I give
you joy, friend Lope, this bodes good luck to your child."
Upon hearing this, the wife of Lope Sanchez tied the little hand
of jet to a ribbon, and hung it round the neck of her daughter.
The sight of this talisman called up all the favorite
superstitions about the Moors. The dance was neglected, and they sat
in groups on the ground, telling old legendary tales handed down
from their ancestors. Some of their stories turned upon the wonders of
the very mountain upon which they were seated, which is a famous
hobgoblin region. One ancient crone gave a long account of the
subterranean palace in the bowels of that mountain where Boabdil and
all his Moslem court are said to remain enchanted. "Among yonder
ruins," said she, pointing to some crumbling walls and mounds of earth
on a distant part of the mountain, "there is a deep black pit that
goes down, down into the very heart of the mountain. For all the money
in Granada I would not look down into it. Once upon a time a poor
man of the Alhambra, who tended goats upon this mountain, scrambled
down into that pit after a kid that had fallen in. He came out again
all wild and staring, and told such things of what he had seen, that
every one thought his brain was turned. He raved for a day or two
about the hobgoblin Moors that had pursued him in the cavern, and
could hardly be persuaded to drive his goats up again to the mountain.
Pages:
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397