And now we come to the history of the beautiful Moor, Egilona, daughter of the King of Algiers, who was at this time shipwrecked on the coast of Spain at Denia. As the royal vessel grounded on the sand (says the chronicle), the rabble of Denia--and what a rabble, in all ages, is that of Spain, how greedy, how rapacious--rushed into the surf, to capture and make spoil. But the grandeur of the illustrious company assembled on the deck somewhat awed them as they paused with greedy eyes,--men and women, sumptuously attired, facing them with all the haughtiness of Oriental dignity. In the stern, closely pressed within a circle of her Moslem guards, stood a lovely princess, lightly veiled, her turban ablaze with jewels, and as the vessel heaved in upon the swell, and the mob found themselves close upon the strangers, scimitars flashed and jewelled daggers gleamed. Then some of the older Moors, understanding the helplessness of their position, leaped on shore, and falling on their knees before the alcaide, who stood by, unable to understand the meaning of what he saw, implored his mercy towards a royal princess. “She whom you behold,” said one sumptuously robed African, who seemed to lead the expedition, his brow covered by a green turban, on which glittered an aigrette of inestimable worth, “is the only daughter of the King of Algiers, whom we are conducting to her affianced husband, the King of Tunis. Foul winds, as you see, have driven us on your coast. We were compelled to make for land, or imperil the life of our inimitable mistress. Allah has preserved her. Do you, Señor Alcaide, not prove more cruel than the waves.” The alcaide, a worthy man, much overcome by the magnificence of these sea-borne guests, bowed his head in acquiescence, and called on his alguazils to keep off the crowd. “I will myself conduct your princess to the castle,” he replied to the noble Moor who had addressed him. “Let her freely tread the Spanish soil. It shall be to her as safe as the African land of her fathers.” “The castle!” cried the same dazzling Moor who had already spoken, stopping the alcaide short. “The castle! You would then treat this regal bride as a captive? By the tomb of the Prophet, Señor Alcaide, you do ill! Know that her ransom will be to you, and to your race for ever, riches incalculable, such as the genii in dreams bear to the faithful--if you deal well with her and let her go.” Another and another of the circle of superbly robed strangers also spoke. “All we have is yours, Sir Alcaide.” The fair captive herself held out her hands in supplication towards the excellent magistrate, who stood perplexed, as divided between duty and inclination. “Will you,” she asked, in a soft voice, “imprison one whom the sea has set free?”