In those moments of seclusion Rogero informed his sister of what he had

learned of their parentage from old Atlantes. Rogero, their father, a

Christian knight, had won the heart of Galaciella, daughter of the

Sultan of Africa, and sister of King Agramant, converted her to the

Christian faith, and secretly married her. The Sultan, enraged at his

daughter’s marriage, drove her husband into exile, and caused her with

her infant children, Rogero and Marphisa, to be placed in a boat and

committed to the winds and waves, to perish; from which fate they were

saved by Atlantes. On hearing this, Marphisa exclaimed, “How can you,

brother, leave our parents unavenged so long, and even submit to serve

the son of the tyrant who so wronged them?” Rogero replied that it was

but lately he had learned the full truth; that when he learned it he was

already embarked with Agramant, from whom he had received knighthood,

and that he only waited for a suitable opportunity when he might with

honor desert his standard, and at the same time return to the faith of

his fathers. Marphisa hailed this resolution with joy, and declared her

intention to join with him in embracing the Christian faith.

————

We left Bradamante when, mounted on Rabican and armed with Astolpho’s

lance, she rode forth, determined to learn the cause of Rogero’s long

absence. One day, as she rode, she met a damsel, of visage and of

manners fair, but overcome with grief. It was Flordelis, who was seeking

far and near a champion capable of liberating and avenging her lord.

Flordelis marked the approaching warrior, and, judging from appearances,

thought she had found the champion she sought. “Are you, Sir Knight,”

she said, “so daring and so kind as to take up my cause against a fierce

and cruel warrior who has made prisoner of my lord, and forced me thus

to be a wanderer and a suppliant?” Then she related the events which had

happened at the bridge. Bradamante, to whom noble enterprises were

always welcome, readily embraced this, and the rather as in her gloomy

forebodings she felt as if Rogero was forever lost to her.

Next day the two arrived at the bridge. The sentry descried them

approaching, and gave notice to his lord, who thereupon donned his armor

and went forth to meet them. Here, as usual, he called on the advancing

warrior to yield his horse and arms an oblation to the tomb. Bradamante

replied, asking by what right he called on the innocent to do penance

for his crime. “Your life and your armor,” she added, “are the fittest

offering to her tomb, and I, a woman, the fittest champion to take

them.” With that she couched her spear, spurred her horse, and ran to

the encounter. King Rodomont came on with speed. The trampling sounded

on the bridge like thunder. It took but a moment to decide the contest.

The golden lance did its office, and that fierce Moor, so renowned in

tourney, lay extended on the bridge. “Who is the loser now?” said

Bradamante; but Rodomont, amazed that a woman’s hand should have laid

him low, could not or would not answer. Silent and sad, he raised

himself, unbound his helm and mail, and flung them against the tomb;

then, sullen and on foot, left the ground; but first gave orders to one

of his squires to release all his prisoners. They had been sent off to

Africa. Besides Florismart, there were Sansonnet and Oliver, who had

ridden that way in quest of Orlando, and had both in turn been

overthrown in the encounter.

Bradamante after her victory resumed her route, and in due time reached

the Christian camp, where she readily learned an explanation of the

mystery which had caused her so much anxiety. Rogero and his fair and

brave sister, Marphisa, were too illustrious by their station and

exploits not to be the frequent topic of discourse even among their

adversaries, and all that Bradamante was anxious to know reached her

ear, almost without inquiry.

We now return to Gradasso, who by Rogero’s victory had been made

possessor of Durindana. There now only remained to him to seek the horse

of Rinaldo; and the challenge, given and accepted, was yet to be fought

with that warrior, for it had been interrupted by the arts of Malagigi.

Gradasso now sought another meeting with Rinaldo, and met with no

reluctance on his part. As the combat was for the possession of Bayard,

the knights dismounted and fought on foot. Long time the battle lasted.

Rinaldo, knowing well the deadly stroke of Durindana, used all his art

to parry or avoid its blow. Gradasso struck with might and main, but

wellnigh all his strokes were spent in air, or if they smote they fell

obliquely and did little harm.

Thus had they fought long, glancing at one another’s eyes, and seeing

naught else, when their attention was arrested perforce by a strange

noise. They turned, and beheld the good Bayard attacked by a monstrous

bird. Perhaps it was a bird, for such it seemed; but when or where such

a bird was ever seen I have nowhere read, except in Turpin; and I am

inclined to believe that it was not a bird, but a fiend, evoked from

underground by Malagigi, and thither sent on purpose to interrupt the

fight. Whether a fiend or a fowl, the monster flew right at Bayard, and

clapped his wings in his face. Thereat the steed broke loose, and ran

madly across the plain, pursued by the bird, till Bayard plunged into

the wood, and was lost to sight.

Rinaldo and Gradasso, seeing Bayard’s escape, agreed to suspend their

battle till they could recover the horse, the object of contention.

Gradasso mounted his steed, and followed the foot-marks of Bayard into

the forest. Rinaldo, never more vexed in spirit, remained at the spot,

Gradasso having promised to return thither with the horse, if he found

him. He did find him, after long search, for he had the good fortune to

hear him neigh. Thus he became possessed of both the objects for which

he had led an army from his own country, and invaded France. He did not

forget his promise to bring Bayard back to the place where he had left

Rinaldo, but only muttering, “Now I have got him, he little knows me who

expects me to give him up; if Rinaldo wants the horse let him seek him

in India, as I have sought him in France,”—he made the best of his way

to Arles, where his vessels lay; and in possession of the two objects of

his ambition, the horse and the sword, sailed away to his own country.

————

ASTOLPHO IN ABYSSINIA

When we last parted with the adventurous paladin Astolpho, he was just

commencing that flight over the countries of the world from which he

promised himself so much gratification. Our readers are aware that the

eagle and the falcon have not so swift a flight as the Hippogriff on

which Astolpho rode. It was not long, therefore, before the paladin,

directing his course toward the southeast, arrived over that part of

Africa where the great river Nile has its source. Here he alighted, and

found himself in the neighborhood of the capital of Abyssinia, ruled by

Senapus, whose riches and power were immense. His palace was of

surpassing splendor; the bars of the gates, the hinges and locks, were

all of pure gold; in fact, this metal, in that country, is put to all

those uses for which we employ iron. It is so common that they prefer

for ornamental purposes rock crystal, of which all the columns were

made. Precious stones of different kinds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires,

and topazes were set in ornamental designs, and the walls and ceilings

were adorned with pearls.

It is in this country those famous balms grow of which there are some

few plants in that part of Judæa called Gilead. Musk, ambergris, and

numerous gums, so precious in Europe, are here in their native climate.

It is said the Sultan of Egypt pays a vast tribute to the monarch of

this country to hire him not to cut off the source of the Nile, which he

might easily do, and cause the river to flow in some other direction,

thus depriving Egypt of the source of its fertility.

At the time of Astolpho’s arrival in his dominions, this monarch was in

great affliction. In spite of his riches and the precious productions of

his country, he was in danger of dying of hunger. He was a prey to a

flock of obscene birds called Harpies, which attacked him whenever he

sat at meat, and with their claws snatched, tore, and scattered

everything, overturning the vessels, devouring the food, and infecting

what they left with their filthy touch. It was said this punishment was

inflicted upon the king because when young, and filled with pride and

presumption, he had attempted to invade with an army the terrestrial

paradise, which is situated on the top of a mountain whence the Nile

draws its source. Nor was this his only punishment. He was struck blind.

Astolpho, on arriving in the dominions of this monarch, hastened to pay

him his respects. King Senapus received him graciously, and ordered a

splendid repast to be prepared in honor of his arrival. While the guests

were seated at table, Astolpho filling the place of dignity at the

king’s right hand, the horrid scream of the Harpies was heard in the

air, and soon they approached, hovering over the tables, seizing the

food from the dishes, and overturning everything with the flapping of

their broad wings. In vain the guests struck at them with knives and any

weapons which they had, and Astolpho drew his sword and gave them

repeated blows, which seemed to have no more effect upon them than if

their bodies had been made of tow.

At last Astolpho thought of his horn. He first gave warning to the king

and his guests to stop their ears; then blew a blast. The Harpies,

terrified at the sound, flew away as fast as their wings could carry

them. The paladin mounted his Hippogriff, and pursued them, blowing his

horn as often as he came near them. They stretched their flight towards

the great mountain, at the foot of which there is a cavern, which is

thought to be the mouth of the infernal abodes. Hither those horrid

birds flew, as if to their home. Having seen them all disappear in the

recess, Astolpho cared not to pursue them farther, but alighting, rolled

huge stones into the mouth of the cave, and piled branches of trees

therein, so that he effectually barred their passage out, and we have no

evidence of their ever having been seen since in the outer air.

After this labor Astolpho refreshed himself by bathing in a fountain

whose pure waters bubbled from a cleft of the rock. Having rested

awhile, an earnest desire seized him of ascending the mountain which

towered above him. The Hippogriff bore him swiftly upwards, and landed

him on the top of the mountain, which he found to be an extensive plain.

A splendid palace rose in the middle of this plain, whose walls shone

with such brilliancy that mortal eyes could hardly bear the sight.

Astolpho guided the winged horse towards this edifice, and made him

poise himself in the air while he took a leisurely survey of this

favored spot and its environs. It seemed as if nature and art had

striven with one another to see which could do the most for its

embellishment.

Astolpho, on approaching the edifice, saw a venerable man advance to

meet him. This personage was clothed in a long vesture as white as snow,

while a mantle of purple covered his shoulders, and hung down to the

ground. A white beard descended to his middle, and his hair, of the same

color, overshadowed his shoulders. His eyes were so brilliant that

Astolpho felt persuaded that he was a blessed inhabitant of the heavenly

mansions.

The sage, smiling benignantly upon the paladin, who from respect had

dismounted from his horse, said to him: “Noble chevalier, know that it

is by the Divine will you have been brought to the terrestrial paradise.

Your mortal nature could not have borne to scale these heights and reach

these seats of bliss if it were not the will of Heaven that you should

be instructed in the means to succor Charles, and to sustain the glory

of our holy faith. I am prepared to impart the needed counsels; but

before I begin let me welcome you to our sojourn. I doubt not your long

fast and distant journey have given you a good appetite.”

The aspect of the venerable man filled the prince with admiration; but

his surprise ceased when he learned from him that he was that one of the

Apostles of our Lord to whom he said, “I will that thou tarry till I

come.”

St. John, conducting Astolpho, rejoined his companions. These were the

patriarch Enoch and the prophet Elijah; neither of whom had yet seen his

dying day, but, taken from our lower world, were dwelling in a region of

peace and joy, in a climate of eternal spring, till the last trumpet

shall sound.

The three holy inhabitants of the terrestrial paradise received Astolpho

with the greatest kindness, carried him to a pleasant apartment, and

took great care of the Hippogriff, to whom they gave such food as suited

him, while to the prince they presented fruits so delicious that he felt

inclined to excuse our first parents for their sin in eating them

without permission.

Astolpho, having recruited his strength, not only by these excellent

fruits, but also by sweet sleep, roused himself at the first blush of

dawn, and as soon as he left his chamber met the beloved Apostle coming

to seek him. St. John took him by the hand, and told him many things

relating to the past and the future. Among others, he said, “Son, let me

tell you what is now going on in France. Orlando, the illustrious prince

who received at his birth the endowment of strength and courage more

than mortal, raised up as was Samson of old to be the champion of the

true faith, has been guilty of the basest ingratitude in leaving the

Christian camp when it most needed the support of his arm, to run after

a Saracen princess, whom he would fain marry, though she scorns him. To

punish him his reason has been taken away, so that he runs naked through

the land, over mountains and through valleys, without a ray of

intelligence. The duration of his punishment has been fixed at three

months, and that time having nearly expired, you have been brought

hither to learn from us the means by which the reason of Orlando may be

restored. True, you will be obliged to make a journey with me, and we

must even leave the earth, and ascend to the moon, for it is in that

planet we are to seek the remedy for the madness of the paladin. I

propose to make our journey this evening, as soon as the moon appears

over our head.”

As soon as the sun sunk beneath the seas, and the moon presented its

luminous disk, the holy man had the chariot brought out in which he was

accustomed to make excursions among the stars, the same which was

employed long ago to convey Elijah up from earth. The saint made

Astolpho seat himself beside him, took the reins, and giving the word to

the coursers, they bore them upward with astonishing celerity.

At length they reached the great continent of the Moon. Its surface

appeared to be of polished steel, with here and there a spot which, like

rust, obscured its brightness. The paladin was astonished to see that

the earth, with all its seas and rivers, seemed but an insignificant

spot in the distance.

The prince discovered in this region so new to him rivers, lakes,

plains, hills, and valleys. Many beautiful cities and castles enriched

the landscape. He saw also vast forests, and heard in them the sound of

horns and the barking of dogs, which led him to conclude that the nymphs

were following the chase.

The knight, filled with wonder at all he saw, was conducted by the saint

to a valley, where he stood amazed at the riches strewed all around him.

Well he might be so, for that valley was the receptacle of things lost

on earth, either by men’s fault, or by the effect of time and chance.

Let no one suppose we speak here of kingdoms or of treasures; they are

the toys of Fortune, which she dispenses in turning her wheel; we speak

of things which she can neither give nor take away. Such are

reputations, which appear at one time so brilliant, and a short time

after are heard of no more. Here, also, are countless vows and prayers

for unattainable objects, lovers’ sighs and tears, time spent in gaming,

dressing, and doing nothing, the leisure of the dull and the intentions

of the lazy, baseless projects, intrigues, and plots; these and such

like things fill all the valley.

Astolpho had a great desire to understand all that he saw, and which

appeared to him so extraordinary. Among the rest, he observed a great

mountain of blown bladders, from which issued indistinct noises. The

saint told him these were the dynasties of Assyrian and Persian kings,

once the wonder of the earth, of which now scarce the name remains.

Astolpho could not help laughing when the saint said to him, “All these

hooks of silver and gold that you see are the gifts of courtiers to

princes, made in the hope of getting something better in return.” He

also showed him garlands of flowers in which snares were concealed;

these were flatteries and adulations, meant to deceive. But nothing was

so comical as the sight of numerous grasshoppers which had burst their

lungs with chirping. These, he told him, were sonnets, odes, and

dedications, addressed by venal poets to great people.

The paladin beheld with wonder what seemed a lake of spilled milk. “It

is,” said the saint, “the charity done by frightened misers on their

death-beds.” It would take too long to tell all that the valley

contained: meanness, affectations, pretended virtues, and concealed

vices were there in abundance.

Among the rest Astolpho perceived many days of his own lost, and many

imprudent sallies which he had made, and would have been glad not to

have been reminded of. But he also saw among so many lost things a great

abundance of one thing which men are apt to think they all possess, and

do not think it necessary to pray for,—good sense. This commodity

appeared under the form of a liquor, most light and apt to evaporate. It

was therefore kept in vials, firmly sealed. One of these was labelled,

“The sense of the Paladin Orlando.”

All the bottles were ticketed, and the sage placed one in Astolpho’s

hand, which he found was his own. It was more than half full. He was

surprised to find there many other vials which contained almost the

whole of the wits of many persons who passed among men for wise. Ah, how

easy it is to lose one’s reason! Some lose theirs by yielding to the

sway of the passions; some in braving tempests and shoals in search of

wealth; some by trusting too much to the promises of the great; some by

setting their hearts on trifles. As might have been expected, the

bottles which held the wits of astrologers, inventors, metaphysicians,

and above all, of poets, were in general the best filled of all.

Astolpho took his bottle, put it to his nose, and inhaled it all; and

Turpin assures us that he was for a long time afterwards as sage as one

could wish; but the Archbishop adds that there was reason to fear that

some of the precious fluid afterwards found its way back into the

bottle. The paladin took also the bottle which belonged to Orlando. It

was a large one, and quite full.

Before quitting the planetary region Astolpho was conducted to an

edifice on the borders of a river. He was shown an immense hall full of

bundles of silk, linen, cotton, and wool. A thousand different colors,

brilliant or dull, some quite black, were among these skeins. In one

part of the hall an old woman was busy winding off yarns from all these

different bundles. When she had finished a skein another ancient dame

took it and placed it with others; a third selected from the fleeces

spun, and mingled them in due proportions. The paladin inquired what all

this might be. “These old women,” said the saint, “are the Fates, who

spin, measure, and terminate the lives of mortals. As long as the thread

stretches in one of those skeins, so long does the mortal enjoy the

light of day; but nature and death are on the alert to shut the eyes of

those whose thread is spun.”

Each one of the skeins had a label of gold, silver, or iron, bearing the

name of the individual to whom it belonged. An old man, who, in spite of

the burden of years, seemed brisk and active, ran without ceasing to

fill his apron with these labels, and carried them away to throw them

into the river, whose name was Lethe. When he reached the shore of the

river the old man shook out his apron, and the labels sunk to the

bottom. A small number only floated for a time, hardly one in a

thousand. Numberless birds, hawks, crows, and vultures hovered over the

stream, with clamorous cries, and strove to snatch from the water some

of these names; but they were too heavy for them, and after a while the

birds were forced to let them drop into the river of oblivion. But two

beautiful swans, of snowy whiteness, gathered some few of the names, and

returned with them to the shore, where a lovely nymph received them from

their beaks, and carried them to a temple placed upon a hill, and

suspended them for all time upon a sacred column, on which stood the

statue of Immortality.

Astolpho was amazed at all this, and asked his guide to explain it. He

replied, “The old man is Time. All the names upon the tickets would be

immortal if the old man did not plunge them into the river of oblivion.

Those clamorous birds which make vain efforts to save certain of the

names are flatterers, pensioners, venal rhymesters, who do their best to

rescue from oblivion the unworthy names of their patrons; but all in

vain; they may keep them from their fate a little while, but ere long

the river of oblivion must swallow them all.

“The swans, that with harmonious strains carry certain names to the

temple of Eternal Memory, are the great poets, who save from oblivion

worse than death the names of those they judge worthy of immortality.

Swans of this kind are rare. Let monarchs know the true breed, and fail

not to nourish with care such as may chance to appear in their time.”

————

THE WAR IN AFRICA

When Astolpho had descended to the earth with the precious phial, St.

John showed him a plant of marvellous virtues, with which he told him he

had only to touch the eyes of the king of Abyssinia to restore him to

sight. “That important service,” said the saint, “added to your having

delivered him from the Harpies, will induce him to give you an army

wherewith to attack the Africans in their rear, and force them to return

from France to defend their own country.” The saint also instructed him

how to lead his troops in safety across the great deserts, where

caravans are often overwhelmed with moving columns of sand. Astolpho,

fortified with ample instructions, remounted the Hippogriff, thanked the

saint, received his blessing, and took his flight down to the level

country.

Keeping the course of the river Nile, he soon arrived at the capital of

Abyssinia, and rejoined Senapus. The joy of the king was great when he

heard again the voice of the hero who had delivered him from the

Harpies. Astolpho touched his eyes with the plant which he had brought

from the terrestrial paradise, and restored their sight. The king’s

gratitude was unbounded. He begged him to name a reward, promising to

grant it, whatever it might be. Astolpho asked an army to go to the

assistance of Charlemagne, and the king not only granted him a hundred

thousand men, but offered to lead them himself.

The night before the day appointed for the departure of the troops

Astolpho mounted his winged horse, and directed his flight towards a

mountain, whence the fierce South-wind issues, whose blast raises the

sands of the Nubian desert, and whirls them onward in overwhelming

clouds. The paladin, by the advice of St. John, had prepared himself

with a leather bag, which he placed adroitly, with its mouth open, over

the vent whence issues this terrible wind. At the first dawn of morning

the wind rushed from its cavern to resume its daily course, and was

caught in the bag, and securely tied up. Astolpho, delighted with his

prize, returned to his army, placed himself at their head, and commenced

his march. The Abyssinians traversed without danger or difficulty those

vast fields of sand which separate their country from the kingdoms of

Northern Africa, for the terrible South-wind, taken completely captive,

had not force enough left to blow out a candle.

Senapus was distressed that he could not furnish any cavalry, for his

country, rich in camels and elephants, was destitute of horses. This

difficulty the saint had foreseen, and had taught Astolpho the means of

remedying. He now put those means in operation. Having reached a place

whence he beheld a vast plain and the sea, he chose from his troops

those who appeared to be the best made and the most intelligent. These

he caused to be arranged in squadrons at the foot of a lofty mountain

which bordered the plain, and he himself mounted to the summit to carry

into effect his great design. Here he found vast quantities of fragments

of rock and pebbles. These he set rolling down the mountain’s side, and,

wonderful to relate, as they rolled they grew in size, made themselves

bodies, legs, necks, and long faces. Next they began to neigh, to

curvet, to scamper on all sides over the plain. Some were bay, some

roan, some dapple, some chestnut. The troops at the foot of the mountain

exerted themselves to catch these new-created horses, which they easily

did, for the miracle had been so considerate as to provide all the

horses with bridles and saddles. Astolpho thus suddenly found himself

supplied with an excellent corps of cavalry, not fewer (as Archbishop

Turpin asserts) than eighty thousand strong. With these troops Astolpho

reduced all the country to subjection, and at last arrived before the

walls of Agramant’s capital city, Biserta, to which he laid siege.

We must now return to the camp of the Christians, which lay before

Arles, to which city the Saracens had retired after being defeated in a

night attack led on by Rinaldo. Agramant here received the tidings of

the invasion of his country by a fresh enemy, the Abyssinians, and

learned that Biserta was in danger of falling into their hands. He took

counsel of his officers, and decided to send an embassy to Charles,

proposing that the whole quarrel should be submitted to the combat of

two warriors, one from each side, according to the issue of which it

should be decided which party should pay tribute to the other, and the

war should cease. Charlemagne, who had not heard of the favorable turn

which affairs had taken in Africa, readily agreed to this proposal, and

Rinaldo was selected on the part of the Christians to sustain the

combat.

The Saracens selected Rogero for their champion. Rogero was still in the

Saracen camp, kept there by honor alone, for his mind had been opened to

the truth of the Christian faith by the arguments of Bradamante, and he

had resolved to leave the party of the infidels on the first favorable

opportunity, and to join the Christian side. But his honor forbade him

to do this while his former friends were in distress; and thus he waited

for what time might bring forth, when he was startled by the

announcement that he had been selected to uphold the cause of the

Saracens against the Christians, and that his foe was to be Rinaldo, the

brother of Bradamante.

While Rogero was overwhelmed with this intelligence Bradamante on her

side felt the deepest distress at hearing of the proposed combat. If

Rogero should fall she felt that no other man living was worthy of her

love; and if, on the other hand, Heaven should resolve to punish France

by the death of her chosen champion, Bradamante would have to deplore

her brother, so dear to her, and be no less completely severed from the

object of her affections.

While the fair lady gave herself up to these sad thoughts, the sage

enchantress, Melissa, suddenly appeared before her. “Fear not, my

daughter,” said she, “I shall find a way to interrupt this combat which

so distresses you.”

Meanwhile Rinaldo and Rogero prepared their weapons for the conflict.

Rinaldo had the choice, and decided that it should be on foot, and with

no weapons but the battle-axe and poniard. The place assigned was a

plain between the camp of Charlemagne and the walls of Arles.

Hardly had the dawn announced the day appointed for this memorable

combat, when heralds proceeded from both sides to mark the lists.

Erelong the African troops were seen to advance from the city, Agramant

at their head; his brilliant arms adorned in the Moorish fashion, his

horse a bay, with a white star on his forehead. Rogero marched at his

side, and some of the greatest warriors of the Saracen camp attended

him, bearing the various parts of his armor and weapons. Charlemagne, on

his part, proceeded from his intrenchments, ranged his troops in

semicircle, and stood surrounded by his peers and paladins. Some of them

bore portions of the armor of Rinaldo, the celebrated Ogier, the Dane,

bearing the helmet which Rinaldo took from Mambrino. Duke Namo of

Bavaria and Salomon of Bretagne bore two axes, of equal weight, prepared

for the occasion.

The terms of the combat were then sworn to with the utmost solemnity by

all parties. It was agreed that if from either part any attempt was made

to interrupt the battle both combatants should turn their arms against

the party which should be guilty of the interruption; and both monarchs

assented to the condition that in such case the champion of the

offending party should be discharged from his allegiance, and at liberty

to transfer his arms to the other side.

When all the preparations were concluded the monarchs and their

attendants retired each to his own side, and the champions were left

alone. The two warriors advanced with measured steps towards each other,

and met in the middle of the space. They attacked one another at the

same moment, and the air resounded with the blows they gave. Sparks flew

from their battle-axes, while the velocity with which they managed their

weapons astonished the beholders. Rogero, always remembering that his

antagonist was the brother of his betrothed, could not aim a deadly

wound; he strove only to ward off those levelled against himself.

Rinaldo, on the other hand, much as he esteemed Rogero, spared not his

blows, for he eagerly desired victory for his own sake, and for the sake

of his country and his faith.

The Saracens soon perceived that their champion fought feebly, and gave

not to Rinaldo such blows as he received from him. His disadvantage was

so marked that anxiety and shame were manifest on the countenance of

Agramant. Melissa, one of the most acute enchantresses that ever lived,

seized this moment to disguise herself under the form of Rodomont, that

rude and impetuous warrior, who had now for some time been absent from

the Saracen camp. Approaching Agramant, she said, “How could you, my

lord, have the imprudence of selecting a young man without experience to

oppose the most redoubtable warrior of France? Surely you must have been

regardless of the honor of your arms, and of the fate of your empire!

But it is not too late. Break without delay the agreement which is sure

to result in your ruin.” So saying, she addressed the troops who stood

near, “Friends,” said she, “follow me; under my guidance every one of

you will be a match for a score of those feeble Christians.” Agramant,

delighted at seeing Rodomont once more at his side, gave his consent,

and the Saracens, at the instant, couched their lances, set spurs to

their steeds, and swept down upon the French. Melissa, when she saw her

work successful, disappeared.

Rinaldo and Rogero, seeing the truce broken, and the two armies engaged

in general conflict, stopped their battle; their martial fury ceased at

once, they joined hands, and resolved to act no more on either side

until it should be clearly ascertained which party had failed to observe

its oath. Both renewed their promise to abandon forever the party which

had been thus false and perjured.

Meanwhile, the Christians, after the first moment of surprise, met the

Saracens with courage redoubled by rage at the treachery of their foes.

Guido the Wild, brother and rival of Rinaldo, Griffon and Aquilant, sons

of Oliver, and numerous others whose names have already been celebrated

in our recitals, beat back the assailants, and at last, after prodigious

slaughter, forced them to take shelter within the walls of Arles.

We will now return to Orlando, whom we last heard of as furiously mad,

and doing a thousand acts of violence in his senseless rage. One day he

came to the borders of a stream which intercepted his course. He swam

across it, for he could swim like an otter, and on the other side saw a

peasant watering his horse. He seized the animal, in spite of the

resistance of the peasant, and rode it with furious speed till he

arrived at the sea-coast, where Spain is divided from Africa by only a

narrow strait. At the moment of his arrival a vessel had just put off to

cross the strait. She was full of people who, with glass in hand, seemed

to be taking a merry farewell of the land, wafted by a favorable breeze.

The frantic Orlando cried out to them to stop and take him in; but they,

having no desire to admit a madman to their company, paid him no

attention. The paladin thought this behavior very uncivil; and by force

of blows made his horse carry him into the water in pursuit of the ship.

The wretched animal soon had only his head above water; but as Orlando

urged him forward, nothing was left for the poor beast but either to die

or swim over to Africa.

Already Orlando had lost sight of the bark; distance and the swell of

the sea completely hid it from his sight. He continued to press his

horse forward, till at last it could struggle no more, and sunk beneath

him. Orlando, nowise concerned, stretched out his nervous arms, puffing

the salt water from before his mouth, and carried his head above the

waves. Fortunately they were not rough, scarce a breath of wind agitated

the surface; otherwise, the invincible Orlando would then have met his

death. But fortune, which it is said favors fools, delivered him from

this danger, and landed him safe on the shore of Ceuta. Here he rambled

along the shore till he came to where the black army of Astolpho held

its camp.

Now it happened, just before this time, that a vessel filled with

prisoners which Rodomont had taken at the bridge had arrived, and, not

knowing of the presence of the Abyssinian army, had sailed right into

port, where of course the prisoners and their captors changed places,

the former being set at liberty and received with all joy, the latter

sent to serve in the galleys. Astolpho thus found himself surrounded

with Christian knights, and he and his friends were exchanging greetings

and felicitations, when a noise was heard in the camp, and seemed to

increase every moment.

Astolpho and his friends seized their weapons, mounted their horses, and

rode to the quarter whence the noise proceeded. Imagine their

astonishment when they saw that the tumult was caused by a single man,

perfectly naked, and browned with dirt and exposure, but of a force and

fury so terrible that he overturned all that offered to lay hands on

him.

Astolpho, Dudon, Oliver, and Florismart gazed at him with amazement. It

was with difficulty they knew him. Astolpho, who had been warned of his

condition by his holy monitor, was the first to recognize him. As the

paladins closed round Orlando, the madman dealt one and another a blow

of his fist, which, if they had not been in armor, or he had had any

weapon, would probably have despatched them; as it was, Dudon and

Astolpho measured their length on the sand. But Florismart seized him

from behind, Sansonnet and another grasped his legs, and at last they

succeeded in securing him with ropes. They took him to the water-side

and washed him well, and then Astolpho, having first bandaged his mouth

so that he could not breathe except through his nose, brought the

precious phial, uncorked it, and placed it adroitly under his nostrils,

when the good Orlando took it all up in one breath. O marvellous

prodigy! The paladin recovered in an instant all his intelligence. He

felt like one who had awakened from a painful dream, in which he had

believed that monsters were about to tear him to pieces. He seemed

prostrated, silent, and abashed. Florismart, Oliver, and Astolpho stood

gazing upon him, while he turned his eyes around and on himself. He

seemed surprised to find himself naked, bound, and stretched on the

sea-shore. After a few moments he recognized his friends, and spoke to

them in a tone so tender that they hastened to unbind him, and to supply

him with garments. Then they exerted themselves to console him, to

diminish the weight with which his spirits were oppressed, and to make

him forget the wretched condition into which he had been sunk.

Orlando, in recovering his reason, found himself also delivered from his

insane attachment to the queen of Cathay. His heart felt now no further

influenced by the recollection of her than to be moved with an ardent

desire to retrieve his fame by some distinguished exploit. Astolpho

would gladly have yielded to him the chief command of the army, but

Orlando would not take from the friend to whom he owed so much the glory

of the campaign; but in everything the two paladins acted in concert,

and united their counsels. They proposed to make a general assault on

the city of Biserta, and were only waiting a favorable moment, when

their plan was interrupted by new events.

Agramant, after the bloody battle which followed the infraction of the

truce, found himself so weak that he saw it was in vain to attempt to

remain in France. So, in concert with Sobrino, the bravest and most

trusted of his chiefs, he embarked to return to his own country, having

previously sent off his few remaining troops in the same direction. The

vessel which carried Agramant and Sobrino approached the shore where the

army of Astolpho lay encamped before Biserta, and having discovered this

fact before it was too late, the king commanded the pilot to steer

eastward, with a view to seek protection of the King of Egypt. But the

weather becoming rough, he consented to the advice of his companions,

and sought harbor in an island which lies between Sicily and Africa.

There he found Gradasso, the warlike king of Sericane, who had come to

France to possess himself of the horse Bayard and the sword Durindana;

and having procured both these prizes was returning to his own country.

The two kings, who had been companions in arms under the walls of Paris,

embraced one another affectionately. Gradasso learned with regret the

reverses of Agramant, and offered him his troops and his person. He

strongly deprecated resorting to Egypt for aid. “Remember the great

Pompey,” said he, “and shun that fatal shore. My plan,” he continued,

“is this: I mean to challenge Orlando to single combat. Possessed of

such a sword and steed as mine, if he were made of steel or bronze, he

could not escape me. He being removed, there will be no difficulty in

driving back the Abyssinians. We will rouse against them the Moslem

nations from the other side of the Nile, the Arabians, Persians, and

Chaldeans, who will soon make Senapus recall his army to defend his own

territories.”

Agramant approved this advice except in one particular. “It is for me,”

said he, “to combat Orlando; I cannot with honor devolve that duty on

another.”

“Let us adopt a third course,” said the aged warrior Sobrino. “I would

not willingly remain a simple spectator of such a contest. Let us send

three squires to the shore of Africa to challenge Orlando and any two of

his companions in arms to meet us three in this island of Lampedusa.”

This counsel was adopted; the three squires sped on their way; and now

presented themselves, and rehearsed their message to the Christian

knights.

Orlando was delighted, and rewarded the squires with rich gifts. He had

already resolved to seek Gradasso and compel him to restore Durindana,

which he had learned was in his possession. For his two companions the

Count chose his faithful friend Florismart and his cousin Oliver.

The three warriors embarked, and sailing with a favorable wind, the

second morning showed them, on their right, the island where this

important battle was to be fought. Orlando and his two companions,

having landed, pitched their tent. Agramant had placed his opposite.

Next morning, as soon as Aurora brightened the edges of the horizon, the

warriors of both parties armed themselves and mounted their horses. They

took their positions, face to face, lowered their lances, placed them in

rest, clapped spurs to their horses, and flew to the charge. Orlando met

the charge of Gradasso. The paladin was unmoved, but his horse could not

sustain the terrible shock of Bayard. He recoiled, staggered, and fell

some paces behind. Orlando tried to raise him, but, finding his efforts

unavailing, seized his shield, and drew his famous Balisardo. Meanwhile

Agramant and the brave Oliver gained no advantage, one or the other; but

Florismart unhorsed the King Sobrino. Having brought his foe to the

ground, he would not pursue his victory, but hastened to attack

Gradasso, who had overthrown Orlando. Seeing him thus engaged, Orlando

would not interfere, but ran with sword upraised upon Sobrino, and with

one blow deprived him of sense and motion. Believing him dead, he next

turned to aid his beloved Florismart. That brave paladin, neither in

horse nor arms equal to his antagonist, could but parry and evade the

blows of the terrible Durindana. Orlando, eager to succor him, was

delayed for a moment in securing and mounting the horse of the King

Sobrino. It was but an instant, and with sword upraised, he rushed upon

Gradasso who, noways disconcerted at the onset of this second foe,

shouted his defiance, and thrust at him with his sword, but, having

miscalculated the distance, scarcely reached him, and failed to pierce

his mail. Orlando, in return, dealt him a blow with Balisardo, which

wounded as it fell face, breast, and thigh, and, if he had been a little

nearer, would have cleft him in twain. Sobrino, by this time recovered

from his swoon, though severely wounded, raised himself on his legs, and

looked to see how he might aid his friends. Observing Agramant hard

pressed by Oliver, he thrust his sword into the bowels of the latter’s

horse, which fell, and bore down his master, entangling his leg as he

fell, so that Oliver could not extricate himself. Florismart saw the

danger of his friend, and ran upon Sobrino with his horse, overthrew

him, and then turned to defend himself from Agramant. They were not

unequally matched, for though Agramant, mounted on Brigliadoro, had an

advantage over Florismart, whose horse was but indifferent, yet Agramant

had received a serious wound in his encounter with Oliver.

Nothing could exceed the fury of the encounter between Orlando and

Gradasso. Durindana, in the hands of Gradasso, clove asunder whatever it

struck; but such was the skill of Orlando, who perfectly knew the danger

to which he was exposed from a stroke of that weapon, it had not yet

struck him in such a way as to inflict a wound. Meanwhile, Gradasso was

bleeding from many wounds, and his rage and incaution increased every

moment. In his desperation he lifted Durindana with both hands, and

struck so terrible a blow full on the helmet of Orlando, that for a

moment it stunned the paladin. He dropped the reins, and his frightened

horse scoured with him over the plain. Gradasso turned to pursue him,

but at that moment saw Florismart in the very act of striking a fatal

blow at Agramant, whom he had unhorsed. While Florismart was wholly

intent upon completing his victory, Gradasso plunged his sword into his

side. Florismart fell from his horse, and bathed the plain with his

blood.

Orlando recovered himself just in time to see the deed. Whether rage or

grief predominated in his breast, I cannot tell; but, seizing Balisardo

with fury, his first blow fell upon Agramant, who was nearest to him,

and smote his head from his shoulders. At this sight Gradasso for the

first time felt his courage sink, and a dark presentiment of death came

over him. He hardly stood on his defence when Orlando cast himself upon

him, and gave him a fatal thrust. The sword penetrated his ribs, and

came out a palm’s breadth on the other side of his body.

Thus fell beneath the sword of the most illustrious paladin of France

the bravest warrior of the Saracen host. Orlando then, as if despising

his victory, leaped lightly to the ground, and ran to his dear friend

Florismart, embraced him, and bathed him with his tears. Florismart

still breathed. He could even command his voice to utter a few parting

words: “Dear friend, do not forget me,—give me your prayers,—and oh!

be a brother to Flordelis.” He died in uttering her name.

After a few moments given to grief Orlando turned to look for his other

companion and his late foes. Oliver lay oppressed with the weight of his

horse, from which he had in vain struggled to liberate himself. Orlando

extricated him with difficulty; he then raised Sobrino from the earth,

and committed him to his squire, treating him as gently as if he had

been his own brother. For this terrible warrior was the most generous of

men to a fallen foe. He took Bayard and Brigliadoro, with the arms of

the conquered knights; their bodies and their other spoils he remitted

to their attendants.

But who can tell the grief of Flordelis when she saw the warriors

return, and found not Florismart as usual after absence hasten to her

side. She knew by the aspect of the others that her lord was slain. At

the thought, and before the question could pass her lips, she fell

senseless upon the ground. When life returned, and she learned the truth

of her worst fears, she bitterly upbraided herself that she had let him

depart without her. “I might have saved him by a single cry when his

enemy dealt him that treacherous blow, or I might have thrown myself

between and given my worthless life for his. Or if no more, I might have

heard his last words, I might have given him a last kiss.” So she

lamented, and could not be comforted.

————

ROGERO AND BRADAMANTE

After the interruption of the combat with Rinaldo, as we have related,

Rogero was perplexed with doubts what course to take. The terms of the

treaty required him to abandon Agramant, who had broken it, and to

transfer his allegiance to Charlemagne; and his love for Bradamante

called him in the same direction; but unwillingness to desert his prince

and leader in the hour of distress forbade this course. Embarking,

therefore, for Africa, he took his way to rejoin the Saracen army; but

was arrested midway by a storm which drove the vessel on a rock. The

crew took to their boat, but that was quickly swamped in the waves, and

Rogero with the rest were compelled to swim for their lives. Then while

buffeting the waves Rogero bethought him of his sin in so long delaying

his Christian profession, and vowed in his heart that, if he should live

to reach the land, he would no longer delay to be baptized. His vows

were heard and answered; he succeeded in reaching the shore, and was

aided and relieved on landing by a pious hermit, whose cell overlooked

the sea. From him he received baptism, having first passed some days

with him, partaking his humble fare, and receiving instruction in the

doctrines of the Christian faith.

While these things were going on, Rinaldo, who had set out on his way to

seek Gradasso and recover Bayard from him, hearing on his way of the

great things which were doing in Africa, repaired thither to bear his

part in them. He arrived too late to do more than join his friends in

lamenting the loss of Florismart, and to rejoice with them in their

victory over the Pagan knights. On the death of their king the Africans

gave up the contest, Biserta submitted, and the Christian knights had

only to dismiss their forces, and return home. Astolpho took leave of

his Abyssinian army, and sent them back laden with spoil to their own

country, not forgetting to intrust to them the bag which held the winds,

by means of which they were enabled to cross the sandy desert again

without danger, and did not untie it till they reached their own

country.

Orlando now, with Oliver, who much needed the surgeon’s care, and

Sobrino, to whom equal attention was shown, sailed in a swift vessel to

Sicily, bearing with him the body of Florismart, to be laid in Christian

earth. Rinaldo accompanied them, as did Sansonnet and the other

Christian leaders. Arrived at Sicily, the funeral was solemnized with

all the rites of religion, and with the profound grief of those who had

known Florismart, or had heard of his fame. Then they resumed their

course, steering for Marseilles. But Oliver’s wound grew worse instead

of better, and his sufferings so distressed his friends that they

conferred together, not knowing what to do. Then said the pilot, “We are

not far from an isle where a holy hermit dwells alone in the midst of

the sea. It is said none seek his counsel or his aid in vain. He hath

wrought marvellous cures, and if you resort to that holy man without

doubt he can heal the knight.” Orlando bade him steer thither, and soon

the bark was laid safely beside the lonely rock; the wounded man was

lowered into their boat, and carried by the crew to the hermit’s cell.

It was the same hermit with whom Rogero had taken refuge after his

shipwreck, by whom he had been baptized, and with whom he was now

staying, absorbed in sacred studies and meditations.

The holy man received Orlando and the rest with kindness, and inquired

their errand; and being told that they had come for help for one who,

warring for the Christian faith, was brought to perilous pass by a sad

wound, he straightway undertook the cure. His applications were simple,

but they were seconded by his prayers. The paladin was soon relieved

from pain, and in a few days his foot was perfectly restored to

soundness. Sobrino, as soon as he perceived the holy monk perform that

wonder, cast aside his false prophet, and with contrite heart owned the

true God, and demanded baptism at his hands. The hermit granted his

request, and also by his prayers restored him to health, while all the

Christian knights rejoiced in his conversion almost as much as at the

restoration of Oliver. More than all Rogero felt joy and gratitude, and

daily grew in grace and faith.

Rogero was known by fame to all the Christian knights, but not even

Rinaldo knew him by sight, though he had proved his prowess in combat.

Sobrino made him known to them, and great was the joy of all when they

found one whose valor and courtesy were renowned through the world no

longer an enemy and unbeliever, but a convert and champion of the true

faith. All press about the knight; one grasps his hand, another locks

him fast in his embrace; but more than all the rest, Rinaldo cherished

him, for he more than any knew his worth.

It was not long before Rogero confided to his friend the hopes he

entertained of a union with his sister, and Rinaldo frankly gave his

sanction to the proposal. But causes unknown to the paladin were at that

very time interposing obstacles to its success.

The fame of the beauty and worth of Bradamante had reached the ears of

the Grecian Emperor, Constantine, and he had sent to Charlemagne to

demand the hand of his niece for Leo, his son, and the heir to his

dominions. Duke Aymon, her father, had only reserved his consent until

he should first have spoken with his son Rinaldo, now absent.

The warriors now prepared to resume their voyage. Rogero took a tender

farewell of the good hermit who had taught him the true faith. Orlando

restored to him the horse and arms which were rightly his, not even

asserting his claim to Balisarda, that sword which he himself had won

from the enchantress.

The hermit gave his blessing to the band, and they re-embarked. The

passage was speedy, and very soon they arrived in the harbor of

Marseilles.

Astolpho, when he had dismissed his troops, mounted the Hippogriff, and

at one flight shot over to Sardinia, thence to Corsica, thence, turning

slightly to the left, hovered over Provence, and alighted in the

neighborhood of Marseilles. There he did what he had been commanded to

do by the holy saint; he unbridled the Hippogriff, and turned him loose

to seek his own retreats, never more to be galled with saddle or bit.

The horn had lost its marvellous power ever since the visit to the moon.

Astolpho reached Marseilles the very day when Orlando, Rinaldo, Oliver,

Sobrino, and Rogero arrived there. Charles had already heard the news of

the defeat of the Saracen kings, and all the accompanying events. On

learning the approach of the gallant knights, he sent forward some of

his most illustrious nobles to receive them, and himself, with the rest

of his court, kings, dukes, and peers, the queen, and a fair and

gorgeous band of ladies, set forward from Arles to meet them.

No sooner were the mutual greetings interchanged, than Orlando and his

friends led forward Rogero, and presented him to the Emperor. They vouch

him son of Rogero, Duke of Risa, one of the most renowned of Christian

warriors, by adverse fortune stolen in his infancy, and brought up by

Saracens in the false faith, now by a kind Providence converted, and

restored to fill the place his father once held among the foremost

champions of the throne and Church.

Rogero had alighted from his horse, and stood respectfully before the

Emperor. Charlemagne bade him remount and ride beside him; and omitted

nothing which might do him honor in sight of his martial train. With

pomp triumphal and with festive cheer the troop returned to the city;

the streets were decorated with garlands, the houses hung with rich

tapestry, and flowers fell like rain upon the conquering host from the

hands of fair dames and damsels, from every balcony and window. So

welcomed, the mighty Emperor passed on till he reached the royal palace,

where many days he feasted, high in hall, with his lords, amid tourney,

revel, dance, and song.

When Rinaldo told his father, Duke Aymon, how he had promised his sister

to Rogero, his father heard him with indignation, having set his heart

on seeing her united to the Grecian Emperor’s son. The Lady Beatrice,

her mother, also appealed to Bradamante herself to reject a knight who

had neither title nor lands, and give the preference to one who would

make her Empress of the wide Levant. But Bradamante, though respect

forbade her to refuse her mother’s entreaty, would not promise to do

what her heart repelled, and answered only with a sigh, until she was

alone, and then gave a loose to tears.

Meanwhile Rogero, indignant that a stranger should presume to rob him of

his bride, determined to seek the Prince of Greece, and defy him to

mortal combat. With this design he donned his armor, but exchanged his

crest and emblazonment, and bore instead a white unicorn upon a crimson

field. He chose a trusty squire, and, commanding him not to address him

as Rogero, rode on his quest. Having crossed the Rhine and the Austrian

countries into Hungary, he followed the course of the Danube till he

reached Belgrade. There he saw the imperial ensigns spread, and white

pavilions, thronged with troops, before the town. For the Emperor

Constantine was laying siege to the city to recover it from the

Bulgarians, who had taken it from him not long before.

A river flowed between the camp of the Emperor and the Bulgarians, and

at the moment when Rogero approached, a skirmish had begun between the

parties from either camp, who had approached the stream for the purpose

of watering. The Greeks in that affray were four to one, and drove back

the Bulgarians in precipitate rout. Rogero, seeing this, and animated

only by his hatred of the Grecian prince, dashed into the middle of the

flying mass, calling aloud on the fugitives to turn. He encountered

first a leader of the Grecian host in splendid armor, a nephew of the

Emperor, as dear to him as a son. Rogero’s lance pierced shield and

armor, and stretched the warrior breathless on the plain. Another and

another fell before him, and astonishment and terror arrested the

advance of the Greeks, while the Bulgarians, catching courage from the

cavalier, rally, change front, and chase the Grecian troops, who fly in

their turn. Leo, the prince, was at a distance when this sudden skirmish

rose, but not so far but that he could see distinctly, from an elevated

position which he held, how the changed battle was all the work of one

man, and could not choose but admire the bravery and prowess with which

it was done. He knew by the blazonry displayed that the champion was not

of the Bulgarian army, though he furnished aid to them. Although he

suffered by his valor, the prince could not wish him ill, for his

admiration surpassed his resentment. By this time the Greeks had

regained the river, and crossing it by fording or swimming, some made

their escape, leaving many more prisoners in the hands of the

Bulgarians. Rogero, learning from some of the captives that Leo was at a

point some distance down the river, rode thither with a view to meet

him, but arrived not before the Greek prince had retired beyond the

stream, and broken up the bridge. Day was spent, and Rogero, wearied,

looked round for a shelter for the night. He found it in a cottage,

where he soon yielded himself to repose. It so happened, a knight who

had narrowly escaped Rogero’s sword in the late battle also found

shelter in the same cottage, and, recognizing the armor of the unknown

knight, easily found means of securing him as he slept, and next morning

carried him in chains and delivered him to the Emperor. By him he was in

turn delivered to his sister Theodora, mother of the young knight, the

first victim of Rogero’s spear. By her he was cast into a dungeon, till

her ingenuity could devise a death sufficiently painful to satiate her

revenge.

Bradamante, meanwhile, to escape her father’s and mother’s importunity,

had begged a boon of Charlemagne, which the monarch pledged his royal

word to grant; it was that she should not be compelled to marry any one

unless he should first vanquish her in single combat. The Emperor

therefore proclaimed a tournament in these words: “He that would wed

Duke Aymon’s daughter must contend with the sword against that dame,

from the sun’s rise to his setting; and if, in that time, he is not

overcome the lady shall be his.”

Duke Aymon and the Lady Beatrice, though much incensed at the course

things had taken, brought their daughter to court, to await the day

appointed for the tournament. Bradamante, not finding there him whom her

heart required, distressed herself with doubts what could be the cause

of his absence. Of all fancies, the most painful one was that he had

gone away to learn to forget her, knowing her father’s and her mother’s

opposition to their union, and despairing to contend against them. But

oh, how much worse would be the maiden’s woe, if it were known to her

what her betrothed was then enduring!

He was plunged in a dungeon where no ray of daylight ever penetrated,

loaded with chains, and scantily supplied with the coarsest food. No

wonder despair took possession of his heart, and he longed for death as

a relief, when one night (or one day, for both were equally dark to him)

he was roused with the glare of a torch and saw two men enter his cell.

It was the Prince Leo, with an attendant, who had come as soon as he had

learned the wretched fate of the brave knight whose valor he had seen

and admired on the field of battle. “Cavalier,” said he, “I am one whom

thy valor hath so bound to thee, that I willingly peril my own safety to

lend thee aid.” “Infinite thanks I owe you,” replied Rogero, “and the

life you give me I promise faithfully to render back upon your call, and

promptly to stake it at all times for your service.” The prince then

told Rogero his name and rank, at hearing which a tide of contending

emotions almost overwhelmed Rogero. He was set at liberty, and had his

horse and arms restored to him.

Meanwhile, tidings arrived of King Charles’ decree that whoever aspired

to the hand of Bradamante must first encounter her with sword and lance.

This news made the Grecian prince turn pale, for he knew he was no match

for her in fight. Communing with himself, he sees how he may make his

wit supply the place of valor, and employ the French knight, whose name

was still unknown to him, to fight the battle for him. Rogero heard the

proposal with extreme distress; yet it seemed worse than death to deny

the first request of one to whom he owed his life. Hastily he gave his

assent “to do in all things that which Leo should command.” Afterward,

bitter repentance came over him; yet, rather than confess his change of

mind, death itself would be welcome. Death seems his only remedy; but

how to die? Sometimes he thinks to make none but a feigned resistance,

and allow her sword a ready access, for never can death come more

happily than if her hand guide the weapon. Yet this will not avail, for,

unless he wins the maid for the Greek prince, his debt remains unpaid.

He had promised to maintain a real, not a feigned encounter. He will

then keep his word, and banish every thought from his bosom except that

which moved him to maintain his truth.

The young prince, richly attended, set out, and with him Rogero. They

arrived at Paris, but Leo preferred not to enter the city, and pitched

his tents without the walls, making known his arrival to Charlemagne by

an embassy. The monarch was pleased, and testified his courtesy by

visits and gifts. The prince set forth the purpose of his coming, and

prayed the Emperor to dispatch his suit—“to send forth the damsel who

refused ever to take in wedlock any lord inferior to herself in fight;

for she should be his bride, or he would perish beneath her sword.”

Rogero passed the night before the day assigned for the battle like that

which the felon spends, condemned to pay the forfeit of his life on the

ensuing day. He chose to fight with sword only, and on foot, for he

would not let her see Frontino, knowing that she would recognize the

steed. Nor would he use Balisarda, for against that enchanted blade all

armor would be of no avail, and the sword that he did take he hammered

well upon the edge to abate its sharpness. He wore the surcoat of Prince

Leo, and his shield, emblazoned with a golden, double-headed eagle. The

prince took care to let himself be seen by none.

Bradamante, meanwhile, prepared herself for the combat far differently.

Instead of blunting the edge of her falchion she whets the steel, and

would fain infuse into it her own acerbity. As the moment approached she

seemed to have fire within her veins, and waited impatiently for the

trumpet’s sound. At the signal she drew her sword, and fell with fury

upon her Rogero. But as a well-built wall or aged rock stands unmoved

the fury of the storm, so Rogero, clad in those arms which Trojan Hector

once wore, withstood the strokes which stormed about his head and breast

and flank. Sparks flew from his shield, his helm, his cuirass; from

direct and back strokes, aimed now high, now low, falling thick and

fast, like hailstones on a cottage roof; but Rogero, with skilful ward,

turns them aside, or receives them where his armor is a sure protection,

careful only to protect himself, and with no thought of striking in

return. Thus the hours passed away, and, as the sun approached the west,

the damsel began to despair. But so much the more her anger increases,

and she redoubles her efforts, like the craftsman who sees his work

unfinished while the day is wellnigh spent. O miserable damsel! didst

thou know whom thou wouldst kill,—if, in that cavalier matched against

thee thou didst but know Rogero, on whom thy very life-threads hang,

rather than kill him thou wouldst kill thyself, for he is dearer to thee

than life.

King Charles and the peers, who thought the cavalier to be the Grecian

prince, viewing such force and skill exhibited, and how without

assaulting her the knight defended himself, were filled with admiration,

and declared the champions well matched, and worthy of each other.

When the sun was set Charlemagne gave the signal for terminating the

contest, and Bradamante was awarded to Prince Leo as a bride. Rogero, in

deep distress, returned to his tent. There Leo unlaced his helmet, and

kissed him on both cheeks. “Henceforth,” said he, “do with me as you

please, for you cannot exhaust my gratitude.” Rogero replied little,

laid aside the ensigns he had worn, and resumed the unicorn, then hasted

to withdraw himself from all eyes. When it was midnight he rose, saddled

Frontino, and sallied from his tent, taking that direction which pleased

his steed. All night he rode absorbed in bitter woe, and called on Death

as alone capable of relieving his sufferings. At last he entered a

forest, and penetrated into its deepest recesses. There he unharnessed

Frontino, and suffered him to wander where he would. Then he threw

himself down on the ground, and poured forth such bitter wailings that

the birds and beasts, for none else heard him, were moved to pity with

his cries.

Not less was the distress of the lady Bradamante, who, rather than wed

any one but Rogero, resolved to break her word, and defy kindred, court,

and Charlemagne himself; and, if nothing else would do, to die. But

relief came from an unexpected quarter. Marphisa, sister of Rogero, was

a heroine of warlike prowess equal to Bradamante. She had been the

confidante of their loves, and felt hardly less distress than themselves

at seeing the perils which threatened their union. “They are already

united by mutual vows,” she said, “and in the sight of Heaven what more

is necessary?” Full of this thought she presented herself before

Charlemagne, and declared that she herself was witness that the maiden

had spoken to Rogero those words which they who marry swear; and that

the compact was so sealed between the pair that they were no longer

free, nor could forsake the one the other to take another spouse. This

her assertion she offered to prove, in single combat, against Prince

Leo, or any one else.

Charlemagne, sadly perplexed at this, commanded Bradamante to be called,

and told her what the bold Marphisa had declared. Bradamante neither

denied nor confirmed the statement, but hung her head, and kept silence.

Duke Aymon was enraged, and would fain have set aside the pretended

contract on the ground that, if made at all, it must have been made

before Rogero was baptized, and therefore void. But not so thought

Rinaldo, nor the good Orlando, and Charlemagne knew not which way to

decide, when Marphisa spoke thus:

“Since no one else can marry the maiden while my brother lives, let the

prince meet Rogero in mortal combat, and let him who survives take her

for his bride.”

This saying pleased the Emperor, and was accepted by the prince, for he

thought that, by the aid of his unknown champion, he should surely

triumph in the fight. Proclamation was therefore made for Rogero to

appear and defend his suit; and Leo, on his part, caused search to be

made on all sides for the knight of the Unicorn.

Meanwhile Rogero, overwhelmed with despair, lay stretched on the ground

in the forest night and day without food, courting death. Here he was

discovered by one of Leo’s people, who, finding him resist all attempts

to remove him, hastened to his master, who was not far off, and brought

him to the spot. As he approached he heard words which convinced him

that love was the cause of the knight’s despair; but no clew was given

to guide him to the object of that love. Stooping down, the prince

embraced the weeping warrior, and, in the tenderest accents, said:

“Spare not, I entreat you, to disclose the cause of your distress, for

few such desperate evils betide mankind as are wholly past cure. It

grieves me much that you would hide your grief from me, for I am bound

to you by ties that nothing can undo. Tell me, then, your grief, and

leave me to try if wealth, art, cunning, force, or persuasion cannot

relieve you. If not, it will be time enough after all has been tried in

vain to die.”

He spoke in such moving accents that Rogero could not choose but yield.

It was some time before he could command utterance; at last he said, “My

lord, when you shall know me for what I am, I doubt not you, like

myself, will be content that I should die. Know, then, I am that Rogero

whom you have so much cause to hate, and who so hated you that, intent

on putting you to death, he went to seek you at your father’s court.

This I did because I could not submit to see my promised bride borne off

by you. But, as man proposes and God disposes, your great courtesy, well

tried in time of sore need, so moved my fixed resolve, that I not only

laid aside the hate I bore, but purposed to be your friend forever. You

then asked of me to win for you the lady Bradamante, which was all one

as to demand of me my heart and soul. You know whether I served you

faithfully or not. Yours is the lady; possess her in peace; but ask me

not to live to see it. Be content rather that I die; for vows have

passed between myself and her which forbid that while I live she can

lawfully wive with another.”

So filled was gentle Leo with astonishment at these words that for a

while he stood silent, with lips unmoved and steadfast gaze, like a

statue. And the discovery that the stranger was Rogero not only abated

not the good will he bore him, but increased it, so that his distress

for what Rogero suffered seemed equal to his own. For this, and because

he would appear deservedly an Emperor’s son, and, though in other things

outdone, would not be surpassed in courtesy, he says: “Rogero, had I

known that day when your matchless valor routed my troops that you were

Rogero, your virtue would have made me your own, as then it made me

while I knew not my foe, and I should have no less gladly rescued you

from Theodora’s dungeon. And if I would willingly have done so then, how

much more gladly will I now restore the gift of which you would rob

yourself to confer it upon me. The damsel is more due to you than to me,

and though I know her worth, I would forego not only her, but life

itself, rather than distress a knight like you.”

This and much more he said to the same intent; till at last Rogero

replied, “I yield, and am content to live, and thus a second time owe my

life to you.”

But several days elapsed before Rogero was so far restored as to return

to the royal residence, where an embassy had arrived from the Bulgarian

princes to seek the knight of the unicorn, and tender to him the crown

of that country, in place of their king, fallen in battle.

Thus were things situated when Prince Leo, leading by the hand Rogero,

clad in the battered armor in which he had sustained the conflict with

Bradamante, presented himself before the king. “Behold,” he said “the

champion who maintained from dawn to setting sun the arduous contest; he

comes to claim the guerdon of the fight.” King Charlemagne, with all his

peerage, stood amazed; for all believed that the Grecian prince himself

had fought with Bradamante. Then stepped forth Marphisa, and said,

“Since Rogero is not here to assert his rights, I, his sister, undertake

his cause, and will maintain it against whoever shall dare dispute his

claim.” She said this with so much anger and disdain that the prince

deemed it no longer wise to feign, and withdrew Rogero’s helmet from his

brow, saying, “Behold him here!” Who can describe the astonishment and

joy of Marphisa! She ran and threw her arms about her brother’s neck,

nor would give way to let Charlemagne and Rinaldo, Orlando, Dudon, and

the rest, who crowded round, embrace him, and press friendly kisses on

his brow. The joyful tidings flew fast by many a messenger to

Bradamante, who in her secret chamber lay lamenting. The blood that

stagnated about her heart flowed at that notice so fast, that she had

wellnigh died for joy. Duke Aymon and the Lady Beatrice no longer

withheld their consent, and pledged their daughter to the brave Rogero

before all that gallant company.

Now came the Bulgarian ambassadors, and, kneeling at the feet of Rogero,

besought him to return with them to their country, where, in Adrianople,

the crown and sceptre were awaiting his acceptance. Prince Leo united

his persuasions to theirs, and promised, in his royal father’s name,

that peace should be restored on their part. Rogero gave his consent,

and it was surmised that none of the virtues which shone so

conspicuously in him so availed to recommend Rogero to the Lady Beatrice

as the hearing her future son-in-law saluted as a sovereign prince.

————

THE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES

After the expulsion of the Saracens from France Charlemagne led his army

into Spain, to punish Marsilius, the king of that country, for having

sided with the African Saracens in the late war. Charlemagne succeeded

in all his attempts, and compelled Marsilius to submit, and pay tribute

to France. Our readers will remember Gano, otherwise called Gan, or

Ganelon, whom we mentioned in one of our early chapters as an old

courtier of Charlemagne, and a deadly enemy of Orlando, Rinaldo, and all

their friends. He had great influence over Charles, from equality of age

and long intimacy; and he was not without good qualities: he was brave

and sagacious, but envious, false, and treacherous. Gan prevailed on

Charles to send him as ambassador to Marsilius, to arrange the tribute.

He embraced Orlando over and over again at taking leave, using such

pains to seem loving and sincere, that his hypocrisy was manifest to

every one but the old monarch. He fastened with equal tenderness on

Oliver, who smiled contemptuously in his face, and thought to himself,

“You may make as many fair speeches as you choose, but you lie.” All the

other paladins who were present thought the same, and they said as much

to the Emperor, adding that Gan should on no account be sent ambassador

to the Spaniards. But Charles was infatuated.

Gan was received with great honor by Marsilius. The king, attended by

his lords, came fifteen miles out of Saragossa to meet him, and then

conducted him into the city with acclamations. There was nothing for

several days but balls, games, and exhibitions of chivalry, the ladies

throwing flowers on the heads of the French knights, and the people

shouting, “France! Mountjoy and St. Denis!”

After the ceremonies of the first reception the king and the ambassador

began to understand one another. One day they sat together in a garden

on the border of a fountain. The water was so clear and smooth it

reflected every object around, and the spot was encircled with

fruit-trees which quivered with the fresh air. As they sat and talked,

as if without restraint, Gan, without looking the king in the face, was

enabled to see the expression of his countenance in the water, and

governed his speech accordingly. Marsilius was equally adroit, and

watched the face of Gan while he addressed him. Marsilius began by

lamenting, not as to the ambassador, but as to the friend, the injuries

which Charles had done him by invading his dominions, charging him with

wishing to take his kingdom from him and give it to Orlando; till at

length he plainly uttered his belief that if that ambitious paladin were

but dead good men would get their rights.

Gan heaved a sigh, as if he was unwillingly compelled to allow the force

of what the king said; but unable to contain himself long he lifted up

his face, radiant with triumphant wickedness, and exclaimed: “Every word

you utter is truth; die he must, and die also must Oliver, who struck me

that foul blow at court. Is it treachery to punish affronts like these?

I have planned everything,—I have settled everything already with their

besotted master. Orlando will come to your borders—to Roncesvalles—for

the purpose of receiving the tribute. Charles will await him at the foot

of the mountains. Orlando will bring but a small band with him: you,

when you meet him, will have secretly your whole army at your back. You

surround him, and who receives tribute then?”

The new Judas had scarcely uttered these words when his exultation was

interrupted by a change in the face of nature. The sky was suddenly

overcast, there was thunder and lightning, a laurel was split in two

from head to foot, and the Carob-tree under which Gan was sitting, which

is said to be the species of tree on which Judas Iscariot hung himself,

dropped one of its pods on his head.

Marsilius, as well as Gan, was appalled at this omen; but on assembling

his soothsayers they came to the conclusion that the laurel-tree turned

the omen against the Emperor, the successor of the Cæsars, though one of

them renewed the consternation of Gan by saying that he did not

understand the meaning of the tree of Judas, and intimating that perhaps

the ambassador could explain it. Gan relieved his vexation by anger; the

habit of wickedness prevailed over all other considerations; and the

king prepared to march to Roncesvalles at the head of all his forces.

Gan wrote to Charlemagne to say how humbly and submissively Marsilius

was coming to pay the tribute into the hands of Orlando, and how

handsome it would be of the Emperor to meet him half-way, and so be

ready to receive him after the payment at his camp. He added a brilliant

account of the tribute, and the accompanying presents. The good Emperor

wrote in turn to say how pleased he was with the ambassador’s diligence,

and that matters were arranged precisely as he wished. His court,

however, had its suspicion still, though they little thought Gan’s

object in bringing Charles into the neighborhood of Roncesvalles was to

deliver him into the hands of Marsilius, after Orlando should have been

destroyed by him.

Orlando, however, did as his lord and sovereign desired. He went to

Roncesvalles, accompanied by a moderate train of warriors, not dreaming

of the atrocity that awaited him. Gan, meanwhile, had hastened back to

France, in order to show himself free and easy in the presence of

Charles, and secure the success of his plot; while Marsilius, to make

assurance doubly sure, brought into the passes of Roncesvalles no less

than three armies, which were successively to fall on the paladin in

case of the worst, and so extinguish him with numbers. He had also, by

Gan’s advice, brought heaps of wine and good cheer to be set before his

victims in the first instance; “for that,” said the traitor, “will

render the onset the more effective, the feasters being unarmed. One

thing, however, I must not forget,” added he; “my son Baldwin is sure to

be with Orlando; you must take care of his life for my sake.”

“I give him this vesture off my own body,” said the king; “let him wear

it in the battle, and have no fear. My soldiers shall be directed not to

touch him.”

Gan went away rejoicing to France. He embraced the sovereign and the

court all round with the air of a man who had brought them nothing but

blessings, and the old king wept for very tenderness and delight.

“Something is going on wrong, and looks very black,” thought Malagigi,

the good wizard; “Rinaldo is not here, and it is indispensably necessary

that he should be. I must find out where he is, and Ricciardetto too,

and send for them with all speed.”

Malagigi called up by his art a wise, terrible, and cruel spirit, named

Ashtaroth. “Tell me, and tell me truly, of Rinaldo,” said Malagigi to

the spirit. The demon looked hard at the paladin, and said nothing. His

aspect was clouded and violent.

The enchanter, with an aspect still cloudier, bade Ashtaroth lay down

that look, and made signs as if he would resort to angrier compulsion;

and the devil, alarmed, loosened his tongue, and said, “You have not

told me what you desire to know of Rinaldo.”

“I desire to know what he has been doing, and where he is.”

“He has been conquering and baptizing the world, east and west,” said

the demon, “and is now in Egypt with Ricciardetto.”

“And what has Gan been plotting with Marsilius?” inquired Malagigi; “and

what is to come of it?”

“I know not,” said the devil. “I was not attending to Gan at the time,

and we fallen spirits know not the future. All I discern is that by the

signs and comets in the heavens something dreadful is about to

happen—something very strange, treacherous, and bloody; and that Gan

has a seat ready prepared for him in hell.”

“Within three days,” cried the enchanter, loudly, “bring Rinaldo and

Ricciardetto into the pass of Roncesvalles. Do it, and I hereby

undertake to summon thee no more.”

“Suppose they will not trust themselves with me?” said the spirit.

“Enter Rinaldo’s horse, and bring him, whether he trust thee or not.”

“It shall be done,” returned the demon.

There was an earthquake, and Ashtaroth disappeared.

————

Marsilius now made his first movement towards the destruction of

Orlando, by sending before him his vassal, King Blanchardin, with his

presents of wines and other luxuries. The temperate but courteous hero

took them in good part, and distributed them as the traitor wished; and

then Blanchardin, on pretence of going forward to salute Charlemagne,

returned, and put himself at the head of the second army, which was the

post assigned him by his liege-lord. King Falseron, whose son Orlando

had slain in battle, headed the first army, and King Balugante the

third. Marsilius made a speech to them, in which he let them into his

design, and concluded by recommending to their good will the son of his

friend Gan, whom they would know by the vest he had sent him, and who

was the only soul amongst the Christian they were to spare.

This son of Gan, meanwhile, and several of the paladins, who distrusted

the misbelievers, and were anxious at all events to be with Orlando, had

joined the hero in the fatal valley; so that the little Christian host,

considering the tremendous valor of their lord and his friends, were not

to be sold for nothing. Rinaldo, alas! the second thunderbolt of

Christendom, was destined not to be there in time to meet the issue. The

paladins in vain begged Orlando to be on his guard against treachery,

and send for a more numerous body of men. The great heart of the

Champion of the Faith was unwilling to harbor suspicion as long as he

could help it. He refused to summon aid which might be superfluous;

neither would he do anything but what his liege-lord had directed. And

yet he could not wholly repress a misgiving. A shadow had fallen on his

heart, great and cheerful as it was. The anticipations of his friends

disturbed him, in spite of the face with which he met them. Perhaps by a

certain foresight he felt his death approaching; but he felt bound not

to encourage the impression. Besides, time pressed; the moment of the

looked-for tribute was at hand, and little combinations of circumstances

determine often the greatest events.

King Marsilius was to arrive early next day with the tribute, and

Oliver, with the morning sun, rode forth to reconnoitre, and see if he

could discover the peaceful pomp of the Spanish court in the distance.

He rode up the nearest height, and from the top of it beheld the first

army of Marsilius already forming in the passes. “O devil Gan,” he

exclaimed, “this then is the consummation of thy labors!” Oliver put

spurs to his horse, and galloped back down the mountain to Orlando.

“Well,” cried the hero, “what news?”

“Bad news,” said his cousin, “such as you would not hear of yesterday.

Marsilius is here in arms, and all the world is with him.”

The paladins pressed round Orlando, and entreated him to sound his horn,

in token that he needed help. His only answer was to mount his horse,

and ride up the mountain with Sansonetto.

As soon, however, as he cast forth his eyes, and beheld what was round

about him, he turned in sorrow, and looked down into Roncesvalles, and

said, “O miserable valley! the blood shed in thee this day will color

thy name forever.”

Orlando’s little camp were furious against the Saracens. They armed

themselves with the greatest impatience. There was nothing but lacing of

helmets and mounting of horses, while good Archbishop Turpin went from

rank to rank exhorting and encouraging the warriors of Christ. Orlando

and his captains withdrew for a moment to consultation. He fairly

groaned for sorrow, and at first had not a word to say, so wretched he

felt at having brought his people to die in Roncesvalles. Then he said:

“If it had entered into my heart to conceive the king of Spain to be

such a villain never would you have seen this day. He has exchanged with

me a thousand courtesies and good words; and I thought that the worse

enemies we had been before, the better friends we had become now. I

fancied every human being capable of this kind of virtue on a good

opportunity, saving, indeed, such base-hearted wretches as can never

forgive their very forgivers; and of these I did not suppose him to be

one. Let us die, if die we must, like honest and gallant men, so that it

shall be said of us it was only our bodies that died. The reason why I

did not sound the horn was partly because I thought it did not become

us, and partly because our liege lord could hardly save us, even if he

heard it.” And with these words Orlando sprang to his horse, crying,

“Away against the Saracens!” But he had no sooner turned his face than

he wept bitterly, and said, “O Holy Virgin, think not of me, the sinner

Orlando, but have pity on these thy servants!”

And now with a mighty dust, and an infinite sound of horns and tambours,

which came filling the valley, the first army of the infidels made its

appearance, horses neighing, and a thousand pennons flying in the air.

King Falseron led them on, saying to his officers: “Let nobody dare to

lay a finger on Orlando. He belongs to myself. The revenge of my son’s

death is mine. I will cut the man down that comes between us.”

“Now, friends,” said Orlando, “every man for himself, and St. Michael

for us all! There is not one here that is not a perfect knight.” And he

might well say it, for the flower of all France was there, except

Rinaldo and Ricciardetto—every man a picked man, all friends and

constant companions of Orlando.

So the captains of the little troop and of the great army sat looking at

one another, and singling one another out as the latter came on, and

then the knights put spear in rest, and ran for a while two and two in

succession, one against the other.

Astolpho was the first to move. He ran against Arlotto of Sorio, and

thrust his antagonist’s body out of the saddle, and his soul into the

other world. Oliver encountered Malprimo, and, though he received a

thrust which hurt him, sent his lance right through the heart of

Malprimo.

Falseron was daunted at this blow. “Truly,” thought he, “this is a

marvel.” Oliver did not press on among the Saracens, his wound was too

painful; but Orlando now put himself and his whole band in motion, and

you may guess what an uproar ensued. The sound of the rattling of blows

and helmets was as if the forge of Vulcan had been thrown open. Falseron

beheld Orlando coming so furiously, that he thought him a Lucifer who

had burst his chain, and was quite of another mind than when he purposed

to have him all to himself. On the contrary, he recommended himself to

his gods, and turned away, meaning to wait for a more auspicious season

of revenge. But Orlando hailed him with a terrible voice, saying, “O

thou traitor! was this the end to which old quarrels were made up?” Then

he dashed at Falseron with a fury so swift, and at the same time with a

mastery of his lance so marvellous, that, though he plunged it in the

man’s body so as instantly to kill him, and then withdrew it, the body

did not move in the saddle. The hero himself, as he rushed onwards, was

fain to see the end of a stroke so perfect, and turning his horse back,

touched the carcass with his sword, and it fell on the instant!

When the infidels beheld their leader dead such fear fell upon them that

they were for leaving the field to the paladins, but they were unable.

Marsilius had drawn the rest of his forces round the valley like a net,

so that their shoulders were turned in vain. Orlando rode into the thick

of them, and wherever he went thunderbolts fell upon helmets. Oliver was

again in the fray, with Walter and Baldwin, Avino and Avolio, while

Archbishop Turpin had changed his crosier for a lance, and chased a new

flock before him to the mountains.

Yet what could be done against foes without number? Marsilius constantly

pours them in. The paladins are as units to thousands. Why tarry the

horses of Rinaldo and Ricciardetto?

The horses did not tarry, but fate had been quicker than enchantment.

Ashtaroth had presented himself to Rinaldo in Egypt, and, after telling

his errand, he and Foul-mouth, his servant, entered the horses of

Rinaldo and Ricciardetto, which began to neigh, and snort, and leap with

the fiends within them, till off they flew through the air over the

pyramids and across the desert, and reached Spain and the scene of

action just as Marsilius brought up his third army. The two paladins on

their horses dropped right into the midst of the Saracens, and began

making such havoc among them that Marsilius, who overlooked the fight

from a mountain, thought his soldiers had turned against one another.

Orlando beheld it, and guessed it could be no other but his cousins, and

pressed to meet them. Oliver coming up at the same moment, the rapture

of the whole party is not to be expressed. After a few hasty words of

explanation they were forced to turn again upon the enemy, whose numbers

seemed perfectly without limit.

Orlando, making a bloody passage towards Marsilius, struck a youth on

the head, whose helmet was so strong as to resist the blow, but at the

same time flew off. Orlando prepared to strike a second blow, when the

youth exclaimed, “Hold! you loved my father; I am Bujaforte!” The

paladin had never seen Bujaforte, but he saw the likeness to the good

old man, his father, and he dropped his sword. “O Bujaforte,” said he,

“I loved him indeed; but what does his son do here fighting against his

friends?”

Bujaforte could not at once speak for weeping. At length he said: “I am

forced to be here by my lord and master, Marsilius; and I have made a

show of fighting, but have not hurt a single Christian. Treachery is on

every side of you. Baldwin himself has a vest given him by Marsilius,

that everybody may know the son of his friend Gan, and do him no harm.”

“Put your helmet on again,” said Orlando, “and behave just as you have

done. Never will your father’s friend be an enemy to the son.”

The hero then turned in fury to look for Baldwin, who was hastening

towards him at that moment, with friendliness in his looks.

“’Tis strange,” said Baldwin, “I have done my duty as well as I could,

yet nobody will come against me. I have slain right and left, and cannot

comprehend what it is that makes the stoutest infidels avoid me.”

“Take off your vest,” said Orlando, contemptuously, “and you will soon

discover the secret, if you wish to know it. Your father has sold us to

Marsilius, all but his honorable son.”

“If my father,” said Baldwin, impetuously tearing off the vest, “has

been such a villain, and I escape dying, I will plunge this sword

through his heart. But I am no traitor, Orlando, and you do me wrong to

say it. Think not I can live with dishonor.”

Baldwin spurred off into the fight, not waiting to hear another word

from Orlando, who was very sorry for what he had said, for he perceived

that the youth was in despair.

And now the fight raged beyond all it had done before; twenty pagans

went down for one paladin, but still the paladins fell. Sansonetto was

beaten to earth by the club of Grandonio, Walter d’Amulion had his

shoulder broken, Berlinghieri and Ottone were slain, and at last

Astolpho fell, in revenge of whose death Orlando turned the spot where

he died into a lake of Saracen blood. The luckless Bujaforte met

Rinaldo, and before he could explain how he seemed to be fighting on the

Saracen side received such a blow upon the head that he fell, unable to

utter a word. Orlando, cutting his way to a spot where there was a great

struggle and uproar, found the poor youth Baldwin, the son of Gan, with

two spears in his breast. “I am no traitor now,” said Baldwin, and those

were the last words he said. Orlando was bitterly sorry to have been the

cause of his death, and tears streamed from his eyes. At length down

went Oliver himself. He had become blinded with his own blood, and

smitten Orlando without knowing him. “How now, cousin,” cried Orlando,

“have you too gone over to the enemy?” “O my lord and master,” cried the

other, “I ask your pardon. I can see nothing; I am dying. Some traitor

has stabbed me in the back. If you love me, lead my horse into the thick

of them, so that I may not die unavenged.”

“I shall die myself before long,” said Orlando, “out of very toil and

grief; so we will go together.”

Orlando led his cousin’s horse where the press was thickest, and

dreadful was the strength of the dying man and his tired companion. They

made a street through which they passed out of the battle, and Orlando

led his cousin away to his tent, and said, “Wait a little till I return,

for I will go and sound the horn on the hill yonder.”

“’Tis of no use,” said Oliver, “my spirit is fast going and desires to

be with its Lord and Saviour.”

He would have said more, but his words came from him imperfectly, like

those of a man in a dream, and so he expired.

When Orlando saw him dead he felt as if he was alone on the earth, and

he was quite willing to leave it, only he wished that King Charles, at

the foot of the mountains, should know how the case stood before he

went. So he took up the horn and blew it three times, with such force

that the blood burst out of his nose and mouth. Turpin says that at the

third blast the horn broke in two.

In spite of all the noise of the battle, the sound of the horn broke

over it like a voice out of the other world. They say that birds fell

dead at it, and that the whole Saracen army drew back in terror.

Charlemagne was sitting in the midst of his court when the sound reached

him, and Gan was there. The Emperor was the first to hear it.

“Do you hear that?” said he to his nobles. “Did you hear the horn as I

heard it?”

Upon this they all listened, and Gan felt his heart misgive him. The

horn sounded a second time.

“What is the meaning of this?” said Charles.

“Orlando is hunting,” observed Gan, “and the stag is killed.”

But when the horn sounded yet a third time, and the blast was one of so

dreadful a vehemence, everybody looked at the other, and then they all

looked at Gan in a fury. Charles rose from his seat.

“This is no hunting of the stag,” said he. “The sound goes to my very

heart. O Gan! O Gan! Not for thee do I blush, but for myself. O foul and

monstrous villain! Take him, gentleman, and keep him in close prison.

Would to God I had not lived to see this day!”

But it was no time for words. They put the traitor in prison and then

Charles, with all his court, took his way to Roncesvalles, grieving and

praying.

It was afternoon when the horn sounded, and half an hour after it when

the Emperor set out; and meantime Orlando had returned to the fight that

he might do his duty, however hopeless, as long as he could sit his

horse. At length he found his end approaching, for toil and fever, and

rode all alone to a fountain where he had before quenched his thirst.

His horse was wearier than he, and no sooner had his master alighted

than the beast, kneeling down as if to take leave, and to say, “I have

brought you to a place of rest,” fell dead at his feet. Orlando cast

water on him from the fountain, not wishing to believe him dead; but

when he found it to no purpose, he grieved for him as if he had been a

human being, and addressed him by name with tears, and asked forgiveness

if he had ever done him wrong. They say that the horse, at these words,

opened his eyes a little, and looked kindly at his master, and then

stirred never more. They say also that Orlando then summoning all his

strength, smote a rock near him with his beautiful sword Durindana,

thinking to shiver the steel in pieces, and so prevent its falling into

the hands of the enemy, but though the rock split like a slate, and a

great cleft remained ever after to astonish the eyes of pilgrims, the

sword remained uninjured.

And now Rinaldo and Ricciardetto came up, with Turpin, having driven

back the Saracens, and told Orlando that the battle was won. Then

Orlando knelt before Turpin and begged remission of his sins, and Turpin

gave him absolution. Orlando fixed his eyes on the hilt of his sword as

on a crucifix, and embraced it, and he raised his eyes and appeared like

a creature seraphical and transfigured, and bowing his head, he breathed

out his pure soul.

And now King Charles and his nobles came up. The Emperor, at sight of

the dead Orlando, threw himself, as if he had been a reckless youth,

from his horse, and embraced and kissed the body, and said: “I bless

thee, Orlando; I bless thy whole life, and all that thou wast, and all

that thou ever didst, and the father that begat thee; and I ask pardon

of thee for believing those who brought thee to thine end. They shall

have their reward, O thou beloved one! But indeed it is thou that

livest, and I who am worse than dead.”

Horrible to the Emperor’s eyes was the sight of the field of

Roncesvalles. The Saracens indeed had fled, conquered; but all his

paladins but two were left on it dead, and the whole valley looked like

a great slaughterhouse, trampled into blood and dirt, and reeking to the

heat. Charles trembled to his heart’s core for wonder and agony. After

gazing dumbly on the place he cursed it with a solemn curse, and wished

that never grass might grow in it again, nor seed of any kind, neither

within it nor on any of its mountains around, but the anger of Heaven

abide over it forever.

Charles and his warriors went after the Saracens into Spain. They took

and fired Saragossa, and Marsilius was hung to the carob-tree under

which he had planned his villainy with Gan; and Gan was hung and drawn

and quartered in Roncesvalles, amidst the execrations of the country.

————

RINALDO AND BAYARD

Charlemagne was overwhelmed with grief at the loss of so many of his

bravest warriors at the disaster of Roncesvalles, and bitterly

reproached himself for his credulity in resigning himself so completely

to the counsels of the treacherous Count Gan. Yet he soon fell into a

similar snare when he suffered his unworthy son, Charlot, to acquire

such an influence over him, that he constantly led him into acts of

cruelty and injustice that in his right mind he would have scorned to

commit. Rinaldo and his brothers, for some slight offence to the

imperious young prince, were forced to fly from Paris, and to take

shelter in their castle of Montalban; for Charles had publicly said, if

he could take them he would hang them all. He sent numbers of his

bravest knights to arrest them, but all without success. Either Rinaldo

foiled their efforts and sent them back, stripped of their armor and of

their glory, or, after meeting and conferring with him, they came back

and told the king they could not be his instruments for such a work.

At last Charles himself raised a great army, and went in person to

compel the paladin to submit. He ravaged all the country round about

Montalban, so that supplies of food should be cut off, and he threatened

death to any who should attempt to issue forth, hoping to compel the

garrison to submit for want of food.

Rinaldo’s resources had been brought so low that it seemed useless to

contend any longer. His brothers had been taken prisoners in a skirmish,

and his only hope of saving their lives was in making terms with the

king.

So he sent a messenger, offering to yield himself and his castle if the

king would spare his and his brothers’ lives. While the messenger was

gone Rinaldo, impatient to learn what tidings he might bring, rode out

to meet him. When he had ridden as far as he thought prudent he stopped

in a wood, and alighting, tied Bayard to a tree. Then he sat down, and,

as he waited, he fell asleep. Bayard meanwhile got loose, and strayed

away where the grass tempted him. Just then came along some country

people, who said to one another, “Look, is not that the great horse

Bayard that Rinaldo rides? Let us take him, and carry him to King

Charles, who will pay us well for our trouble.” They did so, and the

king was delighted with his prize, and gave them a present that made

them rich to their dying day.

When Rinaldo woke he looked round for his horse, and, finding him not,

he groaned, and said, “O unlucky hour that I was born! how fortune

persecutes me!” So desperate was he that he took off his armor and his

spurs, saying, “What need have I of these, since Bayard is lost?” While

he stood thus lamenting, a man came from the thicket, seemingly bent

with age. He had a long beard hanging over his breast, and eyebrows that

almost covered his eyes. He bade Rinaldo good day. Rinaldo thanked him,

and said, “A good day I have hardly had since I was born.” Then said the

old man, “Signor Rinaldo, you must not despair, for God will make all

things turn to the best.” Rinaldo answered, “My trouble is too heavy for

me to hope relief. The king has taken my brothers, and means to put them

to death. I thought to rescue them by means of my horse Bayard, but

while I slept some thief has stolen him.” The old man replied, “I will

remember you and your brothers in my prayers. I am a poor man, have you

not something to give me?” Rinaldo said, “I have nothing to give,” but

then he recollected his spurs. He gave them to the beggar, and said,

“Here, take my spurs. They are the first present my mother gave me when

my father, Count Aymon, dubbed me knight. They ought to bring you ten

pounds.”

The old man took the spurs, and put them into his sack, and said, “Noble

sir, have you nothing else you can give me?” Rinaldo replied, “Are you

making sport of me? I tell you truly if it were not for shame to beat

one so helpless, I would teach you better manners.” The old man said,

“Of a truth, sir, if you did so you would do a great sin. If all had

beaten me of whom I have begged I should have been killed long ago, for

I ask alms in churches and convents, and wherever I can.” “You say

true,” replied Rinaldo, “if you did not ask, none would relieve you.”

The old man said, “True, noble sir, therefore I pray if you have

anything more to spare, give it me.” Rinaldo gave him his mantle, and

said, “Take it, pilgrim. I give it you for the love of Christ, that God

would save my brothers from a shameful death, and help me to escape out

of King Charles’s power.”

The pilgrim took the mantle, folded it up, and put it into his bag. Then

a third time he said to Rinaldo, “Sir, have you nothing left to give me

that I may remember you in my prayers?” “Wretch!” exclaimed Rinaldo, “do

you make me your sport?” and he drew his sword, and struck at him; but

the old man warded off the blow with his staff, and said, “Rinaldo,

would you slay your cousin, Malagigi?” When Rinaldo heard that he stayed

his hand, and gazed doubtingly on the old man, who now threw aside his

disguise, and appeared to be indeed Malagigi. “Dear cousin,” said

Rinaldo, “pray forgive me. I did not know you. Next to God, my trust is

in you. Help my brothers to escape out of prison, I entreat you. I have

lost my horse, and therefore cannot render them any assistance.”

Malagigi answered, “Cousin Rinaldo, I will enable you to recover your

horse. Meanwhile, you must do as I say.”

Then Malagigi took from his sack a gown, and gave it to Rinaldo to put

on over his armor, and a hat that was full of holes, and an old pair of

shoes to put on. They looked like two pilgrims, very old and poor. Then

they went forth from the wood, and after a little while saw four monks

riding along the road. Malagigi said to Rinaldo, “I will go meet the

monks, and see what news I can learn.”

Malagigi learned from the monks that on the approaching festival there

would be a great crowd of people at court, for the prince was going to

show the ladies the famous horse Bayard that used to belong to Rinaldo.

“What!” said the pilgrim; “is Bayard there?” “Yes,” answered the monks;

“the king has given him to Charlot, and, after the prince has ridden him

the king means to pass sentence on the brothers of Rinaldo, and have

them hanged.” Then Malagigi asked alms of the monks, but they would give

him none, till he threw aside his pilgrim garb, and let them see his

armor, when, partly for charity and partly for terror, they gave him a

golden cup, adorned with precious stones that sparkled in the sunshine.

Malagigi then hastened back to Rinaldo, and told him what he had

learned.

The morning of the feast-day Rinaldo and Malagigi came to the place

where the sports were to be held. Malagigi gave Rinaldo his spurs back

again, and said, “Cousin, put on your spurs, for you will need them.”

“How shall I need them,” said Rinaldo, “since I have lost my horse?” Yet

he did as Malagigi directed him.

When the two had taken their stand on the border of the field among the

crowd the princes and ladies of the court began to assemble. When they

were all assembled the king came also, and Charlot with him, near whom

the horse Bayard was led, in the charge of grooms, who were expressly

enjoined to guard him safely. The king, looking round on the circle of

spectators, saw Malagigi and Rinaldo, and observed the splendid cup that

they had, and said to Charlot, “See, my son, what a brilliant cup those

two pilgrims have got. It seems to be worth a hundred ducats.” “That is

true,” said Charlot; “Let us go and ask where they got it.” So they rode

to the place where the pilgrims stood, and Charlot stopped Bayard close

to them.

The horse snuffed at the pilgrims, knew Rinaldo, and caressed his

master. The king said to Malagigi, “Friend, where did you get that

beautiful cup?” Malagigi replied, “Honorable sir, I paid for it all the

money I have saved from eleven years’ begging in churches and convents.

The Pope himself has blessed it, and given it the power that whosoever

eats or drinks out of it shall be pardoned of all his sins.” Then said

the king to Charlot, “My son, these are right holy men; see how the dumb

beast worships them.”

Then the king said to Malagigi, “Give me a morsel from your cup, that I

may be cleared of my sins.” Malagigi answered, “Illustrious lord, I dare

not do it, unless you will forgive all who have at any time offended

you. You know that Christ forgave all those who had betrayed and

crucified him.” The king replied, “Friend, that is true; but Rinaldo has

so grievously offended me, that I cannot forgive him, nor that other

man, Malagigi, the magician. These two shall never live in my kingdom

again. If I catch them I will certainly have them hanged. But tell me,

pilgrim, who is that man who stands beside you?” “He is deaf, dumb, and

blind,” said Malagigi. Then the king said again, “Give me to drink of

your cup, to take away my sins.” Malagigi answered, “My lord king, here

is my poor brother, who for fifty days has not heard, spoken, nor seen.

This misfortune befell him in a house where we found shelter, and the

day before yesterday we met with a wise woman, who told him the only

hope of a cure for him was to come to some place where Bayard was to be

ridden, and to mount and ride him; that would do him more good than

anything else.” Then said the king, “Friend, you have come to the right

place, for Bayard is to be ridden here to-day. Give me a draught from

your cup, and your companion shall ride upon Bayard.” Malagigi, hearing

these words, said, “Be it so.” Then the king, with great devotion, took

a spoon, and dipped a portion from the pilgrim’s cup, believing that his

sins should be thereby forgiven.

When this was done, the king said to Charlot, “Son, I request that you

will let this sick pilgrim sit on your horse, and ride if he can, for by

so doing he will be healed of all his infirmities.” Charlot replied,

“That will I gladly do.” So saying, he dismounted, and the servants took

the pilgrim in their arms, and helped him on the horse.

When Rinaldo was mounted, he put his feet in the stirrups, and said, “I

would like to ride a little.” Malagigi, hearing him speak, seemed

delighted, and asked him whether he could see and hear also. “Yes,” said

Rinaldo, “I am healed of all my infirmities.” When the king heard it he

said to Bishop Turpin, “My lord bishop, we must celebrate this with a

procession, with crosses and banners, for it is a great miracle.”

When Rinaldo remarked that he was not carefully watched, he spoke to the

horse, and touched him with the spurs. Bayard knew that his master was

upon him, and he started off upon a rapid pace, and in a few moments was

a good way off. Malagigi pretended to be in great alarm. “O noble king

and master,” he cried, “my poor companion is run away with; he will fall

and break his neck.” The king ordered his knights to ride after the

pilgrim, and bring him back, or help him if need were. They did so, but

it was in vain. Rinaldo left them all behind him, and kept on his way

till he reached Montalban. Malagigi was suffered to depart, unsuspected,

and he went his way, making sad lamentation for the fate of his comrade,

who he pretended to think must surely be dashed to pieces.

Malagigi did not go far, but having changed his disguise, returned to

where the king was, and employed his best art in getting the brothers of

Rinaldo out of prison. He succeeded; and all three got safely to

Montalban, where Rinaldo’s joy at the rescue of his brothers and the

recovery of Bayard was more than tongue can tell.

————

DEATH OF RINALDO

The distress in Rinaldo’s castle for want of food grew more severe every

day, under the pressure of the siege. The garrison were forced to kill

their horses, both to save the provision they would consume, and to make

food of their flesh. At last all the horses were killed except Bayard,

and Rinaldo said to his brothers, “Bayard must die, for we have nothing

else to eat.” So they went to the stable and brought out Bayard to kill

him. But Alardo said, “Brother, let Bayard live a little longer; who

knows what God may do for us?”

Bayard heard these words, and understood them as if he was a man, and

fell on his knees, as if he would beg for mercy. When Rinaldo saw the

distress of his horse his heart failed him, and he let him live.

Just at this time Aya, Rinaldo’s mother, who was the sister of the

Emperor, came to the camp, attended by knights and ladies, to intercede

for her sons. She fell on her knees before the king, and besought him

that he would pardon Rinaldo and his brothers: and all the peers and

knights took her side, and entreated the king to grant her prayer. Then

said the king, “Dear sister, you act the part of a good mother, and I

respect your tender heart, and yield to your entreaties. I will spare

your sons their lives if they submit implicitly to my will.”

When Charlot heard this he approached the king and whispered in his ear.

And the king turned to his sister and said, “Charlot must have Bayard,

because I have given the horse to him. Now go, my sister, and tell

Rinaldo what I have said.”

When the Lady Aya heard these words she was delighted, thanked God in

her heart, and said, “Worthy king and brother, I will do as you bid me.”

So she went into the castle, where her sons received her most joyfully

and affectionately, and she told them the king’s offer. Then Alardo

said, “Brother, I would rather have the king’s enmity than give Bayard

to Charlot, for I believe he will kill him.” Likewise said all the

brothers. When Rinaldo heard them he said, “Dear brothers, if we may win

our forgiveness by giving up the horse, so be it. Let us make our peace,

for we cannot stand against the king’s power.” Then he went to his

mother, and told her they would give the horse to Charlot, and more,

too, if the king would pardon them, and forgive all that they had done

against his crown and dignity. The lady returned to Charles and told him

the answer of her sons.

When the peace was thus made between the king and the sons of Aymon, the

brothers came forth from the castle, bringing Bayard with them, and,

falling at the king’s feet, begged his forgiveness. The king bade them

rise, and received them into favor in the sight of all his noble knights

and counsellors, to the great joy of all especially of the Lady Aya,

their mother. Then Rinaldo took the horse Bayard, gave him to Charlot,

and said, “My lord and prince, this horse I give to you; do with him as

to you seems good.” Charlot took him, as had been agreed on. Then he

made the servants take him to the bridge, and throw him into the water.

Bayard sank to the bottom, but soon came to the surface again and swam,

saw Rinaldo looking at him, came to land, ran to his old master, and

stood by him as proudly as if he had understanding, and would say, “Why

did you treat me so?” When the prince saw that he said, “Rinaldo, give

me the horse again, for he must die.” Rinaldo replied, “My lord and

prince, he is yours without dispute,” and gave him to him. The prince

then had a millstone tied to each foot, and two to his neck, and made

them throw him again into the water. Bayard struggled in the water,

looked up to his master, threw off the stones, and came back to Rinaldo.

When Alardo saw that, he said, “Now must thou be disgraced forever,

brother, if thou give up the horse again.” But Rinaldo answered,

“Brother, be still. Shall I for the horse’s life provoke the anger of

the king again?” Then Alardo said, “Ah, Bayard! what a return do we make

for all thy true love and service!” Rinaldo gave the horse to the prince

again, and said, “My lord, if the horse comes out again I cannot return

him to you any more, for it wrings my heart too much.” Then Charlot had

Bayard loaded with the stones as before, and thrown into the water; and

commanded Rinaldo that he should not stand where the horse would see

him. When Bayard rose to the surface he stretched his neck out of the

water and looked round for his master, but saw him not. Then he sunk to

the bottom.

Rinaldo was so distressed for the loss of Bayard that he made a vow to

ride no horse again all his life long, nor to bind a sword to his side,

but to become a hermit. He resolved to betake himself to some wild wood,

but first to return to his castle, to see his children, and to appoint

to each his share of his estate.

So he took leave of the king and of his brothers, and returned to

Montalban, and his brothers remained with the king. Rinaldo called his

children to him, and he made his eldest born, Aymeric, a knight, and

made him lord of his castle and of his land. He gave to the rest what

other goods he had, and kissed and embraced them all, commended them to

God, and then departed from them with a heavy heart.

He had not travelled far when he entered a wood, and there met with a

hermit, who had long been retired from the world. Rinaldo greeted him,

and the hermit replied courteously, and asked him who he was and what

was his purpose. Rinaldo replied, “Sir, I have led a sinful life; many

deeds of violence have I done, and many men have I slain, not always in

a good cause, but often under the impulse of my own headstrong passions.

I have also been the cause of the death of many of my friends, who took

my part, not because they thought me in the right, but only for love of

me. And now I come to make confession of all my sins, and to do penance

for the rest of my life, if perhaps the mercy of God will forgive me.”

The hermit said, “Friend, I perceive you have fallen into great sins,

and have broken the commandments of God, but his mercy is greater than

your sins; and if you repent from your heart, and lead a new life, there

is yet hope for you that he will forgive you what is past.” So Rinaldo

was comforted, and said, “Master, I will stay with you, and what you bid

me I will do.” The hermit replied, “Roots and vegetables will be your

food; shirt or shoes you may not wear; your lot must be poverty and want

if you stay with me.” Rinaldo replied, “I will cheerfully bear all this,

and more.” So he remained three whole years with the hermit, and after

that his strength failed, and it seemed as if he was like to die.

One night the hermit had a dream, and heard a voice from heaven, which

commanded him to say to his companion that he must without delay go to

the Holy Land, and fight against the heathen. The hermit, when he heard

that voice, was glad, and calling Rinaldo, he said, “Friend, God’s angel

has commanded me to say to you that you must without delay go to

Jerusalem, and help our fellow-Christians in their struggle with the

Infidels.” Then said Rinaldo, “Ah! master, how can I do that? It is over

three years since I made a vow no more to ride a horse, nor take a sword

or spear in my hand.” The hermit answered, “Dear friend, obey God, and

do what the angel commanded.” “I will do so,” said Rinaldo, “and pray

for me, my master, that God may guide me right.” Then he departed, and

went to the seaside, and took ship and came to Tripoli in Syria.

And as he went on his way his strength returned to him, till it was

equal to what it was in his best days. And though he never mounted a

horse, nor took a sword in his hand, yet with his pilgrim’s staff he did

good service in the armies of the Christians; and it pleased God that he

escaped unhurt, though he was present in many battles, and his courage

inspired the men with the same. At last a truce was made with the

Saracens, and Rinaldo, now old and infirm, wishing to see his native

land again before he died, took ship and sailed for France. When he

arrived he shunned to go to the resorts of the great, and preferred to

live among the humble folk, where he was unknown. He did country work,

and lived on milk and bread, drank water, and was therewith content.

While he so lived he heard that the city of Cologne was the holiest and

best of cities, on account of the relics and bodies of saints who had

there poured out their blood for the faith. This induced him to betake

himself thither. When the pious hero arrived at Cologne he went to the

monastery of St. Peter, and lived a holy life, occupied night and day in

devotion. It so happened that at that time in the next town to Cologne

there raged a dreadful pestilence. Many people came to Rinaldo, to beg

him to pray for them, that the plague might be stayed. The holy man

prayed fervently, and besought the Lord to take away the plague from the

people, and his prayer was heard. The stroke of the pestilence was

arrested, and all the people thanked the holy man and praised God.

Now there was at this time at Cologne a bishop, called Agilolphus, who

was a wise and understanding man, who led a pure and secluded life, and

set a good example to others. This bishop undertook to build the Church

of St. Peter, and gave notice to all stonemasons and other workmen round

about to come to Cologne, where they should find work and wages. Among

others came Rinaldo; and he worked among the laborers and did more than

four or five common workmen. When they went to dinner he brought stone

and mortar so that they had enough for the whole day. When the others

went to bed he stretched himself out on the stones. He ate bread only,

and drank nothing but water; and had for his wages but a penny a day.

The head workman asked him his name, and where he belonged. He would not

tell, but said nothing and pursued his work. They called him St. Peter’s

workman, because he was so devoted to his work.

When the overseer saw the diligence of this holy man he chid the

laziness of the other workmen, and said, “You receive more pay than this

good man, but do not do half as much work.” For this reason the other

workmen hated Rinaldo, and made a secret agreement to kill him. They

knew that he made it a practice to go every night to a certain church to

pray and give alms. So they agreed to lay wait for him, with the purpose

to kill him. When he came to the spot, they seized him, and beat him

over the head till he was dead. Then they put his body into a sack, and

stones with it, and cast it into the Rhine, in the hope the sack would

sink to the bottom, and be there concealed. But God willed not that it

should be so, but caused the sack to float on the surface, and be thrown

upon the bank. And the soul of the holy martyr was carried by angels,

with songs of praise, up to the heavens.

Now at that time the people of Dortmund had become converted to the

Christian faith; and they sent to the Bishop of Cologne, and desired him

to give them some of the holy relics that are in such abundance in that

city. So the Bishop called together his clergy to deliberate what answer

they should give to this request. And it was determined to give to the

people of Dortmund the body of the holy man who had just suffered

martyrdom.

When now the body with the coffin was put on the cart, the cart began to

move toward Dortmund without horses or help of men, and stopped not till

it reached the place where the church of St. Rinaldo now stands. The

Bishop and his clergy followed the holy man to do him honor, with

singing of hymns, for a space of three miles. And St. Rinaldo has ever

since been the patron of that place, and many wonderful works has God

done through him, as may be seen in the legends.

————

HUON OF BORDEAUX

When Charlemagne grew old he felt the burden of government become

heavier year by year, till at last he called together his high barons

and peers to propose to abdicate the empire and the throne of France in

favor of his sons, Charlot and Lewis.

The Emperor was unreasonably partial to his eldest son; he would have

been glad to have had the barons and peers demand Charlot for their only

sovereign; but that prince was so infamous, for his falsehood and

cruelty, that the council strenuously opposed the Emperor’s proposal of

abdicating, and implored him to continue to hold a sceptre which he

wielded with so much glory.

Amaury of Hauteville, cousin of Ganelon, and now head of the wicked

branch of the house of Maganza, was the secret partisan of Charlot, whom

he resembled in his loose morals and bad dispositions. Amaury nourished

the most bitter resentment against the house of Guienne, of which the

former Duke, Sevinus, had often rebuked his misdeeds. He took advantage

of this occasion to do an injury to the two young children whom the Duke

Sevinus had left under the charge of the Duchess Alice, their mother;

and at the same time, to advance his interest with Charlot by increasing

his wealth and power. With this view he suggested to the prince a new

idea.

He pretended to agree with the opinion of the barons; he said that it

would be best to try Charlot’s capacity for government by giving him

some rich provinces before placing him upon the throne; and that the

Emperor, without depriving himself of any part of his realm, might give

Charlot the investiture of Guienne. For although seven years had passed

since the death of Sevinus, the young Duke, his son, had not yet

repaired to the court of Charlemagne to render the homage due to his

lawful sovereign.

We have often had occasion to admire the justice and wisdom of the

advice which on all occasions the Duke Namo of Bavaria gave to

Charlemagne, and he now discountenanced, with indignation, the selfish

advice of Amaury. He represented to the Emperor the early age of the

children of Sevinus, and the useful and glorious services of their late

father, and proposed to Charlemagne to send two knights to the Duchess

at Bordeaux, to summon her two sons to the court of the Emperor, to pay

their respects and render homage.

Charlemagne approved this advice, and sent two chevaliers to demand the

two young princes of their mother. No sooner had the Duchess learned the

approach of the two knights, than she sent distinguished persons to

receive them; and as soon as they entered the palace she presented

herself before them, with her elder and younger sons, Huon and Girard.

The deputies, delighted with the honors and caresses they received,

accompanied with rich presents, left Bordeaux with regret and on their

return represented to Charlemagne that the young Duke Huon seemed born

to tread in the footsteps of his brave father, informing him that in

three months the young princes of Guienne would present themselves at

his court.

The Duchess employed the short interval in giving her sons her last

instructions. Huon received them in his heart, and Girard gave as much

heed to them as could be expected from one so young.

The preparations for their departure having been made, the Duchess

embraced them tenderly, commending them to the care of Heaven, and

charged them to call, on their way, at the celebrated monastery of

Cluny, to visit the Abbot, the brother of their father. This Abbot,

worthy of his high dignity, had never lost an opportunity of doing good,

setting an example of every excellence, and making virtue attractive by

his example.

He received his nephews with the greatest magnificence; and, aware how

useful his presence might be to them with Charlemagne, whose valued

counsellor he was, he took with them the road to Paris.

When Amaury learned what reception the two deputies of Charlemagne had

received at Bordeaux, and the arrangements made for the visit of the

young princes to the Emperor’s court, he suggested to Charlot to give

him a troop of his guards, with which he proposed to lay wait for the

young men in the wood of Montlery, put them to death, and thereby give

the prince Charlot possession of the duchy of Guienne.

A plan of treachery and violence agreed but too well with Charlot’s

disposition. He not only adopted the suggestion of Amaury, but insisted

upon taking a part in it. They went out secretly, by night, followed by

a great number of attendants, all armed in black, to lie in ambuscade in

the wood where the brothers were to pass.