“A friend! what king ever had?” returned Almamen, drily. “Away, man--away!” cried Boabdil, as the impatient spirit of his rank and race shot dangerous fire from his eyes; “your cold and bloodless wisdom freezes up all the veins of my manhood! Glory, confidence, human sympathy, and feeling--your counsels annihilate them all. Leave me! I would be alone.” “We meet to-morrow, at midnight, mighty Boabdil,” said Almamen, with his usual unmoved and passionless tones. “May the king live for ever.” The king turned; but his monitor had already disappeared. He went as he came--noiseless and sudden as a ghost. CHAPTER III. THE LOVERS. When Muza parted from Almamen, he bent his steps towards the hill that rises opposite the ascent crowned with the towers of the Alhambra; the sides and summit of which eminence were tenanted by the luxurious population of the city. He selected the more private and secluded paths; and, half way up the hill, arrived, at last, before a low wall of considerable extent, which girded the gardens of some wealthier inhabitant of the city. He looked long and anxiously round; all was solitary; nor was the stillness broken, save as an occasional breeze, from the snowy heights of the Sierra Nevada, rustled the fragrant leaves of the citron and pomegranate; or as the silver tinkling of waterfalls chimed melodiously within the gardens. The Moor’s heart beat high: a moment more, and he had scaled the wall; and found himself upon a green sward, variegated by the rich colours of many a sleeping flower, and shaded by groves and alleys of luxuriant foliage and golden fruits. It was not long before he stood beside a house that seemed of a construction anterior to the Moorish dynasty. It was built over low cloisters formed by heavy and timeworn pillars, concealed, for the most part by a profusion of roses and creeping shrubs: the lattices above the cloisters opened upon large gilded balconies, the super-addition of Moriscan taste. In one only of the casements a lamp was visible; the rest of the mansion was dark, as if, save in that chamber, sleep kept watch over the inmates. It was to this window that the Moor stole; and, after a moment’s pause, he murmured rather than sang, so low and whispered was his voice, the following simple verses, slightly varied from an old Arabian poet:-- Light of my soul, arise, arise! Thy sister lights are in the skies; We want thine eyes, Thy joyous eyes; The Night is mourning for thine eyes! The sacred verse is on my sword, But on my heart thy name The words on each alike adored; The truth of each the same, The same!--alas! too well I feel The heart is truer than the steel! Light of my soul! upon me shine; Night wakes her stars to envy mine. Those eyes of thine, Wild eyes of thine, What stars are like those eyes of thine?