to me, I pray thee, the bow that is in thy hand. Trust me, I shall not
let it fall as Ganelon let fall thy glove." The emperor handed the bow
to Roland, and thus was he made captain of the rear guard. Oliver, his
friend, remained behind with him and the twelve peers and Turpin, the
Archbishop, besides twenty thousand picked warriors.
"Roland, my dear nephew," said the emperor, "behold, I leave with thee
one half my army. Keep them safely for me."
"Fear nothing," Roland answered; "a good account shall I render of my
charge."
Thus the king parted from Roland and marched away with the bulk of his
army toward his own land. But ever as he passed over the high
mountains and through the deep ravines whose steep sides shut out the
light of the sun and seemed about to topple upon him, his heart grew
heavy with some strange oppression he could not understand. Ever and
anon he turned to his bodyguard and said, "I much fear me that some
terrible danger awaiteth our beloved Roland and the noble rear guard.
I feel that some treachery will be practised against them."
Even when he reached France the heaviness did not depart from his
spirit, and he sat moody and disconsolate, his hoary head bowed upon
his hands, awaiting impatiently news from the rear guard.
No sooner had Marsilius learned that Ganelon was carrying out his plan
and that Roland was to be left behind with only the rear guard, than
he sent swift-riding messengers in every direction to summon his
mighty men to meet him at Roncesvalles to await the coming of Roland.
Before the rear guard reached the pass, a vast army of four hundred
thousand men lay concealed in the rocky and woody fastnesses around
Roncesvalles. Every man pledged to fight Roland and his followers to
the death.
Slowly the little army of Roland crossed the plains and toiled up the
rocky pass and the steep mountain sides whence they could look down on
Roncesvalles, where lay the only road they could follow. What was it
they saw in the narrow valley before them? What could it be but the
sunlight gleaming on the spears of armed men, marching through the
valley and placing themselves in favorable positions upon the sides.
There seemed no limit to the multitude. They were like the blades of
grass in a fair meadow, and the noise that arose from the moving
multitude was like the murmur of the sea.
"Look," said Oliver to Roland; "Ganelon has played us false. What
shall we do? This is a greater army than was ever gathered before for
a single purpose, and they certainly mean our destruction."
"God grant it may be so," said Roland, "for sweet it is to battle for
our country and our king. When we have rested a little we will push
forward against the enemy."
"But," said Oliver, "we are a handful only, while they in number are
as the sands of the sea. Before it is too late sound thy great horn, I
pray thee, that possibly Charles may hear and return to our relief."
"The greater the host the greater the glory in defeating it," replied
Roland. "Never shall it be said that Roland shirked his duty and
brought disgrace upon his followers. We will not call the king back,
but I promise you that the murderous Saracens shall repent the attack
upon us. Already I feel them as good as dead."
Thrice did Oliver urge Roland to sound the horn for relief, but every
time the noble paladin refused, saying, "God and his angels are with
us. They fight upon our side. God will perform wonders for us, and
will not let shame rest upon our banners."
Oliver climbed a great tree whence he could see not only the host in
the valley, but multitudes concealed from the general view as far as
the eye could reach. He begged Roland to climb also and see, but
Roland answered sturdily, "Time enough to know the numbers of our
enemies when we count the slain."
Then Archbishop Turpin gathered the warriors about him, and while the
Franks kneeled on the ground he shrived them clean and blessed them in
the name of God, saying, "It is a right good thing to die for king and
faith, but fear not death, though it certainly now faces you. To-night
shall we meet in Paradise wearing the crowns of the martyrs. Arise
from your knees and in penance for your sins scourge ye the pagans."
Upon his great battle horse, Veillantif, Roland rode to and fro
brandishing his good sword, Durendal, putting his warriors in battle
array. Little need had he to urge faith and constancy, for there was
not a man but loved his commander to the utmost, and cheerfully would
follow him even unto death. When Roland looked upon the pagan host his
face grew fierce and terrible, but as he turned it upon his men a mild
and gentle expression stole over it, and he said, "My lords and
barons, good comrades all, let no man spare his life to-day, but see
only that he sells it dear. The lives of twenty pagans is a poor price
for one of yours. I have promised to give a good account of you, and
tonight the battlefield will tell how I have kept my word. God alone
knows the issue of the combat, but I have no fear. Of a certainty,
much praise and honor await us on earth and a martyr's crown in
Paradise."
So saying, he pricked the noble Veillantif with his golden spurs and
set off at the head of the rear guard through the pass and down into
the valley of death called Roncesvalles. Next following came Oliver,
then Archbishop Turpin followed by the Twelve, and behind pushed
forward the rear guard bearing aloft the snow-white banner of their
king and shouting fiercely their battle cry, "Montjoy! Montjoy!"
[Footnote: Montjoy was the name given during the Middle Ages to any
little rise of ground which lay on the line between two territorial
divisions. As such a spot was a common meeting place of hostile
armies, the term Montjoy came to be used as a war cry.]
Savage and bloody was the battle, beyond the words of man to describe.
Roland's ashen spear crashed through the brazen armor, skin, and bone
of fifteen pagans before it shivered in his hands and he was compelled
to draw the fair Durendal from its sheath.
Roland saw Oliver fighting with only the lesser half of his spear, and
riding to him exclaimed, "Draw thy sword, comrade, and slay the
enemy."
But Oliver replied, "Not so long as a handful of the stump remains.
To-day are weapons precious."
All Twelve and the whole rear guard fought like men possessed, and
before each lay a tale of pagan slain. No man sought to protect
himself except by the slaughter of his enemies.
"Thank God," said Archbishop Turpin, as he rested for a moment, "thank
God that I live to see the rear guard fight to-day."
The sun climbed the heavens, and it was noon, and not a Christian gave
way. Wheresoever he planted his foot there he stayed until he could
advance or until he died. The noble guard hewed down the pagans by the
hundreds until the earth was heaped with the slain. Where Roland stood
wielding Durendal, dripping with blood from point to hilt, lay a
circle of dead Moslems, for from every side the multitude came to
compass the death of Roland.
[Illustration: WHERESOEVER HE PLANTED HIS FOOT, THERE HE STAYED]
Though two hundred thousand of the pagans lay dead, many thousand
Christians mingled with them. Of the Twelve but two remained, when the
hosts of Marsilius began to flee and he looked with dismay upon the
slain. Then would Roland have won his battle in spite of numbers but
that from the mountainside came the sound of trumpets, and down into
the valley came twenty fresh battalions of Saracens, eager for the
fray. Yet Roland and the remainder of his scattered force kept even
these new legions long at bay, laughing in scorn at the Saracen
warriors and calling out grim jests at them as though the deadly
battle were a friendly game. So marvelously did the Christians fight
that the pagans almost yielded, for it seemed to them as though God
and his angels must be fighting for the Christians.
Yet slowly and surely was the rear guard dwindling away. Dead were the
noble Twelve and dead all the brave knights that were the immediate
companions and guard of Roland, the flower of the rear guard.
"Comrade," said Roland to Oliver, "now will I blow my horn, which
perchance Charles may hear and come to us."
"Thou art now too late," said the angry Oliver. "Hadst thou but taken
my advice thou hadst saved much weeping among the women and children
of France. Charles would not have lost his rear guard nor France her
valiant Roland."
"Blow thy horn," said the Archbishop Turpin, "and talk not of what
might have been. It is now too late for Charles to save our lives, but
he may avenge them."
Then Roland put his horn to his lips and blew a mighty blast that rose
up against the sides of the mountains and was echoed across the
valleys over hill and dale till it reached the king among his
courtiers in his great hall.
"What is that I hear?" he said; "surely our men are fighting to-day."
Said Ganelon, "What you hear is but the sighing of the wind in the
trees."
Still more weary grew Roland, and he took the horn again and winded it
with all his strength.
[Illustration: ROLAND FEEBLY WINDED HIS HORN]
So loud, so long and so mighty was the blast that the veins stood out
like whipcords on his brow; and even then he stopped not, but blew
until his temples broke and the blood streamed down his face.
Charles heard the mighty blast in his palace and cried, "That is the
horn of Roland; I know it. He is hard pressed in battle or he would
not sound it."
Then answered the treacherous Ganelon, "If that be the horn of Roland,
he hunteth perchance in the woods. Too brave is he to sound it in
battle. My lord the king groweth old, and his fears are childish. What
a merry jest would it be should the king call his thousands and go to
the succor of Roland only to find him hunting the hare."
In pain and great weariness now, almost spent with loss of blood and
the agony of his bursting temples, Roland again feebly winded his
horn. In his palace Charles heard the feeble echo, and springing from
his seat while the salt tears streamed from his eyes and rushed down
his snowy beard, cried, "Oh Roland, my brave captain, too long have I
delayed. Sorry is thy need, I know, by the wailing of thy horn. Men,
to arms! Straightway will we go to help Roland. Seize that man," he
said pointing to Ganelon; "bind him fast in chains, and keep him till
I return. Then shall we judge whether by his treason he hath duped
us."
Fierce was the cruel throbbing in the brain of Roland as he turned
wearily again to his fight, but his good sword leapt savagely out, and
the redoubtable pagans fell around him in heaps. Those who were left
of the rear guard cut down great masses of the pagans as a reaper cuts
down ripening corn at the harvest time, but one by one the weary
reapers fell ere the harvest could be gathered in. Yet beside each
dead Frank was a sheaf of pagan dead to show how well he had reaped
his little field.
Then a pagan king, seeing where Oliver was fighting, stole up behind
and smote him through the back a deadly wound, but Oliver turned, and
with the fierce strength of a dying man swung his huge sword
Haltclere, and before the pagan could know his triumph struck the
king's helmet and cleft his head from forehead to teeth. Even now,
with the pains of death so fastened upon him that his vision was
blotted out, Oliver struck valiantly on every hand, shouting "Montjoy,
Montjoy."
Roland heard the feeble shout and cut his way through to help his
companion from his horse; but Oliver, not knowing him, struck Roland
such a mighty blow that he shattered his helmet on his throbbing head.
In spite of all his pain, Roland lifted Oliver gently down from his
horse, saying, "Dear comrade, I fear a deadly evil has happened to
thee."
"Thy voice is that of Roland, but I cannot see thy face."
"It is I, Roland, thy comrade."
"Forgive me that I smote thee," said Oliver; "it is so dark that I
cannot see thy face. Give me thy hand. God bless thee, Roland. God
bless Charlemagne and France."
So saying, he fell upon his face and died. With a heavy heart Roland
turned from his fallen comrade and looked about for his valiant rear
guard. Only two men were left beside himself. Turpin the Archbishop,
Count Gaulter and Roland set themselves back to back while the pagans
ran upon them in a multitude. Twenty men Roland slew, Count Gaulter
six, and Turpin five. Then another charge of a thousand horsemen
throwing spears and javelins bore down upon them. Count Gaulter fell
at the first charge, and the archbishop's horse was killed; and there
upon the ground Turpin lay with four wounds upon his forehead and four
upon his breast.
Yet strange to say in those fearful charges Roland got never a wound,
although in his broken temples his brain was parting asunder, and the
pain was more than he could bear. Once more he winded his feeble horn,
and Charles heard it as he came with his army to the relief of the
rear guard. "Spare not spur nor steed for Roland's sake. I hear the
sighing of his horn and know that he is in a last distress. Sound all
our clarions loud and long."
The mighty mountains tossed the sound from peak to peak and carried it
down into the valley of Roncesvalles where the pagans heard the echoes
and knew that Charles was approaching for revenge.
"There is but one man more to slay," they cried. "Let us slaughter him
and flee."
Then four hundred of the mounted Moslems charged at Roland, flinging
their long javelins but venturing not to approach within reach of his
sword, for they thought no man born of woman could slay this Roland.
Veillantif dropped down dead, and Roland, his armor pierced with spear
points, fell beneath him with a last great "Montjoy."
Spent with the fall, he lay there in a swoon, though not a single
spear had touched his body. When the pagans looked on him they thought
him dead, and fled through the pass, leaving the gloomy field in
possession of the dead and wounded.
When the spirit of Roland came back from its swoon he looked about him
and saw that the pagans had fled. With great pain he drew himself from
beneath his horse and staggered to his feet, for scarcely could he
stand from the pain beating in his temples. He dragged his bruised and
weary body, searching everywhere among the slain. Round about each
Christian lay a heap of pagan slain, and as Roland's eye wandered o'er
the bloody field he said, "Charles will see that the rear guard has
done its duty." At last he found where Oliver lay, and lifting the
body tenderly in his arms, he said, "Comrade dear, ever wast thou a
friend to me, kind and gentle. No better warrior ever broke a spear or
wielded a sword. Now do I repent the only time that I failed to heed
thy counsel. God rest thy soul. A sweeter friend and truer comrade no
man ever had."
Then Roland heard a feeble voice, and turning, saw the Archbishop
Turpin dying on the ground, a piteous sight, his face all marred with
wounds and his body well-nigh cut in twain. Yet Turpin raised his hand
and blessed the dead about him, saying, "Thank God, dear Roland, the
field is thine and mine. We have fought a good fight."
Then he joined his hands as though in prayer, but his strength failed
him and he fell back fainting. Roland crawled away towards a little
rill where water was flowing, but his own weakness was so great that
when he came feebly to where the Archbishop lay he found him with his
hands still clasped, but now at rest; for neither thirst nor pain
would trouble him again. All alone in that field of death Roland wept
with his slaughtered friends.
When Roland found death was drawing near he took Durendal in one hand
and his good horn in the other and crept away to a green hillock,
where he lay down in his armor. While he lay there in agony a Saracen
appeared plundering the dead and as he stole by Roland he saw the
glitter of Durendal's hilt and put out his hand and snatched the
sword. Roland opened his eyes and saw the thief before him with the
sword in his hands, and turning suddenly he raised his horn and dealt
the fellow so heavy a blow upon the skull that he stretched him dead
upon the ground. Then, recovering Durendal, he clasped it in his hands
and said, "Oh Durendal, keen of edge and bright of blade, God sent
thee by his angels to Charles to be his captain's sword. Charles girt
thee at my side, and many a country hast thou helped to conquer in my
hands. Though it grieveth me sore to part with thee, yet would I
rather break thee asunder than that thou shouldst fall into the hands
of an enemy of France."
So, praying God to give him strength, he struck the sword so mightily
upon a gray stone of granite that the stone was chipped and
splintered, but the good sword broke not nor was its good edge turned
in the least. A second time he struck the stone, and though under the
blow it was cleft in twain, the blade leaped back unharmed. On the
third blow he powdered the stone, but failed to turn the blade of
polished steel.
Then Roland knew that the sword was indeed holy, and holding the cross
upon its hilt before his eyes, he said, "Oh Durendal, I am to blame.
The angels brought thee and they will keep thee safe for Charles and
France."
Now indeed Roland felt the throes of death approach, and turning his
face toward Spain and toward his enemies he placed his sword and horn
beneath him, and lifting his weary hands to heaven he closed his eyes.
Death and silence brooded o'er the valley; the mists of night came up,
and darkness hid the scene.
Charles and his followers had ridden hard and did not draw rein till
they reached the mountain top and looked down into the valley of
Roncesvalles. They blew the clarions loud, but no answering sound was
heard save the echoes from the mountain sides. Then down through the
mists and darkness they rode and saw the awful carnage. Roland and
Oliver dead, Archbishop Turpin and the noble Twelve, and all the
twenty thousand stretched among the heaps of pagan corpses.
Charles fell upon his face and wept, for he had brought up and
nourished Roland from a babe, had taught him war and made him the
bravest of knights and captain in his army. But anger burned in his
bosom and dried his tears, so that when his officers approached and
told him that they had found the tracks of the flying pagans he was
ready to follow fiercely along their track.
Looking up, he saw that the sun was still some hours high, for God had
miraculously stayed its passage that the Christians might be avenged.
They overtook the flying enemy in the valley of Tenebrus, close by the
swift torrent of the Ebro, and there with the swollen river in front
and the fierce Franks on the flanks and rear the pagans were slowly
cut to pieces. Only Marsilius and a little band, who had gone another
way, escaped. Every Saracen in Tenebrus had perished before the Franks
gave up their bloody work. Back to Roncesvalles went King Charles,
where he buried the dead, all excepting Roland and Oliver, whose
bodies he embalmed and carried in his richest chariots on his return
journey.
Bitterly mourned the king in spite of the richness of his revenge. "Oh
my Roland," he cried, "little pleasure have I in the land we have
conquered. When I come again to my palace and people ask tidings, what
can I say but that we have conquered cities, provinces and countries
and left Roland dead? Then will there be no rejoicing. Sadness will
fall upon our land, and every one will say the war has been in vain.
Oh Roland, my friend, would God that I had died for thee."
When Charles had returned to Aachen he haled Ganelon before him and
flatly accused the knight of treachery. This Ganelon denied, and the
king set him on trial. By using the price of his treason, Ganelon
secured among the judges thirty of his kinsmen, who by spending riches
lavishly procured judgment for him, all voting him no traitor
excepting a gentle youth, Tierry, who persisted in impeaching Ganelon
as a felon and traitor who had betrayed Roland and the twenty
thousand. Moreover, he accused the judges of treason and false
judgment and offered to prove his charges upon any champion the
accused should bring forth.
Tierry was a slender little lad, slight of limb and feeble in
strength, and the champion selected by the accused was Pinabel, a
giant among the Franks. All pitied Tierry and urged that some more
doughty champion take up the cause, but King Charles said, "God will
show the right."
So the lists were made ready and the combat began. Long and terrible
was the fight, for the little champion seemed endowed with more than
human strength and courage. Yet ever was he beaten back, and ever it
seemed that he must be crushed to death under the terrific blows of
the mighty Pinabel. At last a blow came which cut his helmet in two
and split off his right cheek. Then with vision clouded by the blood
and with fast-failing strength, Tierry aimed a blow with all his force
straight at the head of Pinabel. God gave force to the weakening arm
and directed the stroke so that it cleft the steel helmet and the
skull, and entered the brain of Pinabel, who fell gasping to the earth
and died there in his sins.
Then all the people with one accord shouted, "God hath spoken the
word. Again has the right triumphed in trial by battle. Away with
Ganelon and his fellows."
King Charles from his judgment hall pronounced sentence. "Take the
thirty false judges and hang them. Let not one escape," decreed the
king.
As for Ganelon, ten times worse was his punishment. Ropes were tied to
the wrists and ankles of Ganelon and fastened to four prancing horses.
Whining and begging for his life, the traitor lay extended while the
horses, proud of their part, stood with noble arching necks ready
without whip or spur to drag the coward traitor limb from limb. The
halters were cast off, the horses sprang away, and Ganelon had paid
his penalty.
Then to his lonely chamber retired the king, very old and decrepit,
for years of grief had done more to age Charlemagne than years of war.