I picture to myself the scene when this place was filled with the
conquering host, that mixture of mitred prelate and shaven monk, and
steel-clad knight and silken courtier; when crosses and crosiers and
religious standards were mingled with proud armorial ensigns and the
banners of haughty chiefs of Spain, and flaunted in triumph through
these Moslem halls. I picture to myself Columbus, the future
discoverer of a world, taking his modest stand in a remote corner, the
humble and neglected spectator of the pageant. I see in imagination
the Catholic sovereigns prostrating themselves before the altar, and
pouring forth thanks for their victory; while the vaults resound
with sacred minstrelsy, and the deep-toned Te Deum.
The transient illusion is over- the pageant melts from the fancy-
monarch, priest, and warrior, return into oblivion, with the Moslems
over whom they exulted. The hall of their triumph is waste and
desolate. The bat flits about its twilight vault, and the owl hoots
from the neighboring Tower of Comares.
Entering the Court of the Lions a few evenings since, I was almost
startled at beholding a turbaned Moor quietly seated near the
fountain. For a moment one of the fictions of the place seemed
realized: an enchanted Moor had broken the spell of centuries, and
become visible. He proved, however, to be a mere ordinary mortal; a
native of Tetuan in Barbary, who had a shop in the Zacatin of Granada,
where he sold rhubarb, trinkets, and perfumes.
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