“Nay, Bernardo,” answers the king, putting by the weapon with his hand. “Not in this guise let us speak.” His look and manner have suddenly changed. He is roused into alarm at Bernardo’s threat of taking service with the Moor, not in his case only but in many others the last refuge of disappointed patriots. “Your father shall be free, according to your desire. I give you my royal word. On the seventh day from this, you yourself shall meet him at Salamanca. Of the imprisonment of the Conde de Saldaña and my treatment of--” (even now he could not bring himself to pronounce Doña Ximena’s name), “I am answerable to God and to the Church alone. My conscience absolves me; my reasons are my own. No oath is needful,” seeing that Bernardo still holds his sword. “Let us part friends.” “No, by the Holy Virgin of Compostela, we never can be friends. You have blasted my life and that of those who bore me. I would die a hundred deaths ere such a thing could be.” “Bethink you of my former kindness to you,” urges the king. “You bore the standard of Leon in the wars.” No answer comes from Bernardo. There was that in the sudden change of the king’s demeanour which roused his suspicions. He liked not the smoothness of Alonso’s speech nor the smile he had called up. Could he be mocking him? “You hesitate!” cries Alonso. “Are you bold enough to doubt a king’s word?” Still no answer, but Bernardo’s eyes gather upon him, as though he would read his soul. Then, boldly as he had come, he turns on his heel, and raising the arras, passes out. * * * * * Upon the broad corn-bearing country about Salamanca a pavilion is erected, by order of the king, at the spot where Bernardo is to meet his father. With him are Don Ricardo and Favila, by the king’s command, and a company of knights “to do honour to the meeting of a father and long-parted son.” As they draw near the city walls, the noise of timbrels and trumpets sounds on the breeze, and a glittering band of fifty guards with naked swords, and a troop of knights wearing their vizors up, are seen advancing along the Roman bridge of many arches which crosses the river. Foremost among them rides a splendidly accoutred figure in a coat of mail; long sleeves of crimson velvet fall from his shoulders, a shield with his cognisance catches the light, a hood and collar of mail conceal his face; his lower limbs are sheathed like the body in plates of steel, a broadsword and poniard hang at the saddle-bow, and his horse, a massive charger, is enveloped, like his master, in plaited mail. When Bernardo beholds this superbly armed cavalier slowly passing the bridge, the linked bridle of his war horse held by two pages, and an esquire behind carrying his lance and shield, “O God!” is all he can say; “it is the Count of Saldaña. He is coming at last--my father,” and he spurs his horse into a wild gallop.