For an instant the fury within him overtopped all control, but he checked himself as Alonso answered: “Bernardo, Bernardo! Again I warn you not to overstep the respect you owe me. Your words are sharp, but there is a ring of truth in them, I admit. Bethink you, my boy,” and Alonso’s voice fell suddenly into a feeble tone, “Charlemagne is a Christian king, and a great warrior, whose power has always curbed the Moor. To exterminate the Moslem is the duty of sovereigns who love the saints. Who is so strong as he? Wage no war on Christians, but keep your sword for the vile Infidels who press round the limits of our land.” “Christian or Moslem, my lord, Charlemagne shall never lead the knights of Leon,” cried Bernardo. “But before I go”--(and again he bowed his knee before the king, who had now seated himself in an arched niche, a silver lamp suspended over his head among the rich details of garlands and shields, crowns and badges at moments visible [Illustration: THE CATHEDRAL OF ZAMORA, ELEVENTH CENTURY.] in startling distinctness in the rapidly succeeding sheets of lightning)--“tell me, I pray you, what name I bear, and from whom I am sprung? I crave it as a boon. Men call me Bernardo del Carpio, by the name of the castle you bestowed upon me. When I question further they turn aside and smile. But a knight in such a battle as I go to lead against the Franks must wear his own escutcheon on his shield, not one granted him by favour.” Had a viper suddenly fixed its sharpest fangs upon his flesh Alonso could not have started with greater horror. His glassy eyes fixed themselves on the unconscious Bernardo, who eagerly awaited his answer to be gone, with an expression of mingled dread and terror, eyeing him as if the foul fiend himself had crossed his path, while a tremendous explosion of thunder overhead rattled around, and flash after flash of lightning quivered upon the walls. At length, out of his mouth came inarticulate words, mixed with broken phrases, but spoken so low in the uproar created by the storm no sense came to Bernardo. “Begone, bastard!” cried the king at length, every feature in his face working with the violence of his passion. “Have I harboured you so many years to open the wound of my dishonour? Is this the return you make for all my care? Neither name nor kindred have you, so get you gone. The sight of you offends me.” “Oh, my lord!” answered Bernardo, whose open countenance had grown very white, deep lines forming on mouth and brow with a sudden look of age the course of years could not have wrought, “had any man but you spoken thus to me, he would not have lived to draw another breath. Your words point to some hideous secret, some foul crime, in which you share. Great God! whence am I sprung? The very beasts have dams that suckle them, and is Bernardo alone deprived of the common claims of nature?” No answer came from the king; no sign, no yielding. Bernardo’s question had struck him to the quick.