"Once upon a time," Antonio began, "there were in the palace of the Alhambra three princesses whose names were Zayde, Zorayde and Zorahayda. They were daughters of the Sultan, for it was in the days when the Moors reigned in Granada, and there were no Christians here but captive Spaniards. The princesses were kept in a tower called the Tower of the Infantas, one of the most beautiful towers of the Alhambra. It was fitted up in a manner befitting the home of the king's daughters. The walls of the room were hung with tapestries in cloth of gold and royal blue; the divans were heaped high with pillows, the pillars and arches which held up the roof itself, were in filigree of softest hues,—blue, terra-cotta, and gold. The Princess Zayde's chamber was the richest, all in cloth of gold, since she was the eldest Infanta; that of Zorayde was hung with steel mirrors, burnished bright, for she was most fair to look upon and loved to look upon herself; while that of the youngest, little brown-eyed Princess Zorahayda, was delicate in tone, as if some rare jewel lay in a dainty casket. Upon the princesses waited the discreet Kadiga, an elderly duenna who never let them from her sight for a moment. She watched them as a cat does a mouse, but there was one thing she could not control, and that was the eyes of the princesses. They would look forth from the windows, and, indeed, this Kadiga never forbade, for it seemed to her a pity that three such fair maidens should have so little amusement, and she thought it could not possibly hurt them to gaze into the gardens below.

"One day, while the princesses were looking out the narrow windows, they saw something which made them look and look again. Yes, it was true,—could it be? it was! They were the very same—the three Christian princes whom they had seen at Salobrena; but here they were labouring as captives. At the tourney to which the princesses had been taken, they had seen these noble knights, and had fallen in love with them, and it was for this that their father had shut them up in a tower, for he had said no daughter of his should marry a Christian.

"But the knights thought differently, and they had come to Granada in the hope of finding their princesses, and had been taken captive and were compelled to hard labour.

"'It is he!' cried Zayde. 'The knight with the scarlet tunic is the one I saw!'

"'Yes, but the one in blue, he is mine!' cried Zorayde.

"Little Zorahayda said nothing, but she looked with all her eyes at the third knight. And this was not the last time she saw him, for the knights had come thither, bent on rescuing the maidens, and had bribed their jailer to help them to escape. So one moonlight night, when the moon was turning into silver beauty the orange-trees of the garden, and shining in fullest light into the deep ravine below the Tower of the Infantas, the knights awaited their lady-loves in the valley below, and Kadiga let them down by a rope-ladder.

"All escaped in safety but little Zorahayda, and she feared to go.

"'Leave me,' she cried. 'I must not leave my father!' and at last, since they could not persuade her to go, they rode sadly away without her, and her little white hand waved a sad farewell to them from the window. There she still is, so say the legends, and there are those who, walking in these gardens at midnight, tell that they have seen a white hand wave from the tower window, and a voice whisper through the murmur of the fountains, 'Ay di mi Zorahayda!'"

"Oh, Antonio! hast thou seen her?" cried Juanita, and her brother laughed, and said:

"Little foolish one, it is but a story! But Antonio, tell us a tale of battle, for this is but a woman's story, and there have been splendid deeds done in this old castle."

"Splendid ones, and sorry ones as well," said Antonio, who was old for his twelve years, and had lived so long in the atmosphere of romance that he seemed a part of it, in speech and manners. "Shall I tell you of the taking of the Alhambra from the Moors? It was a glorious fight, and both sides were brave men."

Then he told them of the conquest of Granada, when Christian knight and Moor fought valiantly for the possession of the splendid city, with its gem, the Alhambra. He told of how the noble knight, Juan de VÉga, was sent to demand tribute from Muley ben Hassan, King of Granada, and that fierce old monarch said:

"Return to your sovereigns, O Spaniard, and tell them that the kings of Granada who paid tribute are all dead. My mint coins only swords!" Brave words, but it was his son, Boabdil the Unlucky, who was forced to surrender the castle to the victorious enemy, and who handed the keys to the Spaniards, as he rode through the gate of the Siete Suelos, saying: "Go, possess these fortresses which Allah has taken from me, but grant me this one boon, that none other shall pass under this gateway from which I have come out." And Ferdinand granted his request and walled up the gate, so that, from that day to this, no one has passed through that entrance.

These and other tales Antonio told them, and the afternoon passed so quickly that the children were surprised when their mother's voice warned them that it was time to go home.

"Oh, mamma," they cried, "must we go?" and the seÑora smilingly waited a little, chatting with Antonio's mother, while he picked a huge bunch of flowers for the children to carry away with them. Then the good-byes were said, and they drove away crying:

"Come soon to see us, Antonio." To which he replied, in pleasant Spanish fashion:

"Thank you well, and very much for your visit!"

"Isn't he a nice boy?" said Juanita.

"Quite a little Don," her mother answered, smiling. "Fernando, I am glad to see that you have the sense to choose your friends so well," and Fernando grinned, boylike, well pleased.

"Oh, who is that?" Juanita asked, as a fantastic figure approached.

"That is the gipsy king," said her mother. "You know the gipsies live all huddled together there, below the Alhambra, and they have a chief whom they call king. They are a lazy set, doing little but thieving and telling fortunes. They live in little burrows, like rabbits, set into the hillsides, and there are pigs, goats, and dogs all living together with the people."

"That girl with the king is very pretty," said Fernando, "with her black hair and eyes, and her bright skirts, and the pomegranate flower behind her ear."

"The pomegranate is the flower of Granada, you know," said his mother, "and it does look pretty in her dark hair. Hear her call her dogs! Gipsy dogs are all named Melampo, Cubilon, or Lubina, after the shepherd dogs who followed the shepherds, and saw our Lord at Bethlehem. Ah, Juanita, 'Jesus, Maria y Josef!' You must not sneeze! Drive faster, Diego, and Dolores, wrap the baby in that Palencian blanket, so soft and warm. The nights grow cool quickly at this time of year."

"Why do we always say 'Jesus, Maria y Josef!' when people sneeze?" asked Fernando.

"It has been the custom so long that people have almost forgotten why it is done," replied his mother; "but I remember my grandmother saying once that her mother told her the reason. Years and years ago, in 1580, there was in all Andalusia a terrible plague called the mosquillo. People sneezed once, and lo! they had the plague, and little could save them, though some few recovered. So it grew to be the custom, when one sneezed, for those who heard him to look pityingly upon him and say, 'Dios le ayude,'[4] or call upon the holy names to help him, saying, 'Jesus, Maria y Josef.'"[5]

"See that ragged beggar, mamma," said Juanita. "May we not give him something?" as a little boy came hopping along beside the carriage, crying, lustily:

"Una limosna por el amor de Dios,[6] seÑora!"

"I have no centimos,"[7] said the seÑora, "and it is not wise to give more to a beggar, but you can always give politeness, niÑa, and when you have no money say, 'Perdone me, usted,'[8] or, 'Por el amor de Dios,'[9] and thus you will not give offence to God's poor."