es and hamlets he spread
sorrow around, for their chosen men had followed the king to the wars.

When he entered the gates of Granada and announced the loss of the king
and army, a voice of horror went throughout the city. Every one thought
but of his own share in the general calamity, and crowded round the
bearer of ill tidings. One asked after a father, another after a
brother, some after a lover, and many a mother after her son. His
replies all spoke of wounds and death. To one he replied, "I saw thy
father pierced with a lance as he defended the person of the king;" to
another, "Thy brother fell wounded under the hoofs of the horses, but
there was no time to aid him, for the Christian cavalry were upon
us;" to another, "I saw the horse of thy lover covered with blood and
galloping without his rider;" to another, "Thy son fought by my side on
the banks of the Xenil: we were surrounded by the enemy and driven into
the stream. I heard him cry upon Allah in the midst of the waters: when
I reached the other bank he was no longer by my side."

Cidi Caleb passed on, leaving all Granada in lamentation: he urged
his steed up the steep avenue of trees and fountains that leads to the
Alhambra, nor stopped until he arrived before the Gate of Justice. Ayxa,
the mother of Boabdil, and Morayma, his beloved and tender wife, had
daily watched from the Tower of Comares to behold his triumphant return.
Who shall describe their affliction when they heard the tidings of Cidi
Caleb? The sultana Ayxa spake not much, but sat as one entranced. Every
now and then a deep sigh burst forth, but she raised her eyes to heaven.
"It is the will of Allah!" said she, and with these words endeavored
to repress the agonies of a mother's sorrow. The tender Morayma
threw herself on the earth and gave way to the full turbulence of her
feelings, bewailing her husband and her father. The high-minded Ayxa
rebuked the violence of her grief. "Moderate these transports, my
daughter," said she; "remember magnanimity should be the attribute
of princes: it becomes not them to give way to clamorous sorrow, like
common and vulgar minds." But Morayma could only deplore her loss with
the anguish of a tender woman. She shut herself up in her mirador, and
gazed all day with streaming eyes upon the Vega. Every object recalled
the causes of her affliction. The river Xenil, which ran shining amidst
groves and gardens, was the same on whose banks had perished her
father, A