of their last hold.

It was now noon: the whole Moorish force, quitting the plain, occupied
the steep that spread below the tower, in multitudinous array and
breathless expectation. The miners stood aloof--the Spaniards lay
prostrate and exhausted upon the battlements, like mariners who, after
every effort against the storm, await, resigned, and almost indifferent,
the sweep of the fatal surge.

Suddenly the lines of the Moors gave way, and Boabdil himself, with Muza
at his right hand, and Almamen on his left, advanced towards the foot of
the tower. At the same time, the Ethiopian guards, each bearing a torch,
marched slowly in the rear; and from the midst of them paced the royal
herald and sounded the last warning. The hush of the immense armament--
the glare of the torches, lighting the ebon faces and giant forms of
their bearers--the majestic appearance of the king himself--the heroic
aspect of Muza--the bare head and glittering banner of Almamen--all
combined with the circumstances of the time to invest the spectacle with
something singularly awful, and, perhaps, sublime.

Quexada turned his eyes, mutely, round the ghastly faces of his warriors,
and still made not the signal. His lips muttered--his eyes glared: when,
suddenly, he heard below the wail of women; and the thought of Inez, the
bride of his youth, the partner of his age, came upon him; and, with a
trembling hand, he lowered the yet unquailing standard of Spain. Then,
the silence below broke into a mighty shout, which shook the grim tower
to its unsteady and temporary base.

"Arise, my friends," he said, with a bitter sigh; "we have fought like
men--and our country will not blush for us." He descended the winding