“Who speaks of me?” cries a clear young voice, coming from a more distant part of the _patio_ where an arched gateway led out into the place of arms in which the Spanish knights and soldiers exercised themselves. A knight’s chain and spurs of gold show out from under a _manto_ of dark velvet, which he throws on the ground, and which is instantly, with every sign of reverence, picked up by the Jefe, with difficulty holding Poilo back, who with sharp, quick barks and yells of delight seeks to precipitate itself on the young knight, much too preoccupied to observe it, save that with a quick wave of the hand he dismisses both the dog and the Jefe. Bernardo’s somewhat short and sturdy figure is clothed in linked mail which rattles as he hastens forward to join Favila and Ricardo, at the moment that a louder and nearer clap of thunder is audible and a deeper shadow falls. “Favila, Ricardo, you have heard this cursed news? I see it in your faces. By the blood of Saint Isidore, is the king distraught that he disposes of the kingdom of Leon as though he were a churl chaffering away his field? Can it be true? I am just come from the mountains, where I have met with sport both of men and beasts, for the Moor Kirza has planted himself at Selagon, and sends out detachments to the foot of the Asturias. Tell me, friends, can it be true?” Both bow their heads. “We will never submit,” said Favila, “to the Frankish king. Many are already gone from the court to place their castles in a state of defence.” “What!” exclaims Bernardo, whose cheeks are flushing scarlet and the veins in his forehead swelling with growing passion. “What! give away the whole kingdom of Leon, with its warriors and nobles, to a foreigner, as if we were a flock of sheep? I am of no illustrious race myself”--at these words a significant look passes between his two companions, who turn their eyes on the ground. “Faith! I know not of what race I am,” with a short laugh, “nor do I care while the king continues his favour to me, but I am a Spaniard; I will sell my living to no man.” “The king has no heir,” observes Favila, in a dry tone, raising curious eyes on Bernardo. “He says he desires to settle the succession before his death.” “True,” answers Ricardo, “no _legal_ heir,” and he, in his turn, shot a significant glance at Bernardo, who does not in the least observe it. “He may fear that some one of his blood might take his place that he would not approve.”