It grew louder and louder; there was the confusion of
voices as of a distant multitude, together with the faint din of arms,
clash of cymbals and clangor of trumpets, as if some army were
marshalling for battle in the very bowels of the mountain.
The child drew off with silent awe, and hastened back to the place
where she had left her parents and their companions. All were gone.
The bonfire was expiring, and its last wreath of smoke curling up in
the moonshine. The distant fires that had blazed along the mountains
and in the Vega were all extinguished, and every thing seemed to
have sunk to repose. Sanchica called her parents and some of her
companions by name, but received no reply. She ran down the side of
the mountain, and by the gardens of the Generalife, until she
arrived in the alley of trees leading to the Alhambra, when she seated
herself on a bench of a woody recess to recover breath. The bell
from the watchtower of the Alhambra tolled midnight. There was a
deep tranquillity as if all nature slept, excepting the low tinkling
sound of an unseen stream that ran under the covert of the bushes. The
breathing sweetness of the atmosphere was lulling her to sleep, when
her eye was caught by something glittering at a distance, and to her
surprise she beheld a long cavalcade of Moorish warriors pouring
down the mountain side and along the leafy avenues. Some were armed
with lances and shields, others with cimeters and battle-axes, and
with polished cuirasses that flashed in the moonbeams.
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