In the evening they returned to Granada by the valley of the Darro. Don Rodrigo was so delighted with the noble and polished manners of Aben-Hamet, that he would not let him depart without receiving his promise to come frequently and amuse Blanca with the wonderful stories of the East. The Moor, at the height of his wishes, accepted the invitation of the Duke of Santa Fé; and, beginning with the following day, he was regular in his visits to the palace where she breathed whom he loved more than the light of day.
Blanca found her heart very soon engaged in a deep passion, from the very impossibility she had fancied that ever she should feel that passion. That any one should love an infidel, a Moor, an unknown stranger, appeared to her so extraordinary, that she took no precaution against the malady which began to insinuate itself into her veins. But no sooner did she become sensible of its inroads, than she accepted this malady like a true Spaniard. The dangers and troubles, which she foresaw, neither made her draw back when on the brink of the precipice, nor deliberate long with her heart. She said to herself: “Let Aben-Hamet become a Christian, let him love me, and I will follow him to the extremity of the earth.”
On his part, the Abencerrage also felt the full power of an irresistible passion: he no longer lived but for Blanca; he no longer occupied himself with the plans which had brought him to Granada. It was easy for him to obtain the information which he came expressly in pursuit of: but every other interest, except that of his love, had vanished from his eyes. He even dreaded the knowledge which might produce a change in his mode of existence. He asked for nothing; he wished not to know anything. He said to himself: “Let Blanca become a Mahometan, let her love me, and I will serve her to my last sigh.”
Thus determined in their resolutions, Aben-Hamet and Blanca only waited for a favourable moment to discover their mutual sentiments to each other. It was then the best time of the year. “You have not yet seen the Alhambra,” said the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé to the Abencerrage. “If I can guess, by some words which have dropped from you, your family is originally from Granada. You will perhaps be pleased to visit the palace of your ancient kings? I will myself, this evening, be your guide thither.”
Aben-Hamet swore, by the prophet, that no excursion could ever be more agreeable to him.
When the hour appointed for this pilgrimage to the Alhambra arrived, the daughter of Don Rodrigo mounted a white hackney, accustomed to climb the rocks like a deer. Aben-Hamet accompanied the brilliant Spaniard on an Andalusian horse, equipped in the Turkish manner. In the rapid course of the young Moor, his purple robe swelled out behind him, his crooked sabre echoed on the elevated saddle, and the wind shook the plume with which his turban was surmounted. The common people, charmed by his graceful carriage, said as they saw him pass: “It is an infidel prince whom Donna Blanca is going to convert.”
They first went up a long street which still bore the name of an illustrious Moorish family. This street bordered on the exterior inclosure of the Alhambra. They then crossed a wood of young elm-trees, arrived at a fountain, and shortly found themselves in front of the interior inclosure of the palace of Boabdil. In a wall flanked with towers and surmounted by battlements, was a gate called the Gate of Judgement. They passed through this first gate, and proceeded along a narrow road which led them in a serpentine course between high walls and half-ruined hovels. This road brought them to the square of the Algibes, close to which Charles V. was then erecting a palace. From thence, turning northward, they halted in a deserted court, at the foot of an unornamented wall, out of repair from the effects of time. Aben-Hamet, springing lightly to the ground, presented his hand to Blanca, and assisted her in alighting from her mule. The servants knocked at a deserted door, the threshold of which was concealed by the grass; the door opened, and all at once disclosed to view the secret recesses of the Alhambra.
All the charms of, and regrets for, his country, mingled with the glamour of love, seized the heart of Aben-Hamet. Silent and immovable, his wondering looks dived into this habitation of the genii. He fancied himself transported to the entrance of one of those palaces the account of which one reads in the Arabian tales. Light galleries, canals of white marble bordered with lemon and orange-trees in full bloom, fountains, and solitary courts, presented themselves in all directions to the eyes of Aben-Hamet; and through the lengthened vaults of the porticoes he perceived other labyrinths and fresh enchantments. The azure of the most beautiful sky appeared between the columns, which supported a chain of Gothic arches. The walls were covered with arabesques, which seemed to the eye like imitations of those stuffs of the East, which, in the ennui of the harem, are embroidered by the caprice of a female slave. An air of voluptuousness, of religion, and of war, seemed to breathe in this magic edifice; it was a species of lovers’ cloister, a mysterious retreat, where the Moorish sovereigns tasted all the pleasures, and forgot all the duties of life.
After some minutes of surprise and silence, the two lovers entered into this residence of fallen greatness and past felicities. They first made the round of the hall of Mexuar, in the midst of the perfume of flowers and the freshness of waters. They then penetrated into the Court of Lions. The agitation of Aben-Hamet increased at every step. “Didst thou not fill my soul with delight,” said he to Blanca, “with what pain should I find myself obliged to ask of thee, a Spaniard, the history of this palace! Ah! these places are made to serve as a retreat for happiness, and I!...”
Aben-Hamet perceived the name of Boabdil enchased in the mosaics: “ O my king!” exclaimed he, “what is become of thee? where shall I find thee in thy deserted Alhambra?” And tears of fidelity, of loyalty, and of honour suffused the eyes of the young Moor. “Your old masters,” said Blanca, “or rather the kings of your fathers, were ungrateful.”—” What matter!” returned the Abencerrage, “they were unfortunate!”