It was the summer of the year 1491, and the armies of Ferdinand and Isabel invested the city of Granada. The night was not far advanced; and the moon, which broke through the transparent air of Andalusia, shone calmly over the immense and murmuring encampment of the Spanish foe, and touched with a hazy light the snow-capped summits of the Sierra Nevada, contrasting the verdure and luxuriance which no devastation of man could utterly sweep from the beautiful vale below. In the streets of the Moorish city many a group still lingered. At this time, a man, with downcast eyes, and arms folded within the sweeping gown which descended to his feet, was seen passing through the streets, alone, and apparently unobservant of all around him. Yet this indifference was by no means shared by the struggling crowds through which, from time to time, he musingly swept. God is great! said one man; it is the Enchanter Almamen.
He hath locked up the manhood of Boabdil el Chico with the key of his spells, quoth another, stroking his beard; I would curse him, if I dared.
But they say that he hath promised that when man fails, the genii will fight for Granada, observed a third, doubtingly.
Allah Akbar! what is, is! what shall be, shall be! said a fourth, with all the solemn sagacity of a prophet. Whatever their feelings, whether of awe or execration, terror or hope, each group gave way as Almamen passed, and hushed the murmurs not intended for his ear.