disdainful eyes, in that unjust and memorable reproach which history has preserved—"Ay, weep, like a woman, over what thou couldst not defend like a man!"
Boabdil raised his countenance, with indignant majesty, when he felt his hand tenderly clasped, and, turning round, saw Amine by his side.
"Heed her not! heed her not, Boabdil!" said the slave; "never didst thou seem to me more noble than in that sorrow. Thou wert a hero for thy throne; but feel still, O light of mine eyes, a woman for thy people!"
"God is great! said Boabdil; "and God comforts me still! Thy lips, which never flattered me in my power, have no reproach for me in my affliction!"
He said, and smiled upon Amine—it was her hour of triumph.
The band wound slowly on through the solitary defiles: and that place where the king wept, and the woman soothed, is still called "El ultimo suspiro del Moro," The last sigh of the Moor.
THE END.
