“You! you!” exclaims Bernardo, passing from astonishment to astonishment, as, following her step by step, she draws aside, alarmed at his threatening countenance. “Why did you never speak?”
“Because your mother, alas! is dead, and your father”—here Doña Sol stopped, her courage failed. She heartily wished she had never undertaken the dangerous office. She was as one who, having let loose the bulwarks of a mighty flood, stands trembling by, to contemplate the havoc he has made. How was she to tell the truth to this impetuous soldier, standing over her trembling in every limb?
“My mother dead!” repeats Bernardo in a deep low voice, his fingers grasping the hilt of a dagger at his waist, his haggard face turned on her, “and my father, where?”
“Alas! I know not,” sobs the terrified Dueña, bursting into tears. “For long he lay in the castle of Luna, imprisoned, but if he is alive still I do not know.”
“Then I will speedily discover!” says Bernardo, and without a word he rushes from her presence.
Alonso, returned from the wars, has resumed his former mode of life. With his armour he has doffed the sentiments of a man. He is too old to change. Again monks and friars gather round him, and flatter him with praises of the virtue of continence which will make his name illustrious. Again he fasts and flagellates himself as before.
The thought of what he owes Bernardo troubles him, but not for a moment does the obstinacy of his resolution relax. Never will he acknowledge him, or liberate his father.
It is evening, the fretted towers of the Gothic cathedral glisten against a bank of heavy mists, rapidly welling up from the south. The clouds deepen with the twilight. The lustre of a stormy sunset is fading out. The sun disappears, and darker and denser shadows gather and obscure the light. Low thunder rumbles in the distance and a few heavy raindrops have fallen.
Again, with rapid steps, Bernardo traverses the Roman court of the palace; again he is challenged by the guards as he passes. Neither Don Ricardo nor Favila is there. Ricardo was badly wounded at Roncesvalles, and the gay Favila has gone to lead a sally against the Moors, those ever-pressing adversaries, not to be wholly overcome for many a long year.
But the dog Poilo is there, the noble hound who forgets neither friend nor foe. Wagging his tail, he leaps forward and with sharp barks of joy flings himself upon Bernardo, licking his hands and thrusting his large nose between his fingers.