Читать книгу The Knight Of Leon: - Sylvanus Cobb - Страница 7

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IN one of the private apartments of the Alhambra sat Mohammed VI. Near him stood the alcalde of Granada, leaning against a casement of one of the windows, and engaged in rolling and unrolling a small piece of vellum he held in his hand. The wound upon his shoulder was not a bad one, and the effects of it troubled him but very little.

"Sire," said Ben Hamed, moving nearer to the king, "what can have led him to our city?"

"I cannot tell," returned the king. "Can you?"

"He says he came to see the country."

"Then perhaps he did."

"But I don't believe it."

"And why not?" queried the king.

"Became the Count of Valladolid is too important a personage to be absent from Leon at the present time on a mere pleasure trip," returned the alcalde.

"You owe him a grudge, Ben Hamed."

"So I owe a grudge to all the enemies of Granada."

"'Tis right you should," said Mohammed. "And, to tell you the truth, I like not the presence of that Christian knight here; but yet it would not be safe to molest him."

"If we can prove him dangerous to our government, we may put him out of the way," remarked the wily alcalde.

"So we can; but how shall we prove that?"

"Leave it to me. If I can make out a charge against him, you shall listen to it."

"I will, by Allah."

"Then I will watch him. And, let me tell you, sire, I like not the manner in which Zehra looks upon the young knight."

"Ha!" uttered the king, half starting from his seat. "Does your daughter look upon the Christian with favor?"

"So she speaks."

"Then you had better beware for yourself, Ben Hamed; for if Zehra comes not to me for an unstained wife, yours shall be the peril.—You had better look to her."

The alcalde had awakened a passion in the bosom of the king he meant not to have touched; but he apprehended no danger from it. His daughter had been promised to the king, and he was to receive her among his wives when she was twenty years of age.

"I will hold myself responsible for her fidelity," said Ben Hamed. "Charles of Leon shall know that she is bound to you, and then if he dares to——"

"I see what you mean," hastily cried the king. "Let him but lisp sedition to her, and he shall suffer. So much for the Christian."

Ben Hamed's eyes sparkled with satisfaction.

"Hold a moment," said Mohammed, as the alcalde turned towards the door. "Now that I think of it, it does seem strange that the Count of Valladolid should have come to Granada unless he had important business."

"So it seems to me," returned Ben Hamed.

"Can you guess at the cause of his visit?" asked the king.

"No, sire."

The alcalde spoke in a hesitating manner, and a troubled look rested upon his features. He caught the keen glance of the monarch, and he seemed uneasy.

"Ben Hamed, you are deceiving me," said the king.

"By Allah, I am not."

"Have you no suspicions as to the cause of the Christian knight's visit here?"

"No, sire."

"Beware, now."

"Indeed I speak the truth."

"Then why looked you so troubled just now?"

A moment the alcalde was silent; but a happy thought came to his aid.

"When I spoke I was thinking of his conquering me in the lists. Was not that enough to move me?"

"Perhaps it was," returned Mohammed, still eyeing his officer with a suspicious look.

"And I was thinking, too, of what a dangerous enemy he might prove, were his aims turned against our interests."

This touched the monarch where Ben Hamed aimed.

"Watch him! watch him!" he exclaimed. "Let there be but proof enough, and his rank shall not save him."

"I will watch him, sire, and you shall be advised of all his movements."

When Ben Hamed left the royal presence he was followed by eyes that were as keen as his own. Mohammed VI. was a jealous man, and his suspicions were easily aroused. Whether he suspected the alcalde of duplicity or not, none knew save himself; but that the Christian knight had vanquished his own warriors was enough to awaken his animosity, and the hints of Ben Hamed had not been without their effect.

"I think," said the monarch to himself, after he was alone, "that Ben Hamed knows more of this Christian than he chooses to tell. At all events, I'll watch them both. Zehra is mine. Of the alcalde I want but her, and her I will have. By Allah, but the girl is beautiful, and I think I might love her."

When the alcalde left the Alhambra he sought his own dwelling, and when he was seated in his private room he sent for his daughter. Zehra entered his presence with a meek step, and remained standing before her father.

"Zehra," said Ben Hamed, "you only want three short months to make up your twentieth year."

The fair girl shuddered, but she spoke not in reply.

"You will then be the wife of our king," continued the alcalde, eyeing his daughter sharply.

"A wife!" uttered Zehra.

"Yes."

"How many wives has Mohammed now?"

"I don't know."

"He has a wife."

"Certainly."

"And does he love her?"

"Love her? Why, I suppose so."

"Then how can he love another."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean what I ask, father. If the king loves his present wives—or one of them—how can he love another?"

"Why, he will love you more than all the rest."

"Yes,—as he loves the baubles that please his fancy. To-day they are worn with selfish pride—to-morrow cast coldly aside. That is Mohammed's love."

"Poh? The king can love that which pleases him, and you will be sure to please him. You have health, wit and beauty."

"Yes, father, and one other thing I have—a heart!"

Ben Hamed looked at his daughter without speaking.

"I have a heart, father," continued Zehra, with much emotion; "a heart that holds all my stores of weal and woe."

"Well," dropped from the alcalde's lips. He was puzzled, for at solving the mysteries of the human soul, where virtue and love were its components, he had not the power. He had been only in the habit of viewing those baser passions that go to make up the attributes of selfishness and ambition.

"I can never love Mohammed," said the fair girl.

"What do you mean by love?"

"I mean that I can never place his image upon the altar of my soul, and offer up to it my heart's devotions. I mean that I can never look upon him as one who possess those attributes I could love to worship. He is loathsome to me."

"If Mohammed loves you, that is enough."

"But Mohammed cannot love me as I would be loved. He cannot feel that high emotion of soul that constitutes the true love of a husband. He can love only as the sensualist loves. He can admire beauty while it lasts; but he has no love for the being after the beauty of feature has gone."

For some moments Ben Hamed looked silently upon his child.

"You have promised to be the king's," he said, at length.

"No, father. You once spoke with me about it, and then I told you that I had no power to oppose you."

"And of course you cannot oppose me now. This talk about love is all nonsense. You should feel happy and proud to think that you are looked upon with favor by the king."

"And do you mean that I am really to be given to Mohammed?" she asked.

"I mean that you will be his wife."

"Then you will doom me to lasting misery."

"No, no, my child. If you are miserable, it will be you who will make yourself so. I mean that you shall be happy. I wish you to remember that you are to be the king's wife."

"Father," said the poor girl, with a powerful effort to maintain her composure, "it cannot be that you will make me miserable."

"You know what I have said. My sacred promise has been given to Mohammed, and I am held responsible upon my peril."

"Then would that kind Heaven might tear out my heart and place a stone there in its stead. O! I had not thought I was to be forced to this. I had not thought that I was to be sacrificed to the selfish passions of Mohammed against my will."

"We have spoken enough, Zehra," sternly said the alcalde. "I would only put you on your guard, for the king will not brook disappointment."

"On my guard against what?" asked the girl, looking up through her gathering tears.

"Against doing anything to break your relationship to the king."

Zehra turned away and left her father's presence. When she was alone, her heart sent forth its bitter grief unchecked. She knew that her parent had spoken of her being made a wife of the king; but until the present time she had thought of it more as a dream than as a reality. She could not think of Mohammed—a man older than Ben Hamed himself—without a loathing shudder, and now that the idea of being his wife—and such a wife!—was brought home to her soul as a reality, she was crushed into the dust of torture. To be a mere bauble in the harem of the sensualist was more than she could bear. Her heart sought a kindred love—a higher, nobler station, and as she wept in her misery, she could not but feel that all of life was gone unless she could throw off the yoke that her father had placed upon her.