Abdurraman, first Sultan of Cordoba, was a kindly hearted man, with none of the traditional cruelty of the Arab, eloquent in speech, and of a quick perception--quite the Caliph of Eastern tales. Never in repose, never entrusting the care of his kingdom to viziers, intrepid in battle, terrible in anger and intolerant of opposition; yet ready to follow the biers of his subjects, pray over the dead, and even to mount the pulpit of the mosque on Fridays and address the people. His majestic presence and dark, commanding face, lit up by a pair of penetrating eyes, shadowed by thick black eyebrows, inspired fear rather than love in those around him, and though it was said of him “he never forgot a friend,” it was added, “nor ever forgave an enemy.” As he passed at evening alone into the garden of Ez-Zahra, the porphyry, jasper, and marble of the pavement absorbed by the intense blue of the sky, all his attendants fell back. His brow was knit with thought, for the fame of the victories of Charles Martel troubled him sorely. He knew that in knowledge and science the Frankish king was as a peasant compared to him, yet his name was in all men’s mouths as the conqueror of the Moors. Not only did Charles Martel, after the victory of Tours, excel him in renown, but the remnant of the Goths, driven out of the cities of Spain, had taken refuge in the mountains bordering the Bay of Biscay, among the caves and untrodden defiles of the Asturias, and, small and insignificant as they were, still defied him. Just and generous in character, the Sultan would have gladly drawn to him this patriotic band by an equitable rule, if they would have submitted; but the obstinate endurance of the Spaniard was never more displayed than in the fierce determination of these fugitives never to yield. Thinking of all this, Abdurraman heaved a deep sigh. His soul was full of sympathy for the brave Goths, but, as Sultan, he was bound to suppress what was in fact open rebellion. Long did he pace slowly up and down, musing in a silence broken only by the distant click of the castanets from the quarter of the harem, where the light of coloured lanterns shone out athwart huge branches of magnolia and pepper trees. That these sounds of revelry were not to his taste was shown by the disdainful glance he cast in that direction, and a certain gathering about him of the dark caftan which hung from his shoulders. Turning his eyes in the direction of one of the many illuminated kiosks standing out clear in the twilight, he paused, as if expecting some one to appear. Nor did he wait long; a dark figure emerged from the gloom, the features of the face so dusky that but for the general outline of the figure it might have passed unseen as a phantom of the night. “Mahoun,” says the Caliph, sharply, as the vizier approached and, prostrating himself on the earth, awaited his commands, “stand up and tell me what tidings from the north.”