Death of Sir Roland the Brave
In front of the many valleys opening out from under the dark range of
the Pyrenees, they met--the Gaul and the Spaniard. The Emperor
Charlemagne with good cause curses the fickleness of the King of Leon,
who had invited him to inherit his kingdom, and instead came out to
offer him battle. Personally, he is not mentioned as taking part in the
battle--indeed, it is said he was encamped eight miles off, near
Fontarabia, but he sent forward the flower of his chivalry, those
doughty paladins, to be sung by the romanceros and troubadours to all
time: Guarinos, ferocious Ferragol, Sir Oliver the Gentle, handsome
Gayferos, and Roland the Brave, who went mad for the love of Angelica,
mounted on a powerful steed, which bounds and caracoles as if preparing
for a tourney, firmly ruled with one hand, while with the other he
carried aloft his famous sword Durindana, followed by his vassals and
retainers, in short hauberks and upright caps, with round targets like
the Moors.
The two armies met on undulating ground, descending from the chain of
the Pyrenees in front of the Pass of Roncesvalles--through which the
French had marched into Spain confident of victory--a close and terrible
defile, narrow and deep, cleft into precipitous cliffs following from
St. Jean de Luz and the defile of Guvarni on the French side, among
almost impassable gorges, which back the city of Pampeluna close on the
province of Cantabria, the land of Pelayo.
As a forest of lances and spears set on a plain of gold did the
glittering helmets look from afar in the radiance of the sunshine,
darkened by clouds of arrows, and the blades of javelins and lances
cutting the light of day as the ranks closed in deadly strife of
quivering spears and flying pennons falling round wounded horses, the
blast of trumpets and cries of dying men.
And gallantly did the King of Leon bear himself, the jewelled crown on
his _morion_ shining out in the thick of the battle, Favila and Ricardo
fighting by his side, when lo! a company of Gallic lords bore down with
such force as to leave the king alone, face to face with a knight in
dark armour, taller than the rest, a steel helmet pressing on his fiery
eyes, and the bars of his vizor raised that all might know him, as he
brandished a sword no other man could wield.
“Where,” cries this terrible paladin known as Sir Roland the Brave,
flashing fire as he whirls his good sword Durindana in the air, “is
that perjured Goth, Alonso of Leon, who bids strangers to his land and
seeks to slay them?”
“If you mean me,” answers Alonso, spurring forward, “I am here to answer
the charge.”
“Then make short shrift, false king,” cries Roland, “for traitor and
felon you are to Charlemagne, and as such you shall die.”
In courage the king is not wanting, but he stands almost alone; several
of the knights about him are dismounted, and swarms of the enemy are
gathering about them where they lie. Already the swords strike fire, but
he is soon in evil plight; Durindana has cleft the crown on his
head-piece and wounded his good charger. The weakness of his blows show
that he is no match for such an antagonist. Alonso staggers in the
saddle, when Bernardo, pounding through the centre of the Gothic knights
as with the shock of a thunderbolt, spurs forward.
“Shame on you, Sir Paladin,” he shouts, “as a craven. Are you blind,
that you see not the king’s arm is stiff with age? Turn now the fury of
your weapon on me, Bernardo del Carpio.”
“I know you not, vain boy,” is the reply, eyeing Bernardo with disdain.
“Get you a beard upon your chin before you feel the steel of Durindana.”
“Come on!” shouts Bernardo, glaring at him through the bars of his
helmet. “I promise you, you shall know me all too soon for your glory. I
am a man in search of death.”
The onslaught is so furious that blood flows in the first encounter;
the horses are disabled by the shock. To extricate themselves is the
work of a moment, and on their feet they fight.
Then Bernardo, round whose head the good sword Durindana flashes
dangerously near, seizes a battle-axe from the hands of a warrior lying
lifeless at his feet, and gathering all his strength, deals such a blow
on Sir Roland that the steel pierces down upon his neck, and stretches
him, mortally wounded, on the ground.
Smitten to death, like a pious Christian he prepares to yield up his
soul to God. But first, collecting all his strength, he clutches his
faithful sword and thus addresses it: “O sword of unparalleled
brightness, fair Durindana, with hilt of ivory and cross of gold, on
which is graven the name of God--whom now wilt thou call master? He that
possessed thee was never conquered before; nor daunted by foes, nor
appalled by phantoms. O happy sword, never was a fellow made like thee!
That thou shalt never fall into the hands of a craven or an infidel, I
will smite thee on a rock in twain.” And so he did, in the throes of
death as he was, cleaving the weapon in twain and flinging it afar. The
“_Breach of Roland_,” in the Pyrenees, is noted from that day. Then,
raising the horn slung over his corselet to his lips, with fast-ebbing
breath he blew a blast so shrill that the sound reached even to
Charlemagne’s camp, who, ignorant of the great disaster, lay in
[Illustration: THE WALLS OF ZAMORA.]
the valley of Fontarabia awaiting the issue of the battle.
At length those eyes called by the minstrels, “the bright stars of
battle and victory,” close in death, the hands drop which could root up
live trees, the noble form stiffens as he lay with outstretched arms in
the form of the cross, the sword-hilt of Durindana and the bugle by his
side.
Not only Roland, but the gentle Oliver lost his life, and the grim
admiral, Guarino, was taken prisoner, so that the Franks lost heart and
retreated into the mountain paths by which they came. A terrible
massacre ensues, led by Bernardo, and to this day Roncesvalles is known
as the “Valley of the Pass of Blood.”