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.”