He then proceeded to the village of Armilla, where the queen Isabella remained with her escort and attendants. The queen, like her husband, declined all acts of homage, and received him with her accustomed grace and benignity. She at the same time delivered to him his son, who had been held as a hostage for the fulfilment of the capitulation. Boabdil pressed his child to his bosom with tender emotion, and they seemed mutually endeared to each other by their misfortunes.*
* Zurita, Anales de Aragon, lib. 20, cap. 92.
Having rejoined his family, the unfortunate Boabdil continued on toward the Alpuxarras, that he might not behold the entrance of the Christians into his capital. His devoted band of cavaliers followed him in gloomy silence, but heavy sighs burst from their bosoms as shouts of joy and strains of triumphant music were borne on the breeze from the victorious army.
Having rejoined his family, Boabdil set forth with a heavy heart for his allotted residence in the valley of Purchena. At two leagues’ distance the cavalcade, winding into the skirts of the Alpuxarras, ascended an eminence commanding the last view of Granada. As they arrived at this spot the Moors paused involuntarily to take a farewell gaze at their beloved city, which a few steps more would shut from their sight for ever. Never had it appeared so lovely in their eyes. The sunshine, so bright in that transparent climate, lit up each tower and minaret, and rested gloriously upon the crowning battlements of the Alhambra, while the Vega spread its enamelled bosom of verdure below, glistening with the silver windings of the Xenil. The Moorish cavaliers gazed with a silent agony of tenderness and grief upon that delicious abode, the scene of their loves and pleasures. While they yet looked a light cloud of smoke burst forth from the citadel, and presently a peal of artillery, faintly heard, told that the city was taken possession of, and the throne of the Moslem kings was lost for ever. The heart of Boabdil, softened by misfortunes and overcharged with grief, could no longer contain itself. “Allah Akbar! God is great!” said he but the words of resignation died upon his lips and he burst into tears.
The mother, the intrepid Ayxa, was indignant at his weakness. “You do well,” said she, “to weep like a woman for what you failed to defend like a man.”
The vizier Aben Comixa endeavored to console his royal master. “Consider, senor,” said he, “that the most signal misfortunes often render men as renowned as the most prosperous achievements, provided they sustain them with magnanimity.”
The unhappy monarch, however, was not to be consoled; his tears continued to flow. “Allah Akbar!” exclaimed he, “when did misfortune ever equal mine?”
From this circumstance the hill, which is not far from Padul, took the name of Feg Allah Akbar, but the point of view commanding the last prospect of Granada is known among Spaniards by the name of “El ultimo suspiro del Moro,” or “The last sigh of the Moor.”