she rose, her cheek glowing, her eyes sparkling, her beautiful form dilated. "I am a daughter of Granada; I am the beloved of a king; I will be true to my birth and to my fortunes. Boabdil El Chico, the last of a line of heroes, shake off these gloomy fantasies these doubts and dreams that smother the fire of a great nature and a kingly soul! Awake—arise—rob Granada of her Muza—be thyself her Muza! Trustest thou to magic and to spells? then grave them on thy breastplate, write them on thy sword, and live no longer the Dreamer of the Alhambra; become the saviour of thy people!"
Boabdil turned, and gazed on the inspired and beautiful form before him with mingled emotions of surprise and shame. "Out of the mouth of woman cometh my rebuke!" said he, sadly. "It is well!"
"Pardon me, pardon me!" said the slave, falling humbly at his knees; "but blame me not that I would have thee worthy of thyself. Wert thou not happier, was not thy heart more light, and thy hope more strong, when at the head of thine armies, thine own cimiter slew thine own foes, and the terror of the Hero-King spread, in flame and slaughter, from the mountains to the seas. Boabdil! dear as thou art to me—equally as I would have loved thee hadst thou been born a lowly fisherman of the Darro,—since thou art a king, I would have thee die a king; even if my own heart broke as I armed thee for thy latest battle!"
"Thou knowest not what thou sayest, Amine," said Boabdil, "nor canst thou tell what spirits that are not of earth dictate to the actions, and watch over the destinies, of the rulers of nations. If I delay, if I linger, it is not from terror, but from wisdom. The cloud must gather on, dark and slow, ere the moment for the thunderbolt arrives."
"On thine house will the thunderbolt fall, since over thine own house thou sufferest the cloud to gather," said a calm and stern voice.
Boabdil started; and in the chamber stood a third person, in the shape of a woman, past middle age, and of commanding port and stature. Upon her long-descending robes of embroidered purple, were thickly woven jewels of royal price; and her dark hair, slightly tinged with gray, parted over a majestic brow, while a small diadem surmounted the folds of the turban.
"My mother!" said Boabdil, with some haughty reserve in his tone; "your presence is unexpected."
"Ay," answered Ayxala Horra, for it was indeed that celebrated, and haughty, and high-souled queen, "and unwelcome: so is ever
