Old Court Life in Spain (Vol.1&2). Frances Minto Elliot

Old Court Life in Spain (Vol.1&2) - Frances Minto Elliot


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      It was peace, absolute peace, such as comes to those balancing on the bosom of the sea, or on desert plains, or in the mystery of deep forests, or in the grave!

      One night as his eyes range unconsciously into the gloom, he is startled to find that he is not alone.

      Deep within a thicket of aloes the lines of a woman’s form are visible, seated upon the ground.

      “Who can this be?” he asks himself with breathless haste. “I cannot recall having seen her before, either in the harem or among the captives.”

      Yet it was a form, once seen, not to be forgotten. Her dark hair hung like a cloud over her shoulders, and her eyes, as she turned them upwards, catching a ray of moonlight, shone out like stars.

      “Who is she?” And Abdul-asis rises softly, the better to observe her. “Yes, she is matchless, but that sadness is not natural. Her attitude, her movements are languid and full of pain. Her hands lie weary. She avoids her companions. What can it mean? Some tale of deep sorrow is shut up in her soul. She is under my roof and I am ignorant of her life. I will at once address her.”

      For some minutes he stood silent, his eyes wandering over the many beauties which disclosed themselves to his gaze; but to his astonishment, as he looked closer, he perceived from the dark olive of her skin that the stranger must be an Egyptian or a Moor.

      At last, moved by a singular emotion, he addressed her.

      “Who are you, gentle lady?” he asked, his naturally sweet voice tuned to its softest accents. “Why do you sit alone? Confide to me your grief.”

      “Death alone can end it,” was her reply.

      “Nay,” whispered Abdul-asis, in a voice melting with pity, “fair one, seek not to sacrifice that which Allah has made so perfect. The very sense of loveliness is yours. Let it be mine. As the houris of Paradise dwell under the shadow of the Great Angel’s wings, so, lady, shall you dwell under mine. I am Lord of Andalusia. Power is in my hands. Speak to me,” and he drew near and touched the tips of her henna-stained fingers. “Have faith in me.” If he had dared he would have clasped her to his heart. Never had the veiled fair ones of the harem moved him so.

      With his lustrous eyes fixed on hers he waited for an answer, or at least for some sign that she was not displeased. None came.

      Now this to Abdul-asis was a new development of woman which served only to heighten the ardour of his sudden passion. Opposition proverbially is a spur to love, and now the old axiom operated in full force upon one who had never known repulse.

      Again he assayed to clasp her delicate fingers within his own and gently draw her towards him.

      “Light of my life,” he murmured, “speak!” In vain—the lady replied only by her sobs. Nor was it in the power of Abdul-asis to make her speak.

      At length—was it the languid beauty of the night, the power of the moon, great in the annals of unspoken love, or some occult mystery communicated to her by his touch?—a rosy bloom rose on her dark cheeks and, withdrawing her hand from his ardent clasp, she suddenly unlocked the mystery of her coral lips.

      “I am Egilona,” she whispered, as if she feared to confide the name to the night air; “once wife of Don Roderich and Queen of Spain.”

      Words cannot paint the amazement of Abdul-asis. That the beautiful stranger, known to have become a captive after the defeat of the Guadalete, should be dwelling within his Alcazar, unknown to himself, seems too astonishing to comprehend! That he, too, unconsciously, should have presumed to approach her with the facile dalliance of love grieves his generous soul.

      All which he endeavours to express to Egilona in the most eloquent language he can command, while he bends the knee before her as a vassal to his queen.

      Then he sighed. Her royal position placed an insuperable barrier between them. Besides, he felt that the Caliph at Damascus ought to be notified at once of the possession of such an illustrious captive.

      “Could he do so?” he asked himself. “Could he run the risk of losing her? No! a thousand times no!”

      Chance or fate had thrown her in his way. She was actually a slave in his harem. There she should remain unless she herself wished otherwise.

      Fortunately that tiresome person, the discreet Ayub, knew nothing about her. His reproaches, at all events, were not to be encountered. Possibly!—ah! possibly—a tender project formed itself in his brain. Would she, the wife of the royal Goth, consent to share an Emir’s throne?

      But at that moment he was too much overcome and self-diffident to allow himself to pursue so roseate a dream.

      Calling together his guards, hidden about the garden, but ever present near his person, Abdul-asis, with a heart torn by conflicting emotions, conducted Egilona through the marble courts to the Patio de las Muñecas.

      All that the tenderest love could dictate was showered upon her by the amorous Emir. She lived in the royal apartments, and a special train of slaves, eunuchs, and women attended upon her. Before the gold-embroidered draperies of her door turbaned guards stood day and night, holding naked scimitars. Her table was served with the same luxury as that of a sultana. When she went abroad into the streets of Seville she rode on a beautiful palfrey, caparisoned with silken fringes, a silver bridle and stirrup, and a bit of gold. At the sound of the tinkling bells which hung about the harness, all who met her prostrated themselves to the earth, as though the Emir himself were passing. Even the muezzin, ringing out the hour of prayer from the galleries of the Giralda, was commanded to pronounce a blessing on her head.

      Such a complete change in the life of Abdul-asis could not but arouse the wrath of the discreet Ayub. Numberless were the times he tried to waylay him, always ineffectually, however, for the Emir gave orders he was not to be admitted.

      One day they did meet in the outer Patio de las Bandieras (where now the superb portal of Don Pedro blazes in the sun), just as Abdul-asis was mounting his horse for the chase.

      “Hold, my cousin and lord,” cries Ayub, laying hold of his bridle. “Tarry awhile, I pray you, for the sake of our kinship. Am I a dog, that you should drive me with kicks and imprecations from your door?”

      “Far from me be such a thought,” replies Abdul-asis, colouring. “No one thinks better of you than I. But, my cousin, permit me now to depart. Another time we will pursue the subject.”

      “Bear with me now awhile rather,” cries Ayub, detaining him by the folds of his embroidered robe. “O Abdul-asis, remember the words of your father: ‘Beware, my son, of the seductions of love. It renders the mighty weak and makes slaves of princes.’ ”

      The colour on the face of the Emir deepened into a flush of wrath. He was weary of hearing these words ever repeated—yet he kept silence.

      “Time was, my cousin,” continues the discreet Ayub, “when you listened to my words, and all went well. Now, for the sake of a strange woman, a slave, a captive, you are bartering your kingdom.”

      At this coarse allusion to the royal Egilona

Moorish Mills in the Guadalquivir, at Cordova.

      Moorish Mills in the Guadalquivir, at Cordova.

      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


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