hero whose arm was the shelter, whose name is the
blessing, of Granada. Ah, me! Ah, me!"

The young maiden covered her face with her hands, and sank into a
passionate reverie, broken only by her sobs. Some time had passed in
this undisturbed indulgence of her grief, when the arras was gently
put aside, and a man, of remarkable garb and mien, advanced into the
chamber, pausing as he beheld her dejected attitude, and gazing on her
with a look on which pity and tenderness seemed to struggle against
habitual severity and sternness.

"Leila!" said the intruder.

Leila started, and and a deep blush suffused her countenance; she dashed
the tears from her eyes, and came forward with a vain attempt to smile.

"My father, welcome!"

The stranger seated himself on the cushions, and motioned Leila to his
side.

"These tears are fresh upon thy cheek," said he, gravely; "they are the
witness of thy race! our daughters are born to weep, and our sons to
groan! ashes are on the head of the mighty, and the Fountains of the
Beautiful run with gall! Oh that we could but struggle--that we could
but dare--that we could raise up, our heads, and unite against the
bondage of the evil doer! It may not be--but one man shall avenge a
nation!"

The dark face of Leila's father, well fitted to express powerful
emotion, became terrible in its wrath and passion; his brow and lip
worked convulsively; but the paroxysm was brief; and scarce could she
shudder at its intensity ere it had subsided into calm.

"Enough of these thoughts, which thou, a woman and a child, art not
formed to witness. Leila, thou hast been nurtured with tenderness, and
schooled with care. Harsh and unloving may I have seemed to thee, but I
would have shed the best drops of my heart to have saved thy young years
from a single pang. Nay, listen to me silently. That thou mightest
one day be worthy of thy race, and that thine hours might not pass
in indolent and weary lassitude, thou hast been taught lessons of
a knowledge rarely to thy sex. Not thine the lascivious arts of the
Moorish maidens; not thine their harlot songs, and their dances of lewd
delight; thy delicate limbs were but taught the attitude that Nature
dedicates to the worship of a God, and the music of thy voice was tuned
to the songs of thy fallen country, sad with the memory of her wrongs,
animated with the names of her heroes, with the solemnity of her
prayers. These scrolls, and the lessons of our seers, h