from a small door in one of the low wings of the house, a bended and decrepit form: it supported its steps upon a staff; and, as now entering the garden, it stooped by the side of a fountain to cull flowers and herbs by the light of the moon, the Moor almost started to behold a countenance which resembled that of some ghoul or vampire haunting the places of the dead. He smiled at his own fear; and, with a quick and stealthy pace, hastened through the trees, and, gaining the spot where the old man bent, placed his hand on his shoulder ere his presence was perceived. Ximen--for it was he--looked round eagerly, and a faint cry of terror broke from his lips. “Hush!” said the Moor; “fear me not, I am a friend. Thou art old, man--gold is ever welcome to the aged.” As he spoke, he dropped several broad pieces into the breast of the Jew, whose ghastly features gave forth a yet more ghastly smile, as he received the gift, and mumbled forth, “Charitable young man! generous, benevolent, excellent young man!” “Now then,” said Muza, “tell me--you belong to this house--Leila, the maiden within--tell me of her--is she well?” “I trust so,” returned the Jew; “I trust so, noble master.” “Trust so! know you not of her state?” “Not I; for many nights I have not seen her, excellent sir,” answered Ximen; “she hath left Granada, she hath gone. You waste your time and mar your precious health amidst these nightly dews: they are unwholesome, very unwholesome at the time of the new moon.” “Gone!” echoed the Moor; “left Granada!--woe is me!--and whither?--there, there, more gold for you,--old man, tell me whither?” “Alas! I know not, most magnanimous young man; I am but a servant--I know nothing.” “When will she return?” “I cannot tell thee.” “Who is thy master? who owns yon mansion?” Ximen’s countenance fell; he looked round in doubt and fear, and then, after a short pause, answered,--“A wealthy man, good sir--a Moor of Africa; but he hath also gone; he but seldom visits us; Granada is not so peaceful a residence as it was,--I would go too, if I could.” Muza released his hold of Ximen, who gazed at the Moor’s working countenance with a malignant smile--for Ximen hated all men. “Thou hast done with me, young warrior? Pleasant dreams to thee under the new moon--thou hadst best retire to thy bed. Farewell! bless thy charity to the poor old man!” Muza heard him not; he remained motionless for some moments; and then with a heavy sigh as that of one who has gained the mastery of himself after a bitter struggle, the said half aloud, “Allah be with thee, Leila! Granada now is my only mistress.” CHAPTER V. BOABDIL’S RECONCILIATION WITH HIS PEOPLE.