Chapter 6

'Twas eight stout warriors matched with eight, and ten with valiant ten, As Aliatare formed a band allied with Moslem men, To joust, with loaded canes, that day in proud Toledo's ring, Against proud Adelifa's host before their lord the King. The King by proclamation had announced the knightly play, For the cheerful trumpets sang a truce upon that very day; And Zaide, high Belchite's King, had sworn that war should cease, And with Tarfe of Valentia had ratified the peace. But others spread the news, that flew like fire from tongue to tongue, That the King was doting-mad with love, for then the King was young; And had given to Celindaja the ordering of the day. And there were knights beside the King she loved to see at play. And now the lists are opened and, lo! a dazzling band, The Saracens, on sorrel steeds leap forth upon the sand; Their trailing cloaks are flashing like the golden orange rind, The hoods of green from their shoulders hang and flutter in the wind. They carry targets blazoned bright with scimitars arow, But each deadly blade is deftly made into a Cupid's bow. A shining legend can be seen in letters ranged above; And "Fire and Blood" the motto runs. It speaks of war and love. In double file a company of warriors succeed; The bold Aliatares come mounted on Arab steeds. The livery that they wear is dyed in tint of crimson red; And flower and leaf in white relief its surface overspread. The globe of heaven, which many a star and constellation strow, Borne upon Atlas' shoulders, is the blazon that they show. And a Moor of Aliatar this motto does express, Written upon a streamer, "I Endure through Weariness." The Adelifas follow; a mighty race are they. Their armor is more costly, their mantles are more gay. Of bright carnation is the web, enriched with saffron streaks, And for favors there are fluttering veils upon their helmet peaks. A globe they blazon on their shields, but it is bruised and broke By a savage with a bludgeon, who deals it many a stroke; And a rod, and underneath it this motto tells the tale, All written in Arabian scrip. It says, "The Strong Prevail." The eight Azarques following these into the plaza spring, With air of haughty arrogance they gallop round the ring. Of blue and purple and pale gold are the mantles that they wear, And for plumes they carry amulets that dangle high in air. On their left arm are their targets, painted a dazzling green. The orb of heaven is outlined there on which two hands are seen, The motto, "Green is paramount," is lettered full in view; Its arrogance explains to all those targets' vivid hue. Then foams the King in rage to see his doting love was fleered, And his heart is filled with bitter thought as that proud shield appeared. And he called the warden of his keep, Celin his henchman tried, And he pointed to Azarque, and, flushed with anger, cried-- "The sun upon that haughty shield myself will bid it set; It works some mischief upon me, like an evil amulet." Azarque drew his ready lance, his strong arm hurled it high, The light shaft soared amid the clouds, and vanished in the sky. And those whose vision followed it grew dizzy at the sight, They knew not whither it had flown, nor where it would alight. The ladies of the burgesses at many a window press To see the javelin from his hand rise with such readiness, And those who on the platform were seated with the King Bent back to see how well the cane that gallant Moor could fling. And as Azarque forward rides, as in retreat he flies, "Now, Allah guard thee, gallant knight," with shouts the people cries. "My curse upon him; he shall die," the jealous King replies. But Celindaja paid no heed to all that cavalcade; Her lips were parched, her throat was dry, her heart was sore dismayed. She asked that they would bring her fruit, but yet she strove in vain With juice of any earthly tree to slake her fevered pain. "Now let the sport be ended," the angry King decreed. The joust was late, and every judge in weariness agreed. And as they closed the empty lists, they heard the King's command, "Now seize, now seize Azarque, a traitor to this land." The double lines of cavaliers who led the jousting train Threw down upon the open square the spear of idle cane; Then swiftly seized the lance of steel and couching it for fight, According to the royal wish rode down upon the knight. For arms and plea must ever bootless prove To curb the passions of a king in love.

The other band came forth to save Azarque from his foes, But the stout Moor waves his hand to them ere they in battle close. Then calmly cries: "Tho' love, it seems, has no respect for law, 'Tis right that ye keep peace to-day and from the lists withdraw! Nay, gentlemen, your lances lower before it be too late; And let our foes their lances raise, in sign of passion's hate; Thus without blood accorded be a victory and defeat. 'Tis only bloodshed makes the one more bitter or more sweet, For arms or reason unavailing prove To curb the passions of a king in love."

At last they seize the struggling Moor, the chains are on his hands; And the populace, with anger filled, arrange themselves in bands. They place a guard at every point, in haste to set him free, But where the brave commander who shall lead to victory? And where the leader who shall shout and stir their hearts to fight? These are but empty braggarts, but prowlers of the night, Cut-throats and needy idlers--and so the tumult ends-- Azarque lies in prison, forsaken by his friends. For, ah, both arms and reason powerless prove To turn the purpose of a king in love.

Alone does Celindaja the coward crowd implore, "Oh, save him, save him, generous friends, give back to me my Moor." She stands upon the balcony and from that lofty place Would fling herself upon the stones to save him from disgrace. Her mother round the weeping girl has flung her withered arm. "O fool," she whispers in her ear, "in Mary's name be calm!" Thou madly rushest to thy death by this distracted show. Surely thou knowest well this truth, if anyone can know, How arms and reason powerless prove To turn the purpose of a king in love.

Then came a message of the King, in which the monarch said That a house wherein his kindred dwelt must be a prison made. Then Celindaja, white with rage: "Go to the King and say I choose to be my prison-house for many and many a day, The memory of Azarque, in which henceforth I live: But the treachery of a monarch my heart will not forgive. For the will of one weak woman shall never powerless prove To turn the foolish purpose of a king who is in love.

"Alas for thee, Toledo! in former times they said That they called thee for vengeance upon a traitor's head. But now 'tis not on traitors, but on loyal men and true That they call to thee for vengeance, which to caitiff hearts are due. And Tagus gently murmurs in his billows fresh and free And hastens from Toledo to reach the mighty sea." E'er she said more, they seized the dame, and led her to the gate, Where the warden of the castle in solemn judgment sate.

THE LOVERS OF ANTEQUERA

The brave Hamete reined his steed and from the crupper bent, To greet fair Tartagona, who saw him with content, The daughter of Zulema, who had many a foe repelled From the castle on the hill, which he in Archidora held; For six-and-thirty years he kept the Christian host at bay, A watchful warden, fearless of the stoutest foes' array. And now adown the well-known path, a secret path and sure, Led by the noble lady, hurried the gallant Moor. The sentinels beneath the wall were careless, or they slept; They heeded not Hamete as down the slope he crept. And when he reached the level plain, full twenty feet away, He hobbled fast his courser, lest he should farther stray. Then to the Moorish lady he turned, as if to speak, Around her waist he flung his arms and kissed her on the cheek. "O goddess of my heart," he said, "by actions I will prove, If thou wilt name some high emprise, how faithful is my love! And in Granada I am great, and have much honored been, Both by the King Fernando and Isabel his Queen. My name is high, my lineage long, yet none of all my line Have reached the pitch of glory which men allow is mine. Narvarez is a knight of name, in love and arms adept, In Antequera's castle he well the marches kept. Jarifa was a captive maid, he loved Jarifa well, And oft the maiden visited within her prison cell. And, if the thing with honor and virtuous heart may be, What he did with Jarifa, that would I do with thee." A star was shining overhead upon the breast of night, The warrior turned his course, and led the lady by its light. They reached the foot of one tall rock, and stood within the shade, Where thousand thousand ivy leaves a bower of beauty made. They heard the genet browsing and stamping as he fed, And smiling Love his pinions over the lovers spread. But ere they reached the pleasant bower, they saw before them stand, Armed to the teeth, with frowning face, a strange and savage band. Yes, seventy men with sword in hand surrounded dame and knight, The robbers of the mountain, and they trembled at the sight! With one accord these freebooters upon Hamete fell, Like hounds that on the stag at bay rush at the hunter's call, Burned the Moor's heart at once with wrath, at once with passion's flame, To save the life and, more than life, the honor of his dame. Straight to his feet he sprung and straight he drew his mighty sword, And plunged into the robber crowd and uttered not a word. No jousting game was e'er so brisk as that which then he waged; On arm and thigh with deadly blow the slashing weapon raged; Though certain was his death, yet still, with failing heart, he prayed That till his lady could escape, that death might be delayed. But, in the dark, a deadly stone, flung with no warning sound, Was buried in his forehead and stretched him on the ground. The breath his heaving bosom left and, from his nerveless hand, The sword fell clattering to the ground, before that bloody band. And when the damsel saw herself within those caitiffs' power, And saw the city mantled in the darkness of the hour, No grief that ever woman felt was equal to her pain, And no despair like that of hers shall e'er be known again. Those villains did not see those locks, that shone like threads of gold; Only the summer sunlight their wondrous beauty told. They did not mark the glittering chain of gold and jewels fine, That in the daylight would appear her ivory throat to twine. But straight she took the scimitar, that once her lover wore, It lay amid the dewy grass, drenched to the hilt in gore. And, falling on the bloody point, she pierced her bosom through, And Tartagona breathed her last, mourned by that robber crew. And there she lay, clasping in death her lover's lifeless face, Her valor's paragon, and she the glass of woman's grace. And since that hour the tale is told, while many a tear-drop falls, Of the lovers of the vega by Antequera's walls. And they praise the noble lady and they curse the robber band, And they name her the Lucretia of fair Andalusia's land. And if the hearer of the tale should doubt that it be true, Let him pass along the mountain road, till Ronda comes in view, There must he halt and searching he may the story trace In letters that are deeply cut on the rocky mountain's face.

TARFE'S TRUCE

"Oho, ye Catholic cavaliers Who eye Granada day and night, On whose left shoulder is the cross, The crimson cross, your blazon bright.

"If e'er your youthful hearts have felt The flame of love that brings delight, As angry Mars, in coat of steel, Feels the fierce ardor of the fight;

"If 'tis your will, within our walls, To join the joust, with loaded reed, As ye were wont, beneath these towers The bloody lance of war to speed;

"If bloodless tumult in the square May serve instead of battle's fray, And, donning now the silken cloak, Ye put the coat of steel away;

"Six troops of Saracens are here; Six Christian troops, with targe and steed Be ready, when the day is fixed, To join the jousting of the reed.

"For 'tis not right that furious war, Which sets the city's roofs in flames, Should kindle with a fruitless fire The tender bosom of our dames.

"In spite of all we suffer here Our ladies are with you arrayed, They pity you in this fierce war, This labor of the long blockade.

"Amid the hardships of the siege Let pleasure yield a respite brief; (For war must ever have its truce) And give our hardships some relief.

"What solace to the war-worn frame, To every soul what blest release, To fling aside the targe and mail, And don one hour the plumes of peace!

"And he who shall the victor be Among the jousters of the game, I pledge my knightly word to him, In token of his valorous fame,

"On his right arm myself to bind The favor of my lady bright; 'Twas given me by her own white hand, The hand as fair as it is white."

'Twas thus that Tarfe, valiant Moor, His proclamation wrote at large; He, King Darraja's favored squire, Has nailed the cartel to his targe.

'Twas on the day the truce was made, By Calatrava's master bold, To change the quarters of his camp, And with his foes a conference hold.

Six Moorish striplings Tarfe sent In bold Abencerraje's train-- His kindred both in race and house-- To meet the leaguers on the plain.

In every tent was welcome warm; And when their challenge they display, The master granted their request To join the joust on Easter day.

In courteous words that cartel bold He answered; and a cavalcade Of Christians, with the Moorish guards, Their journey to Granada made.

The guise of war at once was dropped; The armory closed its iron door; And all put on the damask robes That at high festival they wore.

The Moorish youths and maidens crowd, With joyful face, the city square; These mount their steeds, those sit and braid Bright favors for their knights to wear.

Those stern antagonists in war, Like friends, within the town are met; And peacefully they grasp the hand, And for one day the past forget.

And gallant Almarada comes (Not Tarfe's self more brave, I ween), Lord of a lovely Moorish dame, Who rules her lover like a queen.

A hundred thousand favors she In public or in private gives, To show her lover that her life Is Almarada's while she lives!

And once upon a cloudy night, Fit curtain for his amorous mood, The gallant Moor the high hills scaled And on Alhambra's terrace stood.

Arrived, he saw a Moorish maid Stand at a window opened wide; He gave her many a precious gem; He gave her many a gift beside.

He spoke and said: "My lady fair, Though I have never wronged him, still Darraja stands upon the watch, By fair or foul, to do me ill.

"Those eyes of thine, which hold more hearts Than are the stars that heaven displays; That slay more Moors with shafts of love Than with his sword the master slays;

"When will they soften at my smile? And when wilt thou, my love, relent? Let Tarfe go, whose words are big, While his sword-arm is impotent!

"Thou seest I am not such as he; His haughty words, so seldom true, Are filled with boasting; what he boasts This sturdy arm of mine can do.

"My arm, my lance, ah! well 'tis known How oft in battle's darkest hour They saved Granada's city proud From yielding to the Christian's power."

Thus amorous Almarada spoke When Tarfe came and caught the word; And as his ear the message seized, His right hand seized upon his sword.

Yet did he deem some Christian troop Was in the darkness hovering by; And at the thought, with terror struck, He turned in eager haste to fly!

Darraja roused him at the din; And with loud voice to Tarfe spoke; He knew him from his cloak of blue, For he had given the Moor that cloak!

THE TWO MOORISH KNIGHTS

Upon two mares both strong and fleet, White as the cygnet's snowy wing, Beneath Granada's arching gate Passed Tarfe and Belchite's King.

Like beauty marks the dames they serve; Like colors at their spear-heads wave; While Tarfe kneels at Celia's feet, The King is Dorelice's slave.

With belts of green and azure blue The gallant knights are girded fair; Their cloaks with golden orange glow, And verdant are the vests they wear.

And gold and silver, side by side, Are glittering on their garment's hem; And, mingled with the metals, shine The lights of many a costly gem.

Their veils are woven iron-gray, The melancholy tint of woe-- And o'er their heads the dusky plumes Their grief and desolation show.

And each upon his target bears Emblazoned badges, telling true Their passion and their torturing pangs, In many a dark and dismal hue.

The King's device shines on his shield-- A seated lady, passing fair; A monarch, with a downcast eye, Before the dame is kneeling there.

His crown is lying at her feet That she may spurn it in disdain; A heart in flames above is set; And this the story of his pain.

"In frost is born this flame of love"-- Such legend circles the device-- "And the fierce fire in which I burn Is nourished by the breath of ice."

Upon her brow the lady wears A crown; her dexter hand sustains A royal sceptre, gilded bright, To show that o'er all hearts she reigns.

An orb in her left hand she bears, For all the world her power must feel; There Fortune prostrate lies; the dame Halts with her foot the whirling wheel.

But Tarfe's shield is blank and bare, Lest Adelifa should be moved With jealous rage, to learn that he Her Moorish rival, Celia, loved.

He merely blazons on his targe A peaceful olive-branch, and eyes That sparkle in a beauteous face, Like starlets in the autumn skies.

And on the branch of olive shines This legend: "If thy burning ray Consume me with the fire of love, See that I wither not away."

They spurred their horses as they saw The ladies their approach surveyed; And when they reached their journey's end The King to Dorelice said:

"The goddesses who reign above With envy of thy beauty tell; When heaven and glory are thy gifts, Why should I feel the pangs of hell?

"Oh, tell me what is thy desire? And does heaven's light more pleasure bring Than to own monarchs as thy slaves, And be the heiress to a king?

"I ask from thee no favor sweet; Nor love nor honor at thy hand; But only that thou choose me out The servant of thy least command.

"The choicest nobles of the realm The glory of this office crave; The lowliest soldier, with delight, Would die to prove himself thy slave.

"Each life, each heart is at thy feet; Thou with a thousand hearts mayst live; And if thou wouldst not grant my prayer, Oh, take the warning that I give.

"For there are ladies in the court To my desires would fain consent, And lovely Bendarrafa once These jealous words but lately sent:

"'Those letters and those written lines, Why dost thou not their sense divine? Are they not printed on thy heart As thy loved image is on mine?

"'Why art thou absent still so long? It cannot be that thou art dead?'" Then ceased the King and silent stood, While Tarfe to his Celia said:

"Celestial Celia be thy name; Celestial calm is on thy brow; Yet all the radiance of thy face Thy cruelty eclipses now.

"A witch like Circe dost thou seem; For Circe could o'ercloud the sky; Oh, let the sun appear once more, And bid the clouds of darkness fly!

"Ah, would to God that on the feast, The Baptist's consecrated day, I might my arms about thee fling And lead thee from thy home away.

"Yet say not that 'tis in thy power To yield or all my hopes to kill; For thou shalt learn that all the world, In leaguer, cannot bend my will.

"And France can tell how many a time I fought upon the tented field, And forced upon their bended knee Her loftiest paladins to yield.

"I vanquished many a valiant knight Who on his shield the lilies bore; And on Vandalia's plain subdued Of Red Cross warriors many a score.

"The noblest I had brought to yield Upon Granada's gory plain, Did I not shrink with such vile blood The honor of my sword to stain."

At this the trumpets called to arms; Without one farewell word each knight Turned from the lady of his heart And spurred his steed in headlong flight.

THE KING'S DECISION

Amid a thousand sapient Moors From Andalusia came, Was an ancient Moor, who ruled the land, Rey Bucar was his name.

And many a year this sage had dwelt With the lady he loved best; And at last he summoned the Cortes, As his leman made request.

The day was set on which his lords And commoners should meet, And they talked to the King of his wide realm's need, As the King sat in his seat.

And many the laws they passed that day; And among them a law that said That the lover who took a maid for his love The maid of his choice must wed; And he who broke this ordinance Should pay for it with his head.

And all agreed that the law was good; Save a cousin of the King, Who came and stood before him, With complaint and questioning;

"This law, which now your Highness Has on your lieges laid, I like it not, though many hearts It has exultant made.

"Me only does it grieve, and bring Disaster on my life; For the lady that I love the best, Is already wedded wife;

"Wedded she is, wedded amiss; Ill husband has she got. And oft does pity fill my heart For her distressful lot.

"And this one thing I tell thee, King, To none else has it been told: If I think her love is silver, She thinks my love is gold."

Then spake Rey Bucar in reply, This sentence uttered he: "If thy love be wedded wife, the law Hath no penalty for thee."

ALMANZOR AND BOBALIAS

The King Almanzor slept one night, And, oh! his sleep was blest; Not all the seven Moorish kings Could dare to break his rest.

The infante Bobalias Bethought of him and cried: "Now rouse thee, rouse thee, uncle dear! And hasten to my side.

"And bid them fetch the ladders Owned by my sire the King; And the seven mules that carry them Into my presence bring.

"And give to me the seven stout Moors Who shall their harness set, For the love, the love of the countess I never can forget."

"Ill-mannered art thou, nephew, And never wilt amend; The sweetest sleep I ever slept, Thou bringest to an end."

Now they have brought the ladders Owned by his sire the King. And, to bear the load along the road, Seven sturdy mules they bring;

And seven stout Moors, by whom the mules In housings are arrayed. And to the walls of the countess Their journey have they made. There, at the foot of yonder tower, They halt their cavalcade.

In the arms of the count Alminique The countess lay at rest; The infante has ta'en her by the hand, And caught her to his breast.

THE MOORISH INFANTA AND ALFONZO RAMOS

Beneath the shade of an olive-tree Stood the infanta fair; A golden comb was in her hands, And well she decked her hair.