A dreadful carnage ensued. Terror had succeeded the first ebullition of courage, and the Moors perceived their own rout and confusion only when it was too late. Mohabed exerted all his powers to rally his panic-stricken followers, but it was in vain. Disorder and dismay every where prevailed, and the Christians obtained a victory as easy as it was complete. The greater part of the Moors were slain in the field; a few only escaped to carry the disheartening tale to their companions. The rest, with their chief, Mohabed, fell into the hands of the enemy.
The news of this disaster caused the wildest consternation amongst the rebels at Alhaurin and the Sierra Bermeja. El Feri de Benastepar, grieved but not surprised at the unfortunate results of Mohabed's rashness, was active in repairing the loss, but his numbers being so much reduced, he was now more fully confirmed in his design of confining their warfare against the Christians to the Sierra Bermeja. With the vigour of a superior character, he did not feel dejected by this overthrow, as he had not been wildly elated by his previous success. Not so with Cañeri: the total rout of Mohabed, described in the darkest colours by those who had succeeded in effecting their escape, began to awaken apprehensions for his own safety. His fear was considerably aggravated by the arrival of the Alcayde de los Donceles, who, by forced marches, had suddenly made his appearance before Alhaurin, to which he immediately laid siege. The disorder and discontent of the Moors hourly increased, and the absence of the renegade was severely felt.
At this moment the Alcayde de los Donceles sent a herald to summon the rebels to surrender, promising a full pardon should they be willing to lay down their arms and deliver up their chiefs. But in case they neglected to adopt in time this conciliatory measure, it was threatened that they should all be put to the sword, and the town reduced to ashes. Discontent and insubordination now prevailed amongst the rebels. The sense of their danger—the formidable array of the enemy—and above all, the unpopularity of their chief, Cañeri, conspired to render a great portion of the troops willing to accede to the proposals of the Alcayde.
Soon a numerous and powerful cabal was formed, and the malcontents, deciding that their cause was desperate, agreed to surrender. In a large body they proceeded to the palace, and insolently demanded that the gates of the town should be opened to the Christians. Cañeri, and some of his adherents, aware that they were made an exception to the amnesty, were naturally anxious to defend the city, as the only means of averting their fate.
Cañeri, no longer an unruly despot, now crouched to the danger like an abject slave, and in a piteous tone began to expostulate with the mutineers. It was a striking contrast to see the man, who lately was the terror of all, converted into so gentle an animal as to astonish even the Moors when they contemplated the cowardly being who had held them so long in dread. They were not moved by his entreaties; for the supplications of a despot, instead of awakening sympathy, serve only to augment the rage of mankind, by placing in a more striking light his pusillanimity and unworthiness, and the shame of having suffered so despicable a thing to tyrannize over and oppress them.
The uproar and insubordination increased as the term allowed by the Alcayde to effect a surrender was drawing near. All obedience was now disregarded, and a party of the most turbulent resolved to put their chief to death, and, by this means, propitiate the favor of their enemies. Accordingly, with wild exclamations and terrific yells, they surrounded the mansion of Cañeri, and insolently summoned the few Moors who still adhered to him to give up the despot, or that they would immediately commit the palace to the flames. Cañeri, pale, haggard, and trembling, stood like a convicted culprit in the scene of his former brief authority, bewildered with fear, and without knowing what course to pursue. To escape was utterly impossible, the palace being surrounded by the infuriate Moors, and the town beleaguered by the Spaniards. In this emergency he cast an imploring look on his followers, and saw with despair the limited number of his adherents. In vain he attempted to harangue the infuriated throng from the window; he was driven back by a shower of stones and other missiles. In this suspense and agony he remained some time, during which he had the mortification to behold his few remaining friends gradually deserting his side in proportion as the danger became more imminent. All was tumult and anarchy, and the cries which proceeded from without, predicted to Cañeri's ears his approaching and terrible fate. To the curses heaped on his devoted and abhorred person, succeeded the appalling threats and the wild savage laugh of exultation over his near downfall. Those who were formerly the most abject of his slaves, were now more particularly conspicuous in manifesting their revengeful disposition.
The outward gates had now given way to the ponderous hammers with a terrible crash, and the frenzied mutineers rushing impetuously in, traversed the hall and gallery without opposition, and directed their course to the apartment of the chief.
The wretched Cañeri, alike unable to meet his death like a man, by opposing his rebellious soldiers, or to prevent by his own hand the ignominy which threatened him, awaited in stupor the crisis of the bursting storm. Aghast he rolled his starting eyes, glazed with agonized terror; and he saw himself deserted in that dreadful moment by all his dependants. All had forsaken him—all but one man; he alone, in spite of the fate which inevitably awaited his adherence to the fallen chief, still remained faithful to his side: it was Malique. There is an instinctive fidelity, existing sometimes in the most unrefined and barbarous minds, honorable to human nature,—the uncouth Malique was of this stamp; he had received no favors from his master when in prosperity, yet he now scorned to abandon him in adversity.
Cañeri looked at him, and in spite of his forlorn and perilous situation, could not but be moved at the sight of the faithful Malique. The noble minded Moor stood by his side, his scymitar drawn, and evincing on his countenance no signs of terror or dismay. Cañeri, frail as was the protection that could be derived from a single man, still fondly clung to hope with the sordidness of a cowardly mind.
"My faithful Malique," he cried in a tone of agony; "Is there no hope?"