“But she is not alone?”
“I do not know; travellers are plenty in the Alhambra just now!”
“Travellers!” repeated the chief, with a scornful laugh, and the hot blood left his forehead—“the Busne, ha! ha! why not say this before—the little fox, she is at her work there. Aurora is a wife worthy of your count, old mother; hers are the eyes that draw gold from the Busne. But now that I have come back, she must not stay out so late; I would look in her eyes myself, the sly one. Tell here so, mother—at daylight I will be here again.”
Relieved from the sharp feeling of jealousy that had at first possessed him, the gipsy count strode away content and happy—a little disappointed at not seeing his betrothed that night, but rather proud than otherwise, that she was employed in wiling gold by her sweet arts from the people whom it was his duty to hate. The idea that there could be danger or wrong to him, in her adventures with the white travellers it was her duty to delude, never entered his mind. To him, in common with the whole tribe, the idea of an attachment between a gipsy maiden and one of another race was an impossibility. Had my old grandame said that Aurora was out gathering flowers, he might have been less proud, but not better satisfied. The idea of being jealous of a Gentile, a Busne, was impossible.
But my grandmother was of a different nature. She possessed that rare organization which is called genius in civilized life, and magic with us; that exquisite sensitiveness of nerve and thought, which took the shadow of coming events long before they become a reality. This, with her acute wit, her sharp observation, her strange habits of solitary thought, rendered her a wonderful being. It is impossible for me to describe this. I can no more tell you why my grandame possessed the power of feeling what was about to happen, than I could divide the elements that sparkle in a cup of water, but the truth was there. She fancied that her knowledge came through the stars. But in natures endowed like hers, there is something more wonderful than all the stars of heaven can reveal.
What was it that induced her that night to fill that bronze vessel with those strange poisonous herbs? Why did she watch them distill so sadly, and yet with such stern patience? What would the juice of these herbs become? I will tell you another time. Now let us follow my grandmother. She was old, feeble—for years she had not been known to walk half a mile. But that night she went forth alone, creeping down the hill-side, through the hollows along the river’s bank—up, up, like some hungry animal that dared to prowl through those ravines only at night-time. She was almost bent double at times, and looked in truth like a wild animal, but her purpose was strong, and that carried her forward.
CHAPTER IV.
THE MIDNIGHT RAMBLE.
A forest of lilies seemed to have poured both whiteness and fragrance upon the moonbeams as they fell, softly as the flower breathes, on the grim towers and fairy-like courts of the Alhambra. It was not very late, but all about the ruins lay still as midnight. The nightingales had nestled down to sleep among the roses, leaving the air which they had thrilled with music to the mysterious chime of hidden brooklets, the bell-like tinkle of water-drops falling into unseen fountains, and the faint ripple of leaves and roses, as they yielded their voluptuous breath to the night winds.
The sounds that came from the distant city but served to render this solitude more complete. The baying of dogs, the low tinkle of guitars, the faint, hive-like hum that rose up from the dim mass of buildings, seemed all of another world. A spirit looking down upon earth from beyond the stars, could not have felt more completely isolated than a person wandering in the Alhambra after the nightingales were asleep.
Whatever of human life had been hanging about the ruins that day should have disappeared long ago, for travelling was not so common as it is now, and few persons chose to seek the Alhambra after dark. But on this night there was a sound now and then breaking the stillness—the tread of footsteps wandering about the ruins. You heard them at intervals with long pauses, and from various points, as if some one were roaming about within the very walls of the palace.