“My lord, you answer not,” pleaded Bernardo, rising to his feet, offended at the long silence, as a gleam of vivid lightning at the same moment swept over him. “Hark! The very powers of nature protest against your act. At least before you made us over as vassals to Charlemagne you might have called the Cortes together, and heard what the nation had to say. But let me tell you, Don Alonso, you have made a promise you can never keep. Instead of the crown of Leon, Charlemagne will have to face a nation in arms. Every man that bears the name of Castilian will rise and water the soil with his blood rather than yield, and I, Bernardo del Carpio, will lead them!”
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
