CHARLEMAGNE had an excellent memory. He never omitted to ponder over the dangers to which Mitaine was exposed at every turn. He had the scene of the late ambush carefully searched by his spies in the first place, and afterwards by his soldiers. All, on their return, made the same report. They said the forest was inhabited, and there was a good deal of talk about a castle called “The Fortress of Fear,” which was to be found somewhere in the neighbourhood, although nobody they met with had seen it. None, however, doubted its existence. If a child disappeared, or any cattle were carried off, the trembling peasants said, “The Lord of Fear-fortress had taken them.” If a fire broke out anywhere, it was the Lord of Fear-fortress who must have lit it. The origin of all accidents, mishaps, catastrophes, or disasters was traced to the mysterious owner of this invisible castle.

“I should like to have the mystery cleared up,” said Charlemagne to himself. “I can hardly resign myself to the belief that it is Ganelon, my old brother-in-arms.”

He called his knights together.

“My faithful champions, I need four of you for a perilous adventure, I know not where I am sending you—I know not whether you will return. Who will risk death for my good favour?”

All the knights at once flung themselves at his feet, each entreating the Emperor to honour him with his choice.

“You place me in a difficult position,” said the Emperor, greatly moved; “I see that chance must point out the four champions. I can without fear trust to it, for you are all equally brave.”

The names of all the knights present were put into a helmet, and Mitaine played the part of Destiny to the best of her power, little thinking she was choosing her own champions and avengers. The first name she called out was that of Allegrignac of Cognac, Count of SalenÇon and Saintonge.

“The lot suits me admirably,” said the Emperor, giving a friendly wave of his hand to the knight. “You know the language of the country, and will be a safe guide for your companions.”

Mitaine next named the Baron of Mont-Rognon, Lord of Bourglastic, Tortebesse, and elsewhere.

“This is indeed a capital choice! There is no stouter arm in the Arvennes than yours; and if there be a postern to be burst open by a powerful shoulder, you will be there, Mont-Rognon.”

“Porc-en-Truie, Lord of Machavoine,” cried Mitaine.

“I am in luck to-day, by St. James! You are known to be experienced, Porc-en-Truie, and you will conduct the adventure, I entrust to you, to a prosperous end, I feel sure. But I am curious to know who is my fourth champion.”

“Maragougnia, Count of Rioin,” said Mitaine.

“Now we have wisdom, strength, and cunning. Maragougnia can give the serpent points at wisdom, and beat him. If I do not succeed with such knights I shall despair altogether.”

Charlemagne withdrew with his four champions, told them of the perils to which his god-child had been exposed, the investigation he had instituted, the suspicions he had entertained; and finally, he spoke of the Fortress of Fear, winding up in these terms:—

“I am anxious to square accounts with this Croquemitaine. You will pass through the forest till you arrive at Alagon, a little hamlet on the banks of the Ebro. There you will inquire for the Fonda del CaÏman, or, if you prefer it, the sign of the Crocodile. You will there rest yourselves for a short time, and then set out on your quests. You, Allegrignac, striking off from the river, will pursue your course towards Pampeluna. You, Mont-Rognon, will proceed in the direction of Catalyud; and look out for the Saracens, my friend, who on that side are disgusted enough with the trouble we have given them. You, Porc-en-Truie, will make for Fuentes. If you are guided by me, you will travel by night only, and conceal yourself carefully by day. You will appreciate my counsel when once you are on the road. You, finally, my gallant Maragougnia, will have to direct your steps towards Lerida, but you will not go beyond the river Alcander. I have reserved this expedition for you because it is the most hazardous—there, you need not thank me. I understand you! Quarter the country in every direction, and find out for me this Fortress of Fear. He who brings me the head of its dreaded lord shall be created a baron and peer of my realm.”

The Emperor replenished the purses of his champions, and took leave of them with an embrace. When they’ found themselves alone they interchanged looks of bewilderment.

“What do you think of that?” said Porc-en-Truie, with a grimace.

“That I shall be a duke,” said Allegrignac, cutting a caper. “This adventure won’t take me a minute!”

“To think that we must set out to-night!” said Mont-Rognon, in tones of regret; “and to think that I have ordered a splendid supper for to-night, which my fellows will get the benefit of!”

“To think that we shall none of us ever come back again!” said Maragougnia, in a melancholy voice, as he wiped away a tear with the sleeve of his chain-mail.

“Pshaw! who knows?” broke in Porc-en-Truie, with a smile. “Let us set out, and then we can see!”

They appointed to meet on the borders of the forest, and within an hour afterwards they’ were all on the spot, equipped for war or for travel.

Porc-en-Truie, Lord of Machavoine, was a great fellow of thirty years of age, more skilled in avoiding blows than in dealing them. He invariably shirked all his military duties, not because he was a coward, but because he was incorrigibly idle. He had been known to tramp three hours afoot to save himself the trouble of saddling his horse, and he had killed his dearest friend in a tournament, in order to terminate a long and fatiguing tilting match. He arrived at the rendezvous on horseback, with no weapon but his sword.

“How imprudent!” cried Allegrignac, the moment he saw him coming. “Are we going to a wedding only, or are you desirous of emulating Miton’s great feat at the Tourney of Fronsac?”

“I hate a load of weapons, and I don’t mean to kill myself for this Mitaine—for whom, between you and me, I don’t care a grain of mustard-seed!”

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Allegrignac of Cognac, Count of SalenÇon, was twenty-five years of age, and six feet six high. He had an open countenance, a stout heart, an untiring tongue, limbs of steel, a stomach of leather, and a very slender patrimony. His hair was curly, his teeth were white. He was as proud as a Spaniard, as brave as a Frenchman, as simple-minded as a goose. He was possessed of a pleasant contralto voice, a cheerful spirit, and a grey horse called Serenade.

Picture to yourself a figure clad in complete steel, and with weapons of vast weight, like one of those armed and bandy-legged giants you see in a procession of trades, capable of lifting enormous weights, not to mention cattle, and any other unconsidered trifles he could lay hands on, and you have a portrait of the Baron of Mont-Rognon, Lord of Bourglastic, Tortebesse, and elsewhere. This huge mass of muscle existed only to eat and drink. He was a descendant of Esau on his father’s side, and of Gargantua on his mother’s. He once performed a gigantic feat—he killed six hundred Saracens who happened to get in his way as he was going to dinner. He had an elastic stomach, and a mouth armed with four rows of teeth.

Having described his stomach and his mouth,

I need not go on with the likeness, for all that remained were mere incidental appurtenances.

He arrived third at the place of meeting, leading by the halter a mule laden with provisions and bottles.

“What’s this?” said Allegrignac, laughingly.

“That!” said Mont-Rognon, offended at his bluntness. “That’s supper.”

“What’s the use of that?” said Porc-en-Truie.

Mont-Rognon the Monstrous.

Mont-Rognon in a hurry for his dinner

“Charlemagne has ordered us to perish for him,” broke in the Lord of Bourglastic, “but he did not stipulate that we should perish of hunger.”

Original Size -- Medium-Size

Maragougnia, Count of Riom, was the last to arrive. He was equipped in the most gloomy style. His armour was of browned steel, sprinkled with silver tears. From the coronet that surmounted his helmet sprang a few mangy black feathers, which drooped over his shoulders like the branches of a weeping willow, and all the rest of his accoutrements were to match.

He had one extraordinary quality, which was his strong point—instead of making him lose his head, fear only gave him increased presence of mind. They related deeds of prowess of his which were, in reality, only prodigies of cowardice. He did everything with a profound air of melancholy. His first wife, they say, died of yawning; the second perished of sheer weariness in three weeks.

Behind him came a page, who might be considered to have originated the sombre livery worn nine hundred years later by the page of the Duchess of Marlborough.*

This lugubrious squire bore the count’s change of arms—to wit: two daggers of mercy; three swords, various; one lance; one helmet; one morion; two daggers, poisoned; one battle-axe; one flail, iron; one shield; one breastplate; one shirt of mail; two pairs of gauntlets; three pairs of spurs.

“Good heavens!” said Allegrignac; “are we going to equip all the nation for war? Look, Porc-en-Truie! the Count of Riom has stripped the armouries of his ten castles.”

“I wouldn’t stir an inch,” said Porc-en-Truie, in the interval of a couple of yawns, “to assure myself that Maragougnia has done something silly. If you assured me to the contrary, I might perhaps be surprised into getting up to see. And yet no! I couldn’t believe it; so I should stay where I was.”

Porc-en-Truie, I must observe, sat himself down on the grass the moment he arrived.

“You’re quite welcome to laugh at my prudence,” said Maragougnia, “but I don’t forget we are going to certain death.”

“Certain death! Fiddlesticks! I mean yet to rival the Methusalems of the period,” said Porc-en-Truie, rising. “And now let’s be off, if we are to reach Alagon to-night.”

“To prepare for death,” said Maragougnia, dashing away a tear with his gauntlet.

“To go to sleep,” said Porc-en-Truie, with a yawn.

“To try a throw with the dice,” said Allegrignac, jingling the money in his purse.

“To make a good supper,” said Mont-Rognon, with a hollow voice, gnashing his teeth like castanets.

In ten minutes the four knights had entered the wood. At sunset Alleericmac was hammering with his fist at the door of the Fonda del CaÏman.

Original Size -- Medium-Size

Original Size -- Medium-Size