“Death perhaps,” answered Aben-Hamet, “but Allah and the Prophet for ever!”
They immediately proceeded to take their ground, and rushed against each other with fury. They were only provided with swords: Aben-Hamet was much less skilful than Don Carlos in combat, but the excellence of his arms, which had been tempered at Damascus, and the fleetness of his Arabian steed, gave him an advantage over his enemy. He gave the reins to his courser in the Moorish manner, and with his large sharp stirrup cut the right leg of Don Carlos’s horse under the knee. The wounded animal fell to the ground, and Don Carlos, dismounted by this fortunate blow, marched against Aben-Hamet, bearing his sword aloft. Aben-Hamet sprang to the ground, and met Don Carlos with intrepidity; he warded off the first blows of the Spaniard, who broke his sword against the Damascus blade; twice disappointed by fortune, Don Carlos shed tears of rage, and called out to his enemy: “Strike, Moor, strike; Don Carlos, although disarmed, defies thee, thee and all thy infidel race.”
“Thou mightest have slain me,” replied the Abencerrage, “but I never thought of giving thee the slightest wound. I only wished to prove to thee that I was worthy of being thy brother, and to prevent thee from despising me.”
At that instant, they perceived a cloud of dust: it was Lautrec and Blanca, who were spurring on two mares of Fez, fleeter than the wind. On arriving at the Fountain of the Pine, they saw the combat suspended.
“I am vanquished,” said Don Carlos, “this knight has given me my life. Lautrec, you will perhaps be more fortunate than I?”
“My wounds,” replied Lautrec, in a noble and dignified tone of voice, “allow me to decline the combat with this courteous knight. I have no wish,” added he, with a blush, “to learn the subject of your quarrel, or to penetrate a secret which would probably be a deathblow to myself; my absence will speedily cause peace to be restored between you, at least unless it be Blanca’s orders that I should remain at her feet.”
“Sir knight,” said Blanca, “you must remain with my brother: you must look upon me as your sister. The hearts of all present are suffering deeply; you will learn from us to bear the ills of life.”
Blanca wished to constrain the three knights to shake each other’s hands; all three refused to do so. “I hate Aben-Hamet,” exclaimed Don Carlos. “I envy him,” said Lautrec. “And I,” said the Abencerrage, “I esteem Don Carlos, and I pity Lautrec; but I can love neither of them.”
“Let us continue to see each other,” said Blanca, “and sooner or later friendship will follow esteem. Let the fatal event which has brought us here be for ever unknown at Granada.”
From that moment Aben-Hamet became a thousand times dearer to the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé: love delights in valour. Nothing was now wanting to the Abencerrage, since he had shown himself brave, and Don Carlos owed his life to him. Aben-Hamet, by the advice of Blanca, abstained from appearing at the palace for several days, to allow the wrath of Don Carlos time to cool. A mixture of mild and bitter feelings filled the soul of the Abencerrage; if, on the one hand, the certainty of being loved with so much fidelity and ardour was to him an inexhaustible source of delight; on the other, the certainty of never being happy without renouncing the religion of his fathers weighed heavily on the courage of Aben-Hamet. Years had already elapsed without bringing any relief to his sufferings: should he see the rest of his life pass away in the same manner?