At the first glance, the stranger might have seemed scarce on the borders of middle age; but, on a more careful examination, the deep lines and wrinkles, marked on the forehead and round the eyes, betrayed a more advanced period of life.

With arms folded on his breast, he stood by the side of the king, waiting in silence the moment when his presence should be perceived.
He did not wait long; the eyes and gesture of the girl nestled at the feet of Boabdil drew the king's attention to the spot where the stranger stood: his eye brightened when it fell upon him.
"Almamen," cried Boabdil, eagerly, "you are welcome." As he spoke, he motioned to the dancing-girls to withdraw.

"May I not rest?
O core of my heart, thy bird is in its home," murmured the songstress at the king's feet.
"Sweet Amine," answered Boabdil, tenderly smoothing down her ringlets as he bent to kiss her brow, "you should witness only my hours of delight.
Toil and business have nought with thee; I will join thee ere yet the nightingale hymns his last music to the moon." Amine sighed, rose, and vanished with her companions.
"My friend," said the king, when alone with Almamen, "your counsels often soothe me into quiet, yet in such hours quiet is a crime.

But what do ?--how struggle ?--how act?
Alas! at the hour of his birth, rightly did they affix to the name of Boabdil, the epithet of _El Zogoybi_.

[The Unlucky].