He was an
ancient count who had come up from his palace in Granada to pass a
short time in the Alhambra for the benefit of purer air, and who,
being a veteran and inveterate sportsman, was endeavoring to get an
appetite for his breakfast by shooting at swallows from the balconies.
It was a harmless amusement; for though, by the alertness of his
attendants in loading his pieces, he was enabled to keep up a brisk
fire, I could not accuse him of the death of a single swallow. Nay,
the birds themselves seemed to enjoy the sport, and to deride his want
of skill, skimming in circles close to the balconies, and twittering
as they darted by.
The arrival of this old gentleman changed essentially the aspect
of affairs, but caused no jealousy nor collision. We tacitly shared
the empire between us, like the last kings of Granada, excepting
that we maintained a most amicable alliance. He reigned absolute
over the Court of the Lions and its adjacent halls, while I maintained
peaceful possession of the regions of the baths and the little
garden of Lindaraxa. We took our meals together under the arcades of
the court, where the fountains cooled the air, and bubbling rills
ran along the channels of the marble pavement.
In the evenings a domestic circle would gather about the worthy
old cavalier. The countess, his wife by a second marriage, would
come up from the city accompanied by her step-daughter Carmen, an only
child, a charming little being, still in her girlish years.
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