s upon the calm and pale features of the
fallen monarch, the tears gushed from them irresistibly, and her voice
died in murmurs. A faint flush overspread the features of Boabdil, and
there was a momentary pause of embarrassment which the Moor was the
first to break.

"Fair queen," said he, with mournful and pathetic dignity; "thou canst
read the heart that thy generous sympathy touches and subdues: this
is thy last, nor least glorious, conquest. But I detain ye: let not my
aspect cloud your triumph. Suffer me to say farewell."

"May we not hint at the blessed possibility of conversion?" whispered
the pious queen through her tears to her royal consort.

"Not now--not now, by St. Iago!" returned Ferdinand, quickly, and in
the same tone, willing himself to conclude a painful conference. He then
added, aloud, "Go, my brother, and fair fortune with you! Forget the
past."

Boabdil smiled bitterly, saluted the royal pair with profound and silent
reverence, and rode slowly on, leaving the army below, as he ascended
the path that led to his new principality beyond the Alpuxarras. As
the trees snatched the Moorish cavalcade from the view of the king,
Ferdinand ordered the army to recommence its march; and trumpet and
cymbal presently sent their music to the ear of the Moslems.

Boabdil spurred on at full speed till his panting charger halted at
the little village where his mother, his slaves, and his faithful Amine
(sent on before) awaited him. Joining these, he proceeded without delay
upon his melancholy path.

They ascended that eminence which is the pass into the Alpuxarras. From
its height, the vale, the rivers, the spires, the towers of Granada,
broke gloriously upon the view of the little band. They halted,
mechanically and abruptly; every eye was turned to the beloved scene.
The proud shame of baffled warriors, the tender memories of home--of
childhood--of fatherland, swelled every heart, and gushed from every
eye. Suddenly, the distant boom of artillery broke from the citadel and
rolled along the sunlit valley and crystal river. A universal wail burst
from the exiles! it smote--it overpowered the heart of the ill-starred
king, in vain seeking to wrap himself in Eastern pride or stoical
philosophy. The tears gushed from his eyes, and he covered his face with
his hands.

Then said his haughty mother, gazing at him with hard and disdainful
eyes, in that unjust and memorable reproach which history has
preserved--"Ay,