_THE BATTLE OF RONCEVALLES_
About twelve hundred years ago there lived an Emperor of the West
whose name was Charles the Great, or, as some called him, Charlemagne,
which means Carolus Magnus. When he was not making war he ruled well
and wisely at Aix-la-Chapelle, but at the time that this story begins
he had been for seven years in Spain, fighting against the Saracens.
The whole country had fallen before him, except only Saragossa, a
famous town on the river Ebro, not far from the outskirts of the
Pyrenees, which was held by the Moorish King Marsile, with a great
host.
One hot day Marsile was lying on a cool slab of blue marble which was
shaded by overhanging fruit trees, and his nobles were sitting all
round him. Suddenly the King sat up, and, turning to his followers, he
said:
'Listen to me, my Lords, for I have something of note to say unto you.
Evil days are upon us, for the Emperor of fair France will never rest
until he has driven us out of our country, and I have no army
wherewith to meet him. Then counsel me, my wise men, how to escape
both death and shame.'
At the King's speech there was silence, for none knew how to reply,
till Blancandrin, Lord of Val-Fonde, stood up.
'Fear nothing,' he said to the King, 'but send a messenger to this
proud Charles, promising to do him faithful service and asking for his
friendship. And let there go with the messenger presents to soften his
heart, bears and lions, and dogs to hunt them; seven hundred camels
and four hundred mules, loaded with gold and silver, so that he shall
have money to pay his soldiers. The messenger shall tell him that on
the Feast of St. Michael you yourself will appear before him, and
suffer yourself to be converted to the faith of Christ, and that you
will be his man and do homage to him. If he asks for hostages, well!
send ten or twenty, so as to gain his confidence; the sons of our
wives. I myself will offer up my own son, even if it leads to his
death. Better they should all die, than that we should lose our
country and our lands, and be forced to beg till the end of our
lives.' And the nobles answered, 'He has spoken well.'
King Marsile broke up his Council, and chose out those who were to go
on the embassy. 'My lords,' he said, 'you will start at once on your
mission to King Charles, and be sure you take olive branches in your
hands, and beg him to have pity on me. Tell him that before a month
has passed over his head I will follow you with a thousand of my
servants, to receive baptism and do him homage. If, besides, he asks
for hostages, they shall be sent.' 'It is well,' said Blancandrin,
'the treaty is good.'
The Emperor Charles was happier than he had ever been in his life. He
had taken Cordova, and thrown down the walls; his war machines had
laid low the towers, and the rich city had been plundered, while every
Saracen who refused to be baptized had been slain. Now he felt he
might rest, and sought the cool of an orchard, where were already
gathered his nephew Roland, with Oliver his comrade, Geoffrey of Anjou
his standard bearer, and many other famous Knights. They lay about on
white carpets doing what they best liked--some played games, chess or
draughts, but these were mostly the old men who were glad to be still:
the young ones fenced and tilted. Under a pine tree, close to a
sweet-briar, a seat of massive gold was placed, and on it sat the
Emperor of the fair country of France, a strong man, with his beard
white as snow. But his rest was short. Soon came the messengers of the
Saracen King, and, descending from their mules, they bowed low before
him.
[Illustration: UNDER A PINE TREE CLOSE TO A SWEET-BRIAR ON A SEAT OF
GOLD SAT--THE KING OF THE FAIR COUNTRY OF FRANCE