And the old king, far distant, saw more of what was passing in the fair girl’s heart than the wise councillor who was present—but he judged it best to tarry and abide the event—and he tarried, but not long. Had he been present on that sultry summer’s evening, and looked upon his lovely child as she sat gazing out in such serenity of deep abstraction over the sunny Vega—over the fragrant orange groves and glowing vineyards, toward the glistening hill-tops of the Spaniards—his question would have answered itself, and at the first glance he would have seen that she loved. The child had discovered that it had a heart—the creature had divined that it had an immortal soul—the child had become a woman—a very woman. With all a woman’s smiles and tears, And fearful hopes and hopeful fears, And doubts and prayers for future years. Leila Ayesha loved—but whom? At least not Boabdil! Happily, not Boabdil. Even as she gazed, the orb of the gorgeous sun sank behind the distant hills, and at once—clear, shrill, and most melodious—up went the voice of the Muezzins, from every minaret throughout the gorgeous city, “To prayer, to prayer. There is no God but God, and Mahomet is his prophet. Faithful, to prayer, to prayer!” And instant at the cry every sound ceased through the royal residence—every sound through the splendid city—every sound through the wide Vega. Every turbaned head was bowed in prayer, and a sabbath stillness seemed to consecrate the bridal of the earth and sky. Ayesha rose from her divan, and while her lips murmured the words of devotion, and her fingers ran rapidly over the beads of her Comboloic or Moorish rosary, a strange, faltering flush ran over her fair brow. Her orisons ended, she caught some of the spray of the fountain in the palm of one of her fairy hands, and scattered it thrice over her long, dark tresses, on which it glistened in the soft moonbeams; for the moon now alone occupied the heavens, on the fragrant hills of the black hyacinth. Again she resumed her attitude on the divan, but not her occupation; for the mood of her mind was altered, and for a while she hummed the burthen of an old, melancholy Moorish ballad—an old Moorish love-song, the words of which corresponded in no small degree to our own, “Oh! willow, willow”—since the proverb still holds good of burned Morocco or bright Spain, as of green, merry England— “For aught that I did ever hear— Did ever read in tale or history, The course of true love never did run true.”