CHAPTER XVII

Chronicle of the Conquest of Granada

by Washington Irving

CHAPTER XVII, CHRONICLE OF THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA by Washington Irving

LAMENTATIONS OF THE MOORS FOR THE BATTLE OF LUCENA.


The sentinels looked out from the watch-towers of Loxa along
the valley of the Xenil, which passes through the mountains of
Algaringo. They looked to behold the king returning in triumph
at the head of his shining host, laden with the spoil of the
unbeliever. They looked to behold the standard of their warlike
idol, the fierce Ali Atar, borne by the chivalry of Loxa, ever
foremost in the wars of the border.

In the evening of the 21st of April they descried a single horseman
urging his faltering steed along the banks of the Xenil. As he drew
near they perceived, by the flash of arms, that he was a warrior,
and on nearer approach by the richness of his armor and the
caparison of his steed they knew him to be a warrior of rank.

He reached Loxa faint and aghast, his courser covered with foam and
dust and blood, panting and staggering with fatigue and gashed with
wounds. Having brought his master in safety, he sank down and died
before the gate of the city. The soldiers at the gate gathered round
the cavalier as he stood by his expiring steed: they knew him to be
Cidi Caleb, nephew of the chief alfaqui of the mosque in the Albaycin,
and their hearts were filled with fearful forebodings.

"Cavalier," said they, "how fares it with the king and army?"

He cast his hand mournfully toward the land of the Christians.
"There they lie!" exclaimed he. "The heavens have fallen upon
them. All are lost! all dead!"*

*Bernaldez (Cura de los Palacios), Hist. de los Reyes Catol.,
MS., cap. 61.


Upon this there was a great cry of consternation among the people,
and loud wailings of women, for the flower of the youth of Loxa were
with the army.

An old Moorish soldier, scarred in many a border battle, stood leaning
on his lance by the gateway. "Where is Ali Atar?" demanded he eagerly.
"If he lives the army cannot be lost."

"I saw his helm cleft by the Christian sword; his body is floating
in the Xenil."

When the soldier heard these words he smote his breast and threw
dust upon his head, for he was an old follower of Ali Atar.

Cidi Caleb gave himself no repose, but, mounting another steed,
hastened toward Granada. As he passed through the villages and
hamlets he spread sorrow around, for their chosen men had followed
the king to the wars.

When he entered the gates of Granada and announced the loss of
the king and army, a voice of horror went throughout the city. Every
one thought but of his own share in the general calamity, and crowded
round the bearer of ill tidings. One asked after a father, another
after a brother, some after a lover, and many a mother after her
son. His replies all spoke of wounds and death. To one he replied,
"I saw thy father pierced with a lance as he defended the person
of the king;" to another, "Thy brother fell wounded under the hoofs
of the horses, but there was no time to aid him, for the Christian
cavalry were upon us;" to another, "I saw the horse of thy lover
covered with blood and galloping without his rider;" to another,
"Thy son fought by my side on the banks of the Xenil: we were
surrounded by the enemy and driven into the stream. I heard him
cry upon Allah in the midst of the waters: when I reached the other
bank he was no longer by my side."

Cidi Caleb passed on, leaving all Granada in lamentation: he
urged his steed up the steep avenue of trees and fountains that
leads to the Alhambra, nor stopped until he arrived before the Gate
of Justice. Ayxa, the mother of Boabdil, and Morayma, his beloved
and tender wife, had daily watched from the Tower of Comares to
behold his triumphant return. Who shall describe their affliction
when they heard the tidings of Cidi Caleb? The sultana Ayxa spake
not much, but sat as one entranced. Every now and then a deep sigh
burst forth, but she raised her eyes to heaven. "It is the will of
Allah!" said she, and with these words endeavored to repress the
agonies of a mother's sorrow. The tender Morayma threw herself
on the earth and gave way to the full turbulence of her feelings,
bewailing her husband and her father. The high-minded Ayxa rebuked
the violence of her grief. "Moderate these transports, my daughter,"
said she; "remember magnanimity should be the attribute of princes:
it becomes not them to give way to clamorous sorrow, like common
and vulgar minds." But Morayma could only deplore her loss with the
anguish of a tender woman. She shut herself up in her mirador, and
gazed all day with streaming eyes upon the Vega. Every object
recalled the causes of her affliction. The river Xenil, which ran
shining amidst groves and gardens, was the same on whose banks
had perished her father, Ali Atar; before her lay the road to Loxa,
by which Boabdil had departed, in martial state, surrounded by the
chivalry of Granada. Ever and anon she would burst into an agony
of grief. "Alas! my father!" she would exclaim; "the river runs smiling
before me that covers thy mangled remains; who will gather them to
an honored tomb in the land of the unbeliever? And thou, O Boabdil,
light of my eyes! joy of my heart! life of my life! woe the day and
woe the hour that I saw thee depart from these walls! The road by
which thou hast departed is solitary; never will it be gladdened by
thy return: the mountain thou hast traversed lies like a cloud in
the distance, and all beyond is darkness."

The royal minstrels were summoned to assuage her sorrows:
they attuned their instruments to cheerful strains, but in a little
while the anguish of their hearts prevailed and turned their songs
to lamentations.

"Beautiful Granada!" exclaimed they, "how is thy glory faded!
The flower of thy chivalry lies low in the land of the stranger; no
longer does the Vivarrambla echo to the tramp of steed and sound of
trumpet; no longer is it crowded with thy youthful nobles gloriously
arrayed for the tilt and tourney. Beautiful Granada! the soft note
of the lute no longer floats through thy moonlit streets; the
serenade is no more heard beneath thy balconies; the lively castanet
is silent upon thy hills; the graceful dance of the Zambra is no more
seen beneath thy bowers! Beautiful Granada! why is the Alhambra
so lorn and desolate? The orange and myrtle still breathe their
perfumes into its silken chambers; the nightingale still sings
within its groves; its marble halls are still refreshed with the
plash of fountains and the gush of limpid rills. Alas! alas! the
countenance of the king no longer shines within those halls!
The light of the Alhambra is set for ever!"

Thus all Granada, say the Arabian chroniclers, gave itself up to
lamentation; there was nothing but the voice of wailing from the
palace to the cottage. All joined to deplore their youthful monarch,
cut down in the freshness and promise of his youth; many feared
that the prediction of the astrologers was about to be fulfilled, and
that the downfall of the kingdom would follow the death of Boabdil;
while all declared that had he survived he was the very sovereign
calculated to restore the realm to its ancient prosperity and glory.