"This is the work of Ganelon!"
"Hush!" replied Roland. "He is my step-father. Say no more."
Then Olivier, when from the hill he saw the one hundred thousand Saracens,
their helmets bedecked with gold, their shields shining in the sun,
besought his friend to sound his horn, the olifant, and summon the king to
their aid.
"Never will I so disgrace myself!" exclaimed Roland. "Never shall sweet
France be so dishonored. One hundred thousand blows shall I give with my
sword, my Durendal, and the Moors will fall and die!"
When Olivier found his pleading vain, he mounted his steed and rode with
Roland to the front of the lines.
Long was the fight and terrible. If gallantry and strength sat with the
twelve peers and their followers, they were with their opponents as well.
No sooner had Roland, or Olivier, or Turpin, or Engelier cleft the body of
a Moorish knight down to the saddle, than down fell a Christian, his
helmet broken, his hauberk torn by the lance of his dreaded foe. The
nephew of Marsile fell by the hand of Roland, who taunted him as he lay in
death; Olivier struck down Marsile's brother. "A noble stroke!" cried
Roland.
"A baron's stroke!" exclaimed the archbishop, as Samsun pierced the
Almazour with his lance and he fell dead. Olivier spurred over the field,
crushing the pagans and beating them down with his broken lance.
"Comrade, where is thy sword, thy Halteclere?" called Roland to his
friend.
"Here, but I lack time to draw it," replied the doughty Olivier.
More than a thousand blows struck Turpin; the pagans fell by hundreds and
by thousands, and over the field lay scattered those who would nevermore
see sweet France.
Meanwhile, in France, hail fell and rain; the sky was vivid with lightning
bolts. The earth shook, and the land lay in darkness at noonday. None
understood the portent. Alas! it was Nature's grief at the death of Count
Roland.
When Roland perceived that in spite of their mighty efforts the passes
were still filled with heathen knights, and the French ranks were fast
thinning, he said to Olivier, "What think you if we call the king?"
"Never!" exclaimed Olivier. "Better death now than shame!"
"If I blow, Carle will hear it now and return. I shall blow my olifant,"
cried Roland.
"When I begged you to blow it," said Olivier, "you refused, when you could
have saved the lives of all of us. You will show no valor if you blow it
now."
"Great is the strife," said Roland. "I will blow that Carle may come."
"Then," said Olivier, "if I return to France, I pledge you my word my
sister Aude shall never be your wife. Your rashness has been the cause of
our destruction. Now you shall die here, and here ends our friendship."
Across the field the archbishop spurred to reconcile the friends. "Carle
will come too late to save our lives," said he, "but he will reach the
field in time to preserve our mangled bodies and wreak vengeance on our
foes."
Roland put his horn to his lips and blew with such force that his temples
burst and the crimson blood poured forth from his mouth. Three times he
sounded his horn, and each time the sound brought anguish to the heart of
Carle, who heard it, riding thirty leagues away. "Our men make battle!"
cried he; but this Ganelon hastened to deny, insisting that Roland was but
hunting and blowing the horn, taking sport among the peers. But Duke
Naimes exclaimed, "Your nephew is in sore distress. He who would deceive
you is a traitor. Haste! Shout your war-cry, and let us return to the
battle-field. You yourself hear plainly his call for help!"
Commanding Ganelon to be seized and given to the scullions of his house to
be kept for punishment until his return, Carle ordered his men to arm and
return to Roncesvalles, that they might, if possible, save the lives of
the noble peers. All the army wept aloud as they thought of the doom of
Roland. High were the mountains, deep the valleys, swift the rushing
streams. The French rode on, answering the sound of the olifant; the
emperor rode, filled with grief and rage; the barons spurred their horses,
but in vain.
After Roland had sounded the horn he again grasped Durendal, and, mounted
on his horse Veillantif, scoured the battle-field, cutting down the
heathen. But still their troops pressed him, and when he saw the Ethiopian
band led by the uncle of Marsile, he knew his doom had come. Olivier,
riding forth to meet the accursed band, received his death-wound from the
Kalif, but lived to cut his enemy down, and call Roland to him. Alas!
sight had forsaken his eyes, and as he sat on his steed he lifted his
bright sword Halteclere, and struck Roland a fearful blow that clove his
crest but did not touch his head. "Was the blow meant for me, my comrade?"
asked Roland softly. "Nay, I can see no more. God pity me! Pardon me, my
friend!" and as the two embraced each other, Olivier fell dead.
Then, in the agony of his grief, Roland fainted, sitting firm in his
saddle, and again recovering consciousness, became aware of the terrible
losses of the French. Only himself, the archbishop, and the gallant
Gaultier de l'Hum were left to defend the honor of the French. After
Gaultier fell, Roland, unassisted save by Turpin, who fought transfixed by
four spear shafts, put the enemy to flight. Feeling his death wounds,
Roland besought Turpin to let him bring together the bodies of his fallen
comrades that they might receive the blessing of the archbishop. Weak and
trembling from loss of blood, Roland passed to and fro over the
corpse-bestrewn field, and gathered together his comrades: here, Gerin and
Gerier, Berengier and Otun; there, Anseis, Samsun, and Gerard de
Roussillon, and last of all, his beloved Olivier, and placing them before
the knees of Turpin, he saw them receive his blessing.
In his great grief at the sight of the dead Olivier, Roland again fainted,
and Turpin hastened to a little brook near by for water to revive him. But
the strain was too great for his already weakened body, and, when Roland
revived, it was to find the archbishop dead.
Then Roland, realizing that his hour, too, had come, sought out a place in
which to die. Upon a hill between two lofty trees, where was a marble
terrace, he placed himself with his head towards the enemy's country; and
there a Saracen, who had feigned death to escape it, tried to wrest from
him his beloved Durendal.
Roland crushed the pagan's head with his olifant, but now he was troubled,
for he feared that his sword would fall into other than Christian hands.
Ill could he bear to be parted from his beloved sword. Its golden hilt
contained rare relics,--a tooth of Saint Peter, blood, hair, and bones of
other saints, and by the strength of these holy relics it had conquered
vast realms. Ten and more mighty blows he struck with Durendal upon the
hard rock of the terrace, in the endeavor to break it; but it neither
broke nor blunted. Then, counting over his great victories, he placed it
and the olifant beneath him, and committed his soul to the Father, who
sent down his angels to bear it to Paradise.
When the French army, led by Charlemagne, found the passes heaped high
with the bodies of the dead and no living soul to tell the story of the
slaughter, they wept, and many fell swooning to the earth. But the enraged
Charlemagne, unwilling then to give time for mourning, spurred on his
soldiers, overtook the fleeing enemy, and drove them into the Ebro, so
that those who survived the sword, perished by the wave. Then, returning
to the field of Roncesvalles, he wept over his beloved Roland and the
peers.
Great was his grief; handfuls of hair he tore from his head, and many
times wished that his soul were in Paradise, and his body beside that of
Roland. He commanded that the hearts of Roland, Olivier, and Turpin be
taken from their bodies, wrapped, and inurned, and the bodies borne home
in chariots. The bodies of the others were gathered together in one tomb,
and assoiled and blessed by the priests who accompanied the army.
As Charlemagne prepared to start for France, he saw a new army
approaching. The aged Emir Baligant, from Babylon, who had long ago been
summoned by Marsile, had just arrived in Saragossa, and hastened forth to
meet Charlemagne. The emir's army was countless, and Charlemagne's was
weakened by its great loss. But the thought of the slaughtered peers
spurred on the French, and with great Carle for their leader, they quickly
put the pagans to flight.
The Franks pursued the enemy to Saragossa, where the wounded Marsile
expired on hearing of his defeat. The city was taken, its inhabitants
either slain, or converted and baptized, and Queen Bramimunde taken to
France to be won to the true faith by gentler means.
When Charlemagne entered his stately palace at Aix, he was met by the fair
lady Aude.
"Where is Roland, my betrothed?"
Carle wept, tearing his white beard.
"Thou askest of one who is no more. But in his place I will give thee my
son. I can do no better."
"Nay, God forbid that I should live if Roland is dead;" and so saying,
Aude, the beautiful, fell dead at the feet of the emperor.
From all his lands Carle summoned men to Aix for the trial of Ganelon.
"Judge him according to the law, my barons," said the king. "He lost me
twenty thousand of my Franks. My nephew Roland, Olivier, my twelve peers,
he sold."
"My king," pleaded Ganelon, "call it not treason. I was ever loyal to you.
I thought not of gain, but of revenge against my rebellious and haughty
step-son."
The sentiment of many was with Ganelon, and Pinabel offered to fight for
him against Thierri, the champion of the king. Thirty knights of his kin
gave themselves as legal sureties of his pledge, and the combat began.
Pinabel was conquered and slain, and Ganelon was condemned to be torn to
pieces by wild horses. His thirty sureties were also compelled to suffer
death.
Ganelon was punished; Bramimunde was made a Christian, and the emperor
thought at last to have peace. But as night fell and he sought rest in his
lofty room, Gabriel appeared to him.
"Summon thy hosts and march into Bire to succor King Vivien. The
Christians look to thee for help."
The king wept and tore his beard. "So troubled is my life!" said he.