Oliver had climbed a hill, from which he could see into the plains of
Spain. 'Roland,' cried he, 'do you see those shining helmets and
glittering swords? It is Ganelon who has done this, and it was he who
had you left here.'
'Be silent, Oliver,' answered Roland. 'He is my stepfather. I will not
hear him ill spoken of.' Then Oliver went down the hill and told his
soldiers what he had seen. 'No battle will ever be like this one,' he
said; 'you will need all your strength to keep your ground and not be
driven back.' 'Cursed be he who runs away,' answered they. 'There is
not one of us but knows how to die.'
'The Infidels are many,' said Oliver again, 'and our Franks are but
few. Roland, blow your horn; Charles will hear it and come to our
help.'
'You are mad to say that,' replied Roland, 'for in France I should
lose all my glory. No; but my sword Durendal knows how to strike, and
our Franks will fight hard, and with what joy! It was an ill day for
the Unbelievers when they came here, for none, I tell you, none will
escape.'
'The Unbelievers are many,' said Oliver again, 'and we are very few.
Roland, my friend, sound your horn; Charles will hear it, and come to
our help.'
'I should be mad if I did so,' answered Roland. 'In France, when they
knew it, I should lose all my glory! No; but my sword Durendal knows
how to strike, and our Franks will fight hard, and with what joy! It
was an ill day for the Unbelievers when they came here, for none, I
tell you, none will escape death.'
'O Roland, I pray you sound your horn, and Charles will hear it as he
passes the defiles, and the Franks, I will swear it, will come to our
help.'
'Now God forbid,' said Roland, 'that through me my parents should be
shamed, or that I should bring dishonour on the fair land of France.
No; but my sword Durendal knows how to strike. The Unbelievers have
come to their death, and they will find it.'
'I see no dishonour,' said Oliver. 'With my own eyes have I beheld the
Saracens of Spain; the mountains and the valleys alike are full of
them. And how few are we!'
'Then we shall have the more fighting,' answered Roland. 'God forbid
that I should turn my Franks into cowards! Rather death than
dishonour. The more we kill, the better the Emperor will love us.'
Roland was brave, but Oliver was wise also, and the souls of both were
as high as their words. 'Look round you, and think for a moment,' said
Oliver; 'they are close to us, and Charles is far. Ah! if you would
only have sounded your horn, the King would have been here, and our
troops would not have been in danger. The poor rear-guard will never
more be again such as it is to-day.'
'You speak foolishly,' answered Roland. 'Cursed be he whose heart is
afraid. We will be strong to hold our ground. From us will come the
blows, from us the battle.'
When Roland saw that he must give battle to the Infidels, he called
his Franks and bade Oliver stand beside him. 'Do not say these things,
my friend and comrade,' said he. 'The Emperor has left us twenty
thousand picked men, with not one craven heart amongst them. For our
liege lord, one must be ready to suffer cold and heat, hunger and
thirst, and cheerfully shed his blood and endure every ill. Strike
with your lance, Oliver, as I shall strike with Durendal, the sword
which was given me by the King himself. And if I am slain, the man who
wins it may say, "it was the sword of a noble vassal."'
Then from a little hill Turpin the Archbishop spoke to them. 'Charles
has left us here; he is our King, and it is our duty to die for him.
Christianity is in danger, and you must defend it. You cannot escape a
battle; then fight, and ask God's pardon for your sins. In His Name, I
will give you absolution, and already they wait for you in Paradise.'
The Franks got off their horses and knelt on the ground, and the
Archbishop blessed them. After this they mounted again, and placed
themselves in order of battle.
Like lightning Roland on his horse Veillantif swept along the defiles,
his face bright and smiling, his lance in rest. Oliver his friend was
close behind him, and the Franks said to each other, 'Look at our
champion!' He glanced proudly at the Infidels, but when his eyes fell
upon the Franks they were soft and gentle. 'Go slowly, noble barons,'
said he; 'the Unbelievers to-day are seeking their martyrdom, and you
will find richer booty than ever King of France did before.'
'Words of mine are useless,' said Oliver; 'you would not let Charles
know of our peril, so you cannot blame him for our danger. Ride as
hard as you can, and think only of two things, how best to give and
receive blows. And do not forget the battle cry of King Charles.'
'Montjoie! Montjoie!' shouted the Franks, as the two armies came
together with a crash.
It were long to tell of that battle and of the brave deeds that were
done both by Christians and Unbelievers. Roland was there where the
strife was hardest, and struck with his lance till the wood snapped.
Then he drew Durendal from the scabbard and drove a bloody path
through the ranks of the Infidels. Oliver and the Twelve Peers were
not far behind him, and the ground was red from the corpses of the
pagans. 'Well fought, well fought!' cried the Archbishop, 'Montjoie,
Montjoie!'
Oliver seemed to be everywhere at once. His lance was broken in two,
and there was only the head and a splinter remaining, but it dealt
more death blows than the sword of many another man. 'What are you
doing, comrade?' cried Roland, when for a moment their horses touched.
'It is not wood that is needed in this battle, but well-tempered
steel! Where is your sword Hauteclair, with its guard of gold and its
handle of crystal?'
'I have no time to draw it,' said Oliver. 'There are too many blows to
strike.'
Fiercer and fiercer grew the combat; thicker and thicker the corpses
lay on the ground. Who could count the Franks who were stretched
there, never more to see their wives or their mothers, or the comrades
that awaited them in the defiles? But the number of the dead Saracens
was greater even than theirs. And while they fought on Spanish soil, a
strange tempest arose in France, thunder and wild winds, and a
trembling of the earth; walls fell down, and at mid-day there was
darkness. Men whispered to each other: 'It is the end of the world.'
No, no; the end of all things was not yet, it was nature mourning for
the death of Roland. At length the Saracens turned and fled, and the
Franks pursued them, and Margaris the Valiant was left alone. His
lance was broken, his shield pierced with holes, his sword-blade
bloody, while he himself was sorely wounded. Heavens! what a warrior
he would have made if he had only been a Christian. He rode fast to
Marsile the King, and cried to him to mount his horse, and rally his
men, and bring up fresh soldiers to deal the Franks a last blow, while
they were exhausted from the long fight. 'It will be easy to revenge
the thousands that they have slain,' said he; 'but if you let them
slip now the tide of battle may turn against us.'
The King Marsile sent for fresh forces, and at sight of them the
Franks embraced each other for the last time, while the Archbishop
promised them a speedy entrance into Paradise. 'The Emperor will
avenge the treachery of Ganelon,' cried Roland, 'whether we live or
die, but the worst part of the fight is before us, and we shall need
all our strength to beat back the Unbelievers. They must not tell
tales of cowardice in the fair land of France.' Then they spurred
their horses and advanced in line, crying 'Montjoie! Montjoie!'
'Count Roland is not as other men,' said King Marsile, 'and as he is
not content with two battles, we will give him a third. To-day Charles
will cease to have power over Spain, and France will bow her head with
shame.' And he gave his orders to the vanguard to go forward, while he
himself waited on a little hill till the moment came to charge. Fierce
was the shock as the two armies met, and bravely did their leaders
fight, hand to hand and sword to sword. None struck harder than Turpin
the Archbishop, who cursed his foes as he bore them from their
saddles. 'He fights well,' said the Franks who watched his blows. But
the Franks had fought long, and were faint and weary. They had lost
much blood, and their arms were weak to strike. 'See how our brothers
fall,' they whispered one to another, and Roland heard their groans,
and his heart was near breaking. Thousands lay dead, thousands more
were wounded, but still the battle went on. Horses without riders
wandered about the field neighing for their masters. Then Marsile bade
the trumpets sound, and his army gathered round the great standard
with the Dragon, borne by a Saracen named Abimus. When Turpin the
Archbishop caught sight of him, he dashed straight towards the banner,
and with one blow of his mighty sword stretched the Unbeliever dead on
the ground before the Dragon. 'Montjoie! Montjoie!' he cried, and the
Franks heard, and said one to the other, 'Heaven send that Charles has
many like him!' The lances of the Franks were broken, and their
shields were for the most part split in two, but three hundred naked
swords still were left to deal blows at the shining helmets of the
Infidels. 'Help! help! O King!' cried the Saracens, and Marsile heard,
and answered, 'Better die than flee before these Franks. Let no one
think of himself, but all press round Roland. If Roland dies, Charles
is conquered. If Roland lives, all is over for us!' But Roland, with
Oliver at his side, swept a clear space with Durendal, and none might
come near him; the Archbishop kept his enemies at bay with his lance.
Four times the Franks endured the shock of the onset, but at the fifth
they were borne down by numbers, and now only sixty remained upon the
ground.
Then Roland turned to Oliver and said, 'Fair sir and dearest friend,
well may we pity France who will henceforth be widowed of such brave
warriors. O Charles, my King, why do you not come to us? Oliver, tell
me, how can we let him know what straits we are in?' 'There is no
way,' said Oliver, 'and death rather than dishonour.'
'I will sound my horn,' said Roland, 'and Charles will hear, and come
back through the defiles. I know that the Franks will retrace their
steps and come to our aid.'
'That would be a shameful thing for them,' replied Oliver; 'all our
kinsfolk would blush for us for ever, and we should likewise blush for
ourselves. When I begged you to do it you would not, and now the time
is past.'
'The battle is sore,' said Roland, 'I shall sound the horn, and
Charles will hear it.'
'You refused to do it while yet there was time,' answered Oliver. 'If
the Emperor had come then, so many of our best warriors would not be
lying dead before us. It is not his fault that he is not here. But if
you sound the horn now, I will never give you my sister, the fair
Aude, for your wife.'
'Why do you bear such malice?' said Roland.
[Illustration: ROLAND WINDS HIS HORN IN THE VALLEY OF RONCESVALLES]
'It is your fault,' answered Oliver. 'Courage and madness are not
the same thing, and prudence is always better than fury. If so many
Franks lie dead, it is your folly which has killed them, and now we
can no longer serve the Emperor. If you would have listened to me,
Charles would have been here, and Marsile and his Saracens would have
been slain. Your courage, Roland, has cost us dear! For yourself, you
will be killed and France be covered with dishonour. And before night
falls our friendship will be ended.' Then he wept, and Roland wept
also.
The Archbishop had been near, and heard their words. 'Do not quarrel
at this hour,' he said. 'Your horn could not save them now. Charles is
too far; it would take him too long to come. Yet sound it, for he will
return and avenge himself on the Unbelievers. And they will take our
bodies and put them on biers, and lay them on horses, and will bury us
with tears of pity among the mountains, building up high walls round
us, so that the dogs and the wild boar shall not devour us.' 'What you
say is good,' answered Roland, and he lifted his horn, and its mighty
voice rang through the mountains and Charles heard the echo thirty
miles away. 'Our men are fighting,' he cried, but Ganelon answered,
'If another man had said that, we should have called him a liar.'
Count Roland was sorely wounded and the effort to sound the horn
caused the blood to pour from his mouth. But he sounded it once more,
and the echoes leaped far. Charles heard it in the defiles, and all
his Franks heard it too. 'It is Roland's horn,' said the King, 'and he
is fighting.'
'He is not fighting,' answered Ganelon; 'you are old, and your words
are those of a child. Beside, you know how great is the pride of
Roland; it is a marvel that God has suffered him to live so long. For
a hare, Roland would sound his horn all day, and at this moment he is
most likely laughing with his Twelve Peers over the fright he has
caused us. And again, who is there who would dare to attack Roland?
No one. March on, sire; why make halt? France is still distant.'
Count Roland suffered grievous pain and a great wound was across his
forehead. He sounded his horn for the third time, and Charles and his
Franks heard it. 'That horn carries far,' said he, and Naimes
answered, 'It is Roland who is calling for help. A battle is going on;
some one has betrayed him. Quick, sire, he has called often enough.
Sound your war-cry and hasten to his help.' Then the Emperor ordered
his trumpets to be sounded, and his army gathered itself together and
girded on their armour with what speed they might, and each man said
to the other, 'If only we are in time to save Roland from death, what
blows we will strike for him.' Alas, they are too late, too late!
But before the march back there was something for the Emperor to do.
He sent for his head cook to appear in his presence, and he delivered
the traitor Ganelon into his custody, and told him to treat his
prisoner as he liked, for he had shown himself unworthy to mix with
warriors. So the head cook did as he pleased with him, and beat him
with sticks and put a heavy chain about his neck. And thus he guarded
him till Charles came back.
How tall the mountains seemed to the returning army! how deep the
valleys, and how swift the streams! but all the while the trumpets
were sounded, that Roland might hear them and take heart. And as he
rode, Charles had only one thought, 'If Roland is slain, shall I find
one man alive?'
Roland stood looking at the mountains and at the plains, and wherever
his eyes fell his dead comrades lay before him. Loudly he mourned
their loss, and then he turned to Oliver, saying, 'Brother, we must
die here with the rest of the Franks.' He spurred his horse and blew
his horn, and dashed into the ranks of the foe, shouting 'Montjoie!
Montjoie!' The remnant that was left closed eagerly round him, and the
battle-cries were fierce and loud. If Marsile and his host fled
before them, others not less valiant remained behind, and Roland knew
that the hour of his doom was come. And in valour, Oliver was no whit
behind him, but flung himself into the thickest of the battle. It was
the Caliph who gave Oliver his death blow. 'Charles made a mistake
when he left you to guard these defiles,' said he, 'but your life will
pay for many that you have slain.' But Oliver was not dead yet, and
the taunt of the Caliph stung his blood. With all the strength he had
left, he swung his sword Hauteclair on high, and it came down upon the
Caliph's helmet with a crash, cleaving it clean through. 'Ah, pagan,'
said he, 'you will never boast now of the prizes you have taken in
battle.' Then 'Roland! Roland!' he cried, and Roland came. When he saw
Oliver before him, livid and bleeding, he swayed on his horse as if he
should faint. Oliver's sight was weak and troubled from loss of blood,
and not hearing Roland's voice he mistook him for an enemy, and struck
him a hard blow on his helmet. This blow restored Roland to his
senses, and he sat upright. 'My friend,' said he, 'why have you done
this? I am Roland, who loves you well, and never did I think you could
lift your hand against me.'
'I hear you,' answered Oliver, 'I hear you speak, but I cannot see
you. If I have struck you, forgive me, for I knew it not.'
'I forgive you from my heart,' said Roland, and they embraced each
other for the last time.
The agony of death was falling upon Oliver; his sight had failed, his
hearing was fast failing too. Slowly he dismounted from his horse and
laid himself painfully on the ground, making, in a loud voice, the
confession of his sins. Then he prayed God to bless Charlemagne, fair
France, and Roland his friend, and after that his soul left him. And
Roland returned and found him dead, and wept for him bitterly. At last
he stood up and looked around. Of all the twenty thousand men, not
one was left except himself, and Turpin and Gautier. And these three
placed themselves shoulder to shoulder, and sent many an Infidel to
join his dead brothers. But the wounds they received in their bodies
were without number, and at length the Archbishop tottered and fell.
But they had not slain him yet: with a mighty struggle he rose to his
feet and looked round for Roland. 'I am not conquered yet,' he said;
'a brave man dies but never surrenders.' Then with his good sword he
rushed into the _melee_ dealing death around him. Roland fought as
keenly as his friend, but the moments seemed long till Charles brought
them help. Again he sounded his horn, though the wound in his head
burst out afresh with his effort. And the Emperor heard it, and
stopped for an instant on his march. 'My lords,' he said, 'things are
going badly with us; we shall lose my nephew Roland to-day, for I know
by the way he blows his horn that he has not long to live. Spur your
horses, for I would fain see him before he dies. And let every trumpet
in the army sound its loudest!' The Unbelievers heard the noise of the
trumpets, which echoed through the mountains and valleys, and they
whispered fearfully to each other, 'It is Charles who is coming, it is
Charles!' It was their last chance, and a band of their best warriors
rode straight at Roland. At that sight the strength rushed back into
his veins, and he waited for them proudly. 'I will fight beside you,'
he said to Turpin, 'and till I am dead I will never leave you. Let
them strike as hard as they will; Durendal knows how to strike back.'
'Shame be upon every man who does not fight his best,' answered the
Archbishop, 'for this is our last battle. Charles draws near, and will
avenge us.'
The Infidels said afterwards that an army could not have wrought the
ruin that was done that day by the Archbishop and Roland. Veillantif
received thirty wounds in his body and then fell dead under his
master. But Roland leaped off, and smote the Saracens, who turned and
fled before him. He was too weak to follow after them, and turned to
see if the Archbishop still breathed. Kneeling by his side he unlaced
Turpin's golden helmet, and bound up his gaping wounds. Then he
pressed him closely to his heart and laid him gently on the ground. 'O
friend, we must take farewell of each other, now all our comrades have
gone before us. But let us do all we can for their bodies, which
cannot be left lying here. I will myself go and seek their corpses,
and bring them here and place them in rows before you.'
'Go,' answered the Archbishop, 'but do not stay long. Thanks be to
God, the victory remains with you and me.'
Alone Roland searched the battle-field; he went up the sides of the
mountains, he descended into the plains, and everywhere he saw the
dead faces of his friends. One after another he brought them, and laid
them at the feet of Turpin, and at the sight of their faces the
Archbishop wept sore. Then he held up his hand to bless them for the
last time. 'Noble lords,' he said, 'you have fallen upon evil days.
May God receive your souls into His Paradise. As for me, among all the
pains I suffer, the worst is that never shall I see my Emperor again.'
Under a pine, close to a sweet-briar, the corpse of Oliver was lying,
and Roland raised him in his arms and bare him to the Archbishop,
where he laid him on a shield, near to the other peers. Then his heart
broke with a cry, and he fell fainting beside Oliver. At the sight of
Roland's grief the Archbishop's own sorrow grew double, and he
stretched out his hand for the horn which lay near him. A stream ran
down the valley of Roncevalles, and he dragged himself towards it, to
fetch water to revive Roland. But he was too weak from the blood he
had lost to reach the river, and he fell where he stood. 'Pardon for
my sins,' he said, and died, the servant of God and of Charles. The
cry was heard by Roland, who was slowly coming back to life, and he
rose to his feet and went to the dead Archbishop and crossed his hands
upon his breast. 'Ah, noble Knight,' he said, 'in God's hands I leave
you, for never since the Apostles has He had a more faithful servant.
May your soul henceforth be free from sorrow, and may the Gates of
Paradise stand wide for you to enter in!'
As he spoke, Roland knew that his own death was not far off. He made
his peace with God, and took his horn in one hand and Durendal in the
other. Then he mounted a small hill where stood two pine trees, but
fell almost unconscious as soon as he reached the top. But a Saracen
who had watched him, and had feigned to be dead, sprang up and seeing
him cried, 'Conquered! he is conquered, the nephew of Charles! and his
famous sword will be carried into Arabia'; so he grasped Durendal
tightly in his fist, and pulled Roland's beard in derision. If the
Saracen had been wise he would have left Roland's beard alone, for at
his touch the Count was brought back to consciousness. He felt his
sword being taken from him, and with his horn, which was always beside
him, he struck the Saracen such a blow on his helmet that he dropped
Durendal, and sank dead to the earth. 'Coward,' said Roland, 'who has
told you that you might dare to set hands on Roland, living or dead?
You were not worthy a blow from my horn.' Still death was pressing
closer and closer, and Roland knew it. He rose panting for breath, his
face as white as if he was already in the grave, and took Durendal out
of its scabbard. Ten times he struck it hard on a brown rock before
him, but the steel never gave way. 'O my faithful Durendal, do you
know that the hour of our parting has come?' he cried. 'You have
gained many battles for me, and won Charles many kingdoms. You shall
never serve another master after I am dead.' Again he smote the rock
with all his force, but the steel of Durendal glanced aside. When
Roland saw that he could not break it, he sat down and wept and
lamented sore, calling back to him all the fights that they had fought
together. Yet another time he struck, but the steel held good. Death
was drawing nearer; what was he to do? Under a pine tree he laid
himself down to die, his head resting on the green grass, his face
turned towards the Infidels. Beneath him he placed Durendal and his
horn. Alone on the mountain, looking towards Spain, he made the
confession of his sins, and offered up his last prayer. Then he held
up his right hand, and the Angels came and bore his soul to Paradise.