“Then you never think of me in connection with that infernal hollow yonder?” questioned the young man.
“What, yonder? Oh, no, within the darkness that was once my home, surrounded by those strong, fierce men, grimed with iron dust, and smelling of the mules they have been tending—I fold you deep in my heart, afraid to turn my thoughts that way—I bury you in my sleep, and strive not to exist till I can escape hither. It seems like two worlds, this, where you sometimes come, and yonder where I cannot even think of you.”
“But here you are happy even though I am not present.”
“Ah, yes, here I am free—here I have such dreams—oh, a thousand times brighter than any that ever come to my sleep. Sometimes I think these soft, sweet dreams are better than being with you.”
“And in these dreams are we ever separated?” questioned the youth, pursuing the same undercurrent of thought that had swept through his bosom all that evening. But she did not take his meaning; the time for reflection had not arrived; she was too busy with her own sensations for anything but dreams.
“Separated! oh, no. What would the brightest of these dreams be worth if you were not in the midst? I love to come up here just before nightfall, when the snowy top of Sierra Nevada seems sprinkled with roses, and a soft floating haze, now purple, now golden, settles upon the plain, the hills, and the beautiful old city—when the insects are nestling themselves down to sleep, and the nightingales send gushes of music through the woods. How I love to sit here, perfectly alone, while the colors float together in soft masses on the walls around, and all this vast heap of ruin shapes itself into beauty again.
“Then all that is ruinous, all that is gloomy disappears; the marble pillars glitter with gold again, a network of snow breaks over these paintings. From that marble slab in the corner, perforated in a hundred places, floats up a cloud of perfume. I feel it in my garments, and penetrating the folds of my hair. I go forth. We go forth, for you are always by my side. The long colonnade yonder glitters in the twilight; the filagree arches are tipped with a rosy hue. The shadows are all of a faint purple; the pavements gleam beneath our feet like beds of precious stones. The nightingales are heard more faintly as we penetrate deep into the building, overpowered by the silvery rush of fountains at play in the courts.
“The myrtle hedges rustle softly as we pass into the Court of Lions. There in my dreams I replace all that has been torn away; the hundred slender columns that support those filagree arches are once more burnished with gold. The old tints break out afresh from the capitals, wreathing their endless variety with radiant colors. The azulejo pillars glowing like twisted rainbows, all come back softened by a mental haze that creeps over me at such times.
“We leave the court—pass on through those wonderful arches, and enter the saloons which people say were once the most private retreat of the Moorish kings. But they are never in my mind—those dead monarchs. It is for another—only one—that I heap those alcoves in which sultanas have slept with silken cushions, and mingle cool drinks from the snows of Alpujarras; those decorations upon the wall, so like the rare antique lace with which queens adorn themselves—that saloon, with its great pillars of marble gleaming in the light like solid masses of pearl, and crowned with ornaments so rich, that when broken to pieces each fragment is a marvel of itself. Even these are not beautiful enough for one whom my soul makes lord of all!
“For him I bring back the past. Rare colors start up, fresh and vivid, from under that exquisite lace-work, where you can just see that they have existed. Stalactites starred with gold penetrate downward like a rich conglomeration of pearls escaping through a thousand rainbows embedded in the ceiling. It is a luxury to breathe the air in these rooms, so rich with perfumes, yet kept so pure and cool by the innumerable fountains that penetrate every corner with their dreamy murmurs.”