Ere long from the city gates far distant was heard the din of martial music—first, the deep clang of the kettle-drums and atabals alone, and the clear flourish of the silver trumpets which announced the presence of the king, and these only at intervals above or between the trampling of hoofs, the clash of armor, and the cheering of an excited multitude. Anon nearer and nearer came the sounds, with the clash of cymbals and the soft symphonies of lutes, and the clear, high notes of flutes and clarionets among the clangor of the trumpets, and the brazen rattling of the drums. Nearer and nearer yet—and it is now at the Alhambra gates. She started to her feet, and leaned far out of the embrasure commanding all the city, but her eye marked one object only, the royal train filing into the palace gates, from the royal sports on the Vega ended—and in that train, on but one person. It was no turbaned head or caftaned form on which that ardent eye was fixed, now kindled into all a Moresca’s ecstacy of passion; it was on a tall Spanish crest and lofty plume. And, as if by a secret instinct, as her gaze was bent downward to the horse-shoe arch of the Alhambra gate, his glance soared upward to the airy turret’s top, and readily detected what would have escaped a less observant watcher, the dark eyes of his fair Ayesha gleaming through the palm-leaves and passion-flowers; their passionate fire half quenched by the tears of tenderness and hope. His Ayesha—his—the Conde of Alarcos, proudest grandee of Spain—the favorite child of the Spaniard’s deadliest foe, the Sultan of Morocco. The Hadj Abdallah Ibn Ali’s next dispatch contained much important tidings concerning a twenty years’ truce to be concluded between the King Boabdil, of Granada, and the King Ferdinand, of Spain—and much graver gossip of the noble Conde of Alarcos, Ferdinand’s ambassador; of his high feats of arms, and gentle feats of courtesy—of how all the court admired him, and how the Lady Ayesha shunned him, and how she was less frequent at the falconry, less frequent at the chase, less frequent at the festival, less frequent at the royal banquets—and how her hand-maidens reported that their mistress sighed all the time and often wept, and sat long hours gazing upon nothing, and played no more upon her lute, nor sung the songs of Islam—and how she was—he feared—ill at ease, and pining for her native land. And when Muley Abderrahman read the letter he shook his head, and muttered— “Ay, she loves now, but it is the wrong one—a Nazarene, a dog,” and he tore his beard and wept. That night a royal courier rode hard from Mequiñez to Saleè, and the next day a fleet galley scoured the way across the narrow seas to the fair shores of Granada. The embassy should return at once to Mequiñez. Now hour of delay—too late.