“What matters the splendour of my deeds,” he tells himself, speaking aloud, “when the mystery of my birth shuts me out from knightly deeds? Who will cross swords with Bernardo, save in the tumult of the battlefield? The fair face of woman never will shine on me; no love token touch my hand, no child call me father. O cruel parents, could not all my achievements move you to own a son so long forgotten? Who are you? Are you dead, to remain unmoved when the name of Bernardo rings throughout Spain? Who knows”--and his mind shifts to another train of thought--“but that my father himself may feel that his name will dishonour me?” “O Bernardo, wrong not your father,” speaks a low voice behind him. “It is not his fault, the deep vaults of a prison cover him.” Bernardo, who has not realised that he had been thinking aloud, turns with amazement and finds himself face to face with Doña Sol, an ancient gentlewoman, _camaréra_ to Queen Berta. “Now may the saints bless thee, venerable Señora,” he cries, seizing her wrinkled hands, “if you can tell me aught of that which never leaves my thoughts.” “All is known to me,” is the answer. “The king was but a child when I first came to the palace, but,” and she moves to and fro uneasily, and searches around cautiously with her eyes, “if I should be suspected of having disclosed the secret, nothing but my death would satisfy the king. These ramparts are too public for such speech. Come into the shadow of that tower yonder, where no one can hear us.” Bernardo, who had faced without a thrill the flash of Durindana, grows pale and trembles like a girl. “Be calm, Bernardo,” says the lady, about whose head and neck a long lace mantilla is folded, disclosing among the folds a worn and gentle face, marked with the trace of many sorrows. “No base blood is in your veins, not a knight in Leon is more nobly born.” “Go on, go on!” urges Bernardo, wringing her hands, “more than my life is in your words.” “The blood of kings,” she continues, “is in your veins.” “Ha!” exclaims Bernardo, “then my suspicions are true? The king has ever favoured me. Is he my father? Why should he conceal it?” “No, no,” answers Doña Sol, “the king, dear Bernardo, is not your father, but you are of his blood. That keeps every one silent who would dare to tell you, for the king has forbidden it, on pain of death!” “Then who is my father?” “Don Sancho Diaz, Count of Saldaña,” answers the Dueña, “the greatest noble in Leon, and your mother is the Infanta Doña Ximena, sister of the king.” “But the king called me Bastard!” cries Bernardo. “It was a true marriage all the same,” replies the _camaréra_, “only, as Doña Ximena was destined to be the Abbess of the Convent of San Marcos, the king considered it an adulterous union, she being dedicated to the Church. I should know all about it, seeing I stood by them at the altar.”