Great masses of the wall lie scattered
about, buried in luxuriant herbage, or overshadowed by vines and
fig-trees. The arch of the gateway, though rent by the shock, still
remains; but the last wish of poor Boabdil has again, though
unintentionally, been fulfilled, for the portal has been closed up
by loose stones gathered from the ruins, and remains impassable.
Mounting my horse, I followed up the route of the Moslem monarch
from this place of his exit. Crossing the hill of Los Martyros, and
keeping along the garden wall of a convent bearing the same name, I
descended a rugged ravine beset by thickets of aloes and Indian
figs, and lined with caves and hovels swarming with gipsies. The
descent was so steep and broken that I was fain to alight and lead
my horse. By this via dolorosa poor Boabdil took his sad departure
to avoid passing through the city; partly, perhaps, through
unwillingness that its inhabitants should behold his humiliation;
but chiefly, in all probability, lest it might cause some popular
agitation. For the last reason, undoubtedly, the detachment sent to
take possession of the fortress ascended by the same route.
Emerging from this rough ravine, so full of melancholy associations,
and passing by the puerta de los molinos (the gate of the mills), I
issued forth upon the public promenade called the Prado, and
pursuing the course of the Xenil, arrived at a small chapel, once a
mosque, now the Hermitage of San Sebastian.
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