“Prove to me thy power,” said Boabdil, awed less by the words than by the thrilling voice and the impressive aspect of the enchanter.
“Is not the king’s will my law?” answered Almamen; “be his will obeyed. To-morrow night I await thee.”
“Where?”
Almamen paused a moment, and then whispered a sentence in the king’s ear: Boabdil started, and turned pale.
“A fearful spot!”
“So is the Alhambra itself, great Boabdil; while Ferdinand is without the walls and Muza within the city.”
“Muza! Darest thou mistrust my bravest warrior?”
“What wise king will trust the idol of the king’s army? Did Boabdil fall to-morrow by a chance javelin, in the field, whom would the nobles and the warriors place upon his throne? Doth it require an enchanter’s lore to whisper to thy heart the answer in the name of ‘Muza’?”
“Oh, wretched state! oh, miserable king!” exclaimed Boabdil, in a tone of great anguish. “I never had a father. I have now no people; a little while, and I shall have no country. Am I never to have a friend?”
“A friend! what king ever had?” returned Almamen, drily.