It was in the same chamber, and nearly at the same hour, in which we first presented to the reader Boabdil el Chico, that we are again admitted to the presence of that ill-starred monarch. He was not alone. His favourite slave, Amine, reclined upon the ottomans, gazing with anxious love upon his thoughtful countenance, as he leant against the glittering wall by the side of the casement, gazing abstractedly on the scene below. From afar he heard the shouts of the populace at the return of Muza, and bursts of artillery confirmed the tidings of triumph which had already been borne to his ear. “May the king live for ever!” said Amine, timidly; “his armies have gone forth to conquer.” “But without their king,” replied Boabdil, bitterly, “and headed by a traitor and a foe. I am meshed in the nets of an inextricable fate!” “Oh!” said the slave, with sudden energy, as, clasping her hands, she rose from her couch,--“oh, my lord, would that these humble lips dared utter other words than those of love!” “And what wise counsel would they give me?” asked Boabdil with a faint smile. “Speak on.” “I will obey thee, then, even if it displease,” cried Amine; and she rose, her cheek glowing, her eyes spark ling, her beautiful form dilated. “I am a daughter of Granada; I am the beloved of a king; I will be true to my birth and to my fortunes. Boabdil el Chico, the last of a line of heroes, shake off these gloomy fantasies--these doubts and dreams that smother the fire of a great nature and a kingly soul! Awake--arise--rob Granada of her Muza--be thyself her Muza! Trustest thou to magic and to spells? then grave them on they breastplate, write them on thy sword, and live no longer the Dreamer of the Alhambra; become the saviour of thy people!” Boabdil turned, and gazed on the inspired and beautiful form before him with mingled emotions of surprise and shame. “Out of the mouth of woman cometh my rebuke!” said he sadly. “It is well!” “Pardon me, pardon me!” said the slave, falling humbly at his knees; “but blame me not that I would have thee worthy of thyself. Wert thou not happier, was not thy heart more light and thy hope more strong when, at the head of thine armies, thine own cimiter slew thine own foes, and the terror of the Hero-king spread, in flame and slaughter, from the mountains to the seas. Boabdil! dear as thou art to me-equally as I would have loved thee hadst thou been born a lowly fisherman of the Darro, since thou art a king, I would have thee die a king; even if my own heart broke as I armed thee for thy latest battle!” “Thou knowest not what thou sayest, Amine,” said Boabdil, “nor canst thou tell what spirits that are not of earth dictate to the actions and watch over the destinies, of the rulers of nations. If I delay, if I linger, it is not from terror, but from wisdom. The cloud must gather on, dark and slow, ere the moment for the thunderbolt arrives.”