part07-第2部分

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the　mountains；　so　as　to　reach　the　gates　of　Granada　before　sunrise。

That　Sierra　Nevada；　senor；　is　a　lump　of　ice　in　the　middle　of

Andalusia；　to　keep　it　all　cool　in　summer。〃

　　It　was　now　completely　dark；　we　were　passing　through　the　barranco；

where　stood　the　cross　of　the　murdered　muleteer；　when　I　beheld　a　number

of　lights　moving　at　a　distance；　and　apparently　advancing　up　the

ravine。　On　nearer　approach；　they　proved　to　be　torches　borne　by　a　train

of　uncouth　figures　arrayed　in　black：　it　would　have　been　a　procession

dreary　enough　at　any　time；　but　was　peculiarly　so　in　this　wild　and

solitary　place。

　　Mateo　drew　near；　and　told　me；　in　a　low　voice；　that　it　was　a

funeral　train　bearing　a　corpse　to　the　burying…ground　among　the　hills。

　　As　the　procession　passed　by；　the　lugubrious　light　of　the　torches；

falling　on　the　rugged　features　and　funeral…weeds　of　the　attendants；

had　the　most　fantastic　effect；　but　was　perfectly　ghastly；　as　it

revealed　the　countenance　of　the　corpse；　which；　according　to　the

Spanish　custom；　was　borne　uncovered　on　an　open　bier。　I　remained　for

some　time　gazing　after　the　dreary　train　as　it　wound　up　the　dark　defile

of　the　mountain。　It　put　me　in　mind　of　the　old　story　of　a　procession　of

demons　bearing　the　body　of　a　sinner　up　the　crater　of　Stromboli。

　　〃Ah！　senor；〃　cried　Mateo；　〃I　could　tell　you　a　story　of　a

procession　once　seen　among　these　mountains；　but　then　you'd　laugh　at

me；　and　say　it　was　one　of　the　legacies　of　my　grandfather　the　tailor。〃

　　〃By　no　means；　Mateo。　There　is　nothing　I　relish　more　than　a

marvellous　tale。〃

　　〃Well；　senor；　it　is　about　one　of　those　very　men　we　have　been　talking

of；　who　gather　snow　on　the　Sierra　Nevada。

　　〃You　must　know；　that　a　great　many　years　since；　in　my　grandfather's

time；　there　was　an　old　fellow；　Tio　Nicolo　（Uncle　Nicholas）　by　name；

who　had　filled　the　panniers　of　his　mule　with　snow　and　ice；　and　was

returning　down　the　mountain。　Being　very　drowsy；　he　mounted　upon　the

mule；　and　soon　falling　asleep；　went　with　his　head　nodding　and

bobbing　about　from　side　to　side；　while　his　surefooted　old　mule　stepped

along　the　edge　of　precipices；　and　down　steep　and　broken　barrancos；

just　as　safe　and　steady　as　if　it　had　been　on　plain　ground。　At

length；　Tio　Nicolo　awoke；　and　gazed　about　him；　and　rubbed　his　eyes…

and；　in　good　truth；　he　had　reason。　The　moon　shone　almost　as　bright

as　day；　and　he　saw　the　city　below　him；　as　plain　as　your　hand；　and

shining　with　its　white　buildings；　like　a　silver　platter　in　the

moonshine；　but；　Lord！　senor；　it　was　nothing　like　the　city　he　had

left　a　few　hours　before！　Instead　of　the　cathedral；　with　its　great　dome

and　turrets；　and　the　churches　with　their　spires；　and　the　convents　with

their　pinnacles；　all　surmounted　with　the　blessed　cross；　he　saw　nothing

but　Moorish　mosques；　and　minarets；　and　cupolas；　all　topped　off　with

glittering　crescents；　such　as　you　see　on　the　Barbary　flags。

　　〃Well；　senor；　as　you　may　suppose；　Tio　Nicolo　was　mightily　puzzled　at

all　this；　but　while　he　was　gazing　down　upon　the　city；　a　great　army

came　marching　up　the　mountains；　winding　along　the　ravines；　sometimes

in　the　moonshine　sometimes　in　the　shade。　As　it　drew　nigh；　he　saw

that　there　were　horse　and　foot　all　in　Moorish　armor。　Tio　Nicolo

tried　to　scramble　out　of　their　way；　but　his　old　mule　stood　stock

still；　and　refused　to　budge；　trembling；　at　the　same　time；　like　a　leaf…

for　dumb　beasts；　senor；　are　just　as　much　frightened　at　such　things

as　human　beings。　Well；　senor；　the　hobgoblin　army　came　marching　by；

there　were　men　that　seemed　to　blow　trumpets；　and　others　to　beat

drums　and　strike　cymbals；　yet　never　a　sound　did　they　make；　they　all

moved　on　without　the　least　noise；　just　as　I　have　seen　painted　armies

move　across　the　stage　in　the　theatre　of　Granada；　and　all　looked　as

pale　as　death。　At　last；　in　the　rear　of　the　army；　between　two　black

Moorish　horsemen；　rode　the　Grand　Inquisitor　of　Granada；　on　a　mule　as

white　as　snow。　Tio　Nicolo　wondered　to　see　him　in　such　company；　for　the

Inquisitor　was　famous　for　his　hatred　of　Moors；　and　indeed；　of　all

kinds　of　Infidels；　Jews；　and　Heretics；　and　used　to　hunt　them　out

with　fire　and　scourge。

　　〃However；　Tio　Nicolo　felt　himself　safe；　now　that　there　was　a

priest　of　such　sanctity　at　hand。　So　making　the　sign　of　the　cross；　he

called　out　for　his　benediction；　when　hombre！　he　received　a　blow　that

sent　him　and　his　old　mule　over　the　edge　of　a　steep　bank；　down　which

they　rolled；　head　over　heels；　to　the　bottom！　Tio　Nicolo　did　not　come

to　his　senses　until　long　after　sunrise；　when　he　found　himself　at　the

bottom　of　a　deep　ravine；　his　mule　grazing　beside　him；　and　his　panniers

of　snow　completely　melted。　He　crawled　back　to　Granada　sorely　bruised

and　battered；　but　was　glad　to　find　the　city　looking　as　usual；　with

Christian　churches　and　crosses。

　　〃When　he　told　the　story　of　his　night's　adventure；　every　one

laughed　at　him；　some　said　he　had　dreamed　it　all；　as　he　dozed　on　his

mule；　others　thought　it　all　a　fabrication　of　his　own…　but　what　was

strange；　senor；　and　made　people　afterwards　think　more　seriously　of　the

matter；　was；　that　the　Grand　Inquisitor　died　within　the　year。　I　have

often　heard　my　grandfather；　the　tailor；　say　that　there　was　more

meant　by　that　hobgoblin　army　bearing　off　the　resemblance　of　the

priest；　than　folks　dared　to　surmise。〃

　　〃Then　you　would　insinuate；　friend　Mateo；　that　there　is　a　kind　of

Moorish　limbo；　or　purgatory；　in　the　bowels　of　these　mountains；　to

which　the　padre　Inquisitor　was　borne　off。〃

　　〃God　forbid；　senor！　I　know　nothing　of　the　matter。　I　only　relate　what

I　heard　from　my　grandfather。〃

　　By　the　time　Mateo　had　finished　the　tale　which　I　have　more　succinctly

related；　and　which　was　interlarded　with　many　comments；　and　spun　out

with　minute　details；　we　reached　the　gate　of　the　Alhambra。

　　The　marvellous　stories　hinted　at　by　Mateo；　in　the　early　part　of

our　ramble　about　the　Tower　of　the　Seven　Floors；　set　me　as　usual　upon

my　goblin　researches。　I　found　that　the　redoubtable　phantom；　the

Belludo；　had　been　time　out　of　mind　a　favorite　theme　of　nursery　tales

and　popular　traditions　in　Granada；　and　that　honorable　mention　had　even

been　made　of　it　by　an　ancient　historian　and　topographer　of　the

place。　The　scattered　members　of　one　of　these　popular　traditions　I　have

gathered　together；　collated　them　with　infinite　pains；　and　digested

them　into　the　following　legend；　which　only　wants　a　number　of　learned

notes　and　references　at　bottom　to　take　its　rank　among　those　concrete

productions　gravely　passed　upon　the　world　for　Historical　Facts。

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Legend　of　the　Moor's　Legacy。



　　JUST　within　the　fortress　of　the　Alhambra；　in　front　of　the　royal

palace；　is　a　broad　open　esplanade；　called　the　Place　or　Square　of　the

Cisterns　（la　Plaza　de　los　Algibes）；　so　called　from　being　undermined　by

reservoirs　of　water；　hidden　from　sight；　and　which　have　existed　from

the　time　of　the　Moors。　At　one　corner　of　this　esplanade　is　a　Moorish

well；　cut　through　the　living　rock　to　a　great　depth；　the　water　of　which

is　cold　as　ice　and　clear　as　crystal。　The　wells　made　by　the　Moors　are

always　in　repute；　for　it　is　well　known　what　pains　they　took　to

penetrate　to　the　purest　and　sweetest　springs　and　fountains。　The　one　of

which　we　now　speak　is　famous　throughout　Granada；　insomuch　that

water…carriers；　some　bearing　great　water…jars　on　their　shoulders；

others　driving　asses　before　them　laden　with　earthen　vessels；　are

ascending　and　descending　the　steep　woody　avenues　of　the　Alhambra；　from

early　dawn　until　a　late　hour　of　the　night。

　　Fountains　and　wells；　ever　since　the　scriptural　days；　have　been　noted

gossiping　places　in　hot　climates；　and　at　the　well　in　question　there　is

a　kind　of　perpetual　club　kept　up　during　the　livelong　day；　by　the

invalids；　old　women；　and　other　curious　do…nothing　folk　of　the

fortress；　who　sit　here　on　the　stone　benches；　under　an　awning　spread

over　the　well　to　shelter　the　toll…gatherer　from　the　sun；　and　dawdle

over　the　gossip　of　the　fortress；　and　question　every　water…carrier　that

arrives　about　the　news　of　the　city；　and　make　long　comments　on　every

thing　they　hear　and　see。　Not　an　hour　of　the　day　but　loitering

housewives　and　idle　maid…servants　may　be　seen；　lingering　with

pitcher　on　head；　or　in　hand；　to　hear　the　last　of　the　endless　tattle　of

these　worthies。

　　Among　the　water…carriers　who　once　resorted　to　this　well；　there　was　a

sturdy；　strong…backed；　bandy…legged　little　fellow；　named　Pedro　Gil；

but　called　Peregil　for　shortness。　Being　a　water…carrier；　he　was　a

Gallego；　or　native　of　Galicia；　of　course。　Nature　seems　to　have

formed　races　of　men；　as　she　has　of　animals；　for　different　kinds　of

drudgery。　In　France　the　shoeblacks　are　all　Savoyards；　the　porters　of

hotels　all　Swiss；　and　in　the　days　of　hoops　and　hair…powder　in　England；

no　man　could　give　the　regular　swing　to　a　sedan…chair　but　a

bog…trotting　Irishman。　So　in　Spain；　the　carriers　of　water　and

bearers　of　burdens　are　all　sturdy　little　natives　of　Galicia。　No　man

says；　〃Get　me　a　porter；〃　but；　〃Call　a　Gallego。〃

　　To　return　from　this　digression；　Peregil　the　Gallego　had　begun

business　with　merely　a　great　earthen　jar　which　he　carried　upon　his

shoulder；　by　degrees　he　rose　in　the　world；　and　was　enabled　to　purchase

an　assistant　of　a　correspondent　class　of　animals；　being　a　stout

shaggy…haired　donkey。　On　each　side　of　this　his　long…eared

aide…de…camp；　in　a　kind　of　pannier；　were　slung　his　water…jars；　covered

with　fig…leaves　to　protect　them　from　the　sun。　There　was　not　a　more

industrious　water…carrier　in　all　Granada；　nor　one　more　merry　withal。

The　streets　rang　with　his　cheerful　voice　as　he　trudged　after　his

donkey；　singing　forth　the　usual　summer　note　that　resounds　through

the　Spanish　towns：　〃Quien　quiere　agua…　agua　mas　fria　que　la　nieve？〃…

〃Who　wants　water…　water　colder　than　snow？　Who　wants　water　from　the

well　of　the　Alhambra；　cold　as　ice　and　clear　as　crystal？〃　When　he

served　a　customer　with　a　sparkling　glass；　it　was　always　with　a

pleasant　word　that　caused　a　smile；　and　if；　perchance；　it