its height, the vale, the rivers, the spires, the towers of Granada,
broke gloriously upon the view of the little band. They halted,
mechanically and abruptly; every eye was turned to the beloved scene.
The proud shame of baffled warriors, the tender memories of home--of
childhood--of fatherland, swelled every heart, and gushed from every eye.
Suddenly, the distant boom of artillery broke from the citadel and rolled
along the sunlit valley and crystal river. A universal wail burst from
the exiles! it smote--it overpowered the heart of the ill-starred king,
in vain seeking to wrap himself in Eastern pride or stoical philosophy.
The tears gushed from his eyes, and he covered his face with his hands.

Then said his haughty mother, gazing at him with hard and disdainful
eyes, in that unjust and memorable reproach which history has preserved
--"Ay, weep like a woman over what thou couldst not defend like a man!"

Boabdil raised his countenance, with indignant majesty, when he felt his
hand tenderly clasped, and, turning round, saw Amine by his side.

"Heed her not! heed her not, Boabdil!" said the slave; "never didst thou
seem to me more noble than in that sorrow. Thou wert a hero for thy
throne; but feel still, O light of mine eyes, a woman for thy people!"

"God is great!" said Boabdil; "and God comforts me still! Thy lips;
which never flattered me in my power, have no reproach for me in my
affliction!"

He said, and smiled upon Amine--it was her hour of triumph.

The band wound slowly on through the solitary defiles: and that place
where the king wept, and the woman soothed, is still called "El, ultimo