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