At dawn in the morning we left for the city of Alkazar. The weather was dark. The gorgeous colors of the soldiers of our escort shone out with marvellous force against the gray sky and the dark green of the country. Hamed Ben Kasen Buhamei planted himself upon a height above the road and looked complacently down upon the brilliant cavalcade as they filed by in close order, silent, grave, with eyes fixed upon the horizon, like the advance guard of an army on the morning of a battle. For some time we rode among olive-trees and high bushes; then we entered a vast plain all covered with flowers, violet and yellow, where the escort scattered to go through the lab-el-barode. It would be impossible to convey an idea of the strange beauty of the spectacle upon that flowery plain, under the threatening sky. I can scarcely believe that they had any rule by which they grouped themselves and dissolved again to form new combinations, but that morning I fancied it. One would have sworn that their movements were directed by a ballet-master. In the midst of a group of blue mantles there would appear, as if sent on purpose, one in a white cloak; and a company of white caftans surrounded a figure in brilliant rose-color, looking as if made by the stroke of an artist’s brush. Harmonious colors followed, met, and mingled for the space of a moment, and then dissolved to form new harmonies. The three hundred seemed multiplied into an army; they were everywhere wheeling and swooping like a flock of birds; and the two painters were driven to despair by them.
“Ah, canaglie!”—exclaimed one,—“if I only had you in my clutch at Florence!”
CHAPTER IV.
ALKAZAR-EL-KEBIR.
At a certain point the ambassador made a sign to the caid, and the escort came to a stand, while we, accompanied by a few soldiers, went a short distance beyond to visit the ruins of a bridge. The place was worthy of the silent respect with which we stood and viewed the little that remained of what was once a bridge. Three hundred years ago, on the fourth of August, over those flowery fields, fifty cannon and forty thousand horsemen thundered and charged under the command of one of the greatest captains of Africa, and the youngest, the most adventurous, the most unfortunate of European monarchs. On the shores of that river were put to death—by the implacable scimitars of Arabs, Turks, and Berbers—the flower of the Portuguese nobility, courtiers, bishops, Spanish soldiers, and soldiers of William of Orange, Italian, German, and French adventurers. Six thousand Christians fell that day. We stood upon the field of that terrible battle of Alkazar, which spread consternation throughout Europe, and sent a shout of joy from Fez to Constantinople. Over that bridge passed at that time the road to Alkazar. Near it was the camp of Muley Moluk, Sultan of Morocco. Muley Moluk came from Alkazar, the King of Portugal from Arzilla. The battle was fought upon that plain, and along the shores of the river. Beyond the ruins of the bridge there was not a stone or a sign to record it. From which side had the cavalry of the Duke of Riveiro made its first victorious charge? Where had Muley Ahmed fought the brother of the Sultan, the future conqueror of the Soudan, a captain suspected of cowardice in the morning, a victorious monarch in the evening? At what point on the river was drowned Mohammed the Black, the dis-crowned fratricide and provoker of the war? At what angle of the field had King Sebastian received those death-wounds that killed with him the independence of Portugal and the last hopes of Camoens? And where stood the litter of Sultan Moluk when he expired among his officers, with his finger on his lip? Whilst these thoughts were passing through our minds, the escort stood afar off, motionless on that famous field, like a handful of Muley Ahmed’s cavalry brought to life by the noise of our passage. And yet very likely not one among those soldiers knew that this had been the battlefield of three kings, the glory of their ancestors; and when we resumed our march, they glanced about with curious eyes, as if seeking among the grass and flowers for the reason of our halt.
We crossed the Mkhacem and the Uarrur, two small affluents of the Kus, or Lukkos, the Lixos of the ancients, which from the mountains of the Rif where it is born, throws itself into the Atlantic at Laracce; and continued our way toward Alkazar over a succession of arid hills, meeting only an occasional camel with his driver.
At last, we thought as we rode along, we shall arrive at a city! It was three days since we had seen a house, and every one felt a wish to get away for a day from the monotony of desert life. Besides, Alkazar was the first of the towns of the interior that we should reach, and our curiosity was very lively. The escort fell into order as we approached the place. We almost unconsciously ranged ourselves in two ranks, with the ambassador in front flanked by his two interpreters. The weather had cleared up, and a cheerful impatience animated the whole caravan.
Suddenly, from the top of a hill, we saw in the plain below, surrounded by gardens, the city of Alkazar, crowned with towers, minarets, and palms, and at the same moment there burst forth the cracking of musketry and the sound of a most infernal din of music.
It was the governor coming to meet us with his staff, a company of foot-soldiers, and a band of music. In a few minutes we met.
Ah! He who has not seen the Alkazar band, with its ten pipers, and horn-players, old men of a hundred years and boys of ten, all mounted on donkeys about as large as dogs, ragged and half naked, with their shaven heads, their satyr-like gestures, their mummy faces, has not seen, I think, the most sadly comic spectacle that can be witnessed under the wide sky.
Whilst the aged governor was giving welcome to our chief, the soldiers fired their muskets in the air, and the band continued to play. We advanced to within half a mile of the city, to an arid field where the tents were to be pitched.