The Moor at first waved him haughtily away; but, when he divined the
monk's purpose, suffered him in silence to take the beloved hand. He
fixed on him his dark and imploring eyes; and when the father dropped the
hand, and, gently shaking his head, turned away, a deep and agonising
groan was all that the audience heard from that heart in which the last
iron of fate had entered. Passionately he kissed the brow, the cheeks,
the lips of the hushed and angel face, and rose from the spot.

"What dost thou here? and what knowest thou of yon murderous enemy of God
and man?" asked the Dominican, approaching.

Muza made no reply, as he stalked slowly through the chapel. The
audience was touched to sudden tears. "Forbear!" said they, almost with
one accord, to the harsh Inquisitor; "he hath no voice to answer thee."

And thus, amidst the oppressive grief and sympathy of the Christian
throng, the unknown Paynim reached the door, mounted his steed, and as he
turned once more and cast a hurried glance upon the fatal pile, the
bystanders saw the large tears rolling down his swarthy cheeks.

Slowly that coal-black charger wound down the hillock, crossed the quiet
and lovely garden, and vanished amidst the forest. And never was known,
to Moor or Christian, the future fate of the hero of Granada. Whether he
reached in safety the shores of his ancestral Africa, and carved out new
fortunes and a new name; or whether death, by disease or strife,
terminated obscurely his glorious and brief career, mystery--deep and
unpenetrated, even by the fancies of the thousand bards who have
consecrated his deeds--wraps in everlasting shadow the destinies of Muza
Ben Abil Gazan, from that hour, when the setting sun threw its parting