saddle, and fell with him to the earth: when putting his knee upon his
breast, and his dagger to his throat, "Cavalier," exclaimed he, "render
thyself my prisoner, for thy life is in my hands!"

"Kill me, rather," replied the Moor, "for death would be less grievous
than loss of liberty." The Alcayde, however, with the clemency of the
truly brave, assisted the Moor to rise, ministered to his wounds with
his own hands, and had him conveyed with great care to the castle of
Allora. His wounds were slight, and in a few days were nearly cured; but
the deepest wound had been inflicted on his spirit. He was constantly
buried in a profound melancholy.

The Alcayde, who had conceived a great regard for him, treated him more
as a friend than a captive, and tried in every way to cheer him, but in
vain; he was always sad and moody, and, when on the battlements of
the castle, would keep his eyes turned to the south, with a fixed and
wistful gaze.

"How is this?" exclaimed the Alcayde, reproachfully, "that you, who were
so hardy and fearless in the field, should lose all spirit in prison? If
any secret grief preys on your heart, confide it to me, as to a friend,
and I promise you, on the faith of a cavalier, that you shall have no
cause to repent the disclosure."

The Moorish knight kissed the hand of the Alcayde. "Noble cavalier,"
said he "that I am cast down in spirit, is not from my wounds, which are
slight, nor from my captivity, for your kindness has robbed it of all
gloom; nor from my defeat, for to be conquered by so accomplished and
renowned a cavalier, is no disgrace. But to explain to you the cause of
my grief, it is necessary to give you some particulars of my story; and