The days of chivalry were over. Instead of the prancing
cavalcade, with neighing steed and lively trumpet; with burnished
lance, and helm, and buckler; with rich confusion of plume, and scarf,
and banner, where purple, and scarlet, and green, and orange, and every
gay colour, were mingled with cloth of gold and fair embroidery;
instead of this, crept on the gloomy pageant of superstition, in cowl
and sackcloth; with cross and coffin, and frightful symbols of human
suffering. In place of the frank, hardy knight, open and brave, with
his lady's favour in his casque, and amorous motto on his shield,
looking, by gallant deeds, to win the smile of beauty, came the shaven,
unmanly monk, with downcast eyes, and head and heart bleached in the
cold cloister, secretly exulting in this bigot triumph.
[Footnote 10: Rodd's Civil Wars of Granada.]
The sound of the bells gave notice that the dismal procession was
advancing. It passed slowly through the principal streets of the city,
bearing in advance the awful banner of the Holy Office. The prisoners
walked singly, attended by confessors, and guarded by familiars of the
inquisition. They were clad in different garments, according to the
nature of their punishments; those who were to suffer death wore the
hideous Samarra, painted with flames and demons.
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