At the sight of his princely countenance and golden hair, his comely and commanding beauty, made more touching by youth, a thrill of compassionate admiration ran through that assembly of the brave and fair.  Ferdinand and Isabel slowly advanced to meet their late rival,—­their new subject; and, as Boabdil would have dismounted, the Spanish king placed his hand upon his shoulder.  “Brother and prince,” said he, “forget thy sorrows; and may our friendship hereafter console thee for reverses, against which thou hast contended as a hero and a king—­resisting man, but resigned at length to God.”

Boabdil did not affect to return this bitter but unintentional mockery of compliment, He bowed his head, and remained a moment silent; then motioning to his train, four of his officers approached, and, kneeling beside Ferdinand, proffered to him, upon a silver buckler, the keys of the city.  “O king!” then said Boabdil, “accept the keys of the last hold which has resisted the arms of Spain!  The empire of the Moslem is no more.  Thine are the city and the people of Granada; yielding to thy prowess, they yet confide in thy mercy.”  “They do well,” said the king; “our promises shall not be broken.  But since we know the gallantry of Moorish cavaliers, not to us, but to gentler hands, shall the keys of Granada be surrendered.”

Thus saying, Ferdinand gave the keys to Isabel, who would have addressed some soothing flatteries to Boabdil, but the emotion and excitement were too much for her compassionate heart, heroine and queen though she was; and when she lifted her eyes upon the calm and pale features of the fallen monarch, the tears gushed from them irresistibly, and her voice died in murmurs.  A faint flush overspread the features of Boabdil, and there was a momentary pause of embarrassment, which the Moor was the first to break.

“Fair queen,” said he, with mournful and pathetic dignity, “thou canst read the heart that thy generous sympathy touches and subdues; this is thy last, nor least glorious conquest.  But I detain ye; let not my aspect cloud your triumph.  Suffer me to say farewell.”  “Farewell, my brother,” replied Ferdinand, “and may fair fortune go with you!  Forget the past!” Boabdil smiled bitterly, saluted the royal pair with profound and silent reverence, and rode slowly on, leaving the army below as he ascended the path that led to his new principality beyond the Alpuxarras.  As the trees snatched the Moorish cavalcade from the view of the king, Ferdinand ordered the army to recommence its march; and trumpet and cymbal presently sent their music to the ear of the Moslems.

Boabdil spurred on at full speed, till his panting charger halted at the little village where his mother, his slaves, and his faithful wife, Amine—­sent on before—­awaited him.  Joining these, he proceeded without delay upon his melancholy path.  They ascended that eminence which is the pass into the Alpuxarras.  From its height, the vale, the rivers, the spires, and 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.