“No matter,” answers Bernardo; “suffice it that I know.”
“Talk not to me of kinship. You have no name save that of the traitor who bore you.”
“Nay, drive me not too far, old man. You are my king and I have saved your life. Your horse was wounded under you, the sword of Roland was at your throat, your blood flowed like water when I ventured mine.”
“Seize him, seize him!” shouts Alonso. “Guards where are you? What?” turning to the chamberlain, “do you favour this braggart?” But no one stirs. The monk glided out at the first entrance of Bernardo, and the old chamberlain, whose peaceful life has never led him into scenes of strife, stands with open eyes, transfixed with terror.
“Now listen, Don Alonso,” cries Bernardo,
