“Sir, you speak in riddles,” cries Bernardo, cutting in. “Who is there that the king fears will step into his place? Marry for me I know not, nor do I care. Confusion to his surname of ‘the Chaste,’ if Alonso brings in Charlemagne and his paladins into the hard-won land that the noble Pelayo wrested from the Moor. By the memory of the cave of Cavadonga and the sacred oath our ancestors swore among the savage rocks of the Asturias” (at these words, Bernardo raises his steel cap from his head, and stands with open brow and glistening eyes full in the glory of the fitful sunshine), “I pledge myself never to sheathe my unworthy sword until every invader, be he enemy or friend, Frank, Berber, or Moor, be driven out of the limits of Leon. I swear it,” he adds in a deep tone, laying his right hand on his breast, where, on a laced front of velvet, was embroidered the cognizance he had received from the king. “You are witnesses, my friends?” At which Don Favila and Don Ricardo incline their heads, and Bernardo replaces the helmet on his head from which floated a sombre plume, then adding, with a light laugh, “Let Alonso play the anchorite if he will, but all of us are not blest with his virtues.” “Mock not, profane youth, the saintly name of our master. There is no danger that _your_ virtues will reach the height of _his_ excellency. His pure soul lives more in heaven than on earth,” says the voice of an older man, an ancient Jefe much honoured by the king, advancing to join the group, which has moved, in the energy of talk, higher up towards the stone border of a fountain which rises from the base of a Roman statue overgrown with moss and weeds. “Your challenge, Bernardo, comes too late. Charlemagne is already near the Pyrenees, with all his knights and vassals, the renowned Roland among them; they will soon touch the soil of Leon, to accept the inheritance our gracious king has given him. Once arrived in Leon, you dare not, presumptuous boy, who judge your betters by yourself, draw your sword upon the guest of Alonso.” “He shall never be his guest,” shouts Bernardo, fire flashing from his eyes; “neither Charlemagne nor his peers, his knights or paladins, Roland and the rest shall set their feet in Leon. I, Bernardo del Carpio, will bar the way.” A laugh of derision comes from the old chamberlain, at what he considers such madness. Even Favila and Ricardo smile, so vain it seems that this youth could stay the advance of the greatest monarch in Christendom.