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

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      HE Alcazar at Seville (each Spanish city has its Alcazar) still stands in the centre of the city. Not the decorated palace we see it now, rebuilt by the Toledan Zalubi for Prince Abdurrahman, and afterwards enlarged and beautified by Don Pedro el Cruel, in imitation of the Alhambra of Granada, but a veritable citadel, surrounded by low tapia walls, on the verge of the tidal current of the Guadalquivir, and flanked by the Gothic tower (Torre del oro) which still remains.

      Not a poetic ruin, this Alcazar like the Alhambra, but a real castle, whole and entire, ready to receive, to this day, emirs or sultans, kings, queens, or princes, whenever their good pleasure calls them to Seville.

      Behind lie the gardens, flushed with roses, oleanders, and pomegranates, approached by stately terraces sweet with the familiar scent of carnation, violet, and jasmine. A delicious plaisance formed into a series of squares, divided by low myrtle hedges, and orange-lined walls, central fountains bubbling up in sheets of foam, and streams and runnels, tanks and ponds, along which are walks paved with variegated tiles.

      The azahar of a thousand blossoms is in the air, golden oranges hang tempting on the stem, and deeply tinted butterflies course each other among embowered alleys, leading to gaily painted kiosks and pavilions with latticed walls.

      Whether Abdul-asis exacted the tribute demanded by the Moorish law of a hundred Christian “virgins, fifty rich and fifty poor,” to adorn his harem, I cannot say. He would scarcely have dared openly to omit it. But instead of choosing from among these damsels that pleased his eye, and selling the rest as slaves, he contented himself with selecting one, and dowered such others who were poor, and married them to his Moors.

      In his harem he also maintained many Christian captives as hostages for the land. But they were treated not only with respect, but with luxury, within the precincts of the lovely little Patio de las Muñecas—from all time devoted to the harem—the loveliest sheet of snowy lace-work ever beheld. Not a speck of colour on the pure stone; not a badge or motto, only tiers of open galleries, latticed in white.

      If ever these dark Eastern beauties return to haunt the glimpses of the moon, it is surely in this patio their dazzling forms will linger!

      Here they lived a pleasant life, plied their fingers in rich embroidery copied from the looms of Damascus, danced ole or cachucha, to castanets, or sang to lute and cither those wild malagueñas, with long sad notes.

      Many were even contented with their lot. But all followed with longing eyes the graceful form of the young Emir, putting forth their charms to attract his roving eyes.

      “Beware, O my son, of the seductions of love,” had written Mousa to his son. “It is an idle passion which enfeebles the heart and blinds the judgment.”

      And so his discreet cousin Ayub continually repeated, but, spite of these warnings, Abdul-asis often solaced himself in the company of the fair, specially among the Christian captives, who were both beautiful and well-educated. Indeed, it was here the lonely young Emir spent his happiest hours, as the moon mounted into the realm of blue and star after star shone out to be doubled in the basins of the fountains, the murmur of innumerable jets and streamlets falling on the ear.

      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.

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