Pyrenees lay their well-beloved France; and they pressed on toward her
vine-clad provinces, but with anxious thoughts of the rear-guard,
leagues behind, between them and the Moslem hosts. The way to home and
loved ones lay through the Vale of Roncesvalles. This vale was a long
and narrow defile in the mountains, through which the army was obliged
to march in a scattered and dismembered way; and so it was that Karl and
the van had already gained France, while the beloved Roland and his
chosen followers were just entering the pass of Roncesvalles.
Now Charlemagne knew full well where the danger lay, and he was
grievously concerned for his sister's son. Moreover, on the night
before, he had dreamed a dream, in which he beheld a vision, symbolizing
the treachery of Ganelon. But it was not a time to hearken to the
misgivings of his heart, and the emperor pressed on, solacing himself
with the thought that his best and bravest were behind with the
rear-guard.
From far over the marches of Spain the heathen hosts were gathering.
Swiftly, surely, their serried ranks were closing in on the Christian
band. Mountain, plain, and valley glittered red with their burnished
arms, as on their light Arab steeds they swept like the wind of the
desert on Roland's track. And as the rear-guard of the Christian army
rode into the deep defile of Roncesvalles, the Saracen bugles rang out a
challenge from the far distance.
Now Oliver, though brave as any of King Karl's peers, was wise enough to
recognize danger and to fear it. The sound of the war-trumpet brought
him at once to Roland's side, and he said,--
"Sir Comrade, there is battle at hand with the heathen!"
But Roland lacked wisdom, and exclaimed with his usual pride,--
"God grant it may be so! Let us be strong for mighty blows, lest songs
of scorn be sung against us. No craven part shalt thou see me fill this
day."
Oliver was not so anxious for an encounter with the enemy, and he
hastily climbed to a high point to get some idea of their numbers. Far
over the plain his eye could reach, and he was bewildered and dismayed
by the sight before him. Greater far than he had reckoned were the
Paynim hosts, and many times more ominous was their battle-array. One
long look at their serried, glittering masses, and he hastened down to
Roland.
"My comrade," urged he, "I have seen the enemy, and never on earth did
such host appear. I pray thee, sound thy horn, that Karl may hear and
return to our succor." But Roland answered:
"Such deed were madness! Lost in France would be my glory. My good sword
shall seal the felons' fate."
"Nay, Roland, sound on thine ivory horn, that Karl may bend his legions
back and lend us aid," exclaimed his wise companion. In vain he pleaded.
Nearer and nearer the Moslems swept, and Oliver exclaimed in reproach,--
"See, comrade, see how close are they, and help, alas, how far! The
rear-guard will make their last brave stand this day!"
But Roland was drunk with the joy of battle and cried,--
"My friend, my brother, my Oliver, the emperor hath left us here his
bravest. Full twenty-thousand men he gave to us, and among them no
coward heart. I shall so strike with this matchless blade that he who
wears it when I lie dead shall say, ''Twas the sword of a valorous
captain.'"
The time was all too short--the Moslems were almost upon them.
Archbishop Turpin, seeing their straits, spurred his horse to a jutting
crag, and addressed the men. There was silence among the Franks as the
voice of the beloved churchman rang through the hollow pass:
"Barons, we are here for our emperor's sake; strike we for him, though
death be our portion." He stretched out his arms above them, and the
Franks alighted and knelt on the ground, crying, "_Mea culpa!_" Then he
assoiled them and blessed them, giving them for penance, to smite their
best.
The next instant the storm of battle broke, and Paynim and Christian
closed in the death-struggle, each hoping, believing, to find in the
blood of the other his passport into Paradise; each with the name of God
on his lips.
Well might the emperor bow his white head in woful fear, though the blue
skies of his native France were smiling above him. Death stalked
triumphant at Roncesvalles, and Frank and Saracen yielded him tribute
till the pass was covered with the dying and the dead.
If only King Karl could have seen his knights that day, the glory of
the sight would have blotted out its tragedy. Roland was proud, but
there was none braver than he; and he flung himself upon the enemies of
his king, his country, and his God with a fierce courage that none might
withstand. Wherever his splendid form was seen, his followers greeted
him with loud acclaim, and he cheered them on with their emperor's
battle-cry,--"Montjoie, Saint Denis!"
No less courageous was his dear comrade. But no fierce joy impelled
Oliver to the great deeds that he performed. He saw his duty, and met it
like a true knight.
Nor were the ten others of the emperor's peers less zealous in his
cause. Each gave his all for Charlemagne; and if that all was less than
the mighty Roland gave, it was not the fault of the knight who pledged
it.
Conspicuous in the fight was the great archbishop,--here blessing and
assoiling according to his holy office; there rushing to the charge like
the warrior that nature had made him, crying,--
"Strike, barons! Remember your chivalry!"
But not to the Franks alone belong all the glory and all the praise. The
Moslem hosts that opposed them were "worthy of their steel,"--equally
zealous in their own cause, equally certain of the approval of God.
Wilder and fiercer grew the strife, and Paynim and Christian mingled
together in dire confusion. At length the Moslem ranks wavered for an
instant, gave back a little, and then broke in panic. And a pitiful
remnant of the mighty host of King Marsilius fled from the field,
leaving slain in the pass the great body of that once proud army. But
even this remnant did not escape, for they were followed by the
Christians; and only one, wounded and bleeding, escaped to tell King
Marsilius the story of his woful loss.
Nearly an hundred thousand Moslems lay dead in the pass of Roncesvalles.
But they had sold their lives full dearly. Beneath, above, and beside
them were piled the flower of the Frankish army--Christian and Paynim,
asleep on one mother's breast, unheedful alike of triumph and defeat.
In spite of the fact that theirs had been the places of greatest danger
all through the battle, Roland and Oliver and the good archbishop had
escaped unhurt; and they and their comrades betook them to the sad duty
of searching the bloody field for their best-beloved dead. Long they had
wandered thus among the dead and dying, when a mighty blast of trumpets
smote on their ears.
"O God, our Father, what straits are ours!" they cried, as looking up
they beheld in the distance another Saracen host, greater by far than
the one they had crushed, bearing down upon them.
Now happened a thing most wondrous to tell. In far-away France an awful
darkness came down upon the land; a great whirlwind swept the face of
the country; the rain fell, the earth rocked, and the thunder rolled
along the sky. For a long time the darkness was unbroken, save when the
lightning cleft the storm-clouds and gave to the scene a yet wilder
fear. On all there came a mighty dread, and they deemed the end of the
world at hand. They knew not that it was an augury of the fateful
tragedy at the gates of Spain.
The lone heights about Roncesvalles had looked upon the Christian in his
pride and triumph; now were they destined to behold another sight.
Like that awful storm-cloud, the heathen came down upon the Christian
few, the thunder of hoof-beats waked the echoes of Roncesvalles, and the
hard earth reeled with the shock of arms.
The rear-guard made their last brave stand that day. Lance to lance and
sword to sword, they held their own while there was yet life in them,
and they achieved all but the impossible. Twice did the heathen swarms
break and fly before the fierce onslaughts of the Christians, but twice,
reinforced, they rushed to the attack again. Knight after knight went
down before them,--Engelier, Duke Sampson, Anseis, Gerien, and Gerier!
Where might the emperor find their like again?
At length only sixty of the Franks were left, pressed together by the
Moslem thousands. Every man in that "marvelous little companie" knew
that death that day would be his portion; but each was stanch and true,
and was resolved to sell his life "full hardily."
As the once haughty Roland gazed on his slaughtered men and on the
pitiful few who rallied around him in his last stand against the Moslem
power, his heart smote him grievously for the ruin he had wrought, and
he cried to his companion,--
"Would to God he had been with us--our emperor and friend! Speak,
Oliver, and lend thy counsel. How may we yet send tidings to Karl?" But
Oliver, in spite of his usual gentleness, was bitter against his
friend, and he said mockingly,--
"'Such deed were madness; lost in France would be thy glory!'"
But Roland's anguish and humility were great, and he insisted,--
"I will sound upon my horn that Karl may hear."
"Nay," cried Oliver. "Wouldst thou _call for aid_?"
The broken-hearted Roland protested, but Oliver continued bitterly,--
"See how our Franks lie slain of thy madness, nevermore to render
service to our emperor. Thou too shalt die, and forever shall France be
dishonored!"
Thus, in face of death, did these two quarrel--they who had been dearer
than all else to each other. The good archbishop heard their strife, and
rebuked them sadly, saying,--
"Sir Roland, and thou, Sir Oliver, I pray ye, in the name of God,
contend not. To wind the horn shall not avail to save us now. Yet were
it meet to sound it, too; for Karl will return to avenge our fall, and
bear our bodies back to gentle France to sleep in hallowed earth."
Then Roland sounded a mighty blast upon his horn,--so mighty that a
vein in his temple burst with the effort, and the bright blood flowed
from his lips. But the powerful strain, echoing and re-echoing along the
hollow pass of Roncesvalles, came faintly to the ear of Karl, and told
its tale of tragedy.
"It is Roland's horn," cried the white-haired emperor. "He had not blown
it save in dire distress." Then, though the traitor, Ganelon, did all in
his power to dissuade him, Charlemagne turned back along the mountain
path toward Spain.
And even in that hour, though weakened by loss of blood, and heart-sick
at the fate he had brought upon his comrades, Roland rushed to the fight
once more,--fleeter, fiercer, and more terrible.
"Oh, Oliver, brother," he cried in his anguish, "I die of shame and
grief if I escape unhurt!"
Deeper yet he pressed into the fight, and showered blows as only Roland
could, driving the foe before him. But, alas! the heathen hosts were
thick as the sands of their native deserts, and thousands upon thousands
came to reinforce their wavering ranks. Then Roland cried,--
"Our hour of fate is come!" and even as he spoke, a villainous heathen
bore down upon Sir Oliver and thrust him through with his lance.
"Sir Roland, Sir Comrade," the dying Oliver cried--for his anger against
his friend had burned out--"ride near me still; our parting is at hand."
"O God, my gentle Oliver!" cried the anguished Roland, "is this the end
of all thy valor? Ah, hapless France, bereft of thy bravest! Who shall
measure thy loss!" His grief was greater than he could bear, and he
swooned upon his charger's neck.
Now Sir Oliver's eyes were dimmed with bleeding, so that he knew not
friend from foe; and soon, in the surge of battle, he mistook his
swooning comrade for a Moslem, and dealt a fierce blow on Roland's
golden crest. The stroke did naught but rouse his unconscious friend,
for the arm of the dying Oliver had lost its wonted power.
"My comrade," said Roland, softly, "didst thou strike me knowingly? I am
Roland, who loves thee so dearly."
And Oliver answered,--
"Have I struck thee, brother? Forgive it me. I hear thee, but I see thee
not." Then Roland pressed closer to him, saying,--
"I am not hurt, my Oliver."
Then Oliver alighted from his horse, and couching upon the red earth,
cried aloud his _Mea Culpa_. Then passed his gentle spirit to Paradise;
and Roland cried in his anguish,--
"Since thou art dead, to live is pain!"
But life and pain were Roland's for yet a little space, and he had need
to bear him to the end a cavalier. Rousing himself from his grief, he
beheld about him a mere handful of the sixty he had counted last, each
fighting "as if knight there were none beside"; so, grasping Durindana,
he pressed into the strife. The next instant he beheld the good
archbishop flung to the ground from a dying charger. But Turpin was on
his feet almost instantly; and though he bore four lance-wounds in his
body, he raised his sword on high and ran to the side of Roland,
crying,--
"I am not defeated! A brave soldier yields with life alone!" Then
wreaked he such vengeance upon the heathen hordes that some say God
wrought a miracle in his behalf.
If miracle of God there was, it was not granted to save the Christian
few from destruction. In the last struggle, the valiant Turpin, wounded
and afoot, and the matchless Roland faced the Moslem hosts alone.
Fled was Count Roland's pride and vanity. With certain death before him,
his one thought was to summon Karl to vengeance, and to die like a
cavalier. The pain in his brow, from the bursting of the vein, was
growing more and more intense; not long, he knew, could his fainting
spirit bide. Once again he raised his ivory horn to his lips, and
sounded a call to the hosts of Charlemagne.
It was but a feeble strain, but on the north wind an answer came.
Suddenly, along the pass, rang a peal of sixty thousand clarions, and
the mountains caught up the strain and shouted it back again.
"King Karl! King Karl!" the echoes seemed to call to each other.
"Let us flee and save us!" cried the heathen. "These are the trumpets of
France! Karl, the mighty emperor, is upon us!"
Never was heathen but trembled at that name. Aghast for one moment the
hosts of the Moslem stood, then, like hunted things, they broke and fled
from the field.
As the infidels gave way in dire panic, Count Roland called to the
archbishop,--
"Let us give the heathen back their onset!" and he spurred his
Veillantif after their flying numbers.
"Who spares to strike is base," answered the valiant churchman; and
wounded though he was, he joined in the pursuit.
"Leave not this Roland alive!" cried one of the fleeing infidels; and he
turned and flung his javelin at the Christian knight. A hundred Moslems
at once followed his lead. Weapon after weapon was hurled upon the
dauntless Roland; but though his armor was all broken, and his raiment
frayed, his flesh remained unscathed. Veillantif, his noble charger,
however, was slain under him, and fell to the ground, pierced by thirty
wounds.
The heathen vanished; and Roland, unable to keep up on foot, was left
alone on the field. His first thought was to succor the good archbishop,
who had been grievously wounded in the fight, so he turned back and
searched till he found the faithful Turpin.
"The field is thine, and God's the glory," was Turpin's greeting to him;
and even as he spoke, his head drooped upon his breast, and his pious
spirit passed away. So died the great Archbishop Turpin,--a champion
ever of the Christian faith with word and weapon.
Noble and generous always, Roland had thought of his comrade first. Now,
left alone, his thoughts turned upon himself, and he knew from the pain
in his brow that his end was at hand. Karl and his legions were still
some leagues away; he might not hope to meet his emperor again, but he
desired much that Charlemagne should know that his Roland had died
unconquered.
So he grasped his Durindana and his ivory horn, and recrossed the
marches of Spain--as far as he had followed the fleeing heathen. There,
on a mound, between two great trees, he laid him down to die. Yet was
his spirit troubled, for he knew that if he died thus, his good sword
might fall into unworthy and unknightly hands.
"Ah, my ill-starred blade!" he cried; "no longer may I be thy guardian.
Yet never shalt thou know master who shall turn his face from mortal
enemy."
So saying, he struggled to his feet, and essayed to shatter his blade
upon a great rock. Many blows he smote with it, yet it broke not. Then
Roland was sorely grieved. Once more he summoned his failing strength,
and showered such mighty strokes upon the stone that the blade, unbroken
still, was bent "past word to tell."
Then, for death was upon him, Roland laid him down in the shade of a
pine. His sword and his horn he placed beneath his head, that Karl might
know he had not surrendered. When this was done, he raised his right
glove to heaven as a sign of repentance, and cried aloud,--
"O God, I do repent me of my sins, both great and small, from my natal
hour to this day. Father, receive my soul!"
Saint Gabriel leaned from heaven, so the legend says, and took the
raised glove from his hand.
And Karl, his emperor, came, and found him with his head upon his
unsurrendered sword, and his face toward Spain.
* * * * *
The vengeance that Charlemagne wreaked upon the traitor, Ganelon, and
upon the Moslems in Spain was unspeakably terrible.
It is touching to know, however, that Roland's lady-love--Oliver's
gentle sister Alda--refused to be comforted when she heard of her
lover's death. She died of a broken heart at the feet of Charlemagne,
even as the emperor begged her to accept his own son in marriage, and
thus become, in time, empress of all the Franks.
THE CID
As warlike sons, with mighty deeds,
Exalt the power of Rome;
And Arthur deathless glory adds
Unto his island home;
As France will ever nobler seem
Because of Charlemagne--
So dost thou, ever-conquering Cid,
Immortalize thy Spain!
_Paraphrase of Latin epitaph_,
D. W. K.
THE CID RODRIGO DIAZ DE BIVAR
(1035-1099 A. D.)
In the eleventh century there lived in Castile a Spanish noble of high
degree, called Diego Laynez. His family estates of Bivar lay near the
city of Burgos, and in his castle there, Don Diego, when not in
attendance upon the king, dwelt in the state befitting his rank and
wealth. A stern and proud man was Don Diego, and justly renowned for his
great valor in battle.
This knight had long desired an heir to his ancient name, and was happy
beyond measure when his wish was gratified by the coming of a little
son. The child was named Rodrigo, and soon grew to be a wonderfully
strong and fearless youth. Doubtless Diego hoped that his son would
become a valiant warrior, for fighting was then the chief business of
life, and peaceful occupations were held in little esteem. In those
days, a man was obliged to fight to defend life and property, and a
brave knight, with only the help of his good sword, could win fame and
fortune. But even the fond parents of Rodrigo could never have dreamed
of the glory that awaited their son, who was to become the greatest
warrior in all Spain, the delight and admiration and envy of every true
Spanish knight.
It was a stormy age,--that in which the little Rodrigo lived. For three
hundred years there had been almost constant warfare in Spain. Sometimes
the Christians battled against the Moors, sometimes Christians against
Christians, and Moors against Moors; but always there was conflict and
struggle. And well was the son of Diego Laynez fitted for that rough
age, as you shall see.
While still very young, Rodrigo showed a most independent spirit. Once
he asked his godfather, the priest Don Pedro, to give him a colt, and
the kind old man took him to the paddock and told him to choose one as
the colts were driven slowly by. After all the finest had passed, a very
ugly and mangy colt came ambling along, and Rodrigo called out,--
"This is the one for me!" His godfather, angry at a choice that seemed
so foolish, exclaimed,--
"Booby, [Babieca] thou hast chosen ill!" but the boy, not at all
abashed, laughed as he replied confidently,--
"This will be a good horse, and Booby shall be his name."
Time proved the boy to have shown excellent judgment, and Babieca became
almost as famous as his master.
Not only self-reliance, but a fierce and warlike temper, was shown in
the first youthful exploit of Rodrigo. His father Diego, when too old to
bear arms, was grossly insulted by an enemy, the Count of Gormaz. Diego
wept and raged at the insult put upon him and his inability to resent
it. Moved deeply by his father's grief, Rodrigo determined to avenge the
insult to the honor of his family.
Donning the discarded armor of Diego, the youth next took down from the
wall an ancient sword. This treasured weapon had once belonged to a
celebrated warrior, Mudarra, and with it that knight had avenged the
death of his seven brothers. Buckling on the good blade, Rodrigo said,--
"O valiant sword! bethink thee that mine is Mudarra's arm! Thou hast now
as great a wrong as his to right. Thou lackest thy great master's hand;
yet never shalt thou see me turn my back on a foe. Thou shalt find me
true as thy tempered steel, for thy second master, like thy first, was
not born to yield. Should the foe overmaster me, not long will I endure
the shame, but plunge thee straightway in my breast!"
Then Rodrigo sallied forth secretly from Bivar, and seeking the haughty
count, challenged him to battle. Gormaz laughed him to scorn.
"Fight thee? Thou art mad, thou silly boy. Get thee hence, or thy skin
shall suffer for thine insolence."
"Thou art no true knight," cried Rodrigo, "but a craven who dost insult
old men! If thou fight me not, all Castile shall hear of thy shameful
deed!" Many more deadly insults he added, until the enraged count
consented to fight him, expecting an easy victory over the youth. But
Rodrigo was strong as a man, and his deadly hate of the count added
vigor to his arm. Though soon wounded and bleeding, he yet parried with
skill the blows aimed at his heart, and finally, with one desperate
effort, drove the sword of Mudarra through and through the body of
Gormaz. The head of his fallen enemy Rodrigo carried home in triumph to
the proud Diego. Thus did the youthful Ruy Diaz de Bivar avenge the
wrongs of his father.
Soon after this combat with Gormaz, Rodrigo, while riding with some
companions, unexpectedly met a band of Moors. These men were returning
to Aragon from a thieving expedition into Castile, driving their
captives and stolen cattle before them. Rodrigo and his friends fell
upon this band with great fury and soon defeated the infidels; but the
prisoners taken were generously set free by their youthful captor.
Later, when Rodrigo went to the Saracen court of Saragossa, these Moors,
in return for his kindness, gave him the title of Sidy, or Said,--an
Arabic word, meaning lord, or my lord. In Spanish this became Cid; and
as the Cid, Rodrigo is best known, though he has still another title,
won in the following manner. In those days any knight who had suffered
wrong at the hands of another, could, with the king's consent, challenge
his enemy. Then, in the presence of the king and court, the two knights
would fight on horseback until one was killed or acknowledged himself
vanquished. The victor was deemed to have right on his side, and
judgment was given accordingly. Sometimes either party to the quarrel
was allowed to choose a substitute to fight for him. It was also the
custom when hostile armies met, for the boldest warrior to challenge one
of the enemy to come out and fight in single combat. Often, wars were
decided by such a contest between two or more knights chosen from each
army. By his wonderful success in many combats of this kind, Rodrigo won
the title of Campeador, or Champion, and came to be called the Cid
Campeador.
On his way to engage in one of these contests as a champion of the King
of Castile, Rodrigo met with a marvelous adventure. He and his knights
came upon a leper fallen into a ditch by the wayside, and calling upon
the passers-by for help. Now, none would heed his call for fear of the
terrible disease, with which the poor wayfarer was afflicted. But
Rodrigo dismounted, pulled the leper out of the ditch, and placing him
on Babieca, brought him to the inn where they were to lodge. Not another
knight would come near the outcast, so Rodrigo, out of pure kindness,
ate from the same dish with him, and afterwards had a bed prepared, in
which they two slept together.