What a world of beauty! The Vega, emerald green, with orange groves and pasture, _huertas_ and _carmens_, showing between, where cool airs waft from woods and gardens; the Xenil, like a blue ribbon, wandering to the sea by precipices and defiles, eloquent with song under the heavy tread of hostile hosts; the pale line of the Elvira mountains to the west, and arid sepia-tinted range opposite, to be called in our own day “the last sigh of the Moor,” and the airy palace of the Generalife perched on high among dark cypress groves, backed by the naked outline of a brown hill, “The Seat of the Moor,” under which Boabdil still is said to sit. * * * * * By the gate of Elvira Don Juan de Vega entered Granada with a small but well-chosen band, the great banner of Los Reyes borne before him by a herald. And so stern did he and his Castilians look, and so haughty was their carriage, that the Moors, though they hated them, let them pass unchallenged. As they traversed the narrow streets of Los Gomeles, they passed by the great mosque, now the cathedral, and many palaces, the sound of water ever in their ears, so abundantly is the city supplied. Nor did Don Juan fail to notice, in his passage, that the city was in a complete state of defence; the walls, of tremendous strength, manned and furnished with the heavy artillery of the day, the outposts guarded by deep ditches, and the Moorish soldiers many and well equipped with steel morions, chain armour, and stout scimitars at their side. They enter the Alhambra by the three great arches of the Gate of Justice, one within the other, bearing the talismanic signs of the hand and the key, which no one has ever explained, and pass by the rude stone where the Moorish kings administer justice. Challenged by the Moorish guard, a parley ensues as to the errand on which they come. “To deliver the Catholic sovereigns’ message to the King of Granada,” replies Don Juan, proudly. Upon which the black-bearded Moslems open the massive doors onto a narrow road, with sharp angles to baffle an enemy, a road only for horses and litters, the walls orange-coloured and glowing. And so they follow on to the broad platform where the _alcazada_ (keep) rears its majestic front with quatrefoil arches, bright with gaudy tiles, in the centre of a wondrous group of vermilion towers, each with its tradition of battle and carnage, to the _patio_ of the Alberca, a marble-lined court, bordered by canals and fragrant hedges of myrtle and orange, an arcaded frontispiece at one end, and at the other the sun-dyed walls of the ancient tower of Comares.