“Talk not to me of him,” he exclaims, “he is a hypocrite, unworthy of an honest man’s regard.” Then, seeing the look of amazement on Don Favila’s face, “Yes! by Santiago! such is my mind, and I will fling my mailed glove into his cursed face and tell him so, if I return from the present adventure.” More and more amazed, Don Favila listens. “If it were not so early in the day, good Bernardo, I should think you had quaffed too many beakers of wine to our success.” “Do I look like a man who has wine in him?” answers Bernardo, bitterly. “If wine would drown my care, I would drink a sack.” “Tell me,” continues Favila, burning with curiosity, “by our long friendship, what is there amiss between you and King Alonso? You were wont to love him well.” “Then it is past,” replies Bernardo, chafing under the questioning. “I hate him now. It is possible you can judge of the reason better than I. I pray you, good Favila, ask me no more; it is useless looking back.” Don Favila, as a prudent man, held his peace. Although of a gentle and courteous nature, there was that in Bernardo that no one dared to cross. A look of sullen wrath is on his face he has never seen before. Has he at last discovered the secret of his birth and the cruelty of the chaste king? * * * * * Now the little army, passing by pleasant hedgerows and fertile fields, reaches the borders of the Ordega, crossed by a wooden bridge so narrow that much time is occupied by the passage of the troops. A sound of the approach of many horsemen, galloping rapidly, comes from the road they have just traversed, and clouds of dust from the dry soil sweep to the height of the tree-tops. Voices are heard, and the roll of drums and the call of trumpets, but nothing as yet is seen. “We are set upon by foes,” shouts Don Ricardo, hastily seeking out Bernardo, who, with a set white face, watches, immovable in the saddle, the passage of the knights across the bridge. “Foes,” answers Bernardo, with a mocking laugh; “methinks, Ricardo, you are suddenly grown blind not to recognise your countrymen. These are no foes, but our own townsmen come out to join us.” As he speaks, nearer and nearer comes the clamour, and louder and louder upon the breeze rises the cry, “_El Rey, El Rey_,” echoing back from a thousand voices along the line. “Yes, it is he,” says Bernardo to those around. “I know him by his helmet, set with gems, and the fur collar over his corselet. By the rood, it is well he acknowledges his wrong.” And as he turns his eyes upon Don Alonso, such a loathing possesses him, nothing but the cause he has in hand keeps his hand from his weapon to avenge his wrong. Meanwhile the king’s arrival in face of the army is greeted by a shout so long and loud mountain and hill ring with it.