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YOU have, I hope, not forgotten, my dear readers, that Charlemagne had dispatched Ganelon to Aquitaine. For the shame and injury of France, the Count of Mayence had turned this trip to good account, by establishing a perfect understanding between himself and our old and little-respected friend, Wolf. They decided on the destruction of Charlemagne and his peers; but as for attacking them openly, they did not dream of that!
“I will undertake,” said Ganelon, “to lead them into the mountains, if you will only place some twenty thousand Navarrese and Gascons on the heights that I will show you. Then we shall be able in perfect safety to crush beneath the rocks this haughty and hated brood.”
About the same period Marsillus had called his warriors together, and was conversing with them, reposing in the shade on the white marble steps of his palace.
“My friends, since this accursed Charles has set foot in Spain, we have never had a moment’s peace. Great as has been the bravery we have displayed, we have been everywhere worsted. We can do no more, for each has done his best. I suppose you are none of you less desirous than I to yield this beautiful Spain to these Northern barbarians. Aid me, therefore, by your counsels to avenge our disasters.”
Blancandrin, the wisest and most crafty of the Pagans, was the first to speak.
“The fox often passes where the lion cannot. Well, then, since we fail as lions, let us assume the part of foxes, instead of wasting our time in idle laments, and our resources in vain endeavours. Charles is very proud; and when pride is warder, the city is ill-watched. Profess a respectful regard for this crowned bully; tell him you desire to be baptised, and appoint a meeting with him in his own dominions. Promise to meet him there by Michaelmas, with your principal nobles, to do homage to him, and to acknowledge the Christian faith. Add further, that you will make him a present of three hundred mules, laden with gold and silver; a hundred chariots, filled with a countless stock of rare stuffs; numberless war-steeds; three hundred trained falcons, lions, and leopards broken-in for the chase; besides five hundred fair Saracen damsels, if such be his good pleasure. The invaders have been a long time from home, and have left their estates in the charge of their wives. There is not one of them who would not be glad of a rest. As soon as they have divided the booty, they will all be pressing the king to return, and when once they get home again, he will have no easy task to prevail on them to stir a second time.”
“The advice is good, possibly, but Charles is not the man to be satisfied with simple promises.”
“Send him hostages—ten, twenty, thirty, if he asks for them. Would it not be better to lose a few women and children than the whole of Spain? I offer to give my son as a hostage, at the risk of his life.”
This counsel was considered sound, and was approved by all.
“Go, then,” said Marsillus to Blancandrin. “I promise you a splendid escort when you set out, and boundless rewards on your return. Exchange the sword for the olive branch, and be not sparing in promises.”
The envoys were accordingly mounted on white mules, with trappings and bells of gold and silver, and before long set out for the camp of Charlemagne.
When the envoys arrived, no time was lost in introducing them into the Emperor’s presence. His Majesty of the snowy beard was sitting in his orchard surrounded by his bravest warriors. The younger ones were practising the use of arms; the elder were talking or playing at chess.
Blancandrin, after having saluted Charles with dignified courtesy, delivered his message so cunningly, that the nobles began to shout, “Hurrah, now we shall speedily return home!” Charlemagne, however, remained lost in meditation. It was not his habit to give way readily either to astonishment or disappointment. At last he rose and said, “The news you bring me causes me great pleasure. It King Marsillus is really desirous of securing his soul’s safety, let him meet me at Aix-la-Chapelle, and I will welcome him there as a brother.”
A tent was prepared for Blancandrin and his suite, on whom every attention and boundless generosity were lavished.
The next day, after mass and matins, the Emperor wisely called together his peers to learn what they thought of the speech of the envoy from the Court of the King of Saragossa. Naymes of Bavaria, a knight of great renown, and one of the king’s best counsellors, rose and spoke:—“Sire, you have beaten the enemy wherever he has dared to offer battle. Of his fortresses, not one stone rests on another; his cities have been burnt; his troops have been either killed or converted. You have raised the cross wherever it had been formerly overthrown; what can you desire more? You are offered a ransom for the kingdom in which you will hold the sovereign power; a nation of unbelievers demands baptism at your hands, and offers you hostages. It would be a sin to continue a warfare which has no longer any object. Such is my opinion!”
After this speech, Roland was not slow to spring to his feet.
“So it is you, then, Naymes, whom I hear? and can you give such counsel? Marsillus is your enemy, sire, and you have scarcely treated him in a way to make him very anxious to embrace you. Do not turn your back upon Spain until your undertaking is accomplished; we have been here longer already than was necessary for its completion. Send home those brave soldiers who have tired of war before they have completed their conquest, and I venture to say that with those who remain you shall plant the cross within sight of Africa, if such be your good pleasure. How can you trust the words of a Pagan? Have you already forgotten the fate to which Marsillus condemned two of your nobles, the Counts Basan and Basilic? They went on an embassy from you to the King of Saragossa, and he had them beheaded on Mount Hautille. It was your honour, sire, which that day fell beneath the infidel axe. Will you let them trample it under foot because a few prudent warriors would be glad to abandon this undertaking? Go, then, but I must remain! I shall stay here to make my death so glorious that you will all envy me.”
During this speech Charles knitted his brows and tugged his long moustache; seeing which, Ganelon rose in his turn.
“These be proud words, forsooth! I could not but ask myself when I heard them whether we live in the reign of Roland or of Charlemagne. This sort of thing is easily spoken, and sounds remarkably well, like everything that’s hollow. We are told to retreat; are we in the habit of doing so? Does it not look as if Roland had been conquering Spain while we followed at a respectful distance? Forgive my anger, sire, but I cannot help speaking somewhat freely. Take no one’s counsel but your own, sire, and you will do right.”
Thereupon Charlemagne asked his knights which of them would like to carry his message to Marsillus. All rose and offered to go, Roland being more importunate than all the others.
“You’ll deafen me, nephew,” said the Emperor. “I shall certainly not send you on a mission you have just condemned. My friend Ganelon shall carry my wishes to the King of Saragossa. To him will I entrust the gauntlet and truncheon.”
“That is indeed a wise choice,” said Roland, laughing. “You will nowhere find a more cautious ambassador.”
“Enough said! By my beard, nephew mine, you will provoke me too far presently. Be seated, and wait until I bid you speak.”
“Sire,” said Ganelon, “from such a mission one does not always return. I recommend to your care my son Baldwin, who will one day be a brave warrior.”
Charlemagne handed the gauntlet to the Count of Mayence, who let it fall on the ground. “A bad omen!” said the Franks, seeing it. “Roland may be right after all!”
“You will hear of me before long, gentlemen,” said Ganelon, with an ill-favoured smile.
Then, furnished with truncheon and letter, he made ready to set out on his mission.
Ganelon and Blancandrin, followed by the Saracen body-guard, journeyed for three days side by side. The Pagan was not slow to perceive in a moment the hatred entertained by the Count of Mayence for Roland, and he rejoiced to see it. Let us hear what they are talking about.
“Whence comes it,” said Blancandrin, “that your sovereign, instead of seeking an alliance with us, made war on us so fiercely?”
“It is Roland who is always egging him on. But for him, we should long since have returned to France.”
They reached the camp of Marsillus. Fifty thousand Saracens surrounded the King of Saragossa, but they maintained perfect silence, for fear of losing a syllable of what was going to be said.
“May Allah and Mahomet preserve you, beloved sovereign! We have borne your message, and we bring back to you one of the noblest peers of the Court of France, to decide with you on peace or war.”
“I am prepared to give him an immediate audience.”
Marsillus and Ganelon remained shut up together for two hours—two hours, which laid the foundation of ages of regret. When the tent was o o re-opened the ‘King of Saragossa came out, leaning on the arm of the French envoy. Had Roland come instead of Ganelon, that would never have happened.
“Gentlemen,” said Marsillus to his nobles, “welcome the preserver of Spain! This lord, although a Christian, is a true friend to us, and I desire that he be treated as such.”
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A Saracen advanced, drew his sword from its sheath, and presented it to Ganelon.
“This weapon is the best in the world,” said he. “Its jewelled hilt alone is estimated at thirty thousand bezants, at the lowest, and yet the blade is even more valuable. Accept it, and may it serve you well against Roland.”
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“I will put it to the test,” said the Count of Mayence, coolly; and the traitor and unbeliever kissed each other.
The queen passed by Marsillus stopped her cortege, and bade her dismount, saying, “This is our best of friends. You owe it to him that we shall remain under that Spanish sky which you love so much. Embrace him for the love of us all.”
“With all my heart,” said the Sultana. “I wish you also, Sir Ganelon, to bear to your wife from me these bracelets, which are the finest in my possession. Neither the Pope at Rome nor the Emperor at Aix-la-Chapelle can boast anything to equal them among all their treasures.”
All vied in paying the Count attention, and in loading him with the most precious gifts. .
The same evening Ganelon returned to the French camp, accompanied by presents and hostages for the Emperor.
Three days later, at early dawn, Ganelon and his escort arrived at Charlemagne’s quarters.
“So you have returned,” said Charles. “Have you sped well with your mission?”
“Sire, you have nothing more to do here! The gallant King Marsillus is altogether your devoted liegeman. Behold the treasures he sends you, as a guarantee of others yet more valuable. See, too, the hostages whom I have chosen, thirty in number, all of them of the noblest rank. In a month the King of the Saracens will visit you at the French Court to receive baptism, together with all his nobles and knights.”
“You could not bring me more welcome news, and I rejoice greatly that I chose you for the mission. Before long you will have reason to rejoice at it too!”
His audience concluded, Ganelon retired with his nephew Pinabel, to whom he wished to reveal the real state of the case. It happened that Mitaine preceded them into the stable, towards which the traitor took his way, and knowing the hate the count bore to Roland, her friend, she was curious to hear him speak openly. She therefore crept up in the manger, and hid herself among the hay in the rack.
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This second Judas, going up to his horse, began to talk as follows:—
“Marsillus, who had treated me distantly enough in the morning, apologised at night for so doing, and, as a slight reparation, presented me with some valuable sables. I gave him to understand the dreadful fate that awaited him, and assured him that Roland was the only obstacle in the way of our return to France. ‘Hope for no mercy,’ said I, ‘while Roland lives.’ ‘How can we kill him?’ said he. Whereupon I answered, I would undertake to do it with his assistance. ‘What can I do?’ he asked. ‘I will tell you what I have planned,’ said I. ‘Before long we shall be on the march for France. The most dangerous post is the rear-guard, and that Roland will claim. When he reaches the pass of Roncesvalles, surrounded by the flower of our chivalry, twenty thousand Navarrese and Gascons, posted there by me, will hurl down a very shower of rocks. Take advantage of the surprise, and with two hundred thousand men fall on them in the rear. I won’t guarantee your men’s lives, but you must carry on the battle incessantly, and at last Roland must be slain.’ ‘It is very well said,’ answered the king; ‘this counsel is worth ten mules, laden with gold pieces, and I will pay you that sum yearly as long as I live.’”
At this point Pinabel, observing that Ganelon’s horse, although it had just come off a long journey, only smelt at the rack without touching its contents, took a pitchfork, and in order to find out what hindered the animal from eating, thrust it into the hay. One of the prongs pierced Mitaine’s thigh, but she nevertheless remained silent, determined not to lose for a cry the advantage of the conversation she had overheard.
“There’s nothing there,” said Pinabel.
“What did you think there would be? Don’t you know that a good horse never eats much in the morning?” And with that the worthy couple quitted the stable.
Mitaine had great difficulty in crawling back to Miton’s tent. She dressed her wound with a celebrated ointment, which is still in great use—the “Balm of Miton-Mitaine”—and was able to present herself the same evening before Roland.
The Count of Mans listened to what his squire had to tell.
“This is good news you bring me, little one; and, with the aid of Heaven, I will find a way thereby to rid the world of this traitor Ganelon.”
“What!” said Mitaine; “will you not alter your line of march?”
“Remember this: he who finds a snake in his path has two alternatives to choose between. He can either make a dÉtour, and continue his route, by doing which he leaves an enemy in his rear; or he can go straight to the monster and kill it, which is the safer course. There is, by the way, a third solution of the matter—flight; but, of course, no one would dream of that. I shall take care not to neglect the opportunity which is offered me. In the meantime, swear to keep strict silence on this point!”
The trumpets resounded through the camp of Marsillus. The unbelievers placed themselves in ambush beside the French line of march, and waited for the next morning.
The clarions rang out through the camp of Charlemagne. The hour of departure had come. Charles rode proudly amid his gallant knights.
“Who will lead the rear-guard through the passes of Cisaire?” asked the Emperor of his nobles.
“Count Roland,” suggested Ganelon, “since he is the bravest. Does not the place of danger belong to him?”
“Count of Mayence, some evil intention influences that speech.”
“Why so, sire?” interposed Roland. “Sir Ganelon is right. The task is mine—I claim it.”
“So be it,” said the Emperor. “My peers shall accompany you with twenty-five thousand horsemen.”
“The Saracens will have a hot day’s work,” said Ganelon to himself.
The Saracens were concealed in the forests at the entrance of the pass. The Navarrese and Gascons (everlasting shame upon them!) were lying in ambush on the heights, ready to hurl death upon their brother Christians.
The vanguard, consisting of twenty thousand men, led by Ogier the Dane, was first to present itself. But it was not they who were wanted—-they were allowed to pass.
Charlemagne came next, with Ganelon in attendance upon him. For six hours the troops, the wagons, the booty, were slowly marching through the defile. There was an abundance of wealth; but who dared touch it? They were suffered to pass. Finally came the rear-guard, led by Roland. Then the Pagans began to be on the move, the Gascons prepared for action. The great carnage was about to begin.
Marsillus was on horseback at the head of his troops. Buriabel, King of Alexandria, came swaggering up to him.
“Sire, I have brought you thirty thousand soldiers, fully armed. I have not hesitated to risk my life in your service. In return for this, I only ask one thing—the honour of despatching Roland. If I meet him, he dies!”
“You forget, it appears to me,” said the King of Saragossa, in a severe tone, “that I am here. I am not in the habit of handing over difficult tasks to others; Roland belongs to me! You will have enough to do with the rest.”
Then, armed to the teeth, they rode forward in serried ranks.
The Franks entered the pass. Roland halted them, and spoke:—“Brothers in arms! We are going to have a tough day’s work. But few of us will ever again behold fair France. Ganelon, the traitor, has brought us to this evil pass! He has sold us to the Saracens. In a few minutes these rocks will be hurled down upon us, and we shall hear the Saracen trumpets sounding. They do not know that we are forewarned, and the sound of our bugles will be the signal. Let those who are in doubt about our safety, therefore, leave us to join the main body. But let those, who desire wounds more awful than death—those who are ready to sacrifice their lives, in order to be revenged on Ganelon—let those remain with me!” Not a single knight quitted the ranks.
“If any one of us escapes, his life must be devoted to the extermination of Ganelon, and all his race. For my part, I swear to do this!”
All repeated the oath. Roland heard behind him a voice, shriller than any of the others, cry, “By the Shrine of St. Landri, death to the Count of Mayence!”
He turned, and saw Mitaine.
“Ah, unhappy child, what are you doing here? You know well what fate awaits us. Is this a place for babes-in-arms?”
“You do wrong to blame me, sir knight. You will, perhaps, have reason to be sorry for your words before sunset.”
Mitaine was on the summit of a peak. She gazed around on all sides, and soon discovered the enemy. The sun was shining brightly, and glistened on corslet and casque, spear and pennon. At the same moment the neighing of horses reached her ear.
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“The Saracens are coming from the Spanish side. They are so many in number, it is difficult to understand how any troops can be left to guard the cities. If we had to encounter so large a Christian army, the result would be doubtful. But these are Pagans, and Heaven will not fail us.”
“If that be the case,” said Oliver, “you had better sound your horn, friend Roland. Charlemagne has not gone far and will return at once to our aid on hearing it.”
“We must wield swords, not horns, here. The way is open, if you fear the adventure is too arduous.”
“Trust me, comrade; in a few moments it will be too late. Wind your horn!”
“You give me base counsel! It shall never be told that Roland quitted his grasp of Durandal to wind his horn for aid against Pagans!”
“So be it,” said Oliver. “We will not quarrel about it.”
Roland turned to Gautier de Luz, and said to him—
“Dismount, Gautier, and let two thousand of our knights do the same. You will take the command of them, climb the mountain, and take these accursed Gascons in the rear before we enter the pass. Cut them up without mercy, like dogs as they are, and then, when you have accomplished the task, sound on your horn. We shall then draw on the Saracens in pursuit, and when I give the signal, do you roll down on them the rocks prepared for our destruction.”
“Well conceived,” said Hoel of Nantes. “An excellent jest. I would not exchange my place here for anything in the whole world!”
Two thousand knights dismounted, and with Gautier de Luz at their head, commenced the ascent. Mitaine, more active and lighter than the others, went first to reconnoitre. Roland followed them with his eyes until they disappeared behind the rocks.
In about a quarter of an hour, which, I can assure you, seemed long enough to those below, a great uproar broke out, and the Navarrese and Gascons appeared in disorder on the cliffs. They were close pressed, and those who were not put to the sword on the spot, were flung down into the ravine, in which there was soon an almost insurmountable heap of dead bodies. There was hardly a bush that was not adorned with some bleeding fragment or other.
Presently was heard the bugle note which announced that the heights were taken, and Roland, followed by some thousands of knights, rode out to meet the Saracens.
“What is the meaning of this?” said Marsillus, on beholding the Christians issuing from the pass. “It strikes me these brave warriors are afraid to attempt the pass. But we know how to compel them to do so. Their graves are dug there, and there they must sleep this night—and nowhere else!”
Thirty thousand Saracens spurred forward in haste, and grew doubly courageous on beholding the Christians turn to retreat.
“What have they been telling us about the courage of these people?” said Arroth, the nephew of Marsillus. “So far, there has been more of the chase than the combat. We need hardly have come in such numbers.”
“Your words are wanting in sense,” said Turgis of Toulouse. “Pray Heaven to allow your brains to grow old enough to perceive the folly.”
The Saracens entered the defile in pursuit of the Franks, who had surmounted all the obstacles in the pass. Their pursuers, however, halted in wonder before the heap of dead bodies that barred their passage. Roland took advantage of their hesitation and gave the signal, on hearing Avhich Gautier de Luz set to work. Huge blocks of stone crashed down from overhead, involving horses and men; living, dead, and wounded; Saracens, Gascons, and Navarrese, in one common destruction. The pass was completely blocked up.
“Truly,” said Roland, “Ganelon contrived this trap very cleverly. But one cannot foresee everything in this world, and in this instance it is the hare that is hunting; the hounds!”
The Pagans who returned to the King of Saragossa were barely eight thousand, including the wounded who had escaped destruction. They had flung away their banners and their arms in order to facilitate their flight.
“Is this what you promised us?” they cried, threateningly, to Marsillus. “We have just fallen into a snare laid for us by Ganelon. Ah, dastard of a Roland, treacherous Count of Mayence, coward of an Emperor, you shall hear more of us yet! By Mahomet, our vengeance shall be something to speak of, rascals!”
A hundred thousand Saracen knights pricked forward at full speed, taking a different road, which permitted them to cut off the retreat of the Franks. In the meantime Gautier de Luz and Mitaine had rejoined Roland.
Archbishop Turpin had ridden to a slight eminence. The twenty thousand knights were on their knees around him.
“Prepare to perish nobly, my brothers-in-arms,” said he to them. “The heroes who do not shrink from the fight will sleep in Paradise by sunset. All your past sins shall be atoned for by cuts or thrusts of sword or lance. I absolve you all from this moment!”
He gave them his blessing, and they rose, comforted and encouraged.
Presently the sound of the enemies’ horses was heard, and before long the two armies had encountered each other. Lances were shattered—the field wras covered with fragments of arms and armour. Death had made a speedy harvest, and riderless horses were galloping hither and thither, amid the groans and cries of the wounded.
Everywhere destruction was being dealt out.
At the head of the Saracens rode Arroth, nephew of Marsillus.
“By Allah! Charlemagne must be childish to give the command of the rear-guard of his forces to Roland.”
The Count of Mans heard him, but answered not. Lance in rest, he rode down on him. Good heavens! what a thrust!—nothing could resist it. It clave the shield of the nephew of the King of Saragossa, pierced his chest, broke his spine, and pinned him to the earth.
Fauseron, brother of King Marsillus, beheld Miton, and shouted to him—“Your Emperor, Charlemagne, must be sorely jealous of the fame of his knights, to send them to be slaughtered thus.”
Miton dashed at him with uplifted blade, and dealt him three terrific wounds: a partridge might have flown through any one of them with ease.
“You lie, knave!” cried the father of Mitaine; “our Charles is the bravest of the brave, and whoever questions it shall die the death of a dog—as you die!”
Anseis charged at Turgis of Toulouse, and ran him through with his lance. The white pennon was stained crimson with the thrust.
But I should never finish if I told you all the wonderful blows they interchanged. At last the spear of Roland shivered. He drew Durandal and rushed into the thickest of the fight, slicing off heads with his sword as easily as a pigeon severs the heads of millet with its sharp beak.
The fury of the combat was redoubled. The Franks performed prodigies of valour, but the Saracens seemed never to tire of being slaughtered. No sooner were thirty thousand Pagans stretched on the earth than thirty thousand more offered themselves for slaughter. The swords were blunted with repeated blows, but the strength of the heroes wearied not. How many Christians had received the crown of martyrdom! Yonder they lay, trampled under the horses’ hoofs, while their mothers, their wives, their daughters were, perchance, singing cheerily as they awaited their return.
At length came a time when there were no more Saracens left to kill. Of a hundred thousand Pagans but two survived.
“Mountjoy St. Denis!” resounded over the field. But lo! King Marsillus arrived with the main body.
They had only encountered the advanced guard!
“Brethren,” said Turpin, pointing to the Saracens with his mace, “yonder comes our death-struggle. Let us be polite, and go meet it; we shall only be in Paradise the sooner!” and he rode off as swiftly as if he bestrode a swallow.
“Shame, false friend, to outstrip me!” cried Roland, spurring Veillantif. “Bishop, do not perish without e!”
Once more the contest raged furiously. Turpin perceived Abyme, the most unbelieving Pagan of them all.
“What deity do you serve?” cried the bishop.
“None,” said the heretic; whereupon, with three mighty blows of his mace, Turpin scattered over the field the amethysts, topazes, and carbuncles that covered the Pagan’s shield. At the third blow the soul of Abyme fled to the regions below.
Climborin smote down Angelier of Gascony, but he did not live more than ten seconds to enjoy his conquest. Miton had seen the deed, lowered his lance, and pierced the Pagan’s throat.
“There, dog! you may go boast of your victory!” said he, as he rode off.
Oliver had rested but little all this while; he drove right and left at the ranks of the enemy, brandishing Hauteclaire, mowing the Saracens down like stubble.
His shield was of gold, charged with a red cross.
“That is a foul blazon,” said Valdabron, striking the shield with his lance.
“Nevertheless, you shall bow to it,” answered the brother of Aude, and with one back-stroke he beheaded the paynim.
The Duke Sanche was slain: it was Haucuidant who struck the fatal blow; by his hand, too, perished Gerin and Anseis, Beranger and Guy de St. Antoine. But Roland rode right at the Pagan, and with the hilt of Durandal crushed his face in, and flung him, an unrecognisable corpse under his horse’s hoofs.
“It is truly sad that we can only kill once a hound who has done so much mischief.”
Then the knight stood up in his stirrups, and gazed around him. Merciful heavens, what a sight! Out of the twenty thousand Franks who had come there, but sixty remained alive.
“By my hopes of Heaven!” said Roland, “I should die the happier if I could but bear Marsillus with me to the grave. But how can I find him amid such a mÊlÉe?”
Mitaine heard him.
“I will show him to you, if you will follow me;” and she began to strip off her armour piecemeal. Roland caught her by the arm to stop her—?
“What proof of madness are you going to give us now?”
“You take wisdom for folly, my lord. Do you think I should be suffered to pass, wearing your colours? My mother used to scold me for spoiling my clothes; they might get damaged now.”
“And you think I am going to let you perish like this?”
“Is it not absurd to make all this difficulty about it? Have we not come here to die?”
And Mitaine freed herself from his grasp, and sprang on a Saracen horse that she caught as it went riderless by. She was naked to the waist, and her golden hair floated around her shoulders. She seemed like the spirit of youth. Death fled from the presence of such lofty courage.
“Come and seek me, dastard of a Croquemitaine!” she cried. “Here I am well protected from thee.”
Roland followed her; his eyes were blinded with tears.
“Merciful heaven! what will they say of me for all these deaths? I shall scarce dare to show myself to-night in Paradise.”
Mitaine had caught sight of the King of Saragossa, and made direct for him, without looking right or left. Miton, whose headlong courage had carried him into the ranks of the foe, was beside her, surrounded by the Saracens. He was striking out right and left at random, thinking only to hack and hew the bodies of Pagans. Alas for the double misfortune! Mitaine drew near him and her father’s sword traced a gory slash across her shoulder. She turned, and father and child recognised each other.
“Is it you my father? It was a good stroke, but ‘tis wasted!” Horrified at the sight, Miton for a second forgot to defend himself.
In another moment poor Mita was a widow!
Meanwhile Mitaine had ridden close up to Marsillus, and rising up in her stirrups, to make sure Roland should see her, smote him on the face, crying, as loud as she was able—“Behold the King of Saragossa! Mountjoy for Charlemagne!”
She could say no more. Marganice, King of Carthage, and uncle of Marsillus, dealt her a blow on the chest that was far heavier than was needed. The poor girl sank, insensible, and rolled under the horse’s hoofs, with blood gushing from her lips and nostrils.
When Roland saw this, his rage overpowered him. He drew near Oliver, and said, “Brother, shall we go slay that boastful Marsillus yonder?”
“It shall be done,” said the other.
They dashed forward, followed by a few of the Franks still remaining on the field—Beuve, Lord of Beaune and Dijon, whose death was a sore loss to Charles—Yve, and Yvoire, and Gerard of Roussillon. Roland and Oliver penetrated farthest into the infidel ranks; at last they came within a few paces of Marsillus.
“Is it you, then, whom they call the King Marsillus?” said Roland.
“It is a name the Franks will not forget.”
“I am called Roland. If you never knew me before you shall know me to-day;” and with that he smote off the King’s right hand as he raised it to strike.
The Saracens shouted in alarm, “Mahomet preserve us!” and fled like doves before an eagle. If they had found legs to bring them thither, they had found wings to take them away.
There remained on the field only a thousand Ethiopians, the forces of Marganice. They were drawn up at a distance, and seemed undecided whether to advance. Roland put his horn to his lips, and blew a blast so powerful that it echoed and re-echoed for twenty leagues around.
“What are you doing?” said Oliver. “Have you lost all shame, and do you no longer fear to sound for help against Pagans?”
“These are cruel words, comrade!”
“Why disturb Charlemagne for such a trifle? We are three yet. If you had been less brave we should not have bequeathed this defeat to our country. If you sound the bugle on my behalf, do not trouble yourself—henceforth I do not desire to live. If for Turpin, our friend only survives by a miracle, and will be dead before any one can come to his aid. If you sound, it is for yourself; and, by Heaven’s truth! you will be a brave man to face Charlemagne.”
“Truly,” said Turpin, “you might do better than quarrel now. Wind your horn, Roland, not for our sakes, but for the honour of France. We shall be avenged, and our bones will be laid in consecrated soil. Wind your horn, Roland!”
The Count of Mans lifted his bugle to his lips, and blew so loud and long, that the veins in his temples stood up like ropes, and the blood flowed from his mouth.
The Emperor reined up his steed.
“Did you hear, as I did, the bugle of Roland?”
The Count of Mayence trembled, but he answered, “‘Tis some goatherd calling together his flock.”
“Do you think I’ve grown childish, that I should mistake a horn for a pipe? It was Roland’s horn, past a doubt.”
“Well, sire, he sounds his bugle for nothing often; perchance he is chasing some wild animal.”
“By your leave, sire, the horn has a mournful sound,” said Naymes of Bavaria, “and it is but due to your peers to go and see what has befallen them.”
“You are right, friend. Ganelon, you will remain here;” and Charles called for Besgue, his head cook, and entrusted to him the custody of the Count of Mayence.
“It is the duty of your scullions to guard this criminal. Have you any stout rope to put him to the question with?”
“I have, sire, the rope, saving your presence, with which I tie up the pigs when I stick them.”
“That will do well! And now, my comrades, let us hasten to Roland.”
“There is no need to hurry,” said Ganelon, with a grin; “Roland does not ring the bell until mass is over.”
“Even so, renegade,” said the Emperor, “we may arrive in time for vespers, and so much the worse for the Pagans.”
Roland was the only one left alive on the plains of Roncesvalles. To the shouts and yells of conflict had succeeded a silence infinitely more terrible.
Dismayed at their success, the Saracens had fled. The work was accomplished; the vultures would fitly succeed them. Insatiable parasites of the King of Saragossa, these new comers seldom had time to wipe their beaks between the banquets.
Roland dismounted for the first time in the four-and-twenty hours. The brave knight could scarcely stand. Leaning his brow on his horse’s saddle, he cried like a child—he had poured out all his blood, and he had nothing left to shed but tears!
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His wounds seemed nothing to him. It was despair that was killing him. In his grief he knelt beside the body of Oliver, and clasped it in his arms. He laid it on the turf, unlaced the helmet, kissed the cold brow, stripped off the armour, and examined it all over, unable to believe that he had really lost such a friend and companion in arms.
He did the same for Turpin, Miton, and Gautier de Luz. But of what avail was it to lavish cares upon the lifeless clay? Their spirits were in heaven.
Roland raised his head. He fancied he heard a faint but sweet voice pronounce his name. What happiness if there yet survived some one!
“Do you not know me, my dear lord? Come hither and bid me farewell!”
Pale, stretched on the field among the slain, lay the godchild of Charlemagne.
“Heaven be praised, my pretty one! To see you still alive makes me almost fancy Heaven smiles upon me. You will not die—I would not be the cause of your death! Charles will be here soon, and will bear you back to our own beloved France.”
“You deceive yourself, Roland. I shall never again behold the great Emperor—never again my native land! Before long I shall meet my father once more. But tell me, have the Saracens retreated?”
“They have retreated into Spain.”
“Then the victory belongs to us two! By the shrine of St. Landri! I am happier than I ever dreamed of being.”
Roland knelt down, took off one of his great gold spurs, and fixed it on Mitaine’s heel.
“There, brave little hero, none ever better merited the rank of knight!” and he buckled it on. The two little feet of the squire would have both fitted easily into the single spur.
In an ecstacy of joy, Mitaine raised herself, and flung her arms round Roland’s neck.
“Quick, quick, my beloved lord! give me the accolade, for I feel I am dying!”
And Mitaine sank back on the turf, plucked with a last effort two blades of grass, which she fashioned into a cross, and expired while kissing it with fervour.
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Roland felt very solitary now. Feeling the shades of death gathering round him, he stole up to Veillantif.
“My brave charger, your mouth is not meant for the bit of the Saracen, nor your sides for the Pagan spur.”
And Roland, having kissed its soft muzzle, killed his favourite steed with one blow of Durandal.
“Now, my treasured Durandal, what shall I do with thee? Thy hilt encloses one of the teeth of St. Peter, and a hair from the beard of St. Denis. Neither must thou fall into the hands of unbelievers!”
He called up all his strength, and struck his sword upon the granite. It clave the rock, without denting its blade. Three times he essayed again, but with no better success.
His sight was failing him. A cold chill seized him. He sank down beside a granite peak, stretched upon his invincible sword, that people might know well that he died a conqueror.
Roland had just ceased to breathe when Charlemagne arrived on the field.
You will imagine, my young friends, that the Emperor made the Saracens pay dearly for the loss of his knights. It was not until he had utterly destroyed the infidel army that Charles would consent to dismount from his horse on the plains of Roncesvalles. Alas! the butchery of Saracens could not restore life to Roland or his companions.
Poor Charlemagne! he tore his grey hair and long beard, and having ordered the bodies of the Count of Mans, Turpin, Oliver, Miton, and Mitaine to be placed in coffins of black marble, he had them borne back to France with every mark of honour.
As he approached Aix-la-Chapelle the Emperor saw a long, long line of weeping women, all attired in black, coming out to meet him. It was the fair Aude, supported by her widowed sister Mita, and followed by a suite of three hundred ladies.
Charlemagne, deeply affected by the sight of such affliction, dismounted, and pressed the fair Aude to his heart.
“My poor child!” said he, “you are a widow or ever you were a bride.”
The fair Aude opened her lips to reply, but she had not the strength to speak.
The Emperor felt her sink back in his arms, and, turning to the attendants, he asked—
“Is there a place for her in the coffin by the side of Roland?”
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A few days later were celebrated with great pomp the obsequies of the betrothed of the Count of Mans. At the same hour, draged on a hurdle, between two of the executioner’s assistants, the disfigured corpse of the traitor Ganelon was carried to the charnel.
“And Croquemitaine, won’t you tell us something about it?” you would ask me.
Croquemitaine does not exist, my dears.
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THE END.
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