Thence was born the idea of the embassy to Boabdil. He knew the kings of Granada civilized and cultivated far before those of Tetuan or Tafilet, or even Mequiñez or Mecca—he knew that they had adopted, in many respects, the usages of the Christian cavaliers, and not least among these, their chivalrous courtesy and graceful respect for the fair sex—he knew them powerful and wealthy, and possessed of a land the fairest on the face of the earth, the glorious kingdom of Granada. At this time, although the war had commenced between Ferdinand and the Moorish princes, which was to terminate at no very distant day in the total overthrow of the Saracenic empire in Spain, it as yet lagged indecisively along, with no preponderance of this or the other force; nor could there be any doubt that a declaration on the part of the Sultan of Mequiñez, backed by the reinforcement of a Moorish and Berber, and an active naval warfare along the coasts of Spain, would not only secure Granada from any risk of dismemberment, but even wrest a permanent acknowledgment and durable peace from the Christian kings of the Spanish provinces.
Boabdil was at this time formally unwedded, although, like every other prince or magnate of his people, he had his wives, his concubines, his slaves innumerable. He was notoriously a leaner to the soft side of the heart, a fervent admirer of beauty, and was, moreover, a kind-hearted, gracious and accomplished prince. That he would be captivated by the charms of the incomparable Ayesha, even apart from the advantages which her union would bring to himself and to his people, could not be doubted; and should such an union be accomplished Muley Abderrahman felt well assured that he should have obtained for the darling of his heart all that he desired, freedom of life, a suitable partner, and security for her enjoyment of all her cherished tastes and respected privileges.
Still Muley Abderrahman, wiser than any Moslem father of that age, wiser than most Christian parents of any age, was not inclined to set down his own idea of what should be her good, with his absolute yea! as being her very good. He had, strange thing for a Moor! an idea that a woman has a soul—strange and unorthodox thing for a father! an idea that his daughter had a heart; and that it might not be such a bad thing after all for her ultimate happiness that her heart should be in some degree consulted.
She went, therefore, fancy free and untrammeled even by the knowledge of her father’s wishes, on a visit to her kinsfolk of Granada, entirely unsuspicious that any secret of state policy was connected with the visit to that land of romance and glory, of beauty and adventure, which was to her one long holyday. Of all her train, indeed, there was but one who was privy to the Sultan’s secret wishes old Hadj Abdallah Ibn Ali, the eldest of the sovereign’s councillors, like some, himself a traveler, and like himself, imbued with notions far more liberal than those of his time or country. To him it was entrusted, therefore, while seemingly inattentive to all that was passing, to observe strictly every shadow which might indicate whence the wind was about to blow—to take especial note of Boabdil’s conduct and wishes, and, above all, to omit no opportunity of discovering how the fair Ayesha might stand affected toward her royal cousin.
Gaily and happily had passed the days, the weeks, the months—it was still truce with the Spaniard, and days and nights were consumed in tilts, in tournaments, in hawking-parties on the beautiful green meadows of the Vega, beside the bright and brimful streams, adjuncts so necessary to that royal pastime, that it was known of old as the “Mystery of Rivers”—hunting-parties in the wild gorges of the Alpuxawa mountains, banquets at high noon, and festivals beneath the glimmering twilight, beneath the full-orbed moon, that life was, indeed, one long and joyous holyday. Boabdil was, in truth, of a man a right fair and goodly specimen—tall, finely formed, eminently handsome, graceful and affable in manners, kindly in heart and disposition, not untinctured with arts and letters, nor deficient in any essential which should become a gentle cavalier—as a monarch, when surrounded by his court, and seated in his place of state in the Hall of Lyons, of a truth he was a right royal king—as a warrior, in the tilt-yard his skill, his horsemanship, his management of all weapons, were the admiration of all beholders. In the field his gallantry and valor were incontestable. What, then, was wanting that Boabdil was not a perfect man, a real cavalier, a very king? Purpose, energy, will—will that must have its way, and cannot be denied, much less defeated.
A prince of a quiet realm, in tranquil times he had lived honored and happy, he had been gathered to his fathers among the tears of his people, he had lived in the memory of men as a good man, an admirable king, the father of his people.
Fallen upon evil times, thrust into an eminence for which he not only was, but felt himself to be unfit, unequally matched against such an enemy as Ferdinand, the one weak point outweighed all the fine qualities and noble virtues; and he lived, alas! to be that most miserable, most abject of all human things, a dethroned, exiled, despised king!
And did Ayesha, from beneath the screen of girlish levity, while seemingly steeped to the lips in the rapturous enjoyment of the liberty, the life of the present moment, did Ayesha see and foresee all this? At least, when Hadj Abdallah Ibn Ali wrote to his friend and patron the Sultan, and that but shortly after their arrival, that Boabdil was so evidently and obviously enamored of his mother’s lovely guest, that he would not only too eagerly court the alliance, backed as it was by advantages so kingly, but that he verily believed he would woo her to his throne, were she the merest peasant’s child. He wrote nothing of Ayesha!
Again he wrote that he could not doubt she had perceived her royal cousin’s love, and that her manner toward him was so frank, so free, so unrestrainedly joyous and confiding, that he was well assured that all went well, and that she returned the affection of Boabdil, and rejoiced in his love.
But Muley Abderrahman, shook his head and knit his brow, as he read the letter, and muttered through his thick moustache, “Ay! he is a good man—a good man is the Hadj Abdallah, and a wise one, but he knows nothing of a woman’s heart—how should he?”