The generous Lautrec, who saw the eyes of the Abencerrage turned involuntarily towards the sword of Boabdil, said to him, “Knight of the Moors, had I anticipated the honour of your presence at this fête, I would not have received you here. One loses a sword every day, and I have seen the bravest of monarchs deliver up his to his fortunate enemy.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the Moor, hiding his face with a corner of his robe, “one might lose it like Francis I., but like Boabdil!...”
Night came on, lights were brought, and the conversation took another turn. Don Carlos was requested to relate the discovery of Mexico. He spoke of that unknown world with the pompous eloquence which is natural to the Spanish nation. He related the misfortunes of Montezuma, the manners of the Americans, the prodigies of Spanish valour, and even the cruelties of his countrymen, which did not, in his eyes, seem to deserve either praise or blame.
These narratives delighted Aben-Hamet, whose passion for marvellous tales betrayed his Arabian blood. When it came to his turn, he gave a picture of the Ottoman empire, newly established on the ruins of Constantinople, bestowing a tribute of passing regret to the first empire of Mahomet; the happy days when the Commander of the Faithful saw shining around him Zobeide, Flower of Beauty, Jalib al Koolloob, Fetnah and the generous Ganem, Love’s Slave. As to Lautrec, he painted the gallant court of Francis I., the arts reviving from the midst of barbarism, the honour, the loyalty, the chivalry of the olden time, joined to the politeness of civilized ages, the Gothic turrets ornamented with the Grecian orders, and the French ladies setting off their rich dresses with Athenian elegance.
After this conversation, Lautrec, wishing to amuse the divinity of the entertainment, took his guitar, and sang this romance[5] which he had composed to one of the mountain airs of his country:
Oft to my birthplace mem’ry’s glance
Will turn, and my rapt soul entrance!
Sister, how sweet the minutes rolled
In France!
My country! thee more dear I hold
Than gold.
Rememb’rest thou how to her breast
Our mother both her children prest,
And how her bright white looks would glister?
How blest!
While we with lips of love, sweet sister!
Kiss’d her.
Rememb’rest thou that castle dear,
By which the swift stream flowed; and near,
That Moorish tow’r, with age so worn,
From where
The trumpet sounded when the morn
Was born?
Rememb’rest thou that tranquil lake
Which the swift swallow skimmed to slake
His thirst; where zephyr the sweet rose
Would shake;
And Sol’s last rays at evening’s close
Repose?
Oh! who my Helen back will yield,
My native hill, my oak-crowned field?
Their mem’ry keeps my heart-wounds old
Unhealed;
My country! thee more dear I’ll hold
Than gold.
As he finished the last couplet, Lautrec, with his glove, brushed away the tear which the recollection of the gentle land of France extorted from him. The regret of the handsome prisoner was warmly participated by Aben-Hamet, who deplored as well as Lautrec the loss of his country. When requested to take the guitar in his turn, he excused himself, by saying that he only knew one romance, which would not be at all agreeable to Christian ears.
” If it is a song of the infidels smarting under our victories,” said Don Carlos scornfully, “you may sing it; tears are allowed to the vanquished.”
“Yes,” said Blanca, “and that is the reason why our ancestors, while they were under the Moorish yoke, have left us so many complaints.”
Aben-Hamet then sang this ballad, which he had learned from a poet of the tribe of the Abencerrages.[6]