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There lived once in a waste apartment of the
Alhambra, a merry little fellow, named Lope
Sanchez, who worked in the gardens, and was as
brisk and blithe as a grasshopper, singing all day
long. He was the life and soul of the fortress;
when his work was over, he would sit on one of
the stone benches of the esplanade, and strum his
guitar, and sing long ditties about the Cid, and
Bernardo del Carpio, and Fernando del Pulgar,
and other Spanish heroes, for the amusement of
the old soldiers of the fortress, or would strike up
a merrier tune, and set the girls dancing boleros
and fandangos.

Like most little men, Lope Sanchez had a strapping
buxom dame for a wife, who could almost
have put him in her pocket; but he lacked the
usual poor man's lot—instead of ten children he

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had but one. This was a little black-eyed girl
about twelve years of age, named Sanchica, who
was as merry as himself, and the delight of his
heart. She played about him as he worked in the
gardens, danced to his guitar as he sat in the shade,
and ran as wild as a young fawn about the groves
and alleys and ruined halls of the Alhambra.

It was now the eve of the blessed St. John, and
the holiday-loving gossips of the Alhambra, men,
women, and children, went up at night to the
mountain of the sun, which rises above the Generalife,
to keep their midsummer vigil on its level
summit. It was a bright moonlight night, and all
the mountains were grey and silvery, and the city,
with its domes and spires, lay in shadows below,
and the Vega was like a fairy land, with haunted
streams gleaming among its dusky groves. On
the highest part of the mountain they lit up a
bonfire, according to an old custom of the country
handed down from the Moors. The inhabitants
of the surrounding country were keeping a
similar vigil, and bonfires, here and there in the
Vega, and along the folds of the mountains, blazed
up palely in the moonlight.

The evening was gayly passed in dancing to
the guitar of Lope Sanchez, who was never so
joyous as when on a holiday revel of the kind.

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While the dance was going on, the little Sanchica
with some of her playmates sported among the
ruins of an old Moorish fort that crowns the mountain,
when, in gathering pebbles in the fosse, she
found a small hand curiously carved of jet, the
fingers closed, and the thumb firmly clasped upon
them. Overjoyed with her good fortune, she ran
to her mother with her prize. It immediately
became a subject of sage speculation, and was eyed
by some with superstitious distrust. “Throw it
away,” said one; “it's Moorish—depend upon it
there's mischief and witchcraft in it.” “By no
means,” said another; “you may sell it for something
to the jewellers of the Zacatin.” In the
midst of this discussion an old tawny soldier drew
near, who had served in Africa, and was as swarthy
as a Moor. He examined the hand with a knowing
look. “I have seen things of this kind,” said
he, “among the Moors of Barbary. It is a great
virtue to guard against the evil eye, and all kinds
of spells and enchantments. I give you joy, friend
Lope, this bodes good luck to your child.”

Upon hearing this, the wife of Lope Sanchez
tied the little hand of jet to a riband, and hung
it round the neck of her daughter.

The sight of this talisman called up all the
favourite superstitions about the Moors. The

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dance was neglected, and they sat in groupes on
the ground, telling old legendary tales handed down
from their ancestors. Some of their stories turned
upon the wonders of the very mountain upon
which they were seated, which is a famous hobgoblin
region. One ancient crone gave a long
account of the subterranean palace in the bowels
of that mountain where Boabdil and all his Moslem
court are said to remain enchanted. “Among
yonder ruins,” said she, pointing to some crumbling
walls and mounds of earth on a distant part
of the mountain, “there is a deep black pit that
goes down, down into the very heart of the mountain.
For all the money in Granada I would not
look down into it. Once upon a time a poor
man of the Alhambra, who tended goats upon this
mountain, scrambled down into that pit after
a kid that had fallen in. He came out again
all wild and staring, and told such things of
what he had seen, that every one thought his
brain was turned. He raved for a day or two
about the hobgoblin Moors that had pursued him
in the cavern, and could hardly be persuaded to
drive his goats up again to the mountain. He
did so at last, but, poor man, he never came down
again. The neighbours found his goats browsing
about the Moorish ruins, and his hat and mantle

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lying near the mouth of the pit, but he was never
more heard of.”

The little Sanchica listened with breathless attention
to this story. She was of a curious nature,
and felt immediately a great hankering to peep into
this dangerous pit. Stealing away from her companions
she sought the distant ruins, and after
groping for some time among them came to a small
hollow, or basin, near the brow of the mountain,
where it swept steeply down into the valley of the
Darro. In the centre of this basin yawned the
mouth of the pit. Sanchica ventured to the verge
and peeped in. All was as black as pitch, and
gave an idea of immeasurable depth. Her blood
ran cold; she drew back, then peeped again, then
would have run away, then took another peep—
the very horror of the thing was delightful to her.
At length she rolled a large stone, and pushed it
over the brink. For some time it fell in silence;
then struck some rocky projection with a violent
crash, then rebounded from side to side, rumbling
and tumbling, with a noise like thunder, then
made a final splash into water, far, far below—and
all was again silent.

The silence, however, did not long continue.
It seemed as if something had been awakened
within this dreary abyss. A murmuring sound

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gradually rose out of the pit like the hum and
buzz of a beehive. It grew louder and louder;
there was the confusion of voices as of a distant
multitude, together with the faint din of arms,
clash of cymbals and clangour of trumpets, as if
some army were marshalling for battle in the very
bowels of the mountain.

The child drew off with silent awe, and hastened
back to the place where she had left her
parents and their companions. All were gone.
The bonfire was expiring, and its last wreath of
smoke curling up in the moonshine. The distant
fires that had blazed along the mountains and in
the Vega were all extinguished, and every thing
seemed to have sunk to repose. Sanchica called
her parents and some of her companions by name,
but received no reply. She ran down the side of
the mountain, and by the gardens of the Generalife,
until she arrived in the alley of trees leading
to the Alhambra, when she seated herself on
a bench of a woody recess to recover breath.
The bell from the watch-tower of the Alhambra
tolled midnight. There was a deep tranquillity,
as if all nature slept; excepting the low tinkling
sound of an unseen stream that ran under the
covert of the bushes. The breathing sweetness
of the atmosphere was lulling her to sleep, when

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her eye was caught by something glittering at a
distance, and to her surprise she beheld a long
cavalcade of Moorish warriors pouring down the
mountain side and along the leafy avenues. Some
were armed with lances and shields; others with
cimeters and battle-axes, and with polished cuirasses
that flashed in the moonbeams. Their
horses pranced proudly and champed upon their
bits, but their tramp caused no more sound than
if they had been shod with felt, and the riders
were all as pale as death. Among them rode a
beautiful lady with a crowned head and long
golden locks entwined with pearls. The housings
of her palfry were of crimson velvet embroidered
with gold, and swept the earth; but she rode
all disconsolate, with eyes ever fixed upon the
ground.

Then succeeded a train of courtiers magnificently
arrayed in robes and turbans of divers
colours, and amidst them, on a cream-coloured
charger, rode king Boabdil el Chico, in a royal
mantle covered with jewels, and a crown sparkling
with diamonds. The little Sanchica knew him by
his yellow beard, and his resemblance to his portrait,
which she had often seen in the picture
gallery of the Generalife. She gazed in wonder
and admiration at this royal pageant, as it passed

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glistening among the trees; but though she knew
these monarchs and courtiers and warriors, so pale
and silent, were out of the common course of
nature, and things of magic and enchantment, yet
she looked on with a bold heart, such courage did
she derive from the mystic talisman of the hand,
which was suspended about her neck.

The cavalcade having passed by, she rose and
followed. It continued on to the great gate of
justice, which stood wide open; the old invalid
sentinels on duty lay on the stone benches of the
barbican, buried in profound and apparently
charmed sleep, and the phantom pageant swept
noiselessly by them with flaunting banner and triumphant
state. Sanchica would have followed;
but to her surprise she beheld an opening in the
earth, within the barbican, leading down beneath
the foundations of the tower. She entered for a
little distance, and was encouraged to proceed by
finding steps rudely hewn in the rock, and a
vaulted passage here and there lit up by a silver
lamp, which, while it gave light, diffused likewise
a grateful fragrance. Venturing on, she came at
last to a great hall, wrought out of the heart of the
mountain, magnificently furnished in the Moorish
style, and lighted up by silver and crystal lamps.
Here, on an ottoman, sat an old man in Moorish

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dress, with a long white beard, nodding and dozing,
with a staff in his hand, which seemed ever to be
slipping from his grasp; while at a little distance
sat a beautiful lady, in ancient Spanish dress, with
a coronet all sparkling with diamonds, and her hair
entwined with pearls, who was softly playing on a
silver lyre. The little Sanchica now recollected a
story she had heard among the old people of the
Alhambra, concerning a Gothic princess confined
in the centre of the mountain by an old Arabian
magician, whom she kept bound up in magic sleep
by the power of music.

The lady paused with surprise at seeing a mortal
in that enchanted hall. “Is it the eve of the
blessed St. John?” said she.

“It is,” replied Sanchica.

“Then for one night the magic charm is suspended.
Come hither, child, and fear not. I am
a Christian like thyself, though bound here by
enchantment. Touch my fetters with the talisman
that hangs about thy neck, and for this night I
shall be free.”

So saying, she opened her robes and displayed
a broad golden band round her waist, and a golden
chain that fastened her to the ground. The child
hesitated not to apply the little hand of jet to the
golden band, and immediately the chain fell to the

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earth. At the sound the old man woke and began
to rub his eyes; but the lady ran her fingers over
the chords of the lyre, and again he fell into a
slumber and began to nod, and his staff to falter in
his hand. “Now,” said the lady, “touch his staff
with the talismanic hand of jet.” The child did
so, and it fell from his grasp, and he sunk in a
deep sleep on the ottoman. The lady gently laid
the silver lyre on the ottoman, leaning it against
the head of the sleeping magician; then touching
the chords until they vibrated in his ear—“O
potent spirit of harmony,” said she, “continue
thus to hold his senses in thraldom till the return
of day. Now follow me, my child,” continued
she, “and thou shalt behold the Alhambra as it
was in the days of its glory, for thou hast a magic
talisman that reveals all enchantments.” Sanchica
followed the lady in silence. They passed up
through the entrance of the cavern into the barbican
of the gate of justice, and thence to the Plaza
de los Algibes, or esplanade within the fortress.

This was all filled with Moorish soldiery, horse
and foot, marshalled in squadrons, with banners
displayed. There were royal guards also at the
portal, and rows of African blacks with drawn
cimeters. No one spake a word, and Sanchica
passed on fearlessly after her conductor. Her

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astonishment increased on entering the royal
palace, in which she had been reared. The broad
moonshine lit up all the halls and courts and gardens
almost as brightly as if it were day, but
revealed a far different scene from that to
which she was accustomed. The walls of the
apartments were no longer stained and rent by
time. Instead of cobwebs, they were now hung
with rich silks of Damaseus, and the gildings and
arabesque paintings were restored to their original
brilliancy and freshness. The halls, instead of
being naked and unfurnished, were set out with
divans and ottomans of the rarest stuffs, embroidered
with pearls and studded with precious gems,
and all the fountains in the courts and gardens
were playing.

The kitchens were again in full operation;
cooks were busy preparing shadowy dishes, and
roasting and boiling the phantoms of pullets and
partridges; servants were hurrying to and fro
with silver dishes heaped up with dainties, and
arranging a delicious banquet. The Court of
Lions was thronged with guards, and courtiers,
and alfaquais, as in the old times of the Moors;
and at the upper end, in the saloon of judgment,
sat Boabdil on his throne, surrounded by his court,
and swaying a shadowy sceptre for the night.

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Notwithstanding all this throng and seeming
bustle not a voice nor a footstep was to be heard;
nothing interrupted the midnight silence but the
splashing of the fountains. The little Sanchica
followed her conductress in mute amazement
about the palace, until they came to a portal opening
to the vaulted passages beneath the great tower
of Comares. On each side of the portal sat the
figure of a nymph, wrought out of alabaster. Their
heads were turned aside, and their regards fixed
upon the same spot within the vault. The enchanted
lady paused, and beckoned the child to
her. “Here,” said she, “is a great secret, which
I will reveal to thee in reward for thy faith and
courage. These discreet statues watch over a
treasure hidden in old times by a Moorish king.
Tell thy father to search the spot on which their
eyes are fixed, and he will find what will make
him richer than any man in Granada. Thy innocent
hands alone, however, gifted as thou art also
with the talisman, can remove the treasure. Bid
thy father use it discreetly, and devote a part of
it to the performance of daily masses for my deliverance
from this unholy enchantment.”

When the lady had spoken these words, she led
the child onward to the little garden of Lindaraxa,
which is hard by the vault of the statues.

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The moon trembled upon the waters of the solitary
fountain in the centre of the garden, and shed a
tender light upon the orange and citron trees.
The beautiful lady plucked a branch of myrtle, and
wreathed it round the head of the child. “Let
this be a memento,” said she, “of what I have
revealed to thee, and a testimonial of its truth.
My hour is come—I must return to the enchanted
hall; follow me not, lest evil befall thee—farewell.
Remember what I have said, and have masses performed
for my deliverance.” So saying, the lady
entered a dark passage leading beneath the tower
of Comares, and was no longer seen.

The faint crowing of a cock was now heard from
the cottages below the Alhambra, in the valley of
the Darro, and a pale streak of light began to appear
above the eastern mountains. A slight wind
arose, there was a sound like the rustling of dry
leaves through the courts and corridors, and door
after door shut to with a jarring sound.

Sanchica returned to the scenes she had so lately
beheld thronged with the shadowy multitude, but
Boabdil and his phantom court were gone. The
moon shone into empty halls and galleries stripped
of their transient splendour, stained and dilapidated
by time, and hung with cobwebs. The bat flitted
about in the uncertain light, and the frog croaked
from the fish-pond.

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Sanchica now made the best of her way to a remote
staircase that led up to the humble apartment
occupied by her family. The door as usual was
open, for Lope Sanchez was too poor to need bolt
or bar; she crept quietly to her pallet, and, putting
the myrtle wreath beneath her pillow, soon fell
asleep.

In the morning she related all that had befallen
her to her father. Lope Sanchez, however, treated
the whole as a mere dream, and laughed at the
child for her credulity. He went forth to his customary
labours in the garden, but had not been
there long when his little daughter came running
to him almost breathless. “Father! father!”
cried she, “behold the myrtle wreath which the
Moorish lady bound round my head.”

Lope Sanchez gazed with astonishment, for the
stalk of the myrtle was of pure gold, and every
leaf was a sparkling emerald! Being not much
accustomed to precious stones, he was ignorant of
the real value of the wreath, but he saw enough to
convince him that it was something more substantial
than the stuff that dreams are generally
made of, and that at any rate the child had dreamt
to some purpose. His first care was to enjoin the
most absolute secrecy upon his daughter; in this
respect, however, he was secure, for she had

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discretion far beyond her years or sex. He then
repaired to the vault, where stood the statues of
the two alabaster nymphs. He remarked that
their heads were turned from the portal, and that
the regards of each were fixed upon the same point
in the interior of the building. Lope Sanchez
could not but admire this most discreet contrivance
for guarding a secret. He drew a line from the
eyes of the statues to the point of regard, made a
private mark on the wall, and then retired.

All day, however, the mind of Lope Sanchez
was distracted with a thousand cares. He could
not help hovering within distant view of the two
statues, and became nervous from the dread that
the golden secret might be discovered. Every
footstep that approached the place made him tremble.
He would have given any thing could he but
have turned the heads of the statues, forgetting
that they had looked precisely in the same direction
for some hundreds of years, without any
person being the wiser.

“A plague upon them,” he would say to himself,
“they'll betray all; did ever mortal hear of
such a mode of guarding a secret?” Then on
hearing any one advance, he would steal off, as
though his very lurking near the place would
awaken suspicions. Then he would return

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cautiously, and peep from a distance to see if every
thing was secure, but the sight of the statues
would again call forth his indignation. “Ay
there they stand,” would he say, “always looking,
and looking, and looking, just where they should
not. Confound them! they are just like all their
sex; if they have not tongues to tattle with, they'll
be sure to do it with their eyes.”

At length, to his relief, the long anxious day
drew to a close. The sound of footsteps was no
longer heard in the echoing halls of the Alhambra;
the last stranger passed the threshold, the great
portal was barred and bolted, and the bat and the
frog and the hooting owl gradually resumed their
nightly vocations in the deserted palace.

Lope Sanchez waited, however, until the night
was far advanced before he ventured with his little
daughter to the hall of the two nymphs. He found
them looking as knowingly and mysteriously as
ever at the secret place of deposit. “By your
leaves, gentle ladies,” thought Lope Sanchez, as
he passed between them, “I will relieve you from
this charge that must have set so heavy in your
minds for the last two or three centuries.” He
accordingly went to work at the part of the wall
which he had marked, and in a little while laid
open a concealed recess, in which stood two

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great jars of porcelain. He attempted to draw
them forth, but they were immoveable, until
touched by the innocent hand of his little daughter.
With her aid he dislodged them from their niche,
and found, to his great joy, that they were filled
with pieces of Moorish gold, mingled with jewels
and precious stones. Before daylight he managed
to convey them to his chamber, and left the two
guardian statues with their eyes still fixed on the
vacant wall.

Lope Sanchez had thus on a sudden become a
rich man; but riches, as usual, brought a world of
cares to which he had hitherto been a stranger.
How was he to convey away his wealth with
safety? How was he even to enter upon the
enjoyment of it without awakening suspicion?
Now, too, for the first time in his life the dread of
robbers entered into his mind. He looked with
terror at the insecurity of his habitation, and went
to work to barricado the doors and windows; yet
after all his precautions he could not sleep soundly.
His usual gayety was at an end, he had no longer a
joke or a song for his neighbours, and, in short,
became the most miserable animal in the Alhambra.
His old comrades remarked this alteration,
pitied him heartily, and began to desert him;
thinking he must be falling into want, and in

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danger of looking to them for assistance. Little
did they suspect that his only calamity was riches.

The wife of Lope Sanchez shared his anxiety,
but then she had ghostly comfort. We ought
before this to have mentioned that Lope, being
rather a light inconsiderate little man, his wife
was accustomed, in all grave matters, to seek the
counsel and ministry of her confessor Fray Simon,
a sturdy, broad-shouldered, blue-bearded, bullet-headed
friar of the neighbouring convent of San
Francisco, who was in fact the spiritual comforter
of half the good wives of the neighbourhood. He
was moreover in great esteem among divers sisterhoods
of nuns; who requited him for his ghostly
services by frequent presents of those little dainties
and knick-knacks manufactured in convents,
such as delicate confections, sweet biscuits, and
bottles of spiced cordials, found to be marvellous
restoratives after fasts and vigils.

Fray Simon thrived in the exercise of his functions.
His oily skin glistened in the sunshine as
he toiled up the hill of the Alhambra on a sultry
day. Yet notwithstanding his sleek condition, the
knotted rope round his waist showed the austerity
of his self-discipline; the multitude doffed
their caps to him as a mirror of piety, and even
the dogs scented the odour of sanctity that exhaled

[figure description] Page 185.[end figure description]

from his garments, and howled from their kennels
as he passed.

Such was Fray Simon, the spiritual counsellor
of the comely wife of Lope Sanchez; and as the
father confessor is the domestic confidant of women
in humble life in Spain, he was soon made acquainted,
in great secresy, with the story of the
hidden treasure.

The friar opened eyes and mouth and crossed
himself a dozen times at the news. After a
moment's pause, “Daughter of my soul!” said
be, “know that thy husband has committed a
double sin—a sin against both state and church!
The treasure he hath thus seized upon for himself,
being found in the royal domains, belongs
of course to the crown; but being infidel wealth,
rescued as it were from the very fangs of Satan,
should be devoted to the church. Still, however,
the matter may be accommodated. Bring hither
the myrtle wreath.”

When the good father beheld it, his eyes
twinkled more than ever with admiration of the
size and beauty of the emeralds. “This,” said
he, “being the first-fruits of this discovery, should
be dedicated to pious purposes. I will hang it
up as a votive offering before the image of San
Francisco in our chapel, and will earnestly pray

[figure description] Page 186.[end figure description]

to him, this very night, that your husband be
permitted to remain in quiet possession of your
wealth.”

The good dame was delighted to make her
peace with heaven at so cheap a rate, and the
friar, putting the wreath under his mantle, departed
with saintly steps towards his convent.

When Lope Sanchez came home, his wife told
him what had passed. He was excessively provoked,
for he lacked his wife's devotion, and had
for some time groaned in secret at the domestic
visitations of the friar. “Woman,” said he,
“what hast thou done? thou hast put every thing
at hazard by thy tattling.”

“What!” cried the good woman, “would you
forbid my disburdening my conscience to my
confessor?”

“No, wife! confess as many of your own sins
as you please; but as to this money digging, it is
a sin of my own, and my conscience is very easy
under the weight of it.”

There was no use, however, in complaining;
the secret was told, and, like water spilled on the
sand, was not again to be gathered. Their only
chance was, that the friar would be discreet.

The next day, while Lope Sanchez was
abroad, there was an humble knocking at the door,

[figure description] Page 187.[end figure description]

and Fray Simon entered with meek and demure
countenance.”

“Daughter,” said he, “I have prayed earnestly
to San Francisco, and he has heard my prayer.
In the dead of the night the saint appeared to me
in a dream, but with a frowning aspect. `Why,'
said he, `dost thou pray to me to dispense with
this treasure of the Gentiles, when thou seest the
poverty of my chapel? Go to the house of Lope
Sanchez, crave in my name a portion of the Moorish
gold, to furnish two candlesticks for the main
altar, and let him possess the residue in peace.”'

When the good woman heard of this vision,
she crossed herself with awe, and going to the
secret place where Lope had hid the treasure, she
filled a great leathern purse with pieces of Moorish
gold, and gave it to the friar. The pious monk
bestowed upon her, in return, benedictions enough,
if paid by Heaven, to enrich her race to the latest
posterity; then slipping the purse into the sleeve
of his habit, he folded his hands upon his breast,
and departed with an air of humble thankfulness.

When Lope Sanchez heard of this second donation
to the church, he had well nigh lost his senses.
“Unfortunate man,” cried he, “what will become
of me? I shall be robbed by peace-meal; I shall
be ruined and brought to beggary!

[figure description] Page 188.[end figure description]

It was with the utmost difficulty that his wife
could pacify him, by reminding him of the countless
wealth that yet remained, and how considerate
it was for San Francisco to rest contented with so
small a portion.

Unluckily, Fray Simon had a number of poor
relations to be provided for, not to mention some
half-dozen sturdy bullet-headed orphan children,
and destitute foundlings that he had taken
under his care. He repeated his visits, therefore,
from day to day, with solicitations on behalf of
Saint Dominick, Saint Andrew, Saint James, until
poor Lope was driven to despair, and found
that unless he got out of the reach of this holy
friar, he should have to make peace offerings
to every saint in the calender. He determined,
therefore, to pack up his remaining wealth, beat a
secret retreat in the night, and make off to another
part of the kingdom.

Full of his project, he bought a stout mule for
the purpose, and tethered it in a gloomy vault
underneath the tower of the seven floors; the very
place from whence the Beludo, or goblin horse is
said to issue forth at midnight, and scour the
streets of Granada, pursued by a pack of hellhounds.
Lope Sanchez had little faith in the
story, but availed himself of the dread occasioned

[figure description] Page 189.[end figure description]

by it, knowing that no one would be likely to
pry into the subterranean stable of the phantom
steed. He sent off his family in the course of
the day with orders to wait for him at a distant
village of the Vega. As the night advanced,
he conveyed his treasure to the vault under
the tower, and having loaded his mule, he led
it forth, and cautiously descended the dusky
avenue.

Honest Lope had taken his measures with the
utmost secrecy, imparting them to no one but the
faithful wife of his bosom. By some miraculous
revelation, however, they became known to Fray
Simon. The zealous friar beheld these infidel treasures
on the point of slipping for ever out of his
grasp, and determined to have one more dash at them
for the benefit of the church and San Francisco. Accordingly,
when the bells had rung for animas,
and all the Alhambra was quiet, he stole out of
his convent, and descending through the gate of
justice, concealed himself among the thickets of
roses and laurels that border the great avenue.
Here he remained, counting the quarters of hours
as they were sounded on the bell of the watch
tower, and listening to the dreary hootings of owls,
and the distant barking of dogs from the gipsy
caverns

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At length he heard the tramp of hoofs, and,
through the gloom of the overshadowing trees,
imperfectly beheld a steed descending the avenue.
The sturdy friar chuckled at the idea of the knowing
turn he was about to serve honest Lope.

Tucking up the skirts of his habit, and wriggling
like a cat watching a mouse, he waited until
his prey was directly before him, when darting
forth from his leafy covert, and putting one hand
on the shoulder and the other on the crupper, he
made a vault that would not have disgraced the
most experienced master of equitation, and alighted
well-forked astride the steed. “A ha!” said the
sturdy friar, “we shall now see who best understands
the game.” He had scarce uttered the
words when the mule began to kick, and rear, and
plunge, and then set off full speed down the hill.
The friar attempted to check him, but in vain.
He bounded from rock to rock, and bush to bush;
the friar's habit was torn to ribbands and fluttered
in the wind, his shaven poll received many a hard
knock from the branches of the trees, and many a
scratch from the brambles. To add to his terror
and distress, he found a pack of seven hounds in
fully cry at his heels, and perceived too late, that
he was actually mounted upon the terrible Belludo!

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Away then they went, according to the ancient
phrase, “pull devil, pull friar,” down the great
avenue, across the Plaza Nueva, along the Zacatin,
around the Vivarrambla—never did huntsman and
hound make a more furious run, or more infernal
uproar. In vain did the friar invoke every saint
in the calendar, and the holy virgin into the bargain;
every time he mentioned a name of the kind
it was like a fresh application of the spur, and
made the Belludo bound as high as a house.
Through the remainder of the night was the
unlucky Fray Simon carried hither and thither,
and whither he would not, until every bone in
his body ached, and he suffered a loss of leather
too grievous to be mentioned. At length the
crowing of a cock gave the signal of returning
day. At the sound the goblin steed wheeled
about, and galloped back for his tower. Again
he scoured the Vivarrambla, the Zacatin, the
Plaza Nueva, and the avenue of fountains, the
seven dogs yelling, and barking, and leaping up,
and snapping at the heels of the terrified friar.
The first streak of day had just appeared as they
reached the tower; here the goblin steed kicked
up his heels, sent the friar a somerset through the
air, plunged into the dark vault followed by the

[figure description] Page 192.[end figure description]

infernal pack, and a profound silence succeeded to
the late deafening clamour.

Was ever so diabolical a trick played off upon a
holy friar? A peasant going to his labours at
early dawn found the unfortunate Fray Simon
lying under a fig-tree at the foot of the tower, but
so bruised and bedevilled that he could neither
speak nor move. He was conveyed with all care
and tenderness to his cell, and the story went that
he had been waylaid and maltreated by robbers.
A day or two elapsed before he recovered the use
of his limbs; he consoled himself, in the mean
time, with the thoughts that though the mule with
the treasure had escaped him, he had previously
had some rare pickings at the infidel spoils. His
first care on being able to use his limbs, was
to search beneath his pallet, where he had secreted
the myrtle wreath and the leathern
pouches of gold extracted from the piety of
dame Sanchez. What was his dismay at finding
the wreath, in effect, but a withered branch of
myrtle, and the leathern pouches filled with sand
and gravel!

Fray Simon, with all his chagrin, had the discretion
to hold his tongue, for to betray the secret
might draw on him the ridicule of the public, and

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the punishment of his superior: it was not until
many years afterwards, on his death-bed, that he
revealed to his confessor his nocturnal ride on the
Belludo.

Nothing was heard of Lope Sanchez for a long
time after his disappearance from the Alhambra.
His memory was always cherished as that of a
merry companion, though it was feared, from the
care and melancholy observed in his conduct
shortly before his mysterious departure, that
poverty and distress had driven him to some
extremity. Some years afterwards one of his old
companions, an invalid soldier, being at Malaga,
was knocked down and nearly run over by a coach
and six. The carriage stopped; an old gentleman
magnificently dressed, with a bag wig and sword,
stepped out to assist the poor invalid. What was
the astonishment of the latter to behold in this
grand cavalier his old friend Lope Sanchez, who
was actually celebrating the marriage of his
laughter Sanchica with one of the first grandees
in the land.

The carriage contained the bridal party. There
was dame Sanchez, now grown as round as a barrel,
and dressed out with feathers and jewels, and
necklaces of pearls, and necklaces of diamonds, and

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rings on every finger, altogether a finery of apparel
that had not been seen since the days of Queen
Sheba. The little Sanchica had now grown to be a
woman, and for grace and beauty might have been
mistaken for a duchess, if not a princess outright.
The bridegroom sat beside her—rather a withered
spindle-shanked little man, but this only proved
him to be of the true blue blood; a legitimate Spanish
grandee being rarely above three cubits in
stature. The match had been of the mother's
making.

Riches had not spoiled the heart of honest Lope.
He kept his old comrade with him for several
days; feasted him like a king, took him to plays
and bull-fights, and at length sent him away rejoicing,
with a big bag of money for himself, and
another to be distributed among his ancient messmates
of the Alhambra.

Lope always gave out that a rich brother had
died in America and left him heir to a copper
mine; but the shrewd gossips of the Alhambra
insist that his wealth was all derived from his
having discovered the secret guarded by the two
marble nymphs of the Alhambra. It is remarked
that these very discreet statues continue,
even unto the present day, with their eyes fixed

[figure description] Page 195.[end figure description]

most significantly on the same part of the wall;
which leads many to suppose there is still some
hidden treasure remaining there well worthy the
attention of the enterprising traveller. Though
others, and particularly all female visitors, regard
them with great complacency as lasting
monuments of the fact that women can keep a
secret.

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