But, suppressing these feelings, “Doubt not, O King!” is his reply, “the sanctity of our promise, nor that by a timely submission you should suffer. I give you our royal word that our Moslem subjects shall find equal justice with our own.” Ferdinand then hands the keys to Isabel, who passes them on to her son, Prince Juan, who in his turn gives them to the Conde de Tendila the new Alcaide of Granada. Then, in breathless silence, the glittering group await the signal which is to make the Alhambra theirs. Isabel, her hands clasped in silent prayer, Ferdinand, casting anxious glances to the fortress-crowned hill. Behold! in the clear morning light, the silver cross borne by the Bishop of Salamanca blazes from the citadel, the red and yellow flag of Spain beside it, fluttering over the crescent banner, which is slowly withdrawn. One great shout of triumph rises to the skies; trumpets sound, artillery booms, and to the voice of the shrill clarions comes the cry: “Santiago! Santiago! for God and for Spain!” and the pious queen, hastily dismounting, enters the little chapel beside the road (that morning become a Christian church), to celebrate a solemn _Te Deum_ to the warlike music of fifes, flutes, and joy-bells. * * * * * Such is the chapel of San Salvador on the road to Motril, the Arab walls untouched, the altar, a rude Mithrab, under a Saracenic arch, still standing, an incrusted dome overhead, edged with a coloured border, the whole a little circular interior of fit proportion, and honeycombed niches at its sides. On the outer wall an inscription, in old Spanish letters, sets forth that: “On this spot King Boabdil met _Los Reyes Catolicos_, and delivered to them the keys of Granada; who, in memory of their gratitude to God for overcoming the Moors, converted this mosque into a chapel, in honour of San Sebastian.” * * * * * The sovereigns enter the city towards nightfall (dreary in that season of January, for Granada is a mountain place), the shadow of tossing plumes and glancing armour falling on fields of snow, which deaden the tramp of the war-horses and the passing of arquebusiers. But the bells ring out [Illustration: Photo by Valentine. TOWER AND HOTEL OF SIETE SUELOS, THE ALHAMBRA, GRANADA.] triumphant in the dark air, and penetrate into the deepest recesses of the Moorish _patios_, where every Moslem has shut himself up in black despair. “There was a crying in Granada When the sun was going down; Some calling on the Trinity, Some calling on Mahomet. Thus cried the Moslem while his hands His own beard did tear: ‘Farewell! farewell, Granada! Thou city without peer! Woe! woe! thou pride of Heathendom, Seven hundred years and more Have gone, since first the faithful Thy royal sceptre bore.’”