Abdul-asis could scarcely resist the temptation of enlightening Ayub as to her real condition, but he forebore.

“It is my right, O Ayub, to love whom I choose,” he answers coldly, again preparing to mount his horse.

Again Ayub arrests him, and, forgetting all respect in the heat of his argument, fairly shouts in his ear:

“Yes, O son of the great Mousa, but not like that glorious warrior. Yes, free to love a whole tribe of slaves if you please, gather all the beauties from the corners of the earth, the houris of Paradise, if you can get them, but you have no right to sacrifice your throne and bring ruin on your race.”

To this torrent of reproach Abdul-asis answered not a word. Steadying by his touch and voice the exasperated horse, which had now become restive under the delay, as if sharing in the irritation of his master, Abdul-asis surveyed his cousin as if to demand what more abuse he had in store—a look and manner which only exasperated Ayub all the more.

“What kind of a sovereign are you,” he continued, in the same shrill voice, which echoed round the court and could not fail to reach the ears of the guards and eunuchs, however unmoved their countenances might remain, “who pretend to have no time to administer justice in the Gate as your Moorish ancestors did? Who neglect to review your troops in the great plains about the city and to take counsel upon the affairs of state with the chiefs and counsellors sent hither by the Caliph? Can you expect that he will continue you as governor, when the report of your acts comes to his ears? With you will fall your father Mousa and your brothers in Africa. Who is this witch who has overlooked you? Send her away, or by the name of Allah I will no longer screen you!”

Even the discreet Ayub paused here for lack of breath, and the young Emir, quickly vaulting into the saddle, rode off in a cloud of dust, followed by his attendants.

Yet, spite of these stinging words, his passion for Egilona was so consuming, that although he felt their truth and that he was entering upon a career full of danger, he could neither pause before it was too late, nor turn back altogether.

Day and night her image pursues him. Spite of all the warnings of Ayub, who, having once broken the ice, never ceases his threats and reproaches, every hour is devoted to her. In the shade of the Alcazar gardens, on the river Guadalquivir, where they float in a silver barge with perfumed sails, under canopies of cloth of gold and silver; within the gaudy halls, sculptured with glowing panels of arabesque, painted roofs, and dazzling dados; and in the Baños, full of breezes from the river and currents of free mountain air, planted with such shrubs and herbs as are used to scent the water, he is ever at her side.

So well did Egilona love the Baños, which reminded her of her African home, that she was wont to say to her favourite slave, the same dark-skinned girl from Barbary who had followed her from Toledo, “When I am dead, Zora, bury me here.”

Yet all this time Egilona had never opened her heart to Abdul-asis. Nor, eager as he was to know her history, had he ventured further to urge her, so great was his respect.

At length, of her own accord, she unveiled the mystery.

“Think not, O noblest of Moors,” she said, in a voice so soft it seemed to lull the agitation of his heart, “that I am insensible to your devotion. I dare not question my own heart.”

“My love, my sultana!” is all that he could answer, casting himself on the earth before her. “Happy destiny that I was born to be your slave!”

Egilona at once raised him, and entreated him to sit beside her.

“No, Abdul-asis, it is not within the power of a woman to resist you. My heart has long been yours. But,” and she sighed, and big tears gathered in her mild eyes and dropped one by one upon the hand Abdul-asis held clasped in his, “I fear that with my love I bring you an evil destiny. Remember the end of Roderich. Can I, oh, can I sacrifice you to the chances of the dark fate that pursues all who love me?”

The face of the Emir grew pale as he gazed at her. Spite of himself, an icy hand seemed to touch his heart and chill it into stone. These were the warnings of the discreet Ayub from her own lips.

Did ruin really lie in those matchless eyes? Was that pure chiselled face indeed the messenger of evil? A rising wave of passion cast these sinister forebodings from him, and, with a calm and steady voice, he answered:

“But why, my queen, should you, the wife of Roderich, be answerable for his doom? It is said that the Gothic king tempted the infernal powers when he forced open the portals of the Tower of Hercules and let forth the demons confined there upon the earth.”

“That is true,” answered Egilona, “and the rash act was doubtless the cause of his death. Still the misfortunes which cling to me seem to have led on to his. Had he not loved me he might have married the daughter of Don Julian.”

“And what misfortunes has my Egilona encountered? You forget I know not who you are, or how you came here.”

Then she recounted to him her royal birth, and how from childhood she had been affianced to the son of the King of Tunis; the history of the storm which threw her on the coast of Spain; the Alcaide of Denia (now Malaga), upon whom she had made so favourable an impression. (Here the enamoured Emir drew a deep sigh, and pressed his lips upon her hand as she lay half-reclining upon a pile of gold-worked cushions.)

“Again I wore the bridal robes,” she continued, “which I had on when I was shipwrecked, as I awaited Don Roderich.”

Here was a pause. Egilona drops her eyes and is silent. The veins on the forehead of Abdul-asis suddenly swell with agony. Every word she utters plunges a dagger in his breast. “This was the man she loved,” he tells himself. “By the Prophet, she will never be to me as she was to him—dog of a Christian!”

Meanwhile, guessing his thoughts, a thousand blushes suffuse the cheeks of poor Egilona and dye her olive skin with a ruddy brilliance. “What could I do?” she asks in a plaintive voice. “I had broken through the bonds of Eastern custom; I had despised the laws of the harem; I had stood face to face with man. The beauty and variety of the outer world was known to me. The visits of Don Roderich——”

“Say no more, my queen!” exclaims the generous-hearted Abdul-asis, ashamed of his jealous weakness. “Could any one approach you without love? I guess the conclusion.”

When the discreet Ayub was informed of the purpose of his cousin to wed the Gothic Queen, he covered his head and sat in sackcloth and ashes. In this unbecoming guise he forced himself into the presence of the Emir.

“Are you mad?” he cries, “O son of Mousa! Remember the words of your great father, bravest among the chiefs of Damascus: ‘Beware of love, my son. It is a passion——’ ”

“Enough, enough,” answers Abdul-asis, rising from the divan on which he had thrown himself, as the spectacle his cousin presented had moved him to laughter, “I have heard these words before.”

“And you will hear them again, O son of my kinsman! I will not forsake you, by Allah! for his sake, nor give you over to the evil genius that possesses you.”

But the wrongs of Ayub, however terrible, melted as wax before the fierce fire of the Emir’s love.

His nuptials with Egilona were celebrated with great pomp. Nor did possession cool his ardour. He lived but for her. He consulted with her in all the affairs of his government, and rejected the counsels of the discreet though most troublesome cousin.

For a time no evil consequences ensued, and the fears of Ayub were almost lulled. Yet who can resist his fate?

Reposing one day in a gorgeous chamber of the Alcazar (it is now called the room of Maria de Padilla, but it was then known as the Hall of the Sultana), Egilona drew from under the folds of her mantle a circlet of gold.

“See, love,” said she, “the crown of Roderich the Goth. Let me place it on your brow. It will become you well.”

Holding up as she spoke a steel mirror attached to her girdle by a rope of pearls, she called upon him to admire the majesty of his appearance.

With a sigh he looked at himself, the crown placed on the folds of his turban, then put it from him and, like Cæsar, sighed that it could not be his.

“My love,” says Egilona, replacing it, “the wearer of a crown is a sovereign indeed. Believe me, the Christians are right; it sanctifies the rule.”

A second time, like Cæsar, Abdul-asis put the crown from him. Yet did his fingers linger on the rim, while he endeavoured to explain to Egilona that, as a Moslem, she must not urge him to go against the custom of his nation.

Still Egilona insists, her soft fingers clasped in his, her tempting lips resting on his own.

“There has been no real king in Spain,” she urges, “without a crown. I pray you, dear husband, do not refuse me.”

At first it was only worn in private, but the fact was too strange not to be noised abroad. The Moorish damsels in attendance on Egilona and the guards and eunuchs which fill an Eastern Court bore the news from mouth to mouth as a strange wonderment.

“The Emir not only has wedded a Christian wife, but he wears the Gothic crown,” is whispered in Seville. “He seeks to rule us as Roderich did.” To this was added by the many-tongued voice of calumny, “that not only Egilona had induced him to become a king, but, oh horror of horrors, that he was surely a Christian!”

“By the head of the Prophet, I swear it is a lie!” cried the discreet Ayub to the ancient counsellors Mousa had placed about his son, who, in their long dark robes, gathered round him in dismay. “Not a day passes but Abdul-asis may be seen offering up his prayers in the Zeca, his face turned towards Mecca. Ask the muezzin at the Giralda if it be not so. Five times a day does he prostrate himself; and as to purifying, there is not water enough in Seville to serve him.”

“But the crown, most powerful vizier, does not the Emir wear a crown?”

At this Ayub, feigning a sudden fit of coughing, turned aside. “I have never seen it,” he answers at last; “I swear I have never seen it.”

“That may very likely be,” is the answer; “but it is well known, and for a Moslem to wear a Christian crown is against the laws of the Koran. Allah Achbar! we have spoken.” So, covering their faces with their robes, as those that mourn the dead, they departed from the presence of Ayub.

Enemies were not wanting to Abdul-asis in Seville, his own, and those who hated him as the son of the famous Mousa.

These wrote hasty letters to Damascus, accusing him not only of detaining captives of price, but as seeking to establish the Gothic kingdom by right of Egilona, acknowledged as their queen by all the Christians.

Now Suleiman, a new Caliph, was on the throne, and it so happened that he cherished a deep hatred against Mousa, whom he had divested of all his high commands in favour of the One-Eyed, who had brought rich spoil to Damascus.

The Caliph waited for no proofs, he wanted none. It was enough that Abdul-asis was accused, and that his death would be the heaviest punishment he could inflict on the unfortunate Mousa.

When the fatal scroll was laid before Ayub the parchment dropped from his hand.

“Allah is great!” cried he, as soon as words came to him. “It is known of all men I have taken no part in my cousin’s marriage; rather that I have always opposed it. Beware, said I, of the seductions of love. Avoid the strange woman upon whose face is written an evil fate. As long as I could I counselled him well, as I had promised his father. Now the Caliph’s commands must be obeyed, else we shall all lose our heads, which will not keep that of Abdul-asis on his shoulders.”

Thus spoke Ayub, discreet to the last. As long as he could shield the Emir he had done so loyally. Now that he must die he hastened to assist at his downfall.

The assassins came upon them as they sat together beneath a purple awning, drawn from tree to tree,—four naked Nubians, black as night, with four naked scimitars. So lightly fell their bare feet as they glided behind them, they looked like some hideous vision of the night.

Before the dawn of day, Abdul-asis and Egilona had risen, disturbed by the noise of the populace without. No one would tell them what it meant. While the Emir was preparing to go himself to the walls, to inquire if Egilona had returned from praying in a little chapel she had caused to be erected within the limits of the harem, their fate came to them. Together they fell under the cruel steel, together their bodies lay exposed upon the stones.

The dogs of the palace would have mangled them, but that some friendly hand gathered them up and interred them secretly in one of the many squares of the garden.

Where they lie, no one knows, or if it was the discreet Ayub who buried them. But as the time of the year comes round when they suffered, in the hour preceding dawn, stifled sighs and groans are heard in the angles of the walls, and a universal tremor runs through the space; although the outer air is still, a sudden tempest seems to rustle, the fan palms quiver as if shaken by unseen hands, the pale-leaved citrons bow their heads to a mysterious blast, clouds of white blossoms cover the earth like snow, and the leaves of the yellow jasmine fly as if with wings.

Then a clash of scimitars breaks the silence, the shadowy form of a stately lady floats across the pavement, closely followed by the figure of a Moor, who sighs and wrings his hands, gliding on into the thickness of the woods, when a dark cloud gathers and they disappear.

CHAPTER XI

The Moors at Cordoba

Saxons in England or the Arabs in Sicily, but lived as an exotic race, divided from the Christians and from the Jews by impassable barriers of religious customs and laws; their occupation but a long chivalric struggle for a foothold in the land they had gained but never conquered.

Not all the fiery valour of the African was proof against the obstinate resistance of the Goths. Never was defence more complete! In the midst of apparent victory loomed defeat!

A new era opens in Cordoba, with its million inhabitants and three hundred mosques, in the reign of the Caliph Abdurraman, of the race of the Ummaÿa, who overthrew the rival princes sent by the Sultan of Damascus.

After him from A.D. 756 to A.D. 1000, ten independent sultans reigned in Cordoba, their wealth and luxury like the record of a tale.

Most notable among these were three other Abdurramans, Hakin, surnamed “the bookworm,” Hisham, and Hazin, not to forget the great Sultan and statesman Almanzor, a Moorish Lorenzo de’ Medici, collecting books all over the world, and drawing learned men to his court even from remote Britain.

While the north, in perpetual warfare, was plunged in the darkness of the Middle Ages, solid learning, poetry, and elegant literature charmed the minds of the enlightened Moors, the pioneers of civilisation in Europe.

At Cordoba Averroës, the great Grecian scholar, translated and expounded Aristotle. Ben Zaid and Abdulmander wrote histories of the people at Malaga. Ibn el Baal searched the mountains and plains to perfect a knowledge of botany; the Jew Tudela was the successor of Galen and Hippocrates; Albucaris is remembered as a notable surgeon, some of whose operations coincide with modern practice; and Al Rasi and his school studied chemistry and rhetoric.

Not only at Cordoba, but at Seville, and later at Granada, colleges and schools were endowed, and libraries founded in which the higher sciences were taught, which drew the erudite of the Moslem world from all parts of the globe, and became the resort of Christian students anxious to instruct themselves in superior knowledge.

And Christian knights came also to perfect themselves in chivalric fashions and martial exercises, as well as to master the graceful evolutions of the “tilt of reeds” in the tourneys of the Moors.

From the court of the first Abdurraman came la gaya ciencia, poetic discussions of love and chivalry transplanted later to the Court of Provence.

In architecture no building that ever was erected can compare to the elegance of his Mesquita (come down to us almost entire) as a monument of the taste and culture of the age. The most mystic and astounding of temples, with innumerable aisles of double horseshoe arches, suspended like ribbons in mid-air, resting on pillars of jasper, pavonazzo, porphyry, and verd antique crossing and re-crossing each other in a giddy maze of immeasurable distances, red, yellow, green, and white dazzling the eye in a very rainbow of colour!

No windows are visible, and the light, weird and grim, comes as from a cave peopled by demons; no central space at all, but vistas of endless arcades, which for a time the eye follows assiduously, then turns confused, and the brain reels.

Deep hidden in the heart of the temple is the throne or macsurah, a marvel of embroidered stone, where the Sultan takes his seat. Here the Koran is read in the pale light of scented tapers and torches, and those ecstatic visions evoked by the Faithful of a sensual paradise of dark-haired houris.

Opposite is the Zeca, or holiest of holies, turned towards Mecca, where the gorgeous decorations of the East blend with Byzantine mosaics of vivid colours on a gold ground; a most lovely shrine, a great marble conch-shell for the roof, the sides dazzling with burnished gold, and round and round, deep in the pavement, the footprints of centuries of pilgrims.

Such is the Mesquita of Cordoba in our day, the desecrated shelter of an old faith, a sanctuary rifled, a mystery revealed!

But how glorious in the time of the great Abdurraman when the blaze of a thousand coloured lanterns, fed with perfumed oil, played like gems upon jewelled surfaces, vases, and censers filled with musk and attar, making the air heavy with fragrance, golden candelabra blazing among mosaics, crescent banners floating beside the almimbar or pulpit, where green-turbaned Almuedans mount to intone the Selan, as the Sultan emerges from a subterranean passage leading from the Alcazar, treading on Persian carpets sown with jewels, to take his place on a golden throne within the macsurah, surrounded by swarthy Africans, bare-armed Berbers, helmeted knights bristling with scimitars, Numidians with fringed head-bands and golden armlets, superb Emirs, wandering Kalenders, who live by magic, the dervish of the desert, and hoary Imaums in full gathered robes.

Then the talismanic words are heard from the open galleries of the Giralda from which the Muezzin calls to daily prayer: “There is no God but Allah, and Mahomet is his prophet.” To which the prostrate multitude echoes: “God is great,” each one striking the pavement with his forehead, and the sonorous chant answers, “Amen.”

When Abdurraman reigned, the lonely quarter beyond the Mesquita swarmed with Alcazars, Bazars, Cuartos, Zacatines, Baños, and Alamedas.

Three miles to the north, sheltered under the green heights of the Sierra Morena, rose the plaisance of Medina-a-Zehra, created by him, a congerie of kiosks and pavilions entered by gates of blue and yellow porcelain, overtopping woods of exotic shrubs, choice plants, and rare fruit-trees—here the Safary peach (nectarine) was first ripened in Europe—divided by the fountains, canals, and fish-ponds so dear to the Arab fancy; twelve statues in pure gold set with precious stones spouting perfumed water within a patio girt in by crystal pillars.

Hither came emirs, ambassadors, merchants, and pilgrims, all agreed that nothing could be compared to these matchless gardens. And besides Ez-Zahra there were other monuments, which have all disappeared under the mantle of green turf that lines the banks of the Guadalquivir. Not a stone left of the pavilion of Flowers, of Lovers, and of Content, the palace of the Diadem, evidently destined for the royal jewels, and another called after the city of Damascus.

About were many noble streets and plazas with baths and mosques, for next to the mosque stood the bath in credit among the Moslem, and as such despised by the Christians to that point, that after Ferdinand and Isabella drove the Moors out of Spain, their grandson, Philip II., ordered the destruction of all public baths as relics of Mohammedanism.

CHAPTER XII

Abdurraman, Sultan of Cordoba

As he passed at evening alone into the garden of Ez-Zahra, the porphyry, jasper, and marble of the pavement absorbed by the intense blue of the sky, all his attendants fell back. His brow was knit with thought, for the fame of the victories of Charles Martel troubled him sorely. He knew that in knowledge and science the Frankish king was as a peasant compared to him, yet his name was in all men’s mouths as the conqueror of the Moors.

Not only did Charles Martel, after the victory of Tours, excel him in renown, but the remnant of the Goths, driven out of the cities of Spain, had taken refuge in the mountains bordering the Bay of Biscay, among the caves and untrodden defiles of the Asturias, and, small and insignificant as they were, still defied him.

Just and generous in character, the Sultan would have gladly drawn to him this patriotic band by an equitable rule, if they would have submitted; but the obstinate endurance of the Spaniard was never more displayed than in the fierce determination of these fugitives never to yield.

Thinking of all this, Abdurraman heaved a deep sigh. His soul was full of sympathy for the brave Goths, but, as Sultan, he was bound to suppress what was in fact open rebellion.

Long did he pace slowly up and down, musing in a silence broken only by the distant click of the castanets from the quarter of the harem, where the light of coloured lanterns shone out athwart huge branches of magnolia and pepper trees.

That these sounds of revelry were not to his taste was shown by the disdainful glance he cast in that direction, and a certain gathering about him of the dark caftan which hung from his shoulders.

Turning his eyes in the direction of one of the many illuminated kiosks standing out clear in the twilight, he paused, as if expecting some one to appear.

Nor did he wait long; a dark figure emerged from the gloom, the features of the face so dusky that but for the general outline of the figure it might have passed unseen as a phantom of the night.

“Mahoun,” says the Caliph, sharply, as the vizier approached and, prostrating himself on the earth, awaited his commands, “stand up and tell me what tidings from the north.”

“By the Prophet, O Caliph,” answers Mahoun, crossing his arms as he rose to his feet, and bending his supple body in a deep salaam, “tidings of many colours—good and bad.”

“Give me the bad first, O Vizier! After a storm the sun’s rays shine brightest. Proceed.”

“Don Pelayo, the Goth, son of the Christian noble, Dux of Cantabria, murdered by his kinsman,” continued the vizier, “or, as some call him, Pelagius—for these Gothic dogs much affect Roman names—the leader of the Christians, has disappeared. Nor can the cunning inquiries of Kerim, whom in your wisdom you have placed as governor over these newly conquered provinces, obtain any record of where he has gone. Some say to the French Court to ask succour for the remnant who still cling to his fortunes; others that he has died by treachery, or fallen in fight. So constant were these rumours, O Caliph, that the Goths, discouraged by his long absence, had fallen into disunion; the wisest (and they are few) were willing to submit to the rule of Kerim; the greater part (fools) prepared to elect the Gothic Infanta Onesinda, his sister, as queen—when of a sudden, Pelayo himself returns, and, with a horde of Christian beggars at his back, raises the standard of revolt in Galicia near Gijon.”

“What!” cries the Caliph, suddenly interested, “is Pelayo the youth, cousin of Don Roderich, who fought at the battle of the Guadalete close to his chariot, and never left him until he himself vanished from the battlefield? I have heard of Pelayo. He is of royal birth.”

“The same, O Caliph. Grandson of King Chindavinto, his father, murdered by that unclean beast Witica, predecessor of Roderich. Pelayo ends the line of Gothic princes. Kerim despises him as a despicable barbarian shut up on a mountain, where his followers die of hunger; they have no food but herbs and honey gathered in the rocks. Let not my Lord regard him.”

“Call you this good news, O Mahoun? A hero is ever a hero, even in rags! Though he is my enemy, I respect his valour. Had Roderich fought with like courage in the defence of Spain, we might now be eating dates in our tents under our native palms. The courage of the chief represents the spirit of the nation, as the flash of the lightning precedes the thunderbolt. One cannot scathe without the other.”

“But, O Caliph of the Faithful,” interrupts the vizier, again prostrating himself to the ground, “the good news is yet untold. Pelayo’s sister, Onesinda, is now in our hands,—Kerim, the Governor of Gijon, has captured her.”

A smile of satisfaction overspread the Caliph’s face. Then, as other thoughts seemed to gather in his mind, he raised his hand and thoughtfully passed it across the thick black curls of his beard.

“Surely all courtesy has been used towards this royal lady? I would rather that Kerim had shown his skill in overcoming men. Do Mussulmen wage war on women and children? I know Kerim as a valiant leader in the fight, but I misdoubt much his courtesy towards this daughter of the Goths. Are we not well-founded enough in Spain to spare this lady?”

“Yes, confined within the strong walls of your harem. Make her your sultana, O Caliph, she will be free, and, subdued by the wisdom of your lips, will bring her countrymen with her; otherwise she is too important a hostage to surrender. For his sister’s sake Pelayo himself may yield.”

“Never, if I know him,” exclaims Abdurraman, “while the fountain of life flows within his veins—never! Dishonour not the noble Goth so far. To turn a Christian maiden into a slave would be honour, for a Gothic princess a sore degradation. Mahoun, I want no sultana to share my throne. ‘Beware of the wiles of women,’ saith the sage. By the help of the Prophet, I will still steer clear. But that this noble lady shall have cause to extol the courtesy of the Moslem is my command.”

“How then shall we deal with her?” asks the vizier with anxious haste, too well aware of the generous nature of the Caliph. “If Pelayo lays down his arms, the Infanta might be escorted back in safety to the rocks and caverns he makes his home, but if he still raises the standard of revolt, a bow-string would better suit the lady’s throat.”

“Silence, slave,” replies Abdurraman in a deep voice. “Great Allah! Shall we degrade ourselves to make success depend on the life of a woman? Summon her here at once. When she arrives in Cordoba, let her immediately be conducted to my harem. Let orders be given for her immediate departure from Gijon with suitable attendants.”

“Oh, justest of men and greatest of rulers,” answers the vizier, “permit your slave yet to speak one word. These infidels must be reached through their women. Leave, I pray you, Onesinda to the Governor of Gijon, and she will be bait to catch her brother Pelayo.”

“I have spoken,” answers Abdurraman, haughtily, and turned away. “Be it according to my commands.”

Deep was the obeisance with which this order was received, but the astute vizier had views of his own. In the main he was a faithful servant of his lord, but where a woman was concerned, he deemed it no crime to temper obedience with interest. An unbeliever! the sister of a Goth! what was this Onesinda but a toy, a slave, honoured by a glance from her conqueror? Had the Caliph commanded her immediate execution he would willingly have obeyed, but to bring her to Cordoba after what he knew of her treatment at Gijon was more than his head was worth.

Now it so happened that the Governor of Gijon was his friend, and that Mahoun knew much more about Onesinda than he intended to impart. Her capture had been a cruel stratagem, and at this very time she was forcibly lodged in the harem of Kerim.

The vizier had not dared altogether to conceal the important fact of her capture from the Sultan, but that she should reach Cordoba alive and tell the tale of her misfortunes, was not at all his intention. The passion Kerim had conceived for her was well known to Mahoun, and that she was surrounded by Moorish slaves, who not only urged his suit by threats and persuasion, but watched her every action. If Onesinda did not yield to the desires of Kerim, her brother’s fate was certain, were he taken dead or alive.

On Pelayo rested the hope of the fugitive Goths. The last of the long line of hereditary princes, all the trust of the conquered lay in him. That this base intrigue should come to the knowledge of the

Caliph was death to all concerned. Not all the bribes offered him by Kerim in rich stuffs, jewels, and slaves, could blind the astute vizier to the danger of his position.

“May Allah confound Kerim and his harem!” he exclaimed in a rage, as he paced the gardens after the Sultan’s departure until late into the night, his silken sandals falling lightly on the coloured patterns drawn upon the walks. “Why could not the dark-skinned beauties of Barbary content him without meddling with the pale-faced Goth? Truly the flag of the Crescent has triumphed over the Cross in the length and breadth of Spain; but it is not wise to provoke a fallen people. These Goths have the endurance of the camel of the desert, which lives long without food or drink, but even that patient animal will turn upon his driver if he rains down blows upon him causelessly. Better let the infidels starve in holes and caverns than bring them down into the plains, bent on a desperate revenge. A curse on Kerim! The Sultan forgets nothing. He will ask for Onesinda. What in the name of Allah am I to reply?”

CHAPTER XIII

Onesinda and Kerim

Kerim is not a warrior to please a lady’s eye. The voluminous folds of a white turban rest on a forehead bare of hair, a rough and matted beard curls on his chin and reaches to his ears, in which hang two uncut emeralds. He is low in stature and corpulent in person. His long dark arms are bare, ornamented with glittering bangles, his body swathed with a gaudily striped cloth over a rich vest, and full trousers descend to his feet. Sudden and abrupt in his movements, he sits uneasily on a raised dais covered with skins, a drapery of Eastern silk over his head. A strong perfume of attar pervades the recess, lined with divans, at the extremity of an immense Gothic hall, open at the opposite end, and divided into separate apartments by Oriental screens and tapestry.

The recent conquests in the North had given the Moors as yet no time to erect either dwellings, mosques, or baths, those necessities of Eastern life, and they were fain to accept the rough habitations and castles of the Goths as they found them.

Terrible is the expression of his eyes, the white against the tawny sockets, as he turns them full on the slender form before him, wrapped in an embroidered mantle, held in the strong grasp of a Nubian slave. A naked scimitar lies on the ground and the shadow of a mute darkens the curtained entrance.

Of the lady’s face nothing is seen. She holds her hands clasped over her eyes, as if to shut out the repellent visage of the Berber.

Taking in his hand, from a salver placed on the ground, one of the jewelled goblets which lay on it, and filling it with sherbet, Kerim rises to his feet.

“I drink,” he says, in a loud jarring voice, “to the success of the Goths and of Pelayo. Will you pledge me, Christian lady?”

No answer comes from the veiled figure, but the trembling of the drapery shows that she is convulsed with fear.

“Unhand the Infanta,” says Kerim to the Nubian, “and retire.”

Between them lay the scimitar, catching the light.

“Onesinda,” and Kerim seizes her passive hand, “listen! Kerim is not the senseless tyrant you deem him. But before I unfold my projects to your ear, I warn you to take heed. You are my prisoner, held by the right of war. A motion of my hand and that fair skin is dyed as crimson as the petals of the fiery pomegranate expanding in the heat of noon. As yet you have refused all speech with me. Urge me not too far, I warn you.”

“Alas!” answers Onesinda, speaking with quick breath, as she tears asunder the drapery which falls upon her face, and displays an ashy countenance belying her bold words, “I do not fear death, but infamy. Now, God be gracious to me, for the succour of man is vain.” As she spoke she drew herself back to the farthest limit of the curtained space in an attitude, not of resistance, for that was useless, but as one unwilling to provoke assault, yet if offered, resolved to repel it to the utmost of her power.

She who, were her brother dead, would be proclaimed by the small remnant of her people Queen of the Goths, was fair as became her race and of good proportions. A native loftiness in features and bearing took from her all notion of the insipidity which attaches itself to that complexion; her eyes were blue, untouched by the unnatural glitter so loved by the Moorish women, and her profuse flaxen hair fell in ringlets about her neck, on which a solid gold chain and heavy medallion rested. A kirtle over a vest, open at the throat, of blue taffetas worked in coloured silks, formed a loose robe lined with fur, and a veil of silk, falling at the back of her neck, concealed the snowy skin of her neck and bosom and served as a covering to her hair.

“You have no reason to fear me,” cries Kerim, but the base passion which looked out of his eyes gave to his words a very different interpretation.

“There can be no peace between us,” answers Onesinda, trembling in every limb, as she presses closer and closer to the wooden pillars at her back. “Had your purpose been honest, you would not have captured me treacherously and kept me here. Pelayo’s sister will never yield to force. To plant that steel in my breast,” pointing to the richly set dagger he wore at his waist, “is the only service you can do me.”

“But you must listen,” retorts Kerim, drawing so near his hot breath fell on her cheek; “for the sake of Pelayo. To further the good of this growing kingdom of the Moors, I desire to ally myself with the royal blood of Spain and rally about me those Christians who still gather round your brother. The throne of Cordoba is too distant, the empire too vast. Abdurraman needs able lieutenants. Kerim will free him of these northern provinces and govern them himself. It is a feeble mind which waits for Fortune’s wheel, the brave must seize it, and turn it for themselves. Under me the sons of the Goths shall serve, Alonso and Friula and the rest, Pelayo above all, next to myself, for the fair Onesinda’s sake! Again I ask you, Christian Princess, will you pledge me to our success?” And his hand again seizes the goblet, which he holds to her lips.

Had Onesinda seen the look which accompanied this gesture she would have sunk insensible to the earth, so revolting was the effect of love in such a form, so savage and brutal the nature; but her head had fallen on her bosom, and her closed eyes and deadly pallor disconcerted Kerim, who, with widely opened eyes, contemplated his victim in doubt if she were not already dead. A slight trembling of the eyelids and a convulsive motion about the lips relieved him of this fear. With the utmost care he placed her on a divan, and pouring into her white lips some of the sherbet contained in the goblet, anxiously watched the efforts which Nature made to revive her. As she heaved a deep sigh, she opened her eyes, then closed them again with a shrill cry at the sight of the black visage of Kerim bent over her.

“Listen,” he says again, in a much gentler voice. He understood that excessive fear or a too great repugnance would be fatal, therefore he curbed his passion.

“If you will consent to be my sultana, Pelayo

shall be my second in the kingdom of the Asturias. If not”—and, spite of himself, such a look of ferocity came over his face that Onesinda shrank from him with inexpressible disgust—“the blood of every knight I have taken shall water the earth of Gijon, specially that of Pelayo, who shall expire in unknown torments. Choose, Christian, between life with me, or certain ruin to your race.”

As he awaits her answer, Kerim seats himself by her side. With a smile on his dark face he strove to take her hand. In this gentler mood, he seemed to Onesinda a thousand times more loathsome than in his fiercest moments.

One glance was enough. Gathering her robes about her, she darts to the farthest extremity of the vast hall.

“Moor,” she cries, and the horror she felt was expressed in her features, “for me death has no terrors. For my brother, I do not believe you. Can the eagle nest with the vulture? the dove with the serpent? It is but a cruel wile to deceive me.”

“I swear it, lady, by the tomb of the Prophet. Think well before you take your own life and that of those who are dear to you.” He paused, and the unhappy Onesinda felt all the agony of her position. To allow this hideous African to approach her was to her a fate so horrible that flesh and blood rose up in revolt against it. To open the possible chance of success to Pelayo and his followers by the sacrifice of herself is, as a daughter of the Goths, her duty, did she believe his words to be sincere.

Looking into his dark face, what assurance had she? In his cruel eyes? In those full red lips, cutting like blood athwart the blackness of his beard? It is the countenance of a savage. Not a generous quality could dwell under such a mask. No, there is nothing in the hard nature of this African on which to form a hope! And yet her brother’s life, if he speaks truly, hangs on his will. She had no means to prove his words. Pelayo is absent, some said already dead. Was this dark treachery towards his Sultan true? Or rather is it not some fiendish scheme to entrap the last remnant of the Goths and raise himself to power and favour with Abdurraman?

Bursting into a flood of tears, she casts herself upon the ground and fixes on him her pale blue eyes.

“Alas! you know not the heart of woman to make such a proposal. To invoke your pity,” and her voice trembles, “would be as useless as it is mean. Help the noble sons of the land, but insist not on such a sacrifice. By the memory of your father, by the bones of your chiefs, seek not an end so wicked.”

Unmoved, Kerim contemplates her, a smile of triumph on his dark face.

“It is your turn now to supplicate, proud Infanta, mine to deny. Either you comply, or every Moslem soldier in the citadel of Gijon shall hunt the Goths in the length and breadth of the Asturias like vermin. Reflect ere you decide. I swear by the Holy Caaba I speak truth.”

With a menacing gesture he departed, leaving Onesinda prostrate on the ground and the Moorish slaves returned to bear her into the dark grove where the harem stood fronting the ever-beating sea that washes the iron-bound coast which girds the north of Spain.

CHAPTER XIV

Tragic Death of Onesinda

Townsmen there are, in coarse hempen garments, and artificers from the lowly dwellings of Gijon, mixed with mounted groups of naked Nubians, as black as night; Bedouins carrying long lances and wattled shields; Berbers and Kurds on foot among the crowd, casting looks of defiance on the sons of the soil, easily recognised by the fairness of their faces and long auburn hair, grouped about native musicians singing wild melodies to the click of the castanets; Moorish knights in the light armour which contrasts so favourably with the heavy accoutrements of the West—an indistinguishable rabble of the conquered and the conquerors, remarkable for nothing but the contentious and sullen spirit in which the Moslem ousts the Christian at all points.

In the centre of the plaza rises a gaudy pavilion formed of sheets of the brightest silk, scarlet, yellow, blue, and orange, the tent-poles and pillars glittering with tiny flags, before which the astounding clamour of bands of Eastern musicians raise martial echoes. Within, visible through the partially withdrawn curtains, is placed a throne with such magnificence as the limited means permit.

Planted in front the standard of Kerim floats heavily in the breeze, this Arab of the desert pretending to no distinction but the Star and the Crescent, the emblems of his faith. Horsemen and foot-soldiers are ranged on either side, and banners and pennons are displayed by each Moorish knight or captain before his own tent, dazzling with the flash of splendid accoutrements and gorgeous display of brocade and tossing plumes, fluttering to the sound of drums, trumpets, and shrill-voiced pipes, recalling to the Arabs the deserts of their home.

A mass of dismounted cavalry is stationed before the pavilion on which all eyes are turned, each Moslem erect by the side of his gaily draped charger, until, at a shrill cry, surmounting even the din of the music, each man vaults into the saddle and spurs forward towards a cloud of dust announcing the arrival of Kerim surrounded by his Ethiopian bodyguard.

At full gallop they approach, bristling with spears and brandishing their scimitars, disposing themselves in a semicircle which leaves Kerim alone, so resplendent with steel, feathers, and gems that, as the sun shines down upon him, he looks like a statue of light.

The grim forms and wild faces of the Africans, tossing their arms in every direction with savage shouts, reining up their horses but a hair’s-breadth from the edge of the crowd of spectators—who, uttering piercing screams, rush backwards upon those behind, who in their turn lift up their voices in screams of utmost terror—create such a scene of noise and confusion that a white silk litter borne by slaves, round whose arms and legs are bound rich bangles and bracelets, followed by a crowd of veiled women in snowy garments, is scarcely noticed.

Yet a group of dark-robed Goths have marked it, and the sadness of their faces and their looks of shame and sorrow show how abhorrent to them is this Eastern pageant and its cause. For who has not guessed the occasion of these rejoicings? Onesinda, for the sake of her people, has consented to become the bride of Kerim.

Nor is she and her countrymen around her, to whom, through the light lattice of the litter, she is plainly visible, without hope that Pelayo, if yet alive, may have planned a rescue. But in the face of such an array of forces, called out purposely by Kerim, it would be a mad and senseless sacrifice of life.

The agony of mind of Onesinda is not to be described. Did he indeed appear, what would Pelayo think of her? Would he understand the amount of the sacrifice? To become a vile and nameless thing? To submit to this crowning outrage of the Moor, with no power to whisper into his ear the sacredness of her motive?

Alas! poor Onesinda, she is of too gentle a nature to battle with such a fate! So colourless has she become, her face is scarcely visible among the silken cushions of the litter as she breathlessly scans the assembled crowd.

A wild hope seizes her. May not Alonso or Friula, if Pelayo is away, be present? Some valiant ally or devoted follower still faithful to her? Some pitying Goth with a soul for her distress? At least one by his look to remind her that he is there?

Nothing! She sees the threatening faces of the Moors, she hears their muttered curses, she beholds their contemptuous gestures as they point at her. Do they believe she is a willing victim?

And now Kerim has dismounted from his charger; a tall white turban is set upon his head, crowned with a spiral diadem, in which a ruby crescent blazes, surrounded by drops of pearls; a white robe, sown with jewels, clothes his limbs, held up by a golden sash worked with gems, in which the blade of a small dagger rests, incrusted with precious stones, of so fine a temper one touch is sufficient to cut the thread of life.

Followed by his guards, he follows the litter towards the pavilion, surrounded by a phalanx of sheikhs and alcaides. And as he approaches the litter the drapery is drawn aside, the clash of discordant music strikes up, and the voice of the Imaum chants Allah Akbar.

The moment is come; Onesinda must descend. A look of mingled triumph and love lights up Kerim’s swarthy face and brings out the whiteness of his eyes into a revolting prominence. Already his naked arms, glittering with bracelets, are stretched out to clasp his bride, already the soft aroma of her presence comes wafting to his senses like spicy perfumes of paradise, when, by a deft and sudden movement, breaking from the strong arms which bear her up, Onesinda seizes the dagger which lies beneath his sash and with desperate courage plunges it in her breast.

With frantic haste Kerim tears it from the wound, but her life-blood follows it. Clasping her in his arms, he gazes on her face. Has death come to her instantly? Her eyes are closed, yet a faint flush is still upon her cheek. Then the lids slowly rise, but the orbs are fixed, and glazed. Gradually the flush vanishes and gives place to the pallid hue of death!

Ere the poor remains of the Gothic maiden can be borne away, a great clattering of horses’ feet is heard advancing; a Moslem herald gallops forward, followed by trumpeters and men-at-arms, and several knights, who ride into the plaza. After a flourish of trumpets and due recital and summoning of Kerim, Governor of Gijon, to listen, he is commanded, in the name of the redoubtable Sultan Abdurraman, to appear without delay at Cordoba, together with his Christian captive, Onesinda, sister of the royal Goth, known as Pelayo, Dux of Cantabria.

CHAPTER XV

Pelayo Proclaimed King by the Goths

This is the true Iberia, the cradle of the race, the title borne by the eldest born of Spain, the stronghold which has held out last against all conquerors. The Romans left their mark at Gijon; in the south the Moors stamped the soil with their lineaments; in the east, Catalonia formed a separate kingdom, with laws and customs; Navarre, with its ancient line of kings, raised Alpine barriers. But the mountain crests are free, and those deep cavernous recesses which cut the rocks resound only to the shrill cry of the eagle or the bleat of the wild deer.

Full in the front of a stupendous face of rock, facing east, the mouth of a deep cave opens; the narrow track which leads to it ends here, Nature herself forbids further progress. Piles, avalanches rather, of black boulders, the spittle and waste of mountains shaken by earthquakes in bygone ages, have fallen from above, and, smoothed by time to dull surfaces of greys and greens, guard its opening, shrouded by a feathery veil of thorn, ivy, and wild trailing plants which love the shade.

From within the cave a transparent rivulet murmurs forth in a bed of coloured pebbles to meet the sun and join its feeble ripple to the louder sound of other waters flowing from the gorge above.

In front the grass spreads soft and verdant; cups of the early crocuses peep out, lilac and white, and dark purple violets nestle under dry leaves, filling the air with fragrance. A few scraggy beech-trees turn their white trunks outwards, the roots deeply imbedded in the rocks, and clumps of low firs and juniper follow the almost imperceptible track which leads onwards to remoter glens.

Slowly mounting from below, a little band of Goths, clad in the homespun jerkins which distinguish them at once from their gaudily attired conquerors, ascend the path, stepping from rock to rock. The dry leaves of winter rustle beneath their feet as they pass up under the gnarled boughs of scraggy oaks.

Carefully the foremost ones plant their steps upon the stones, as they bear upon a crossed frame the body of Onesinda, which the Christians of Gijon secured in the confusion following her death and the arrival of the herald summoning Kerim to Cordoba.

A dark pall covers her, and so slight and fragile is her form that the outline of her figure scarcely raises the folds.

Behind appears the stalwart figure of Pelayo, wearing the Gothic cap of steel and armed with the simple accoutrements of a Dacian warrior.

Not a tear moistens his eye. His face is set and white, marked by the vicissitudes and hardships of his life; a countenance on which Nature has set her seal as a leader of men—the sole remaining link of the early Gothic kings.

Behind him follow three other chiefs, who have joined in an eternal hatred to the Moor, Friula, Teudis, and Recesvinto.

A sorrowful procession, fitly set in the impenetrable wilds which surround them, solemn as themselves, who want no spur to their resolve to sell their blood dear in the cause of their country. But if they did, surely the slight form they are bearing, so cruelly sacrificed to the Moor, is enough to stir up their souls to never-ending vengeance.