In the streets of the Moorish city many a group still lingered. Some, as
if unconscious of the beleaguering war without, were listening in quiet
indolence to the strings of the Moorish lute, or the lively tale of an
Arabian improrvisatore; others were conversing with such eager and
animated gestures, as no ordinary excitement could wring from the stately
calm habitual to every oriental people. But the more public places in
which gathered these different groups, only the more impressively
heightened the desolate and solemn repose that brooded over the rest of
the city.

At this time, a man, with downcast eyes, and arms folded within the
sweeping gown which descended to his feet, was seen passing through the
streets, alone, and apparently unobservent of all around him. Yet this
indifference was by no means shared by the struggling crowds through
which, from time to time, he musingly swept.

"God is great!" said one man; "it is the Enchanter Almamen."

"He hath locked up the manhood of Boabdil el Chico with the key of his
spells," quoth another, stroking his beard; "I would curse him, if I
dared."

"But they say that he hath promised that when man fails, the genii will
fight for Granada," observed a third, doubtingly.

"Allah Akbar! what is, is! what shall be, shall be!" said a fourth, with
all the solemn sagacity of a prophet. Whatever their feelings, whether
of awe or execration, terror or hope, each group gave way as Almamen
passed, and hushed the murmurs not intended for his ear. Passing through
the Zacatin (the street which traversed the Great Bazaar), the reputed