CHAPTER XXIV.
The moon had now risen, and was mingling her lustre with the blaze ofthe volcano. The shouts of revelry came less frequently from the city,and, one by one, the torches vanished from the house-tops and thestreets. A pleasant quiet surrounded the deserted temple; a few embers,only, glowed in the sacred urns; but the combined light of the luminaryand the mountain covered the terrace with radiance, and fully revealedthe few objects which gave it the interest of life. In this light, asDon Amador turned to his youthful companion, he beheld the eyes of thepage suffused with tears.
"How is it, Jacinto?--What ails thee?" he cried. "I vow to heaven, I amas much concerned at thy silly griefs, as though thou wert mine ownlittle brother Rosario, who is now saying his prayers at Cuenza. Artthou weary? I will immediately conduct thee to our quarters. Is thereany thing that troubles thee? Thou shouldst make me thy confidant; forsurely I love thee well."
"Senor mio! I am not weary, and I am not grieved," said the stripling,with simplicity, as the good-natured cavalier took him by the hand, togive him comfort. "I wept for pity of the good Don Francisco and thepoor Minnapotzin; for surely it is a pity if they must die!"
"Thou art a silly youth to lament for evils that have not yet happened,"said Amador.
"But besides, senor," said the page, "when Don Francisco made me sad, Ilooked at the moon, and I thought how it was rising on my country!"
"It is now in the very noon of night, both in thy land and mine," saidthe neophyte, touched by the simple expression, and leading the boywhere the planet could be seen without obstruction;--"it is now midnightover Fez, as well as Castile; and, perhaps, some of our friends, in bothlands, are regarding this luminary, at this moment, and thinking of_us_."
The page sighed deeply and painfully:
"I have no friends,--no, neither in Fez nor in Spain," he said; "and,save my father, my master, and my good lord, none here. There is none ofmy people left, but my father; and we are alone together!"
"Say not, alone," said Amador, with still more kindness,--for as Jacintomade this confession of his destitute condition, the tears fell fast andbitterly from his eyes. "Say not, alone; for, I repeat to thee, I havecome, I know not by what fascination, to love thee as well as if thouwert my own little brother; and there shall no wrong come to thee, orthy father, while I live to be thy friend."
Jacinto kissed the hand of the cavalier, and said,--
"I did not cry for sorrow, but only for thinking of my country."
"Thou shouldst think no more of Fez; for its people are infidels, andthou a Christian."
"I thought of Granada,--for that is the land of Christians; and I longedto be among the mountains where my mother was born."
"Thou shalt live there yet, if God be merciful to us," said thecavalier: "for when there is peace in this barbarous clime, I will takethee thither for a playmate to Rosario. But now that we are here alone,let us sit by the tower, and while I grow melancholy, bethinking me ofthat same land of Granada, which I very much love, I will have thee singme some other pretty ballad of the love of a Christian knight for aMoorish lady;--or I care not if thou repeat the romance of the Cid: Ilike it well--'Me acuerdo de ti'--'me acuerdo de ti'--" And theneophyte seemed, while he murmured over the burthen, as if about toimitate the pensiveness of De Morla.
"If my lord choose," said the page, "I would rather tell him a story ofGranada, which is about a Christian cavalier, very noble and brave, anda Christian Morisca, that loved him."
"A Christian Morisca!" said Amador; "and she loved the cavalier?--I willhear that story. And it happened in Granada too?"
"In one of the Moorish towns, but not in the royal city.--It was in thetown Almeria."
"In the town Almeria!" echoed Amador, eagerly. "Thou canst tell menothing of Almeria that will not give me both pain and pleasure, fortherein--But pho! a word doth fill the brain with memories!--Is it anancient story?"
"Not very ancient, please my lord: it happened since the fall ofGranada."
"It is strange that I never heard it, then; for I dwelt full two monthsin this same town; and 'tis not yet forty years since the siege."
"Perhaps it is not _true_," said the stripling, innocently; "and, at thebest, 'tis not remarkable enough to have many repeaters. 'Tis a veryfoolish story."
"Nevertheless, I am impatient to hear it."
"There lived in that town," said Jacinto, "a Moorish orphan--"
"A girl?" demanded the neophyte.
"A Moorish maiden,--of so obscure a birth, that she knew not even thename that had been borne by her parents; but nevertheless, senor, herparents, as was afterwards found out, were of the noblest blood ofGranada. She was protected and reared in the family of a benevolentlady, who, being descended of a Moorish parent, looked with pity on thepoor orphan of the race of her mother. When this maiden was yet in hervery early youth, there came a noble cavalier of Castile--"
"A Castilian!" demanded Don Amador, with extraordinary vivacity,--"Artthou a conjurer?--What was his name?"
"I know not," said Jacinto.
"Thou learnest thy stories, then, only by the half," said the neophyte,with a degree of displeasure that amazed the youth. "And, doubtless,thou wert forgetful also to acquire the name of the Moorish orphan?"
"Senor," said the page, discomposed at the heated manner of his patron,"the Moorish maiden was called Leila."
"Leila!" cried the neophyte, starting to his feet, and seizing Jacintoby the arm--"Canst thou tell me aught of Leila?"
"Senor!" murmured Jacinto, in affright.
"Leila, the Morisca, in the house of the senora Dona Maria deMontefuerte!" exclaimed Don Amador, wildly. "Dost thou know of her fate?Did she sleep under the surges of the bay? Was she ravished away bythose exile dogs of the mountains?--Now, by heaven, if thou canst tellme any thing of that Moorish maid, I will make thee richer than therichest Moor of Granada!"
At this moment, while Jacinto, speechless with terror, gazed on hispatron, as doubting if his senses had not deserted him, a step rung onthe earth of the terrace, and De Morla stood at his side.
The voice of his friend recalled the bewildered wits of the neophyte; hestared at Jacinto, and at De Morla; a deep hue of shame and confusionflushed over his brow; and perceiving that his violence had again thrownthe page into tears, he kissed him benevolently on the forehead, andsaid, as tranquilly as he could,--
"A word will make fools of the wisest! I think I was dreaming, whilethou wert at thy story. Be not affrighted, Jacinto: I meant not to scoldthee--I was disturbed.--Next--next," he added, with a grievous shudder,"I shall be as mad as my kinsman!"
"My brother! I am surprised to see thee in this emotion," said DeMorla.
"It is nothing," responded Amador, hastily and gloomily: "I fear thereis a natural infirmity in the brains of all my family. I was moved, byan idle story of Jacinto, into the recollection of a certain sorrowfulevent, which, one day, perhaps, I will relate to thee.--But let usreturn to our quarters.--The air comes down chilly from themountains--It is time we were sleeping."
The friends retired from the temple, leaving the torch sticking in theplatform; for the moon was now so high as to afford a betterillumination. They parted at the quarters; but Don Amador, aftersatisfying himself that the knight of Rhodes was slumbering on hispallet, drew Jacinto aside to question him further of the orphan ofAlmeria. His solicitude was, however, doomed to a disappointment; thepage was evidently impressed with the fear, that Don Amador was notwithout some of the weakness of Calavar; and adroitly, though with greatembarrassment, avoided exciting him further.
"It is a foolish story, and I am sorry it displeased my lord," said he,when commanded to continue the narrative.
"It displeased me not--I knew a Moorish maid of that name in Almeria,who was also protected by a Christian lady; and, what was mostremarkable, this Christian lady was of Moorish descent, like her of whomthou wert speaking; and, like the Leila of _thy_ story, the Leila of myown memory vanished away from the town before----"
r /> "Senor," cried Jacinto, "I did not say she vanished away from Almeria:_that_ did not belong to the story."
"Ay, indeed! is it so? Heaven guard my wits! what made me think it?--Andthy Leila lived in Almeria very recently?"
"Perhaps ten or fifteen years ago----"
"Pho!--Into what folly may not an ungoverned fancy lead us?--Ten orfifteen years ago!--And thou never heardst of the Leila that dwelt inthat town within a twelve-month?"
"_I_, senor?" cried Jacinto, with surprise.
"True--how is it possible thou couldst?--Thou hast, this night, stirredme as by magic. I know not by what sorcery thou couldst hit upon thatname!"
"It was the name of the lady," said Jacinto, innocently.
"Ay, to be sure!--There is one Mary in heaven, and a thousand onearth--why should there not be many Leilas?--Did I speak harshly tothee, Jacinto? Thou shouldst not kiss my hand, if I did; for noimpatience or grief could excuse wrath to one so gentle and unoffending.Good night--get thee to thy bed, and forget not to say thy prayers."
So saying, and in such disorder of spirits as the page had never beforewitnessed in him, Don Amador retired.
Jacinto was left standing in a narrow passage, or corridor, on whichopened a long row of chambers with curtained doors, wherein slept thesoldiers, crowded thickly together. In the gallery, also, at a distance,lay several dusky lumps, which, by the gleaming of armour about them,were seen to be the bodies of soldiers stretched fast asleep. As the boyturned to retire in the direction of the open portal, it was darkened bythe figure of a man, entering with a cautious and most stealthy step. Heapproached, and by his voice, (for there was not light enough yielded bythe few flambeaux stuck against the wall, to distinguish features,)Jacinto recognised his father.
"I sought thee, my child!" he whispered, "and saw thee returning withthe hidalgos.--The watchmen sleep as well as the cannoniers.--It is as Itold thee--art thou ready?"
"Dear father!"--stammered the page.
"Speak not above thy breath!--The curs, that are hungering after theblood of the betrayed Mexicans, would not scorn to blunt their appetiteson the flesh of the Moor. Have thyself in readiness at a moment'swarning: Our destinies are written--God will not always frown upon us!"
"Dear father!" muttered Jacinto, "we are of the Spaniards' faith, and wewill go back to our country."
"It cannot be!--never can it be!" said Abdalla, in tones that were notthe less impressive for being uttered in a whisper. "The hills of thychildhood, the rivers of thy love--they are passed away fromthee;--think of them no more;--never more shalt thou see them! In theland of barbarians, heaven has willed that we should live and die; andbe thou reconciled to thy fate, for it shall be glorious! We live notfor ourselves; God brings us hither, and for great ends! To night, didI--Hah!"--(One of the sleepers stirred in the passage.)--"Seek someoccasion to speak with me, to-morrow, on the march," whispered Abdallain the page's ear; and then, with a gesture for silence, he immediatelyretired.
"_Fuego! Quien pasea alli?_" grumbled the voice of Lazaro, as he raisedhis head from the floor. "_Fu! el muchacho!_--I am ever dreaming of thatcursed Turk, that was at my weasand, when Baltasar brained him with theboll of his cross-bow. _Laus tibi, Christe!_--I have a throat left forsnoring." And comforting himself with this assurance, before Jacinto hadyet vanished from the passage, the man-at-arms again slumbered on hismat.