ERDINAND, to whom war was a pastime, had taken the field with all the pomp and circumstance of a tournament.
But the heroic defence of the Moors had given a much more serious aspect to their conquest than he had anticipated.
Nature, too, was on their side. Save towards the sea, at the eastern extremity of Spain, the whole kingdom of Granada is fenced in by almost inaccessible mountains, rugged and barren, broken by dolomite cliffs and dangerous precipices, descending sheer into rocky gorges and dimly lighted valleys—the sentinels of the impenetrable fastnesses which shut in the Moor.
Few were the tracks upon the mountains, and difficult to find. Narrow the gaps which cleave these tremendous ranges towards the plain. So narrow indeed, and walled in by such natural defences, that any army could be shut out by a small force, and as the Moors were accomplished warriors, and fought with a courage never surpassed, each inlet into the land was defended at the sword’s point.
Great had been the vicissitudes of the war of extermination on one side, and of enthusiastic defence of nation, faith, and existence on the other. Years have passed, but the vermilion tower of the Alhambra stands firm, and the Moors come and go in their city with the liberty of free men.
Spite of the fall of Malaga, that great city by the sea, where summer ever reigns, where the Reyes Catolicos were very nearly assassinated by a Moor—Loya, Antequerra, and last of all, Baza, besides many castles and fortresses—each with romantic traditions of bloodshed and warfare—Ferdinand is still encamped on the Vega. For thirty days it has been overrun by his forces, and a region once so exquisite in beauty, and fruitful in corn, olives, orchards, and gardens, has become a scene of desolation and ruin.
Now he has just passed the bridge of Peñas, only two leagues from Granada, after a fierce contest—a famous deed in this bloody war.
By this route the Christians have hitherto made raids into Granada, the bridge being capable of strong resistance on either side, from the long, narrow passage raised high on slender arches, and the ruggedness of the surrounding banks.
Now Ferdinand has called a council of war within his sumptuous tent, literally blazing with purple and gold. A plain man in himself, accused even of a parsimony unfitting in a king, he lives in an age of warlike splendour, and politic in all things and wary of the opinion of those around him, he loves the display of magnificence in the battle-field, to strike awe into the enemy, and raise his own authority among his troops.