The sight of those bloody relics added fury to his cruel
disposition, and served to steel a heart already but little disposed to
sentiments of mercy.
Three days after the sack and plunder of the place, Don Beltran was
seated in the hall-court lately occupied by the proud Alfaqui, lying
in his divan, dressed in his rich robes, the fountains playing in the
centre, the slaves of the Moor ministering to his scarred and rugged
Christian conqueror. Some fanned him with peacocks' pinions, some danced
before him, some sang Moor's melodies to the plaintive notes of a guzla,
one--it was the only daughter of the Moor's old age, the young Zutulbe,
a rosebud of beauty--sat weeping in a corner of the gilded hall: weeping
for her slain brethren, the pride of Moslem chivalry, whose heads were
blackening in the blazing sunshine on the portals without, and for her
father, whose home had been thus made desolate.
He and his guest, the English knight Sir Wilfrid, were playing at chess,
a favorite amusement with the chivalry of the period, when a messenger
was announced from Valencia, to treat, if possible, for the ransom of
the remaining part of the Alfaqui's family. A grim smile lighted up Don
Beltran's features as he bade the black slave admit the messenger. He
entered.
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