But Bernardo passes and heeds him not; nay, in his fierce mood, he raises his hand as if to strike him, as barring his desperate path—but he forbears as he meets a keen pair of faithful eyes fixed on his face, which, if a dog can shed tears as some pretend, are filled with moisture at the rude rebuff; then, retiring to a distance, his tail between his legs, Poilo sadly watches the figure of Bernardo as he strides hastily onwards up the stairs to seek the king.
He is seated at a table, in company with a monk, and is at that moment employed in turning over the leaves of an illuminated missal, on the value of which he is descanting. The same aged chamberlain, who so stoutly maintained the justice of the king’s conduct towards Doña Ximena, peaceably slumbers in a corner, his ivory wand of office in his hand.
Suddenly the monotonous voice of the monk ceases, for, raising the arras which hangs before the entrance, Bernardo del Carpio stands in the doorway. His cap is in his hand, his eyes are turned on the ground, but his compressed lips and tightly knitted hands betray his agitation.
Since the battle of Roncesvalles, Bernardo and the king have not met alone. The debt of gratitude he owes him has envenomed the king’s mind. His tenderness has turned to jealousy and suspicion.
“How now, Bernardo,” he says in an angry voice, raising his eyes from the manuscript, “do you presume so much on your success that you dare to come unbidden into my presence?”
“Perhaps I do,” replies Bernardo, advancing into the room and placing himself at the head of the table in front of the king, spite of the feeble efforts of the old chamberlain, who has waked up and endeavours to prevent it.
“Perhaps I have the right.”
“Ha! what right?” demands Alonso, gazing at him curiously from under the bushy fringe of his eyebrows.
“The right of your nearest of blood,” answers Bernardo, his eyes fixed on the king.
“Now curses on you!” exclaims Alonso rising, and stretching out his thin hands, as if to shut out the image of one who represented to him mortal sin. “It is a lie. Who can have told you?”