Sir Edward George Bulwer-Lytton，1806—1873，was born in Norfolk County，England.His father died when he was young；his mother was a woman of strong literary tastes，and did much to form her son's mind.In 1844，by royal license，he took the surname of Lytton from his mother's family.Bulwer graduated at Cambridge.He began to publish in 1826，and his novels and plays followed rapidly.“Pelham，”“The Caxtons，”“My Novel，”“What will he do with it？”and “Kenelm Chillingly”are among the best known of his numerous novels；and “The Lady of Lyons”and “Richelieu”are his most successful plays.His novels are extensively read on the continent，and have been translated into most of the languages spoken there.“Leila，or the Siege of Granada，”from which this selection is adapted，was published in 1840.

Day dawned upon Granada，and the beams of the winter sun，smiling away the clouds of the past night，played cheerily on the murmuring waves of the Xenil and the Darro.Alone，upon a balcony commanding a view of the beautiful landscape，stood Boabdil，the last of the Moorish kings.He had sought to bring to his aid all the lessons of the philosophy he had cultivated.

“What are we，”thought the musing prince，“that we should fill the world with ourselves—we kings？Earth resounds with the crash of my falling throne；on the ear of races unborn the echo will live prolonged.But what have I lost？Nothing that was necessary to my happiness，my repose: nothing save the source of all my wretchedness，the Marah of my life！Shall I less enjoy heaven and earth，or thought or action，or man's more material luxuries of food or sleep—the common and the cheap desires of all？Arouse thee，then，O heart within me！Many and deep emotions of sorrow or of joy are yet left to break the monotony of existence But it is time to depart.”So saying，he descended to the court，flung himself on his barb，and，with a small and saddened train，passed through the gate which we yet survey，by a blackened and crumbling tower，overgrown with vines and ivy；thence，amidst gardens now appertaining to the convent of the victor faith，he took his mournful and unwitnessed way.

When he came to the middle of the hill that rises above those gardens，the steel of the Spanish armor gleamed upon him，as the detachment sent to occupy the palace marched over the summit in steady order and profound silence.At the head of this vanguard，rode，upon a snow-white palfrey，the Bishop of Avila，followed by a long train of barefooted monks.They halted as Boabdil approached，and the grave bishop saluted him with the air of one who addresses an infidel and inferior.With the quick sense of dignity common to the great，and yet more to the fallen，Boabdil felt，but resented not，the pride of the ecclesiastic.“Go，Christian，”said he，mildly，“the gates of the Alhambra are open，and Allah has bestowed the palace and the city upon your king；may his virtues atone the faults of Boabdil！”So saying，and waiting no answer，he rode on without looking to the right or the left.The Spaniards also pursued their way.

The sun had fairly risen above the mountains，when Boabdil and his train beheld，from the eminence on which they were，the whole armament of Spain；and at the same moment，louder than the tramp of horse or the clash of arms，was heard distinctly the solemn chant of Te Deum，which preceded the blaze of the unfurled and lofty standards.Boabdil，himself still silent，heard the groans and exclamations of his train；he turned to cheer or chide them，and then saw，from his own watchtower，with the sun shining full upon its pure and dazzling surface，the silver cross of Spain.His Alhambra was already in the hands of the foe；while beside that badge of the holy war waved the gay and flaunting flag of St.Iago，the canonized Mars of the chivalry of Spain.At that sight the King's voice died within him；he gave the rein to his barb，impatient to close the fatal ceremonial，and did not slacken his speed till almost within bowshot of the first ranks of the army.

Never had Christian war assumed a more splendid and imposing aspect.Far as the eye could reach，extended the glittering and gorgeous lines of that goodly power，bristling with sunlit spears and blazoned banners；while beside，murmured，and glowed，and danced，the silver and laughing Xenil，careless what lord should possess，for his little day，the banks that bloomed by its everlasting course.By a small mosque halted the flower of the army.Surrounded by the archpriests of that mighty hierarchy，the peers and princes of a court that rivaled the Rolands of Charlemagne，was seen the kingly form of Ferdinand himself，with Isabel at his right hand，and the highborn dames of Spain，relieving，with their gay colors and sparkling gems，the sterner splendor of the crested helmet and polished mail.Within sight of the royal group，Boabdil halted，composed his aspect so as best to conceal his soul，and，a little in advance of his scanty train，but never in mien and majesty more a king，the son of Abdallah met his haughty conqueror.

At the sight of his princely countenance and golden hair，his comely and commanding beauty，made more touching by youth，a thrill of compassionate admiration ran through that assembly of the brave and fair.Ferdinand and Isabel slowly advanced to meet their late rival，—their new subject；and，as Boabdil would have dismounted，the Spanish king placed his hand upon his shoulder.“Brother and prince，”said he，“forget thy sorrows；and may our friendship hereafter console thee for reverses，against which thou hast contended as a hero and a king—resisting man，but resigned at length to God.”

Boabdil did not affect to return this bitter but unintentional mockery of compliment.He bowed his head，and remained a moment silent；then motioning to his train，four of his officers approached，and，kneeling beside Ferdinand，proffered to him，upon a silver buckler，the keys of the city.“O king！”then said Boabdil，“accept the keys of the last hold which has resisted the arms of Spain！The empire of the Moslem is no more.Thine are the city and the people of Granada；yielding to thy prowess，they yet confide in thy mercy.”“They do well，”said the king；“our promises shall not be broken.But since we know the gallantry of Moorish cavaliers，not to us，but to gentler hands，shall the keys of Granada be surrendered.”

Thus saying，F(xiàn)erdinand gave the keys to Isabel，who would have addressed some soothing flatteries to Boabdil，but the emotion and excitement were too much for her compassionate heart，heroine and queen though she was；and when she lifted her eyes upon the calm and pale features of the fallen monarch，the tears gushed from them irresistibly，and her voice died in murmurs.A faint flush overspread the features of Boabdil，and there was a momentary pause of embarrassment，which the Moor was the first to break.

“Fair queen，”said he，with mournful and pathetic dignity，“thou canst read the heart that thy generous sympathy touches and subdues；this is thy last，nor least glorious conquest.But I detain ye；let not my aspect cloud your triumph.Suffer me to say farewell.”“Farewell，my brother，”replied Ferdinand，“and may fair fortune go with you！Forget the past！”Boabdil smiled bitterly，saluted the royal pair with profound and silent reverence，and rode slowly on，leaving the army below as he ascended the path that led to his new principality beyond the Alpuxarras.As the trees snatched the Moorish cavalcade from the view of the king，F(xiàn)erdinand ordered the army to recommence its march；and trumpet and cymbal presently sent their music to the ear of the Moslems.

Boabdil spurred on at full speed，till his panting charger halted at the little village where his mother，his slaves，and his faithful wife，Amine sent on before—awaited him.Joining these，he proceeded without delay upon his melancholy path.They ascended that eminence which is the pass into the Alpuxarras.From its height，the vale，the rivers，the spires，and the towers of Granada broke gloriously upon the view of the little band.They halted mechanically and abruptly；every eye was turned to the beloved scene.The proud shame of baffled warriors，the tender memories of home，of childhood，of fatherland，swelled every heart，and gushed from every eye.

Suddenly the distant boom of artillery broke from the citadel，and rolled along the sunlit valley and crystal river.A universal wail burst from the exiles；it smote，—it overpowered the heart of the ill-starred king，in vain seeking to wrap himself in Eastern pride or stoical philosophy.The tears gushed from his eyes，and he covered his face with his hands.The band wound slowly on through the solitary defiles；and that place where the king wept is still called The Last Sigh of the Moor.

譯文　TRANSLATION

愛德華·喬治·布爾沃·利頓爵士（1803—1873），出生于英格蘭諾?？丝?，畢業(yè)于劍橋大學(xué)。1826年開始出版作品，《佩勒姆》《卡克斯頓》是他最為著名的小說，而《里昂夫人》《黎塞留河》則是他最成功的劇作。他的小說在歐洲大陸擁有眾多的讀者。下文選自小說《萊拉，格拉納達(dá)的圍城》，出版于1840年。

黎明時分，格拉納達(dá)。告別了昨夜的云，冬陽微笑著，晨光在澤尼爾河與達(dá)羅河淙淙的水波間嬉戲。最后的摩爾王布阿卜迪勒獨(dú)倚著危欄，俯瞰這一派美景。他在自己熏沐浸染的哲思中尋找著慰藉。

“我們是什么，”王子沉吟著，“我們這些國王竟然以自己充斥了世界？大地上回蕩著我王座傾覆的聲響；這回聲會延至后世生民的耳畔。但我失去了什么？我的幸福與寧靜所必需的東西，沒有一樣失去；除了我那悲慘的泉源、生命的苦井，我什么都沒有失去！相比以往，我對天地萬有、思想或行動，乃至飲饌與安眠這些人類更為具體的奢侈，這些平庸而廉價的欲望會少些興味嗎？那么，醒來吧，我的心！我深刻而繁復(fù)的悲歡足以打破存在的岑寂?！?，該動身了?！边@樣說著，他走到庭院里，飛身上馬，帶著一小隊(duì)悲戚的隨從，駛過了宮門，駛過了蒼黑、傾屺、綴滿藤蘿的塔樓；在駛過那歸屬女修道院的花園時，他選了條凄愴的、無人注意的路。

當(dāng)馳至花園邊小山的山腰上時，他看到了西班牙人甲胄的輝光，一隊(duì)接收宮廷的人馬正跨過山頂穩(wěn)健、沉默地行進(jìn)著。帶頭的是騎著白馬的阿維拉主教，后跟一長隊(duì)赤腳的僧侶。布阿卜迪勒近前時，他們停了下來，主教向布阿卜迪勒致意，其神情卻儼然在訓(xùn)諭異教徒及屬下。由于現(xiàn)時的際遇，布阿卜迪勒此際比在位時更為自尊，他覺察到了神父的傲慢，卻并未因之銜恨。“去吧，基督徒，”他溫和地說，“阿蘭布拉宮的重門已向你敞開。安拉把這座宮殿與城市都賜予了你們的王；愿他的德政能彌補(bǔ)布阿卜迪勒的過失！”說完不待對方回答，他就策馬前行，不左瞻也不右盼。那群西班牙人也繼續(xù)他們的途程。

太陽越過了高山，布阿卜迪勒和他的隨從在山岡上看到全副武裝的西班牙人；同時，馬鳴蕭蕭、刀劍鏗鏘，肅穆的《感恩詩》悠悠傳來，獵獵飄揚(yáng)的旗幟像火焰在燃燒。隨從們在怨訴或感嘆，布阿卜迪勒獨(dú)自默然；他轉(zhuǎn)頭鼓舞、斥罵著部屬，復(fù)從塔樓望去，但見陽光輝耀著西班牙銀十字。他的阿蘭布拉宮已落入敵人之手，而在圣戰(zhàn)的徽章旁，西班牙騎士的經(jīng)典戰(zhàn)神圣雅各的華美之旗跋扈地飛揚(yáng)。這一景象令布阿卜迪勒默然無語，他抖了抖韁繩，迫不及待地要結(jié)束這令人情難以堪的儀式，他策馬急奔幾乎沖入了第一排兵士箭矢的射程之內(nèi)。

基督戰(zhàn)爭此前從未有過更輝煌、更瑰麗的氣象。目力所及，只見一排排戈矛林立，旌旗招展；而銀色的、歡笑的澤尼爾河在一旁潺湲著、舞蹈著、閃耀著；兩岸鮮花依舊終年盛開，縱使布阿卜迪勒已歸為臣虜。軍旅之花停留在一座小小的清真寺邊。大主教及堪與查理曼大帝的勇士比肩的貴族、親王們簇?fù)碇M(fèi)迪南，襯托著他的王者豐儀。伊莎貝爾在他的右手，還有那些門第高貴的西班牙命婦，華服云裳、珠光寶氣，看去是那般怡然，有頂飾的頭盔和精致的甲胄更為她們平添一份颯爽。面對這群王室成員，布阿卜迪勒停住馬，穩(wěn)穩(wěn)心神，立在自己人丁稀少的隊(duì)伍前，卻風(fēng)采奕奕，猶勝往昔，這位阿卜杜拉之子來到了他高傲的征服者面前。

看到布阿卜迪勒那因年輕而更其動人的高貴的容顏，金色的頭發(fā)與俊雅的英姿，英雄美人們心中不禁涌起同情的歆慕。費(fèi)迪南和伊莎貝爾緩緩上前迎向這位以往的對手、今日的臣民。布阿卜迪勒正欲下馬，費(fèi)迪南將手放在他的肩頭，“王弟，”費(fèi)迪南說，“忘卻你的悲傷，愿我們今后的友誼能慰藉你的挫敗，作為國王和英雄，你已與厄運(yùn)盡力奮爭——你與人抗衡，卻最終順從上帝。”

布阿卜迪勒沒有矯情地回應(yīng)這帶著一絲苦澀和無心的揶揄的稱贊，他點(diǎn)了一下頭，沉默片刻，然后示意四個隨從上前跪倒在費(fèi)迪南身邊，將用銀盾盛著的城門鑰匙獻(xiàn)給費(fèi)迪南?！斑@是抵抗西軍最后一個據(jù)點(diǎn)的鑰匙，請收下。穆斯林帝國不復(fù)存在。格拉納達(dá)城與格拉納達(dá)人民都?xì)w屬于你；屈服于你的偉力，仰賴你的仁慈。”“他們會好的，”費(fèi)迪南說，“我們之間的承諾不會打破。而且我們既已了解摩爾騎士的英武，格拉納達(dá)的鑰匙就不是獻(xiàn)給我們，而是獻(xiàn)給一雙慈悲的手。”

說完，費(fèi)迪南將鑰匙交給伊莎貝拉，伊莎貝拉原想給布阿卜迪勒一些慰藉性的溢美，但她富于同情的心靈承載不起那溫情與激動，盡管她是女英雄，是王后，但當(dāng)她舉目看到這國破家亡的國王蒼白的容顏，淚水不可遏制地奪眶而出，她已泣不成聲。布阿卜迪勒臉上泛起淡淡紅暈，這位摩爾人率先打破了一時的尷尬。

“美麗的王后，”他說，語調(diào)蒼涼持重，“您能讀懂我的心，您慷慨的同情觸動、征服了它。這是您最后的，卻并非無足稱道的征服。但我已耽擱您太多時間；勿讓我的憔悴黯淡了您勝利的輝煌。請允許我告辭?！薄霸僖娏?，我的兄弟，”費(fèi)迪南答道，“愿好運(yùn)伴隨著你！忘記過去吧！”布阿卜迪勒苦澀一笑，向費(fèi)迪南和伊莎貝爾深沉、靜默地致意，然后騎著馬緩緩前行，離開軍隊(duì)，趕赴位于阿爾普克薩雷斯以外的新封地。望著布阿卜迪勒和他的隨從們消失在林間，費(fèi)迪南下令隊(duì)伍開拔；喇叭和銅鈸的聲音即刻傳到了穆斯林的耳畔。

布阿卜迪勒策馬全速前行，直到一個小村落那匹氣喘吁吁的良駒才收住腳步。村中，他的母親和忠貞的妻子阿米尼及他的仆從們已被先行送到這里等他。他們登上高岡，那是去往阿爾普克薩雷斯的關(guān)隘。從那里回望，幽谷、河流、尖頂、格拉納達(dá)的塔樓盡收眼底。他們突然木然地勒住馬；他們回首注目著那深愛的一切。迷惘、羞愧、家園之思、童年之憶、故國之戀一起涌上這些摩爾勇士的心頭，化作淚水奪眶而出。

突然，從城堡傳來大炮的轟鳴，隆隆聲碾過陽光照耀的山谷和水晶般透明的河流。這群被放逐的人不禁齊聲哀哭；哭聲撞擊著、壓迫著這命途多舛的國王的心，他試圖以東方的驕傲斯多葛派恬淡寡欲的哲學(xué)掩飾自己，卻是徒然。淚水從他眼中涌出，他用手蒙住了臉。摩爾人的隊(duì)伍蜿蜒走過幽僻的狹道；布阿卜迪勒國王流淚的地方現(xiàn)在仍被稱作“摩爾人最后的嘆息”。