His very dress is recorded. A dark mantle over an Eastern tunic of embroidered silk, a regal crown attached to his turban, and in his hand two keys. (Thus he is represented on a stone carving in the Capilla Real in the cathedral.)
Before the little mosque, Los Reyes Catolicos await him. They are also on horseback: Isabel rides a white jennet, richly caparisoned. Her grand head bound by a jewelled coif, forming a regal coronet, her face radiant, her queenly form erect.
Ferdinand is beside her, with a sparkle in his cunning eye, which the rigid canons of courtly reserve cannot master, so triumphant does he feel.
Beside them is their young daughter, Catalina, to become wife of Henry the Eighth, and her gallant brother, the delicate Infante, lately knighted by his father upon the battle-field, and around, a brilliant group of valiant knights: Ponce de Leon, browned by the long war, the faultless-featured; Gonsalvo de Cordoba, that king of men, who, young as he is, has been entrusted with the negotiations with Boabdil; Medina Sidonia, of the noble race of Guzman; the Marqués de Villena, Fernandez, Cifuentes Cabra, Tendila, and Monte Mayor.
Behind press in three hundred Christian captives released at the signing of the treaty, besides bishops, monks, cardinals, statesmen, veterans, grown grey in war, Asturian arquebusiers, Aragonese sharpshooters, lances, banners, battle-axes, croziers, crosses, and blood-stained trophies, all backed by the red walls of the Alhambra towering on the hills.
Hurriedly dismounting from his horse, the unhappy Boabdil would kneel and kiss Ferdinand’s hand, but he generously forbids it. Then the poor humbled monarch offers the same homage to Isabel, who also graciously declines it, a wan smile breaking over his haggard face, for in her hand she holds that of his little son—detained as a hostage at Sante Fé—whom he seizes and embraces.
And now the moment has come when he must deliver up the insignia of royalty, and, with the natural dignity which so rarely forsakes an Oriental he tenders the keys of the Alhambra.
“Take them,” he says, “you have conquered. Thus, O King and Queen! receive our kingdom and our person! Allah is great! Use us with the clemency you have promised. Be merciful as you are strong!”
At these words, uttered as by a dying man, Isabel’s great heart melts, and her eyes fill with tears.
Not so the astute Ferdinand. With difficulty he can suppress his joy; he knows too well the crafty part he meant to play with Boabdil and his kingdom, and his appealing words grate on his ears.