rison put him to death and received El Zagal with
acclamations. The latter rushed through the apartments of the Alcazar,
but he sought in vain for Boabdil. He found the sultana Ayxa la Horra
in one of the saloons with Aben Haxig, a younger brother of the monarch,
and several Abencerrages, who rallied round them to protect them. "Where
is the traitor Boabdil?" exclaimed El Zagal.

"I know no traitor more perfidious than thyself," exclaimed the intrepid
sultana; "and I trust my son is in safety, to take vengeance on thy
treason."

The rage of El Zagal was without bounds when he learnt that his intended
victim had escaped. In his fury he slew the prince Aben Haxig, and his
followers fell upon and massacred the Abencerrages. As to the proud
sultana, she was borne away prisoner and loaded with revilings as having
upheld her son in his rebellion and fomented a civil war.

The unfortunate Boabdil had been apprised of his danger by a faithful
soldier just in time to make his escape. Throwing himself on one of his
fleetest horses and followed by a handful of adherents, he galloped in
the confusion out of the gates of Almeria. Several of the cavalry of El
Zagal, stationed without the walls, perceived his flight and attempted
to pursue him; their horses were jaded with travel, and he soon left
them far behind. But whither was he to fly? Every fortress and castle
in the kingdom of Granada was closed against him; he knew not whom among
the Moors to trust, for they had been taught to detest him as a traitor
and an apostate. He had no alternative but to seek refuge among the
Christians, his hereditary enemies. With heavy heart he turned his
horse's head toward Cordova. He had to lurk, like a fugitive, through a
part of his own dominions, nor did he feel himself secure until he
had passed the frontier and beheld the mountain-barrier of his country
towering behind him. Then it was that he became conscious of his
humiliated state--a fugitive from his throne, an outcast from his
nation, a king without a kingdom. He smote his breast in an agony of
grief. "Evil indeed," exclaimed he, "was the day of my birth, and truly
I was named El Zogoybi, the Unlucky."

He entered the gates of Cordova with downcast countenance and with
a train of but forty followers. The sovereigns were absent, but the
cavaliers of Andalusia manifested that sympathy in the misfortunes
of the monarch which becomes men of lofty and chivalrous souls. They
received him