THE short November afternoon was melting into twilight when Diego and Don Felipe, with Fray PiÑa, took their way on horseback across the plateau to the town of Santa FÉ. The plain was still thronged with persons going homeward after the great spectacle of the day, and with those who dwelt in Santa FÉ or were encamped outside.

The Admiral had engaged lodgings for the party in a tall, old house, one of those in the original small town where he himself lodged. It was in a crooked and retired street, but Diego and Don Felipe were delighted to find that one window of the room which they shared together, under the roof, looked toward the plain upon which were encamped the armies of Castile and Arragon, while another gave a view of the deep and narrow valley that lay between Santa FÉ and the beleaguered city of Granada. Directly before them lay the “Gate of Justice,” one of the main gates of the city, and from its towers they could hear, in the clear November air, the shrill cry of the muezzin, the Moslem call to prayer. “Prayer is better than sleep—than sleep—than sleep.”

After the traveler’s supper, at which were present the Admiral and his friend, Alonzo de Quintanilla, Diego and Don Felipe were willing enough to go to their room. They felt as if they were living under a spell of enchantment. The splendid personages they had seen, the great events of which they were to be spectators, the pomp and glory of war, impressed their young imaginations powerfully. Although tired with their long day of travel and excitement, they could not sleep. So an hour passed. They rose at last, and, as they were gazing out of the window toward the camp, at ten o’clock they noticed in the middle of the camp, lying a mile away, a great mass of flame shoot skyward. Instantly the camp was roused, and there was a great commotion in the town. De Quintanilla ran out of the house and, mounting his horse, still standing at the door, galloped away toward the camp. The fire, though violent, soon burned itself out, and in an hour De Quintanilla returned with the news that the beautiful tents erected by the King for Queen Isabella, the Princess Katharine, and their suites, had mysteriously caught fire while the Queen was at prayer in the tent arranged as a chapel. She had made an almost miraculous escape, and by her courage and presence of mind not a life had been lost, although the splendid row of tents, hung with rich brocades and gorgeously furnished, were only a heap of ashes.

“The Queen,” said De Quintanilla, to the listening group, “showed as ever the spirit of ten men-at-arms, being composed and even smiling, and saying that the humblest tent in the army is enough to shelter her, for she is a soldier like the rest of the army.”

The next morning Diego and Don Felipe were not surprised when Fray PiÑa began at once the same routine that had been followed at La Rabida and at the castle of Langara. It was irksome to them and tantalizing to be held down to books and studies in their narrow little room, while living in the midst of a great camp with all its charms and fascinations for brave and imaginative boys. But they knew too much to appeal against it, for Fray PiÑa’s stern rule was upheld by the Admiral and by DoÑa Christina. Still they enjoyed their new life and felt as if they were living every minute of it.

The arrival of Queen Isabella had put new vigor into everything. The armies were impatient to take the city of Granada by storm; but King Ferdinand, a capable soldier, would not consider this. From spies and the Moorish prisoners occasionally captured, both the King and the Queen knew that there was utter demoralization within the walls of Granada. The weak and effeminate spirit of the Moorish King, Boabdil, would not listen to the counsels of those who were willing to die with honor in an attempt to break out of the city. His eldest son, a boy of seven, had been captured by the Spaniards when an effort was made secretly to transport the child to the coast. This had broken the heart of Boabdil. He had no idea of civilized warfare, and would not believe the messages sent him that the boy was well cared for, and Queen Isabella charged herself with his welfare. The word “Kismet”—“It is fate,” paralyzed King Boabdil. He waited where his ancestors had fought boldly and had taken desperate chances with unshaken courage.

Although there was still hard fighting to be done, the presence of the Queen and her ladies led to many splendid entertainments, jousts, and tilts. Neither Diego nor Don Felipe, nor any of their party, saw anything of these brilliant gaieties. The Admiral lived in retirement, except when he went to attend men in power, whose understanding and approval of his plans he wished to secure before making his final appeal to the sovereigns after the city should have fallen. He soon found that, although King Ferdinand was not averse to the enterprise, he was quite willing to let the money for the expedition come out of the coffers of Castile instead of Arragon, and that the ships should be named by Castilians. Alonzo de Quintanilla was a hard-working accountant who went to his daily labor early and remained late. In the evening he, and the Admiral, Fray PiÑa, and the two lads, supped together; their talk was not of festivals, but of the chances of the great voyage of the Admiral.

Sometimes, however, the party was increased by the presence of Luis de St. Angel, also an accountant of the Queen, and Father Diego de Deza, tutor to Prince Juan and one of the most scientific men of the age. To him, in later life, the Admiral bore tribute in writing as one of the two men without whom he could never have got the support of the Court of Spain in his enterprise. The second man so immortalized was Juan Perez.

With the two ecclesiastics and Alonzo de Quintanilla the Admiral held long conferences, not only on scientific subjects, but on the best method of urging his plan upon the King and the Queen when the time should be ripe.

It was plain to the quick intelligence of Diego and Don Felipe that the two ecclesiastics, both of them able mathematicians and astronomers, frankly conceded the superiority in mathematics and astronomy to the Admiral, and their faith in his ideas was strengthened continually by the evidences of his extraordinary attainments, as well as his great natural powers and lofty and unsullied character.

There were two others who sometimes joined this circle of remarkable men. One was Don Tomaso, who brought with him the beautiful knight, Ponce de Leon. In spite of his surpassing good looks, Ponce de Leon was an intelligent man, and had, for his own pleasure, studied navigation. He would talk much with the Admiral and Fray PiÑa, studying maps and making astronomical calculations, while the Daredevil Knight, twirling his mustaches, clanking his sword, and rattling his great spurs, would charm Diego and Don Felipe with stories of jousts at arms, for the favor of the ladies, and splendid balls at which those same ladies danced with gallant gentlemen.

DoÑa Christina was in attendance upon Queen Isabella, who, with the King, lived in the midst of the camp in tents almost as splendid as those which had been destroyed by fire the first night of the Queen’s arrival. It was arranged that Don Felipe should visit his mother once a week; and the first visit he paid DoÑa Christina he asked permission to bring Diego, which was granted. This gave Diego great joy. Not only did he wish to see the kind and gentle DoÑa Christina, but he longed ardently to see the splendid encampment, and the great Queen, for whom he had a reverence and affection dating back to the days of his first visit to La Rabida, and to whom he looked as the one person who would open the way of glory to his father.

On the appointed day the two youths, with Fray PiÑa, set out on foot for the camp. They were both dressed alike, suitably, but with much simplicity. As the two started off from the door of their lodgings Diego looked back, and a sudden pang went to his heart. His father, who stood watching him, was shabbily dressed, although with that extraordinary neatness which always distinguished him. It suddenly came home to Diego the patient sacrifices made for him by his father, and a passionate desire welled up in his heart that some day he might repay that father, so noble in every way, and yet with the tenderness of a woman. But more cheerful thoughts filled Diego’s ardent young mind as he and Don Felipe, with Fray PiÑa, passed through the great encampment and finally came to the tents occupied by the Queen and her ladies. DoÑa Christina received them with the greatest kindness, making courteous inquiries of the Admiral and expressing much satisfaction when Fray PiÑa told her of the good conduct of Don Felipe and Diego.

“You shall be rewarded,” said DoÑa Christina. “In an hour the Queen sets forth to review the Castilian troops, and, if Fray PiÑa will permit, you may both see that splendid sight.”

The heart of Diego leaped with joy, and he and Don Felipe exchanged delighted glances.

It was not DoÑa Christina’s duty to attend the Queen that day. When the blowing of the silver trumpets in the clear December noon announced that the Queen was about to issue from her tent, Fray PiÑa and the two lads went out and stood at a respectful distance watching the splendid sight. The Queen’s charger, a superb war horse, was led out, and a brilliant array of knights and the gorgeous body-guard awaited her. Queen Isabella issued from her tent escorted by her ladies. She wore a handsome but simple riding costume and the same light but beautiful corselet and arm-pieces of glittering chain mail. On her delicate, fair head was a small and resplendent casque with purple plumes. She was that day the sovereign and the soldier. As she caught sight of Fray PiÑa she bowed to him courteously and spoke a word to DoÑa Christina, who beckoned to Fray PiÑa and the two youths. Diego could have shouted for joy when he found himself approaching the Queen. She spoke first to Fray PiÑa, and then to Don Felipe, saying:

“I am pleased to hear, Don Felipe, that your conduct is good and that you have learned how to obey, which is a necessary thing for all who wish to live creditably in the world.”

Then, turning to Diego, she said, sweetly:

“And this is Diego, the son of the great captain whom I esteem highly. I remember this youth as a little lad when first his father came to me at Cordova seven years ago.”

Then the remembrance of Diego falling asleep on the steps of the dais came to the Queen, and she smiled, saying:

“You were but a little lad then, and fell asleep with your head upon my knee. All youths of your age are dear to me, for in them I see the hope of Spain.”

With that the great Queen bowed in dismissal, and, mounting, showed perfect horsemanship as she put her horse to the gallop and rode off, followed by her retinue.

The two boys, with Fray PiÑa, scampered through the camp and were able to reach a point where they had a full view of the Castilian troops drawn up in splendid order upon the open plain. The Queen’s appearance was greeted with thundering cheers, with the clash of lances in the bright air, the joyous rattling of swords in their scabbards and salvos of artillery, and the playing of the national hymn. Queen Isabella rode up and down the ranks inspecting everything with a keen eye and sharp judgment, questioning the officers with the knowledge of a king as well as of a queen. When the inspection was over, the troops marched past, saluting their sovereign; and the Queen, with the great standard of Castile held above her, gracefully acknowledged every salute. The march-past over, the Queen then visited the sick quarters of the camp, going through the hospital tents, cheering and encouraging the poor inmates. When this was over and the Queen, with her retinue, returned to the royal tents, it was late in the afternoon. Fray PiÑa and the two lads were already in DoÑa Christina’s tent to see the Queen dismount. DoÑa Christina, within the tent, opened the door. She held by the hand a little black-eyed, dark-skinned, sad-looking boy about the age of little Fernando.

“This,” she said, to Fray PiÑa, in Spanish, which the child did not understand, “is the son of King Boabdil, held as a hostage. Every day the Queen has the little boy brought to her, or visits him privately to show him some kindness. To-day she will come into this tent to speak to him.”

In another minute the Queen entered unceremoniously from the adjoining tent. The little boy’s sad face brightened as he saw her, and, letting go of DoÑa Christina’s hand, he went willingly to the Queen and respectfully kissed her hand. The Queen, putting her arm around his shoulder, gave him a little toy, a horse, carved and painted, and said to him a few words in the Moorish tongue. The boy, silent and undemonstrative, was yet not unfeeling, and his face showed a faint pleasure.

The Queen then entered into a short conversation with Fray PiÑa. She was fond of the society of learned men, and always treated them with much respect. Fray PiÑa, with quick art, brought in the name of the Admiral, saying that Father de Deza and himself profited much by the Admiral’s superior scientific knowledge.

“We are but postulants, madam,” he said, “in mathematics and astronomy when compared with the Genoese navigator. This Father de Deza and I often say to each other.”

The Queen looked fixedly at Fray PiÑa, showing herself impressed by such words from such men. Then, in a few moments, she left the tent, accompanied by DoÑa Christina, who still held the little prisoner by the hand.

Diego and Don Felipe then walked back through the sharp December afternoon to their lodgings in the town. The brilliant military spectacle they had seen made them long for more of the same kind. They were at the age when they chafed for action, not realizing how little prepared they were for it and that the stern rule under which they lived was the best school for them. Still, so strong was the pressure brought to bear upon them by Fray PiÑa and by the Admiral that they did well at their studies.

Meanwhile, they were not the only ones whose patience was painfully tried. The Admiral had the promise of the King and the Queen that as soon as the struggle with the Moors was over they would arrange for the great voyage. It was only a question of time now when the city of Granada must surrender. The arrival of the Queen had put new force into an attack already vigorous. The Spaniards gave the Moors no rest by day or night. First at one gate and then at another, they made desperate assaults, overwhelming the Moorish troops and driving them back with terrible loss into the city.

The Admiral, hoping that his sublime projects would immediately follow the fall of Granada, was eager to make his arrangements that he might begin his voyage early in the summer. But at the moment when, after eighteen years of desperate and determined struggle, the dayspring of hope was at hand, an unexpected difficulty arose. Fernando de Talavera, Archbishop of Toledo, who was destined to be the first Archbishop of Granada, a man of honesty, but without enthusiasm, who had heretofore befriended the Admiral, strongly opposed the honors which the Admiral claimed in the event of his success. Diego and Don Felipe knew this, not from the mouth of the Admiral, who scorned to make any complaint, but from the conversation of those around them. Diego saw his father go forth every day to wait in the anterooms of the great, who seemed to have no time to listen to him. The events passing before them were so brilliant and dazzling that they put off the more stupendous thing, the discovery of a new world. Every day, in the evening, when the Admiral returned, he showed unbroken patience; but Diego knew that no progress had been made. Once he heard his father say to Fray PiÑa:

“I will wait here patiently until the fall of the city. If then no one will listen to me, I shall leave Spain, and another country shall have the glory of my discoveries.”

All through December the cordon was tightened around the city, the loss inflicted on the Moors greater, their sorties more desperate and more disastrous. It was hoped that by Christmas the standard of the Cross would float over the great mosque in the Alhambra; but still the city held out desperately. On Christmas Day, however, an adventure happened that thrilled Diego and Don Felipe and all who saw it. On that day the fighting had been unusually severe all around the city of Granada, except on the plateau of the Gate of Justice, which faced Santa FÉ. At midday, as the Admiral, with Fray PiÑa and Diego and Don Felipe, stood at an open window watching the fighting, they saw three carts, apparently loaded with provisions, steal out of a small ravine close to the Gate of Justice, and then trot rapidly to the gate. The carts were evidently seen and their burdens noted, for the postern-gate was instantly opened. The first cart entered and became at once wedged in such a manner that the gate could not be shut. Suddenly a knight clad in a light and glittering chain armor and mounted on a superb black horse dashed up the acclivity, followed by fifteen other knights, all picked men. The Admiral and Fray PiÑa recognized the leader, the gallant Hernando Perez del Pulgar, a cousin of the Prior, Juan Perez, and a man renowned for his daring even among the fearless and brilliant knights of Spain. He carried on his lance-head a fluttering piece of linen; and, dashing at the narrow opening, his horse leaped over the cart, and was followed by another knight, whom Diego and Don Felipe saw was Don Tomaso de Gama. Fourteen other knights rode into the gateway and disappeared.

“What does it mean?” said Diego, turning to Fray PiÑa.

“It means, I fear,” replied Fray PiÑa, “that those sixteen gallant gentlemen are lost to Spain; they will never return.”

“I think they will,” replied the Admiral. “Hernando Perez del Pulgar is a daring man, but prudent withal. He has not entered the Moorish city to be trapped along with his companions; some of them will return.”

As the Admiral spoke they saw the carts push slowly through the gateway and become strongly jammed with each other.

“See,” said the Admiral, “the gate remains open. There is a stratagem, you may depend.”

By that time the word had sped from mouth to mouth through the town of Santa FÉ and among the encamped soldiers of what was going on, and, like the Admiral, all saw that the postern-gate was purposely blocked and kept open by the supposed food-carts. Thus all eyes were fixed upon the open gateway, visible in the bright noon. The King and the Queen had been informed, and had come from their tents, surrounded by the court, to watch the exciting event happening before their eyes. Ten minutes passed, ten minutes of agonized tension and breathless anxiety, and then the black charger of Del Pulgar appeared before the open gate, and, making a magnificent leap over the carts, which acted as a wedge in the gate, the knight appeared shouting the battle-cry of Spain:

“Santiago for Spain!”

He still carried his lance; but the fluttering piece of white linen was no longer there. He dashed down the declivity, followed by the fifteen knights, their numbers counted by tens of thousands of anxious eyes. As the last of the sixteen men leaped the cart a great cry went up from the city and camps of Santa FÉ:

“Santiago, Santiago for Spain!” burst from the watching multitudes.

Many of the women were weeping with excitement and triumph. As the sixteen men disappeared in the valley Don Felipe found himself clasping Diego, both of them shouting in their high, boyish voices:

“Santiago, Santiago for Spain!”

At that moment Alonzo de Quintanilla burst into the room with the great news.

“The brave knight, Del Pulgar,” he said, “meaning to do honor to Christ on this Christmas Day, had a Christian prayer painted on a piece of linen to nail upon the doors of the great mosque in Granada. He arranged a stratagem by which a gate of the city should be open, and then, riding in with his companions, he galloped up to the door of the great mosque and nailed upon it with his dagger the Christian prayer. The Moors were so taken by surprise that they could not stop him. Not one of the sixteen knights received a scratch.”

The eyes of the Admiral shone bright. He loved deeds of valor, and the daring of the young knights pleased him well.

While the elders of the party were discussing the splendid dash of Del Pulgar and the possibilities of the siege, Diego, who was standing at the open window, silently motioned to Don Felipe to join him. They saw a Moorish officer ride out from the Gate of Justice and walk his horse up and down the plateau of the Vega. He wore the heavy turban, under which the Moors had a small steel skull-cap, and he had on a breastplate and his arm-pieces of solid armor. He carried no lance or shield, but only a great curved sword, such as the Moors used. His horse was a milk-white Arabian with a long and flowing mane and tail, dyed purple at the ends. From the horse’s tail floated, tied with bands of red and yellow, the Spanish colors, a piece of white linen. A cry of rage and horror went up from the watching multitudes of Santa FÉ; it was the Christian prayer that had been nailed to the door of the mosque by Hernando Perez del Pulgar, and which the Moorish warrior had torn down and was dragging at his horse’s heels in full sight of the Christian city and armies.

The Admiral and Fray PiÑa and Alonzo de Quintanilla turned to the window and saw what was happening. Great crowds were already assembled, and the streets of Santa FÉ and the walls of Granada were black with people. The Moorish warrior passed slowly toward the edge of the valley, or rather ravine, and, reining up his horse, dashed an iron glove as far as he could throw it toward Santa FÉ. The challenge did not remain long unanswered. Across the bridge of the Xeni and up the rocky roadway a Spanish cavalier was seen urging his horse.

“That is Manuel Garcilosa,” said Alonzo de Quintanilla. “I know him well. He is not of noble birth; but, by Heaven! he will be ennobled if he rescues the Christian prayer from the Moor.”

Garcilosa, like the Moor, had neither lance nor shield, but a sword, which, like most of the Spanish swords, was a Toledo blade, made of the finest strength and temper.

Arrived on the plateau, Garcilosa stopped to breathe his horse, a noble chestnut. Man and horse stood motionless, as if cast in bronze. The Moor advanced warily, his horse at the trot. Garcilosa, his sword in rest, seemed waiting for the onslaught. When the Moorish warrior was within twenty yards of Garcilosa, he gave his horse the spur, and the chestnut sprang forward like an arrow released from the bow. The Moor also put spurs to his horse to meet the shock, but Garcilosa was too quick for him. The Arabian horse swerved a little, answering a touch of the bridle; but the chestnut, dashing full at him, man and horse were ridden down. The white horse had fallen upon his master; but with the intelligence of the Arabian he struggled to his feet in an instant. The Moorish warrior rose, too, as Garcilosa dismounted. Then followed a desperate combat on foot. The Moor was the heavier man; the Spanish gentleman the more active. They fought in a narrow circle, the clashing of their swords ringing out in the clear December air. Blood streamed from the faces of both, and presently the Moor was seen to stagger. Garcilosa suddenly gave his antagonist a thrust upon the sword-arm which brought him to the ground. Then, running to the Arabian, which stood perfectly still, Garcilosa, first tearing away the Christian prayer and putting it in his breast, took his Toledo blade and cut off the flowing tail of the Arabian horse. Cries resounded from the people on the walls of the city. The horse was of the breed of the Prophet Mohammed, and to cut off his tail was reckoned sacrilege.

The Moor still lay insensible on the ground; and Garcilosa, vaulting into the saddle upon the white horse, gave his own chestnut steed a thwack with the sword, which sent him flying back down the road he knew, followed by his master on the Arabian steed, hard galloping. Once more shouts and cries of “Santiago, Santiago for Spain!” rent the air.

GARCILOSA SUDDENLY GAVE HIS ANTAGONIST A THRUST
UPON THE SWORD-ARM

When Garcilosa rode into Santa FÉ he was met by a messenger from the King and the Queen. With Del Pulgar he received the thanks of both and the cheers of the men and the tears of the women. That day Garcilosa was ennobled, becoming Don Garcilosa del Vega, in commemoration of the spot on which he fought his gallant fight.

On January 1, 1492, the offer of surrender was made by King Boabdil. The following day the Moorish king and all his followers passed out of Granada and left Spain free from the foreign invaders after nearly eight hundred years. The joy and triumph of the day inspired every heart, even the torturing soul of the great Admiral, who was forgotten and overlooked in the universal excitement. All the highest nobles and grandees of Spain—the warriors, the statesmen, the scholars, all that made Spain great—were assembled on that January day to see the surrender of Boabdil. Only one man, and he the greatest of them all, was not provided with a place and a position. That was the Admiral, Christobal Colon. Diego, however, sharing as he did everything with Don Felipe, was enabled by the thoughtfulness of DoÑa Christina to see the inspiring spectacle.

The surrender of King Boabdil to the Spanish sovereigns was to take place near a little stone building, until that time a Mohammedan mosque. On that day it had been consecrated as a Christian chapel, the chapel of San Sebastian.

Early in the morning the two lads, with Fray PiÑa, walked through the town, which was wild with jubilation, down the rocky path to the place assigned for them. Already vast crowds of persons were assembled. The Spaniards had taken possession of the city the day before, and Fernando de Talavera had been created Archbishop of Granada. To him was allotted the honor of raising the standard of Spain over the great mosque, now to become a Christian cathedral. Some expressed pity for the unfortunate Moorish king; but Fray PiÑa, a man of lion heart, had only contempt for him.

“He has no courage,” said Fray PiÑa, to the two lads, watching the enormous concourse coming together and the marching across the plain of the armies of Castile and Arragon. “Instead of showing his people an example of fortitude in adversity, he mounted his mule and rode all through the streets of Granada beating his breast and tearing his beard and wailing: ‘Woe is me! Woe is me!’ and inciting the people to shrieks and bewailing. Do you think our great Queen Isabella in the place of the Moorish king would have so acted? No; she would have met disaster with the same calmness that she meets triumph. No cry would have come from her lips, no beating of the breast, no tearing of the hair. She would have been the same great queen in defeat as well as in triumph.”

Every moment in the bright January day the multitude grew larger and more brilliant. The sound of martial music filled the air as the victorious armies assembled and the sun glittered upon the casques, the shining arms, and the splendid standards. Presently the royal procession appeared. The King and the Queen, with their son, Prince Juan, and their daughter, the Princess Katharine, all superbly mounted and surrounded by a magnificent train of nobles, knights, and ecclesiastics, rode across the plain toward the little chapel by the side of the rocky road. As Diego and Don Felipe were watching the glorious sight they heard DoÑa Christina’s voice close by them. She was leaning out of a closed litter, with the curtains slightly drawn back. Within the litter a glimpse could be caught of the little Moorish boy, the son of King Boabdil.

Fray PiÑa, with Don Felipe and Diego, obeying a signal from DoÑa Christina, advanced to the litter.

“The Queen,” whispered DoÑa Christina, “directed that the little boy be brought here, so at the moment of King Boabdil’s surrender the poor King may have a moment’s joy in seeing his child alive and well. Remain by me until the Queen calls for me.”

The King and the Queen were now approaching very near. The face of King Ferdinand shone with triumph; and Queen Isabella, although calmness and dignity itself, had a glorious light in her eyes and a flush in her cheek deeper than any one had ever seen there before. Her patriotism as a Castilian, her pride as a sovereign, her earnestness as a Christian, were all exalted by the driving forth from her kingdom of the enemies of the people and of the Christian religion. It was, indeed, a stupendous event for Spain.

The sound of music, the cheering, and all excited conversation quickly ceased, as from the Gate of Justice of the city on the heights came forth a cavalcade. A silence like death seemed to fall upon the world, which was broken by a sudden, loud crash of masonry. At the request of King Boabdil, the gate behind him had been forever closed by the destruction of the towers of masonry on each side of the gateway, thus blocking it up forever. Every heart was thrilled by the sound, preternaturally loud in the clear January day. The procession of the conquered wound its slow way down the hillside, across the bridge, and up again, until it reached the Spanish sovereigns. Then Boabdil, a miserable, downcast object, without dignity or fortitude, slipped from his horse and would have prostrated himself upon the ground and kissed the hand of King Ferdinand; but this the King magnanimously forbore, himself dismounting as did the Queen, out of courtesy to the fallen monarch. At the same time the Moorish vizier handed to King Ferdinand the keys of the city of Granada. The King passed them to Queen Isabella, as Granada was in the territory claimed by Castile. These the Queen in turn gave to Prince Juan, heir to the thrones of Castile and Arragon, who handed them in his turn to the Count de Tendila, the new Spanish governor of the city of Granada. At that moment DoÑa Christina, slipping from the litter and holding by the hand the little Moorish prince, led him to the Queen and placed his hand in hers. As King Boabdil made his obeisance to her, Queen Isabella placed the hand of the child in that of the father. The little boy gave a sharp cry of joy, and the poor weeping Boabdil caught his son to his breast. Then, in the midst of a death-like silence, every eye saw rising slowly over the citadel of Granada the red and yellow standard of Spain, the Gonfalon, until it floated over the flag of the Crescent, which came down quickly. A great shout that seemed to shake the earth, a crashing of music, a roaring of artillery, broke forth as if the whole world rejoiced. The King and the Queen, going into the Christian chapel of San Sebastian, until that morning a Moorish mosque, fell on their knees and gave thanks to God for the liberation of their country from the invader and for the triumph of the Christian religion.

The event was up to that time the most glorious in the history of Spain and the most important. But a day was about to dawn for Spain more brilliant, more imposing, more full of triumph than any country on the globe has ever known, a day never yet surpassed in all the countries upon which the sun has risen since.