Behind rise the turrets and spires of Leon, ruddy in colour, on a gentle slope crowned by the cathedral backed by a waving line of hills fading into the darkness of fantastic rocks, rising to the giddy heights of the Asturian mountains capped with snow. Nor is the fairness of the earth less than the brilliancy of the sky. Not a cloud floats on the horizon to mar the view,--winding in and out among the trees, the dazzle of glittering helmets in the sun; sleek war-horses, cased in armour, curveting gaily spite of the heavy weight laid on them; flags and emblazoned shields breaking through masses of bright lances held aloft, battle-axes and broadswords--each knight as he passes, followed by his esquire, trumpeter and page, riding forth on the sacred mission, led by Bernardo del Carpio. As one man the city follows him as he rides forth from the gate on a white charger, the banner of Leon waving before him, a gold lion rampant on a field of red. “It is the standard of Leon,” say those around. “The king allows him to bear it--a high honour to a nameless knight who, men say, never came legally into the world.” Now cries of “Bernardo! Bernardo!” rend the air; the brazen trumpets sound, the shrill clarion calls to arms--and as he hears the warlike sound, the peasant quits his team to grasp a spear, the shepherd watching his flock by running streams flings down his crook and rushes forward, the youth whose limbs have never felt the weight of armour, the old men who sit at home at ease--all swell the crowd, as mountain torrents receive neighbouring rills. “We are born free,” they say, “and free we will remain. No Frankish king shall rule over Leon. Anointed cravens may barter the land, but under the lion who bathes his paws in blood we will fight for ‘our land.’” Three thousand men follow Bernardo to the field, all animated with the spirit of their chief. The secret infamy which hangs over his birth he dares not fathom, nor why his father is concealed, or in what manner he is connected with the king! Some foul injustice has clearly been done him. The thought of it rankles deeply in his soul. With this feeling comes a growing hatred to Alonso, who at least has been privy to this concealment, if not the cause. Then, ashamed of permitting his own private griefs to intrude on the noble mission he has in hand, Bernardo calls to Don Favila to ride beside him. “What will the king say to this armament, _amigo_?” are his first words. “Surely he will now understand the vainness of his purpose! In what disposition did you leave him?” “I think he is much shaken,” is the reply, “but there are secret reasons. You, my lord, best know his mind.” Bernardo heaves a deep sigh.