"By the blessed St. Anthony," said he, "but you must have
slept soundly, considering the hardness of your couch."
"On the contrary, sleep has been a stranger to these eyes; incessant
watchfulness has been my doom. Listen to my lot. I was one of the
royal guards of Ferdinand and Isabella; but was taken prisoner by
the Moors in one of their sorties, and confined a captive in this
tower. When preparations were made to surrender the fortress to the
Christian sovereigns, I was prevailed upon by Alfaqui, a Moorish
priest, to aid him in secreting some of the treasures of Boabdil in
this vault. I was justly punished for my fault. The Alfaqui was an
African necromancer, and by his infernal arts cast a spell upon me- to
guard his treasures. Something must have happened to him, for he never
returned, and here have I remained ever since, buried alive. Years and
years have rolled away; earthquakes have shaken this hill; I have
heard stone by stone of the tower above tumbling to the ground, in the
natural operation of time; but the spell-bound walls of this vault set
both time and earthquakes at defiance.
"Once every hundred years, on the festival of St. John, the
enchantment ceases to have thorough sway; I am permitted to go forth
and post myself upon the bridge of the Darro, where you met me,
waiting until some one shall arrive who may have power to break this
magic spell. I have hitherto mounted guard there in vain.
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