“They have fired the suburbs!” cried Roderick, interrupting him; and clapping spurs to his horse, he darted forward like an arrow discharged from a bow. His suspicions were correct. Light clouds of white vapour hung high in the clear blue heavens; whilst below, a thick yellow smoke, mingled with flames, spread wide ruin and devastation. Crackling pieces of wood, sparkling like a feu d’artifice, were thrown up with violence at intervals, and the scorching heat felt intolerable, as showers of sparks, and pieces of ignited matter, rained thick and fast upon the plain.
Edric and Roderick were on a gentle eminence when they first saw the city; and, deceived by the optical delusion often observable in similar situations, they had fancied it very near them. When they plunged into the valley, however, they soon discovered that it was of very considerable extent; and their horses, weary with their toilsome march, made their way with difficulty through the thick underwood and tangled grass which every moment threatened to impede their progress. At length, they entered into the mazes of a wood, which quite obscured the city from their sight; and when fair Seville again broke upon them through an opening in the trees, she appeared one vast mass of flame.
“Good Heavens!” cried Edric, “surely they will not burn the city! what a multitude of human beings will be sacrificed if they do!”
“I hope they will not be so foolish,” said Roderick, “yet I own I fear; no—no—” cried he, after a moment’s pause; “see, see! the smoke divides, and as the wind bears the rolling volumes asunder, the city’s walls still stand: no fire as yet has touched the glory and the bulwark of proud yet fair Seville.”
The glowing embers crackled as they approached, and still threw up occasional showers of sparks fearfully glaring amidst the darkness of the night, which now closed in upon them with a thick gloom very unusual to that climate. The flames had caught the bridge ere the army of Roderick reached the banks of the river; and the fiery bow, glowing through the surrounding darkness, looked like the fabled arch over which the Muhammadans believe the souls of the dead are destined to skate into Paradise.
At length the army of Roderick found their progress stopped by the deep and rapid waters of the Guadalquivir; the black smoking remains of the bridge which had once stretched across the river, seeming to forbid their farther progress. Magnificent palaces lay around them, crumbling into ruins, whilst their half-burnt roofs fell occasionally with a tremendous crash. Fearful indeed was the spectacle which presented itself, and the once superb suburb seemed the very temple of Desolation. Vases and statues lay overturned, and blackened by the smoke. Majestic trees, scorched by the flames, and their shrivelled leaves stripped from their withered branches, stretched forth their bare arms forlorn and desolate, like bereaved mothers mourning over their murdered children. A chill drizzling mist began to fall, and all looked dreary and uncomfortable around.
Roderick stood upon the banks of the river and marked its dark rolling waters, in which the fire that still crept amongst the ruins on the other side reflected its red lurid glare. “We must pass the river,” said he; “these Andalusians are too crafty to have destroyed this fine suburb, in itself a town, had not some imperious reason urged them to it. They want to gain time; but we must show them that we dare brave the combined terrors of fire and water, when Glory gives the word.”
“And what is this Glory you pursue so madly?” asked Edric. “May not prudence be admitted to its councils? Nay, will it not be itself more certain if we wait till morning to seize it? The night is dark and gloomy; I think it forbodes a tempest; and at any rate it will be difficult to ford this black rolling stream in the obscurity. Tomorrow with the dawn we will effect a passage; our troops will be then refreshed with rest, and we shall be ready to encounter with vigour the dangers that may oppose us.”
Roderick smiled sadly. “Tomorrow, Edric,” said he, “it may be too late. Tomorrow, the army your enemies expect, may advance upon us, and either obtain possession of the town, or cut off our retreat. We have traitors amongst us; for even now, secret as our movements have been, you see the enemy has had notice of our approach.”
“Why should we pause?” cried Lord Arthur O’Neil, one of the Irish lords who had followed his Sovereign to the field. “Your Majesty may confide in your soldiers.—Tired! An Irishman knows not the meaning of the word. Shall the heroes of Burgos, Valladolid, and Salamanca, complain of fatigue? Have you forgotten how they fought and conquered? Have you forgotten the proud day before Madrid, when a handful of Irish fought and defeated a whole legion of Spaniards? Can we think of these things, and yet talk of fear? Oh no, surely not! Surely if we did, every warm drop of blood in our veins, every spark of enthusiasm in our hearts, would give the lie to the assertion. Lead us on, brave Roderick! Damp not the spirit of your troops by unnecessary delays, but lead us forward to victory.”
“Lead us to victory!” shouted the officers and troops; and Roderick, animated by their cries, gave orders for the instant fording of the river. The evening had now quite closed in; not a star broke the thick dull grey of the heavens, and the sky began to look dark and threatening. The lowering clouds grew gradually darker and darker; whilst a dusky veil seemed to fall over the distant
