CONCLUSION.
Of the secondary characters of this history, enough has been already narrated. Our respect, however, for the memory of the magician, Botello, requires that we should mention two circumstances in relation to his fate, and his chief and most mystical familiar. His unexpected death, instead of destroying his credit among those who survived the Noche Triste, gave him additional claims to respect, even in the grave; for when it was remembered, that the arrows which slew so many Spaniards, were adorned with the feathers of eagles, as well as other birds of prey, they perceived, in his fate, only a confirmation of the juggling subtlety of the fiends that 'palter with us in a double sense.' "Truly," said they, "Botello was borne out of danger on the wings of eagles, as he prophesied, albeit he was borne to heaven." In after days, when Mexico had become the prey of the invader, the lake was dragged for the bones of the Christians who had fallen with him in the nocturnal retreat, which were then deposited, with many religious ceremonies, in ground consecrated for the purpose. In the last ditch, at the very spot where Botello had fallen, a fortunate fisherman hooked up the magic Crystal, the prison of Kalidon-Sadabath; who, greatly to the horror of the finder, began instantly, as of old, to dance, and curvet, and perform other diabolical antics, in his hands. No other conjurer in the army having the skill to interpret the motions of this mysterious imp, his crystal habitation was transmitted, along with divers Mexican rarities, to the shelves of the Escurial, where it was long viewed with wonder and respect, as an instrument contrived by the hands, and devoted to its unearthly uses by the skill, of the celebrated Cornelius Agrippa. A philosopher, who was thought, as was Feyjoó in later days, by his countrymen, to have too little consideration for vulgar prejudices, asserted, after attentive examination, that the marvellous crystal was nothing more than a piece of glass, hollowed by the maker into many singular cavities, wherein was deposited a coloured drop of some volatile liquor, which being, at any time, expanded by the heat of the breath, or of the hand, would instantly dart about, and assume the most fantastic shapes, according to the sinuous vacuities through which it happened to be impelled. This explanation was received with incredulity; but, nevertheless, Kalidon of the Crystal was treated with neglect, and, in course of time, entirely forgotten. We surmise, however, and the conjecture is not without argument, that the Enchanted Crystal, presented, half a century afterwards, by the angel Uriel to the famous English conjurer, Doctor Dee, was no other than this identical stone, filched by the angelic thief from its dusty repository, and given to him who best knew how to put it to its proper uses.
Late in the autumn of the following year, the señor Don Amador de Leste sat watching the sunset of a peaceful day, from a little bower, on a lawn in front of his castle Del Alcornoque. A clump of aged oaks flung their branches over a low, square, and mouldering tower,—the work of the Moorish masters of Spain many a long year back, and a fragment, as it seemed, of some ancient bath or fountain; for a body of pure water still made its way through the disjointed stones, and fell bubbling into a little basin beneath.
The scene, as beheld from this spot, was one of enchanting beauty and repose. The fountain was, perhaps, midway on the slope of a long hill, a few rods in advance of the castle, (with which it was, indeed, connected by a somewhat neglected walk of orange trees,) whose irregular turrets and frowning battlements rose among groups of cork-trees, while a broken forest of these, extended behind, up to and over the crest of the hill. In front, the little valley, wherein was embosomed the silvery Jucar, was bounded now by sharp cliffs and jutting promontories, and now by green lawns, which ran sweeping upwards to the hill-tops on the opposite side. A hazy, smoky atmosphere, warmed into lustre by the sinking luminary, while it mellowed all objects into beauty, did not conceal from the eye the flocks of sheep which dotted the distant slopes, the cattle standing at the river-side, and the groups of peasantry, who adding their songs to the lowing of the herds and the cawing of a flight of crows, urged forward the burthened ass from the vine-tree. A monastery rose in the forest, a little village glimmered pleasantly on the river bank, under the shadow of a cliff; and over the ridges, which shut in the valley to the south, was seen the dim outline of those sierras of Morena, from which might be traced the peaks of the Alpujarras.
Over this fair prospect, the young cavalier looked with pride, for it was the inheritance handed down to him by a long line of ancestors,—not snatched away by violence from vanquished Moors, but reclaimed from them by a bold knight, whose genealogical tree had been rooted in those hills, before Tarik, the Arab, had yet looked upon the Pillars of Hercules. He gazed on it also with joy, for he had learned to love peace; and this seemed the chosen abode of tranquillity.
"It doth indeed appear to me, now," he muttered, "as if my past life were a foolish dream. There is a rapture in this quiet nook, a happiness in this prospect of loveliness and content, entirely beyond any pleasure which I ever experienced in my days of tumult and fame. What can there be, to add a further charm to this paradise?"
Perhaps he muttered this interrogatory in the spirit of an improver and adorner of nature.—It was answered by the fall of a gentle footstep. He looked behind him, and beheld, standing at his back, pausing a moment with patient and yet dignified affection, the fair figure of a woman, who had no sooner caught his eye, than she smiled, and pointed to a female attendant, who bore in her arms, hard by, a sleeping infant. A cross of rubies glittered on the lady's breast.
"If thou didst apprehend, Leila!" said the cavalier, with eyes of joy, "that I reckoned this hill-side a paradise, without thinking of thyself and my young Gabriel, thou didst most grievously wrong me; for I protest to thee, I never cease thinking of ye."