Soon a mighty host was gathered together, and marched to seek the army of Amadis, who, taking time by the forelock, had invaded Britain, and now advanced to meet the forces of Lisuarte and the Emperor. The friends of Amadis had not failed him. In the first place his father, King Perion, was behind him with the whole force of Gaul. Ireland had sent a large contingent, and his old friends, the King of Bohemia and the Emperor of Constantinople, had furnished him with well-equipped legions, all of which were under the skilled leadership of King Perion. Moreover, the army was accompanied by Oriana, Grasinda, and the other dames and princesses who had come to the Firm Island, and their presence heartened the champions to deeds of high emprise. Meanwhile Archelaus the enchanter and his allies dogged the progress of Lisuarte's forces in the hope of taking them at a disadvantage. Presently the armies came within sight of one another. Their meeting-place was a great plain, and for miles nothing was to be seen but the blaze of armour and gay surcoats, the waving of plumes and banners, and all the proud circumstance of chivalry. For two days the armies lay in sight of one another. Then they advanced to the charge with such a tumult of drums and cymbals, trumpets and clarions that it could be heard many a league away. They met with a crash like thunder, and the noise which arose from the clash of swords upon armour was like that of a thousand hammers upon as many anvils. Amadis led the van. Challenged by Gasquilan, the haughty King of Sweden, he charged him, and dashed him from the saddle with such force that he lay as dead. But in the encounter Amadis fell from his horse. Quadragante, who was close to him, unhorsed a Roman knight, and gave his destrier to the steedless hero, who, followed by Gandalin and other paladins, attacked the flank of the Romans with great fierceness. Meanwhile Quadragante did fearful execution on their front, few of the enemy being able to withstand his giant might for long. The Roman army now showed signs of falling into confusion, but at that moment the Emperor came up with a reinforcement of five thousand men. He headed the charge in person, crying, "Rome! Rome!" and brandishing a great sword in his hand. Encountering Quadragante, he received such a buffet from the giant knight as made him give back and seek shelter among his own men. Now Amadis, surrounded by his bravest paladins, performed deeds of valour which were a wonder in the eyes of both friends and enemies. The Romans began to give ground before the terrific blows he dealt on all sides, and at last broke and fled. So greatly had his forces suffered, however, that he refrained from pursuing his beaten enemies, and as yet the army of Lisuarte had taken no part in the fighting, so that he thought it better to spare his own men, who must meet Lisuarte's force anon. On the following day King Lisuarte marshalled his army, and now King Perion came up with his forces, which had been held in reserve. The battle had not been long in progress, however, when Amadis encountered the Roman Emperor, and with such a blow as even he had seldom delivered ended his career. When the Romans and Britons saw that their leader was slain they began to give way, and Lisuarte, observing this, sought to withdraw his men in good order. Seeing that he retreated, and fearing for Lisuarte's personal safety, Amadis took advantage of the darkness which was now falling to withdraw his troops rather than pursue, so that the King was able to effect an orderly retiral. When the holy hermit Nasciano heard of the great discord between the kings he resolved to make an endeavour to prevent further slaughter, and although he was old and infirm he succeeded in making his way to the camp of King Lisuarte. He did not arrive, however, until the two battles which have just been described had been fought. Making himself known to the King, he revealed to him that Oriana had promised marriage to Amadis and that Esplandian was their son. On hearing this the King was greatly troubled, and blamed the lovers for their secrecy, remarking, with justice, that many valuable lives would have been spared had they seen fit to trust him. He requested the hermit to approach Amadis with a view to the conclusion of peace between them, and this the good man was only too pleased to do. Accompanied by Esplandian, he betook himself to the camp of Amadis, where he was courteously received. The hermit first revealed Esplandian's identity to the boy's father, and Amadis cordially embraced his son. But he did not forget his pacific mission. Before he left Amadis he had smoothed over all the differences between him and the proud old King Lisuarte, and it was arranged that their ambassadors should meet, with the object of cementing a generous and lasting peace. The Treachery of Archelaus Meanwhile the vindictive enchanter Archelaus, with his malcontent associates, had been anxiously watching the trend of affairs, and when their spies informed them that hostilities were at an end between Lisuarte and Amadis they resolved to attack the old King's forces without delay. But the sight of their army on the march was witnessed by Esplandian as he was returning to Lisuarte's headquarters, and he hastily retraced his steps to the camp of Amadis to warn him that treachery was on foot. On learning his tidings Amadis and King Perion at once set out to rescue Lisuarte's exhausted forces from the danger which menaced them. But before Amadis and his knights could come up with the army of Archelaus, Lisuarte and his remaining squadrons had been attacked by the troops of the wizard and his allies, who had inflicted upon them a crushing defeat. The aged monarch was compelled to escape as best he could from the stricken field, and, seeking refuge in a neighbouring town, prepared for a last desperate defence against his implacable enemies. The place was fiercely attacked by Archelaus, and as fiercely defended by Lisuarte and such knights as remained to him. But as the sorcerer was on the point of taking the town by storm Amadis and his paladins appeared, and routed him after a sanguinary struggle. Archelaus and his associates were bound in chains, and were rather foolishly released upon giving security for their future good behaviour. The meeting of Lisuarte and Amadis was cordial in the extreme, and it was apparent that their old friendship would speedily be renewed. Lisuarte summoned his barons and nobles together, and when they had all assembled publicly announced the espousal of Amadis and Oriana. Now the whole company, including Lisuarte, Perion, and their queens, Florestan, Galaor, Agrayes, and many others, journeyed to the Firm Island, where it was unanimously considered that the nuptials of Amadis and Oriana might most appropriately take place. On their arrival at that enchanted spot princely preparations were made to mark the event in a manner befitting such an occasion, for not only were Amadis and Oriana at last to be united, but numbers of their friends were to take upon them the vows of marriage at the same time. In the midst of the preparations the beneficent sorceress Urganda made her appearance, riding upon a great dragon, and was affectionately welcomed by those over whose fortunes she had so diligently presided. The Wedding of Amadis and Oriana When all was ready and the day of the wedding had at last arrived, a brilliant assembly mounted their palfreys and proceeded to the church, where the hermit Nasciano [45] celebrated Mass. When the ceremony had duly been performed, Amadis asked of Lisuarte that ere the revels began Oriana might be permitted to make test of the adventure of the Arch of True Lovers, as the enchantment still held good so far as ladies were concerned. To this the King gave his consent. As Oriana approached the image raised its trumpet and blew such a strain of sweetness as had never yet been heard in the island, and from the mouth of the trumpet fell flowers and roses in such abundance that they covered the ground. Without any hesitation Oriana passed on to the adventure of the Forbidden Chamber. As she passed between the pillars she felt hands invisible violently pushing her backward, and three times did they thrust her past the pillars. But by reason of her surpassing faithfulness and beauty she won, despite opposition, to the enchanted portal, where the hand which had admitted Amadis was thrust out, and she entered the chamber, while the voices of viewless singers softly chanted the praises of her beauty and constancy. Now all the assembled company who had beheld this last marvel entered the chamber, and the marriage feast was spread therein. The long endurance of Amadis and Oriana was over, and at length united to each other and to their son Esplandian they looked forward to an existence of such happiness as is only vouchsafed to mortals in the unclouded pages of old romance. So ends this brave old tale, in which we read of manners and modes of thought so widely removed from those of our own time as almost to appear like those of the people of another planet. The conduct of knight and damsel is, perhaps, a little strained. No matter how absurd a promise or fantastic the circumstances in which it was extracted, it is still regarded as binding, and if we admire the romantic nature of such a code we are tempted to smile at the seriousness with which bearded knights and all-powerful monarchs give way before the quibble of magicians whose lures and devices would be laughed at by a modern schoolboy. Nevertheless, in perusing the story we experience a strong conviction of its author's purity of soul and integrity of purpose. From the reader who has followed me through the mazes of this enchanting romance I must ask pardon for having omitted in my rendering of it many passages of rare beauty and touching humanity. My business in this volume, however, is to present the thread of the story, to describe its main incidents, and, keeping as closely as possible to the adventures and doings of its principal characters, to supply an outline of the whole. I might readily have enhanced the brilliancy and readableness of my account if I had chosen to narrate isolated adventures and the incidents of more surpassing excellence with which it teems. But my purpose, as I have said, is to provide readers who have little time to peruse an original text with the story in brief. At the same time I have attempted to conserve the true spirit of the romance, and if I have failed to do so that must in some measure be attributed to the difficult task of compression with which I was confronted. In the words of one who 'set' Amadis to verse, I may say, with justice: To tell as meet the costly feast's array, My tedious tale would hold a summer's day. I let [46] to sing who mid the courtly throng Did most excel in dance or sprightly song, Who first, who last, were seated on the dais, Who carped of love and arms in courtliest phrase. [47] CHAPTER IV: THE SEQUELS TO "AMADIS DE GAUL" "Inferior as these after-books of Amadis certainly are, they form so singular an epoch in the history of literature that an abridgment of the whole series into our language is to be desired."--Southey In dealing with the literatures of the Peninsula, a task for which he was eminently well equipped, Southey followed an instinct of natural discrimination which seldom played him false. Feeble as some of the 'after-books' of Amadis undoubtedly are, we cannot afford to ignore them, if only because of the literary phenomena they present. In these fantastic tales the imagination which had flowered so luxuriantly in Amadis became overblown. They are, indeed, the petals fallen from the fading rose--so quickly did the wonderful blossom of chivalric fiction droop and wither. The first of these sequels, called The Fifth Book of Amadis, is more generally known as Esplandian, as it chiefly refers to the adventures of that hero. Cervantes is, perhaps, rather more unkind to this romance than its peculiar merits deserve, for he makes his critical curate say of it: "Verily the father's goodness shall not excuse the want of it in the son. Here, good mistress housekeeper, open that window and throw it into the yard. Let it serve as a foundation to that pile which we are to set a-blazing presently." The first edition of Esplandian was published at Seville in 1542. The greater part of it seems to have been composed by Montalvo, the original translator of Amadis. But whereas when he penned that work he acted the part of a translator only, in Esplandian he undertook the rôle of authorship proper, and that he failed to discern the wide distinctions which separate these tasks is rather painfully apparent. It seems to me, however, a mistaken criticism which brands Esplandian as entirely lacking in merit, and I suspect that more than one of the censorious folk who have thus entreated it have not perused it in the original, or have merely taken Cervantes' word regarding its lack of quality. It is notorious that many English critics seem to believe it possible to pass a verdict upon works written in Spanish without possessing more than a nodding acquaintance with the language, and the absurd idea obtains among many men of letters, who ought to know better, that, given a knowledge of Latin and French, the acquisition of the Castilian tongue is merely a matter of a little reading. Esplandian possesses many quaint beauties, and the fairy 'machinery' and rather distinguished simplicity of its atmosphere make it most pleasant and delectable to peruse. Where, too, may we encounter a better or more representative example of romantic extravagance at its best?--for Esplandian, without exhibiting the grosser faults of its descendants, has the rich and varied colour of that imaginative excess which is the birthright of all true poets, and in the discipline of which all are not successful. I quite admit, however, that Esplandian is food for the enthusiast, and I do not recommend its perusal to unromantic souls. It is not for the barbers and curates of this world, and pity 'tis that they who cannot appreciate its spirit should attempt to influence others to its detriment. Esplandian spent his childhood at the Court of his grandfather, King Lisuarte, and had scarcely been knighted when he felt the call of high adventure. His wishes in this respect were speedily gratified, for shortly after the gilt spurs had been placed on his heels he fell into a deep swoon, which seemed to portend enchantment of no common order. As he slept, the people of the Firm Island, whence he had journeyed to have knighthood conferred upon him, beheld a vast mountain of fire approach the shore, from which issued the sylph-like form of the enchantress Urganda the Unknown, sailing through the air upon the back of an enormous dragon. Some time prior to these events Amadis, to whose custody the malicious Archelaus had been entrusted, had injudiciously released that firebrand of the magical world, only to learn shortly afterward that the unscrupulous wizard had taken advantage of his new-found liberty to work his wiles once more upon the all too unsuspecting Lisuarte, who seemed incapable of profiting by experience, and who now paid for his credulity by incarceration in the deepest dungeons of the necromancer's castle. Urganda announced to the distracted son-in-law that it would be necessary for Esplandian to execute a mission of vengeance, and ere it was possible to question her further she bore away the youth on the back of the winged monster she bestrode. The enchantress conveyed the sleeping Esplandian to a mysterious vessel called the Ship of the Great Serpent, and on waking it was with no little exaltation of spirit that he found himself on its deck. As he was wafted across the smooth ocean he felt a thrill of pleasure arising from the magical ease with which the enchanted galley skimmed the waves. In time he beheld a rocky islet standing in the midst of a forsaken sea, and going ashore he found it to be barren and showing no other sign of habitation than a tall tower, which crowned its topmost height. He climbed the eminence upon which it stood, and discovered the ancient fortalice to be completely deserted. Exploring its recesses, he observed a stone in which a richly ornamented sword was firmly embedded, but as he attempted to grasp this the air was rent by the bellowings of a frightful dragon, which descended upon him with such velocity that ere he could prepare himself for its onset it had coiled its enormous folds round his body in an effort to break through the plates of his armour and crush him to death. Man and monster wrestled to and fro in a death-grapple, and so terrific were their exertions that the earth shook and the castle rocked beneath them as they swayed and writhed in a deadly embrace. At length Esplandian succeeded in freeing his right hand from the dragon's encircling folds, and, drawing a magic sword which Urganda had bestowed upon him, passed it through the monster's scaly hide. Mortally wounded, the dragon relaxed its grip, and its huge body became rigid in death. When he had assured himself that it was quite dead, Esplandian quitted the castle and returned to the shore, a weird light which came from the enchanted sword, which he had extracted from the boulder, guiding his footsteps through the gathering dusk. Re-embarking on the Ship of the Great Serpent, he was speedily wafted to a rugged country known as the Forbidden Mountain, a stronghold on the borders of Turkey and Greece. At a distance he perceived a castle, and was making his way thither when he encountered a hermit, who warned him to avoid it, and told him that a prince of renown was imprisoned therein. At once it occurred to Esplandian that this must be none other than Lisuarte, and the castle the stronghold of the wicked Archelaus, and this surmise naturally made him resolve to inquire into the character of the place. As he neared the gate he saw that it was guarded by a giant sentinel, who, on espying him, rushed at him fiercely, brandishing a formidable club. Avoiding the onset of his gigantic adversary, Esplandian slew him with the sword of power, and was about to enter the castle when he was suddenly confronted by Archelaus in person. A bitterly contested struggle ensued. The enchanter, enraged at the stripling's audacity in seeking to probe the mysteries of his stronghold, and in the knowledge that he came of the race of his detested enemy Lisuarte, attacked Esplandian with great fury. But his blind rage could not avail against the cooler courage of his youthful antagonist, who succeeded in dispatching him with the magic sword, thus for ever putting an end to his necromantic enormities. A nephew of the slain enchanter next assaulted the young knight, but he too fell before the magic falchion of Urganda. Next Arcobone, the mother of Archelaus, a witch deeply versed in the mysteries of the occult arts, sought to vanquish him by the force of her anathemas, but the powers of counter-charm concealed in Esplandian's blade saved him from the fury of the dread sybil, who felt herself bound to obey his behests. He commanded her to reveal the place of Lisuarte's confinement, and had the satisfaction of releasing his aged relative. As Esplandian and Lisuarte were about to leave the island, the fleet of Matroed, eldest son of Arcobone, arrived off its shores, and the young hero found himself forced to do battle with a fresh enemy, for, relying upon his ability to defeat such a youthful adversary with ease, Matroed made the combat a strictly personal one, and he and Esplandian were engaged in deadly fight until the waning of the sun. But at length the many wounds which the pagan warrior had received forced him to discontinue the struggle, and he begged Esplandian to permit him to die in peace. At this juncture a holy man arrived, and the expiring heathen requested his blessing, which was piously granted. Assuming the name of 'the Black Knight,' from the colour of his armour, Esplandian now ruled in the Forbidden Mountain as lord of the castle he had subdued. But he was not permitted to remain in quiet for long, as the fortalice was speedily invested by Armato, the Soldan of Turkey, with a great army. Attracting numerous followers to himself, however, Esplandian defeated the paynims, and took their sovereign prisoner. Encouraged by this success, he carried the war into the heart of the Turkish dominions and captured the principal city. Before entering upon his career of adventure Esplandian had met Leonorina, daughter of the Emperor of Constantinople, of whom he had become greatly enamoured, and during the course of his war with the Turks he had dispatched many messengers to her, assuring her of his undying affection. He now learned that she had taken umbrage at his long absence, so, when the capital of Turkey had fallen to his sword, he speedily set out for Constantinople. Arrived there, he purchased a cedar chest of exquisite workmanship, which he entrusted to certain messengers, commanding them to bear it to the lady. When she opened it in the privacy of her own apartment, to her mingled confusion and delight her long-absent lover himself emerged from its recesses. In Spanish romance it is inevitable that the loves of the hero and heroine should remain unknown to the lady's relatives, not only because this was demanded by the romantic susceptibilities of the average Spanish reader, but because Spanish opinion would have been seriously affronted by the idea of parental compliance in any intercourse between the lovers prior to marriage, save of the most formal kind. This sorry condition of affairs still obtains among the middle and upper classes of Spain and Spanish America, and we can scarcely suppress amusement when we hear of ardent youths unable to converse confidentially with the maidens to whom they are formally affianced otherwise than by assuming some ridiculous disguise, or through the kind offices of servants. Not infrequently young Spanish couples whose engagement is quite en règle, and to whose union not the slightest opposition is made, arrange and carry out an elopement, purely because of the romantic atmosphere surrounding such a proceeding. It is circumstances such as these which enable us to appreciate the firm hold of romance upon the Spanish heart. But Esplandian had but little time for dalliance, as the Turks were once more arrayed against him in the field. He had, however, a firm ally in Urganda, but, to counterbalance this, the infidels were supported by the enchantress Melia, the sister of Armato, the defeated soldan, who had succeeded in making his escape upon the back of a flying dragon, dispatched for that purpose by this Turkish witch. With all speed he levied a large army, and set siege to Constantinople. Numerous as the sands of the sea were his allies, one of whom was a beautiful Amazonian queen, who brought with her to the scene of hostilities a squadron of fifty griffins, which flew over the city much in the manner of devastating aircraft, belching fire and smoke on the heads of the unhappy folk below. So dire was the loss of life in this combat between the forces of Christendom and paganism that at last it was agreed that the question of pre-eminence should be settled by the issue of a double combat. Amadis and Esplandian were selected on the one side, and the Amazon queen and a celebrated pagan soldan on the other. The heathens were defeated, but so enraged were they at their downfall that they rushed to the attack with every available man (and woman) in their hosts. But the Christians, mightily encouraged by the victory of their champions, repulsed them with terrific loss, and drove them from the bounds of the Grecian dominions. The Greek Emperor, probably only too happy to rid himself of the burden of such a troublous inheritance, resigned his crown to Esplandian, who espoused his Leonorina and settled down to the task of governing the Hellenic realm. Relieved from the pressure of military duties, in which she had proved herself no inefficient ally, the sage Urganda had now leisure to pay some attention to the private affairs of her mortal charges. On consulting her magic mirror and other divinatory apparatus, she was desolated to find that Amadis, Galaor, Esplandian, and indeed all of her favourite champions, were soon to pay the debt of nature. Had her prophetic soul been enabled to envisage the immensities of fiction to which their future adventures were to give rise, she would undoubtedly have allowed nature to take its course, so we must conclude that her powers of vision were limited. Resolved to frustrate unkindly Fate, she summoned her protégés to the Firm Island, and advised them, if they desired to escape mortality, to obey the injunctions she would now place upon them. They anxiously assured her that these would be carried out to the letter, and with the best possible grace submitted to be cast into a magic sleep, from which, it was decreed, they were not to awaken until disenchanted by Lisuarte, son of Esplandian, who, on gaining possession of a certain magic sword, would be enabled to bring them once more to life with renewed vigour. The Sixth Book of the Amadis series is concerned with the adventures of Florisando, his nephew, but as its hero is not in the line direct, and is, moreover, intolerably tiresome, we may well pass him over with a mere mention of his existence. Lisuarte of Greece More sprightly is Lisuarte of Greece, hero of the seventh and eighth books, which are believed to have been written by Juan Diaz, Bachelor of Canon Law, and published in 1526. Lisuarte is not, however, the sole hero of this romance, Perion, a later son of Amadis and Oriana, claiming a considerable share of the exploits which fall to be recounted in the volume. This young warrior, hearing of the prowess and address in arms of the King of Ireland, resolved to gratify a desire to be knighted by him, and for this purpose embarked for the Green Isle. While traversing St George's Channel, or its romantic equivalent, he encountered a damsel cruising in a boat managed by four apes. The animals begged Perion to accompany their mistress for the fulfilment of a great enterprise, so, quitting his own vessel, he embarked in the boat along with the apes and the lady. His attendants, chagrined by his acceptance of the adventure thus thrust upon him, turned their vessel eastward and sailed on until they eventually arrived at Constantinople, where they reported his virtual disappearance, on learning of which his kinsman Lisuarte decided to go in quest of him. In the meantime young Perion had arrived with his strange fellow-wanderers in the kingdom of Trebizond, which, as we are all aware, is readily accessible from the Irish coast. In that city he had seen and fallen in love with the daughter of the Emperor, but did not have much leisure to pay his addresses to her, as the Lady of the Apes rather unduly hurried him in the preliminaries of the task she had set him. They had scarcely left Trebizond when Lisuarte arrived in the city, and promptly fell in love with Onoloria, the Emperor's remaining daughter. But one day, as the lovers were enjoying each other's society, an enormous giantess entered the Court and requested a boon from Lisuarte, which, in true romantic fashion, he granted without inquiring its nature. It proved to be his attendance for a year wherever the gigantic damsel chose to demand it. The giantess was, indeed, a pagan spy, and had concocted this device to withdraw Lisuarte, who was one of the great props of Christian Greece, from the support of the Hellenic throne at a difficult and dangerous time. When Lisuarte had quitted Trebizond on the adventure in which he was an unwilling partaker, the Emperor of that country, father of his inamorata, was informed of the true character of the prodigious damsel who had carried him off by a letter which was closed with sixty-seven seals and which announced that Constantinople was about to be besieged by Armato, the Turkish Soldan, who had placed himself at the head of a league of sixty-seven princes for the purpose of waging war against the imperial city. Meanwhile Lisuarte was given into the care of the King of the Giants' Isle, whose daughter Gradaffile fell in love with him, procured his escape, and followed him to Constantinople, whence he at once betook himself for the purpose of combating the infidels who invested it. In this task he was assisted by Perion, who now arrived in Greece, after having accomplished the behest of the Lady of the Apes. In course of time Lisuarte became conscious that duty now called him to effect the release of his sleeping ancestors from the spell in which they had been cast for the purpose of prolonging their existences. After many adventures, which we spare the reader, he obtained possession of the fatal sword and proceeded to the Firm Island, where he broke the enchanted sleep into which Amadis, Esplandian, and the rest had been lulled by the far-sighted Urganda. These, naturally refreshed by their long slumber, and longing for martial exercise, at once assisted him in routing the pagan forces before Constantinople, and achieving peace once more. Lisuarte, freed from his patriotic labours, now bethought himself of his lady-love, and turned his steps to the city of Trebizond. Perion had also gone thither from a similar reason, but on the request of the Duchess of Austria had accompanied that lady to her dominions, which were in the grip of a usurper. On his return from this chivalrous task he encountered his kinsman Lisuarte, and both champions were in the act of preparing their wedding festivities when Perion and the Emperor of Trebizond were carried off by pagan treachery in the midst of a hunting expedition. Lisuarte, following on their track, was also seized by the enemy, and imprisoned along with those he had sought to succour. Amadis of Greece The Ninth Book carries on the adventures and exploits of the race of Amadis, who in more senses than one may be said to be immortal. It was first published in 1535 at Burgos, a place of many literary associations, and purports to have been imitated in Latin from the Greek, after the manner of the famous Troy romance Dares and Dictys, and at a later time translated into the Romance language by the potent and wise magician Alquife, evidently a supposititious Moor pressed into the service of the most imaginative but undisciplined writer who fabricated it. Amadis of Greece, indeed, approaches the sublime of imaginative excess and fictional unreason, and in its extravagant pages we are confronted with such a maze of marvel that to provide an intelligent account of it is a task of no little difficulty. Following the wild career of the romancer with the halting step of modern incredulity, we learn that Amadis of Greece was, like his forbears, a child unwanted, the son of Lisuarte and Onoloria, Princess of Trebizond, born shortly after the period of their interrupted wedding. While the infant was being baptized at a fountain in a wild and deserted place, to which he had been conveyed for the purposes of secrecy, he was carried off by corsairs, who sold him to the Moorish King of Saba. Distinguished by the representation of a sword upon his breast, he adopted the name, when knighted by the pagan monarch, of 'The Knight of the Flaming Sword.' Soon after he had entered the ranks of chivalry he was falsely accused of cherishing a secret love for the Queen of Saba, and, dreading the wrath of his benefactor, he made his escape, and embarked upon a career of adventure--which, indeed, it would have been difficult for anyone of his lineage to have avoided. A pagan in religion and sentiment, he came to the vicinity of the Forbidden Mountain which his grandfather had been instrumental in liberating from the clutches of the infidel, and, reversing the pious work then accomplished, he defeated and expelled those who held it for the Emperor of Greece. Aroused by the menacing turn events had taken, the great Esplandian himself, now Emperor of Constantinople, hastened to the scene of hostilities and engaged in single combat with the doughty new-comer, only, however, to suffer defeat at his hands, an event which never could have entered into the calculation of the enthusiastic author who composed the romance of that hero, who would have been horrified at the mere thought of the eclipse of his invincible 'star.' Shortly after this Amadis encountered the King of Sicily. Their acquaintance commenced with a combat, as it was indeed essential that it should, as the only fitting means of introduction between gentlemen of errant tendencies, but when they came to know and esteem each other they patched up a comradeship which was the more powerfully cemented by the passion of Amadis for the martial monarch's lovely daughter. In the course of his voyage to Sicily, Amadis chanced to visit an island, where he found the Emperor of Trebizond, Lisuarte, Perion, and Gradaffile in a state of enchanted slumber. As we have seen, they had been spirited away by the emissaries of paganism. It chanced that at this time Amadis of Gaul, who was evidently not yet too old for adventurous pursuits, encountered the Queen of Saba, who was everywhere searching for a champion to defend her against her husband's false charges of conjugal infidelity. Amadis espoused her quarrel, and accompanied her to Saba, where he did battle with and overcame her accuser. He also succeeded in establishing her innocence, and that of his namesake, Amadis of Greece, to the satisfaction of the King her husband. After he had freed his ancestors from their charmed sleep, Amadis of Greece betook himself to Sicily. He had not been long in the island when he heard a knight reciting amorous verses in the vicinity of the palace. At once his jealous heart leapt to the conclusion that the singer was chanting the praise of his princess. Almost crazed by his suspicions, he searched everywhere for his supposed rival, but without success, dogging his footsteps, but always failing to come up with him. During this chase he met with many adventures. But at last he seems to have convinced himself that his suspicions were groundless and that the singer he had heard had had no designs upon the heart of his inamorata. Whilst these events were passing, Lisuarte, the father of our hero, had returned to Trebizond, and had formally requested the hand of Onoloria. But Zairo, Soldan of Babylon, had seen this princess in a dream, and, accompanied by his sister Abra, had arrived at Trebizond to demand her in marriage. The Emperor was quite prepared to grant his suit, but not so Lisuarte, who had prior claims to the lady, and his opposition so enraged the Soldan that he resorted to warlike measures and set siege to "many-towered Trebizond." After the siege had progressed for some time champions were selected from either army to decide the pretensions of the rival parties. But the Soldan's paladins were defeated by Gradaffile, daughter of the King of the Giant's Isle, who disguised herself as a knight, and whose Amazonian fury the unfortunate Babylonians could scarcely be expected to confront with any chance of success. The Soldan, however, after the manner of the baffled in romance, broke the rules of the tourney and carried off Onoloria by a stratagem. As his fleet sailed with all speed from Trebizond, it encountered that of Amadis of Gaul, who was hastening to the relief of that city, and had evidently not been retarded in his passage of the Dardanelles by any considerations of international law. In the circumstances it is scarcely necessary to chronicle the Soldan's overthrow, or dwell upon his untimely fate. But the will to evil of the race of Babylon was not extinguished by the decease of the short-lived if romantically named Zairo. By his death his sister Abra succeeded to the throne of Semiramis. While sojourning at Trebizond in the happy days before hostilities had broken out between her brother and Lisuarte, she had fallen under the spell of that champion's attractions, and after the manner of Eastern womanhood as depicted by the writers of romance, made the first advances to the object of her affections. Let us hope that he did not repulse her as rudely as did blunt Sir Bevis of Hamton, when the fair Saracen Josiana sent her envoys to him to acquaint him with her passion: He said, if ye ne were messengers, I should ye slay, ye lossengers. I ne will rise one foot fro' grounde For to speak with an heathen hounde. She is a hound, also be ye: Out of my chamber swith ye flee. But repulse her Lisuarte did, and all the fury of a woman scorned burned in the breast of the fair Babylonian. Out of the depths of her vengeance she sent emissaries to all the kingdoms of the earth, asking that the knighthood of every realm should assist her to destroy Lisuarte. One of her damsels while on this quest met with Amadis of Greece, who, still a pagan, was easily inveigled into promising that he would never rest until he had presented the lady Abra with the head of Lisuarte. On the arrival of Amadis at Trebizond a dreadful combat between father and son ensued, which was mercifully broken off by the timely appearance of Urganda, who, following her usual custom, made parent and child known to one another. But the young Amadis was not to be exempt from the amorous advances of pagan princesses any more than his father had been. Niquea, the daughter of an Eastern soldan, had fallen in love with him by report, and had sent him her picture by the hands of a favourite dwarf. The lady's undoubted attractions were, however, seriously counterbalanced by the circumstance that all who beheld her resplendent beauty either died on the spot or were deprived of reason. Her father, in the exercise of ordinary wisdom, shut her up in an almost inaccessible tower, to which her relatives (who, like most family friends, were rather apt to discount her charms) alone had the entrée. Notwithstanding the former strong attachment of Amadis to the Princess of Sicily, he had no sooner set eyes on the portrait of Niquea than he renounced his former allegiance and devoted his affections to the Oriental beauty. In order that he might delight his eyes with the original of the portrait which had so enchanted him, he disguised himself as a female slave, and gained access to the tower in which Niquea was interned. They plighted their troth to each other, and Amadis remained in the tower in his disguise. Needless to say, Niquea's good looks wrought him no bale. We now return to the fair but vindictive Abra, who, having marshalled an immense army, marched against Trebizond. After a furious encounter, the forces of paynimrie were duly routed. But as Onoloria had in the meantime been so obliging as to shake off the trammels of mortality, Lisuarte, at the persuasion of his platonic friend Gradaffile, agreed to cement a lasting peace by espousing the Babylonian queen, who was thus lucky in love if unlucky in war. Niquea, tiring of her virtual imprisonment, succeeded in eloping with Amadis, and soon afterward arrived with him at Trebizond, where their nuptials were celebrated. Later she gave birth to a son named Florisel de Niquea, the subject of a future tale. This romance, like that of Esplandian, ends with the enchantment of the Greek heroes and princesses in the Tower of the Universe by the spells of the wise magician Zirfea, who warned them that by this means alone could they escape mortality. But, unlike the enchantment of the Firm Island, the spell which they must needs undergo in this tower of marvels was not of a somnolent character, so that the enchanted paladins and their lady-loves were enabled to cultivate each other's society for a century or so, an advantage at which they had small occasion to grumble, when their long separation as relatives is taken into account. Even did they tire of one another's society, they were not likely to fall under the more dreadful spell of boredom, since the accommodating magician who undertook their enchantment had provided an apparatus by means of which they could behold every event which took place in the world, a vehicle of solace and amusement which Madame d'Aulnoy introduced into one of her fairy fictions. Cervantes' barber and priest were especially caustic regarding Amadis of Greece and its immediate successors. "Into the yard with them all," quoth the priest, "for rather than not burn the queen Pintiquinestra and the shepherd Darinel with his eclogues and the devilish intricate discourses of its author, I would burn the father who begot me, did I meet him in the garb of a knight errant." Florisel of Niquea The composition which chiefly seems to have excited the wrath of Cervantes' unromantic churchman and even more unpoetic barber is the Tenth Book of Amadis, which is entitled as above, and is feigned to be written by no less a person than Cirfea, Queen of the Argives, who doubtless composed it in the intervals of repose stolen from the more important duties of royalty. Her Majesty does not degrade her exalted position by revealing to us the fee which she received from the Valladolid publishers who produced the work in 1532, but if one may place a value on her compositions without breaking the dread law of lèse-majesté, it might be suggested that a penny a line would amply remunerate the literary output of this most imaginative sovereign. In a word, Cirfea, or the scribbler who sought to shelter himself behind her royal robes, is tiresome to a degree, and her pastoral absurdities can scarcely be described otherwise than in a vein of humorous tolerance. The one thing that renders her work of any importance is that she was probably the first to import the sylvan element into romance, and is thus the creator of that long line of artificial and over-amorous shepherds and shepherdesses whose tears and sighs fall upon or are wafted over the poetic pages of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and the insistence of whose plaints makes one dread to open a volume which seems in any way reminiscent of l'esprit de bergères. The romance introduces us to Sylvia, the daughter of Lisuarte and Onoloria, who was, in the course of nature, removed from her parents in infancy, and was brought up to a pastoral life in the neighbourhood of Alexandria, which, if it enjoyed a reputation in her day as a sheep-rearing district, must have owed it to the well-known properties of sand as a medium for the fattening of those animals for the market. As Sylvia grew up she became conscious of her beauty, and, relying upon her good looks, and no doubt also upon her pretty name, she enslaved to her will the handsome swain Darinel, whose appellation, like that of his lady-love, is racy of the land of the Pharaohs. Sylvia conceived it as being correct in a shepherdess to be 'cruel' to her lover, who, thus setting the fashion for many a future sonneteer, complained bitterly of her indifference, and signified his intention of ending his days by exposing himself to the fury of the elements on a mountain-top--rather a prolonged operation, one would think, in a region especially suited to pulmonary patients. Probably finding that the climate of Egypt scarcely lent itself to the consummation of such a fate, he betook himself to the region of Babylonia, where, in the intervals of searching for mountains in a land where they are tantalizingly absent, he found time to make a friendship with Florisel, whose good nature must have been sorely tried by his plaintive apostrophes to his mistress's eyebrow. So glowing, indeed, were Darinel's descriptions of Sylvia's charms that Florisel became infected with his unhappy comrade's emotion, so that at last, unable to combat the passion which was consuming him, he disguised himself as a shepherd and prevailed upon the luckless Darinel to conduct him to Sylvia's abode. But although Florisel had paid her the great compliment of walking all the way from Babylon for a glance from her bright eyes, she showed herself every whit as cold to him as she had been to Darinel. One evening, when Florisel deigns to grant the reader a blessed intermission from his pleadings to the fair shepherdess, he described to her how the prince Anastarax, brother of Niquea, had been enclosed in a fiery palace by the enchantments of the potent magician Zirfea. On hearing the story, the petulant Sylvia fell headlong in love with Anastarax, and persuaded Florisel and Darinel, who no longer hankered after Alpine rigours, to attempt the deliverance of the fire-encircled prince. But when they arrived in the vicinity of the tower in which he was detained they learned that the adventure was reserved for Alastraxare, a fair Amazon, daughter of Amadis of Greece and the Queen of Caucasus. The reader is now compelled to follow the fortunes of this female Hercules, whose tongue-encircling name has proved a stumbling-block to generations of printers. These are spread over many pages. The little party from Alexandria went in search of this heroine, and encountered many adventures, as per arrangement with the booksellers. Chief among these was the amorous dalliance with Arlanda, princess of Thrace, who had fallen in love with Florisel by report, as ladies had a disconcerting habit of doing in the days of high romance. She donned the clothes of the immaculate Sylvia, and thus beguiled him to a moonlight rendezvous, where she succeeded in gaining his favour while he was under the impression that she was the shepherdess whom he had vainly pursued so long. In the course of their wanderings Sylvia became separated from the rest of the party during a great storm, and, retracing her steps, made her way back to the flaming prison of Anastarax. Meanwhile Florisel and Darinel arrived on the coast of Apollonia, where the former happily forgot the charms of the capricious little shepherdess, who by this time had been duly discovered as the daughter of Lisuarte, and had been united to her beloved Anastarax. But it was not because he suffered from a failing memory that Florisel became oblivious of Sylvia, but rather on account of the bright eyes of the Princess Helena of Apollonia. The sequence of the tale is now broken up in a manner calculated to aggravate the most hardened of readers. Florisel was not left much leisure to enjoy the society of the fascinating Apollonian princess, as the deliverance of his kindred from the enchanted tower had all along been reserved for him. When at last he had satisfied the promptings of duty, he set his face once more toward Apollonia, but was not, of course, destined to arrive on the shores of that delectable kingdom without undergoing still further adventures. Landing at Colchos, he met with Alastraxare, who had found happiness with Falanges, a brilliant warrior of Florisel's train. Arriving at last in Apollonia, he found the Princess Helena on the eve of a marriage with the Prince of Gaul, a match ordained by the lady's politic father. But Florisel would have belied the adventurous blood which he drew from a long line of heroes who had never yet remained inactive in such a contingency if he had failed to defeat the tyrannical father's intentions, so, as our royal authoress remarks, he repeated the exploit of Paris in the tale of Troy by carrying off this second Helen. Like its prototype of Homeric story, this action very naturally precipitated the kingdoms of the East and West, real and apocryphal, into a condition of chaotic warfare. Assisted by the Russians, who even at that distant epoch appear to have had a predilection for the task of social demolition, the countries of the West poured their myriads upon the plains of Constantinople, and inflicted a serious reverse upon the Hellenic arms. But the erratic Slavs, true to type, turned later upon their allies of the Occident, drove them from the shores of the Golden Horn, and finally secured Florisel in the possession of the capital of the East and the Princess Helena. Here the august Cirfea might with all judiciousness have written "Finis" with her golden pen to this amazing history. But at this stage of events, if a phrase so familiarly colloquial may be employed regarding one so exalted, she 'gets her second wind,' probably in view of the circumstance that her bargain with the booksellers of Valladolid stipulated that their patrons were to be regaled with so many thousand lines of her glowing periods, an arrangement in which she was probably loath to disappoint them, for reasons to which, as a crowned head, she should have been superior. But her domain of Argolis is proverbially a poor country, whose populace possesses a rooted and hereditary bias against taxation. Be that as it may, she was not the last Balkan sovereign to supply herself with pin-money by literary labours. Equipping herself, therefore, with a fresh ream of parchment from the Department of Archives (for Government paper has proverbially been everybody's property, even from the times of Khammurabi), she cast about for fresh situations and addressed herself to the task of 'spinning out.' When the treacherous Russians had accounted for the armies of the West, they embarked for their own country, there to hatch fresh schemes for the further disturbance of a harassed Europe. But Amadis of Greece was in no mind that a people who owed so many debts to civilization (to say nothing of vast pecuniary obligations) should escape unpunished for their original adherence to the enemy. Pursuing them, but losing track of their vessels, he came to the inevitable desert island, where he resolved to stay and do penance for his infidelity to the Princess of Sicily. Quite naturally, that lady herself landed on its shores, and, after upbraiding her unfaithful lover, very sensibly advised him to return to his sorrowing wife Niquea, which he at last consented to do. When, after a reasonable interval, Amadis did not return to Constantinople, the imperial city was in an uproar, and Florisel and Falanges elected to go in quest of him. They arrived in time at the island, where, under the assumed name of Moraizel, the former fell in love with and espoused its queen, Sidonia, who, however, did not scruple to show her preference for his companion. But Florisel soon tired of his island bride, who bore him a beautiful little daughter, Diana, destined to prove the heroine of the eleventh and twelfth books of this interminable history. Agesilan of Colchos The young Agesilan of Colchos was prosecuting his studies at Athens when he chanced to see a statue of the beauteous Diana. Irresistibly attracted by it, he resolved to search for and behold the original, so, donning the garb of a female minstrel, he fared to the Court of Queen Sidonia, the royal maiden's mother. Here he was employed as a companion to the princess. But when a succession of adventurous knights arrived in the island he could not refrain from giving them battle in the guise of an Amazon, with results invariably in his favour. Learning from the Queen how she had been neglected by Florisel, Agesilan obligingly offered to bring her the head of the erring warrior, revealing, at the same time, his own personality. Sidonia, who bore her husband a deep grudge for his desertion of her, readily accepted his championship. So Agesilan repaired to Constantinople and defied the recreant to mortal combat. It was arranged that the encounter should take place in the dominions of Sidonia, but on the would-be combatants arriving in these regions they found them beleaguered by the ubiquitous Russians, who, not content with the freedom of their own vast steppes, seem to have hankered after a place in the sun in a more genial clime. It was scarcely fair to the ebullient Slavs to launch two such renowned paladins upon them at one and the same time, but, the brief battle over, victory seems to have made Florisel and Sidonia forget their estrangement, and all went merry as a marriage bell, Agesilan being duly affianced to Diana. It was agreed, however, that the splendours of Constantinople would provide a more fitting background to their nuptials, and accordingly all set sail for the Golden Horn, having first been honoured by a visit from Amadis of Gaul in person, who, notwithstanding his patriarchal years, still continued to prove the delights of errantry. He was accompanied by Amadis of Greece, who, though almost as venerable as his great-grandfather, could yet break a lance with any like-minded champion. They had not proceeded far from the shores of the island when they were beset by a furious tempest, in which Agesilan and Diana were separated from the rest of their kindred and cast upon a desert rock, where they would have perished had not an accommodating knight, mounted upon a hippogriff, who chanced to be flying overhead, picked them up and carried them to his home in the Canary Islands. But their preserver's disinterestedness vanished on beholding the beauty of Diana, so, when Agesilan was off his guard, he bore her to a distant part of the Green Island, as his demesne was called. His amorous dream was, however, destined to be rudely broken in upon, for at that moment a party of corsairs landed, and seeing in Diana a prize who would bring them a large sum in the nearest slave-market, promptly bore her off. Agesilan, on being unable to find Diana, suspected treachery, so mounted the hippogriff and set out in search of her. Having in vain surveyed the island from the back of the winged monster, in his despair he took to flying at large. Whether from 'engine trouble' or causes even more obscure, he was forced to alight in the country of the Garamantes, the king of which had been struck blind as a punishment for his overweening pride. Moreover, the unfortunate monarch was doomed to have the food prepared for him devoured daily by a hideous dragon. From this monster Agesilan delivered him. The whole incident is an unblushing imitation of a passage in Orlando Furioso (can. xxxiii, st. 102 ff.), in which Senapus, King of Ethiopia, is visited by a like misfortune, and has his food daily destroyed by harpies until relieved by Astolpho, who descends in his dominions on a winged steed. But the author of Agesilan is no whit more guilty than Ariosto himself, for both incidents are derived originally from the story of Phineus and the harpies in the Argonautica of Apollonius Rhodius. Agesilan, pursuing the quest of Diana, arrived at the Desolate Isle. The god Tervagant (Termagaunt, Tyr Magus='Tyr the Mighty') had fallen in love with the queen of this country, and on being repulsed by her let loose a band of demons upon her possessions, who ravaged them far and wide. The god's oracle had announced that he would not be appeased unless the inhabitants daily exposed a maiden on the sea-shore until such time as he found one as much to his taste as the Queen. Each day a hapless damsel was chained to a rock on the desolate shores of the island, and was promptly devoured by a monster which rose out of the sea. This naturally rendered the supply of maidens in the vicinity rather scarce, so in order to save one of the local ladies for another occasion, Diana, who had been brought to the island, was tied to the rock one morning and, like another Andromeda, of whose myth the incident is a paraphrase, was left to the mercy of the monster. Agesilan, soaring through the air on his hippogriff, witnessed her plight, descended to her aid, and, after a terrific combat, slew the monster which had been about to devour her. Having accounted for the grisly satellite of Tervagant, he placed the almost unconscious Diana upon his aery steed, whose head he turned in the direction of Constantinople; but on the way thither this now practised airman caught sight of the ship of Amadis from which he and his mistress had been separated in the tempest. Alighting on the vessel with all the skill of a sea-plane pilot on the deck of a 'mother-ship,' he greeted his astonished kindred, and the party eventually reached Constantinople, where the wedding of the principal characters was solemnized. Silvio de la Selva Silvio de la Selva, son of Amadis of Greece and a certain Finistea, is the hero of the twelfth and last book of the Amadis series. He first came into prominence by the gallant display he made against the Russians at the siege of Constantinople, and when the Tsar of that turbulent folk showed a desire to plunge Europe into the distractions of war once more he was not the last to unsheath his falchion and assure the twelve dwarfish ambassadors of the Muscovite that the confederacy of one hundred and sixty monarchs which he had brought together had a small chance of returning to their respective dominions. The resultant siege, with its sallies and combats à outrance, we shall forbear to describe, only remarking en passant that, in the mercantile phrase, its details are 'up to sample.' But if the Greek princes bethought them to escape the consequences of having incurred the enmity of the turbulent Russ merely by defeating him in the field, they were destined to receive a rude awakening, for by one fell stroke of necromantic art the entire galaxy was spirited away. Once more the inhabitants of the romantic city on the Bosphorus were plunged into the deepest consternation; but, nothing daunted at the task which now confronted them, the knights and paladins of the family--in themselves an army of no mean dimensions--set out in search of their honoured relatives. But we are not yet liberated from the tangle of plot and counter-plot excogitated by the expiring hackery of Castile, and the dying candle of the great romance of Amadis does not flare up and flicker out with the rescue of the heroes and heroines who have swaggered through its pages in almost immortal sequel of intrigue and battle. For, the princesses having been brought safely back to Constantinople, it was discovered that during their absence some of them had been blessed with little olive branches, many of whose adventures are related, until the bewildered reader, lost in the maze of their story, like Milton's Satan, looks round in desperation for any outlet of escape, exclaiming with the fallen great one: "Me miserable, which way shall I fly?" But, like the doomed archangel, he must 'dree his weird,' and wade through the adventures of Spheramond, son of Rogel of Greece, and Amadis of Astre, son of Agesilan--or, better still, he may do as we did, and, reverently closing the worm-eaten volume, restore it to the library, where its embossed back is, perhaps, rather more appreciated than its grotesque contents. Instead of being hurled from the throne by an incensed and neglected populace, the line of Amadis continued to flourish exceedingly, and perhaps the secret of its success as a dynasty lies in the fact that it was more habitually resident in fire-ringed castles or enchanted islands than in its palace in the metropolis, which it seems to have chiefly employed as a convalescent establishment in which to recover from wounds delivered by magic swords and the poisonous bites of 'loathly' dragons, rather than as a seat of governmental activity and imperial direction. We have seen how the great theme of Amadis of Gaul burst upon Spain in a blaze of glory, and how, mangled by the efforts of fluent hacks, it sank into insignificance amid the derision of the enlightened and the gibes of the vulgar. It is as if our own peerless British epos of Arthur, that thrice heroic treasury of the deeds of those who Jousted in Aspremont or Montalban, Damasco, or Morocco, or Trebizond, had been seized upon by Grub Street and prostituted to the necessities of scribblers. We cannot give thanks enough to the god of letters that it has escaped such a doom, though this has been more by virtue of good hap than through that of any protecting influence. The sequels of Amadis descend by stages of lessening excellence until at length they approach the limits of drivel. But does this sorrowful circumstance in any way dim the glory of the first fine rapture? Nay, no more than darkness can cloud the memory of morning. The knightly eloquence of the original characters may degenerate in rodomontade; the lofty and delicate imagery of the primary books may merge into unspeakable vulgarities of invention; the tender beauty which enchants the first love idyll may become coarse intrigue. But no work of art is to be judged by its imitations. With the exception of the Fifth Book, the remaining Amadis romances are as oleographs placed beside a noble painting. Unrestrained in execution, daubed in colours of the harshest crudity, uneven in outline and distressing in ensemble, they are more fitted for the scullions' hall than the picture-gallery. Yet they may not be passed over in a work dealing with Spanish romance, and they point a moral which in this twentieth century it is fitting that we should digest--that if a nation acquiesce in the debasement of its literary standards and revel in the worthless and the excitement of meretricious fiction, it will cease to excel among the comity of peoples. Literature is the expression of a nation's soul. And what species of soul is that which voices itself in crudely jacketed novelettes, redolent of a psychology at once ridiculous and unhealthy? Have we no Cervantes to shatter this ignoble thing to the sound of inextinguishable laughter? Is not the sad lesson of Amadis one for the consideration of our own people? Spain was never so great as when its first books roused her chivalry to an ardour of knightly patriotism, and she was never so little as when the printing-presses of Burgos and Valladolid and Saragossa flooded her cities with a mercenary and undistinguished fiction, prompted by commercial greed, and joyfully received by a public avid for the drug of sensation. CHAPTER V: THE PALMERIN ROMANCES Let Palmerin of England be preserved as a singular relic of antiquity. Cervantes It would seem to have been a foible with the early critics of Spanish romance to seek to discover a Portuguese origin for practically all of its manifestations. They appear to have argued from the analogy of Amadis that all romantic effort hailed from the Lusitanian kingdom, yet they are never weary of descanting upon the Provençal and Moorish influences which moulded Spanish romance! It is precisely as if one said: "Yes, the Arthurian story displays every sign of Norman-French influence, but all the same, it was first cast into literary form in Wales. England? Oh, England merely accepted it, that's all." The Palmerin series ran almost side by side with Amadis in a chronological sense, and tradition ascribed its first book to an anonymous lady of Augustobriga. But there is reason to believe, from a passage in Primaleón, one of its sections, that it was the work of Francisco Vasquez de Ciudad Rodrigo. No early Portuguese version is known, and the Spanish edition of the first romance of the series, Palmerin de Oliva, printed at Seville in 1525, was certainly not the earliest impression of that work. The English translation, by Anthony Munday, was published in black letter in 1588. Palmerin de Oliva No sooner did Palmerin de Oliva appear than it scored a success only second to that of Amadis, its resemblance to which can scarcely be called fortuitous, and, as in the case of that romance, translations and continuations were multiplied with surprising rapidity. The commencement of Palmerin de Oliva carries us once more to the enchanted shores of the Golden Horn. Reymicio, the Emperor of Constantinople, had a daughter named Griana, whom he had resolved to give in marriage to Tarisius, son of the King of Hungary, and nephew to the Empress. But Griana had given her heart to Florendos of Macedon, to whom she had a son. Dreading the wrath of her father, she permitted an attendant to carry the infant to a deserted spot, where it was found by a peasant, who took it to his cottage, and brought it up as his own son, calling the child Palmerin de Oliva, because he had been found on a hill which was covered with a luxuriant growth of palm and olive trees. When the boy grew up he accepted his humble lot with equanimity. But on learning that he was not the son of a peasant he longed for a life of martial excitement. Adventure soon afforded him a taste of its dazzling possibilities. While traversing a gloomy forest in search of game he encountered a merchant beset by a ferocious lion. He slew the beast, and learned that the traveller was returning to his own country from Constantinople. Attaching himself to the man of commerce, Palmerin accompanied him to the city of Hermide, where his grateful companion furnished him with arms and a horse. Thus accoutred for the life chivalric, he betook himself to the Court of Macedon, where he received the honour of knighthood from Florendes, the son of the king of that country, and his own father. A quest soon presented itself to him. Primaleón, King of Macedon, had long been a sufferer from a grievous sickness. His physicians assured him that could he obtain water from a certain fountain his malady would disappear. But the spring in question was guarded by an immense serpent of such ferocity that to approach its lair meant certain death. Knight after knight had essayed the adventure, only to be crushed in the monster's venomous folds, so that the life-giving waters the ailing King so sorely required continued to be withheld from him. This condition of affairs seemed to Palmerin to present him with an opportunity for distinguishing himself, and without realizing the strenuous nature of the task before him he leapt into the saddle and cantered off in the direction of the serpent-guarded fountain. The Fairy Damsels Very conscious of the honour of knighthood which but so lately had been conferred upon him, and inordinately proud of the gilded spurs which glittered on his mailed heels, Palmerin was not a little pleased that he had succeeded in attracting the attention of a bevy of young and beautiful ladies, who stood where field and forest met, watching his rather haughty progress with laughing eyes. Had he been less occupied with himself and his horse, which he forced to curvet and caracole in the most outrageous fashion, he would have seen that the damsels before whom he wished to cut such a fine figure were of a beauty far too ethereal to be human, for the ladies who watched him with such amusement were princesses of the race of Faery, and had waylaid the young knight with the intention of giving him such aid as fairies have in their power. Palmerin greeted them with all the distinction of which he was capable. "God save you, fair damsels," he said, bowing almost to his horse's mane. "Can you tell me if I am near the serpent-guarded fountain?" "Fair sir," replied one of the sylphs, "you are within a league of it. But let us entreat you to turn back from such a neighbourhood as this. Many famous knights have we seen pass this way to do battle with the monster who guards its waters, but none have we seen return." "It is not my custom to turn my back upon an enterprise," said Palmerin loftily. "Did I understand you to say the fountain lies within a league of this place?" "Within a short league, Sir Knight," replied the fairy. Then, turning to her companions, she said: "Sisters, this would seem to be the youth we have awaited so long. He appears bold and resolute. Shall we confer upon him the gift?" Her companions having given their assent to this proposal, the fairy then enlightened Palmerin regarding the true character of herself and her attendant maidens, and assured him that wherever he went, or whatever adventure he undertook, neither monster nor magician would have the power to cast enchantment upon him. Then, directing him more particularly to the lair of the serpent, they disappeared in the recesses of the forest. Riding on, he speedily came within view of the fountain, but had scarcely beheld its silver waters bubbling from a green hill-side when a horrible hissing warned him of the proximity of its loathly guardian. All unafraid, however, he spurred his terrified horse forward. A blast of fire, belched from the monster's mouth, surged over him, but he bent low in the saddle and avoided it. Then, dashing at the bristling head, poised on a neck thick as a pillar, and armoured with dazzling scales, he struck fiercely at it with his falchion. The serpent tried to envelop horse and man in its folds, but ere it could bring its grisly coils to bear upon them Palmerin had smitten off its head. Returning to Macedon, the young hero was at once overwhelmed by the applications of importunate monarchs that he should assist them in one enterprise or another. All of these Palmerin achieved with such consummate address that his fame spread into all parts of Europe, and we find him as far afield as Belgium, where he delivered the Emperor of Germany from certain traitor knights who besieged him in the town of Ghent. It was during this adventure that he met and became enamoured of the Emperor's daughter, the beauteous Polinarda, who had on one occasion appeared to him in a dream. But the young paladin felt that if he were to render himself worthy of such a peerless lady he must subdue many knights in her name, and undertake adventures even more onerous than those through which he had already come scathless. Learning, therefore, of a great tournament in the land of France, he journeyed thither, and bore off the prize. Returning to Germany, Palmerin found the Emperor engaged in a war with the King of England, at the instance of the King of Norway, who had requested his assistance against the British monarch. This partisanship did not, however, appeal to Trineus, the Emperor's son, who, enamoured of the princess Agriola, daughter of the English king, privately departed with Palmerin, his object being to aid the father of his lady-love. After undergoing many adventures, the companions succeeded in carrying off the English princess, but while voyaging homeward were attacked by a furious tempest and were driven on the shores of the Morea. When the elements subsided Palmerin landed on the neighbouring island of Calpa, to engage in the sport of hawking, and during his absence the vessel in which he had left his friends was seized by Turkish pirates, who carried Agriola as a present to the Grand Turk. Trineus was even less happily situated, for being marooned upon an island, which we must surely regard as that of Circe, he was immediately transformed into a dog. To add to this indignity, his transformation did not take the shape of any of the more noble varieties of the canine race, but that of a tiny lap-dog, such as are found in ladies' boudoirs. In the meantime Palmerin, all unconscious of the fate of his friends, was discovered in the island of Calpa by Archidiana, daughter of the Soldan of Babylon, who at once pressed him into her service, refusing to allow him to depart. Archidiana had from the first conceived a violent passion for the handsome young adventurer, whose embarrassment was heightened by the knowledge that her cousin, Ardemira, had likewise fallen in love with him. The knight, however, stoutly repelled the fair advances, and Ardemira took her repulse so much to heart that she burst a blood-vessel and expired, shortly after the party had arrived at the Babylonian Court. Hearing of her demise, Amaran, son of the King of Phrygia, to whom she had been affianced, hastened to Babylon, and precipitately accused Archidiana of her death, offering to make good his assertion by an appeal to arms. Palmerin, as in duty bound, espoused the princess's quarrel, slew Amaran in single combat, and by doing so won the good graces of the Soldan, whom he assisted in the war with Phrygia which followed. The Soldan, elated by his military successes, resolved to extend his empire, and with this object in view fitted out a great expedition against Constantinople, which Palmerin was forced to accompany. But during a tempest which the Babylonian fleet encountered he commanded the seamen of his own vessel to steer for the German coast. On reaching it he made his way to the capital, and made himself known in secret to Polinarda, with whom he spent some time. But his heart misgave him regarding the fate of his friend Trineus, and he resolved to set out in quest of that unhappy prince. Journeying across Europe, he arrived at the city of Buda, where he learned that Florendos, Prince of Macedon, had recently slain Tarisius, who, it will be remembered, was his rival for the hand of the Princess Griana, and whom she had been forced to marry by her tyrannous father, the Emperor of Constantinople. Florendos had, however, been taken captive by the kinsmen of Tarisius, and had been sent to Constantinople, where he was condemned to be burnt at the stake, along with Griana, who was believed to be his accomplice. On hearing of the impending fate of those who, unknown to him, were his parents, Palmerin at once repaired to Constantinople, where he maintained their innocence, defeated their accusers, the nephews of Tarisius, in a combat à outrance, and succeeded in saving them from the terrible fate which had awaited them. While he lay in bed recovering from his wounds he was visited by the grateful Griana, who, from a mark upon his face and the account of his exposure as an infant, knew that he must be her son. On hearing her story the Emperor joyfully received Palmerin and acknowledged him as his successor. The Quest for Trineus But his new accession to power did not render Palmerin unmindful of his vow to search for his lost friend Trineus. Sailing over the Mediterranean in quest of him, he fell in with an overwhelming force of Turks, and was taken prisoner. Brought to the palace of the Grand Turk, he succeeded in liberating the princess Agriola from the power of that tyrant. Effecting his own escape, he came to the palace of a princess to whom Trineus in his shape of a lap-dog had been presented by those who had found him. This lady had contracted a severe inflammation in the nose (unromantic detail!), and requested Palmerin to accompany her to Mussabelin, a Persian magician, whom she believed to be able to remove the distressing complaint. But the sage informed her that only by means of the flowers of a tree which grew near the Castle of the Ten Steps could she be cured. Now the castle of which the magician spoke was guarded by enchantment. But that dread power was harmless to Palmerin, ever since the fairy sisters had provided him with an antidote against it. Making his way to the magic castle, he secured the flowers of the healing tree, and also took captive an enchanted bird, which was destined to announce the hour of his death by an unearthly shriek. He further ended the enchantments of the castle, and when they finally dissolved, Trineus, who had accompanied him in canine shape, was restored to his original form. The subsequent adventures of Palmerin bear such a strong likeness to those already related of him as to render their recital a work of supererogation. From the Court of one soldan he proceeds to that of another, enchantment follows enchantment, as combat treads upon the heels of combat. Finally Palmerin and Trineus return to Europe, and wed their respective ladies. Cervantes' curate is perhaps too hard upon Palmerin de Oliva. "Then, opening another volume, he found it to be Palmerin de Oliva. 'Ha! have I found you?' cried the curate; 'here, take this Oliva; let it be hewn in pieces and burnt, and the ashes scattered in the air.'" This notwithstanding, there are some brilliant passages in the romance we have just outlined--grains of golddust in a desert of unrestrained and undisciplined narrative--such flashes of genius as we find here and there in Shelley's Zastrozzi, St Irvyne, and the other hysterical outpourings of his Oxford days. Primaleón There is no doubt regarding the thoroughly Spanish character and origin of Primaleón, son and successor to Palmerin de Oliva, although, owing to the prejudice of the time for mystery and Orientalism, its author, Francisco Delicado, saw fit to announce it as a translation from the Greek. The first edition was printed in 1516, and several translations shortly followed, that in English, by Anthony Munday, being dedicated to Sir Francis Drake, and published in 1589. This translation, however, dealt only with that portion of the romance which related to the exploits of Polendos, but Munday completed the whole in editions published in 1595 and 1619. The adventures of Polendos constitute, however, by far the best part of the work. Polendos was the son of the Queen of Tharsus. Returning one day from the chase, he beheld a little old woman sitting on the steps of the palace, from which he removed her by a most ungallant but forceful kick. "It was not in this manner that your father Palmerin succoured the unfortunate," cried the crone, on picking herself up. Polendos thus learned the secret of his birth, for he was indeed the son of Palmerin and the Queen of Tharsus, and, exalted by the intelligence, he burned to distinguish himself by feats of arms worthy of his sire. Departing for Constantinople to make himself known to his father, he encountered many adventures on the way. Arrived at the imperial city, he did not long remain there, but set out to rescue the Princess Francelina from the power of a giant and a dwarf, who held her in bondage in an enchanted castle. Returning to Constantinople, he greatly distinguished himself at a tournament held on the occasion of the marriage of one of the Emperor's daughters, and Primaleón, the real hero of the story, son of Palmerin and Polinarda, desirous of emulating the exploits of his half-brother, was duly knighted, and took part in the mêlée. The rest of the romance is occupied with the adventures of this young hero and those of Duardos (Edward) of England. In the course of his adventures Palmerin had slain the son of the Duchess of Armedos, who vowed that she would only give her daughter in marriage to the man who could bring her the head of Primaleón. One by one Primaleón slew the lovers of Gridoina, the Duchess's daughter, so that in time she came to detest the mere mention of his name. But one evening Primaleón arrived at her castle, and, not knowing who he was, she fell deeply in love with him. The child of their affections was Platir, whose exploits were recounted by the same author, and published at Valladolid in 1533. We may well pass over this very indifferent romance, and bestow our attention and interest upon its more entertaining successor. Palmerin of England This is perhaps the best of the series. The first Spanish edition was believed to be lost; but a French translation from it was published at Lyons in 1553, and an Italian one at Venice in 1555. Southey maintained that there never was a Spanish original of this story, and that it was first written in Portuguese. But this hypothesis was upset by Salva's discovery of a copy of the lost Spanish original, written by Luis Kuxtado [48] and published at Toledo in two parts, in 1547 and 1548. Southey attempted to show in his English translation of Palmerin of England that a consideration of its mise en scène would afford irrefragable proof of its Lusitanian origin--surely a good illustration of the dangers and fallacies connected with this species of reasoning. An argument of equal cogency could be advanced for its original English authorship, as most of its action takes place within the borders of the 'perilous isle' of Britain, in which respect it follows Amadis, its model. In Palmerin of England we are provided with a biographical sketch of the hero's parents. Don Duardos, or Edward, son of the King of England, was wedded to Flerida, daughter of Palmerin de Oliva. While engaged in the chase, he lost his way in the depths of an English forest, and sought shelter in a mysterious castle, where he was detained by a giantess, Eutropa, whose brother he had slain. But Dramuziando, her nephew, son of the giant whom Duardos had sent to his death, was of milder mood than his terrible aunt, and conceived a strange friendship for the captive Duardos. In the meantime Flerida, alarmed at Duardos' absence, set out to search for him, accompanied by a train of attendants, and while traversing the forest in the hope of tracing him gave birth to twin sons, who were baptized in the greenwood by her chaplain. The ceremony had scarcely come to an end when a wild man, an inhabitant of the forest recesses, burst from the undergrowth, and, seizing upon the infant princes, carried them off. None might stay him, for he was accompanied by two lions of such size and ferocity that their appearance struck terror into the hearts of the stoutest of Flerida's retainers. The savage conveyed the infants, who had been named Palmerin and Florian, to his den, where he resolved to give them to the lions. Flerida returned disconsolately to the palace, and dispatched a messenger to Constantinople with news of her losses. On receiving this intelligence, Primaleón and a number of the Grecian knights took ship for England, and, learning of the imprisonment of Duardos in the castle of the giantess, they essayed his deliverance. But they made the mistake, common to errantry, of attempting to do so singly and not in a body, and so, one by one, fell a rather easy prey to the giant Dramuziando, who forced them to combat each new enemy who approached. The sylvan savage who had destined the royal twins as food for his lions had reckoned without his wife, whose motherly instincts prompted her to save the children from a fate so dire. Having prevailed upon her uncouth mate to spare them, she brought them up along with her own son Selvian. In course of time they became expert in the chase and woodcraft, and on one of his excursions in the forest while following the slot of a red deer Florian encountered Sir Pridos, son of the Duke of Wales, who took him to the English Court, where he was brought before his mother, Flerida. Attracted to the savage youth, she adopted him, and trained him in the usages of civilization, calling him 'the Child of the Desert.' Florian had not long been lost to the sylvan family when Palmerin and Selvian, wandering one day by the sea-coast, observed a galley cast upon the shore by the violence of a tempest. From this vessel Polendos (whose prior adventures were recited in the romance of Primaleón) disembarked, having come to England with other Greek knights in search of Duardos. Palmerin and Selvian requested him to take them on board his vessel, which put to sea once more, and shortly afterward arrived at Constantinople, where they were brought before the Emperor, who, of course, was in ignorance of the extraction of Palmerin, but knew of his high rank from letters he had received from a certain Lady of the Bath, who seems to have acted as the hero's good genius. The Emperor, impressed by such an introduction, knighted Palmerin, whose sword was girded to his side by Polinarda, the daughter of Primaleón. During Palmerin's residence at Constantinople a tournament was held, in which he and a stranger knight, who bore for his device a savage leading two lions, greatly distinguished themselves. The stranger departed still incognito, but was afterward discovered to be Florian, who was thenceforth known as 'the Knight of the Savage.' Palmerin fell an easy victim to the charms of the princess Polinarda, but the precipitate nature of his wooing, prompted, probably, by his sylvan upbringing, offended the courtly damsel, and she forbade him her presence. In despair at her coldness, he quitted the Grecian capital, and journeyed toward England, under the name of 'the Knight of Fortune,' taking Selvian as his squire. On the way he encountered a wealth of adventure, in which he was uniformly successful, and at last arrived in the dominions of his grandfather. But while passing through the forest inhabited by his savage foster-father he came face to face with him, and recounted his adventures. Pressing on, he came to a castle in the neighbourhood of London, the castellan of which begged of him to do battle with the Knight of the Savage, who had slain his son. Arriving in London, he defied Florian, but the Princess Flerida intervened and forbade the combat, which was not resumed, for Palmerin having at last overcome Dramuziando and set Duardos at liberty, the birth of the twin brothers was revealed by Doliarte, a magician, and confirmed by their savage foster-father. The Castle of Almaurol Spurred on by the love of adventure, Florian and Palmerin disdained to lead a life of ease at Court, and set out on their travels. We cannot follow them here through the maze of exploit into which they are plunged, but many of their trials, especially those undergone by Palmerin in the Perilous Isle, are among the most interesting and attractive in the series which bears his name. In several of the passages the amiable giant Dramuziando figures to advantage, but his aunt, the vindictive Eutropa, still retains her ill-will to the family of the Palmerins, and is constant in the exercise of her machinations against them. These are, however, challenged and countered by the skill of the magician Doliarte. The chief scene of adventure is the castle of Almaurol, where, under the care of a giant, dwelt the beautiful but haughty Miraguarda, whose lineaments were pictured on a shield which was suspended over the gate of the castle. It was guarded by a body of knights, who had become enamoured of the original, and when other paladins arrived vaunting the charms of their ladies these gave them battle. Among these victims of the fair Miraguarda was the giant Dramuziando, but during his custody of the picture it was purloined by Alhayzar, the Soldan of Babylon, whose lady, Targiana, daughter of the Grand Turk, had commanded him to bring it to her as a trophy of his prowess. The writer of the romance appeared to think it necessary at this point to recall his heroes to Constantinople in order to espouse them to their respective ladies. Palmerin was united to Polinarda, and his brother Florian to Leonarda, Queen of Thrace, so that the lovers were made happy. These espousals, however, by no means bring the romance to a conclusion, for we learn that matters had become complicated by the passion of the daughter of the Grand Turk for the newly wedded Florian. That gay young prince, while residing at the Court of the lady's father, had taken the liberty of eloping with her, and although she was now safely married to Alhayzar, Soldan of Babylon and picture-thief, she still retained a strong affection for her former lover, which was mingled with resentment that he should have deserted her charms for those of the Queen of Thrace. To ease the clamours of her jealous heart, she employed a magician to work woe upon the Thracian queen, who, while she took the air in the gardens of her palace, was pounced upon by two enormous griffins, and conveyed to a magic castle, where she was transformed into a huge serpent. Her disconsolate husband found in her deliverance an adventure quite to his taste, and, having consulted the wise Doliarte, succeeded in discovering the place where his wife was imprisoned and in freeing her from the enchantment which had been laid upon her. In accomplishing this, however, he seriously offended the proud Alhayzar, who determined to avenge the affront placed upon his queen, and demanded the person of Florian from the Emperor of Constantinople. On receiving the imperial refusal which naturally followed his request, he invaded the Greek territories, with an army of two hundred thousand men, recruited from all the kingdoms and satrapies of the Orient, real and imaginary. Three sanguinary battles occurred, in one of which Alhayzar was slain and the pagan army totally annihilated. Cervantes' Eulogy Cervantes launches into an extravagant eulogy of this romance. "This Palmerin of England," he says, "let it be kept and preserved as a thing unique, and let another casket be made for it such as Alexander found among the spoils of Darius.... This book, Sir Comrade, is of authority, for two reasons: the one because it is a right good one in itself, and the other because the report is that a wise king of Portugal composed it. All the adventures at the Castle of Miraguarda are excellent, and managed with great skill; the discourses are courtly and clear, observing with much propriety and judgment the decorum of the speaker. I say then, saving your good pleasure, Master Nicholas, this and Amadis de Gaul should be saved from the fire, and all the rest be, without further search, destroyed." Saving your good pleasure, Master Cervantes, I would come to an issue with you regarding this. For though Palmerin of England is the best romance of those which recount the adventures of that line, still it does not bear away the bell quite so easily as you say. Indeed, its merits are not transcendently above those of its kind, and its faults are of the same character. Again, true Spaniard as you are, do you not praise it so greatly because you believe it to be the work of a king? And do you not demean yourself to the level of a newspaper critic when you doom to extinction those romances which you have not read? Further, as a Castilian gentleman, do you agree with the author's most despiteful entreatment of that sweet sex for whose sake all romances were written? No good knight, no good man, could have penned so many stupidities concerning their envy, their fickleness, their lack of reason, as he has done; and still worse, he has made them mere puppets, moving as the strings are pulled. For one thing I thank him, however--his character of the magician Doliarte, a wise sage dwelling in the Valley of Perdition, lost in contemplation of mysterious things. Nay, for a greater thing I have to thank him also, the colours of the marvellous, the intoxicating magic with which he has suffused his story; and if the rush of it, the spell of it, transported you to the forests of Faery and blinded you to the book's demerits, you are perhaps to be excused if your enchanted eyes refused to behold them and saw only the outward glamours of that rainbow world. CHAPTER VI: CATALONIAN ROMANCES Romances from a coast of love and wine, Echoing the music of adventurous swords, Murmur of necromancy's dark ingyne, And speech that holds the ghosts of curious words. The literary genius of Catalonia was unquestionably a lyrical one, as befitted a province so happily endowed by nature, clothed with the purple mantle of vineyards, and laved by the calm beauty of a dreamy ocean. Epic has her home in rugged and wind-swept lands, where the elemental trumpets of the air arouse the soul of man to fiercer song and fill the memory with the clash of war. But on sheltered strands, mellow with sun and painted in the ripe colours of plenty, a softer and more dreamy music mimics the æolian sound of the zephyrs which steal like melodious spirits through orchard and vineyard. Yet this province of the Trovadores was not without its legends of chivalric enterprise, and indeed produced two romances of such intrinsic merit that they may be regarded as occupying an unassailable position in the literature of the Peninsula. Partenopex de Blois The beautiful and highly finished romance of Partenopex de Blois was written in the Catalonian dialect in the thirteenth century, and printed at Tarragona in 1488. That the tale was originally French is highly probable, but it is no mere translation, and the treatment it has received in the course of adaptation has undoubtedly made it a thing as wholly Catalonian as The Cid is Castilian. Here is the story of the knight Partenopex. On the death of the Emperor Julian of Greece the rule of his kingdom devolved upon his daughter Melior, a maiden of extraordinary talents, who was, moreover, possessed of a deep knowledge regarding the hidden sciences. Notwithstanding her ability, however, her advisers did not think it fitting that she should rule alone, and insisted that she should address herself to the task of selecting a husband. They granted her a space of two years in which to make choice of a suitable consort, and in order that she might be able to select a parti of a rank sufficiently illustrious to match with her own, she dispatched embassies to all the principal courts of Europe, bidding their members to inquire diligently into the credentials of all eligible princes. At this time there lived in France a youth of much beauty and promise in arms called Partenopex de Blois, nephew to the King of Paris. While following the train of his royal uncle in the chase one day, in the green shades of the Forest of Ardennes, he became separated from the rest of the party and lost his way. Forced to spend the night in the forest, he awoke with the dawn, and, in trying to find his bearings, came to the seashore. To his surprise, he beheld a splendid vessel moored near to the land. In the hope that its crew would be able to direct him as to the path he should take to reach home, he went on board the ship, but found her deserted. He was about to quit the vessel when she began to move, and, gaining speed, cleaved the water with such velocity that to attempt to leave her was impossible. After a voyage as short as it was swift, Partenopex found himself moored in a bay in a country of the most enchanting description. Disembarking, the youth walked inland, and soon came to the walls of a stately castle. He entered, and, to his surprise, found it as deserted as the vessel which had brought him thither. The principal chamber was illuminated by the sparkle of countless diamonds, and the young knight, who was by this time famished with hunger, was pleased to see an exquisite repast spread on the table before him. He was soon to learn the magical nature of all things in that enchanted castle, for the dainties with which the table groaned found their own way to his lips, and when he had refreshed himself sufficiently a lighted torch appeared as if suspended in the air, and preceded him to a bed-chamber, where he was undressed by invisible hands. As he lay in bed thinking upon the extraordinary nature of the adventure which had befallen him a lady entered the apartment, and introduced herself as Melior, the Empress of Greece. She told the young knight that she had fallen in love with him from the account of her ambassadors, and had contrived to bring him to her castle by dint of the powers of magic she possessed. She commanded him to remain at the castle, but warned him that if he attempted to see her again before two years had elapsed the result would be the loss of her affection. She then quitted the apartment, which was entered in the morning by her sister Uracla, who brought him the most splendid apparel. The Mysterious Castle In the mysterious castle of Melior Partenopex found no lack of entertainment, for the extensive grounds by which it was surrounded afforded him the pleasures of the chase, and in the evenings he was amused by the sweet strains of invisible musicians. Everything possible and impossible was done to render his stay pleasant and memorable. But in the midst of the delights with which he was surrounded he learned that his country had been attacked by a host of enemies. He communicated to his invisible mistress his desire that he should be permitted to fight for the land of his birth, and when she had received his assurance that he would return she placed at his service the magic vessel in which he had come to her coasts, and by its aid he shortly regained the shores of France. Partenopex was making his way as quickly as possible to Paris to place his sword at the service of his king, when he encountered a knight whose conduct toward him brought matters to the arbitrament of a combat. When they had fought for a space Partenopex discovered that his opponent was none other than Gaudin, the lover of Uracla, the sister of Melior, and from being at daggers drawn the two young knights became the closest companions, and rode on together to where the Court sat at Paris. Shortly after his return to the capital Partenopex was presented to the Lady Angelica, niece of the Pope, who promptly fell in love with him. Animated by the mistaken belief that 'All's fair in love,' she intercepted his letters from Melior, and thus learned of his passion for the wonder-working Empress of Constantinople. Enlisting on her side a hermit of great sanctity, she bade him repair to Partenopex and denounce his lady-love as a demon of darkness, who was so lost to all good that she even partook of the outward semblance of a fiend in possessing a serpent's tail, black skin, white eyes, and red teeth. This story Partenopex stoutly refused to credit, but when hostilities had come to an end and he had returned to the enchanted castle the hermit's tale still agitated his mind, and he resolved to put it to the test, for Melior had visited him in the dark and he knew not how she appeared. So one fateful night, when all the castle was plunged in slumber, the young knight equipped himself with a lamp and made his way to the chamber where he knew Melior slept. Entering softly, he held the lamp above the form of his sleeping mistress, and when he beheld her warm human beauty he knew that false slander had been spoken of her. But, alas! as he gazed at her recumbent loveliness a drop of oil from the lamp he held fell upon her bosom and she awoke. Furious that her commands had been broken, she would have slain her unhappy lover on the spot, but at the intercession of Uracla, who had entered the chamber on hearing her sister's exclamations of anger, the incensed Empress at last permitted him to depart without scathe. The unfortunate Partenopex quitted the castle in all haste, and in time came once more to the green shadows of Ardennes, where he resolved to perish in strife with the savage beasts which haunted its dark recesses. But although they devoured his steed they seemed unwilling to encounter the knight himself. The neighings of his charger brought Uracla, who had been searching for him, to the spot, and she succeeded in inducing him to accompany her to her castle in Tenedos, there to await a more complacent attitude on the part of her sister. Returning to the wrathful Empress, she at last persuaded her to send forth a decree that she would bestow her hand upon the victor in a tournament she was about to proclaim. Preparations for the tournament proceeded apace, and Partenopex awaited the day in Uracla's castle in Tenedos. But he was not permitted to remain in peace, for Parseis, one of Uracla's maidens, conceived a passionate attachment to him, which she avowed to him while they were taking a short trip in a boat. Partenopex, taken aback, was about to protest, when the frail vessel was caught up by a terrific tempest, and the pair were driven upon the coast of Syria. On landing they were seized by the people of that country, who bore the knight to their king, Hermon, and he was cast into prison. A sad plight was that of Partenopex, for he heard that Hermon and other knights had departed to the tournament of Melior at Constantinople, while he had perforce to remain in durance vile and renounce all hope of regaining his place in the affections of his lady by force of arms. But Partenopex succeeded in interesting the Queen in his affairs, and she assisted in his escape from his Syrian prison. He arrived at Constantinople just in time to participate in the tournament. Many and powerful were his opponents, the most formidable being the Soldan of Persia, but at length he overcame them all, and when he asked to be permitted to claim his reward he was received by Melior with every mark of forgiveness and rejoicing. The Type of 'Partenopex' The romance of Partenopex is undoubtedly of the same class as those of Cupid and Psyche and Melusine, in which one spouse must not behold another on pain of loss. The loss invariably occurs, but poetical justice usually demands that recovery should take place after many trials. Frequently the husband or wife takes beast or reptile shape, as in the grand old romance of Melusine, to which Partenopex bears a strong resemblance, and by which I think it has certainly been sophisticated. But in the story with which we have been dealing the reputed semi-reptilian form which the heroine is said to possess is proved to be the figment of the brain of a jealous rival, and in this we have a valuable variant of the main form of the legend, illustrating the rise within it of more modern ideas and the skilful utilization of an antique form to the uses of the writer of fiction. The tale of Partenopex de Blois certainly deserves fuller study at the hands of folklorists than it has yet received, and I hope they will peruse its Catalonian as well as its French form, thus rendering their purview of the tale more embracive. Tirante the White The grand old tale of Tirante the White was the work of two Catalonian authors, Juan Martorell and Juan de Gilha, the latter completing the work of the former. Martorell states that he translated the romance from the English, and it certainly seems as if portions of the work had been sophisticated or influenced by the old English romance of Sir Guy of Warwick. I cannot, however, discern any signs of direct translation, and think it very probable that the author's statement in this regard is one of those polite fictions employed by the romance-writers of Old Spain to render their efforts more mysterious or to guard themselves against the merciless critics with whom the Peninsula seems to have swarmed in a period when well-nigh everybody was bitten with the craze for belles-lettres. The romance was first printed at Valencia in 1490. It contains reference to the Canary Islands, which were first discovered in 1326, and were not well known even in Spain until the beginning of the fifteenth century, so that we may perhaps be justified in fixing the date of its composition about that period, especially as it alludes to a work on chivalry entitled L'Arbre des Batailles, which was not published until 1390. The book was translated into Castilian and produced at Valladolid in 1511, and was followed by Italian and French translations by Manfredi and the Comte de Caylus respectively, but the latter has dreadfully mutilated the original, and has even altered its main plot as well as many of its lesser incidents, and has imported into it an unhealthy atmosphere which we do not find in the work as given us by Martorell. On the occasion of the marriage of a certain King of England with a beautiful and accomplished princess of France the most extraordinary efforts were made to signalize the entente thus ratified by a tournament of the most splendid description. Learning of these martial preparations, Tirante, a young knight of Brittany, resolved to participate in them, and with a number of youthful companions who had a like object in view he took ship for England, where in due time he landed, and proceeded to Windsor. But the fatigues of the voyage overtook him and he fell asleep, lulled into slumber by the jog-trot of his weary charger. It is not to be wondered at that in this manner he became separated from his brisker companions, and that on awaking he found himself alone on the broad highway. Setting spurs to his destrier, he pushed on for a few miles, but feeling the necessity for rest and refreshment he cast about for a halting-place, and was cheered by the sight of a humble lodging, which he believed to be a hermitage, nestling among the trees at some distance from the roadside and almost concealed in the leafy shadows. Dismounting, he entered the place, and was confronted by a person whose hermit's garb ill suited him, and whose disguise was soon penetrated by the practised eye of knighthood, so that Tirante was scarcely surprised to observe that the recluse was engaged in reading the book known as L'Arbre des Batailles, a work which descants with learning and insight upon the precepts and practice of chivalry. The Hermit Earl The hermit was, indeed, none other than William, Earl of Warwick, a renowned champion, who, tired of the frivolities of the Court, had gone on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Arrived at the Holy Sepulchre, he had spread a report of his death, had returned to England in the disguise of a pilgrim or palmer, and had taken up his abode in the hermitage where Tirante discovered him, and which was not far from the castle where his countess resided. But his retirement was not destined to last long, for when the great King of the Canary Islands landed in England with a formidable army, the Earl, beholding the widespread consternation occasioned by his invasion, took up arms once more. The advance of the raiders was, however, so swift that the King of England was speedily driven from Canterbury and London, and was compelled to seek refuge in the town of Warwick, where he was hotly besieged by the Canarese forces. At this crisis the Earl came to his assistance, slew the King of the Canaries in single combat, and dispersed his army in a pitched battle. This accomplished, he revealed himself to his countess, and once more retired to his hermitage. All of these details agree in a measure with those of the old English romance of Sir Guy of Warwick. Tirante made himself known to the hermit Earl, told him that he was so called because his father was lord of the marches of Tirraine, situated in that part of France which was opposite the coast of England, and that his mother was daughter to the Duke of Brittany. He further told his host that he was resolved to take part in the great tournament held to celebrate the royal wedding, whereupon the Earl read him a chapter from the book he had been perusing regarding the whole duty of a knight. This he followed by a lecture upon the use of arms and the exploits of ancient paladins. When he had finished he observed that the hour was late and that as Tirante was ignorant of the roads he had better hasten upon his way, and, pressing the youthful champion to accept the book from which he had been reading, he bade him farewell. A twelvemonth passed. Tirante, having shown his superiority at the tournament, was returning with some forty of his companions from the Court, when they once more passed the Earl's retreat, and halted to pay their duty to him. Interested to learn of the warlike pageant, he inquired who had most distinguished himself, and was told that Tirante had borne off the prize. A French lord called Villermes, having objected to his wearing a favour given him by the fair Agnes, daughter of the Duke of Berri, had defied him to mortal combat, and had required that they should fight armed with bucklers of paper and helmets of flowers. Villermes was slain in the encounter, but Tirante, having recovered from eleven wounds, shortly afterward slew four knights, brothers-in-arms, who proved to be the Kings of Poland and Friesland and the Dukes of Burgundy and Bavaria. A certain subject of the King of Friesland, rejoicing in the name of Kyrie Eleison, or 'Lord have mercy upon us,' and descended from the ancient giants, now arrived in England to avenge his master's death. On beholding his sovereign's tomb, however, he expired from grief on seeing the arms of Tirante suspended over the Frisian standard. His place was supplied by his brother, Thomas of Montauban, a champion of stature still more gigantic, who was, however, defeated by the young Breton knight and forced to sue for his life. Having paid his respects to the Earl, Tirante returned to his native Brittany, but he had been only a few days in the castle of his fathers when a messenger arrived with the news that the Knights of Rhodes were closely besieged by the Genoese and the Soldan of Cairo. Accompanied by Philip, youngest son of the King of France, Tirante set out to the relief of the island, and in the course of the voyage anchored in the roads of Palermo, where he sojourned for a space. When at length he arrived at Rhodes the besiegers beat a hasty retreat, and having freed the island from their presence Tirante and his men returned to Sicily, where Prince Philip espoused the princess of that country. But the wedding festivities had scarcely come to an end when a herald from the Emperor of Constantinople arrived at the Sicilian Court with the moving information that his master's territories had been invaded by the Grand Turk and the Soldan of the Moors. Once more chivalric honour demanded that a Christian land should be rescued from the clutches of the paynim, and Tirante, setting sail for Constantinople, was, on his arrival there, entrusted with the supreme command of the Hellenic forces. A great part of the romance is occupied by the details of the war carried on against the Turks, who were invariably defeated in battle after battle, so that at length they called for a truce. This was granted, and the interval of repose was occupied with splendid festivals and tournaments. At this juncture of affairs no less a personage than the celebrated Urganda arrived in Constantinople in quest of her brother, the renowned Arthur, King of Britain. The Emperor, searching among those of his prisoners who were kept in the most obscure dungeons, found the hero of heroes pining out his old age in an iron cage, reduced to the lowest level of physical debility. Restored to his ancient weapon, the good sword Excalibur, the hapless monarch was able to answer any questions put to him with address. But when the blade was withdrawn from his grasp he sank ever lower into the second childhood of senility. After giving a splendid supper, Urganda disappeared with her ancient brother, nor was anyone aware whither they had gone. Up to this time Tirante had contrived to remain fancy-free, but at last he fell a willing victim to the bright eyes of the Emperor's daughter, the Princess Carmesina. His affair went smoothly enough until one of her attendants, Reposada, having fallen passionately in love with the young knight, succeeded in arousing his jealousy by a wretched stratagem, and, offended to the soul at what he believed to be the baseness of his mistress, he set out once more for the army without taking his leave of her. But the vessel in which he set sail was caught in a violent tempest and driven upon the coasts of Africa. Wandering disconsolate on the shore, Tirante encountered an ambassador of the King of Tormecen, who conducted him to Court and presented him to his master, whom he assisted in the wars in which that monarch was naturally engaged. On one occasion he besieged the city of Montagata, when a lady issued from its gates to sue for peace on behalf of its inhabitants. To his surprise he found her to be one of the Princess Carmesina's attendants, who told him the truth regarding the trick played upon him by the false Reposada. He at once raised the siege, and returned to Constantinople at the head of an enormous army to succour the Greek Emperor. Burning the Turkish fleet, he rendered the retreat of the Soldan's forces impracticable, and secured an advantageous peace. Splendid preparations were now made for the wedding of Tirante and Carmesina. But while on his return to Constantinople after the conclusion of the treaty he received orders, at the distance of a day's journey from the city, to wait until the completion of those preparations before entering Constantinople. While walking on the banks of a river in conversation with the Kings of Ethiopia, Fez, and Sicily, he was seized with a deadly pleurisy, and, despite all the efforts of his attendants, expired shortly afterward. The Emperor and Princess, on learning of his demise, were unable to restrain their grief, and died on the day they heard of his death. We have at last encountered a romance which does not end happily. In what manner such a dénouement was received by the Spanish public we know not, but at least they cannot but have been struck by its originality. That Tirante the White was a popular favourite, however, is clear from the praise lavished upon it by Cervantes. "By her taking so many romances together," he says, "there fell one at the barber's feet, who had a mind to see what it was, and found it to be Tirante the White. 'God save me,' quoth the priest in a loud voice, 'is Tirante the White there? Give me him here, neighbour, for I shall find him a treasure of delight, and a mine of entertainment.'" He then advised the housewife to take it home and read it, "for though the author deserves to be sent to the gallows for writing so many foolish things seriously, yet in its way it is the best book in the world. Here the knights eat and sleep and die in their beds, and make their wills before their death, with several things which are wanting in all other books of this kind." Is not this the essence of the revolt against the unnatural absurdities which so often characterized romance, expressed succinctly by the man who headed the mutiny? CHAPTER VII: RODERIC, LAST OF THE GOTHS Last night I was a King of Spain--to-day no King am I. Last night fair castles held my train, to-night where shall I lie? Last night a hundred pages did serve me on the knee, To-night not one I call my own; not one pertains to me. Lockhart, Spanish Ballads The tragic and tumultuous story of the manner in which Spain was delivered into the hands of the Moors is surely a theme worthy of treatment by the highest genius. But either because it offended the national pride or otherwise failed to make an appeal to the Castilian temperament, its epic remains unwritten. Few passages in history afford such an opportunity for the delineation of the deeper human passions as the episode which resulted in the betrayal of an entire country for the gratification of a private wrong. It presents such a catastrophe as urged Æschylus to compose the moving and majestic drama of Electra. Yet it has found no more potent expression than in the dreary parchment of the latest Spanish chronicle and the pedestrian verse of Southey's Roderick, the Last of the Goths, which draws its inspiration from the pseudo-history of that account. [49] Before we examine the romantic material embedded in The Chronicle of Don Roderic, with the Destruction of Spain, it will be well to trace the story of the downfall of the Gothic empire in Spain by the aid of such materials as we can trust to supply us with a more or less accurate account of it. These are to be found in the General Chronicle of Spain and in the pages of the Moorish historians. Summarized, the facts relating to the incident are probably as follows: From the period of the settlement of the Mohammedan Arabs in Mauretania their fleets had frequently ravaged the coasts of Andalusia, by which name the entire Spanish peninsula was known to them. An enmity arose between Spanish Goth and Moorish Arab which was heightened not only by the difference in their religion but by the circumstance that the fortress of Ceuta in Mauretania still remained in Gothic hands. This outpost of the Gothic empire was held by the vigilance and courage of Count Julian, a leader of experience, who retained the fortress against tremendous odds. The ruler of Spain at this period was one Don Roderic, who does not appear to have held the throne by hereditary right. Witiza, his predecessor, had slain Roderic's father, the governor of a province, and, whether to gratify his revenge or purely because of his ambitions, Roderic succeeded in having the claims of Witiza's two sons set aside and in securing the crown for himself. But the monarchy among the Goths of Spain was still elective, and it may be that Roderic had been legally placed on the throne by the suffrages of his fellow-peers. It is probable that Count Julian was a member of the unsuccessful faction headed by the royal brothers, and that, in despair of displacing Roderic by force of arms, he sought the assistance of his Moorish enemies to accomplish his downfall. But tradition, whether rightly or otherwise, disdains to accept the circumstances of a cold political issue as an adequate reason for Count Julian's defection from loyalty, and has a much more romantic explanation to advance for his traitorous act. Roderic, we are told, was a ruler of evil and scandalous character. He conceived a violent passion for Cava, the young and beautiful daughter of Count Julian, whom he abducted and dishonoured. Roused to fury and despair at Roderic's act, Julian instantly resolved upon a terrible revenge, and, not content with handing over the fortress which he had so long maintained against a powerful enemy, he suggested to Musa, the Moorish king or satrap, the invasion of Spain, binding himself even more closely to the infidels by accepting their religion and conforming to their customs. He impressed upon Musa the natural advantages of his native land, and laid stress upon its distracted and defenceless condition, the effeminacy and degeneracy of its warriors, and the unprotected state of its cities. Musa recognized that an opportunity offered itself to extend the Arab dominions, and sent an embassy to Walid, the Caliph, his suzerain, asking his opinion of such an enterprise. Walid encouraged him to proceed with it. But Musa, although a brave and active leader, was shrewd and cautious, and instead of launching a great armada against a country of whose defensive capacity he knew little, contented himself in the first instance by making a raid, in July a.d. 710, on the Spanish coast, as if to test the fighting qualities of its defenders. The expedition consisted of only five hundred men, who, landing at Tarifa, marched some eighteen miles through Spanish territory to the castle and town of Julian. There they were joined by the disaffected adherents of that nobleman, and, meeting with no opposition, returned to Africa with an abundance of spoil. Encouraged by the success of their preliminary enterprise, the Saracens now levied an army of five thousand men, and in the spring of 711, under the leadership of a certain Tarik, landed upon Spanish soil at a spot which still bears the name of their commander, Gibraltar, for Gebel al Tarik signifies 'the Mountain of Tarik.' They speedily defeated a Spanish force under Edeco, but Roderic, now fully aroused to the danger by which his rule was threatened, summoned his vassals to the royal standard, their number, we are told, amounting to nearly one hundred thousand men. Tarik had by this time been reinforced, but could muster only some twelve thousand troops of Moorish race, though these were augmented by a host of Africans and disaffected Goths. The armies met near Cadiz, Roderic himself leading the Gothic host, resplendent in his princely robes of silk and gold embroidery, and reclining in a car drawn by white mules. The Gothic attack almost succeeded by sheer weight of numbers, and sixteen thousand of the Moorish army were slain in the first encounter. But Tarik encouraged his flagging forces by pointing out to them that retreat was impossible. "The enemy is before you," he said, "the sea behind you. Whither would ye fly? Follow me, my brethren. I shall trample on yon King of the Romans or perish." Roderic's Fate But assistance for the Moors was at hand, for the two sons of Witiza, who occupied the most important posts in the Spanish army, suddenly broke away from the main body. This brought about a general panic. Roderic, mounting his fleet charger Orelia, was drowned while attempting to swim the Guadalquivir, leaving his diadem and robes on the bank. At the instigation of Count Julian, Tarik pressed on to Toledo, which, however, held out for three months, and dispatched a force to reduce the kingdom of Granada. This was duly accomplished, and Toledo surrendered on the Moor's assurance that its inhabitants would be permitted to leave with their possessions, a promise which was faithfully kept. The Jews, who had especially assisted the pagan invaders, were richly rewarded by them, and, indeed, formed an alliance with them which lasted until both were eventually and happily expelled from the country. From Toledo Tarik spread his conquests over Castile and Leon, penetrating north as far as the town of Gijon in Asturias, where further progress was barred by the waters of the Bay of Biscay. In a few months practically the whole of Spain had become a Mohammedan province, and only a handful of Gothic warriors were able to hold out in the valleys of Asturias against the conquering Moor. We may now leave the path of definite history for the more picturesque if also more uncertain road of romance. The chronicles recount Don Roderic's abandoned wickedness, and tell how the invasion of the Moors, instigated by Julian, broke as a thunderclap upon the unprincipled ruler. The strife with the Saracens is described, and Roderic's flight is painted in gloomy colours. But just as popular legend refused to credit the death of Arthur on that day at Camelot, or the fate of James IV of Scotland on Flodden Field, or the death of Harold at Hastings, so it refused to believe in that of Roderic. Racial sentiment refuses to admit the death of a popular leader, and have not legends been afloat even in our own day concerning the lamented Lord Kitchener? Tradition [50] has it, then, that as Roderic was about to plunge into the waters of the Guadalquivir a divine light burst upon him, and a secret voice adjured him to repent of his sins and live. Acting upon the advice of this inward counsellor, he divested himself of his royal insignia, and taking from the dead the garment of a humble peasant, stole from the field. All night he fled, haunted by fearful visions of the wrath to come. On all sides he beheld the dreadful consequences of his defeat. Staggering on through scenes of misery and ruin which wrung his heart, he came at length, after seven days' travel, to the monastery of Canlin, on the banks of the river Ana, near Minda. The place was deserted, but the wretched fugitive cast himself down beside the altar to await his doom in prayer, for he fully believed that sooner or later the infidels would trace him to this retreat and dispatch him. He fed the lamps with oil, only leaving the holy shrine from time to time to see if the Saracens approached. Beneath the crucifix he lay, clasping the feet of the Redeemer's image, and weeping icy tears of penitence. As he grovelled there he became aware that some one had entered the chapel, and, raising his eyes in hope of a speedy death by the scimitar of a Moorish soldier, to his surprise he beheld a monk, who gently addressed him, and explained that he had returned to the place which for threescore years and five he had called home, trusting to die there by the hand of an infidel and thus to gain the crown of a martyr. Roderic revealed his name to the father, who, deeply impressed by the tone of penitence in his voice, knelt beside him and ministered to the stricken monarch throughout the long night hours. He assured him that he must live to work out his salvation, and when morning broke the aged priest and he who yesterday had been one of the proudest kings in Christendom quitted the chapel and went on their way. The holy father led the crownless King to a hermitage, where he gave him further ghostly counsel, enjoining him to remain in that place so long as it should please God. "As for me," he said, "on the third day from hence I shall pass out of this world, and thou shalt bury me and take my garments and remain here for the space of a year at least, that thou mayst endure hunger and cold and thirst in the love of our Lord, that He may have compassion on thee." On the third day, as he had prophesied, the hermit expired. Deeply grieved at his death, Roderic busied himself in carrying out his last wishes, and with an oaken staff and his bare hands dug a grave for the holy man's body. When he was in the act of laying him in the ground he found a scroll in his hand covered with writing, addressed to himself, and containing advice concerning the life he should lead while an inmate of the hermitage. This Roderic reverently perused, and resolved to follow its injunctions to the letter. But the Father of Evil was not minded that the King should proceed undisturbed in his quest for salvation, and that night appeared to him as he was in the act of committing the hermit to the grave. He came in monkish garb, his features hooded by a great cowl, and further disguised by a beard of venerable length and silvery whiteness, supporting himself by a staff as if he were lame. Roderic took him for a friend of the dead hermit, and would have kissed his hand, but the Fiend drew back, saying: "It is not meet that a king should kiss the hand of a poor servant of God." The King, hearing his identity thus revealed, believed the Devil to be a holy man, speaking by aid of a revelation. "Alas!" he said, "I am not a king, but a miserable sinner, who had better never have been born, so much woe has visited the land through my misdoing." "Thou hast not so much fault as thou thinkest," replied Satan, "for the calamity of which thou speakest would have occurred in any case. It was ordained, and the fault was not thine. My words are those of a spirit created by the will of God, and not mine own." The Evil One then pretended that he had journeyed all the way from Rome to help Roderic in his distress, and hearing this the King rejoiced, and listened reverently as the Devil attempted to controvert the teaching of the dead hermit by specious arguments. But when the King requested the seeming holy man to assist him in burying the anchorite's remains he was surprised to see him turn and make off at a good speed, despite his alleged lameness. At the hour of noon next day the Devil returned with a basket full of savoury food. But the dead hermit had enjoined Roderic to eat of nothing but the rye bread which the shepherds would bring him once a week, and obedient to this, he withstood the tempter's proffered meat and wine. The argument betwixt the King and Satan is then elaborated with medieval prolixity and due regard to the hair-splitting, logic-chopping theology of the time. Even a medieval sense of decency might have prompted the writer to omit the King's interview with the Holy Ghost, as to which I will only say here that at the word of the Holy Spirit the foul fiend fled in the shape of a horrid devil, bristling with the insignia of hell. Satan's Stratagem But the Enemy was not yet finished with Don Roderic, for one evening at set of sun the hermit King saw one approach with a great power of armed men and every display of pomp and circumstance. As the train drew nearer, Roderic, to his amazement, beheld in its leader Count Julian, who came to him and would have kissed his hand with every sign of homage, offering himself up to the King's vengeance and justice, and freely acknowledging his treason. The seeming Julian begged him to rise up and take once more his proper place at the head of the Spanish forces, so that the infidel might be thrust out of Spain. But Roderic, suspecting another fiendish stratagem, shook his head, and requested Julian to accept the leadership of the Gothic army himself, as his vows did not permit him to engage any longer in worldly affairs. Julian turned to the great company behind him, among whom Roderic beheld many whom he had thought to have been slain in battle, and these enthusiastically seconded their leader's arguments. But when the fiendish crew saw that their pleading was without avail they withdrew to the plain below, where they formed themselves in battle array, as if awaiting the onset of an enemy. And lo! against them came a multitude of seeming pagans, so that a great and fierce carnage followed. To the anxious eyes of the King, those who represented the Christian host seemed to put the paynim to the rout, and messengers spurred to the hermitage, announcing to him that his people had gained a glorious victory. But as the cock crowed the whole pageant of battle passed away like smoke borne before the breeze, and the King knew that he had once more withstood the wiles of the Enemy. Now for three months the Devil refrained from tormenting Don Roderic, but at the end of that time he sent upon him a more grievous trial than any that had gone before. As he was saying his prayers at the hour of vespers, he beheld a train of cavaliers ride up to the hermitage, and when they halted and alighted there came toward him a damsel in the guise of that Cava, the daughter of Count Julian, whom he had so foully wronged. At sight of her the wretched man's heart almost ceased to beat, but ere he could speak she told him that her father had turned his sword on the Moors and had conquered them, that Eliaca, his Queen, was no more, and that a holy man had told her that she must forthwith find Don Roderic and wed with him, and that she should bring forth a son called Elbersan, who should bring the whole world under the sceptre of Spain. When Roderic heard these words he trembled exceedingly, for greatly had he loved Cava. She ordered a pavilion to be pitched near the hermitage, and her train set out a sumptuous repast. Seeing how beautiful she was, the King shook as with a palsy. But he clasped his hands and, commending himself to God, begged to be delivered from temptation. As he made the sign of the Cross the false Cava fled shrieking, and her infernal train followed with such a rout and noise that the whole world seemed to be falling to pieces. Once more the Holy Spirit admonished Roderic to guard against such stratagems of the Devil, and far into the day the repentant but victorious King prayed without ceasing in thanksgiving for his deliverance from the snares of hell. The Death of Roderic The time now came when it was appointed that the King should leave the retreat where he had passed through trials so many and so terrible, and, following a cloud appointed for his guidance, he girded up his loins and set forth on his journey. Before nightfall of the first day he came to another hermitage, where he lodged during the hours of darkness. After two days' journeying he came to a place unnamed, which was destined to be that of his burial. The Elder of this place told him that he must go to a fountain below the hermitage in which he had taken up his abode, and that he should there find a smooth stone. This he was instructed to raise, when he would find below it three little serpents, one having two heads. This two-headed serpent he must place in a jar and nourish secretly, so that none should know of its existence, and so hide it until it grew large enough to wind its coils three times within the jar and put its head out. Then he must place it in a tomb and lie down himself with it, naked, for such, it pleased God, should be his penance, according to a voice the Elder had heard speaking in the church of that place. Roderic scrupulously followed the Elder's injunctions, found the reptile, and waited patiently till the two-headed serpent had waxed great within the jar. Then, in company with the Elder, he divested himself of his raiment and sought the tomb, wherein he laid himself down. And when he had done so the Elder took a lever and laid a great stone upon the top. Having lain there three days, during which the Elder prayed and watched devoutly, the serpent raised its heads and began with one head to devour his sinful nature and with the other to eat his heart. In great torment did Roderic lie in that place. But at length the serpent broke through the web of the heart, so that incontinently the King gave up his spirit to God, Who by His holy mercy took him into His glory. And at the hour when he expired all the bells of the place rang of themselves, as if they had been rung by the hands of men. So, in the strange spirit of medieval mysticism, ends the piteous legend of Don Roderic of Spain. Who shall unriddle the weird significance of its close, unless, like old Thomas Newton in his Notable History of the Saracens, they believe "that the serpent with two heads signifieth his sinful and gylty conscience"? Requiescas in pace, Domine Roderice! CHAPTER VIII: "CALAYNOS THE MOOR" "GAYFEROS" AND "COUNT ALARCOS" I bracket these three romances together in this chapter not only because they appear to have been held in the highest favour by the people of Old Spain, but for the equally good reason that they seem to me to manifest the national taste and genius more markedly than others of the same class, if, indeed, they did not belong to a class by themselves, as I have always suspected they did, for in all Castilian accounts of romantic fiction they are frequently mentioned together, and this traditional treatment of them may arise from the consciousness of their similarity of genre. But above and beyond this they possess and enshrine that grave and austere spirit so typical of all true Spanish literature, and at least one of them is deeply tinged with the atmosphere of fatal and remorseless tragedy which only the Latin or the Hellene knows how to evoke, for not the greatest masters of the Northern races, neither Marlowe nor Massinger, Goethe nor Shakespeare, can drape such sombre curtains around their stage as Calderon or Lope. Calaynos Calaynos, one of the most renowned of the Moorish knights, is the hero of more than one romance in verse. But that which is best known, and most regular in its sequence of events, is the Coplas de Calainos, which has been translated so successfully by Lockhart in his Spanish Ballads. The Moorish champion, it tells us, was enamoured of a maiden of his own nation, and in order to win her favour offered her broad estates and abundant wealth. But in her petulance she refused this comfortable homage, and demanded the heads of three of the most valiant champions of Christendom--Rinaldo, Roland, and Oliver! Bestowing on his lady a farewell kiss, Calaynos immediately set out for Paris, and when he had arrived there displayed the crescent banner of his faith before the Church of St John. He caused a blast to be blown upon his trumpet, the sound of which was well known to Charlemagne and his twelve peers, and was heard by them as they hunted in the greenwood, some miles from the city. Shortly afterward the royal train encountered a Moor, and the Emperor haughtily demanded of him how he dared to show his green turban within his dominions. He replied that he served Calaynos, who sent his defiance to Charlemagne and all his peers, whose onset he awaited at Paris. As they rode back to encounter the bold infidel Charlemagne suggested to Roland that he should take the chastisement of Calaynos upon himself, but that haughty paladin proposed that the task should be delegated to some carpet-knight, as he considered it beneath his prowess to do battle with a single Moor. Sir Baldwin, Roland's nephew, boasted that he would bring Calaynos' green turban to the dust, and, spurring ahead, soon came face to face with the stern Moorish lord, who, with a sneer, offered to take him into the service of his lady as a page. Right angry was Baldwin when he heard these words, and, hurling his defiance at Calaynos, bade him prepare for battle. The Moor vaulted upon his barb, and, levelling his lance, rode fiercely at Baldwin and bore him to earth, where he made him sue for mercy. But Roland, the youth's uncle, was at hand, and, winding his terrible horn, shouted to Calaynos to prepare for combat. "Who art thou?" asked Calaynos. "Thou wearest a coronet in thy helm, but I know thee not." "No words, base Moor!" replied Roland. "This hour shall be thy last," and, so saying, he charged his enemy at full speed. Down crashed the haughty infidel, and Roland, leaping from the saddle, stood over him, drawn sword in hand. "Thy name, paynim," he demanded; "speak or die." "Sir," replied Calaynos, "I serve a haughty maiden of Spain, who would have no gift of me but the heads of certain peers of Charlemagne." "So!" laughed Roland. "Fool that thou art, she could not have loved thee when she bade thee beard our fellowship. Thou hast come here to thy death," and with these words he smote off Calaynos' head, and spurned his crescent crest in twain. "No more shall this moon rise above the meads of Seine," he cried, as he sheathed his falchion. Thus was Calaynos fooled by a maiden's pride and by his own. The story is, of course, wildly improbable, and that a Moorish knight could have reached Paris on such a quest is unthinkable. But the tale has a very human accent, and is not without its moral. Gayferos Gayferos was a figure dear to Spanish romance. His story was connected with the Charlemagne cycle, and was included in the pseudo-chronicle of Archbishop Turpin, but, though a knight of France, he appears to have possessed a special attraction for the Castilian mind, owing, probably, to the circumstance of his seven years' search for his wife in Spanish territory. Gayferos of Bordeaux was a kinsman of Roland, the invincible hero of the chansons de gestes, and husband of Charlemagne's daughter Melisenda. Shortly after their marriage the lady was kidnapped by the Saracens and confined in a strong tower at Saragossa. Determined to rescue her from pagan custody, Gayferos set out in search of his wife, but after spending seven long years in diligent inquiry failed to locate the place where she was imprisoned. From province to province, from castle to castle of sunny Spain he journeyed, until at length, disconsolate and dejected, he returned to Paris. In the hope of drowning the remembrance of his loss, Gayferos plunged into the recreations of the Court. One day as he played dice with the Emperor's admiral, Charlemagne, seeing him thus employed, said to him: "How is it, Gayferos, that you waste your time on a paltry game, while your wife, my daughter, languishes in a Moorish prison? Were you as ready to handle arms as to throw dice, you would hasten to the rescue of your lady." The Emperor's speech was unmerited, for he had only just learned of the place in which Melisenda was held in durance, whereas the faithful Gayferos was not yet aware of it. But gathering from Charlemagne the name of the castle in which she was confined, he made speed to his uncle Roland, and begged him for armour and a horse. Roland, seeing the dismay in which his nephew was plunged, pressed upon him his own famous arms and his favourite charger, and, thus equipped, Gayferos once more turned his face to the land of Spain. In due time he arrived at Saragossa, and, meeting with no opposition at its gates, he entered and rode straight to the house where his captive wife lay. Beholding him from the window, she begged him as he was a Christian knight to send the tidings of her to her husband Gayferos. "Seven summers, seven winters have I waited in this tower, While my lord Gayferos holdeth dalliance in hall and bower; Hath forgotten Melisenda, hopes that she hath wed the Moor; Yet the kindness of his memory shall I cherish evermore." Stands the champion in his stirrups. "Lady, dry the useless tear, For thy husband and thy lover, thy devoted knight is here. Spring to saddle from the casement, leap into my fond embrace That shall hold thee and enfold thee from the Moor and all his race." Leaping from the casement into the arms of her faithful knight, Melisenda placed herself on the saddle before him, and setting spurs to his horse Gayferos made all speed to reach the gates. But a Moor who had witnessed the rescue gave the alarm, and soon the fugitives found themselves pursued by seven columns of horsemen. The pursuers pressed hard upon them, but at the critical juncture Melisenda recognized the horse on which they rode to be Roland's, and remembered that by loosening the girth, opening the breastplate, and driving the spurs into its sides it could be made to leap across any barrier with complete safety to those it carried. She hastily informed her husband of this, and, acting as she directed, he drove the steed toward the city wall, which it cleared with ease. On seeing this the Moors very naturally gave up the chase. In due time Gayferos and his wife returned to Paris, and their future was as bright as their past had been clouded. Count Alarcos Gloomy with the hangings of tragedy is the grim story of The Count Alarcos, an anonymous romance, distinguished by great richness of composition. It has been translated into English by both Lockhart and Bowring, with but little distinction in either case, having consideration to the moving character of the original. The story opens with the simplicity which marks high tragedy. The Infanta Soliza, daughter of the King of Spain, had been secretly betrothed to Count Alarcos, but was abandoned by him for another lady, by whom he had several children. In the agony of her grief and shame at her seduction and desertion, the miserable princess shut herself off from the world, and consumed the summer of her days in sorrow and bitter disappointment. Her royal father, not conscious of the manner in which she had been betrayed, questioned her as to the meaning of her grief, and she answered him that she mourned because she was not a wife, like other ladies of her station. "Daughter," replied the King, "this fault is none of mine. Did not the noble Prince of Hungary offer you his hand? I know of no suitable husband for you in this land of Spain, saving the Count Alarcos, and he is already wed." "Alas!" said the Infanta, "it is the Count Alarcos who has broken my heart, for he vowed to wed me, and plighted his troth to me long ere he wedded. He is true to his new vows, but has left his earlier oaths unfulfilled. In word and deed he is my husband." For a space the King sat silent. "Great wrong has been done, my daughter," he said at last, "for now is the royal line of Spain shamed in all men's eyes." Then dark and murderous jealousy seized upon the soul of the Infanta. "Certes," she cried, "this Countess can die. Must I be shamed that she should live? Let it be bruited abroad that sickness cut short her life. Thus may Count Alarcos yet wed me." Exasperated by the thought of his daughter's dishonour, the King summoned Alarcos to a banquet, and when they were alone broached the subject of his perfidy to the Infanta. "Is it true, Don Alarcos," he asked, "that you plighted your troth to my daughter and deceived her? Now hearken: your Countess usurps my daughter's rightful place. She must die. Nay, start not! It must be reported that sickness has carried her off. Then must you wed the Infanta. You have brought your King to dishonour, and he now demands the only reparation that it is within your power to make." "I cannot deny that I deceived the Infanta," replied Alarcos. "But I pray you, in mercy spare my innocent lady. Visit my sin upon me as heavily as you will, but not upon her." "It may not be," replied the stern old King. "She dies, I say, and that to-night. When the escutcheon of a king is stained, it matters not whether the blood that washes the blot away be guilty or innocent. Away, and do my behest, or your life shall pay the forfeit." Terrified at the thought of a traitor's death, for such an end was more dreaded than any other by the haughty Castilian nobles, Alarcos agreed to abide by the King's decision, and rode homeward in an agony of remorse and despair. The thought that he must be the executioner of the wife whom he dearly loved, the mother of his three beautiful children, drove him to madness, and when at last he met her at the gate of his castle, accompanied by her infants, and displaying every sign of joy at his return, he shrank from her caresses, and could only mutter that he had bad news, which he would divulge to her in her bower. Taking her youngest babe, she led him to her apartment, where supper was laid. But the Count Alarcos neither ate nor drank, but laid his head upon the board and wept bitterly out of a breaking heart. Then, recalling his dreadful purpose, he barred the doors, and, standing with folded arms before his lady, confessed his sin. "Long since I loved a lady," he said. "I plighted my troth to her, and vowed to love her like a husband. Her father is the King. She claims me for her own, and he demands that I make good the promise. Furthermore, alas that I should say it! the King has spoken your death, and has decreed that you die this very night." "What!" cried the Countess, amazed. "Are these then the wages of my loyal love for you, Alarcos? Wherefore must I die? Oh, send me back to my father's house, where I can live in peace and forgetfulness, and rear my children as those of thy blood should be reared." "It may not be," answered the wretched Count. "I have pledged mine oath." "Friendless am I in the land," cried the miserable lady. "But at least let me kiss my children ere I die." "Thou mayst kiss the babe upon thy breast," groaned Alarcos. "The others thou mayst not see again. Prepare thee." The doomed Countess kissed her babe, muttered an Ave, and, rising from her knees, begged her merciless lord to be kind to their children. She pardoned her husband, but laid upon the King and his daughter the awful curse known to the people of the Middle Ages as "the Assize of the Dying," so often taken advantage of by those who were falsely accused and condemned to die, and by virtue of which the victim summoned his murderers to meet him before the throne of God ere thirty days were past and answer for their crime to their Creator. The Count strangled his wife with a silken kerchief, and when the horrid deed had been done, and she lay cold and dead, he summoned his esquires, and gave himself up to a passion of woe. Within twelve days the revengeful Infanta perished in agony. The merciless King died on the twentieth day, and ere the moon had completed her round Alarcos too drooped and died. Cruel and inevitable as Greek tragedy is the tale of Alarcos. But while perusing it and under the spell of its tragic pathos we can scarcely regard it as of the nature of legend, and we know not whom to abhor the most--the revengeful Princess, the cruel King, or the coward husband who sacrificed his innocent and devoted wife to the shadow of that aristocratic 'honour' which has to its discredit almost as great a holocaust of victims as either superstition or fanaticism. CHAPTER IX: THE ROMANCEROS OR BALLADS Iliads without a Homer. Lope de Vega The word romancero in modern Spanish is more or less strictly applied to a special form of verse composition, a narrative poem written in lines of sixteen syllables which adhere to one single assonance throughout. Originally the term was applied to those dialects or languages which were the offspring of the Roman or Latin tongue--the spoken language of old Rome in its modernized forms. Later it came to imply only the written forms of those vernaculars, and lastly the poetic lyrico-narrative form alone, as above indicated. The romancero therefore differs from the romance in that it is written in verse, and it is plain from what has just been said that the name 'romance' was the product of the transition period when the term was intended to describe the written output of the more modern forms of Latin-Castilian, Portuguese, French, and Provençal, whether couched in prose or verse. We have seen that practically all the romances proper, as apart from the cantares de gesta--that is, such compositions as Amadis, Palmerin, and Partenopex--were written in prose. But the romancero was first and last a narrative in verse. Indeed, the three tales recounted in the last chapter are of the romancero type--a form, as we shall see, which gained quite as strong a hold upon the lower classes of the Peninsula as the romance proper did upon the affections of the hidalgo and the caballero. In a word, the romancero is the popular ballad of Spain. In a previous chapter I attempted to outline the several types of the Spanish ballad, or romancero, as follows: (1) Those of spontaneous popular origin and early date. (2) Those based upon passages in the chronicles or cantares de gesta. (3) Folk-ballads of a relatively late date. (4) Those later ballads which were the production of conscious art. We can thus class Spanish ballads more broadly into: (1) Those of popular origin. (2) Those which have their rise in literary sources. As regard class (1) of the first quaternion, like Sancho Panza I have no intention of indicating how old these may be. The fiercest controversy has raged round this question, but, as I have already indicated, it would be strange indeed if no vestiges of early Castilian folk-song had come down to us in an altered form. Folk-song, in my view, has as great a chance of survival as custom or legend, and we know how persistent these are in undisturbed areas, so I see no reason to doubt that a certain number of the original ballads of Spain have come down to us in such an altered form as would, perhaps, render them unrecognizable to their makers, just as the ancient Scottish romance of Thomas the Rhymer would not have been recognized in its later form by the singer who composed it. All the arguments, archæological and philological, erected and advanced by mere erudition will not convince me to the contrary. To some people antiquity is a living thing, a warm and glowing environment, a world with the paths and manners of which they are better acquainted than with the streets of every day. To others it is--a museum. I have no quarrel with the curators of that museum, and I enjoy reading their books--records of a land which few of them have visited. But when they insist upon controverting the evidence supplied by senses which they do not possess they become merely tiresome. Like art, archæology has also its inspirations, its higher vision. Alas that those who do not share it should attempt to justify their conclusions by lifeless logic alone! Therefore I shall say no more concerning the age of the ballads of Old Spain, but will only remark with Sancho that "they are too old to lie." I have clearly shown, too, that a number of them were based on passages in the chronicles and cantares, a circumstance which in itself vouches for their relative antiquity. With the later artificial imitations of Góngora and Lope de Vega, and others of similar stamp, we are not concerned here. After all, we can only take the ballads of Spain as we find them in the cancioneros. It is much too late in the day now to do anything else. Like the ballads of Scotland and Denmark, those of Spain have been collected and published for centuries, and in the pages of the cancioneros old and new, popular and literary, are mingled together in almost inextricable confusion. Let us glance, then, at the history of these cancioneros, these treasure-houses of a people's poetry, and attempt to realize their plan and scope as perhaps the best method by which to approach the subject of the Spanish ballad generally. Having done this, we can then discuss matters of origin with critics of insight and sympathy. The "Cancionero General" If we except the fragmentary collection of Juan Fernández de Constantina, the Cancionero General, or "Universal Song-book," as it might be translated, was originally brought together and published at the beginning of the sixteenth century by a certain Fernando del Castillo. The arrangement of the ballads it contains is neither chronological nor thoroughly systematic, although the productions of each author are kept distinct. Later editions of this work quickly multiplied, and as the collection extended the additions were always inserted at the end of the book. The collection consists for the most part of the ballads of authors of the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, such as Tallante, Nicolas Núñez, Juan de Mena, Porticarrero, and the still earlier Marquis de Santillana. The first portion of the work is confined to the spiritual songs (obras de devoción). These are monotonous and informed with a rigid fanaticism. Nor are the "Moral Poems" which follow any more attractive, allegorizing virtues and vices according to the definitions of scholastic philosophy. The amatory verses in the collection are more ingenious than truly poetic; they lack true feeling, and appear stiff and artificial in their reiteration of burning passion and the overwhelming woes of unrequited love, mingled with pseudo-philosophical appeals to reason. But gay and graceful love songs are not lacking, as, for example, the "Muy más clara que de luna" of Juan de Meux or the "Pensamienti, pues mostrays" of Diego Lopez de Haro. But these trail off into philosophical disquisition, and the tender sentiment in which they were conceived and commenced is lost in the shallows of paltry argument. Much more promising are the canciones, or lyrical poems of a semi-conventional cast, which have a character and metrical form all their own. They usually consist of twelve lines, divided into two parts. The first four lines comprehend the idea on which the song is founded, and this is developed or applied in the eight succeeding lines. The Cancionero General contains one hundred and fifty-six of these little songs, some of which are the best poems contained in it, and perhaps they owe their excellence to the verbal restraint which their form compels. An allied form is the villancico, or conceit, usually of three or four lines, a fugitive piece, enshrining some fleeting emotion, and often packed with the matter of poesy. The "Romancero General" The title Romancero General was applied to many collections of Spanish songs and narrative romances in verse published during the seventeenth century and later. Of these only the older require illustration here. The first in point of date was the collection of Miguel de Madrigal, published in 1604, although another work containing upward of a thousand romances and songs was produced in the same year, and bears the same title. Another collection of primary importance is that of Pedro de Flores (1614). This is obviously a bookseller's compilation, but is none the worse for that, save that it pretends to embrace the entire sum of Spanish romanceros, whereas it contains not one of those appearing in the Cancionero General. All of these works contain numerous amatory poems of the kind so liberally exemplified in the Cancionero General, but with these we have little concern, and our attention may be better employed in examining the romanceros proper which it contains. These for the most part would seem to belong to the fifteenth century, and relate to the civil wars of Granada, the last Moorish principality in Spain, and the heroic and gallant adventures of Moorish knights. It is, indeed, in this work that we first perceive the trend toward a literary fashion in things Moorish to which we have referred in a previous chapter, but, as has been indicated, this is very far from saying that these poems owe their origin to Moorish models. But there are not wanting Castilian themes and stories, such as those relating to Roderic, Bernaldo de Carpio, Fernán González, the Infantes of Lara, and the Cid. Most of these were written by men of humble station, the true poets of the people, the late representatives of those juglares who had sung or recited the cantares de gesta. [51] Mr James Fitzmaurice Kelly is at once the best informed and most sympathetic of modern critics on the subject of the romancero. In his admirable Chapters on Spanish Literature, a delightful series of excursions into several of the most interesting provinces of Spanish letters, he reviews the romancero in some forty vivid pages, remarkable alike for critical insight and the sanity of the conclusions to which they point. Taking Lockhart's Spanish Ballads as a basis for comment, he addresses himself to the racy criticism of the collection of the Scottish translator. A better plan for the initiation of the English-speaking reader into the mysteries of the romancero could scarcely be conceived, for there are few who possess no acquaintance with Lockhart's work, one of the most persistent of the drawing-room books of Victorian days. Following Mr Kelly's admirable lead, then, though not in the spirit of base imitation, let us take Lockhart as our 'document' and examine the more interesting of his translations, not only as regards their subject-matter, but their excellences and shortcomings, comparing them also with those of Bowring and others. Following Depping, Lockhart divides his volume of ballads into three sections: Historical, Moorish, and Romantic. With the first two groups of poems, or rather with their subject-matter--those relating to King Roderic and Bernaldo de Carpio--we have dealt elsewhere. The Maiden Tribute The next in order, "The Maiden Tribute," deals with a demand of the Moorish monarch Abderahman that a hundred Christian virgins should annually be delivered into his hands. King Ramíro refused to comply with such a shameful custom, and marched to meet the Moor. A two days' battle was fought near Alveida, and at the conclusion of the first day's hostilities the superior discipline of the Saracens had told heavily against the Castilians. During the night, St Iago, the patron saint of Spain, appeared to the King in a vision and promised his aid in the field next day. With morning the battle was joined once more, the Saint, true to his word, led the Spanish charge, and the Saracens were cast into headlong rout. The maiden tribute was never afterward paid. Lockhart's ballad, or rather translation, certainly does not enhance the original. If the Moslem must have tribute, make men your tribute-money, Send idle drones to tease them within their hives of honey, is the commonest of crambo, and Must go, like all the others, the proud Moor's bed to sleep in-- In all the rest they're useless, and nowise worth the keeping, is reminiscent of the pantomime days of our youth. Mr Fitzmaurice Kelly contents himself by remarking about this ballad that it scarcely calls for comment. Count Fernán González "The Escape of the Count Fernán González, which is based on the old Estoria del noble caballero Fernán González," a popular arrangement of the Crónica General (1344), is later than two other ballads which Mr Kelly and others believe represent a lost epic which was worked into the Crónica in question. A wealth of legend certainly clustered round the name of this cavalier, and he has a string of romanceros to his credit. But are we to believe that in every case where ballads crystallize round a great name these are the broken lights of a disintegrated epic, worn down by attrition into popular songs? Is there, indeed, irrefragable proof that such a process ever took place anywhere? Or its reverse, for that matter? Practical writers of verse (if a writer of verse can be practical) do not take kindly to the hypothesis. They recognize the generic differences between the spirit of epic and that of folk-poetry, and prefer to believe that when both have fixed upon the same subject the choice was fortuitous and not necessarily evolutionary. Fernán González of Castile owed not a little of his romantic reputation to his wife, who delivered him from captivity on at least two occasions. On that celebrated in the ballad she played the part of a faithful lover and a true heroine. González, taken by his enemies, had been carried to a stronghold in Navarre. A Norman knight passing through that country requested the governor of the castle for an audience with the captive, and as he offered a suitable bribe the official gladly conceded the request. The interview over, the knight departed and sought the palace of King Garcia of Navarre, who held González in bondage. One of the counts against the prisoner seems to have been that he had asked Garcia for the hand of his daughter, and to this princess, who secretly loved the captive, the knight now addressed himself: The Moors may well be joyful, but great should be our grief, For Spain has lost her guardian when Castile has lost her chief. The Moorish host is pouring like a river o'er the land: Curse on the Christian fetters that bind González' hand! At 'mirk of night' the Infanta rose, and, proceeding alone to the castle where González was confined, proffered such a heavy bribe to the governor to set him at liberty that he permitted his prisoner to go free. But the hero was still hampered by his chains, and when the pair were stopped by a hunter-priest who threatened to reveal their whereabouts to the King's foresters unless the Infanta paid him a shameful ransom, González was unable to punish him as he deserved. But as the wretch embraced the princess she seized him by the throat, and González grasped the spear which he had let fall and drove it through his body. Shortly afterward they encountered a band of González' own men-at-arms, with which incident their night of adventure came to a close. The Infantes of Lara Few Spanish romanceros celebrate incidents more tragic or memorable than those which cluster round the massacre of the unfortunate Infantes or Princes of Lara by their treacherous uncle, Ruy or Roderigo Velásquez. Mr Fitzmaurice Kelly thinks that one of these originated from a lost epic written between 1268 and 1344, "or perhaps from a lost recast of this lost epic." Strange that such epics should all be lost! He pleads that Lockhart might have utilized other more 'energetic' ballads to illustrate this legend, but I think in this does some despite to the very fine and spirited translation entitled "The Vengeance of Mudara": Oh, in vain have I slaughter'd the Infants of Lara; There's an heir in his halls--there's the bastard Mudara, There's the son of the renegade--spawn of Mahoun: If I meet with Mudara, my spear brings him down. As I read these lines I recall a big drawing-room, the narrow casements of which look upon a wilderness of garden woodland made magical by the yellow shadows of the hour when it is neither evening nor afternoon. Upon a table of mottled rosewood lies a copy of the Spanish Ballads in the embossed and fretted binding of the days when such books were given as presents and intended for exhibition. A child of ten, I had stolen into this Elysium redolent of rose-leaves and potpourri, and, opening the book at random, came upon the lines just quoted. For the first time I tasted the delights of rhythm, of music in words. The verses photographed themselves on my brain. Searching through the book until darkness fell, it seemed to me that I could find nothing so good, nothing that swung along with such a gallop. But the cup had been held to my lips, and my days and nights became a quest for words wedded to music. I had to look for some time before I encountered anything better than, or equal to, the haunting rhythm of "The Vengeance of Mudara." The years have brought discoveries beside which the first pales into insignificance, adventures in books of a spirit more subtle, carrying the thrill of a keener amazement; but none came with the force of such revelation as was vouchsafed by that page in an unforgotten book in an unforgettable room. The first of the ballads in which Lockhart deals with the subject of the Infantes of Lara--for the one we have been discussing follows it--is entitled "The Seven Heads," and details the circumstance of the massacre of the unhappy princes. From the Historia de España of Juan de Marinia (1537-1624) we learn that in the year 986 Ruy Velásquez, lord of Villaren, celebrated his marriage with Donna Lombra, a lady of high birth, at Burgos. The festivities were on a scale of great splendour, and among the guests were Gustio González, lord of Salas of Lara, and his seven sons. These young men, of the blood of the Counts of Castile, were celebrated for their chivalric prowess, and had all been knighted on the self-same day. As evil chance would have it, a quarrel arose between González, the youngest of the seven brothers, and one Alvar Sanchez, a relation of the bride. Donna Lombra thought herself insulted, and in order to avenge herself, when the young knights rode in her train as she took her way to her lord's castle, she ordered one of her slaves to throw at González a wild cucumber soaked in blood, "a heavy insult and outrage, according to the then existing customs and opinions of Spain." What this recondite insult signified does not matter. But surely, whatever its meaning, and making all allowance for the rudeness of the age of which she was an ornament, the lady did greater despite to herself than to her enemy by the perpetration of such an act of crude vulgarity. The slave, having done as he was bid, fled for protection to his mistress's side. But that availed him nothing, for the outraged Infantes slew him "within the very folds of her garment." Ruy Velásquez, burning with Latin anger at what he deemed an insult to his bride, and therefore to himself, was determined upon a dreadful vengeance. But he studiously concealed his intention from the young noblemen, and behaved to them as if nothing of moment had occurred. Some time after these events he sent Gustio González, the father of the seven young champions, on a mission to Cordova, the ostensible object of which was to receive on his behalf a tribute of money from the Moorish king of that city. He made Gustio the bearer of a letter in Arabic, which he could not read, the purport of which was a request to the Saracen chieftain to have him executed. But the infidel displayed more humanity than the Christian, and contented himself with imprisoning the unsuspecting envoy. In furtherance of his plans Velásquez pretended to make an incursion into the Moorish country, in which he was accompanied by the Infantes of Lara with two hundred of their followers. With fiendish ingenuity he succeeded in leading them into an ambuscade. Surrounded on all sides by the Saracen host, they resolved to sell their lives at the highest possible price rather than surrender. Back to back they stood, taking a terrible toll of Moorish lives, and one by one they fell, slain but unconquered. Their heads were dispatched to Velásquez as an earnest of a neighbourly deed by the Moorish king, and were paraded before him and in front of their stricken father, who had been released in order that Velásquez might gloat over his grief. When he had satisfied his vengeance the lord of Villaren permitted the stricken father to return to his empty home. But Ruy Velásquez was not destined to go unpunished. While Gustio González had been imprisoned in the dungeons of the Moorish King of Cordova he had contracted an alliance with that monarch's sister, by whom he had a son, Mudarra. When this young man had attained the age of fourteen years his mother prevailed upon him to go in search of his father, and when he had found his now aged parent he learned of the act of treachery by which his brothers had been slain. Determined to avenge the cowardly deed, he bided his time, and, encountering Ruy Velásquez when on a hunting expedition, slew him out of hand. Gathering around him a band of resolute men, he attacked the castle of Villaren, and executed a fearful vengeance upon the haughty Donna Lombra, whom he stoned and burnt at the stake. In course of time he was adopted by his father's wife, Donna Sancha, who acknowledged him as heir to the estates of his father. We have already indicated the stirring nature of the ballad in which Mudarra takes vengeance upon the slayers of his brethren. Its predecessor in Lockhart's collection, that in which the agonized father beholds the seven heads of his murdered sons, falls far short of it in power. "My gallant boys," quoth Lara, "it is a heavy sight These dogs have brought your father to look upon this night; Seven gentler boys, nor braver, were never nursed in Spain, And blood of Moors, God rest your souls, ye shed on her like rain." .................................................................. He took their heads up one by one,--he kiss'd them o'er and o'er, And aye ye saw the tears run down--I wot that grief was sore. He closed the lids on their dead eyes, all with his fingers frail, And handled all their bloody curls, and kissed their lips so pale. "O had ye died all by my side upon some famous day, My fair young men, no weak tears then had washed your blood away. The trumpet of Castile had drowned the misbeliever's horn, And the last of all the Lara's line a Gothic spear had borne." The Wedding of the Lady Theresa "The Wedding of the Lady Theresa" is a semi-historical ballad which tells of the forced alliance of a Christian maiden to a noble worshipper of Mahoun. Alfonso, King of Leon, desirous of strengthening his alliance with the infidel, intended to sacrifice his sister, Donna Theresa, to his political necessities. He paved the way for this betrayal by pretending that Abdalla, King of the Moors, had become a Christian, and by indicating to her the benefits of a union with the pagan prince. Totally deceived by these representations, the lady consented to the match, was taken to Toledo, and wed to the Moor with much splendour. But on the day of the marriage she learned of her brother's perfidy, and when she found herself alone with the Moorish lord she repulsed him, telling him that she would never be a wife to him in aught but name until he and his people embraced the Christian faith. But Abdalla ridiculed her scruples, and took advantage of her unprotected state. As she had prophesied, a scourge fell upon him as the consequence of his wicked act. Terrified, he sent Theresa back to her brother, with an abundance of treasure, and she entered the monastery of St Pelagius, in Leon, where she passed the remainder of her days in pious labours and devotions. Sad heart had fair Theresa when she their paction knew; With streaming tears she heard them tell she 'mong the Moors must go: That she, a Christian damosell, a Christian firm and true, Must wed a Moorish husband, it well might cause her woe. But all her tears and all her prayers, they are of small avail; At length she for her fate prepares, a victim sad and pale. This ballad is no earlier than the sixteenth century, and seems to be based upon historic fact, and, as Mr Fitzmaurice Kelly points out, it confuses Almanzor and the Toledan governor Abdalla on the one hand and Alfonso V of Leon with his father, Bermudo II, on the other, and introduces chronological difficulties. Passing by the ballads of the Cid, to the subject-matter of which we have already done ample justice, we come to that of Garcia Pérez de Vargas This Mr Fitzmaurice Kelly dismisses in a word, although it seems to me to merit some attention. De Vargas distinguished himself greatly at the siege of Seville in the year 1248. One day, while riding by the banks of the river, accompanied only by a single companion, he was attacked by a party of seven mounted Moors. His comrade rode off, but Pérez, closing his visor, and setting his lance in rest, faced the paynim warriors. They, seeing who awaited them, made all speed back to their own lines. As he made his way back to camp Pérez noticed that he had dropped his scarf, and immediately returned to seek for it. But although he rode far into the danger zone ere he found it, the Moors still avoided him, and he returned to the Spanish camp in safety. The ballad makes Pérez recover the scarf from the Moors, who had found it and "looped it on a spear." "Stand, stand, ye thieves and robbers, lay down my lady'spledge!" He cried; and ever as he cried they felt his faulchion's edge. That day when the Lord of Vargas came to the camp alone, The scarf, his lady's largess, around his breast was thrown; Bare was his head, his sword was red, and, from his pommel strung, Seven turbans green, sore hack'd, I ween, before Don Garci hung. This last verse shows how strongly Lockhart was indebted to Scott for the spirit and style of his compositions. [52] Pedro the Cruel We come now to those ballads which recount the vivid but sanguinary history of Don Pedro the Cruel. Many attempts have been made to prove that Pedro was by no means such an inhuman monster as the balladeers would have us believe. But probability seems to be on the side of the singers rather than on that of the modern historians, who have done their best to remove the stain of his ferocious acts from Pedro's abhorred name. His first act of atrocity was that celebrated in the ballad entitled "The Master of St Iago," which refers to his illegitimate brother. On the death of that nobleman, his father, well aware of Pedro's vindictive temperament, fled to the city of Coimbra, in Portugal. But, believing Pedro's asseverations that he had no intention of offering him violence, he accepted his invitation to the Court of Seville, where a gallant tournament was about to be held. No sooner had he arrived, however, than he was secretly put to death (1358), it is believed at the instance of the notorious Maria de Padilla, Pedro's mistress. "Stand off, stand off, thou traitor strong," 'twas thus he said to me. "Thy time on earth shall not be long--what brings thee to my knee? My lady craves a New Year's gift, and I will keep my word; Thy head, methinks, may serve the shift--Good yeoman, draw thy sword." The ballad recounts how Pedro, relenting somewhat, imprisoned the false Maria de Padilla, but there is no evidence that she either suggested the crime or suffered for it. Mr Fitzmaurice Kelly gives it as his opinion that the dramatic power of the romance is undeniable. Had he spoken of its melodramatic power I might feel inclined to agree with him. "That Pedro was accessory to the violent death of the young and innocent princess whom he had married, and immediately afterward deserted for ever, there can be no doubt," says Lockhart, referring to the marriage of Pedro with Blanche de Bourbon. But whether he murdered his queen or not, his paramour, Maria de Padilla, was innocent of all complicity in the affair, although the ballad makes her the instigator of the horrid deed, and it is plain that the poems which refer to her were written with a sinister political motive. Mariana, who is sufficiently reliable, states that Pedro's conduct toward his queen had aroused the anger of many of his nobles, who presented him with a remonstrance in writing. His fierce and homicidal temper aroused to fury at what he considered an unwarranted interference in his private concerns, he immediately gave the order that his unfortunate French consort should be put to death by poison in the prison where she, was confined. The poem makes Pedro and his paramour plot upon the death of the unhappy Queen in the crude manner of the balladeer all the world over. "Maria de Padilla, be not thus of dismal mood, For if I twice have wedded me, it all was for thy good," may be good ballad-writing, but I confess the barbarous inversion in the second line appears to me to be unnecessary. "But if upon Queen Blanche ye will that I some scorn should show, For a banner to Medina my messenger shall go.-- The work shall be of Blanche's tears, of Blanche's blood the ground, Such pennon shall they weave for thee, such sacrifice be found." With the example of many enchanted passages of allusion no less recondite occurring in the ballads of his own country-side, Lockhart might reasonably have been expected to have done much better than the last couplet. Fause luve, ye've shapit a weed for me In simmer amang the flowers; I will repay thee back again In winter amang the showers. The snow so white shall be your weed, In hate you shall be drest, The cauld east wind shall wrap your heid And the sharp rain on your breist. But I question if folk-poetry ever captured a lilt more exquisite than that of the first four lines of "The Gardener" or a sharper note of anguish than that of the last quatrain. [53] To me at least Old Scots must always remain the language of the ballad par excellence, by virtue of the subtlety, the finely wrought and divinely coloured wealth of expressive idiom which bursts from its treasure-chest in a profusion of begemmed and enamelled richness, more various, more magical than any Spanish gold. Much of this Lockhart filched to give his Castilian bullion a replating. But in places he falls back most wretchedly upon the poetical trickeries of his day, falls to the level of Rogers and Southey, to the miserable devices and tinsel beggary of those bravely bound annuals beloved by the dames and damsels of the day before yesterday. In places, however, he outballads the ballad in pure gaucherie. These words she spake, then down she knelt, and took the bowman's blow, Her tender neck was cut in twain, and out her blood did flow. The next, and not the last of the series, as Mr Fitzmaurice Kelly has it, is obviously the handiwork of Walter Scott, than whom none could fail more miserably on occasion. We can picture him doling "The Death of Don Pedro" from out the great thesaurus of his brain (that sadly drained mint, ever at the service of a friend or a publisher), as a dinted and defaced coin. Only in the last verse does the old fire blaze up. Thus with mortal gasp and quiver, While the blood in bubbles well'd, Fled the fiercest soul that ever In a Christian bosom dwell'd. On such a subject the composer of "Bonnie Dundee" might well have felt the blood run faster, and the pen quiver in his fingers like an arrow on a tightened bow-string. Two royal brothers strive with hateful poniards for each other's lives. Pedro, a prisoner in the hands of Henry of Trastamara, his natural brother, is wantonly insulted by the victorious noble, and replies by flying at his throat in an outburst of animal courage and kingly rage. Dumbfounded at the death-struggle of monarch and usurper, Henry's allies look on, among them the great Du Guesclin. Pedro pins the lord of Trastamara to the ground. His dagger flashes upward. Du Guesclin turns to Henry's squire. "Will ye let your lord die thus, you who eat his bread?" he scoffs. The esquire throws himself upon Pedro, clings to his arms and turns him over, and, thus aided, Henry rises, searches for a joint in the King's armour, and thrusts his dagger deep into that merciless heart. The murderer, the friend of Jew and Saracen, is slain. His head is hacked off, and his proud body trampled beneath mailed feet. Surely a subject for a picture painted in the lights of armour and the red shadows of blood and hate. Down they go in deadly wrestle, Down upon the earth they go. Fierce King Pedro has the vantage, Stout Don Henry falls below. Marking then the fatal crisis, Up the page of Henry ran, By the waist he caught Don Pedro, Aiding thus the fallen man. They had better have let the ballad alone, those two at Abbotsford. It does not seem to me "a very striking ballad," as Mr Fitzmaurice Kelly observes, but in its Castilian dress it is sufficiently dramatic and exciting. Los fieros cuerpos revueltos Entre los rubustos brazos Está el cruel rey Don Pedro Y Don Enrique, su hermano. No son abrazos de amor Los que los dos se están dando; Que el uno tiene una daga, Y otro un puñal acerado. So run the first two verses, which I leave the reader to translate for himself, lest further damage be done them. The proclamation of Don Henry takes up the story where the preceding ballad left it off. In the translation of this, it seems to me, Lockhart has been much more successful than his great father-in-law proved himself in that of its companion ballad. I do not think it possible, however, to render adequately by an English pen the dignified rhythm of the Castilian in which this romancero is dressed. But the second verse, So dark and sullen is the glare of Pedro's lifeless eyes, Still half he fears what slumbers there to vengeance may arise. So stands the brother, on his brow the mark of blood is seen, Yet had he not been Pedro's Cain, his Cain had Pedro been, is really fine, expressive, and ascends a whole scale of terrible thought and realization. Are these awful eyes dead? Can the threat they hold be imaginary? My hands are wet with brother's blood, but it is only by virtue of a slender chance that his are not imbrued with mine. The verse is horribly eloquent of the death-cold atmosphere of the moment which follows murder--simple, appalling, desperately tragic. The mad grief of the slain King's paramour is drawn with a touch almost as successful. In her hot cheek the blood mounts high, as she stands gazing down, Now on proud Henry's royal stole, his robe and golden crown, And now upon the trampled cloak that hides not from her view The slaughtered Pedro's marble brow, and lips of livid hue. The Moor Reduan We may pass by "The Lord of Butrayo" and "The King of Arragon" and come to the ballad of "The Moor Reduan," a piece based on the siege of Granada, last stronghold of the Moors, and the first of those in which Lockhart deals with the romanceros fronterizos, or romances of the frontier, which, as we have before remarked, may have been influenced by Moorish ideas, or may even represent borrowings or données of a kind more or less direct. In his critique of this romancero Mr Fitzmaurice Kelly says: "Lockhart is, of course, not to blame for translating the ballad precisely as he found it in the text before him. Any translator would be bound to do the same to-day if he attempted a new rendering of the poem; but he would doubtless think it advisable to state in a note the result of the critical analysis which had scarcely been begun when Lockhart wrote. It now seems fairly certain that Pérez de Hita ran two romanceros into one, and that the verses from the fourth stanza onward in Lockhart, They passed the Elvira gate with banners all displayed, are part of a ballad on Boabdil's expedition against Lucena in 1483." This is only partially correct. Lockhart knew perfectly well that the piece was not homogeneous. Indeed he says, "The following is a version of certain parts of two ballads," although he seems to have been unaware that one of them was that dealing with Boabdil's expedition. That portion, indeed, provides by far the best elements in the composition. What caftans blue and scarlet, what turbans pleach'd of green; What waving of their crescents, and plumages between; What buskins and what stirrups, what rowels chased in gold, What handsome gentlemen, what buoyant hearts and bold! Reduan had registered a rash vow to take the city of Jaen so that he might win the daughter of the Moorish king. The ninth verse is full of a grateful music, not too often found in the poetry of the Britain of 1823: But since in hasty cheer I did my promise plight, (What well might cost a year) to win thee in a night, The pledge demands the paying, I would my soldiers brave Were half as sure of Jaen as I am of my grave; although, I confess, the internal rhyming of "paying" and "Jaen" detracts from the melody of the whole. And this is the besetting sin of Lockhart, that he mars his happiest efforts by crudities which he evidently confounded with the simplicity of the ballad form. In all British balladry, if memory serves me, there is no such vulgarism as this. CHAPTER X: THE ROMANCEROS OR BALLADS--continued There was crying in Granada as the sun was going down, Some calling on the Trinity, some calling on Mahoun; Here passed away the Koran, there in the Cross was borne, And here was heard the Christian bell, and there the Moorish horn. In this vivid verse, the first two lines of which seem to me especially successful, Lockhart, with a stroke or two of his pen, provides us with a moving sketch of the confusion and turmoil attending the Moorish flight from Granada, the last stronghold of the Moors in Spain, which fell to the victorious arms of Ferdinand and Isabella on the 6th of January, 1492, the year of the discovery of America. The remainder of the ballad is no better than Lorenzo de Sepúlveda's rather unmusical original. It is pity that a ballad beginning with such a spirited couplet should be lost in the shallows and the miseries of such stuff as: "Unhappy King, whose craven soul can brook" (she 'gan reply) "To leave behind Granada--who hast not heart to die-- Now for the love I bore thy youth thee gladly could I slay, For what is life to leave when such a crown is cast away?" Here the spirit of the metre has deserted the body of the verse, which is now merely galvanized into life by an artificial current of pedantry. The striking inequalities in the work of Lockhart are surely eloquent of the tragedy of the half-talent. Don Alonzo de Aguilar Upon the fall of Granada the Catholic zeal of Ferdinand and Isabella insisted upon the conversion of the Moors of that province. Most of the defeated pagans concurred, outwardly at least, with the royal decree, but in the Sierra of Alpuxarra there remained a leaven of the infidel blood who refused baptism at the hands of the priests who were sent to seal them of the faith. A royal order at length went forth to carry out the ceremony by force of arms. For a season the Moors resisted with the stubborn courage of their race, but at length they were subdued and almost extirpated. But their ruin was not accomplished without severe losses on the side of their would-be proselytizers, one of the most notable of whom was Don Alonzo de Aguilar, brother of that Gonzalvo Hernández de Cordova of Aguilar who gained widespread renown as 'the Great Captain.' But the ballad does not seem to square with the facts of history. Indeed it places Aguilar's death before the surrender of Granada, whereas in reality it took place as late as 1501. Mr Fitzmaurice Kelly thinks that "this points to the conclusion that the romance was not written till long after the event, when the exact details had been forgotten." But why blame an entire people for what may have been a lapsus memoriæ on the part of a single balladeer? On the other hand, Mr Kelly might justly ask one to indicate any ballad springing from folk-sources the details of which square with the circumstances as known to history or ascertained by research. Lockhart, as usual upon first mounting his destrier, dashes the spurs in its sides with a flourish: Fernando, King of Arragon, before Granada lies, With dukes and barons many a one, and champions of emprise; With all the captains of Castile that serve his lady's crown, He drives Boabdil from his gates, and plucks the crescent down. So far good. Now for the conclusion: The Moorish maidens, while she spoke, around her silence kept, But her master dragged the dame away--then loud and long they wept: They wash'd the blood, with many a tear, from dint of dart and arrow, And buried him near the waters clear of the bank of Alpuxarra. It will not serve to point out that this is just what one might expect in a ballad, for it bears not the shadow of resemblance to the original. Que de chiquito en la cuna A sus pechos le criara. A las palabras que dice, Cualquiera Mora lloraba: "Don Alonso, Don Alonso, Dios perdone la tu alma, Pues te mataron los Moros, Los Moros de el Alpujarra." I am sometimes tempted to think that the weary giant at Abbotsford wrote all Lockhart's first verses, as one heads a copy-book for a child! Lockhart omits from his collection the very fine ballad beginning: Río verde, Río verde, Tinto vas en sangre viva; Entre tí y Sierra Bermeja Murió gran caballería Murieron duques y condes, Señores de gran valía; Allí muriera Urdiales, Hombre de valor y estima, which was rather inaccurately rendered by Bishop Percy as follows: Gentle river, gentle river, Lo, thy streams are stained with gore; Many a brave and noble captain Floats along thy willow'd shore. All beside thy limpid waters, All beside thy sands so bright, Moorish chiefs and Christian warriors Joined in fierce and mortal fight. Perhaps a more accurate though less finished rendering of these opening verses might be: Emerald river, emerald river, Stained with slaughter's evil cheer, 'Twixt Bermeja and thy meadows Perished many a cavalier. Duke and count and valiant esquire Fell upon thy fatal shore; There died noble Urdiales Who the stainless title bore. I have translated these two verses chiefly for the purpose of showing how very freely those English authors who have attempted to render verse from the Castilian have dealt with the originals. And, as I have said before, I suspect that the principal reason for this looseness is a lack of idiomatic grasp. Indeed, it is obvious from most English translations that the sense of the original has been gathered rather than fully apprehended. We can pass over "The Departure of King Sebastian," with its daring rhythm of It was a Lusitanian lady, and she was lofty in degree, recalling in some measure the irregular lilt of the old Scots ballads, and enter the division entitled by Lockhart "Moorish Ballads." Moorish Ballads We have already discussed the question of the 'Moorishness' (or otherwise) of these ballads. Let us now discuss them as ballads and as nothing more. The first, "The Bull-fight of Ganzul," is not only a famous piece, but in translating it Lockhart has risen to the occasion. It describes the dexterity of Ganzul, a noble Moor, in the bull-ring, and is certainly not without its quota of Moresque colour. King Almanzor of Granada, he hath bid the trumpet sound, He hath summoned all the Moorish lords, from the hills and plains around, From Vega and Sierra, from Betis and Xenil, They have come with helm and cuirass of gold and twisted steel. .............................................................. Eight Moorish lords of valour tried, with stalwart arm and true The onset of the beasts abide, as they come rushing through. The deeds they've done, the spoils they've won, fill all with hope and trust-- Yet ere high in heaven appears the sun they all have bit the dust. Then sounds the trumpet clearly, then clangs the loud tambour; Make room, make room for Ganzul, throw wide, throw wide the door-- Blow, blow the trumpet clearer still, more loudly strike the drum, The Alcaydé of Agalva to fight the bull has come. He defeats the bulls sent against him with the exception of one Harpado, a furious yet sagacious beast. The quatrain which describes him is well forged: Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within doth boil, And the dim hide glows as if on fire, as he paws to the turmoil. His eyes are jet and they are set in crystal rings of snow; But now they stare with one red glare of brass upon the foe. But it is not surpassingly like the original: Vayo en color encendido, Y los ojos como brasa, Arrugada frente y cuello, La frente vellosa y ancha. But proud as is Harpado, he must give way to the knightly Moor, regarding whom many other tales are told, especially with reference to his love affairs with a fair lady of his own race. The Zegris' Bride "The Zegris' Bride" tells in ballad form of the fierce feud between the two Moorish parties in Granada, the Zegris and the Abencerrages, the Montagues and Capulets of the last of the Moorish strongholds, when factious strife certainly accelerated the fall of their city. The ballad is well turned, and attractive in rhythm: Of all the blood of Zegri, the chief is Lisaro, To wield rejon like him is none, or javelin to throw; From the place of his dominion, he ere the dawn doth go, From Alcala de Henares, he rides in weeds of woe. Such a phrase as "the place of his dominion" is not suited to ballad composition, nor is the four-line rhyming grateful to the ear, although the measure is all that could be desired. Once more I think I see the hand of Scott in this translation, his 'equestrian' rhythm, his fondness for introducing words intended to assist local colour, as Of gold-wrought robe or turban--nor jewelled tahali, which he must, perforce, explain in a note as 'scimitar.' The young Zegri, we are told, is attired for action, not for the cavalcade or procession. Indeed, his armour and even his horse are camouflaged to assist his passage through an enemy's country without observation. The belt is black, the hilt is dim, but the sheathed blade is bright; They have housen'd his barb in a murky garb, but yet her hoofs are light. And again: In darkness and in swiftness rides every armed knight, The foam on the rein ye may see it plain, but nothing else is white. Lisaro wears on his bonnet a sprig of bay given him by Zayda, his lady. And ever as they rode, he looked upon his lady's boon. "God knows," quoth he, "what fate may be--I may be slaughtered soon." But he lives to win his bride, as we are told in the curt final verse: Young Lisaro was musing so, when onwards on the path He well could see them riding slow; then prick'd he in his wrath. The raging sire, the kinsmen of Zayda's hateful house, Fought well that day, yet in the fray the Zegri won his spouse. The Bridal of Andella "The Bridal of Andella" is brilliant with Oriental colouring: Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town. From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are flowing, And the lovely lute doth speak between the trumpet's lordly blowing, And banners bright from lattice light are waving everywhere, And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom floats proudly in the air: Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town. Skilful weaving this. The lady would not look, however, because Andella, who was about to wed another, had been false to her. Ballad literature is scarcely a record of human constancy. In Ballad-land the percentage of faithless swains, black or white, clown or knight, is a high one. Was the law regarding breach of promise first formulated by a student of ballad lore, I wonder? Whatever else it may have effected, it seems to have put an end to ballad-writing, perhaps because it ended the conditions and circumstances which went to the making of balladeering. Zara's Earrings The intriguing ballad of "Zara's Earrings" bears upon it the stamp of natural folk-song. It may come from a Moorish original, but appearances are often deceptive. In any case it is worth quoting in part. "My earrings, my earrings, they've dropt into the well, And what to say to Muça, I cannot, cannot tell." 'Twas thus Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daughter. "The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath the cold, blue water. To me did Muça give them when he spake his sad farewell, And what to say when he comes back, alas! I cannot tell." The lady resolves in the end to do the best thing she can--that is, to tell the truth. There is a sequence of romances about this Muça, who seems to have been a Saracen of worth, and the same must be remarked about Celin or Selim, his successor in the collections of Lockhart and Depping. Had Lockhart been well advised, he would have substituted the ringing and patriotic "Las soberbias torres mira," which is certainly difficult of translation, for the very sombre "Lamentation for the Death of Celin," fine though it is. Anything in the nature of a ceremony or a procession seems to have attracted him like a child. But let us have a verse of the first poem. Even should we not know Spanish its music could not fail to haunt and hold us. Las soberbias torres mira Y los lejos las almenas De su patria dulce y cara Celin, que el rey le destierra; Y perdida la esperanza De jamás volver a vella Con suspiros tristes dice: "Del cielo luciente estrella, Granada bella, Mi llanto escucha, y duélate mi pena!" Romantic Ballads We now come to consider the romantic ballads, the third and last section of Lockhart's collection. "The Moor Calaynos" we have already described, and the same applies to "Gayferos" and "Melisendra," its sequel. The ballad which follows these, "Lady Alda's Dream," is alluded to by Lockhart as "one of the most admired of all the Spanish ballads." It is no favourite of mine. I may judge it wrongly, but it seems to me inferior, and I much prefer the stirring "Admiral Guarinos," which treads upon its halting heels with all the impatience of a warlike rhythm to spur it on. Guarinos was admiral to King Charlemagne. In my boyhood days the condition of the British Navy was a newspaper topic of almost constant recurrence, and I was wont to speculate upon the awful inefficiency which must have crept into the Frankish fleet during the enforced absence of its chief in the country of the Moors, for Guarinos was captured by the Saracens at Roncesvalles. His captor, King Marlotes, treated him in a princely manner, but pressed him to become a convert to Islam, promising to give him his two daughters in marriage did he consent to the proposal. But the Admiral was adamant and refused to be bribed or coaxed into the acceptance of the faith of Mohammed and Termagaunt. Working himself up into one of those passions which seem to be the especial privilege of Oriental potentates, Marlotes commanded that Guarinos should be incarcerated in the lowest dungeon in his castle keep. It was the Moorish custom to hale captives to the light of day three times in every year for the popular edification and amusement. On one of these occasions, the Feast of St John, the King raised a high target beneath which the Moorish knights rode in an attempt to pierce it with their spears. But so lofty was it that none of them might succeed in the task, and the King, annoyed at their want of skill, refused to permit the banquet to commence until the target was transfixed. Guarinos boasted that he could accomplish the feat. The royal permission was accorded him to try, and his grey charger and the armour he had not worn for seven long years were brought to him. They have girded on his shirt of mail, his cuisses well they've clasp'd, And they've barred the helm on his visage pale, and his hand the lance hath grasped, And they have caught the old grey horse, the horse he loved of yore, And he stands pawing at the gate--caparisoned once more. Guarinos whispered in the old horse's ear, and it recalled the voice of its master. Oh! lightly did Guarinos vault into the saddle-tree, And slowly riding down made halt before Marlotes' knee; Again the heathen laughed aloud--"All hail, sir knight," quoth he, "Now do thy best, thou champion proud. Thy blood I look to see." With that Guarinos, lance in rest, against the scoffer rode, Pierced at one thrust his envious breast, and down his turban trode. Now ride, now ride, Guarinos--nor lance nor rowel spare-- Slay, slay, and gallop for thy life--the land of France lies there! There would seem to be some connexion between this ballad and the French romance of "Ogier the Dane," and Erman tells us that it was sung in Russian in Siberia as late as 1828. "The Lady of the Tree" tells how a princess was stolen by the fairies, and how a knight to whom she appealed for rescue turned a deaf ear to her request and was afterward scorned by her when she returned to her rightful station. "The False Queen" is a mere fragment, but "The Avenging Childe" is both complete and vivid. Mr Fitzmaurice Kelly declares that Gibson's version of this ballad is superior to that of Lockhart. Let us compare a verse of both. Avoid that knife in battle strife, that weapon short and thin; The dragon's gore hath bath'd it o'er, seven times 'twas steeped therein; Seven times the smith hath proved its pith, it cuts a coulter through-- In France the blade was fashioned, from Spain the shaft it drew. Gibson renders this: 'Tis a right good spear with a point so sharp, the toughest plough-share might pierce. For seven times o'er it was tempered fine in the blood of a dragon fierce, And seven times o'er it was whetted keen, till it shone with a deadly glance, For its steel was wrought in the finest forge, in the realm of mighty France. My preference is for Lockhart's rendering. Gibson's first line is extraordinarily clumsy and cacophonous, and the ugly inversions in the second line could scarcely be tolerated outside the boundaries of the nursery. The remaining lines are well enough, but no improvement, I think, upon those of Lockhart, only the whole has a better swing, a livelier lilt, even if in the first line this is roughened by the crudity occasioned by the juxtaposition of so many sibilants and explosives. The Avenging Childe duly accounts for his enemy. Right soon that knife hath quenched his life--the head is sundered sheer, Then gladsome smiled the Avenging Childe, and fix'd it on his spear. Pity it is that a sense of humour seldom chimes with a sense of the romantic. An 'avenging childe' who could smile gladly when fixing the head of a foe on his spear seems more fitted for a Borstal institution than for the silken atmosphere of Courts. Yet he married the Infanta, and was knighted and honoured by the King. Possibly they found in him a kindred soul, if all we read in romance regarding kings and infantas be true. Count Arnaldos This very beautiful ballad, which is given in the Cancionero of Antwerp (1555), tells how Count Arnaldos, wandering by the seashore one morning, hears the mystic song of a sailor in a passing galley. Heart may beat and eye may glisten, Faith is strong and Hope is free, But mortal ear no more may listen To the song that rules the sea. When the grey-hair'd sailor chaunted, Every wind was hushed to sleep-- Like a virgin's bosom panted All the wide reposing deep. Bright in beauty rose the star-fish From her green cave down below, Right above the eagle poised him-- Holy music charmed them so. "For the sake of God, our Maker" (Count Arnaldos' cry was strong), "Old man, let me be partaker In the secret of thy song." "Count Arnaldos! Count Arnaldos! Hearts I read and thoughts I know-- Wouldst thou learn the ocean secret In our galley thou must go." Longfellow wrote a rather anæmic ballad, "The Seaside and the Fireside," on the Arnaldos episode, incorporating several of the lines. Some years ago I published an adaptation of it, altering the environment and changing the metre, and this the reader may perhaps be complacent enough to accept as an illustration of the manner in which "this sort of thing is done." When the fleet ships stand inward to the shore As a white tempest, 'tis then I implore The gods not treasure of red spice to spill Upon the marble quays beneath the hill, Nor scintillant dust from far Arabian streams, Nor weaves more brilliant than the hue of dreams, Nor feathers, pearls, or such things as belong To Eastern waters, but a wondrous song To send perchance upon a seaman's lips That once I heard when the departing ships Swept from the arms of sea-bound Syracuse. I know my evening vigil is in vain, That never shall I hear that song again. Some splendid sea-spell in the sailor's soul, Swelling his heart, and bursting all control, Some white sea-spirit chanting from his mouth Sang the strange colours of a distant south. Music deep-drowned within the siren sea Art thou beyond the call of ecstasy? The "Song for the Morning of the Day of St John the Baptist" has little to do with ballad, so we may pass it by, as we may do the "Julian" fragment, one of the Gayferos group. "The Song of the Galley," which Mr Kelly regards as "too dulcet," seems to me poorly rendered: Ye galleys fairly built, Like castles on the sea, Oh, great will be your guilt If ye bring him not to me! This seems to me facility run mad, and great would be my guilt did I quote more. To the very fine "Wandering Knight's Song" I have already made allusion. "Minguillo" enshrines a motif of almost world-wide usage: Since for kissing thee, Minguillo, My mother scolds me all the day, Let me have it quickly, darling; Give me back my kiss, I pray. A conceit current from Caithness to Capo d'Istria. "Serenade," from the Romancero General of 1604, is certainly not peasant work. For his translation of this Lockhart deserves high praise. Its music is reminiscent of Shelley's "Skylark," though of course it lacks the almost intolerable keenness of that song most magical. All the stars are glowing In the gorgeous sky, In the stream scarce flowing Mimic lustres lie: Blow, gentle, gentle breeze, But bring no cloud to hide Their dear resplendencies; Nor chase from Zara's side Dreams bright and pure as these. It is inspired by a chaste and natural music all its own, beyond the conscious artistry of the material man. To do Lockhart justice, he loved the art of letters for itself alone. His was that natural modesty which is content to sing in the shadow; nor can one recall the memory of that fine and upright spirit, his labour and his sacrifice, without praise and gratitude gladly bestowed. In this poem I seem to see the real Lockhart--a man with the heart of a child. "Minguela's Chiding" tells of the woe of a rustic maid who loved to her destruction. "The Captive Knight and the Blackbird" is the prison plaint of a warrior who knows not how the seasons pass, or the moons wax and wane: Woe dwells with me in spite of thee, thou gladsome month of May; I cannot see what stars there be, I know not night from day. There was a bird whose voice I heard, oh, sweet my small bird sung, I heard its tune when night was gone, and up the morning sprung. Some cruel hand had slain the blackbird which was wont to delight the poor prisoner's heart. But the King heard his plaint while passing beneath his dungeon window, and set him free. We may pass over the rather sepulchral "Valladolid," which tells of the visit of a knight to the tomb of his lady-love in that city. "The Ill-Married Lady" recounts the grief of a dame whose husband is faithless to her, and who consoles herself with another cavalier. They are surprised by her lord, and she artlessly asks: "Must I, must I die to-day?" and requests to be buried in the orange garden. The romance does not tell us if her last wishes were complied with, or even if her life was forfeited, but to a Spanish public of the seventeenth century it was probably a supererogation even to allude to such a sequel. "Dragut" tells the story of a famous corsair whose ship was sunk by a vessel belonging to the Knights of Malta. Dragut saved himself by swimming ashore, but the Christian captives with whom his barque was laden were all drowned save one, to whom the Maltese threw a rope. It was a Spanish knight, who had long been in Algiers, From ladies high descended and noble cavaliers, But forced for a season a false Moor's slave to be, Upon the shore his gardener, and his galley-slave at sea. We have already recounted the tale of the Count Alarcos, and with it Lockhart's collection comes to an end. But it is not in the pages of Lockhart alone that we should look for good translations of the Spanish romanceros. John Bowring in his Ancient Poetry and Romances of Spain (1824) has undoubtedly done much to render some of the lesser lyrics of Castilian balladeers into successful English verse. His translation of the celebrated "Fonte Frida" is, perhaps, the best version of that much-discussed poem to be met with in our language. It is clear that Ticknor's rendition of this piece is practically a paraphrase of Bowring's translation, of which I give the first two verses: Fount of freshness, fount of freshness, Fount of freshness and of love, Where the little birds of spring-time Seek for comfort as they rove; All except the widow'd turtle, Widow'd, sorrowing turtle-dove. There the nightingale, the traitor, Lingered on his giddy way; And these words of hidden treachery To the dove I heard him say: "I will be thy servant, lady, I will ne'er thy love betray." But no English translation, however fine, can possibly do justice to this beautiful lyric: Fonte frida, fonte frida, Fonte frida, y con amor, Do todas las avezicas Van tomar consolacion, Sino es la tortolica Que esta viuda y con dolor, Por ay fue a passar El traydor del ruyseñor Las palabras que el dezia Llenas son de traicion: "Si tu quisiesses, Señora, Yo seria tu servidor." Ticknor speaks truly when he says of the Spanish ballads: "To feel their true value and power we must read large numbers of them, and read them, too, in their native language; for there is a winning freshness in the originals, as they lie embedded in the old romanceros, that escapes in translations, however free, or however strict." The romancero entitled "Sale la estrella de Venus" recounts a tragic story. A Moorish warrior, flying from the city of Sidonia because of the cruelty of his lady, who had taunted him with poverty and had bestowed her hand upon another, makes the rocks and hills re-echo with his plaints. He pronounces a terrible and bitter curse upon the proud and wanton maiden who has spurned him. Maddened, he seeks the palace of the Alcalde to whom his faithless fair one is to be espoused that night. The building is bright with torches and gay with song. And the crowds make way before him While he pays his courtesies. Ha! his bloody lance has traversed The Alcalde's fluttering breast, And his life-blood now is flowing, Flowing through his purple vest. O what horror! What confusion, Desolation and dismay! While the stern, unnoticed murderer, To Medina takes his way. We have examined every type of Spanish ballad poetry. The general note struck, we will observe, is a grave and romantic one, the fruit of the thoughts of a proud and imaginative people. Nor can we fail to notice the national note which rings through these poems, the racial individuality which informs them. "Poor Spain!" How often do we hear the expression employed by men of Anglo-Saxon race! Let these undeceive themselves. What can material poverty signify to a people dowered with such treasures of the imagination? Poor Spain! Nay, opulent Spain; treasure-house of the minted coin of story, of the priceless jewels of romance, of drama, and of song! CHAPTER XI: MOORISH ROMANCES OF SPAIN These are, of course, more of the nature of romances of the Moors than by the Moors--tales embedded in Spanish folk-lore relating to Saracen times and themes, rather than written fictions existing in ancient Arab manuscripts. The Arab literature of Spain was rather didactic, theological, and philosophical than romantic. Fiction was, perhaps, the province of the itinerant story-teller, as it still is in the East. But that many Moorish legends and stories were handed down among the Spanish peasantry, especially in the more southerly parts of the Peninsula, can hardly be doubted. These, however, have been much neglected by compilers, and but few of them are available. Such as exist in written form make up for their scantiness in number by the qualities of wonder and beauty which inform them. Perhaps no collection of the traditions of the Moors of Spain equals that of Washington Irving in his Tales of the Alhambra. These, he tells us, he "diligently wrought into shape and form, from various legendary scraps and hints picked up in the course of my perambulations, in the same manner that an antiquary works out a regular historical document from a few scattered letters of an almost defaced inscription." The first of our Moorish legends, therefore, I shall retell from the enchanted pages of the great American wizard in words, apologizing to his shade for the alterations in verbiage which I have been forced to make in view of the requirements of modern readers. I have, indeed, entirely recast the tale for twentieth-century use. The Arabian Astrologer Aben Habuz, King of Granada, had in his old age earned the right to repose. But the young and ardent princes whose territories marched with his were in no mind that his old age should be free from the alarms of war, and although he took every precaution to ensure his possessions against the incursions of such hotheads, the constant menace of an attack from one or other of them, no less than the unrest which occasionally raised its head within his own dominions, filled his declining years with irritation and anxiety. Harassed and perplexed, he cast about him for an adviser capable of assisting him to strengthen his position, but among the sages and nobles of his Court he experienced such a cold selfishness and lack of patriotic fervour as restrained him from adopting any of them as his confidant in high affairs of state. While he meditated upon his friendless condition it was announced to him that an Arabian sage had arrived in Granada, whose fame as a man of wisdom and understanding was proverbial throughout the East. The name of this pundit was Ibrahim Ebn Abu Ajib, and it was whispered of him that he had existed since the days of Mohammed, of one of whose personal friends he was the son. As a child he had accompanied the army of Amru, the Prophet's general, into Egypt, where he had remained for generations, employing his time in the study of those occult sciences of which the Egyptian priests were such consummate masters. Old as he was--and his appearance was most venerable--he had walked the whole way from Egypt on foot, aided only by a staff, on which were engraved hieroglyphs of deep and hidden import. His beard descended to his girdle, his piercing eyes bespoke insight and intelligence almost superhuman, and his bearing was more grave and majestic than that of the most reverend mullah in Granada. It was said that he possessed the secret of the elixir of life, but as he had attained this knowledge when already well on in years, he had perforce to be content with his aged exterior, although he had already succeeded in prolonging his existence for upward of two hundred years. King Aben Habuz, gratified at being able to extend his hospitality to a visitor of such consequence, entertained him with marked distinction. But the sage refused all his offers of soft living, and established himself in a cave in the side of the hill on which the famous palace of the Alhambra was later to be erected. This cavern he caused to be altered in such a manner that it bore a resemblance to the interiors of those lofty temples of the Egyptian land in which he had passed so many years of his long life. Through the living rock which formed its roof he commanded the Court architect to drive a deep shaft, so that from the gloom of his cavernous abode he might be able to behold the stars even at midday; for Ibrahim was pre-eminent in the study of that lore of the heavenly bodies, that thrice noble science of astrology, which the truly wise of all ages have recognized as the real source of all divine knowledge, and the shallow erudition of a later day foolishly despises. But only for a day in the round of eternity shall that great and golden book be set aside; nor shall its pages, arabesqued with mysterious and awful characters, ever be wholly closed to man. The weird, serpentine script of this language of the sages ornamented the walls of the astrologer's cavern, interspersed with the no less mystic symbols of ancient Egypt, and, surrounded by these hieroglyphs and provided with the primitive telescope we have described, the wise Ibrahim busied himself in deciphering the history of events to come as written in the glittering pages of the heavens. It was only natural that the distressed Aben Habuz should avail himself of the wisdom and foresight of the astrologer to the fullest degree. Indeed, Ibrahim became indispensable to him, and was consulted in every emergency. He responded graciously, and placed his marvellous gifts entirely at the service of the harassed monarch. On one occasion Aben Habuz complained bitterly of the constant vigilance he was forced to maintain against the attacks of his restless neighbours. For a space the astrologer was lost in thought. Then he replied: "O King, many years since I beheld a marvel in Egypt, wrought by a wise priestess of that land. Above the city of Borsa towers a lofty mountain, on which was placed the image of a ram, and above it the figure of a cock, both cast in brazen effigy and turning upon a pivot. Should the land be threatened by invasion the ram would turn in the direction of the enemy and the cock would crow, and by this means the inhabitants of Borsa were enabled to take timely measures for defence." "Would that such a contrivance might be erected at Granada," said the King fervently. "Then might we rest in peace." The astrologer smiled at the King's earnestness. "I have already told you, O King," he said, "that I have spent many years in Egypt mastering the hidden knowledge of that mysterious land. One day while seated on the banks of the Nile speaking with a priest of that country, my companion pointed to the mighty pyramids which cast their shadows on the place where we reclined. 'My son,' remarked the sage, 'thou beholdest these mountains in stone, the memorials of kings who died while Greece was yet in the cradle and Rome was unthought of; all the lore that we can teach thee is as a drop of water to the ocean compared with the secrets contained in those monuments. In the heart of the Great Pyramid is a death-chamber where rests the mummy of the high priest who designed and builded that stupendous pile. On his breast lies a wondrous book containing magical secrets of great potency--that book, indeed, which was given to Adam after the fall and by the aid of which Solomon built the temple at Jerusalem.' From the moment I heard those words, O King, I might not rest. I resolved to find my way into the Great Pyramid and possess myself of the magic volume. Collecting a number of the soldiers of the victorious Amru and many of the native Egyptians, I addressed myself to the task of piercing the solid masonry which concealed this ineffable treasure, until, after unheard-of labours, I came upon one of its hidden passages. Long time I searched in the labyrinths of the vasty pyramid ere I arrived at the sepulchral chamber. At length, groping in profound darkness, and haunted by the rustling of the wrappings of mummied Pharaohs, I came upon the shrine where the corpse of the high priest lay in grim state. I opened the sarcophagus, and, unwrapping the voluminous bandages, found the mystic tome lying among spices and amulets on the shrivelled breast. Seizing it, I hastened through the black corridors, nor stayed until I beheld the fierce Egyptian day and the friendly green of the languid river." "But in what manner may all this assist me in my dilemma, O son of Abu Ajib?" asked the King querulously. "This have I told thee, O King, because by the aid of this book most magical I can call to my assistance the spirits of earth and air--jinns, and afreets, and peris--by whose help I shall construct a talisman like that which surmounted the hill above Borsa." The astrologer was as good as his word. With all the resources of the kingdom at his command, he built a great tower on the steeps of the hill of Albayan. At his words of power spirits conveyed great stones from the pyramids of Egypt, and of these the edifice was built. In the summit of this tower he made a circular hall with windows looking toward every point of the compass, and before each window he set a table on which was arranged, as on a chessboard, a mimic army of horse and foot, with the effigy of the potentate who ruled in that direction, carved out of wood. Along with each table there was a small lance engraved with magical characters. And this hall he closed with a gate of brass, the key of which was kept by the King. Surmounting the tower was a figure of a Moorish horseman cast in bronze and fixed on a revolving pivot. He bore a shield and spear, the latter held perpendicularly. This image looked toward the city, but when a foeman approached it the horseman would face in his direction and would level the lance as if about to charge. Now, averse as Aben Habuz had been to war, he was all impatience to test the virtues of this talisman. He had not long to wait, for one morning he was informed that the face of the bronze horseman was turned toward the mountains of Elvira, and that his lance was directed against the pass of Lope. The trumpets were at once commanded to sound the alarm, but Ibrahim requested the King not to disturb the city nor call his troops together, but only to follow him to the secret hall in the tower. When they entered they found the window overlooking the pass of Lope wide open. "Now, O King," said the astrologer, "behold the mystery of the table." Aben Habuz looked at the table covered with tiny effigies of horse- and foot-soldiers, and to his astonishment saw that they were all in motion, that the warriors brandished their weapons, and the steeds neighed, but these sounds were no louder than the hum which rises from a beehive. "Your Majesty," said the astrologer, "if you desire to cause panic and confusion among your enemies, you have only to strike with the butt of the magic lance; but if you wish to bring death and destruction among them, then strike with the point." Aben Habuz, seizing the tiny lance, thrust it into some of the figures, belabouring others with the butt. The former dropped upon the board as dead, and the rest fell upon one another in confusion. Scouts sent to confirm the destruction caused among the real invaders told how a Christian army had advanced through the pass of Lope, but had turned their weapons upon one another and had retreated across the border in great confusion. Delighted, the King requested Ibrahim to name his own reward. "My wants are few," replied the astrologer; "if my cave be fitted up as a suitable abode for a philosopher, I crave no more." Surprised at his moderation, the King summoned his treasurer and commanded him to take a note of the astrologer's requirements. The sage desired that an entire suite of apartments should be hewn out of the solid rock, and this having been done, he caused them to be furnished with the most lavish magnificence. Princely ottomans and magnificent divans filled every corner, and the damp walls were hung with the luxurious silks of Damascus, while the rocky floors were carpeted with the glowing fabrics of Ispahan. Seductive baths were constructed, and provided with every kind of Oriental perfume. The apartments were hung with innumerable silver and crystal lamps, which Ibrahim filled with a fragrant and magical oil, which burned perpetually and could not be exhausted. Amazed at the profligacy of the astrologer, the treasurer made complaint of it to the King, but as his Majesty had passed his word to the sage and had, indeed, invited his extravagance, he could not interfere, and could only hope that the furnishing of the cavern would soon come to an end. When at last the hermitage was replete with the luxuries of three continents, the treasurer inquired of the astrologer if he was satisfied. "I have only one small request more to make," replied the sage. "I desire that several dancing women be provided for my amusement." The treasurer, rather scandalized, carried out the sage's instructions, as he was bound to do, and Ibrahim, having all his wants supplied, enclosed himself in his retreat. Meanwhile the King occupied himself in the tower with mimic battles, and as the hand of the astrologer was not there to moderate his warlike propensities, he amused himself by scattering armies like chaff and smashing whole battalions by a stroke of the magic lance. His enemies, terrified at the fate of such expeditions as approached his territory, ceased to trouble him, and for many months the bronze horseman remained stationary. Robbed of his amusement, Aben Habuz pined and grew peevish. But one glorious morning news was brought him that the bronze cavalier had lowered his lance toward the mountains of Guadix. The King at once repaired to the tower, but the magic table placed in the direction indicated by the horseman was placid. Not a mimic warrior stirred, not a toy charger neighed. Perplexed, Aben Habuz dispatched a scouting party, which returned after three days' absence to report that they had encountered no warlike array, nothing more formidable, indeed, than a beauteous Christian damsel, whom they had found sleeping by a fountain, and made captive. Aben Habuz commanded that the damsel should be brought to him. Her stately bearing and the lavish ornaments she wore bespoke her of exalted station. In answer to the King, she explained that she was the daughter of a Gothic prince, whose armies had been destroyed in the mountains as if by magic. "Beware of this woman, O King," whispered the astrologer, who stood by. "Methinks she is a sorceress who has been sent hither to work evil upon thee. Beware, I say." "Tush, Ibrahim," replied Aben Habuz, "thou art a wise man enow, but little versed in the ways of women. Which of them, pray, is not a sorceress? The damsel finds favour in mine eyes." "O King," said Ibrahim, "many victories have I given thee, but of all the spoil thou hast won I have received nothing. Give me then this Christian captive, who, I see, carries a silver lyre, and who will make sweet music for me in my retreat below ground. If she be a sorceress, as I suspect, I have spells that will render her harmless. But as for thee, she will speedily overcome thee if thou takest her into thy house." "What?" cried the incensed monarch. "By the beard of the Prophet, thou art a strange hermit indeed! Know that this damsel is not for thee." "So be it," said the sage, in wavering tones. "But I fear for thee, royal Aben Habuz. Beware, I say to thee again, beware!" And the astrologer retired to his subterranean abode. Now Aben Habuz had fallen over head and ears in love with the fair daughter of the Goths, and in his desire to please her strained the resources of his kingdom to their utmost limits. He lavished upon her all that was most exquisite and most magnificent in his storehouses and treasuries. He devised for her pastime a hundred spectacles and festivities, pageants, bull-fights, and tournaments. All these the haughty beauty took quite as a matter of course. Indeed it almost seemed as if she urged the infatuated monarch to greater extravagance and more lavish expenditure. But no matter how profuse was his bounty, she refused to listen to a single amorous word from the lips of Aben Habuz, and whenever he essayed to speak his love she swept her fingers across the strings of her silver lyre and smiled enigmatically. When she acted thus the King invariably felt a drowsiness steal over his senses, and as the dulcet sound gained ascendancy over him he would sink into a sleep from which he usually awoke refreshed and reinvigorated. His subjects were, however, by no means so satisfied with this condition of affairs as he was. Irritated by his profligate expenditure, and virtual enslavement by a woman of hostile race, they at length broke into open revolt. But, like Sardanapalus of Babylon, he roused himself from silken dalliance and, putting himself at the head of his guards, crushed the outbreak almost before it had come to a head. The episode disquieted him, however, and he recalled the words of the wise Ibrahim, how that the Gothic princess would bring him woe. He sought the astrologer in his cavern, and requested his advice. Ibrahim assured him that his position would be insecure so long as the princess remained one of his household. To this Aben Habuz refused to listen, and begged the sage to find him some retreat where he might pass the remainder of his days in tranquillity along with the princess of whom he was so deeply enamoured. "And my reward if I can procure thee such a retreat?" asked Ibrahim. "That thou shalt name thyself, O Ibrahim," replied the infatuated old man. "Thou hast heard of the garden of Irem, O King, that jewel of Arabia?" "Aye, in fable. Dost thou mock me, astrologer?" "No more than these eyes have mocked me, O King, for I myself have beheld that most delectable of all paradises. "As a youth I stumbled upon it when searching for my father's camels. Once the country of the Addites, its capital was founded by Sheddad, son of Ad, great-grandson of Noah, who determined to build in it a palace surrounded by gardens that should rival Paradise itself. But the curse of heaven fell upon him for his presumption. He and his subjects were swept from the earth, and his palace and gardens were laid under an enchantment that hides them from human sight. When I had recovered the book of Solomon I revisited the garden of Irem, and wrung from the jinns who guard it the secret of the spells which render it invisible to mortal sight. By virtue of these spells I can rear for thee, O King, such a retreat even here on the mountain above thy city." "O wise philosopher!" cried Aben Habuz, "ill was it of me to doubt thee. Do as thou dost promise, and name thy reward." "All the reward I ask is the first beast of burden with its load that shall enter the gate of thy paradise," said Ibrahim; "a moderate request, surely." "Moderate indeed!" cried the King, transported by the thought of joys to come, "and I grant it immediately." The astrologer at once set to work. On the summit of the hill above his cavern he built a strong tower pierced by a great gateway, and on the keystone of this portal he wrought the figure of a great key. The gateway had also an outer guard, on which he engraved a gigantic hand. Then on a night of unexampled darkness he ascended the hill and wrought many incantations. In the morning he sought Aben Habuz and intimated that his labours were at an end, and that the paradise which should be invisible to all save him and his beloved awaited him. On the following morning the King, accompanied by the princess, ascended the hill, the latter riding on a white palfrey. Beside them stalked the astrologer, assisted by his hieroglyph-covered staff. They came to the arch, and the sage pointed out the mystic hand and key. "No mortal power can prevail against the lord of this paradise," he said, "until yonder hand shall seize that key." As he spoke the princess on her palfrey passed through the portal. "Behold!" cried the astrologer. "Did we not agree that the first animal with its burden which should pass through the magic gateway should be mine?" Aben Habuz smiled at first at what he regarded as a humorous sally on the part of the sage; but when he discovered him to be in earnest he waxed wroth. "Presumptuous astrologer!" he cried. "Dare you raise your thoughts to her whom I have chosen from among many women?" "Thy royal word is pledged," replied Ibrahim. "I claim the princess in virtue of thine oath." "Dog of the desert!" cried Aben Habuz. "Thou shalt feel the weight of my anger for this, juggler though thou art." "I laugh at thee, Aben Habuz," cried Ibrahim derisively. "Mortal hand cannot harm me. Farewell. Remain in thy fool's paradise and continue to reign over thy province. As for me, I go where thou canst not follow me." And with these words he seized the bridle of the palfrey, smote the earth with his magic staff, and sank with the princess through the centre of the barbican. The earth closed over them, and left not a trace of the aperture through which they had disappeared. When Aben Habuz recovered from his astonishment he ordered gangs of workmen to be brought to the spot, and commanded them to dig. But the earth seemed to fill in as fast as they threw it out. The opening of the astrologer's cavern too had disappeared. Worse still, the talismans by which the astrologer had secured peace to Granada refused to work, and the old unrest recommenced. But one morning a peasant came before Aben Habuz and told him that while wandering on the hill he had found a fissure in the rock through which he had crept until he had looked down into a subterranean hall, in which sat the astrologer on a magnificent divan, dozing, while the princess played to him on her silver lyre. The distracted monarch failed, however, to find the fissure. Nor could he enter the paradise built by his rival. The summit of the hill appeared a naked waste, and received the name of 'the Fool's Paradise.' The remainder of the wretched King's life was made a burden to him by the inroads of his warlike neighbours. Such is the story of the hill of the Alhambra, the palace on which almost realizes the fabled delights of the garden of Irem. The enchanted gateway still exists entire, and is now known as the Gate of Justice. Under that gateway, it is said, the old astrologer remains in his subterranean hall, lulled to constant slumber by the silver lyre of the princess. They are, indeed, each other's captives, and will remain so until the magic key shall be grasped by the magic hand and the spell which lies upon this enchanted hill be dissolved. Cleomades and Claremond The wonderful tale of Cleomades and Claremond is almost certainly of Moorish origin in a secondary sense. In his preface to Adenès' Berte aux grans Piés (Paris, 1832), M. Paulin Paris says: "I am strongly inclined to believe that the original of the fiction of Cleomades is really Spanish or Moorish. All the personages are Saracens or Spaniards; the scene is in Spain; the character of the fiction is akin to that of the fictions of the East." Keightley believed that Blanche of Castile, the wife of Louis VIII of France, had heard the tale in Spain, and had narrated it to the French poet Adenès, who cast it into literary form. Ectriva, Queen of Southern Spain, held a great tournament at Seville, at which Marchabias, Prince of Sardinia, so distinguished himself as to win her heart. She bestowed her hand upon the youthful champion, and their union was a happy one, being blessed in time with three daughters and a son. To the boy they gave the name of Cleomades, while his sisters were called Melior, Soliadis, and Maxima. Cleomades was dispatched upon his travels at an early age. But after he had visited several foreign countries he was summoned home to be present at the wedding of his sisters, who were about to be married to three great princes, all of whom were famous as practitioners of the magic art. They were Melicandus, King of Barbary; Bardagans, King of Armenia; and Croppart, King of Hungary. The last-named monarch was so unfortunate as to be a hunchback, and to his deformity he added a bitter tongue and a wicked heart. The three monarchs had encountered one another while still some distance from Seville, and had agreed to give such presents to the King and Queen as would necessitate a gift in return. Melicandus presented the royal pair with the golden image of a man, holding in his right hand a trumpet of the same metal, which he sounded if treason came near him. Bardagans gave a hen and six chickens of gold, so skilfully made that they picked up grain and seemed to be alive. Every third day the hen laid an egg of pearl. Croppart gave a large wooden horse magnificently caparisoned, which he told his hosts could travel over land and sea at the rate of fifty leagues an hour. The King and Queen, generous to a fault, invited the strangers to ask anything that it was in their power to bestow. Melicandus requested the hand of the Princess Melior, Bardagans that of Soliadis, while Croppart demanded that Maxima should be given him as a consort. The two elder sisters were pleased with their suitors, who were both handsome and amiable, but when Maxima beheld the hideous and deformed Croppart she ran to her brother Cleomades and begged him to deliver her from such an unsightly monster. Cleomades represented to his father the wrong done by him in consenting to such a match. But Croppart insisted that the King's word had been passed and that he could not retire from his promise. Cleomades, casting about for an argument, told the Hungarian king that the value of the gifts of Melicandus and Bardagans had been proved, but that, so far as any one knew, his story about the wooden horse might be a mere fable. Croppart offered to test the capacity of his wooden steed. At this the golden man blew his trumpet loudly, but all were so interested in the proposed trial that no one noticed it. The prince mounted the gaudily harnessed hobby, and at the request of Croppart turned a pin of steel in its head, and was immediately carried into the air with such velocity that in a few moments he was lost to sight. The King and Queen, filled with indignation, had Croppart seized, but he argued that the prince should have waited until he had shown him how to manage the wooden horse. Meanwhile Cleomades sped onward for miles and miles. His strange steed continued to cleave the air at a terrific speed, and at length darkness fell without any signs of its slackening its pace. All night Cleomades continued to fly, and during the hours of gloom had plenty of time to ponder upon his awkward situation. Recollecting that there were pins upon the horse's shoulders like those upon its head, he resolved to try their effect. He found that by turning one of them to right or left the horse went in either direction, and that when the other was turned the wooden hippogriff slackened speed and descended. Morning now broke, and he saw that he was over a great city. By skilful manipulation of his steed he managed to alight upon a lofty tower which stood in the garden of a great palace. Descending through a trap-door in the roof, he entered a gorgeous sleeping apartment, and beheld a beautiful lady reclining on a sumptuous couch. At his entrance she awoke, and cried out: "Rash man, how have you presumed to enter this apartment? Are you perchance that King Liopatris to whom my father has affianced me?" "I am that monarch," replied Cleomades. "May I not speak with you?" he continued, for on beholding the princess he had at once fallen violently in love with her. "Retire to the garden," she said, "and I will come to you there." The prince obeyed. In a few moments the princess joined him. But they had not been long together when the lady's father, King Cornuant of Tuscany, appeared, and at once denounced Cleomades as an impostor, condemning him to death. The prince begged that he might be permitted to meet his fate mounted upon his wooden horse. To this the King assented, and the magical steed was brought. Mounting it, he immediately turned the pin, and rose high in the air, calling out to the princess, as he did so, that he would remain faithful to her. Shortly he arrived again in Seville, to the immense relief of his parents. Croppart was requested to quit the country. But he had no mind to do so, and in the guise of an Eastern physician remained in the city. The two elder princesses were married to Melicandus and Bardagans. As for Cleomades, he could not forget the beautiful Princess Claremond, and, once more mounting his aery steed, he set off in the direction of her father's kingdom. On this occasion he had timed his visit so as to arrive by night at the palace of his lady-love. Alighting in the garden, he made his way to the chamber of Claremond, whom he found fast asleep. He awoke her gently, and told her his name and station, avowed his love, and placed himself at her mercy. "What!" exclaimed the princess. "Are you indeed that Cleomades whom we regard as the very mirror of knighthood?" The prince assured her that such was the case, and taking from his arm a splendid bracelet containing his mother's portrait and his own, he presented her with it as an assurance that he spoke truly. The princess confessed her love, and at his entreaty mounted behind him on the magic horse. As they rose, Cleomades beheld the King in the gardens beneath, surrounded by his courtiers. He called to him to fear nothing for his daughter, and, setting the head of his mount toward Seville, sped onward. Alighting at a small rural palace some distance from the Court, Cleomades left the princess there to recover from her journey, while he proceeded to acquaint his royal parents with the result of his adventure. Claremond, having refreshed herself, was walking in the garden for exercise, as she felt somewhat stiff after her aerial voyage, when, as ill-luck would have it, she was observed by Croppart, who, in the guise of an Indian physician, had entered the garden, ostensibly to cull simples for medicinal purposes, but in reality to spy out the land. Croppart, seeing his own wooden horse, and hearing the princess murmur the name of Cleomades, speedily formed a plan to carry the damsel off. Approaching her, he offered to take her to Cleomades at once on the back of the enchanted horse, and, fearing no evil, she accepted his offer, and permitted herself to be placed on its back. Croppart immediately turned the pin, and the horse ascended with terrific velocity. At first Claremond was quite unsuspicious of the designs of her abductor, but as time passed her fears were aroused, and, looking down, she beheld, instead of populous cities, only gloomy forests and deserted mountains. She begged Croppart to return with her to the palace garden, but he merely laughed at her entreaties, and at last, worn out with grief and disappointment, she swooned away. Descending near a fountain, Croppart sprinkled the princess with its water until she revived. Then he acquainted her with his intention to make her Queen of Hungary. But the princess did not lack wit, and told him that she was merely a slave-girl whom Cleomades had purchased from her parents. This intelligence made the ferocious Croppart treat her with even less respect than before, so that to save herself from his violence she consented to wed him at the first city to which they might chance to come. When he had wrung this promise from Claremond, Croppart, who suffered greatly from thirst, drank deeply of the fountain. So icy cold were its waters that on quaffing them he fell to the ground, almost insensible. Claremond, overcome by fatigue and anxiety, fell fast asleep. In this condition they were discovered by Mendulus, King of Salerno, who at once conceived a strong attachment to the sleeping damsel, and had her conveyed to his palace, where he lodged her in a fair apartment. As for Croppart, so severe was the disorder which he had contracted by drinking of the icy fountain that he expired shortly afterward. Claremond told King Mendulus that she was only a foundling whose name was Trouvée, and that she had accompanied Croppart, a travelling physician, from one place to another, seeking a precarious livelihood. This did not prevent him, however, from offering her his hand and crown. To save herself from this new danger, Claremond had recourse to feigned madness, and so convincingly did she play her part that Mendulus had perforce to confine her under the charge of ten chosen women, whose duty it was to restrain her. Meanwhile the Court of Spain was thrown into the utmost confusion. Cleomades, returning to the summer palace with his parents, could find no trace of Claremond, and, overcome with grief, was brought back to the capital in a state bordering upon frenzy. When he recovered he set out for the kingdom of Tuscany in the hope that there he might obtain tidings of his lady. Riding alone, he came to a castle, where he encountered and overthrew two knights who refused to let him pass. From them he learned that when a prince named Liopatris, who had been betrothed to Claremond, arrived at the Court of Tuscany, three of his knights had accused three of Claremond's maids of honour of being accomplices in the abduction of their mistress. The knights whom Cleomades had worsted were suitors for the hands of two of those ladies, and had challenged their detractors, but as one of them had been wounded by Cleomades, they could not now make good their challenge. Cleomades graciously offered to take the place of the wounded man, and with his unwounded comrade set out for the Court of King Cornuant. Next morning the combatants appeared in the lists. The three accusers were overthrown, and the maids of honour pronounced innocent, according to the laws of chivalry. Taking the damsels with them, Cleomades and his new brother-in-arms returned to the castle whence they had come, and when he had doffed his armour the prince-errant was recognized by the ladies whom he had helped to rescue. Great was their grief when they learned of the fate of Claremond. But one of them begged Cleomades to seek the assistance of a famous astrologer who dwelt at Salerno, "who saw most secret things right clear." Cleomades instantly resolved to go and consult this sage, and accordingly next morning he set out for the city of Salerno, after having taken an affectionate leave of the lovers. Arrived at Salerno, Cleomades put up at an inn, and lost no time in inquiring of the landlord where the astrologer might be found. "Alas, sir!" said the host, "it is now a year since he passed away. Never did we need him more. For had he been alive, he might have served our King by restoring to reason the most beautiful creature who ever lived." And he told Cleomades the story of how Mendulus had found the hunchback and the maid. At the mention of the wooden horse Cleomades started, but kept his presence of mind, and assured the innkeeper that he possessed an infallible cure for madness. He begged the man to lead him to the King, and, on the plea that his arms might excite suspicion, donned a false beard and the dress of a physician. He was at once admitted to the royal presence, and on hearing of his skill the King led him to the place where Claremond was confined. Cleomades had taken with him a glove belonging to his lady-love, which he had stuffed with herbs, and on the pretence that these would cure her he placed it upon her cheek. Seeing her own glove, she regarded the seeming physician earnestly, and succeeded in penetrating his disguise. But, still feigning insanity, she begged that her wooden horse might be brought, so that it could dispute with the learned doctor. It was carried into the garden where they were, and the princess pretended to have a whim that she could only be cured if she and the physician mounted the wooden steed. To this Mendulus consented, and when they bestrode the artificial hippogriff Cleomades turned the pin, and in a moment they rose like an arrow from the bow. Next morning the happy pair arrived in Seville. Their nuptials were immediately performed, and Liopatris was consoled with Princess Maxima, so that no one was left lamenting. The Three Beautiful Princesses Legend tells us that when Mohammed el Haygari, or 'the Left-handed,' reigned in Granada he once encountered a train of horsemen riding back from a foray in Christian lands. He observed in the ranks of their captives a beautiful damsel richly attired, and learned that she was the daughter of the commander of a frontier fortress which had been taken and sacked in the course of the expedition. The lady was accompanied by a duenna, and Mohammed ordered that both women should be conveyed to his harem. Day by day he urged the captive damsel to become his queen. But his faith as well as his age caused her family to reject his advances. In his perplexity he resolved to enlist the good graces of her duenna, who undertook to plead his cause with her young mistress. She told the lady that she was foolish to pine in a beautiful palace, who had henceforth been used only to a dull old frontier castle, and that by marrying Mohammed she could make herself mistress of all she surveyed instead of remaining a captive. At last her arguments prevailed. The Spanish lady consented to unite herself to the Moorish monarch, and even outwardly conformed to his religion, which the duenna also embraced with all the fervour of a proselyte, being re-named Kadiga. In course of time the Spanish lady presented her lord with three daughters at a single birth. The Court astrologers cast the nativities of the infants, and with many ominous warnings cautioned their father to keep strict guard over them when they arrived at a marriageable age. Shortly afterward his queen died, and Mohammed, with the astrologers' warning ringing in his ears, resolved to shut the princesses up in the royal castle of Salobreña, a place of great strength, overlooking the Mediterranean, where he felt certain no harm could come to them. Years passed and at length the princesses became of marriageable age. Although they had been brought up by the discreet Kadiga with the greatest care, and had always been together, their characters were of course very different one from another. Zayda, the eldest, was of an intrepid spirit, and took the lead in everything. Zorayda, the second, had a strong sense of beauty, which probably accounted for the fact that she spent a large portion of her time gazing in the glass, or in the fountain which plashed and sang in the marble court of the castle. Zorahayda, the youngest, was soft and timid, and given to reverie. All three were surpassingly beautiful, and as she gazed upon them the shrewd old Kadiga would shake her head and sigh. When they inquired of her why she did so, she would turn the question aside with a laugh and direct the conversation to a less dangerous topic. One day the princesses were seated at a casement which commanded a noble view of the heaven-blue Mediterranean, the dreamy waters of which whispered musically to the palm-shadowed shores which skirted the height upon which the towers of Salobreña stood. It was one of those evenings on which we feel it difficult to believe that we are not temporary sojourners in a land of vague deliciousness, where all is beautiful as it is unreal. Mists dyed in the sunset rose like incense from the urns of twilight, hiding the far distances of sea and sky. From between the curtains of sea-shadows there drifted a white-sailed galley, which glided toward the shore, where it anchored. A number of Moorish soldiers landed on the beach, conducting several Christian prisoners, among whom were three Spanish cavaliers richly dressed. These, though loaded with chains, carried themselves in a lofty and distinguished manner, and the princesses could not refrain from gazing upon them with intense and breathless interest. Never before had they seen such noble-looking youths, who had so far only beheld black slaves and the rude fishermen of the coast, so small wonder was it that the sight of these brave cavaliers should arouse commotion in their bosoms. The princesses remained gazing until the prisoners were out of sight. Then with long-drawn sighs they turned from the window and sat down, musing and pensive, on their ottomans. The discreet Kadiga, finding them thus, learned from them what they had seen, and in answer to their inquiries regarding such beings related to them many a tale of cavalier life in Christian Spain, which only served to heighten the curiosity which the appearance of the captives had excited. But it did not take the sage old woman long to discover the mischief she was doing, and, full of fears for which she could scarcely account, she dispatched a slave to her royal master, with the symbolic message of a basket filled with leaves of the fig and vine, on which lay a peach, an apricot, and a nectarine, all in the early stage of tempting ripeness, which Mohammed, skilled in the Oriental language of fruits and flowers, rightly interpreted as meaning that his daughters had arrived at marriageable age. Recalling the advice of the astrologers, he resolved to bring the princesses under his immediate guardianship, and at once commanded that a tower of the Alhambra should be prepared for their reception. He himself set out for Salobreña to conduct them thither, and on beholding them, and perceiving how beautiful they were, he felt glad that he had wasted no time in bringing them to Court. So conscious was he of the danger that three such beauties would run that he prepared for his return to Granada by sending heralds before him, commanding every one to keep out of the road by which he was to pass, on pain of death. Then, escorted by a troop of the most hideous black horsemen he could find, he set forth on the journey to his capital. As the cavalcade was approaching Granada it chanced to overtake a small body of Moorish soldiers with a convoy of prisoners. It was too late for the soldiers to retire, so they threw themselves on their faces on the earth, ordering their captives to do likewise. Among the prisoners were the three cavaliers whom the princesses had seen from the window of the castle of Salobreña, and they, too proud to obey the order to grovel before their pagan enemy, remained standing. The anger of the royal Mohammed was aroused by this flagrant defiance of his orders, and, drawing his scimitar, he was about to decapitate the unfortunate captives, when the princesses gathered round him and implored mercy for them. The captain of the guard, too, assured him that they could not be injured without great scandal, on account of their high rank, and described to the irate monarch the manner in which these illustrious youths had been taken captive while fighting like lions beneath the royal banner of Spain. Somewhat mollified by these representations, Mohammed sheathed his weapon. "I will spare their lives," he said, "but their rashness must meet with fitting punishment. Let them be taken to the Vermilion Towers and put to labour." In the agitation of the moment the veils of the three princesses had blown aside so that their radiant beauty was revealed. In those romantic times to see was often to love at once, and the three noble cavaliers fell sudden victims to the charms of the royal damsels who pleaded so eloquently for their lives. Singularly enough, each of them was enraptured with a separate beauty; but it would be as impertinent as illogical to ask the reason of this sleight of cunning Dame Nature, who in romance, perhaps, is represented as being more judicious than she really is. The royal cavalcade now pressed onward, and the captives were conducted to their allotted prison in the Vermilion Towers. The residence provided for the princesses was all that imagination could ask and splendour devise. It was situated in a tower somewhat apart from the main palace of the Alhambra, and on one side was cheered by the prospect of a garden beautiful as the first step into paradise, while on the other it overlooked a deep and umbrageous ravine that separated the grounds of the Alhambra from those of the Generalife. But to the beauties of this delightful place the princesses were blind. They languished visibly, and by none was their indisposition remarked so shrewdly as by old Kadiga, who guessed its cause without any great difficulty. Taking pity upon their forlorn condition, she told them that as she was passing the Vermilion Towers on the preceding evening she heard the cavaliers singing after the day's labours to the strains of a guitar, and at the request of the princesses she arranged with their jailer that they should be set to work in the ravine, beneath the windows of the damsels' apartments. The very next day the captives were given labour which necessitated their presence in the ravine. During the noontide heat, while their guards were sleeping, they sang a Spanish roundelay to the accompaniment of the guitar. The princesses listened, and heard that it was a love ditty addressed to themselves. The ladies replied to the sound of a lute played by Zorayda, the burden of which was: The rose by the screen of her leaves is concealed, But the song of the nightingale pierces the shield. Every day the cavaliers worked in the ravine, and an intercourse was maintained between them and the no less captive princesses by songs and romances which breathed the feelings of either party. In time the princesses showed themselves on the balcony when the guards were wrapped in noonday slumber. But at length this desirable condition of affairs was interrupted, for the three young nobles were ransomed by their families and repaired to Granada to commence their homeward journey. They approached the aged Kadiga, and requested her to assist them to fly with the princesses to Spain. This proposal the old dame communicated to her young mistresses, and finding that they embraced it with alacrity a plan of escape was arranged. The rugged hill on which the Alhambra is built was at that time tunnelled by many a subterranean passage leading from the fortress to various parts of the city, and Kadiga arranged to conduct the royal damsels by one of these to a sally-port beyond the walls of Granada, where the cavaliers were to be in waiting with swift horses to bear the whole party over the borders. The appointed night arrived, and when the Alhambra was buried in deep sleep the princesses, accompanied by their duenna, descended from their apartments to the garden by means of a rope-ladder--all save Zorahayda, the youngest and most timorous, who at the decisive moment could not endure the idea of leaving her father. The advance of the night patrol which guarded the palace made it necessary for her sisters and Kadiga to fly without her. Groping their way through the fearful labyrinth, they succeeded in reaching the gate outside the walls. The Spanish cavaliers were waiting to receive them. 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 mounted behind their lovers, Kadiga behind another rider, and, dashing the spurs into the flanks of their steeds, the party galloped off at top speed. They had not proceeded far when they heard the noise of an alarm from the battlements of the Alhambra, while a lurid watch-fire burst into flame on its topmost turret. Lashing their horses to a frenzy of speed, they succeeded in outdistancing their pursuers, and by taking unfrequented paths and hiding in wild barrancas they were at last so fortunate as to reach the city of Cordova, where the princesses were received into the bosom of the Church and united to their respective lovers. Mohammed was well-nigh demented at the loss of his daughters, but, rather unnecessarily, took pains to redouble his watch over the one who had remained. The unfortunate Zorahayda, thus closely guarded, repented of her vacillation, and we are told that many a night she was seen leaning on the battlements of the tower in which she was confined, looking in the direction of Cordova. Legend, never very merciful either to heroine or reader, says that she died young, and her melancholy fate gave birth to many a sad ballad, both Moorish and Castilian, so that she was at least successful in inspiring song--a celebrity to which her more fortunate sisters did not attain. The Story of Prince Ahmed Once again the ancient city of Granada is the scene of the legend we are about to relate. But, from considerations which we will adduce later, there is good reason to believe the story to be of Persian origin. It recounts the history of Prince Ahmed, surnamed 'al Kamel,' or 'the Perfect,' because of the beauty and equability of his temperament. At the birth of this prince of happy disposition the Court astrologers predicted that his career would be singularly fortunate, provided one difficulty could be overcome; but that difficulty was sufficiently great to daunt the heart of any monarch, so that we cannot be surprised when we learn that his royal father grew pessimistic regarding his chances of happiness when the wise men informed him that in order to circumvent a cruel fate his son must be kept from the allurements of love until he attained the age of manhood. The perplexed King acted as most fathers in romances do--that is, he confined his son from his earliest infancy in a delightfully secluded palace which he built for the purpose on the brow of the hill above the Alhambra. This building, which is now known as the Generalife, is surrounded by lofty walls, and here the young prince grew up under the care of Eben Bonabben, an Arabian sage of wisdom and other formidable qualities, which made him a suitable guardian for a budding royalty in such case as Ahmed. Under the tuition of this grave preceptor the prince attained to his twentieth year totally ignorant of the tender passion. About this time a change came over his habitual docility, and instead of listening attentively to the discourses of Eben Bonabben, he neglected his studies and took to strolling in the gardens of his abode. His instructor, who saw how it was with him, and that the latent tenderness of his nature had awakened, redoubled his care, and shut him up in the most remote tower of the Generalife. In order to interest him in something that would remove his thoughts from speculations which might prove dangerous, he instructed his pupil in the language of birds, and the Prince, taking kindly to this recondite subject, soon mastered it completely. After trying his skill upon a hawk, an owl, and a bat with indifferent success, he listened to the chorus of birds in his garden. It was spring-time, and each and every feathered songster was pouring out his heart in an ecstasy of love, repeating the word again and yet again. "Love!" cried the prince at length. "What may this love be?" He inquired of Eben Bonabben, who at the question felt his head roll ominously on his shoulders, as if in pledge of what would happen to it did he not avert the question. He informed Ahmed that love was one of the greatest evils which poor humanity has to endure; that it made strife between friends and brethren, and had brought about the ruin of some of the greatest of men. Then he departed in perturbation, leaving the Prince to his own thoughts. But Ahmed observed that the birds which sang so lustily of love were far from unhappy, and therefore doubted the arguments of his preceptor. Next morning as he lay on his couch, lost in the pursuit of the enigma which had presented itself to his thoughts, a dove, chased by a hawk, flew through the casement and fluttered to the floor. The Prince took up the terrified bird and smoothed its ruffled plumage. But it seemed disconsolate, and on his asking for what it grieved, it replied that its discontent was caused by separation from its mate, whom it loved with all its heart. "Tell me, beautiful bird, what is this thing called love that these birds in the garden sing of so constantly?" "Love," said the bird, "is the great mystery and principle of life. Every created being has its mate. Hast thou spent so many of the precious days of youth without experiencing it? Has no beautiful princess or lovely damsel ensnared thine heart?" The Prince released the dove and sought out Bonabben. "Miscreant!" he cried, "why hast thou kept me in this abject ignorance--why withheld from me the great mystery and principle of life? Why am I alone debarred from the enjoyment of love? Bonabben saw that further subterfuge was useless, so he revealed to his charge the predictions of the astrologers and the consequent necessity for the precautions with which his youth had been surrounded. He further assured the prince that did the King learn how his trust had failed his head would pay forfeit. The Prince, horrified to learn this, promised to conceal his knowledge, and this in some measure quieted the fears of the philosopher. Some days after this episode the Prince was reclining in the garden when his friend the dove alighted fearlessly upon his shoulder. He asked it whence it came, and it answered that it came from a far land, where it had seen a beautiful princess, who, like himself, had been enclosed within the high walls of a secret retreat and kept in ignorance of the existence of love. The knowledge that a being of the opposite sex existed who had been brought up in like circumstances to himself acted like a spark of fire to the heart of Ahmed. He at once wrote a letter couched in the most impassioned language, which he addressed, "To the unknown beauty, from the captive Prince Ahmed," and this he entrusted to the dove, who promised to convey it to the object of his adoration without a moment's delay. Day after day Ahmed watched for the return of the messenger of love, but in vain. At last, one evening the bird fluttered into his apartment, and falling at his feet expired. The arrow of some wanton archer had pierced its breast, yet it had struggled on to the fulfilment of its mission. Ahmed, picking up the little body, found it encircled by a chain of pearls, attached to which was a small enamelled picture representing a lovely princess in the flower of youth and beauty. The prince pressed the picture to his lips in a fervour of passion, and at once resolved upon flight, his object being to seek the original of the portrait, whatever dangers and obstacles might lie in the accomplishment of his purpose. Seeking the advice of the wise owl, whom he had not spoken to since he had been a beginner in the study of the language of birds, he collected all his jewels, and on the same night lowered himself from the balcony, clambered over the outer walls of the Generalife, and, accompanied by the wise old bird, who had agreed to act as his cicerone, set out for Seville, his purpose being to seek a raven whom the owl knew to be a great necromancer, who might assist him in his quest. In time they arrived at the southern city, and sought the high tower in which the raven dwelt. They found the gifted bird, and were advised by it to go to Cordova and seek the palm-tree of the great Abderahman, which stood in the courtyard of the principal mosque, at the foot of which they would encounter a great traveller, who would give them information regarding the object of their search. Following the raven's instructions, they travelled to Seville, and were annoyed to find at the foot of the tree in question an immense crowd, listening attentively to the chattering of a parrot, whose plumage was of the most brilliant green, and whose pragmatical eye held much wisdom. When the crowd had departed, the prince consulted the bird regarding his quest, and was amazed to hear it burst into cries of discordant laughter when it gazed upon the picture. "Poor youth," it cackled, "are you another victim of love? Know that this picture you worship so devoutly is that of the Princess Aldegonda, daughter of the Christian King of Toledo." "Help me in this matter, good bird," cried the prince, "and I shall find you a distinguished place at Court." "With all my heart," said the parrot. "All I ask is that it be a sinecure, for we clever folk have a great dislike for hard work!" Accompanied by the owl and the parrot, Ahmed proceeded upon his journey to Toledo in search of the Princess Aldegonda. Their progress through the stern passes of the Sierra Morena and across the sun-drenched plains of La Mancha and Castile was slow, but at long last they came in sight of Toledo, at the foot of whose steeps the Tagus rushed in brawling cascades. The garrulous parrot at once pointed out the abode of the Princess Aldegonda, a stately palace rising out of the bowers of a delightful garden. "Ah, Toledo!" cried the owl in ecstasy. "Toledo, thou city of magic and mystery! What spells, what enchantments of ancient wizardry have not been recited among thy carven shadows! City of learning, of strange miracles, of a thousand profundities----" "City of a thousand fiddlesticks!" piped the parrot. "A truce to your raptures, friend philosopher. O Toledo," he apostrophized, with wings outspread in mimicry of the owl, "city of nuts and wine, of figs and oil, of banquets, jousts, and enchanting señoritas! Now, my prince, shall I not fly to the Princess Aldegonda and acquaint her with the fact of our arrival?" "Do so, best of birds," replied the Prince enthusiastically. "Tell her that Ahmed, the pilgrim of love, has come to Toledo in quest of her." The parrot immediately spread his wings and flew off on his mission. He beheld the princess reclining on a couch, and, alighting, he advanced with the air of a courtier. "Beautiful princess," he said, with a low bow, "I come as ambassador from Prince Ahmed, of Granada, who has journeyed to Toledo to bask in the light of thine eyes." "O joyful news!" cried the princess. "I had begun to doubt the constancy of Ahmed. Hie thee back to him as fast as thy green wings will take thee, and tell him that his poetry has been the food of my soul, and that his letters are engraven on my heart. But, alas! he must prepare to prove his love by force of arms. To-morrow is my seventeenth birthday, in honour of which the King my father is to hold a great tournament, and my hand is to be the prize of the victor." Ahmed was delighted with the news which the parrot brought him, but his happiness at finding the princess had remained faithful was shadowed by the knowledge that he would have to do battle for her; for he had not been trained in the exercises of chivalry. In his dilemma he turned to the wise owl, who, as usual, threw much light on the matter, for he unfolded to him that in a neighbouring mountain there was a cave where lay on an iron table a suit of magical armour and near it an enchanted steed that had been shut up there for generations. After a search the cavern was located. A lamp of everlasting oil shed a solemn light among the profound shadows of the place, and by its gleam the armour and the bespelled charger were soon found, as the owl had said. Donning the mail, Ahmed leapt upon the destrier's back, and with a loud neighing the steed awoke and bore him from the place, the owl and the parrot flying one on either side of him. Next morning Ahmed proceeded to the lists, which were situated in a large plain near the city. They presented a scene of unparalleled brilliance, and noble knights and lovely ladies had congregated in hundreds to try their skill in arms or display their beauty. But all the latter were quite eclipsed by the Princess Aldegonda, who shone like the moon among the stars. At the appearance of Ahmed, who was announced as 'The Pilgrim of Love,' excitement ran high, for he made a most gallant and resplendent figure in his glittering armour and bejewelled casque. He was informed, however, that none but princes might encounter in the tournament, and on learning this he disclosed his rank and name. On hearing that he was a Moslem a universal scoffing arose among the Christian champions, and Ahmed, incensed, challenged the knight who displayed the bitterest enmity. The course was run, and the brawny scoffer tilted out of his saddle. But the prince now found that he had to deal with a demoniac horse and armour. Once in action, nothing could control them. The Arabian steed charged into the thickest of the throng. Down went Ahmed's opponents before his levelled lance like ninepins, so that the lists were soon strewn with their recumbent forms. But at midday the spell which had been laid upon the charger resumed its power. The Arabian steed scoured across the plain, leaped the barrier, plunged into the Tagus, swam its raging current, and bore the prince, breathless yet avenged, to the cavern, where it resumed its station like a statue beside the iron table, on which the prince laid the armour. Ahmed's feelings were most unenviable, for among those whom he had unhorsed in his wild career had been the King himself, the father of Aldegonda, who, on witnessing the overthrow of his guests, had angrily rushed to their assistance. Full of anxiety, he dispatched his winged messengers to gather tidings. The parrot returned with a world of gossip. Toledo, he said, was in consternation; the princess had been carried home senseless, and the general opinion was that the prince was either a Moorish magician or a demon such as tradition said dwelt in the mountain caverns. It was morning when the owl came back. He had peered through the windows of the palace, and had seen the princess kiss Ahmed's letter, and give way to loud lamentations. Later, she was conveyed to the highest tower in the palace, every avenue to which was strictly guarded. But a melancholy, deep and devouring, had settled upon her, and it was thought that she was the victim of magic, so that at last a great reward--the richest jewel in the royal treasury--was offered to anyone who should effect her cure. Now the wise owl chanced to know that in the royal treasury was deposited a certain box of sandal-wood secured by bands of steel, and inscribed with mystic characters known only to the learned few. This coffer contained the silken carpet of Solomon the Great, which had been brought to Spain by exiled Jews. All this caused the prince to ponder deeply. Next day he laid aside his rich attire, and arrayed himself in the simple garb of an Arab of the desert, dyeing his face and hands a tawny brown. Thus disguised, he repaired to the royal palace, and after some delay, was admitted. When the King asked him his business, he boldly claimed his ability to cure the princess, who, he said, was certainly possessed of a devil, which he could exorcise by the power of music alone, as the folk of his tribe were wont to do. The King, seeing him so confident, immediately conducted him to the lofty tower where the princess lay, the windows of which opened upon a terrace commanding a view over the city and surrounding country. On this terrace the prince seated himself, and began to play on his pipe. But the princess remained insensible. Then, as if chanting an exorcism, he repeated the verses of the letter which he had sent to the princess, in which he had first declared his passion. Rousing, she recognized the words with emotion, and asked that the prince should be brought into her presence. Ahmed was conducted into her chamber, but the lovers, knowing their danger, were discreet, and contented themselves with the exchange of glances more eloquent than speech. Never was triumph of music more complete. The roses returned to the pale cheeks of the princess, and so delighted was the King that he at once requested Ahmed to select the most precious jewel in his treasury. The prince, feigning modesty, replied that he disdained jewels, and desired only an old carpet enclosed in a sandal-wood coffer, which had been handed down by the Moslems who once owned Toledo. The box was immediately brought, and the carpet spread out on the terrace. "This carpet," said the prince, "once belonged to Solomon the Wise. It is worthy of being placed beneath the feet of beauty. Let the Princess stand upon it." The King motioned his daughter to accede to the Arab's request, and she at once complied. Then Ahmed took his place beside her, and, turning to her astonished father, said: "Know, O King, that your daughter and I have long loved one another. Behold in me the Pilgrim of Love." He had scarcely spoken when the carpet rose in the air, and, to the consternation of all, the lovers were borne off, and swiftly disappeared. The magical carpet descended at Granada, where Ahmed and the princess were espoused to one another with fitting splendour. In course of time he reigned in his father's stead long and happily. But although he had become a king he did not forget the services of his bird friends. He appointed the owl his vizier, and the parrot his master of ceremonies, and we may be sure by these tokens that in all his royal and domestic circumstances he was attended by wisdom and magnificence. This striking tale is, of course, manufactured out of a number of original and separate elements--the lovers destined to be kept in ignorance of love because of some danger prophesied at their birth, the old theme of the language of birds, the 'helpful animal' theme, and that of the magic carpet. The latter is merely an adaptation of the idea that a magician was able to transport himself through the air in a non-natural manner, and this ability he seems to have handed on to the witches of the Middle Ages, whose broomsticks were merely magical substitutes for the 'flying horse.' [54] But the appearance of the carpet in such a tale makes it probable that it drew its inspiration from Persia, the land where carpets were first manufactured, as the wizards of more primitive folk adopted other and simpler means of supernatural flight. The Paynim's Promise A singular story which shows that tolerance and even generosity were occasionally to be found between Moor and Christian in ancient Spain is narrated in connexion with the exploits of Narvaez, the general who commanded the garrison of Medina Antequara, a Moorish town that had fallen into the hands of the Spaniards. Narvaez made the city a centre from which he launched a series of incursions into the neighbouring districts of Granada for the purpose of obtaining provisions and relieving the unfortunate inhabitants of any booty which might happen to be left to them. On one of these occasions Narvaez had dispatched a large body of horse to scour the surrounding country. They had started on their raid at an early hour of the morning and while it was yet dark, so that by the hour of sunrise they had penetrated far into hostile country. The officer in command of the expedition rode a few bow-shots ahead, and to his surprise suddenly encountered a Moorish youth who had lost his way in the darkness, and who was now returning home. With great boldness the young man faced the Spanish horsemen, but was quickly overpowered, and when they learned from him that the district in which they were was little more than a desert, having been stripped of all its resources by the inhabitants who had abandoned it, they returned to Antequara, where they brought their captive before Narvaez. The prisoner, a young man of about twenty-three years of age, was of handsome and dignified appearance. He was dressed in a flowing robe of rich mulberry-coloured silk, gorgeously decorated in the Moorish manner, and was mounted on a magnificent horse of the Arab breed. From these indications, Narvaez judged him to be a cavalier of importance. He inquired his name and lineage, and was told that his prisoner was the son of the Alcayde of Ronda, a Moor of high distinction, and an implacable enemy of the Christians. But when Narvaez questioned the young man himself, to his astonishment he found that he was unable to reply to him. Tears streamed down his face, and his utterance was choked by sobs which seemed to rise from a heart overflowing with grief. "I marvel to see thee," said Narvaez. "That thou, being as thou art, a cavalier of good race, and the son of a noble so valiant as is thy father, should be thus cast down and weep like a woman, knowing too what are the chances of war and having all the appearance of a brave soldier and a good knight--this surpasses my understanding." "I do not weep because I have been taken captive," replied the youth. "The tears flow from mine eyes because of a much deeper sorrow, compared with which my fallen state is as nothing." Struck by the young man's earnestness, and pitying his position, Narvaez asked him sympathetically to confide to him the cause of his sorrow. The cavalier, touched by the general's kindness, sighed deeply, and replied: "Lord Governor, I have long loved a lady, daughter of the Alcayde of a certain fortress. Many times have I fought in her honour against the men of your race. In time the lady came to return my affection, and declared herself willing to become my wife, and I was on my way to her when, by evil chance, I encountered your horsemen and fell into their hands. Thus I have lost not only my liberty, but all the happiness of my life, which I believed I held in my hand. If this does not seem to you to be worthy of tears, I know not for what purpose they are given to the eyes of man, or how to make you understand the misery I am suffering." The bold Narvaez was much affected at the pitiful nature of his prisoner's story, and being a man of sympathetic instincts and generous heart, he at once resolved to do what he could to lighten the captive's sorrowful predicament. "Thou art a cavalier of good family," he said, "and if thou wilt pledge me thy word to return to this place, I will give thee permission to go to thy beloved and acquaint her with the cause of thy failure to be with her this day." The Moor gladly availed himself of his captor's indulgence, gave Narvaez the required assurance, and that same night reached the castle wherein his lady dwelt. Entering the garden, he gave the signal by which he usually signified his presence there, and she immediately came to the trysting-place agreed upon between them. She at once expressed the greatest surprise that he had not arrived at the time he had promised to be with her, and he explained the circumstances which had attended his delay. On hearing what had occurred the lady was cast into the deepest grief, and as her lover was attempting to console her by every means in his power the hour of dawn reminded him of his pledge to Narvaez, and how he had given his word as a soldier and a cavalier to return to his captivity. "There is nothing left but that I should return," he said. "I have lost my own liberty, and God forbid that, loving you as I do, I should bear you to a place where yours also would be in danger. We must wait patiently until the time when I can obtain my ransom, when I shall immediately return to you." "Before this hour," replied the lady, "you have given me many proofs that you truly love me, but now you show your attachment more plainly than ever in your desire for my safety, and for that very reason I should be most ungrateful if I did not go with you to share your captivity. Therefore I shall accompany you to the Christian prison for which you are destined. If you must be a slave, so also shall I be." The lady then commanded her waiting damsel to bring her jewel-case, and when this had been done she mounted behind her lover. All night they rode, and in the morning they arrived at Antequara, where they presented themselves to Narvaez, who was no less struck with the constancy of the lady than with the honour and fidelity of the young Moorish cavalier. He immediately gave both their liberty, and, loading them with presents and other marks of honour, accorded them permission to return to their own land, providing an escort of troops to accompany them until they had reached a place of safety. This adventure, the love of the lady, the loyalty of the Moor, and more than all the generosity of the high-souled Christian commander, were greatly celebrated and applauded by the noble Saracens of Granada, and were sung in the lays of their most distinguished poets and chronicled by their annalists. And although this story in every way partakes of the nature of romance, it has the additional merit of being true. The Dream of King Alfonso A mysterious story indeed is that which tells of the manner in which Don Alfonso, King of Galicia, one of the Christian states which held out against the Moors, was haunted by a dream which came to him again and again in the watches of the night, and which no one might interpret, until at last he was forced to call to his aid the occult science of those very enemies against whom the vision warned him. In the year 1086 the territories of Alfonso and other Christian sovereigns were invaded by a vast army of Almoravide Moors, who, sweeping over from Africa, menaced Central and Northern Spain. When he learned of their advance Alfonso was engaged in the siege of Saragossa, but in view of the danger which confronted him he joined his allies at Toledo and prepared to give battle to the invaders, who, numerous in themselves, had been reinforced by the Moors of the various Mohammedan states in Spain. Before leaving Toledo Alfonso was visited by one of those terrible visions of the night which, history tells us, have so often prophesied the fall of nations. It appeared to him that he was mounted on an elephant, and that beside him, on the flank of the great beast, was placed an atambore or Moorish drum, which he beat with his own hands. But the clamours which pealed forth from the instrument were so loud and terrifying that he instantly awoke in terror and amazement. At first he scoffed at the dream as nothing but a nightmare, but when it returned again and again on the succeeding nights of his stay at Toledo he began to feel that it must contain some element of awful warning. Night after night he awoke in great terror, drenched with perspiration, and with the echoes of the Eastern drum thundering in his ear, until at last, in great disquietude, he resolved to ask the advice of the learned men of his Court regarding what the vision might portend. With this object in view, he summoned to his presence the scholars and sages of his retinue, as well as the bishops and priests, and even the rabbis of the Jews who were his vassals, and who were more profoundly skilled in divination and the interpretation of dreams than any of his Christian subjects. When they had come before him, he related the substance of his dream, which he described very minutely, concluding his narration by saying: "That which most amazes and alarms me in this matter is the peculiarity of the elephant which I see in my visions, and which is an animal not reared in our country nor seen therein. In like manner, the atambore is not of the form and kind which we have in use among us, nor is that either to be seen in Spain. Wherefore do ye consider what these may portend, and give me the signification thereof without delay." The wise men thereupon retired, and having considered the dream, returned to the royal presence. "Lord King," they said, "we are of opinion that this dream of yours was sent to signify that you shall vanquish these great armies that the Moslems have brought against you, that you shall despoil their camp and plunder it of the riches it contains, and that you shall occupy their territory and return victorious, with great honour and glory. Moreover, we believe that your triumph will be made known through all parts of the East, since the elephant which you nightly appear to bestride can be no other than Juzef Aben Taxfin, King of the Moslems and lord of the far-extending lands of Africa, who, like that animal, has been reared in the deserts of that country. The strangely formed atambore which you have sounded on these many nights implies the fame which shall echo throughout the world, to every part of which it shall carry the knowledge of your illustrious victories." Alfonso listened to this interpretation with the utmost attention, and when it concluded he said: "It appears to me that you have gone far from the true interpretation of my dream, seeing that the explanation which my heart gives me is of a widely different kind, for it announces to me nothing better than events of terror and dismay." Having thus spoken, the King turned his head, and, looking toward certain Moorish knights who were his vassals, he asked them if perchance they knew of any wise man of their nation who had skill in the interpretation of dreams. They replied that they did know of one such, and that there was in Toledo at that moment a wise man who taught in one of the mosques and who would interpret the vision to the satisfaction of the King. Alfonso at once commanded that they should bring the sage before him, and in a short space the Moorish cavaliers returned with the man of whom they had spoken, the Faki Mohammed Aben Iza, who, however, sternly refused to interpret the dream of an infidel, and when he learned for what purpose he was required would not even set foot in the palace. The Moorish knights in their dilemma told Alfonso that the Faki's religious scruples would not permit him to appear in a Christian court, and the King, who well knew the niceties of Mohammedan law, contented himself with their assurance that they would bring him the wise man's interpretation of the dream. They then entreated the Faki to consider it, and as they pressed him urgently he replied: "Go to the King Alfonso and say that the accomplishment of his vision is very near, and that its significance is after this wise. He shall be vanquished, yea, in a disgraceful defeat, and with great slaughter. He shall fly, with but few of his people, and the victory shall remain with the Sons of the Prophet. Tell him, moreover, that this declaration is derived from the Koran: 'Know ye not what your God has prepared for him of the Elephant? Hath he not brought his force to nothing and rendered his evil intentions of no avail? See ye not that he hath sent over them the vultures of Babel?' These words," continued the Faki, "foretold the downfall of Ibrahim, King of the Abbassides, when he went forth with his army against Arabia, riding on a great elephant. But God sent for his destruction the wild vultures of Babel, who cast balls of glowing fire upon that host and turned his pomp into wretchedness and the vileness of dust. As to the atambore which Alfonso described, that signifies that the hour of his desolation is approaching." The Moorish cavaliers, as in duty bound, returned to the King and acquainted him with the prophetic words of the Faki. On hearing them he turned pale, and ejaculated: "By the God of my worship, let this your Al Faki tremble if he hath lied, for be sure that I will make of him a warning." Shortly after this King Alfonso assembled his host, an innumerable multitude of foot-soldiers and more than eighty thousand cavalry, nearly thirty thousand of whom were Arabs. With this array he marched to the encounter with King Taxfin and his allies, and came face to face with him near Badajoz, among the groves and plains called Zalacca, about twelve miles from that city. The armies were divided by a river, and across this Taxfin sent an insulting message to Alfonso, bidding him either abjure the Christian faith or acknowledge himself his vassal. When Alfonso read this missive he cast it to the earth in great anger, and, turning haughtily to the envoy, said: "Go and bid Taxfin not to conceal himself in the battle, which if he do not, we shall see each other." Certain circumstances affected the combat. Friday was the holy day of the Moslems, Saturday was the Sabbath of the Jews, of whom there were many in the Christian host, and Sunday that of the Christians, and Alfonso had already requested Taxfin that truce should be observed on these days, and the Moor had consented. But Alfonso considered himself justified in attacking at the hour of dawn on the Friday morning. He marshalled his host into two divisions, and set on. The Moorish King of Seville had asked his astrologer to cast a horoscope with the intention of discovering the fate of the day, and as this had been entirely unfavourable to the Moslems they were somewhat disheartened. But as they succeeded in withstanding Alfonso's first attack, the student of the stars cast another mystical diagram, and on this occasion found his prognostication more auspicious. The King of Seville, inspired by the favourable prophecy, sat down in his pavilion and, taking pen and parchment, dashed off the following verse, which he sent for the inspiration of his ally, Taxfin: God's anger on the Christian horde Sends cruel slaughter by thy sword, While favouring stars announce to thee And to thy Moslems victory! Taxfin was greatly inspirited by these words, and rode up and down his ranks encouraging his men, but he had not much time to do so, for King Alfonso, heading a terrific charge, dashed down on him with all the mail-clad chivalry of Spanish Christendom. A sanguinary and murderous conflict ensued. The Moslems stood their ground bravely, but the heavy cavalry of the Spaniards bore them down, and overwhelmed them on all sides. The Moorish allies of the Christian force now came into action, surrounding and hemming in the Arabs of Andalusia, and the Moslem chroniclers tell us that the darkness produced by that mass of men and horses was so great that those who fought could no longer see each other, and grappled hand to hand, as in an obscure night. At last Taxfin's forces began to retreat, and broke into disorderly rout, closely pressed by the Christian cavalry. The Moors of Seville alone stood their ground. Taxfin placed himself at the head of his reserve and, charging with great fury, threw his mounted columns directly at the pavilion of King Alfonso. This was but slightly defended, and easily fell a prey to the Moslems, with all its treasure. Alfonso, noting the advance of Taxfin, charged him in flank, and the two principal leaders were soon engaged in furious battle. The Moorish monarch rode among his men, exhorting them to constancy, and crying out that the reward of their valour would be the crown of paradise. As the result of his repeated charges the Christian host began to give way, and on the renewed attack of Taxfin's allies, who had before been beaten, fled in precipitate rout. Alfonso, seeing that all was lost, and accompanied by five hundred followers only, rode fast before the conquering Moors. It was with difficulty that he made his escape to the city of Toledo, where he arrived with only a hundred men. From that day King Alfonso never regained heart, and some years later, on learning of the death of his son and the defeat of his people in battle with the infidel, he fell sick and died. So was the prophecy of the Faki fulfilled. The Prince who Changed Crowns During the age-long struggle between the Gothic and Arab races in Spain many small kingdoms on both sides rose and fell, the names of which have long since been forgotten. Perhaps two hundred years after the infidels had gained a footing in the Peninsula, it chanced that in the central portion of the country there existed side by side two diminutive kingdoms, or rather principalities, the more northerly of which preserved its Spanish nationality with the most jealous care, while that which existed upon its borders was equally conservative in its Moslem prejudices. At this period the Spanish principality had at the head of its fortunes a prince of exceptional enlightenment and ability, Don Fernando. His training had naturally been of a kind which had led him to regard his Moslem neighbours with the profoundest distrust and dislike. They were, he was told by his instructors, a race of men lost to all humanity, deficient in honour, cruel, malicious, and revengeful--in short, it is not to be wondered at that, having the demerits of his Saracen neighbours so constantly dinned into his ears, the young Fernando began to regard them with the utmost repugnance. The low range of hills which divided the two principalities rather assisted than hindered the constant raids which Moslem and Christian made upon each other's territory, as they constituted a description of No Man's Land, where the forces of either might be carefully marshalled for a lightning foray. In these raids Fernando himself occasionally took part, as it was thought necessary that the prince of a state which lived in a condition of almost constant warfare should be well acquainted with the practical side of military affairs. During one of these constantly recurring miniature invasions, the company which Fernando commanded had ridden far into Moorish territory without encountering any resistance, and, advancing in loose formation and without sufficient care, suddenly encountered an ambuscade of the enemy, who, taking it in flank, succeeded in penetrating its ranks and cutting them in two. The little band of Spaniards, thus separated, fled in opposite directions, and Fernando, accompanied by only a handful of followers, turned his horse's head in the direction of his own country and galloped out of the range of immediate danger. The route which he was now forced to take to regain his own dominions necessitated his following a wide détour, and as he and his companions had already ridden far that day their horses shortly became so jaded that further progress was almost impossible. They also became aware, to their dismay, that the foremost of the enemy were now not far distant. In the dilemma in which they found themselves they resolved to sell their lives dearly, as befitted Christian knights, and they were about to dismount from their horses to seek a spot which might afford them some advantage in such a struggle when they beheld, some little way off, a building of rough stone standing on a little eminence. "There, if anywhere," said Fernando, "we shall be able to make a good defence. Let us secure that position and take full advantage of the shelter it offers us." Spurring their beaten horses to a last effort, they soon gained the summit of the little hill. Dismounting, Fernando sought for the entrance to the rather dilapidated building, and having found it, was about to make his way inside, when he was surprised to see a man kneeling on its flagstones, engaged in earnest prayer. His long beard, his patched clothing, and his general appearance signified that he was a Moslem hermit, one of those who had retired from the haunts of men to practise his religious austerities in peace. Fernando was about to address him roughly and bid him begone, when the holy man, hearing the ring of his mailed foot upon the pavement, looked up and asked him what he required. "Get you gone," said Fernando, "for we are about to defend this place to the last extremity against your infidel brethren." The hermit smiled. "Young man," he said, "what possible defence can you hope to make in this poor place against the numbers which will shortly surround you? Your sword and that of your companions will be of little more avail than these poor walls, which, almost ruined as they are, would soon be beaten down. Trust me, there is a much better defence against the violence of man than either stone or steel." "I know not of what you speak, old man," said Fernando, "but in those things which you deride, I, as a soldier, have been accustomed to place my trust." "Alas," said the hermit, "that it should be so! Have you not been taught, young man, in your own country that God is a surer defence to those who trust Him than those vain material bulwarks which men of blood erect against one another's rage? Put your trust in God, I say, and He will be able to succour you, even through the least of His servants." "Were it the God of the Christians of whom you speak," replied Fernando, "I would agree that your words were those of wisdom, but in the mouth of an unbeliever they have naught but a blasphemous ring." "Sir Knight," said the hermit, "you are yet a young man, but as you grow older it will be given you to understand that God is the same in all lands, and that division of His personality is one of the fictions with which the Father of Lies seeks to make enmity between the righteous. Argue no longer, I pray you, but take heed to what I say. This remnant of stone is the last remaining turret of an ancient fortalice, beneath which extends a labyrinth of dungeons. Secrete yourselves speedily in the darkness of this labyrinth, I beg you, so that you may evade your pursuers and regain your own country after nightfall." "Have a care, Don Fernando," cried one of the prince's comrades. "This infidel seeks to beguile us into a trap, where his countrymen will be able to murder us at their leisure." "Not so," replied the prince, "for I can see that the mind of this good and holy man holds a better purpose toward us, and I willingly yield myself to his care. Lead the way, good father, to the hiding-place of which you speak." The hermit immediately requested the cavaliers to enter the building, and indicated to them a dark and sloping passage, down which they led their horses. They had scarcely had time to conceal themselves in the gloomy recesses to which it led when with a loud clamour the infidels who had been pursuing them rode up. Their leader challenged the hermit and asked him if he had observed any Christian knights pass that way. "Assuredly no Christian knights have passed this way, my son," replied the man of God; "go in peace." The Moslem captain with a grave salutation immediately remounted his horse, and the band swept on. The hermit having entertained the Christian knights to the best of his poor resources, returned to them within a few hours and told them that darkness had now fallen. "You will now be able," he said, "to make a safe return to your own land." "How can I reward you?" cried Fernando, whose generous heart had been deeply stirred by the old man's unaffected kindness. "There is one way in which you can do so, young cavalier," said the recluse, "and that is by trying to form a better opinion of the men of my race." "You ask a difficult thing," said the prince sadly, "for truth compels me to say that I have heard great evil of the Moors, and but little good." "That is not surprising," said the hermit, with a smile, "since you will readily admit that you have not encountered them otherwise than with sword in hand or as prisoners whose hearts are burning with the bitterness of defeat. Open your mind, young man, or rather pray that its doors, until now closed, should be thrown wide to admit the rays of celestial wisdom. Seek for the best in your enemies, and believe me you will not fail to find it." As he spoke, Fernando indeed felt as if the doors of his spirit, until now rusty with prejudice, had been unbarred. "I shall not forget your advice," he said, "for surely nothing evil can come from one so good and noble," and with a respectful gesture of farewell he mounted his horse and, followed by his companions, rode away. He arrived safely in his capital in the early hours of the morning, and having bathed and refreshed himself, sought his audience chamber, where, surrounded by his anxious ministers, he told them of the adventure which had befallen him. "Great has been your good fortune, your Majesty," said one of his advisers. "But for the services of this good man you would certainly now have been a captive in the citadel of your enemies. Surely few such spirits can reside in Moorish bodies." "How so, señor?" replied the prince. "May it not be otherwise? When all is said and done, what do we know of the Moors, save that knowledge which is gained by constant strife with them? Would it not be well for us to strive to know them better?" "What!" cried another councillor, "do we not know them for dogs and infidels, for perjured blasphemers and worshippers of false gods? Heaven forbid that we should have further converse with them than that of the herald, which serves to call us into the same field as they, so that we may bring our lances to bear upon their infidel bodies." "These words seem to me neither good nor wise," said Fernando gently; "and I tell you, señors, that while riding home this morning I made a resolution to know those Moors better, even to travel into their country, study their institutions and their faith, and meet them as men rather than as enemies." "Madness!" cried the Chancellor. "The rash vow of a young and inexperienced prince." "That is not my opinion," replied Fernando, "but in order to avoid all unnecessary risks I have resolved to disguise myself as a Moslem. As you are aware, I have a perfect acquaintance with the Moorish tongue, and the manners and religious customs of our neighbours I know by report. I have taken this resolve, and am not to be dissuaded from it." "Your Majesty's word is law," replied the Chancellor, who saw in the prince's resolve an opportunity for the extension of his personal power. Others of his suite did their best to turn aside Fernando's resolution by every argument in their power, but to no avail. His preparations were speedily made, and within three days of announcing his determination the prince, disguised as a Moslem of rank, set out by night for the frontiers of his enemies. On entering their country he resolved to make in the first place for the capital, a town of considerable importance, on reaching which he dismounted from his Arab steed and put up at a khan, or public hostelry. Here he found himself in the company of travellers of all sorts and conditions. The merchant sat at the same table with the mullah, or priest, and the soldier shared his meal with the pilgrim. The first thing that Fernando noticed regarding these people was their great abstemiousness. They ate but little food, and drank not at all, unless of milk or water. The atmosphere of gravity prevalent in the inn surprised him. These sober, sallow-faced men sat, for the most part, with downcast eyes, speaking rarely, and without gesticulation, and in a low and decorous tone of voice. If asked a question, they did not answer at once, but appeared to cogitate upon their reply, which was invariably courteous and couched in formal but agreeable language. All their conduct seemed to be subservient to decency and dignity. Fernando noticed that they were spotless in their cleanliness. Not only was this so as regards their garments, but they were constantly performing ablutions, either in the inn itself during the stipulated hours of prayer, or in the magnificent public baths of the city. On the other hand, the disguised prince could not but see that these men were one and all within the grip of a powerful formalism, which had the effect of cramping and limiting their ideas, and which was only too painfully evident in their speech and manners. There seemed to be no room for individuality in their system of life. He entered into conversation with one of the shaven mullahs, who had retired into a corner the better to read his copy of the Koran. At first he evinced but little inclination to talk, but seeing that the prince wished to exchange ideas with him, he soon brought the conversation round to the especial point of Moslem law he was studying, upon which he split so many hairs that the hapless Fernando deeply regretted that he had ever approached him. Fernando Makes Comparison That night as Fernando lay in bed he summed up his impressions of the day. "These people seem to me exceedingly formal and conventional," he thought, "but against that we have to place the garrulity and boisterousness of men of European race, their frequent lack of dignity and too great familiarity of manner. That mullah, too, was terribly long-winded, but have we not bores of our own, and in plenty? Is it not the case that in all parts of the world selfish introspection and scholarly pride frequently turn a man into a public nuisance? It seems to me that the great bulk of mankind merely acts in imitation of its fellows, and that only here and there does one meet with a person of any outstanding individuality." When he arose next morning Fernando paid a visit to the great mosque of the city. It was the first time he had entered a Moorish place of worship, and he was struck by the circumstance that the atmosphere which prevailed within it closely resembled that to be found in a Christian cathedral. The same hushed silence was distinctly noticeable. Here and there stood a mullah, or teacher, instructing his disciples in Mohammedan law and ritual, and this Fernando was rather pleased than otherwise to notice, as direct instruction in the tenets of the Christian faith was but seldom to be procured in the churches of his own country. Another thing he could not but observe was the manifest learning and erudition of the speakers. This seemed to him far in advance of the monkish accomplishments of his own priestly subjects, whose learning was of the most slender description, and but few of whom were able to write, and he was deeply interested to find that in an annexe to the mosque, which was fitted as a scrivenry or writing-room, a number of mullahs, old and young, sat at desks writing swiftly in the Arabic script and engaged in the multiplication of copies of the Koran and other works of a religious nature. From the mosque Fernando speedily found his way to the university, and was soon lost in wonder at the rich intellectual life which flourished there. In one room a white-robed teacher was lecturing upon the practice of medicine with an acumen and ability he had never heard equalled. His knowledge of drugs and chemistry and of the properties of plants and herbs appeared to be both wide and exact, and when Fernando thought upon the wretched leeches to whom so many of the lives of his subjects annually paid forfeit he experienced a deep feeling of shame that these swarthy yet studious foreigners were so easily able to eclipse them in both theory and application. But he was acute enough to discern that the lecturer spoke of the medical art as a thing the principles of which were already fixed beyond the power of expansion. He spoke of experiment in the past tense, and all his references were to the great teachers of the old world, to Galen and Hippocrates, to Avicenna and to Rhazes. If he did chance to allude to the teachers of his own day, it was in rather an apologetic manner, and by no means in a complimentary sense. Antiquity was everything to him, and the tenets of the old masters of medicine appeared to him quite as sacred in their way as the words of the Prophet himself. In an adjoining classroom Fernando lingered some time to listen to a professor of astrology. This ancient art had always held a certain fascination for him, and he was well aware that the Moors were among its greatest interpreters. The lecturer described at length the influences which the various planets had upon the destinies of man, the manner in which their conjunctions and oppositions affected human affairs, and the characters of persons born under certain astrological conditions. This science too appeared to him incapable of extension or fresh effort, and while hearkening to the speaker he found that though he heard much that his common sense told him was incapable of definite proof, he gleaned nothing of the nature of those planets themselves, their physical movement, or their scientific relation to the earth. In the geography classroom he found that instruction was based upon more modern lines. The works of Arab travellers who had journeyed extensively in Asia and Africa were touched upon. The conditions of life in distant countries of the world were discussed, and as a general rule with much greater exactitude than in the European schools which he had visited, where fact was often subordinated to fancy and where the extraordinary was prized at a much higher rate than the probable. Leaving the university, the court of which was filled to overflowing with scholars who appeared to be disputing on various phases of erudition, Fernando walked to the crowded market-place, a portion of which, he observed, was given over to the sale of manuscripts, and this part, he could not help noticing, was much better patronized than those where food-stuffs and wearing apparel were for sale. In the more open spaces jugglers and mountebanks, usually accompanied by performing animals, went through all sorts of gambols and antics. Here and there small knots of men discussed the more obscure points of the Koran or of Mohammedan law, while others sat in shady corners, lazily drinking sherbet or drowsing away the hot morning hours. In the booths which surrounded the market-place he saw various tradesmen at work--carpenters, smiths, sandal-makers, tailors--but he noticed that the efforts of these were of the most leisurely description, and that their tools were of a type much more antiquated than those in use among the tradesmen of his own country. The hand of time was indeed heavy upon the whole race. In some things it appeared to have made great advances, while in others it seemed to have retained the primitive ideas of the Dark Ages. Its progress seemed to have been made in the realm of thought alone, but even here everything was derivative and had reference to the experiments of an older age. Strangely enough, however, Fernando felt that much of this conservatism touched a responsive chord within his own nature. "Are these people not right," he argued with himself, "when they let well alone, as the proverb says? If they have brought about a condition of things which suits them as a race, would it not be folly in them to embark upon a career of experiment which might prove wholly unsuitable to them? They seem reasonably happy and contented. Suppose a condition of affairs such as obtains within my own principality were suddenly to be forced upon them, would their happiness not be changed into wretchedness? It must be that long experience has taught them that their present manner of life is by far the most convenient for them. Can it be that their dislike of us arises from the great differences between our institutions and theirs? But, again, is it not possible that these things are very much on the surface? Their real natural sympathies and antipathies are, after all, very similar to our own. They are entirely dependent upon the changes of the seasons and upon the tillage of the earth for their food; they live constantly in fear of warfare; the same private troubles between man and man, between neighbour and neighbour, arise among them as among ourselves; they are subject to the rule of authority precisely as we are. The modifications of all these things are, after all, those of place and circumstance, nor is it possible for any one individual among them to break away from established custom, any more than it is in Spain. We do not differ from them in the salient things of life, but only in its surface details. Their religion teaches that the good are rewarded and the bad punished, that a man must be constant in his patriotic and domestic affections. After all, had one of these brown men been reared in Spain, at the age of twenty years he would have been moved by the same prejudices as myself, and have become so like me in every particular as to be indistinguishable from an ordinary Spaniard." Passing through one of the gates of the city, Fernando walked into the country. It very much resembled the rural portions of his own principality, except that it was cultivated with greater care. Here and there tiny, snow-white farm-steadings nestled in hollows, and from these streams of reapers and gleaners spread across the fields in every direction, for it was harvest-time. Fernando joined one of these groups, and was surprised to find that there was little difference between it and a similar party in Christian Spain. At intervals the work of garnering the grain was relaxed, and the reapers sat in a circle and listened to the music made by one of their number on the pipe, which possessed a strange melancholy of its own. Fernando found in them the same simple and easily satisfied disposition that he had discovered among his own peasantry. They shared their bread and cheese with him, and tendered him a draught of goat's milk from a large skin bottle, which he made shift to swallow with rather a wry face, for princes as a rule do not accustom themselves to the pungent odours of such a beverage. Thus refreshed, he passed on, walking slowly through the heat of the day, which was now well advanced, and resting every now and then beneath the shadows of the roadside trees. He had advanced perhaps a mile and a half farther on when he came to a wide, open plain upon which he beheld a large body of Moorish cavalry performing military evolutions. His soldier's eye took in the scene with interest, and he was quick to see that the rapid movements of these lightly armed horsemen were greatly superior to those of his own heavily accoutred warriors. At the word of command the squadrons wheeled and charged with surprising unanimity and rapidity, and when the word was given to halt they did so on the instant, without scattering or losing the alignment of their ranks. The evolutions of one of the squadrons brought it quite close to where the prince was standing, and the officer in command, evidently regarding him as a pilgrim of sanctity, gave him a courteous salutation. "I take it, reverend sir," he said, "from the evident pleasure with which you regard this scene, that you have once been a soldier yourself?" "That is quite true," replied Fernando; "I was a soldier for many years, and saw a good deal of service in another part of the country; but war is no longer my business, and I do not, as I once did, cherish it for itself alone." "But surely," said the soldier, "war is the only career to which a noble mind can turn? You are young, and have evidently left its ranks too early." "Nay," rejoined the prince, "I am ready, if necessity enjoins, to take up the sword once more, but only in case of unrighteous invasion or to settle a grievous wrong. As I have said, I no longer desire war for its own sake." "But," said the soldier, smiling, "you do not mean that we should be unprepared for attack? We know not the moment at which the rude and savage Christians from the north may send a multitude of warriors against us." "Nor do they know, my friend, when we shall take it into our heads to make a foray into their lands," said Fernando. "But," said the officer, "if we were to do so, it would only be as a protective measure after all, for we are well aware that they will never become reconciled to us." "Have we ever tried to discover that?" asked Fernando. "I fear not. We have certainly made treaties with them, but these seem to have been made for the very purpose of being broken." "Yes," said the officer, his lip curling, "they are treacherous dogs, these Spaniards, upon whose word no honest man can rely. They have broken treaty after treaty." "If I'm not mistaken," said Fernando, "we have done the same, only our rulers take extraordinary care that the people shall not be acquainted with the full measure of our national dishonesties, but shall be told that it was necessary to act in such and such a manner because of the untrustworthy nature of our enemies. May I ask, sir, if you have ever travelled in Christian Spain, or have known other Christians than those whom you may have chanced to take as prisoners?" The cavalryman shook his head. "Now I come to think of it," he said, "I have crossed swords with more Spaniards than I have bandied words with, but I do not doubt, as you imply, that there are noble spirits among that people, for I know out of my own experience that they are stout men of war, and a brave soldier can scarcely be other than an honourable man. But you will excuse me, sir; I can remain no longer. In the name of God, I wish you a pleasant journey." Fernando Meets his "Double" Fernando passed on his way, and this day in his wanderings may be taken as representative of many another. For three months he wandered through the Moorish land, studying its institutions and its people at first hand, and gleaning a practical insight into the national characteristics. At the end of that time he had conceived such a high opinion of his one-time foes that it was with heartfelt sorrow that he turned his steps northward to the borders of his own principality. Loath to cross them, he resolved to spend the night at a small khan on the Moorish side of the hills. It was a poor place, but beautifully situated at the entrance to a peaceful little valley. Giving his horse to the white-robed ostler, he entered. To his utter amazement, the first person he encountered was a young man who so closely resembled himself that he started back in surprise and dismay, for there was not a lineament in the stranger's countenance which was not mirrored in his own. The young man thus confronted also halted abruptly, and stared at his living counterpart; then a smile broke over his pleasant face, and he said, with a laugh: "I see, sir, you are as surprised as myself, but I hope you are not angry that God has made us so alike, for I have heard that people who closely resemble one another are apt to cherish a mutual distrust." "There is small danger of that, friend," said Fernando, "for if God has made our minds as like each other as He has fashioned our bodies, I am convinced that you are of a liberal and unconventional disposition," and, laughing heartily, he indicated a table. "It would be fitting," he continued, "that we should break bread together." "Agreed!" cried the other; "I accept your invitation with all the goodwill in the world." And, seating themselves at the rough board, the two young men were soon engaged in an animated conversation. Much as they had been surprised at the physical resemblance between them, they were even more astonished at the close similarity they bore to one another in taste and disposition. For hours they sat in close discussion. At last the stranger said: "I feel as if we had known each other for a lifetime, and as I am certain that I can trust you thoroughly, I will reveal to you my secret. Know then that I am Muza, the prince of this country, and that I am even now returned from a prolonged journey in the land of the Christians, whose character and customs it had long been my desire to study." "I am indeed honoured by your Majesty's condescension and confidence," replied Fernando, "and you may rest assured that your secret will remain inviolate with me. But may I ask what opinion you formed of the inhabitants of Christian Spain during your sojourn among them?" "Such a high opinion," replied Muza, "that it is with the greatest regret that I quit their country, for I find among them a spirit so much more in consonance with my own than that of my native subjects that I solemnly assure you I had much rather rule over them than over my own people." "Have then your wish, noble Muza," said Fernando, rising, "for I am none other than Fernando, prince of the Christians, who, impelled by a similar desire, has been travelling in your dominions, and who has conceived such a strong predilection for the character and customs of its people that he asks nothing better than to be permitted to guide their destinies. That I am what I represent myself to be you may know by this token," and, searching beneath his burnous, Fernando drew out a gold chain, from which was suspended his royal signet. "There is, so far as I can see," he continued, "but one possible bar to our compact, and that is the difference between our religions." "Nay, Fernando," said Muza, with uplifted hands, "I find no difficulty in that, for, as I understand the matter, the difference is merely one of exteriors. The inward spirit of our faiths is the same, and it is only in their outward manifestations that they present any divergency. Both spring from the one God, Who designed them for the uses of differently constituted races, and if you agree with me that this is so, there should be no greater difficulty in our embracing the religions of each other's people than in accepting their customs." "I heartily agree," replied Fernando, "but what I fear is that we shall not be able to convince our respective peoples of the purity of our motives. They certainly must not share our secret." "Our great safeguard," said Muza, "is the extraordinary resemblance between us, but it will be necessary that we should instruct each other in our past histories, and in the intricacies of our personal affairs, in order that ignorance of these may not give rise to suspicion." "You speak like a wise man," rejoined Fernando; "let us address ourselves to this business at once." Far into the night the two young princes sat initiating each other into the intimacies of their respective national diplomacies and personal relationships, and at last, when morning broke, they parted with every mark of mutual esteem, mounted their horses, and rode off, Fernando to the capital of the Moor, Muza to that of the Christian. But ere they parted they agreed to meet at the inn where they had first forgathered at least once in three months, in order to discuss any eventualities which might arise. Three months passed rapidly, and, prompt to the day, the two young rulers met once more at the inn. There was a noticeable stiffness in the manner of their greeting. "And how fare you, noble Muza, in the kingdom of my fathers?" asked Fernando. "Alas! your Majesty," replied Muza, "I am constrained to say that I fare but ill. Every day your advisers present to me new schemes of aggression against my late kingdom to which I can give no manner of countenance, and they upbraid me bitterly with what they are pleased to call my disloyalty." "Precisely the same thing has happened to myself," said Fernando, "and may I say, with all due regard to the race from which you spring, that they do not compare in liberality of outlook with my own, that they are extremely conservative, and difficult of comprehension!" "On the other hand," said Muza, "I find your people much too active and unruly, and I do not encounter the same implicit obedience to which I have hitherto been accustomed. If I may say so, there is a want of dignity----" "I find some of my personal relations awkward too," groaned Fernando; "your matrimonial arrangements, for example." "And your lack of the same," replied Muza. "On the whole I think----" said Fernando. "I fully agree," replied Muza. "If we put the matter in a nutshell," remarked Fernando, "it is better for a man--even a liberal-minded one--to remain in the bosom of his own people, for no matter how broad his views may be, among strangers he must constantly be doomed to encounter much which will tend to strengthen his prejudices against them and create odious comparisons and regrets." "Once more I agree," said Muza. "When once the novelty wears off----" "Exactly," responded Fernando. "After all, what country can compare with that in which one has been born?" So the two princes parted, each to take his way to his native land. But, despite the threats and entreaties of their advisers, neither of them would ever again consent to make war upon the dominions of the other, and it was even hinted by disgruntled and badly disposed persons that Fernando and Muza met occasionally on their common frontiers for the sole purpose of settling difficulties which had arisen between their respective states--an unnatural proceeding which they avowed was bound sooner or later to end in political disaster. CHAPTER XII: TALES OF SPANISH MAGIC AND SORCERY Spain seems to have been regarded by the other countries of Western Europe as the special abode of superstition, sorcery, and magic, probably because of the notoriety given to the discoveries of the Moorish alchemists, the first scientists in Europe. But with the coming of the Inquisition a marked and natural falling off is noticeable in the prevalence of occult belief, for anything which in the least tended to heresy was repressed in the most rigid manner by that illiberal institution. In this way much of the folk-lore and peasant belief of Spain, many fascinating legends, and many a curious custom have been lost, never to be recovered. The Brothers, in their zeal for the purity of their Church, banished not only the witch, the sorcerer, and the demon from Spain, but also the innocent fairy, the spirits of wood and wold, and those household familiars which harm no one, but assist the housewife and the dairymaid. The first information we receive that the authorities intended a campaign against the whole demonhood, good and evil, of Spain is contained in a work by Alfonso de Speria, a Castilian Franciscan, who wrote, about 1458 or 1460, a work specially directed against heretics and unbelievers, in which he gives a chapter on those popular beliefs which were derived from ancient pagan practices. The belief in witches, whom he calls xurguine (jurguia) or bruxe, seems to have been imported from Dauphiné or Gascony, where, he tells us, they abounded. They were, he says, wont to assemble at night in great numbers on a high tableland, carrying candles with them, for the purpose of worshipping Satan, who appeared to them in the form of a boar, rather than in that of the he-goat in which he so frequently manifested himself in other localities. Llorente, in his History of the Inquisition in Spain, states that the first auto-de-fé against sorcery was held at Calabarra in 1507, when thirty women charged with witchcraft by the Inquisition were burnt. In the first treatise on Spanish sorcery, that of Martin de Castanaga, a Franciscan monk (1529), we learn that Navarre was regarded as the motherland of Spanish witchcraft, and that that province sent many 'missionaries' to Aragon to convert its women to sorcery. But we find that the Spanish theologians of the sixteenth century were so much more enlightened than those of other countries that they admitted that witchcraft was merely a delusion, and the punishment they meted out to those who believed in it was inflicted in respect that the belief, erroneous though it was, was contrary to the tenets of the Church. Pedro de Valentin, in a treatise on the subject (1610), entirely adopts the opinion that the acts confessed to by the witches were imaginary. He attributed them partly to the manner in which the examinations were carried out, and to the desire of the ignorant people examined to escape by saying what seemed to please their persecutors, and partly to the effect of the ointments and draughts which they had been taught to use, which were composed of ingredients that produced sleep and acted upon the imagination and the mental faculties. The Religion of Witchcraft This view is very generally held at the present time as accounting for the phenomena of witchcraft. But the researches of Charles Godfrey Leland, Miss M. A. Murray, and others, seem to indicate that the cult of witchcraft is by no means a thing of the imagination. The last-named writer, indeed, claims that it is the detritus of an ancient pagan faith surviving into modern times, having a priesthood and well-defined ritual of its own, and in a measure conserving the practice of child-sacrifice. There can be little doubt that this conception of witchcraft is the correct one. In the records of the caste there are numerous proofs that it had a definite ritual and an established priesthood, and that imagination played but a small part in shaping the belief of the adherents of the cult. [55] The Story of Dr Torralva Spain had not in the sixteenth century ceased to be celebrated for its magicians, who still retained a modicum of the occult philosophy of the Moorish doctors of Toledo and Granada. Perhaps the most celebrated of these comparatively modern masters of magic was Doctor Eugenio Torralva, physician to the family of the Admiral of Castile. Educated at Rome, he early became a pronounced sceptic, and formed an intimacy with a certain Master Alfonso, a man who, after changing his Jewish faith for Islam, and that again for Christianity, had at last become a free-thinker. Another evil companion was a Dominican monk called Brother Pietro, who told Torralva that he had in his service a good angel called Zequiel, who had no equal in the spiritual world as a seer, and was besides of such a disinterested temperament that he served only those who had complete confidence in him and deserved his attachment. All this excited Torralva's curiosity to an unbounded degree. He was one of those people, fortunate or otherwise, in whom the love of mystery has been deeply implanted, and when Pietro generously proposed to resign his familiar spirit to his friend's keeping he eagerly accepted the offer. Nor did Zequiel himself offer any opposition to this change of master, and, appearing at the summons of Pietro, assured Torralva that he would follow his service as long as he lived, and wherever he was obliged to go. There was nothing very startling in the appearance of the spirit, who was dressed in a flesh-coloured habit and black cloak, and had the appearance of a young man with an abundance of fair hair. From this time onward Zequiel appeared to Torralva at every change of the moon, and as often as the physician required his services, which was generally for the purpose of transporting him in a short space of time to distant places. Sometimes the spirit assumed the appearance of a hermit, at others that of a traveller, and even accompanied his master to church, from which circumstance Torralva concluded that he was a beneficent and Christian-minded spirit. But, alas! Dr Torralva was to find, like many another, that attendance at the sacred edifice is not necessarily a guarantee of piety. For many years Torralva continued to reside in Italy, but in the year 1502 he felt a strong desire to return to the land of his birth. He did so, but seems to have made Rome his headquarters once more in the following year, placing himself under the protection of his old patron, the Bishop of Volterra, now become a cardinal. The influence this connexion brought him proved of the greatest service to him, and he soon rose to high repute for his skill in medicine. But neither the pious cardinal nor any of the other distinguished patients who sought his aid knew that he drew practically all his medical knowledge from his unseen famulus, who taught him the secret virtues of young plants, with which other physicians were not acquainted. Zequiel, however, was untainted by the love of lucre; for when his master pocketed those 'thumping' fees to which all good physicians aspire the spirit rebuked him, telling him that since he had received his knowledge for nothing he ought to impart it gratuitously. On the other hand, did the doctor require funds, he never failed to find a supply of money in his private apartment, which he knew implicitly must have been placed there by his familiar. Torralva returned to Spain in 1510, and lived for some time at the Court of Ferdinand the Catholic. One day Zequiel confided to him that the King would shortly receive some very disagreeable news. Torralva at once communicated this piece of intelligence to Ximenes de Cisneros, Archbishop of Toledo, and to the Grande Capitan, Gonzalvo Hernández de Cordova. On the same day a courier arrived from Africa bearing dispatches which informed his Majesty that an expedition against the Moors had met with disaster, and that its commander, Don Garcia de Toledo, son of the Duke of Alva, had been slain. When in Rome it appears that Torralva had been so indiscreet as to summon Zequiel to appear before his patron, Cardinal Volterra, who now, hearing of the manner in which his protégé had 'prophesied' the disaster to the Spanish arms, acquainted the Archbishop of Toledo with the means by which the doctor had received intelligence of the defeat. Torralva, ignorant of this, continued in his forecasts of political and other events, and soon found his reputation as a seer greatly enhanced. Among others who consulted him was the Cardinal of Santa Cruz, to whom a certain Donna Rosales had complained that her nights were disturbed by a frightful phantom, which appeared in the form of a murdered man. Her physician, Morales, had watched at night with the lady, but although she had pointed out the precise spot where the grisly vision took its stand, he could discern nothing. Torralva accompanied Morales to the lady's house, and, seated in an ante-chamber, they heard her cry of alarm about an hour after midnight. Entering her apartment, Morales again confessed his inability to see the apparition, but Torralva, who was better acquainted with the spiritual world, perceived a figure resembling a dead man, behind which appeared a shadowy female form. "What dost thou seek here?" he inquired, in a firm voice, whereupon the foremost spirit replied: "I seek a treasure," and immediately vanished. Torralva consulted Zequiel upon the subject, and upon his advice the cellars of the house were dug up, whereupon the corpse of a man who had been stabbed to death with a poignard was discovered, and upon its receiving Christian burial the visitations ceased. Among Torralva's intimate friends was one Don Diego de Zuñiga, a relative of the Duke of Bejar, and brother of Don Antonio, Grand Prior of the Order of St John in Castile. Zuñiga had consulted the learned doctor as to how he could gain money at play by magical means, and Torralva informed him that this could be accomplished by writing certain characters on paper, using for ink the blood of a bat. This charm Torralva advised him to wear about his neck, so that he might experience good luck at the gaming-table. In 1520 Torralva went once more to Rome. Ere he left Spain he told Zuñiga that he would be able to travel there astride a broomstick, the course of which would be guided by a cloud of fire. On his arrival at Rome he interviewed Cardinal Volterra, and the Grand Prior of the Order of St John, who earnestly begged him to abandon all commerce with his familiar spirit. Because of their exhortations, Torralva requested Zequiel to leave his service, but met with a stern refusal. The spirit, however, advised him to return to Spain, assuring him that he would obtain the place of physician to the Infanta Eleanora, Queen-Dowager of Portugal, and later consort of Francis I of France. Acting upon this counsel, Torralva sailed once more for the land of his birth, and obtained the promised appointment. In 1525 an incident occurred which greatly enhanced Torralva's celebrity as a seer. On the 5th of May of that year Zequiel assured him that the troops of the Emperor would take Rome on the following day. Torralva desired the spirit to carry him to Rome so that he might witness this great event with his own eyes. Zequiel gave him a stick full of knots, and commanded him to shut his eyes. Torralva obeyed the request of the famulus, and when after a space the spirit told him to open his eyes once more, he found himself in Rome, standing on a high tower. The hour was midnight, and when day dawned he duly witnessed the terrible events which followed--the death of the Constable of Bourbon, the flight of the Pope into the Castle of St Angelo, the slaughter of the citizens, and the wild riot of the conquerors. Returning to Valladolid by the same means as that by which he had come, Torralva immediately made public all he had seen, and when, a week or so later, news arrived of the capture and sack of Rome, the Court of Spain was very naturally filled with unbounded surprise. Many persons of high rank had been accomplices of the gifted doctor in his practice of the black art, and one of these, in a fit of remorse, notified the Holy Inquisition of his dealings with the supernatural. Zuñiga too, who had benefited so greatly by the occult knowledge of Torralva, now turned against him, and denounced him to the Holy Office of Cuença, which had him arrested and cast into prison. The terrified magician immediately confessed all his doings with Zequiel, whom he persisted in regarding as a beneficent spirit, and penned no less than eight declarations of his dealings with the supernatural, some of which contradicted statements made in others in a most ludicrous manner. In view of their unsatisfactory nature, the unhappy necromancer was put to the torture, and an admission of the demonic nature of his familiar was quickly extracted from him. In March 1529 the Inquisitors suspended his process for a year, a common practice of the Inquisition, which thus attempted to wear its victims down. But, to the dismay of Torralva, a new witness made his appearance, who testified that in his early days at Rome the imprisoned medico was prone to indulgence in occult arts, so that in January 1530 Torralva was once more put upon his trial. The Inquisition appointed two learned theologians to labour for his conversion, to whom Torralva promised amendment in everything, except the renunciation of the evil spirit with whom he had been associated for so long, assuring his mentors that he had not the power to dismiss Zequiel. At length, on his making a pretence to cast off his familiar and abjure his heresies, he was released, and entered the service of the Admiral of Castile, who had employed all his influence to obtain a pardon for him. Immortalized in the pages of Don Quixote, he remains for all time the archetype of the Spanish magician of the sixteenth century. Moorish Magic By no race was the practice of the occult arts studied with such perseverance as by the Moors of Spain, and it is strange indeed that only fragmentary notices of their works in this respect remain to us. The statement that they were famous for magical and alchemical studies is reiterated by numerous European historians, but the majority of these have refrained from any description of their methods, and the Moors themselves have left so few undoubted memorials of their labours in this direction that we remain in considerable ignorance of the trend of their efforts, so that if we desire any knowledge upon this most recondite subject we must perforce collect it painfully from the fragmentary notices of it in contemporary European and Arabic literature. The first name of importance which we encounter in the broken annals of Moorish occultism is a great one--that of the famous Geber, who flourished about 720-750, and who is reported to have penned upward of five hundred works upon the philosopher's stone and the elixir of life. In common with his fellow-alchemists, he appears to have failed signally in his search for those marvellous elements, but if he was unable to point the way to immortal life and boundless wealth, he is said to have given mankind the nitrate of silver, corrosive sublimate, and nitric acid. He believed that a preparation of gold would heal all diseases in both animals and plants, as well as in human beings, and that all metals were in a condition of chronic sickness in so far that they had departed from their natural and original state of gold. His works, all of which are in Latin, are not considered authentic, but his Summa Perfectionis, a manual for the alchemical student, has frequently been translated. The Moorish alchemists taught that all metals are composed of varying proportions of mercury and sulphur. They laboured strenuously to multiply drugs out of the various mixtures and reactions of the few chemicals at their disposal, but although they believed in the theory of transmutation of metals they did not strive to effect it. It belonged to their creed rather than to their practice. They were a school of scientific artisans and experimentalists, first and last. They probably owed their alchemical knowledge to Byzantium, which in turn had received it from Egypt; or it may be that the Arabs drew their scientific inspiration at first hand from the land of the Nile, where the 'great art' of alchemy undoubtedly had its birth. Astrology Astrology was also an important branch of occult study with the Moors of Spain, whose consideration of it greatly assisted the science of mathematics, especially that branch of it which still retains its Arabic name--algebra (al = the, jabara = to set, compute). It is probable that the Arabs first received an insight into the practice of foretelling events by the position of the planets at a given time from the Chaldeans, who undoubtedly were its earliest students. References to astrology are plentifully encountered in Spanish story, as the reader will have observed. But high as it stood in the estimation of the Moorish sages, it was still subservient to the grander and more mysterious art of magic, whereby the spirits of the air could be forced to do the will of the magus, and carry out his behests in four elements. Most unfortunately, we are almost entirely ignorant of the tenets of Moorish magic, owing probably to the circumstance that it was averse to the spirit of Islam. But we know that it was founded upon Alexandrian magic, and therefore recognized the principles of that art as laid down by the great Hermes Trismegistus, who was none other than the Egyptian Thoth, the god of writing, computation, and wisdom. About the end of the tenth century the learned men of Europe began to resort to Spain for the purpose of studying the arts, occult and otherwise. Among the first to do so was Gerbert, afterward Pope Sylvester II, who spent several years in Cordova, and who introduced into Christendom the knowledge of the Arabic numerals and the no less useful art of clock-making. Strange that he did not apply his knowledge of the one to the other, and that even to-day our timepieces are burdened with the old and cumbrous Roman numerals! William of Malmesbury assures us that Gerbert made many discoveries of treasure through the art of necromancy, and relates how he visited a magnificent subterranean palace, which, though dazzling to the sight, would not remain when its splendours were subjected to the test of human touch. Ignorant Europe took Gerbert's mathematical diagrams for magical signs, and his occult reputation increased as his moral character withered. It was said that the Devil had promised him that he should not die until he had celebrated high mass at Jerusalem. One day Gerbert celebrated his office in the Church of the Holy Cross of Jerusalem at Rome, and, feeling ill, asked where he was, observed the double entendre of the Evil One, and expired. Such was the tale that benighted ignorance cast round the memory of this single-minded and enlightened man, much in the same spirit as it bedevilled the recollections of our own Michael Scot and Roger Bacon. The Dean of Santiago In the Conde Lucanor, a Spanish collection of tales and homilies of the fourteenth century, already alluded to, is a story of the Dean of Santiago, who went to Illan, a magician of Toledo, to be instructed in necromancy. The magus raised a difficulty, saying that as the Dean was a man of influence, and would attain a high position, he would probably forget all past obligations. The Dean, however, protested that no matter to what eminence he attained he would not fail to remember and assist his former friends, and particularly his tutor in things supernatural. Satisfied with the churchman's promises, the necromancer led his pupil to a remote apartment, first requesting his housekeeper to purchase some partridges for supper, but not to cook them until she had definite orders to do so. When the Dean and his instructor had settled themselves to the business before them, they were interrupted in their labours by a messenger, who came to inform the Dean that his uncle, the Archbishop, had summoned him to his death-bed. Being unwilling, however, to forgo the instruction he was about to receive, he excused himself from the duty. Four days later, another messenger arrived, informing the Dean of the Archbishop's death, and later he learned that he had been appointed Archbishop in his uncle's place. On hearing this, Illan requested the vacant deanery for his son. But the new Archbishop preferred his own brother, inviting, however, Illan and his son to accompany him to his see. Later the deanery became vacant once more, and once again the magician begged that his son might be appointed to it. But the Archbishop refused his suit, in favour of one of his own uncles. Two years later the Archbishop became a cardinal, and was summoned to Rome, with liberty to appoint his successor in the see. Once more Illan was disappointed. At length the Cardinal was elected Pope, and Illan, who had accompanied him to Rome, reminded him that he had now no excuse for not fulfilling the promises he had so often made to him. The Pope, in anger, threatened to have Illan cast into prison and starved as a heretic and sorcerer. "Ingrate!" cried the incensed magician, "since you would thus starve me, I must perforce fall back upon the partridges I ordered for to-night's supper." With these words he waved his wand, and called to his housekeeper to prepare the birds. Instantly the Dean found himself once more in Toledo, still Dean of Santiago, for, indeed, the years he had spent as Archbishop, Cardinal, and Pope were illusory, and had existed only in his imagination at the suggestion of the magus. This was the means the sage had taken to test his character, before committing himself to his hands, and so crestfallen was the churchman that he had nothing to reply to the reproaches of Illan, who sent him off without permitting him to sup upon the partridges! It is strange that physicians and priests figure most notably as the heroes of Spanish magical story--strange, until we reflect upon the manner in which the learned classes were regarded by an illiterate and illiberal commonalty. Torquemada tells a story of a youth of his acquaintance, a young man of great ability, who was afterward physician to the Emperor Charles V. When he was a student at Guadalupe, and was travelling to Granada, he was invited by a traveller, dressed in the garments of a churchman, whom he had obliged in some manner, to mount behind him on his horse, and he would carry him to his destination. The horse seemed a sorry jade, unable to carry the weight of two able-bodied men, and at first the student refused the mount, but, on pressure, at length accepted a seat behind the seeming ecclesiastic. The horseman requested his companion not to fall asleep in the saddle, and they jogged on, without any appearance of their going at an extraordinary rate. At daybreak, to the student's surprise, he found himself near the city of Granada, where the horseman left him, marvelling that the distance between two places so widely separated could have been covered in a single night. Spectres and Apparitions As might be imagined, the strong vein of superstition in the Spanish character, if subdued to some extent by the harsh dictates of the Holy Office, yet rose triumphant in other spheres of occult belief. We find, for example, a widely diffused belief in the power of the dead to return to the scenes of previous existence, and this superstition is well illustrated by a weird passage in the thrilling and mysterious pages of Goulart, who in his Trésor des Histoires admirables [56] knows well how to mingle shadows with the colours on his palette. He tells us how Juan Vasquez Ayala and two other young Spaniards, on their way to a French university, were unable to find suitable accommodation at a certain village where they had halted for the night, and were obliged to take shelter in a deserted house, the reputation of which as a haunted vicinity had flourished for a considerable time among the villagers. The young men made the best of matters, borrowed articles of furniture from several neighbouring houses, and resolved to give a warm reception to any supernatural visitant who should have a mind to pay them a call. But on the first night of their occupancy they had scarcely fallen asleep when they were awakened by a noise as of clanking chains, which seemed to proceed from the lower regions of their temporary dwelling. Absolutely fearless, young Ayala leaped from his bed and, donning his clothes, sallied downstairs in search of the cause of the clamour which had awakened himself and his comrades. In one hand he carried his drawn sword, in the other a lighted candle, and on coming to a door which led to the courtyard of the house he perceived a dreadful spectre--a grisly skeleton, standing in the entrance. The grim apparition which confronted him was loaded with chains, which clanked with a doomful and melancholy sound on the ears of the gallant young student, who, however, undismayed by the spectacle before him, advanced the point of his sword and demanded the intruder's reason for disturbing his rest. The phantom waved its arms, shook its bony head, and beckoned with its hand, as if asking Ayala to follow it. The student expressed his willingness to do so, on which the ghost commenced to descend a flight of steps, dragging its legs as it went like a man whose limbs were weighted with iron shackles. Ayala followed fearlessly, but as he advanced his candle suddenly flickered and went out, a circumstance which did little to reinforce his courage. "Hold!" he called to the phantom. "You perceive my candle has gone out. If you will wait till I relight it, I shall return in a moment." Rushing to a light which burned in the hall, he relit his candle, and returned to the spot where he had left the apparition. He entered the garden, where he saw a well, close by which he perceived the ghost, which signed to him to continue his progress, and having gone a little way forward, vanished. Puzzled, the student returned to his apartment, and told his comrades to accompany him to the garden, but search as they might, nothing could they find. Next day they reported what had occurred to the alcalde of the village, who had the garden examined, with the result that immediately beneath the spot where the phantom had disappeared a skeleton was exhumed, loaded with chains. When proper burial had been given to the remains the noises in the house abruptly ceased, but the adventure proved too much for the superstitious Spaniards, who returned home abruptly, without fulfilling the object of their journey. This tale is a capital example of the typical ghost story in its earliest phase. I will not descant upon it here, as a book on Spanish romance and legend is scarcely the place for a disquisition on the occult. But we are learning, slowly and painfully perhaps, to regard these matters from another point of view than our Victorian grandfathers, whose materialism pooh-poohed the supernatural without trying to account for it. In any case I am one of those who believe in it and who desire to believe in it, so that the reflections of such a biased person are perhaps better dispensed with. Torquemada tells a gruesome story of one Antonio Costilla, a Spanish gentleman, who one day left his mansion, well mounted, on a matter of personal business. When he had ridden several leagues, night suddenly fell, and he resolved to return to his home, but to his dismay he was overtaken by the darkness, and seeing a light ahead rode his horse at a walk in its direction. He saw that it proceeded from a small hermitage, and, dismounting, he entered the little chapel and engaged in prayer. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he saw that he was not alone, for the hermitage was occupied by three persons, who lay upon the ground, wrapped in black mantles. They did not address him, but lay regarding him with wild, melancholy eyes. Terrified, he knew not by what, he leaped into the saddle and rode off. In a little while the moon shone out, and showed him the three men whom he thought he had left in the chapel riding a little in front of him on black horses. In order to avoid them, he turned down a by-path, but to his horror still observed them riding a few paces ahead. Spurring madly on, yet always preceded by those whom he desired to avoid, he came in time to the gate of his own house, where he dismounted, and led his horse into the courtyard--only to find there the three cloaked figures awaiting him. He rushed into the house, and entered his wife's apartment, calling for help. Instantly the entire household came to his assistance, but although he screamed loudly that the three fiends or apparitions stood by the couch on which he had thrown himself, they were invisible to all others. A few days later the wretched Costilla died, maintaining to the last that three forms with glaring eyes stood over his bed, menacing him with frightful gestures. Pity it is that our knowledge of the supernatural as manifested in Spain is so slight and fragmentary. But the dread of the sorcerer's fate was heavy upon the people, and the fear of torture by rack or fire successfully banished witch, wizard, fay, and phantom from the fields and cities of the Peninsula. CHAPTER XIII: HUMOROUS ROMANCES OF SPAIN Cervantes, the bold metal of thy lance Shatters the crystal turrets of Romance; Down falls the wreck in ruin most immense Upon the dreary plains of common sense. L. S. Cervantes' "Don Quixote" Cervantes was one of the world's great satirists, a man gifted with a keen and peculiar sense of the ridiculous. He would himself have been the first to laugh at those modern critics who professed to see in him a great poet, and indeed, at the end of his days, when he assessed his life's work in his mock-heroic Voyage to Parnassus, he admitted that he had not the poetic gift. That he had a golden imagination is obvious to anyone who cares to read his Galatea, imitative as it is, and Don Quixote overflows with imagination and invention, although certain later passages of the wondrous satire are extremely reminiscent of some of its earlier pages. To me Don Quixote has always seemed one of the most precious and curious of books, but probably for very different reasons from those by which it makes its appeal to the majority of people, for it is because of the information it affords concerning romantic literature and customs that I treasure it most. Where the satire is really legitimate I revel in the fun as much as it is possible for anyone to do, but I feel that many of its passages are rather shabbily iconoclastic, and that some of its strictures are levelled not only against the absurdities of chivalric extravagance, but against the whole spirit and structure of romance. It had been well, too, for Cervantes had he confined himself entirely to the satiric vein, for when he essays to employ the very literary vehicle at which he chiefly scoffed he frequently becomes more maudlin--that is the only word for it--than the most sentimental writers against whom he girds. His shepherds and shepherdesses and his runaway nuns are long-winded and pedantic, and he was indeed badly bitten by that tiresome Arcadian phase in European literature which culminated in the prose pastoral, which had its roots in false conventions and employed as its mise en scène an atmosphere of sham rural felicity. Sannazaro, in his Arcadia, had indeed piped the tune to which Cervantes danced for many a day ere his own strong common sense showed him the fatuity of the models which he followed. The author of the Pastor de Filida, Luiz Galvez de Montalvo, was his own close friend, and there is every evidence that he made wholesale raids upon the distinctly minor efforts of such poetasters as Hebrao and Alonso Perez. The works of the men who composed this school of pseudo-Arcadianism had none of the charm of the delightful canvases of Watteau and Fragonard, silk-coated and satin-gowned though their shepherds and shepherdesses be. The country of the Spanish pastoral had a background of pasteboard scenery, and theatrical effects of lighting flashed across its stage. It was peopled by bores of the most intolerable description, who, instead of looking after their live stock, as they were paid to do, wearied each other and the wretched traveller who was unhappy enough to encounter them with their amorous bellowings and interminable tales of misfortune. Little wonder that the native good sense of Cervantes recoiled later from this unworthy and unmanly nonsense. But it is extraordinary that although he meted out such merciless treatment to chivalric romance, he still retained a weakness for the follies of Arcady, from which, to the last, he was unable to free himself. The circumstances of Cervantes' career undoubtedly assisted him to discipline his ideas. As a collector of taxes he had, perforce, to come into contact with the seamy side of life, and much of his time was spent in the Bohemian atmosphere of inns, where he was compelled to lodge while he worked the district allotted to him. In these circumstances and in these places he encountered men and women of flesh and blood, and came up against the iron wall of hard, solid reality. Such an experience is undoubtedly most valuable to a man of romantic or imaginative temperament, gifted with creative ability. It tempers his natural capacities and enlarges his views. Doubtless Cervantes, when he first went his rounds, had been in the habit of regaling his fellow-travellers in the posadas in which he sojourned with high-falutin stories of errant shepherds and wandering shepherdesses. We can imagine the degree of amusement with which the rough muleteer, the blunt soldier, and the travelling quack would greet those sallies. The criticism of such people is not strained--it is annihilating! Can we doubt that the laughter with which his earlier rhapsodies were received in company of this sort blew away the fantastic cobwebs from Cervantes' brain? I have already indicated that in the age in which he lived the romance proper had fallen into considerable popular disfavour. This was due partly to the circumstances of a changed environment, and partly to the type of literary opinion which had recently been fostered by the rise of the Spanish drama, which had brought about an entirely new literary ideal. Can it be that Cervantes, finding that his audiences regarded the Arcadian type of tale with disfavour, attributed this to the circumstance that it was fashionable in high circles, and fell back upon the romance, only to find that it too was greeted with guffaws and laughed out of the inn parlour? Was it in the quips and sneers of such audiences, the very antithesis of the romantic personages of whom he had dreamed, that the idea of Don Quixote took shape in his brain, and that in the laughter of clowns and men of the hard world, of the struggling lower middle class, he perceived the certain popularity which a caricature of chivalry would enjoy? So, it seems to me, it may have been. For many a year the sham romance of chivalry had been regarded as a pest. Serious and responsible writers had thundered against it, and there is every evidence that in a measure it stood between a certain section of the people of Spain and anything like mental advancement. It had, indeed, turned the heads of that portion of the nation unaccustomed to think for itself, and unable to form a rational opinion regarding its demerits. In all countries and at all times, this class, usually impressionable and easily led, falls an easy prey to the blandishments of the hack writer of sensational proclivities. It is not too much to say that unhealthy sensationalism in literature constitutes a real and active danger to national well-being. It seduces the people from their duties, unfits them for the serious business of life, renders them pretentious rather than independent, and leads them to the belief that they reflect the virtues or vices of the absurd heroes and heroines of their favourite tales. The one weapon which the more sensible portion of the community can bring to bear against such a pernicious condition of affairs is healthy ridicule, which it usually meets with from the rational and the well-balanced. But the danger exists that in the revulsion of public feeling against literary extravagance not only the absurdities which have obsessed the thoughtless and irritated the sensible will undergo destruction and banishment, but those higher virtues and graces of which they are the distorted reflection will not be discriminated against, but will be demolished along with them. Such, indeed, was the fate which befell the greater romances, those jewels of human imagination, which, although Cervantes himself made an effort to save them, shared in the general wreck and ruin of the fiction of which they were the flower, until the taste and insight of a later day excavated them from the super-incumbent mass under which they lay buried. The Figure of Don Quixote Don Quixote, the central figure of the mighty satire which gave its death-blow to chivalry, is perhaps typical of the romance reader of Cervantes' day. Crack-brained and imaginative to the verge of madness, he is entirely lost to the uses of everyday existence. He lives in a world of his own, and has nothing in common with that of his time, to the spirit of which he cannot adapt himself. In this gentleman of La Mancha the vices of the imagination are well portrayed, but they are unaccompanied by those gifts through which imagination can be rendered of utility to the community. Don Quixote dwells on the heights of a chivalric Parnassus, a land of magic peopled by the spectres and shadows which he has encountered in the books with which his library is so well furnished. His imagination is thus not even creative, but derivative; reliance upon the "idols he has loved so long" has "done his credit in men's eyes much wrong," and he is regarded by his neighbours as an amiable lunatic of no importance. But the dreamer, when roused to action, can be a very terrible person if his visions chance to direct him astray, and if he attempt to realize a nightmare. Thus it was with Don Quixote. Scarcely mad enough for confinement, but yet sufficiently crazy to become a public nuisance, if not a public menace, he justly typifies the kind of person in whom romance runs mad, and is thus of the same class as the small boy who is incited to acts of petty larceny by the perusal of detective stories, or the young lady behind the ribbon-counter who is under the impression that she is the long-lost daughter of a mysterious peer. It is symptomatic of such craziness that it craves companionship. It is indeed a species of vanity which must have an audience, however small or however unsuited to its purposes. Again, the element of conspiracy is as the apple of its eye, and it must confide its ideas and aspirations to one sympathetic ear at least. In Sancho Panza, Don Quixote finds a strange confidant. The luckless peasant is completely unable to comprehend his master's point of view, but is carried away by his rodomontades and the glib and gorgeous promises of preferment and prosperity which the crack-brained knight holds out to him. To his participation in the wild scheme of the visionary Don, Sancho's shrewd spouse violently objects, but when dreamer and dunce get together common sense may hold its tongue and content itself with the knowledge that it is not until windmills have been tilted at and sound trouncings have been received that its advice will be listened to. But though he begins his travels as a dunce, Sancho by no means remains one. He profits from his experiences, and almost every page shows him increasing in judgment and in that humour which is the salt of good judgment. As his master grows madder, Sancho grows wiser, until at last he becomes capable of direction and guidance toward the rueful knight. As we proceed we begin to suspect that the peasant-squire exists as a kind of chorus to illustrate the excesses of his master and criticize his absurdities. But apart altogether from Don Quixote, Sancho Panza is a striking and arresting figure in modern fiction, possessing a philosophy of his own, rich in worldly wisdom and abounding with practical ability. On the humorous side he is equal to Falstaff, only whereas Falstaff's humour is typically English that of Sancho Panza is universal. He is a world-clown, with the outlook of a philosopher and the unconscious humour of a Handy Andy. The Adventure at the Inn The true measure of the character of Don Quixote is perhaps met with in that chapter which recounts what occurred to him in the inn which he took for a castle. The place seems to have been a very ordinary Spanish posada. The host and hostess were kindly folk whom the knight at once exalted to the rank of a castellan and châtelaine, and in the dowdy maidservant, who has been immortalized under the name of Maritornes, he saw a great lady who dwelt in their company. After the terrible trouncing he had received from the Yanguesian carriers the wretched knight was glad to rest his battered limbs in a miserable garret of the place, while Sancho explained to the inn-folk the nature of a knight-errant and the vicissitudes of errantry, which one day compelled its adherents to undergo such hardship as the Don now suffered from, and the next exalted them to the heights of sovereignty over many empires. These explanations were seconded by the Knight of the Rueful Countenance himself, who, sitting up in bed, entertained the hostess and maidservant to a speech so grandiloquent that, lost in wonder at his eloquence, "they admired him as a man of another world." But Don Quixote, anxious to recover from his injuries, begged his squire to procure from "the governor of the castle" the ingredients of a magical balm of which he had read in some book of chivalry. These he obtained, and Don Quixote busied himself by concocting the enchanted liquor over the fire, saying over it many credos and paternosters. Then he drank deeply of the awful compound, with distressing effect, and Sancho, following his example, underwent a similar but more violent experience, and was assured by his master that the balsam disagreed with him because he had not received the order of knighthood! Saddling his horse, the knight was about to proceed on his journey, but before he set out he assured "the lord governor of the castle" how deeply grateful he was for the honours he had received while under his roof. The innkeeper suggested that the time for paying his reckoning had come, but Don Quixote retorted that it was impossible for him to do so, as no knight-errant of whom he had ever read was wont to pay for board and lodging. The innkeeper protested loudly, whereupon, clapping spurs to Rozinante, the knight rode out at the gate. The innkeeper then attempted to extort his dues from Sancho Panza, but without avail, as the squire quoted the same authorities as his master, whereupon some of those who sojourned at the inn seized him and tossed him in a blanket. Don Quixote, hearing his cries, rode back, but although he stormed loudly the travellers still continued to toss Sancho in the blanket, until at length, tired of the exercise, they let him go. Don Quixote's Love-Madness In the space at our disposal it would be impossible to follow Don Quixote step by step through the land of false romance which he had created for himself. We will recall how Amadis on the Firm Island bemoaned his separation from his lady-love, and how, when he came to a locality known as the Black Mountain, Don Quixote resolved to follow the example of the great hero of chivalry. Before he left his native village he had placed his affections upon a country wench, to whom he gave the romantic name of Dulcinea del Toboso, and now that he had come to the Black Mountain he resolved to spend his time in meditation upon the virtues and beauties of this super-excellent damsel. After lecturing Sancho Panza upon the duty of a knight-errant in meditation upon his lady, he became irritated with the squire because he could not understand the reason for his amorous fury. "Pray, sir," quoth Sancho, "what is it that you mean to do in this fag-end of the world?" "Have I not already told thee," answered Don Quixote, "that I intend to copy Amadis in his madness, despair and fury? Nay, at the same time I will imitate the valiant Orlando Furioso's extravagance when he ran mad, at which time in his frantic despair he tore up trees by the roots, troubled the waters of the clear fountains, slew the shepherds, destroyed their flocks, and committed a hundred thousand other extravagances worthy to be recorded in the eternal register of fame." "Sir," quoth Sancho, "I dare say the knight who did these penances had some reason to be mad. But what lady has sent you a-packing, or even so much as slighted you?" "That is the point," cried Don Quixote, "for in this consists the singular perfection of my undertaking. It is neither strange nor meritorious for a knight to run mad upon any just occasion. No, the rarity is to run mad without a cause, without the least constraint or necessity, for thus my mistress must needs have a vast idea of my love. Waste no more time, therefore, in trying to divert me from so rare, so happy, and so singular an imitation. I am mad and will be mad until you return with an answer to the letter which you must carry from me to the Lady Dulcinea. If it be favourable, my penance shall end, but if not, then shall I be emphatically mad." "Body o' me!" quoth Sancho, "why run you on at such a rate, Sir Knight? All these tales of yours of the winning of kingdoms and bestowing of islands rather appear to me as so much braggartry, and now this latest mood of yours----" "Now as I love bright arms," cried the Don, "I swear that thou art an addle-pated ass. Know you not that all the actions and adventures of a knight-errant seem to be mere chimæras and follies? Not that they are so, but merely have that appearance through the malice and envy of powerful enchanters." As they talked they came near to a high rock, round which the wild trees, plants, and flowers grew in profusion, and here the Knight of the Woeful Figure resolved to perform his amorous penance. Throwing himself on the ground, he broke into a loud frenzy of grief. "Go not yet," he cried to Sancho, "for I desire that thou shalt be a witness of what I will do for my lady's sake, that thou mayst give her an account of it." "Bless us," cried Sancho, "what can I see more that I have not seen already?" "Nothing as yet," replied Don Quixote. "Thou must see me throw away mine armour, tear my clothes, knock my head against the rocks, and do a thousand other things of that kind that will fill thee with astonishment." "Beware, sir," cried the squire. "If you needs must knock your noddle, do so gently, I pray you." The Army of Sheep But surely the most mirth-provoking of all the adventures of Don Quixote is that in which he takes a flock of sheep for an army. He and Sancho were riding at bridle-pace over a wide plain, when they perceived a thick cloud of dust in the distance. "The day is come," cried the knight, "the happy day that fortune has reserved for me, and in which the strength of my arm shall be signalized by such exploits as shall be transmitted even to the latest posterity. Seest thou yonder cloud of dust? Know then that it is raised by a prodigious army marching this way and composed of an infinite number of nations." The wretched Don's brain was of course full to overflowing of the accounts of those stupendous battles of myriads of paynims which, as we have seen, are so frequently encountered in the old romances, and he was delighted when Sancho pointed out that two separate hosts seemed to be approaching from different points of the compass. "Ha, so!" cried Don Quixote, flourishing his lance, "then shall we assist the weaker side. Know, Sancho, that the host which now confronts us is commanded by the great Alifanfaron, Emperor of the Island of Taprobana. The other that advances behind us is his sworn enemy, Pentapolin of the Naked Arm, King of the Garamantians." "Pray, sir," quoth Sancho, "what is the cause of this quarrel between two such great men?" "It is a simple matter," answered Don Quixote. "The pagan Alifanfaron dares to make his addresses to the daughter of Pentapolin, who has told him that he will have naught of him unless he abjure his false beliefs." "If a battle be at hand," said Sancho nervously, "where shall I place my ass, for I fear he will not prove of much avail in the charge." "True," answered Don Quixote. "We will soon provide a destrier for thee when the knights begin to fall from their saddles. But let us scan their ranks. He who wears the gilded arms and bears on his shield a crowned lion couchant at the feet of a lady is the valiant Lord Luarcalco, Lord of the Silver Bridge. Yonder is the formidable Micocolembo, the great Duke of Quiracia, wearing armour powdered with flowers of gold. The gigantic form upon his right is the dauntless Brandabarbaran, sovereign of the Three Arabias, whose armour is made of serpents' skins, and who carries for a shield the gate of the temple which Samson pulled down at his death. But our allies also advance. Yonder marches Timonel of Carcaxona, Prince of New Biscay, who bears on his shield a cat or in a field gules, with the motto 'Miau.' Beside him rides Espartafilardo of the Wood, whose blue shield is powdered with asparagus plants. But the pagans press on. To the right cluster those who drink the pleasant stream of the Xanthus, there the rude mountaineers of Massilia, behind them those who gather gold from the sands of Arabia Felix, the treacherous Numidians, the bowmen of Persia, the Medes and Parthians who fight flying, the houseless Arabians, and the sooty Ethiopians." "Upon my soul," cried Sancho, "surely thy magicians are at work again, for not a single knight, giant or man can I see of all those you talk of now." "Blockhead!" cried Don Quixote. "Hark to the neighing of countless horses, the fanfare of the trumpets, and the thunder of many drums." "Surely this is sorcery," replied the puzzled Sancho, "for I hear nothing but the bleating of sheep." "Retreat, if thou fearest the engagement," replied the Don, with a haughty sneer, "for I with my single arm am sufficient to give the victory to that side which I shall favour with my assistance," and with a loud and warlike cry he couched his lance, clapped spurs to the lean side of Rozinante, and charged like a thunderbolt into the plain, crying: "Courage, brave knights! Woe upon that great infidel Alifanfaron of Taprobana." In another moment he was among the flock of sheep, charging through and through it, and piercing an animal at each thrust of his lance. The shepherds, in great dismay, unloosed their slings and began to ply him with stones as big as their fists. But, disdainful of this petty artillery, he cried upon Alifanfaron, whom in imagination he was about to engage, when a stone as big as a good-sized pippin struck him heavily upon the short ribs. Thinking himself desperately wounded, he pulled out the earthen flask which contained his magic balsam; but just as he was in the act of raising this to his lips, a stone from the sling of a shepherd struck it so forcibly as to shiver it to atoms, and passing through it broke three of his teeth and tumbled him from the saddle. The shepherds, fearing that they had killed him, picked up the dead sheep and made off, leaving him more dead than alive. Mambrino's Helmet No less notable is Cervantes' account of the adventure in which Don Quixote succeeded in obtaining the helmet of Mambrino. At a distance he espied a horseman who wore upon his head something that glittered like gold. Turning to Sancho, he said: "Behold, yonder comes he who wears upon his head the helmet of Mambrino, which I have sworn to make mine own." "Now the truth of the story," says Cervantes, "was this: there were in that part of the country two villages, one of which was so little that it had not so much as a shop in it, nor any barber; so that the barber of the greater village served also the smaller. And thus a person happening to have occasion to be let blood, and another to be shaved, the barber was going thither with his brass basin, which he had clapped upon his head to keep his hat, that chanced to be a new one, from being spoiled by the rain; and as the basin was new scoured, it made a glittering show a great way off. As Sancho had well observed, he rode upon a grey ass, which Don Quixote as easily took for a dapple-grey steed as he took the barber for a knight, and his brass basin for a golden helmet; his distracted brain easily applying every object to his romantic ideas. Therefore, when he saw the poor imaginary knight draw near, he fixed his lance, or javelin, to his thigh, and without staying to hold a parley with his thoughtless adversary, flew at him as fiercely as Rozinante would gallop, resolved to pierce him through and through; crying out in the midst of his career: 'Caitiff! wretch! defend thyself, or immediately surrender that which is so justly my due.'" The barber, seeing this awful apparition come thundering down upon him, and in terror lest he should be run through by Don Quixote's lance, threw himself off his ass on to the ground and, hastily rising, ran off at the top of his speed, leaving both his ass and his basin behind him. "Of a truth," said Don Quixote, "the miscreant who has left this helmet has shown himself as prudent as the beaver, who, finding himself hotly pursued by the hunters, to save his life cuts off with his teeth that for which his natural instinct tells him he was followed." "Upon my word," cried Sancho, "it is a right good basin, and worth at least a piece of eight." Don Quixote at once placed it on his head, but could find no visor, and when he perceived that it had none, "Doubtless," said he, "the pagan for whom this famous helmet was first made had a head of a prodigious size, but unfortunately part of it is wanting." At this Sancho laughed outright. "I fancy," continued Don Quixote, "that this enchanted helmet has fallen by some strange accident into the hands of some one who for the lucre of a little money, and finding it to be of pure gold, melted one half of it and of the other made this headpiece, which as thou sayest has some resemblance to a barber's basin." The Adventure of the Windmills The most celebrated, if not the most amusing of Don Quixote's adventures is certainly that of the windmills. Indeed "tilting at windmills" has passed into a proverb. The dismal Don and his squire had entered a certain plain where stood thirty or forty windmills, and as soon as the knight espied them he cried: "Fortune directs our affairs better than we ourselves could have wished. See, Sancho, there are at least thirty outrageous giants whom I intend to encounter, and with whose spoils we shall enrich ourselves." "What giants?" quoth Sancho Panza. "Those whom thou seest yonder," answered Don Quixote, "with their long, extended arms." "By your leave, sir," said the squire, "those things yonder are no giants, but windmills." "Alas, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "thou art but little acquainted with adventures. I tell thee they are giants, and therefore if thou art afraid, turn aside and say thy prayers, for I am resolved to engage in an unequal combat against them all." Without another word he clapped spurs to his horse, crying out: "Stand your ground, ignoble creatures, and fly not basely from a single knight who dares encounter you all!" At that moment the wind rose and the mill-sails began to move, at which the Don cried aloud: "Base miscreants! though you move more arms than the giant Briareus, you shall pay for your arrogance." Then, devoutly recommending himself to his lady, he bore down upon the first windmill, and running his lance into the sail, transfixed it. The sail, however, continued to rise, drawing up both knight and horse along with it, until at last the lance broke into shivers and Rozinante and his master fell a good distance to the ground. Sancho Panza at once ran up to the dismounted knight, who seemed to have fared badly. "Alas, your worship," he cried, "did not I tell you they were windmills, and that nobody could think otherwise unless he had windmills in his head." "Peace!" replied Don Quixote, who had been badly shaken by the fall. "I am verily persuaded that the cursed necromancer Freston, who continues to persecute me, has transformed these giants into windmills. But, mark you, in the end all his pernicious wiles and stratagems shall prove ineffectual against the prevailing edge of my sword." The Story of the Captive One of the most remarkable of the tales which are interspersed throughout the history of Don Quixote is that of the captive which the hero encounters at a certain inn, and which, if it is not actually based upon the facts of Cervantes' own personal captivity among the Moorish pirates, certainly draws much of its substance and colour therefrom. On 26th September, 1575, the Spanish vessel Sol, on which Cervantes served as a private soldier, was separated from the rest of the Spanish squadron in the neighbourhood of Marseilles, and, falling in with a flotilla of Moorish pirates, was captured after a desperate resistance. Cervantes himself was sold as a slave to one Dali Mami, a Greek renegade, who found upon his prisoner certain highly eulogistic letters from Don John of Austria and the Duke of Sessa. These flattering credentials led his new master to suppose that Cervantes was a man of consequence, and that he would presumably be able to draw a large ransom for him. But although the great are often quite ready to provide genius with grandiloquent testimonials which cost them only the expense of a little ink and paper, they are by no means prone to back their assertions of ability by tabling large sums of money, and Cervantes continued to languish in captivity. In 1576 he attempted to escape with other prisoners, but their Moorish guide played them false, and, threatened by hunger, the party was forced to return to Algiers. In the following year Cervantes' brother was ransomed, and he undertook to send a vessel to carry off Miguel and his friends. Meanwhile the author of Don Quixote enlisted the sympathies of a Spanish renegade, a Navarrese gardener named Juan. Between them they dug a cave in a garden near the sea, and secreted in it, one by one, fourteen Christian slaves, who were secretly fed during several months by the help of another renegade known as El Dorador. The vessel sent by Rodrigo de Cervantes stood in to the shore, and was on the point of embarking those hidden in the cave when a Moorish fishing-boat passed by, and so alarmed the rescuers that they put to sea again. Meanwhile the treacherous El Dorador had revealed the plan to Hassan Pasha, the Dey of Algiers, and when several of the crew of rescuers landed on a second occasion to convey the fugitives on board, the Dey's troops surrounded the garden, and the entire band of Christians was captured. Cervantes, with that true nobility which characterized him throughout life, took the entire blame of the conspiracy upon himself. Dragged bound before Hassan, he adhered to his statement, and although the unfortunate gardener was hanged, Hassan decided to spare Cervantes' life, and for some reason known to himself purchased the poet from Dali Mami for five hundred crowns. Perhaps the tyrant expected an immense ransom from a man whose nobility of bearing must have impressed him. But be that as it may, Cervantes at once began to set on foot a third scheme of escape. He sent a letter to the Spanish Governor of Oran, asking for assistance, but this was intercepted, and the poet was sentenced to two thousand blows, which, however, were never inflicted. Cervantes now conceived the idea of inducing the Christian population of Algiers to rise and capture the city. In this project he was assisted by some Valencian traders, but the scheme was revealed to Hassan by a Dominican monk, and the Valencians, hearing of the priest's treachery, and fearing lest they might be implicated, begged Cervantes to make his escape on a ship which was about to start for Spain. But Cervantes refused to desert his friends, and when he was once more dragged before Hassan with a hangman's rope round his neck, and threatened with instant death unless he revealed the names of his accomplices, he obstinately refused to betray them. Meanwhile his family were doing their utmost to procure his release, and in order that they might collect his ransom, his mother, the better to inspire pity, actually passed herself off as a widow, though her husband, a medical practitioner of great age, was still alive. By tremendous exertions they succeeded in collecting two hundred and fifty ducats, which they paid to a certain monk who went regularly to Algiers, but this Hassan refused to accept, asking for one prisoner of distinction, called Palafox, the sum of one thousand ducats. The monk seems to have acted as an official ransomer to the Spaniards, and when Hassan found that he would pay no more than five hundred ducats for Palafox, he offered to ransom Cervantes for that sum by way of making a bargain. So after five years of slavery the author of Don Quixote was set free, and returned to his native soil. But the Dominican monk who had revealed to Hassan his attempted escape, and who was probably afraid that Cervantes would charge him with this treachery, no sooner heard that he had landed in Spain than he spread false reports regarding his conduct. These, however, Cervantes was easily able to rebut, and his character as a heroic leader among the captives was amply vindicated. The captive's story, for which Cervantes had had the mournful privilege of collecting so much 'local colour,' is recounted to Don Quixote by an escaped slave, who, with his Moorish lady-love, has come to the inn where the woeful knight is sojourning. I shall adhere to Cervantes' manner of recounting it in the first person, but as it occupies a considerable portion of the first part of his famous history, considerations of space will necessitate its condensation. "My family had its origin in the mountains of Leon, and although my father had considerable substance, he had by no means been prudent in his expenditure, and at an early age my brothers and myself were faced with the necessity for carving out our own fortunes. One of my brothers resolved to go to the Indies, the youngest embraced Holy Orders, and I concluded that for my part I would be a soldier. With a thousand ducats in my pocket I travelled to Alicant, whence I took ship to Genoa. From that city I went to Milan, where I joined the forces of the great Duke of Alva and saw service in Flanders. Some time after my arrival in that country there came news of the league concluded by Pope Pius V in conjunction with Spain against the Turks, who had at that time taken the island of Cyprus from the Venetians. Hearing that Don John of Austria had been given the conduct of this expedition, I returned to Italy, enrolled myself in his service, and was present at the great battle of Lepanto, on which glorious day the fable that the Turk was invincible, which had so long deluded Christendom, was dissipated. But instead of participating in this victory, I was so unfortunate as to be made a prisoner in the course of the engagement. Vehali, the bold pirate king of Algiers, having boarded and taken the galley Capitana of Malta, the vessel of Andrea Doria, to which I had been commissioned, bore up to assist it. I leaped on board the enemy's ship, which, however, succeeded in casting off the grappling-irons thrown upon it, and I found myself surrounded by enemies who quickly bore me down. I was carried to Constantinople, and was made a slave in the captured Capitana at Navarino. "As I did not wish to burden my father with the collection of a ransom, I refrained from letting him know of my circumstances. My master Vehali dying, I fell to the share of a Venetian renegade called Azanaga, who sailed for Algiers, where I was shut up in prison. As it was thought that I might be ransomed, the Moors placed me in a bagnio, and I was not forced to labour like those captives who had no hope of redemption. Upon the courtyard of this place there opened the windows of the house of a wealthy Moor, and it chanced one day that I was standing underneath one of these, when there appeared from it a long cane, to which was attached a piece of linen. This was moved up and down, as if it was expected that some of us should lay hold upon it, and one of our number stood immediately beneath it to see if it would be lowered. But just as he came to it, the cane was drawn up and shaken to and fro sideways, as if in denial. Another of my comrades advanced, and had the same success as the former. Seeing this, I resolved to try my fortune also, and as I came under the cane, it fell at my feet. I untied the linen, and found wrapped up in it about ten gold coins called zianins. I took the money, broke the cane, and looking upward, beheld a white hand close the window in haste. Shortly afterward there appeared out of the same casement a little cross made of cane, and by this token we concluded that some Christian woman was a slave in that house. But the whiteness of the hand and the richness of the bracelets upon the arm made us think that perhaps we had to deal with a Christian lady who had turned Mohammedan. "For more than fifteen days we received no other token of the lady's presence, although we watched carefully for the same, but we learned that the house belonged to a Moor of high rank, called Agimorato. At the end of this time the cane appeared once more, and on this occasion I found that the linen bundle contained no less than forty crowns of Spanish gold, with a paper written in Arabic, at the top of which was a great cross. But none of us understood Arabic, and it was with difficulty that we could find an interpreter. At last I resolved to trust a renegade of Murcia, who had shown me great proofs of his kindness. He agreed to translate it, and I found the contents were as follow: "'As a child I had a Christian nurse who taught me much of your religion, and especially of Lela Marien, whom you call the Virgin. When this good slave died, she appeared to me in a vision and bid me go to the land of the Christians to see the Virgin, who had a great kindness for me. I have seen many Christians out of this window, but none has appeared to me so much of a gentleman as thyself. I am young and handsome and can carry with me a great deal of money and other riches. Pray consider how we may escape together, and thou shalt be my husband in thine own country, if thou art willing. But if not, it does not matter, for the Virgin will provide me a husband. Trust no Moor with this letter, for they are all treacherous.' "The renegade to whom I had given the letter for translation promised to assist us in every way in his power, should we venture upon making our escape, and indeed the hearts of all of us rose high, for we argued that the influence and means of the lady who had befriended me might greatly help us in our efforts for freedom. I dictated a reply to the renegade, who translated it into the Arabic tongue, offering the lady my services and those of my companions, and promising on the word of a Christian to make her my wife. Soon the cane was let down from the window once more. I attached the note to it and it was drawn up. That night we prisoners discussed the best means of effecting our escape, and at last we agreed to wait for the answer of Zoraida (for such we discovered was the lady's name), feeling assured that she could best advise us how to proceed. For some days the bagnio was full of people, during which time the cane was invisible, but when we were once more left to ourselves it was thrust through the window, and on this occasion the bundle which depended from it contained a letter and a hundred crowns in gold. The renegade speedily translated the missive, which stated that although the writer could not contrive the manner of our escape, she could still furnish us with sufficient money to enable us to buy our ransoms. She suggested that having done this one of us should proceed to Spain, purchase a ship there, and return for the others. She concluded by saying that she was now about to proceed to the country with her father, and that she would pass all the summer in a place near the seaside, which she closely described. "Every one of our company offered to be the man who should go to Spain and purchase the ship which was to deliver the rest, but the renegade, who was experienced in such matters, strongly opposed this proposal, saying that he had seen too many such enterprises wrecked by placing trust in a single individual. He offered to purchase a ship in Algiers, and pretend to turn merchant, by which means, he said, he could contrive to get us out of the bagnio and the country. Meanwhile I answered Zoraida, assuring her that we would do all she advised, and in reply to this she gave us, by means of the cane, two thousand crowns in gold. Of this sum we gave the renegade five hundred crowns to buy the ship, and through the good offices of a merchant of Valencia, then in Algiers, I effected my own ransom with another eight hundred crowns. But on the advice of this trader the money was not paid down to the Dey at once, lest his suspicions should be aroused, but he was informed that it would shortly be forthcoming from Spain, and meanwhile I remained in the Valencian's house upon parole. Before Zoraida finally departed for her father's summer residence she gave us another thousand crowns, explaining, by letter, that she kept the keys of her father's treasury, and on this occasion I made arrangements for ransoming three of my friends. The Flight from Algiers "Soon after this the renegade purchased a vessel capable of carrying above thirty people, in which he pretended to make several voyages in company with a Moorish partner whom he took in order to avoid suspicion. Each time he passed along the coast he cast anchor in a little bay close to the house where Zoraida lived, so that the people of the place should get used to his doing so. He even landed on several occasions and begged fruit from Zoraida's father, which he always received, for the old Moor was of a liberal spirit. But he could never succeed in having speech with Zoraida herself. Our plan was now upon such a footing that he asked me to fix a day upon which we might make the great effort upon which everything depended. So I collected twelve Spaniards known to be good oarsmen and whose comings and goings were not very closely watched. It was arranged among us that we should steal out of the town upon the evening of the next Friday, and rendezvous at a certain spot near Agimorato's dwelling. But it was necessary that Zoraida herself should be apprised of our intention, and with this object in view I entered her garden one day upon pretence of gathering a few herbs. Almost at once I encountered her father, who asked me what I did there. I told him I was a slave of Arnaut Mami, who I knew was a friend of his, and that I wanted a few herbs to make up a salad. While we spoke Zoraida came out of the garden house, and as it was quite the custom for the Moorish women to be seen before Christian slaves, her father called her to come to him. She was most richly dressed and wore a profusion of jewels, and now that I beheld her for the first time I was astounded by her beauty. Her father told her for what purpose I was there, and she asked me if I were about to be ransomed. Speaking in lingua franca, I replied that I had already been ransomed, and that I intended to embark on the morrow upon a French ship. "At that juncture the old Moor was called away upon business, and I at once assured Zoraida that I would come for her on the morrow. She immediately threw her arms around my neck and began to walk toward the house, but her father returning at that moment espied us, and came running to us in some alarm. Immediately Zoraida pretended to be in a fainting condition, and explained to Agimorato that she had suddenly felt indisposed. I yielded her up to him and they retired into the house. "Next evening we embarked and dropped anchor opposite Zoraida's dwelling. When darkness had come we walked boldly into the garden, and finding the gate of the house open entered the courtyard. Zoraida immediately emerged from the house carrying a small trunk full of treasure, and told us that her father was asleep, but as misfortune would have it, some slight noise that we made awakened him and he came to a window calling out, 'Thieves, thieves! Christians, Christians!' The renegade at once rushed upstairs and secured him, and we carried father and daughter on board. We also made prisoners of the few Moors who remained on the vessel, bent to the oars, and set out to sea. "At first we endeavoured to make for Majorca, but a strong wind arising, we were driven along the coast. We were in great fear that we might encounter some of the Moorish cruisers which we knew to be in the vicinity. I made every effort in my power to assure Agimorato that we would give him his liberty on the very first occasion, and told him that his daughter had become a Christian and desired to live the rest of her life in a Christian land. On hearing this the old man behaved as if suddenly seized with a frenzy, and rising cast himself into the sea, whence we succeeded with difficulty in rescuing him. Shortly afterward we drove into a small bay, where we set Agimorato ashore. I shall never forget his curses and imprecations upon his daughter, but as we sailed away he called out, begging her to return. However, she hid her face in her hands and commended him to the Virgin. "We had proceeded some little distance from the coast when the light of the moon became obscured. All at once we nearly collided with a large vessel, which hailed us in French, bidding us to heave to. Perceiving that it was a French pirate, we made no answer, but pressed onward, whereupon its crew launched a boat, boarded us and dragged us on board, stripping Zoraida of all her jewels and throwing us into the hold. As we neared the Spanish shore next morning they placed us in their long-boat with two barrels of water and a small quantity of biscuits, and the captain, touched with some remorse for the lovely Zoraida, gave her at parting about forty crowns in gold. We rowed on through the early dawn, and after some hours of plying the oars landed. After proceeding some miles inland we came upon a shepherd, who on seeing our Moorish dresses, made off and gave the alarm. Soon we encountered a company of horsemen, one of whom chanced to be related to one of our number. They placed us on their horses and we soon reached the city of Velez Malaga. There we went straight to church to thank God for His great mercy to us, and there for the first time Zoraida saw and recognized a picture of the Virgin. With some of the money the pirate had given Zoraida I bought an ass and resolved to discover whether or no my father and brothers were still alive. That is, gentlemen, the sum of our adventures." The escaped Christian had scarcely finished his narration when a splendid coach drove up to the door of the inn. From this equipage there alighted a richly dressed gentleman and lady, who entered the posada and were met with great courtesy by Don Quixote. The Christian refugee recognized the gentleman as his brother, now a judge of the Court of Mexico, who greeted him affectionately and introduced the lady as his daughter. The man of many adventures with his Moorish bride resolved to return with the judge to Seville, whence they intended to advise their father of these strange happenings, that he might come to see the baptism and marriage of Zoraida, for whose future, and that of his sorely tried brother, the grandee resolved to make ample provision. The Growth of Cervantes It is in such a tale as the above that we observe how Cervantes' style grows more supple and adaptable as his work proceeds. It is clear that he has made an effort to shake off the literary trammels of his time, and that he has succeeded. No longer does he find it necessary to imitate such writers as Antonio de Guevara, as in the passage in which Don Quixote describes the Age of Gold. He has shaken off the rather recondite euphuism of some of the earlier passages, and has become more human and familiar. His speeches are appropriate to his characters; his dialogue is full of life and his narrative of incident. But although in these pages we behold the evolution of a realist, Cervantes never altogether throws off the cloak of academic eloquence--only it becomes a carefully restrained eloquence which has left affectation far behind. The great and immediate success of Don Quixote was, however, principally due to its large humour, and to its faithful portraiture of the Spanish types of Cervantes' day. Into juxtaposition with figures that were familiar to all he brought the extraordinary character of the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, a burlesque original out of another age, and yet not lacking in the dignity and greater qualities of the times whose spirit he strove to imitate. Into the environment of seventeenth-century Spain stalked the antiquated figure of Don Quixote, disturbing its ordinary routine and quarrelling with its conventions, carrying the days of chivalry in his head, and projecting their phantasms on the landscape by means of the all too powerful light of his imagination. But if the incongruity of the Don in a modern setting roused grave and sober Spain to inextinguishable laughter, his character and that of Sancho Panza were still recognized as triumphs of creative fiction--the representatives of imagination run mad and of the grossest common sense. The perfection and finish of Don Quixote, and the consummate craftsmanship with which it is conceived, cannot fail to commend themselves to readers of discretion. It is full of the knowledge of the man of the world; it breathes leisure and urbanity, its spirit is that which stamps the work of the great master. Here there are no loose ends, no clumsy constructions, no weaknesses of diction. It does not seem to me that Cervantes wrote with any great facility, and herein probably lies the measure of his great literary excellence. On the other hand, no drudgery is apparent in his composition. He strikes the happy medium between brilliant facility and that meticulous and often nervously apprehensive mode which so frequently disgraces the work of modern stylists. He is precise and wonderfully sure-footed, and we cannot imagine him grasping in alarm at every projection in the course of his ascent. Whatever the secret of his style, it succeeded in producing a wonderfully equable yet varied narrative, just and appropriate in expression. His entire canvas is filled in and completed with a masterly eye to the smallest detail. The Second Part of "Don Quixote" We can see by the time which he permitted to elapse between the first and second parts of his great romance how careful Cervantes was not to hazard his well-won reputation upon an unfortunate sequel, and the fictioneer of our own time, harassed by a public greedy for sensation and flushed by momentary success, might well turn to him for an example in this respect. It is often alleged that the circumstances of modern literature do not permit of that leisure which is necessary to the excogitation of a carefully developed technique or a sound style. This, alas! is only too true. The successful author of to-day can scarcely permit ten months, much less ten years, to elapse between one effort and another, and to this feverish condition of things we undoubtedly owe those disappointing sequels to great novels with which all of us must be only too familiar. Ours is emphatically not an age of connoisseurs. We eat, drink, and read pretty much what is given us, and if we grumble a little at the quality thereof, we feel that no complaints will alter the conditions which produce the things against which we inveigh. The Spain of Cervantes' day offered a much more critical environment. Bad or hastily conceived work it would not tolerate. But there were elements within it which frequently did much to hasten the publication of a sequel, and the chief of these was undoubtedly literary piracy. Cervantes appears to have been spurred on in the publication of the second part of Don Quixote by the appearance in 1614 of a book by Alonso Fernández de Avellaneda, a spurious sequel to the first portion of his great work, the preface of which is filled with personalities of the most insolent kind. That he resented the piracy is shown by the circumstance that he put all his other work aside and brought Don Quixote to a hurried conclusion. In the last chapters of Don Quixote he was forced to write hastily because his rival had stolen his plan, and it was necessary for him to recast it as well as to bring out his novel with all speed. But, these blemishes notwithstanding, much of the sequel is truly epical in its grandeur. Don Quixote, if less amusing, is greatly more thought-provoking, and Sancho Panza becomes even richer in common sense and clear-sightedness. The portraiture of the remaining characters, too, is sharper in outline than in the first part. The sequel, indeed, is a great mirror in which the Spanish society of Cervantes' day is reflected with all the thaumaturgy of genius. The immense success which followed it must have afforded the greatest gratification to the dying novelist, and must in great measure have consoled him for the disappointments of a career spent in the shallows of exile and poverty. Lazarillo de Tormes The greatest humorous romance which Spain had produced prior to Don Quixote was the Lazarillo de Tormes of Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, a many-sided man and once Spanish Ambassador to England. He was of noble extraction on both sides, and was born in Granada in 1503. As a younger son he was destined for the Church, and studied at the university of Salamanca, where, while still a student, he wrote the novel which rendered him famous. Its graphic descriptions, its penetration into character, and its vivacity and humour instantly gained for it a high place in contemporary Spanish literature. But Mendoza soon exchanged the clerical for the political sphere of activity, and Charles V created him Captain-General of Siena, a small Italian republic which had been brought beneath Spanish rule. Haughty and unfeeling, Mendoza exercised a most tyrannical sway over the wretched people committed to his care. They complained bitterly to the Emperor regarding his conduct, and when this remained without effect, his life was attempted by assassination. On one occasion, indeed, his horse was killed under him by a musket-shot aimed at himself. During his absence Siena was captured by a French army, and as the weakness of the city was attributed to his withdrawal of certain troops he was recalled to Spain in 1554. But while thus employed in Italy as a statesman and a soldier Mendoza had not been idle in a literary sense, for he had written his political commentaries, a paraphrase of Aristotle, a treatise on mechanics, and other notable works, none of which, however, have achieved for him a tithe of the popularity of his first literary effort. Lazaro, or, to give him his diminutive name, Lazarillo, was the son of a miller who plied his trade by the banks of the river Tormes, from which he took his name. When he was only ten years old his father was killed in a campaign against the Moors, and as his mother was unable to support him she gave him into the charge of a blind man who wandered about the country as a beggar. While at the bridge of Salamanca the boy noticed an animal carved in stone in the form of a bull, and was told by his master that if he placed his ear to the effigy he would hear it roar. He did so, when the old man gave his head such a violent thump against it as almost to bereave him of sense, and, laughing brutally, told him that a blind man's boy must needs have his wits about him. "I have no silver or gold to give you," said he, "but what is far better, I can impart to you the result of my experiences, which will always enable you to live." The little Lazarillo had much difficulty in getting enough food to keep body and soul together. The old beggar kept his bread and meat in a linen knapsack, the neck of which was tightly secured. But the boy made a small rent in one of the seams of the bag, and thus helped himself to the choicest pieces of meat, bacon, and sausage. It was his task also to receive the alms which charitable people bestowed on the blind man, and part of this he secreted in his mouth, until, by dint of practice, he was able to hide a goodly treasure of copper money in that receptacle. It irked him on a hot day to watch the beggar drinking his wine while he himself went thirsty. The wine was kept in a large jar, and from time to time he managed to get a sip of the cooling liquor. But his master soon discovered the practice and kept the jar between his knees, with his hand on its mouth. Lazarillo therefore bored a small hole in the bottom of the jar, which he closed with wax. At dinner-time, when the blind beggar sat over the fire, the wax melted, and Lazarillo, putting his mouth to the hole, absorbed the wine. His master was enraged and surprised when he found that the liquor had vanished, and attributed its disappearance to magical means. But the next time his charge attempted the feat the crafty old mendicant seized the jar with both hands and dealt him such a blow on the face with it as to break the vessel and wound the boy severely. From that day Lazarillo bore a grudge against the sightless old tyrant, and took a sly revenge by guiding him over the worst roads he could find and through the deepest mud. Resolving to quit a service the perquisites of which were all kicks and no halfpence, Lazarillo led his master to the Arcade at Escalona, beside which a brook ran rather swiftly. In order to cross this it was necessary either to jump or to wade almost up to the neck in water, and when this was explained to him the old beggar chose the former method of negotiating it. The crafty Lazarillo told him that the narrowest place was opposite a great stone pillar, and the wretched mendicant, taking a step or two backward to give him impetus, leapt with such force that he crashed into the pillar, at the bottom of which he immediately fell unconscious. With a shout of triumph Lazarillo ran off, and from that day never set eyes upon the blind man again. The next master whose service he entered was a priest, and if his experiences with the beggar had been unhappy, they were as nothing to what he now had to bear, for the holy man was a miser of the most pitiful description, and starved him in a shameful manner. He kept his bread in a large wooden chest, to which Lazarillo got a travelling tinker to fit a key during the priest's absence, and was thus able to regale himself daily, until his miserly master discovered the shortage. This he attributed to rats, and as there were several holes in the box he carefully mended it with small pieces of wood; but still the bread disappeared, and as one of the neighbours had seen a snake in the priest's domicile the padre concluded that this reptile was the cause of the depredations. To avoid discovery, Lazarillo slept with the key of the chest in his mouth, but one night his breathing caused a whistling sound upon the orifice of the implement, and the old priest, taking this for the hissing of the snake, delivered such a shrewd blow in the direction of the noise as to render the unfortunate Lazarillo an invalid for some considerable time. When he had recovered, the old priest took him by the hand and, leading him into the street, said to him: "Lazarillo my son, thou hast great natural gifts; thou art indeed far too clever for an old man like me, and I assure thee that I do not wish to see thee more. Farewell." Lazarillo, however, was not long in attaching himself to another master, who appeared to be a gentleman of birth and breeding. But now he found that he was in worse straits than ever, as though his master seemed a cavalier of family, he had not a penny in the world, and was entirely dependent for his daily bread upon what the boy could beg from charitably disposed persons. One day the landlord called for the rent, and the gentleman, assuring him that he would fetch it from his banker's, sallied forth and never returned, so that once more the wretched urchin was without a master. He next succeeded in obtaining the patronage of a pardoner who travelled from place to place selling indulgences and relics. On one occasion they stayed at an inn, where his master struck up a friendship with an alguazil, or constable. One night the pair sat late carousing, when a quarrel arose between them, and next day, as the pardoner was preaching in the church preparatory to selling his wares, the alguazil entered and denounced him as an impostor. The pardoner, with a great show of piety, prayed loudly that the heavenly powers would vindicate his character and would punish the alguazil, who immediately fell to the ground in the most dreadful convulsions. Some of the congregation prayed the pardoner that he would attempt some mitigation of the wrath of heaven upon his traducer, and the holy man stepped from the pulpit and laid a bull which he pretended he had received from the Pope upon the sufferer's forehead. The man instantly rose as if cured, and the people, convinced that a miracle had occurred, at once bought up the pardoner's entire stock. But the acute Lazarillo soon discovered that the pair had been in league with one another. The last master to whose service Lazarillo attached himself was the Arch-priest of Salvador, in whose service he flourished exceedingly, and one of whose servants he married. But scandal crept into his household, and with the death of his wife he found himself as poor as ever. Here the tale ends. It is impossible in such a brief sketch as this to do justice to the great degree of insight into the workings of the human heart which characterizes the authorship of this little novel, the first of its kind. Lazarillo de Tormes was the forerunner and exemplar of the entire school of the Picaresque novel, which at a later date became almost typical of Spanish fiction, and which gave rise to such masterpieces as Guzman de Alfarache, the Gil Blas of Le Sage, and the novels of Scarron, and the spirit of which to some extent was mirrored in our own Laurence Sterne; nor is its influence by any means defunct, as can readily be seen by reference to certain of the works of Mr Maurice Hewlett and Mr Jeffery Farnol. Guzman de Alfarache Mateo Aleman, the author of the great Picaresque romance of Guzman de Alfarache, was a native of Seville. Throwing up a Government appointment in early life, he crossed the sea to Mexico, where in 1609 he published a work on Spanish orthography and several treatises in Latin. But the effort which has gained for him the title of novelist was his Vita del Picaro Guzman de Alfarache, a work which has been translated into every European language from the date of its first appearance in 1599. Although written in the most correct and approved literary style, it is yet easy and familiar in manner, and is unrivalled in the picture it presents not only of the lowest grades of Castilian society, but of the more exclusive orders of life at the period in which he wrote. "My ancestors," he says, "were originally from the Levant, but settled in Genoa and employed themselves in the mercantile life of that city in such a manner that they were accused of usury." Thus the stock from which the lively adventurer came was of such a character as to bring him at an early age into contact with the realities of roguery. But if his relations were by no means particular in trade, they concealed their ignominious conduct under the cloak of hypocrisy and social correctness. They never failed to be present at Mass, and the finger of reproach could not be pointed against their family life. Before Guzman was born his father learned that one of his correspondents at Seville had become bankrupt, and setting out for Spain in order to investigate his affairs on the spot, he was captured by an Algerine pirate, adopted the religion of Mohammed, and married a Moorish lady. His agent at Seville, having heard of what had happened to his principal creditor, adjusted his affairs without him, and was soon in a better condition than ever. But the elder de Alfarache succeeded in making his escape, and, coming to Seville, demanded a reckoning from his rascally business confrère, from whom he succeeded in extorting a considerable sum. He set himself up in business at Seville, and bought an estate, which he named St Juan de Alfarache. Here he lived right royally, and, having married the wealthy widow of an old knight, he found himself in a fortunate position. Soon after this his son Guzman was born. But de Alfarache was unfortunately prone to the distractions of company, splendour, and show, and having dissipated most of his means, ere long became himself bankrupt, and shortly afterward paid the debt of nature. His widow and the little Guzman were only indifferently provided for, and when the boy had entered his fourteenth year he resolved to seek his fortune, and set out for Genoa, in the hope that his father's relations would extend their assistance to him. Soon he arrived at a miserable tavern, where he asked for something to eat, and was given an omelet, which, he says, might more properly have been called an "egg poultice," but which he attacked "as hogs do acorns." Leaving the inn, he soon felt very ill, and in a condition bordering upon collapse he encountered a muleteer, to whom he described the unsavoury meal he had just eaten, and who laughed heartily at his story. The kindly fellow told him to jump on one of his mules, and soon they were trotting nimbly eastward. Shortly after this they met two friars, and arrived at an inn, where they were given another indifferent meal, which the host extolled so much that the simple boy was fain to swallow the mess without making any great ado. But to his horror he later discovered that it had been made from the flesh of a young mule. On being challenged with this the innkeeper drew a long sword, whereupon the muleteer seized a pitchfork, and murder would have been done had not the town police separated the parties. The dishonest landlord was taken to prison, but although he confessed to passing off the mule for veal he would not admit that he had stolen Guzman's cloak, which had gone amissing, and the boy had perforce to leave the place minus this article of apparel. Riding on their way, Guzman and the muleteer were soon overtaken on the road by two persons on mules, who examined them with the greatest attention, and then quite suddenly threw themselves upon the unfortunate lad, asserting that he had stolen some jewels of value. The muleteer interfered, but only to receive a rough handling, and the strangers tied the comrades to their mules with cords. At this juncture the party was joined once more by the friars, who amused themselves by telling tales, the morals of which hinged upon the mutability of human affairs; but these are much too long and too slightly connected with the thread of our story to be repeated here. The party then arrived at the gates of Cazalla, and the officers of the law, finding that they had made a mistake in arresting Guzman, gave him his liberty. He put up at the best inn that the place afforded, and on the following morning took the direct road to Madrid on foot. At an inn on the outskirts of the capital he met with a beneficent priest, who shared his meal with him, but in the morning the landlord attempted to overcharge him, and was about to take his coat in payment of his bill when the muleteer, who had rejoined him, interfered, and gave it as his opinion that Guzman had run away from home. The villainous landlord, seeing in this some hope of enriching himself, offered to take the lad into his service as a kind of stable-boy, his duty being to hand out straw and oats to the muleteers who put up at the place. Here the young Guzman was initiated into habits of dishonesty and sharp practice, for when a cavalier or person of consequence visited the inn he usually doled out a mere handful of provender to his horses or mules, while charging him the usual sum for it. The place was, indeed, a regular sink of iniquity, and for Guzman life became so miserable that, relying upon the little money he had saved, and selling his coat and waistcoat, he absconded, and joined a passing company of beggars. These people lived right royally on what they begged and what they poached. They were inveterate gamblers, and in the evening Guzman found every opportunity of picking up tricks with playing-cards. Soon after, however, he took employment as scullion to a cook in the service of a nobleman. Guzman as Scullion In this situation Guzman passed a jovial time, for there was no lack of good cheer in the knight's establishment. Albeit the lad did his work to admiration. But the vice of gambling seized upon him, and every day he joined the lackeys and pages at cards, often sitting up all night to indulge in this pastime. In this way he soon got rid of the money he received in gratuities, and being short of funds wherewith to gratify his passion for gaming, began to pilfer such small articles as he could find about the house, excusing himself by saying that he only did as others did. One day his master had given a great carouse to some friends, and Guzman entered the room where they had been drinking to find them fast asleep. On the table he observed a large silver goblet, and this he purloined. The cook's wife soon missed the article, and inquiries with regard to it were set afoot, whereupon the cunning youngster, taking the cup to a jeweller, had it cleaned in such a manner that it resembled a new one. Carrying it back to the woman, who was in great fear that her master would hear of the loss, he told her that he had found a similar goblet at a jeweller's, which he could procure for fifty-six reales, and, anxious to avert trouble, she at once gave him the sum to purchase it. The money thus dishonestly won was instantly thrown in gaming, and Guzman was no better off than before. About this time the cook was requested to prepare a splendid dinner for a foreign nobleman who had newly arrived at Madrid. A large sack containing game was entrusted to the lad, and this he carried home, but as it was late he took it up to his own garret. In the middle of the night he was wakened by cats, who fought over one of the hares which he had brought home. Seeing that this was not missed, and that his brother lackeys stole the provisions right and left, Guzman presently slipped half a dozen eggs into his pocket. But the head cook observed him do so, and dealt him such a furious kick that he fell, and the broken eggs gushed from his pocket, to the amusement of all present. Guzman, however, managed to embezzle a couple of partridges and some quails. These he took to sell to another cook, but his master, suspecting him, followed and discovered what he was about, and immediately dismissed him after thrashing him soundly. After this nothing was left for the young adventurer but to return to his old trade of running errands. He soon heard that certain troops were about to be embarked for Genoa, and resolved to follow them and enlist. A certain old apothecary, who had always found him honest in his dealings, sent him to a foreign merchant with a large quantity of silver, and this Guzman secreted in a large hole by the riverside. In the morning he returned to the place, and, digging up the bags of money, found that they contained two thousand five hundred reales in silver and thirty pistoles in gold. Slinging the bags on his back, to resemble a traveller's pack, he set off in the direction of Toledo, making his way across the fields and carefully avoiding the high road. Arriving within two leagues of Toledo, he entered a wood, where he intended to rest the whole of the day, as he did not wish to approach the city till nightfall. His plan was to betake himself to Genoa and introduce himself to his relations, and he was thinking of the best way to lay out his money in order to reach them and make a good appearance before them, when he heard a noise and, turning hastily, beheld a young man of about his own age reclining on the ground, with his head against a tree. Guzman shared his wine with him, and the youth informed him that he was penniless. Guzman offered to buy some of the clothes he carried with him in a bundle, and, opening one of his money-bags, reassured him as to his ability to pay. For a hundred reales a handsome suit changed hands, and, taking leave of the stranger, Guzman entered Toledo, where he at once put up at the best inn. Next day he fitted himself out with such articles of attire as he required, but his vanity got the better of him, and he ordered a most magnificent suit, which cost him a long price. On Sunday he betook himself to the cathedral, where he met a very fine lady, who asked him to accompany her home to supper. For this occasion Guzman ordered a magnificent feast, but the pair had hardly sat down to partake of it when a loud knocking was heard at the door, and the lady cried out in alarm that her brother had returned and that he had better conceal himself. The only place in which he could do so with advantage was inside a great inverted bath, and from this place of concealment he had the mortification of beholding the gentleman who entered devour the gorgeous supper which he had provided and drink every drop of the four bottles of wine he had purchased for his own use. Soon the gentleman, having eaten and drunk thus sumptuously, fell sound asleep, and Guzman took the opportunity of stealing from the house, a sadder but a wiser lad. Hearing that an alguazil had been inquiring very particularly regarding him, Guzman hurriedly left Toledo, and, arriving at the town of Almagro, joined the company of soldiers who were bound for Genoa. Their captain, taken with his distinguished appearance, hailed him as a brother in arms, and treated him as an equal. Guzman had engaged the services of a page at Toledo, and this little rascal assisted him greatly in his new sphere by spreading the report that he was a gentleman of consequence. But our hero's purse was now sadly depleted, although he had still about half of his ill-gotten gains left. Instead of embarking at once the company remained at Barcelona for three months, so that his resources soon gave out, and he was neglected by the officers, and even avoided by the soldiers. His captain, indeed, condoled with him, and offered him a place in his household at the servants' table, assuring him that this was all he could do for him, as he himself was compelled to dine out from his utter incapacity to receive his friends at home. Guzman assured him of his gratitude, and hinted that he might in turn be able to assist him. The soldiers were billeted in the village, and Guzman commenced a system of imposing a larger number of men upon each house than was necessary, or at least threatening to do so, so that the anxious inhabitants were only too glad to buy him off. In this manner he completely re-established the captain's finances, and as presents of provisions poured in from the frightened villagers the young rascal and his chief lived well. But he now grew bolder, and, selecting half a dozen of the most desperate men in the company, began to rob passengers on the high road. His captain, learning of this, however, immediately put a stop to such dangerous proceedings. One day Guzman observed that among the few jewels the captain still had left to him there was a very handsome gold reliquary set with diamonds, and this he begged his superior to lend him for a few days. The audacious stripling at once took it to a jeweller's, to whom he offered it for two hundred crowns. But the man would only tender him a hundred and twenty, and this Guzman refused. The jeweller called upon him next day to renew his offer, which the lad accepted. Guzman handed him the purse in which the reliquary was kept, receiving the hundred and twenty crowns in exchange. But the old fellow had scarcely left the house when the young adventurer raised a cry of "Stop thief! Stop thief!" Some soldiers immediately arrested the jeweller, and Guzman cried out that he had robbed him of the captain's reliquary. The jeweller assured the arquebusiers that he had paid a hundred and twenty crowns for the article, but this Guzman denied. The wretched goldsmith was haled before a magistrate, and, as he had a bad reputation for usury, was forced to disgorge the reliquary. But although the captain was glad enough to get the money thus scurvily gained, he feared that further association with such a rascal as de Alfarache would ruin him. In a few days the company set sail for Genoa, and when they had arrived there his superior intimated that they must part, at the same time thrusting a pistole into his hand. Tormented by Devils The young adventurer now began to make inquiries about his relations, and was informed that they were the most rich and powerful persons in the republic. He inquired the way to their mansion, where he was but ill received, all the more so as his appearance was shabby in the extreme. But as he had taken care to make his relationship to them public property, they could not very well repulse him. One evening he met a venerable-looking old man, who told him that he had known his father, and that he felt quite indignant at the behaviour of his relations toward him, and offered him an asylum at his own house. Without giving him anything to eat, he at once sent him to bed, where the wretched lad lay tormented by the pangs of hunger. Before he went to sleep the old man informed him that the room he occupied had the reputation of being haunted by evil spirits. Famished and restless, Guzman lay awake, when to his horror four figures in the shape of devils entered the chamber and dragged him out of bed. Throwing him into a blanket, they tossed him in the air with such violence that he struck the ceiling again and again, until, exhausted by the exercise, they placed him in bed once more and departed. In the early morning, stiff, sore, and dejected, Guzman crawled from the mansion, but he registered an oath never to forget the detestable manner in which his acquaintance had treated him, and resolved to be avenged upon him at the first opportunity. Guzman Joins the Beggars of Rome Leaving Genoa in this miserable plight, in which he compares himself to one of those who escaped from the battle of Roncesvalles, Guzman resolved to make his way to Rome. Italy, he says, is the most charitable country in the world, and anyone who can beg can travel within its bounds without concerning himself about his next meal. In a few weeks he found himself in the Roman Catholic capital, with money enough in his pocket to buy a new suit of clothes, but he resisted the temptation to do so, and wandered about the streets of the Imperial city seeking alms. He soon fell in with a comrade in distress, who enlightened him regarding the manners and customs of the beggars of Rome and who gave him such good instructions that he soon received more money than he could spend. In a short time Guzman was a perfect master of the trade of begging. After spending some weeks in this kind of life he fell in with one of the master-beggars of the city, who instructed him in the laws of begging, which he sets forth at length in his autobiography. These laws Guzman got by heart. The beggars lived together, and met in the evening to practise and invent new exclamations to excite pity. In the morning there was usually a scramble among them to see who could get nearest the holy water at the entrance to the churches, for there it was that the greatest harvest was reaped, and in the evening the beggars usually made a round of the country seats in the neighbourhood of Rome, whence they returned laden with provisions. Nearly all of the beggars were adepts at simulating bodily malformations or loathsome diseases. On one occasion, in the town of Gaeta, Guzman simulated a terrible disease of the head, and the Governor, who was passing, gave him alms. Next day he sat at the porch of a church with what appeared to be a grievous affection of the leg, and much money was flowing in upon him, when unhappily the Governor chanced to pass, and recognizing him, told him that he would give him some cast-off clothing if he would follow him home. Arrived there the Governor asked him by what singular remedy he had contrived to cure himself of his former complaint within the short space of one day, and without waiting for an answer sent for a surgeon, who, on examining the leg, assured the Governor that it was perfectly sound. The Governor then handed Guzman over to his lackeys, who trounced him severely and thrust him forth from the town. One morning our rascally hero had posted himself at the gate of a certain Cardinal celebrated for his compassionate disposition, who, on passing and hearing his plaint, told his domestics to convey the seeming sufferer to a chamber in his mansion and attend to his wants. Guzman had once more simulated a terrible disease of the leg, and the Cardinal, observing this, sent for two of the most celebrated surgeons in Rome. Their preparations were of such a nature that Guzman feared they were about to amputate his leg, so when they consulted together in an adjoining room he went to the door to listen to what they were saying. One of them gave it as his opinion that the disorder was merely a bogus one, but the other as warmly maintained that it was genuine. At length they agreed to lay their deliberations before the Cardinal, and were about to do so when Guzman, entering the room where they consulted, admitted his fraud, and proposed that they should combine in deceiving the Cardinal. To this the surgeons agreed, and when his Eminence appeared they made the most alarming and touching report regarding Guzman's sham disorder. The Cardinal, who was a man of lofty character and unsuspicious nature, begged them to take as much time as they thought proper in effecting a cure, and to neglect nothing that might contribute to the patient's recovery. So anxious were the surgeons to pile up their fees that they compelled Guzman to keep his bed for three months, which appeared three ages to him, so keen was his desire to return to the gaming which had become second nature to him. At the end of this time they presented their bill to the Cardinal, telling him that a complete cure had been effected, and so pleased was the churchman at having assisted in so remarkable a case, and so keen his appreciation of Guzman's native wit, that he ended by taking the youthful charlatan into his service as one of his pages. Guzman was, however, not very well satisfied with his new life, which in great measure consisted in waiting in ante-chambers and serving at table. The discipline was rigorous, and all that he could purloin was a few candle-ends. But he found that a large quantity of very fine preserved fruit was kept in a certain chest, and to this he applied himself. The Cardinal discovered the peculation, yet failed to trace it to its source; but when Guzman was rifling the chest on a second occasion his Eminence entered and caught him in the act. He received a thorough castigation at the hands of the major-domo, which put an end to his knaveries for some considerable time. Guzman Cheats a Banker But Guzman played so many tricks in the Cardinal's palace that at length this excellent prelate had to dispense with his services. He then entered the service of the Spanish Ambassador, who was a friend of the Cardinal's, and who knew all about our hero's capacities. After some considerable time spent in the service of this dignitary, Guzman resolved to leave Rome for a tour through Italy. Shortly before this he had encountered a Spaniard called Sayavedra, with whom he became very friendly. Provided with about three hundred pistoles and some jewels, which he had purloined from the ambassador, Guzman set out on his travels. But Sayavedra had taken a wax impression of Guzman's keys, and pilfered his luggage before he left, so that if it had not been for the generosity of the ambassador he could not have left Rome. At Siena, however, Guzman fell in with Sayavedra once more, who entreated him to pardon his perfidy, and offered to become his servant. Guzman, who was sorry for his miserable condition, agreed to the proposal, and the pair, going to Florence, began to concert measures for improving their position. It was bruited abroad that Guzman was a nephew of the Spanish Ambassador, and he even had the insolence to present himself at Court, where he was received by the Grand Duke in that capacity. Here he met a charming widow of great wealth, with whom he fell violently in love. But her relatives, making inquiries about him, discovered that he had once begged in the streets of Rome, and he was forced to leave the city. At Bologna he gained a good deal of money at play, and on arriving at Milan he and Sayavedra took apartments in that city and cast about for some means of putting their newly acquired funds to use. Here they soon fell in with a rascally friend employed as clerk in a banker's house, and concerted with him as to how they should relieve his master of his surplus wealth. Guzman called upon the banker and told him he wished to deposit with him about twelve thousand francs in gold. He was well received, and the financier entered his name and other particulars in his daybook. On his way home he bought a gilt casket, which he filled with pieces of lead, and, giving this to Sayavedra, along with a bag of real money, enjoined that he should get into conversation with the landlord of the inn where they were staying, and tell him that he was taking the cash to the banker's house--which of course he was not to do. The banker's clerk got false keys made to fit his master's coffer, and, when the latter was at Mass on Sunday, he opened it and placed therein the gilt casket, which, instead of lead, now contained ten quadruples, thirty Roman crowns, and a written account of its contents. He then counterfeited his master's handwriting, and completed the entry in the daybook which he had begun, making it appear that not only the casket, but all the money in the coffer, had been credited to Guzman. On the Monday Guzman called at the banker's and asked him very politely to return the cash that had been sent to him a few days before. The man naturally denied that any sum had been lodged with him at all, whereupon Guzman made so great an outcry that a large crowd collected, and the quarrel assumed such a serious aspect that a constable appeared on the scene, accompanied by the landlord of the inn at which Guzman was staying. Guzman asserted that if the banker's books were examined the sum he mentioned would be found noted in them, and on the daybook being produced this was proved to be the case. The wretched banker admitted that part of the writing was in his own hand, and this was sufficient to incense the crowd, with whom he had a very bad reputation for usury and sharp practice. Guzman, too, was able to give a most circumstantial account of the contents of the coffer, which, on being opened, was found, to the banker's amazement, to contain the gilt casket he spoke of and the exact sum named by him, including even the various coinages he had enumerated and the written note of its contents. The landlord was able to corroborate Guzman's ownership of the casket, and as the evidence seemed conclusive the local magistrate awarded him the money, which he divided with his confederates. Guzman now resolved to return to Genoa for the purpose of being revenged upon the relatives who had treated him so scurvily upon his previous visit to that city. Disguising himself as a Spanish abbot of consequence, he put up at the best inn of the place, and his relatives, learning of his arrival, and of the pomp he displayed, hastened to pay their respects to him. They failed to identify him with the ragged and friendless urchin who had sought their assistance some years before, and his uncle even retailed the adventure of the devils to him as if it had been played upon an impostor. Guzman completely gained their confidence, and as he had plenty of money to spare they readily entrusted to his keeping a valuable collection of jewels, which he told them a friend desired to borrow for his wedding ceremony. With these he and Sayavedra made off to Spain, but on the way the latter fell ill of a fever, and, rushing on the deck of the galley, threw himself overboard and was drowned. Guzman, reaching his native country, after a number of adventures arrived in Madrid, where he sold his jewels to a rich merchant, who, believing him to be a person of consequence, gave him his daughter in marriage. The merchant relied upon Guzman's supposed wealth to further his financial operations, Guzman relied upon his father-in-law's equally supposititious resources, and as the extravagant young wife relied on both, all were soon plunged into bankruptcy. The shock was too much for the lady, and she expired, but her cunning parent succeeded in saving sufficient from the wreck to commence business once more. Guzman, however, was tired of the world of finance, and decided to invest the remainder of his ill-gotten gains in studying for the Church. With this object in view, he betook himself to the university of Alcalà de Henares, where he took his Bachelor of Arts degree, and after four years' hard reading at divinity only awaited a benefice to permit him to graduate as a full-fledged priest, when evil influences once more began to beset him. He made the acquaintance of a lady who had a family of daughters, with one of whom he became infatuated, and whom he married. The pair betook themselves to Madrid, where they embarked upon an adventurous career, after some years of which the lady eloped, taking with her everything of value which she could lay hands upon. By this time Guzman had presented himself to his mother, who, so far from dissuading him from his evil courses, assisted him in his schemes of roguery, so that shortly, going from bad to worse, he found himself doomed to a long period of servitude in the royal galleys. But here he was able to assist the authorities in discovering a mutiny, for which he was rewarded with his freedom. At this stage we take our leave of the most consummate rogue in fiction; but if Guzman de Alfarache is perhaps the most wily scoundrel in the records of romance, he is certainly one of the most original and amusing. It is noticeable, however, that his career, on the whole, was not a remunerative one, and that when he makes his farewell bow to us he is no better off than when we first encountered him. Perhaps the most amusing thing about his narrative is the sham propriety of tone in which it is couched--a style which was almost slavishly copied by Le Sage in his Gil Blas, who was not only obliged to this novel for its general atmosphere, but for many of the incidents which occur in his celebrated work. Conclusion We have trodden the ways of Spanish story, sublime, mock-heroic, and humorous. Perhaps no chapter in the world's literature is so rich in colour, or displays such a variety of mood and sentiment. Still the key-note is one of noble and dignified beauty, of chivalrous distinction, of exquisite propriety, courteous, immaculate, and unspotted by vulgarity or sordid meanness. The wine-cup of Spanish romance is filled with the heart's blood of a nation august, knightly, imaginative, a people who have preferred ideals to gross realities, and the heights of national aristocracy to the deserts of false democracy. "Poor Spain!" How often does the Anglo-Saxon utter the phrase in complacent self-assurance? With the solace of such a treasure-house of poetic and romantic wealth as she possesses, Spain may well rest in assured hope of the return of the brave days in praise of which her trovadores struck the lyre and her poets sang in stately epic. Poor Spain! Nay, golden Spain--enchanted cavern, glowing with the spoil of song, the rainbow treasure of legend, and the gem-like radiance of immortal romance! Her citizens, imperial spirits, Rule the present from the past; On all this world of men inherits Their seal is set. SHORT BIBLIOGRAPHY OF WORKS IN ENGLISH DEALING WITH SPANISH ROMANCE (The English translations of each romance have been carefully noted throughout the book, so that it is unnecessary to include them here.) History of Spanish Literature, by George Ticknor. Boston, 1872. Spanish Literature, by H. Butler Clarke. London, 1893. Spanish Literature, by J. Fitzmaurice Kelly. London, 1893. Chapters on Spanish Literature, by J. Fitzmaurice Kelly. London, 1912. The Spanish Pastoral Romances, by H. A. Rennert. Baltimore, 1892. History of Fiction, by A. Dunlop. Edinburgh, 1816. Don Quixote. Edition published by David Nutt, 1898. Skelton's early English version (1612-20), reprinted by Henley in "Tudor Translations," London, 1896. History of Spanish Literature, by Bouterwek. Bohn Library. See further the exhaustive bibliography of chivalric literature in vol. iv of Ormsby's Don Quixote (1885), and the bibliography of Mr Fitzmaurice Kelly's Spanish Literature. NOTES [1] The moro latinado, or Spanish-speaking Moor, is a prominent figure in later Spanish story. [2] Bishop Odoor's will (747) shows the break-up of Hispanic Latin, and Charles the Bald in an edict of 844 alludes to the usitato vocabulo of the Spaniards--their "customary speech." On the Gothic period see Père Jules Tailham, in the fourth volume of Cahier and Martin's Nouveaux Mélanges d'Archéologie, d'Histoire, et de Littérature sur le Moyen Age (1877). [3] This jargon owed much more to the lingua rustica than to Gothic, which has left its mark more deeply upon the pronunciation and syntax of Spanish than on its vocabulary. [4] Catalan differed slightly in a dialectic sense from Provençal. It was divided into plá Catalá and Lemosé, the common speech and the literary tongue. [5] "On the whole," says Professor Saintsbury, "the ease, accomplishment, and, within certain strict limits, variety of the form, are more remarkable than any intensity or volume of passion or of thought" (Flourishing of Romance and Rise of Allegory, pp. 368-369). He further remarks that the Provençal rule "is a rule of 'minor poetry,' accomplished, scholarly, agreeable, but rarely rising out of minority." [6] D. 1214. [7] It was entitled El Arte de Trobar, and is badly abridged in Mayan's Orígenes de la Lengua Española (Madrid, 1737). [8] On Provençal influence upon Castilian literature see Manuel Milá y Fontanal, Trovadores en España (Barcelona, 1887); and E. Baret, Espagne et Provence (1857), on a lesser scale. [9] Still they found many Spanish-speaking people in that area; and it was the Romance speech of these which finally prevailed in Spain. [10] Madrid, 1839. [11] In the Cancionero de Romances (Antwerp, 1555). [12] See the article on Alfonso XI in N. Antonio, Bibliotheca Hispana Vetus. [13] English translation by James York. [14] Reigned 1407-54. [15] Gaston Paris, La Littérature Française au Moyen Age (Paris, 1888), and Léon Gautier, Les Épopées Française (Paris, 1878-92), are the leading authorities upon the chansons de gestes. Accounts of these in English can be found in Ludlow's Popular Epics of the Middle Ages (1865) and in my Dictionary of Medieval Romance (1913). [16] See W. Wentworth Webster, in the Boletin of the Academia de Historia for 1883. [17] See Manuel Milá y Fontanal, Poesía heróico-popular Castellana (Barcelona, 1874). [18] The term, first employed by Count William of Poitiers, the earliest troubadour, at first implied any work written in the vernacular Romance languages. Later in Spain it was used as an equivalent for cantar, and finally indicated a lyrico-narrative poem in octosyllabic assonants. [19] In German it was known from 1583, and in English from 1619. Southey's translation (London, 1803) is (happily) an abridgment, and has been reprinted in the "Library of Old Authors" (1872). I provide full bibliographical details when dealing with the romance more fully. [20] Omniana, t. ii, p. 219 (London, 1812). [21] Don Quixote, Part I, chap. vi. [22] English translation by Southey, 4 vols. (London, 1807). [23] In the chapter entitled "Moorish Romances of Spain" the reader will find specimens of the romantic fictions of that people, from which he can judge for himself of their affinity or otherwise with the Spanish romances. [24] See Dozy, History of the Moors in Spain, Eng. trans., and Recherches sur l'Histoire politique et littéraire de l'Espagne (1881); F. J. Simonet, Introduction to his Glosario de Voces iberias y latinas usadas entre los Muzárabes (1888); Renan, Averroës et Averroïsme (1866). Gayangos' Mohammedan Dynasties in Spain (London, 1843) is somewhat obsolete, as is Conde's Dominación de los Arabes. [25] "The Raid," an old Spanish poem. [26] Ormsby (The Poem of the Cid), who wrote in 1879, seems to have had the most elementary notions of what a cantar was, and states that the Poema "was nearly contemporary with the first chansons de gestes." But he is probably at least a century out in his reckoning, as the first chansons date from about the middle of the eleventh century. Of trovador and juglar he had evidently never heard. Yet he is anything but superficial, and on the whole his book is the best we have in English on the Poema. It is unlucky, too, as Saintsbury remarks, that neither Ticknor nor Southey, who wrote so widely on ancient Spanish literature, were acquainted with the chansons de gestes. Still more luckless is it that so much in the way of Spanish translation was left to Longfellow, who shockingly mangled and Bowdlerized many fine ballads. Probably no poet was so well qualified as he to divest a ballad of all pith and virility in the course of translation. Bad as are his Spanish renderings, however, they are adequate when compared with his exploits in the field of Italian translation. [27] See his Poema del Cid (1898). [28] See Manuel Rivadeneyra, Biblioteca de Autores españoles, vol. xvi (1846-80). [29] A good deal of controversy has arisen concerning the metre of the Poema. Professor Cornu of Prague (see M. Gaston Paris, in Romania, xxii, pp. 153, 531) has stated that the basis of it is the ballad octosyllable, full or catalectic, arranged as hemistichs of a longer line, but this theory presupposes that the copyists of the original MS. must have mistaken such a simple measure, which is scarcely credible. Professor Saintsbury (Flourishing of Romance, p. 403) gives it as his opinion that "nobody has been able to get further in a generalization of the metre than that the normal form is an eight and six (better a seven and seven) 'fourteener,' trochaically cadenced, but admitting contraction and extension with a liberality elsewhere unparalleled." No absolute system of assonance or rhyme appears, and we are almost forced to the conclusion that the absence of this is in a measure due to the kind offices of Abbot Pedro. [30] By this phrase the Cid seems to have been widely known; in fact it appears to have served him as a sort of cognomen or nickname. [31] The passage in the Poema del Cid which tells of the combat that followed has perhaps a better right than any other in the epic to the title 'Homeric' The translation which I furnish of it may not be so exact as those of Frere or Ormsby. But although I am only too conscious of its many shortcomings, I cannot bring myself to make use of the pedestrian preciseness of the one or the praiseworthy version of the other of my predecessors, both of which, in my view, fail to render the magnificent spirit and chivalric dash of the original. All that I can claim for my own translation is that it does not fail so utterly as either in this regard. I have in places attempted the restoration of lines which seemed to me omitted or coalesced with others, and I must admit that this rendering of a great passage is more consciously artificial than the others--a fault which I am unable to rectify. But allowances must be made for the rendition of such a passage, and the whole must be accepted by the reader faute de mieux. [32] Throughout the Poema and elsewhere the Cid is constantly alluded to as "Mio Cid" ("My lord"). I deal with the etymology of the name farther on, but hold to the form 'the Cid' as being most familiar to English readers. [33] This passage is reminiscent of the saying of the famous Border outlaw Jock Eliot, when he and his men came upon a large haystack of which they resolved to make fodder for their horses. "Eh, man," exclaimed the humorous raider, "if ye had legs, wouldna' ye run!" [34] The commencement of the passage in question is as follows (lines 1741-50): The heraldz laften here prikyng up and doun; Now ryngede the tromp and clarioun: Ther is no more to say, but est and west In goth the speres ful sadly in arest; Ther seen men who can juste, and who can ryde; In goth the scharpe spore into the side, Ther schyveren schaftes upon schuldres thykke; He feeleth through the herte-spon the prikke. Up sprengen speres on twenty foot on hight; Out goon the swerdes as the silver bright. The balance is, however, greatly in favour of Chaucer, whose lines, if properly accented, beat the original Spanish on its own ground, and this notwithstanding the absurd remark of Swinburne that "Chaucer and Spenser scarcely made a good poet between them." [35] See the work of Rivadeneyra, Biblioteca de Autores españoles, vol. xl (1846-48), where the romance is prefaced in a brilliant and scholarly manner by Gayangos. Its origins are ably discussed by Eugène Baret, Études sur la Redaction Espagnole de l'Amadis de Gaule (1853); T. Braga, Historia das Novellas Portuguezas de Cavalleria (1873); and L. Braunfels, Kritischer Versuch über den Roman Amadis von Gallien (1876). [36] Anstruther, in Fife? The Spaniards would know the place through their intercourse with the Flemings, who traded considerably with it. A Spanish vessel put into Anstruther during the flight of the Armada round the coasts of Scotland. [37] I think I can see in this giant Albadan the giant Albiona, one of the two monsters, sons of Neptune, who, according to Pomponius Mela, attacked Hercules in Liguria. The name Albion was once given to the whole of Britain, and later, as Alba and Albany, to Scotland, whose people were known as Albannach. This is said to mean 'the White,' in allusion to the cliffs of Dover! It is much more probable that it signified 'the place or region of the god Alba,' 'the country of the white god.' All the Scottish gods were giants, like the Fomorians of Ireland. [38] Strange that a sword and a ring should so often be the test of identity in such tales! So it was, as regards the first of these tokens at least, with Theseus, Arthur, and many another hero. On this head see Hartland, The Legend of Perseus (1894-96). [39] Urganda, as Southey remarks, is a true fairy, resembling Morgan le Fay in her attributes, but, as Scott says, she has no connexion with the more classic nymphidæ. But is not this dea phantastica identical with Morgan, and her name merely a Hispanic rendering of the Celtic fairy's? [40] Scott girds fiercely against Southey's interpolation of Anthony Munday's translation of these verses in his Amadis, and with justice. The above translation is only slightly more tolerable, but it is at least sense. Poor Tony was bitten by the absurdities of euphuism, and his lines are mere nonsense. But there is even less excuse for a modern translation to backslide into the style of the eighteenth century. [41] She had previously visited Scotland and embarked there "for Great Britain," and while on this voyage was driven on the Poor Rock, which would seem to have been 'somewhere' in the Mediterranean! Strange that geography should have been so shaky at such a period and among a people who had done so much for discovery and navigation. [42] 'Cildadan' I take to be Cuchullin (pron. Coohoolin, or Coolin), the hero of the well-known Irish epic. [43] It was Munday's translation of these verses from the French which chiefly aroused the scorn of Scott, and it is in dread of the memory of that scorn that I offer these lines, which partake much more of the nature of an adaptation than a translation, the original Spanish being much too stiff and artificial for rendition in English. [44] I take this incident to be a reminiscence of the Minotaur story. Indeed the Firm Island appears to me, both from its geographical proximities and its whole phenomena, as a borrowing of Cretan or Minoan story. The "old covered way" from which the bull emerges is surely the Labyrinth. Is the wise old ape Dædalus? [45] It is scarcely necessary to indicate to the reader that the name Nasciano is borrowed from that of Nasciens, the hermit king of Grail romance. [46] Forbear. [47] William Stewart Rose, Amadis de Gaul: A Poem in Three Books (London, 1803). [48] For a brief account of this Toledan poet, who translated Ovid's Metamorphoses, see Antonio, Bib. Nov., t. ii, p. 44. [49] Unless the Anseis de Carthage be excepted--a romance which attributes the downfall of Spain to a son of Charlemagne, who acts as does Don Roderick. The Anseis is in French. [50] As enshrined in the Crónica Sarrazyna, of Pedro de Carrel, which founds on the Crónica General, the Chronicle of the Moor Rasis, and the Crónica Trayana, the ballads relating to Roderic are all later than this compilation. [51] Besides the collection of romances alluded to, which may be said to represent the standard sources of the subject, collections were published at Antwerp and Saragossa, in the middle of the sixteenth century, by Martin Nucio and Esteban de Nájera respectively. The reader may also consult the Primavera y Flor de Romance, by Wolf and Hofman, in the reprint published by Señor Menéndez y Pelayo, the collection of Depping (two vols., Leipzig, 1844), and the English translations of Lockhart and Bowring. [52] If Scott wrote this verse himself (as Lockhart admits), he wrote others. [53] I take these two quatrains from two different versions. [54] The witch-cult in Europe seems to me to have a connexion with the horse. Occasionally witches proceed to the sabbat on flying horses. One of the tests of a witch was to look in her eyes for the reflection of a horse. In Scotland even to-day a 'Horseman's Society' exists which has a semi-occult initiation and strange rites. [55] The reader who wishes to follow this phase of the subject further should consult Miss M. A. Murray's recent articles in Man. [56] T. i, p. 543.