is beginning to close in upon the French, that the peers become aware
of their danger. Oliver, Roland's bosom friend, the first to descry
the enemy, calls out that this ambush is the result of Ganelon's
treachery, only to be silenced by Roland, who avers none shall accuse
his step-father without proof. Then, hearing of the large force
approaching, Roland exclaims, "Cursed be he who flees," and admonishes
all present to show their mettle and die fighting bravely.
_The Pride of Roland._ Because the enemies' force so greatly
outnumbers theirs, Oliver suggests that Roland sound his horn to
summon Charlemagne to his aid; but, unwilling to lose any glory, this
hero refuses, declaring he will strike one hundred thousand such
doughty blows with his mighty sword (Durendal), that all the pagans
will be laid low.
"Roland, Roland, yet wind one blast!
Karl will hear ere the gorge be passed,
And the Franks return on their path full fast."
"I will not sound on mine ivory horn:
It shall never be spoken of me in scorn,
That for heathen felons one blast I blew;
I may not dishonor my lineage true.
But I will strike, ere this fight be o'er,
A thousand strokes and seven hundred more,
And my Durindana shall drip with gore.
Our Franks will bear them like vassals brave.
The Saracens flock but to find a grave."
In spite of the fact that Oliver thrice implores him to summon aid,
Roland thrice refuses; so his friend, perceiving he will not yield,
finally declares they must do their best, and adds that, should they
not get the better of the foe, they will at least die fighting nobly.
Then Archbishop Turpin--one of the peers--assures the soldiers that,
since they are about to die as martyrs, they will earn Paradise, and
pronounces the absolution, thus inspiring the French with such courage
that, on rising from their knees, they rush forward to earn a heavenly
crown.
Riding at their head, Roland now admits to Oliver that Ganelon must
have betrayed them, grimly adding that the Saracens will have cause to
rue their treachery before long. Then he leads his army down the
valley to a more open space, where, as soon as the signal is given,
both friends plunge into the fray, shouting their war-cry
("Montjoie").
_The Medley._ In the first ranks of the Saracens is a nephew of
Marsile, who loudly boasts Charlemagne is about to lose his right arm;
but, before he can repeat this taunt, Roland, spurring forward, runs
his lance through his body and hurls it to the ground with a turn of
his wrist. Then, calling out to his men that they have scored the
first triumph, Roland proceeds to do tremendous execution among the
foe. The poem describes many of the duels which take place,--for each
of the twelve peers specially distinguishes himself,--while the
Saracens, conscious of vastly superior numbers, return again and again
to the attack. Even the archbishop fights bravely, and Roland, after
dealing fifteen deadly strokes with his lance, resorts to his sword,
thus meeting the Saracens at such close quarters that every stroke of
his blade hews through armor, rider, and steed.
At the last it brake; then he grasped in hand
His Durindana, his naked brand.
He smote Chernubles' helm upon,
Where, in the centre, carbuncles shone:
Down through his coif and his fell of hair,
Betwixt his eyes came the falchion bare,
Down through his plated harness fine,
Down through the Saracen's chest and chine,
Down through the saddle with gold inlaid,
Till sank in the living horse the blade,
Severed the spine where no joint was found,
And horse and rider lay dead on ground.
In spite of Roland's doughty blows, his good sword suffers no harm,
nor does that of Oliver (Hauteclaire), with which he does such good
work that Roland assures him he will henceforth consider him a
brother. Although the French slay the pagans by thousands, so many of
their own warriors fall, that, by the time they have repulsed the
first Saracen division, only sixty of Roland's men remain alive.
All nature seems to feel the terrible battle raging in the valley of
Roncevaux, for a terrible storm breaks forth, in France, where,
hearing the roll of the thunder, seeing the flash of the lightning,
and feeling the earth shake beneath their feet, the French fear the
end of the world has come. These poor warriors are little aware that
all this commotion is due to "nature's grief for the death of Roland."
Now a wondrous storm o'er France hath passed,
With thunder-stroke and whirlwind's blast;
Rain unmeasured, and hail, there came,
Sharp and sudden the lightning's flame;
And an earthquake ran--the sooth I say,
From Besançon city to Wissant Bay;
From Saint Michael's Mount to thy shrine, Cologne,
House unrifted was there none.
And a darkness spread in the noontide high--
No light, save gleams from the cloven sky.
On all who saw came a mighty fear.
They said, "The end of the world is near."
Alas, they spake but with idle breath,--
'Tis the great lament for Roland's death.
_The Horn._ During the brief respite allowed them, Roland informs
Oliver that he wishes to notify Charlemagne that France has been
widowed of many men. In reply, Oliver rejoins that no Frenchman will
leave this spot to bear such a message, seeing all prefer death and
honor to safety! Such being the case, Roland proposes to sound his
horn, whereupon Oliver bitterly rejoins, had his friend only done so
at first, they would have been reinforced by now, and that the emperor
can no longer reach them in time. He can, however, avenge them and
give them an honorable burial, Roland argues, and he and his friend
continue bickering until the archbishop silences them, bidding Roland
blow his horn. Placing Olifant to his lips, the hero, after drawing a
powerful breath, blows so mighty a blast that it re-echoes thirty
miles away.
This sound, striking Charlemagne's ear, warns him that his army is in
danger, although Ganelon insists Roland is hunting. While blowing a
second blast, Roland makes so mighty an effort that he actually bursts
the blood-vessels in his temples, and the Frenchmen, hearing that
call, aver with awe that he would never call that way unless in dire
peril. Ganelon, however, again insists that his step-son is in no
danger and is merely coursing a hare.
With deadly travail, in stress and pain,
Count Roland sounded the mighty strain.
Forth from his mouth the bright blood sprang,
And his temples burst for the very pang.
On and onward was borne the blast,
Till Karl hath heard as the gorge he passed,
And Naimes and all his men of war.
"It is Roland's horn," said the Emperor,
"And, save in battle, he had not blown."
With blood pouring from mouth and ears, Roland sounds his horn a third
and last time, producing so long and despairing a note, that Naimes
vows the French must be at the last extremity, and that unless they
hurry they will not find any alive! Bidding all his horns sound as a
signal that he is coming, Charlemagne--after ordering Ganelon bound
and left in charge of the baggage train--leads his men back to Spain
to Roland's rescue.
As the day is already far advanced, helmets and armors glitter beneath
the rays of the setting sun as the Frenchmen spur along, tears
coursing down their cheeks, for they apprehend what must have befallen
Roland, who was evidently suffering when he blew that third blast!
_The Rout._ Meanwhile, casting his eyes over the battle-field, now
strewn with corpses, Roland mourns his fallen companions, praying God
to let their souls rest in Paradise on beds of flowers. Then, turning
to Oliver, he proposes that they fight on as long as breath remains in
their bodies, before he plunges back into the fray, still uttering his
war-cry.
By this time the French are facing a second onslaught of the pagans,
and Roland has felled twenty-four of their bravest fighters before
Marsile challenges him to a duel. Although weak and weary, Roland
accepts, and with his first stroke hews off the Saracen's right hand;
but, before he can follow this up with a more decisive blow, Marsile
is borne away by his followers. Seeing their master gallop off towards
Spain, the remainder of the Saracens, crying that Charlemagne's nephew
has triumphed, cease fighting and flee. Thus, fifty thousand men soon
vanish in the distance, leaving Roland temporary master of the
battle-field, which he knows the emperor will reach only after he has
breathed his last.
_The Death of Oliver._ Although the Saracens have fled, some Moors
remain to charge the Frenchmen, whom they wish to annihilate before
Charlemagne can arrive. Once more, therefore, Roland urges his
followers to do their best, cursing those who dream of yielding. Not
daring approach the small handful of doughty Frenchmen, the pagans
attack them from a distance with lance, arrow, and spear, tauntingly
crying Charlemagne will have no cause to pride himself upon having
appointed them to guard his rear! Mortally wounded by one of these
spears, Oliver, blindly cutting down the foes nearest him, bids Roland
hasten to his rescue, as it won't be long before they part. Seeing the
stream of blood which flows from his friend's wounds and catching a
glimpse of his livid face, Roland so keenly realizes Oliver's end is
near that he swoons in his saddle. The wounded man, no longer able to
see, meanwhile ranges wildly around the battle-field, striking madly
right and left. In doing so he runs against Roland, and, failing to
recognize him, deals him so powerful a blow that he almost kills him.
Gently inquiring why his friend thus attacks one he loves, Roland
hears Oliver gasp, "I hear you, friend, but do not see you. Forgive me
for having struck you,"--a more than ample apology,--ere he dies.
See Roland there on his charger swooned,
Olivier smitten with his death wound.
His eyes from bleeding are dimmed and dark,
Nor mortal, near or far, can mark;
And when his comrade beside him pressed,
Fiercely he smote on his golden crest;
Down to the nasal the helm he shred,
But passed no further, nor pierced his head.
Roland marvelled at such a blow,
And thus bespake him soft and low:
"Hast thou done it, my comrade, wittingly?
Roland who loves thee so dear, am I,
Thou hast no quarrel with me to seek."
Olivier answered, "I hear thee speak,
But I see thee not. God seeth thee.
Have I struck thee, brother? Forgive it me."
"I am not hurt, O Olivier;
And in sight of God, I forgive thee here."
Then each to other his head has laid,
And in love like this was their parting made.
On seeing that his friend has passed away, the heart-broken Roland
again swoons in his saddle, but his intelligent steed stands still
until his master recovers his senses. Gazing around him, Roland now
ascertains that only two other Frenchmen are still alive, and, seeing
one of them severely wounded, he binds up his cuts before plunging
back into the fray, where he accounts for twenty-five pagans, while
the archbishop and the wounded soldier dispose of eleven more.
_Charlemagne Approaches._ The last Frenchmen are fighting madly
against a thousand Moors on foot and four thousand on horseback, when
the spears flung from a distance lay low the wounded man and deal a
mortal wound to the archbishop. But, even while dying, Turpin joins
Roland in declaring they must continue to fight, so that when the
emperor finds their bodies he can see they have piled hundreds of
corpses around them. This resolve is carried out, however, only at the
cost of dire suffering, for the archbishop is dying and Roland's burst
temples cause him intense pain. Nevertheless, he once more puts his
horn to his lips, and draws from it this time so pitiful a blast that,
when it reaches the ears of Charlemagne, he woefully exclaims: "All is
going ill; my nephew Roland will die to-day, for the sound of his horn
is very weak!"
Again bidding his sixty thousand trumpets sound, the emperor urges his
troops to even greater speed, until the noise of his horns and the
tramp of his steeds reaches the pagans' ears and admonishes them to
flee. Realizing that, should Roland survive, the war will continue, a
few Moors make a final frantic attempt to slay him before fleeing.
Seeing them advance for a last onslaught, Roland--who has dismounted
for a moment--again bestrides his steed and, accompanied by the
staggering archbishop, bravely faces them. They, however, only fling
missiles from a distance, until Roland's shield drops useless from his
hand and his steed sinks lifeless beneath him! Then, springing to his
feet, Roland defies these cowardly foes, who, not daring to linger any
longer, turn and flee, crying that Roland has won and Spain is lost
unless the emir comes to their rescue!
_The Last Blessing of the Archbishop._ While the pagans are spurring
towards Saragossa, Roland remains on the battle-field, for, having
lost his steed and being mortally wounded, he cannot attempt to pursue
them. After tenderly removing the archbishop's armor, binding up his
wounds, and placing him comfortably on the ground, Roland brings him
the twelve peers, so he can bless them for the last time. Although
Archbishop Turpin admonishes him to hasten, Roland is so weak, that he
slowly and painfully collects the corpses from mountain and valley,
laying them one by one at the feet of the archbishop, who, with right
hand raised, bestows his blessing. While laying Oliver at Turpin's
feet, Roland faints from grief, so the prelate painfully raises
himself, and, seizing the hero's horn, tries to get down to the brook
to bring him some water. Such is his weakness, however, that he
stumbles and falls dead, face to the ground, before he can fulfil his
kindly intention.
On recovering consciousness and seeing nothing save corpses around
him, Roland exults to think that Charlemagne will find forty dead
Saracens for every slain Frenchman! Then, feeling his brain slowly
ooze out through his ears, Roland--after reciting a prayer for his
dead companions--grasps his sword in one hand and his horn in the
other, and begins to climb a neighboring hill. He tries to reach its
summit because he has always boasted he would die face toward the
enemy, and he longs to look defiance toward Spain until the end.
Painfully reaching the top of this eminence, Roland stumbles and falls
across a Saracen, who has been feigning death to escape capture.
Seeing the dreaded warrior unconscious, this coward seizes his sword,
loudly proclaiming he has triumphed; but, at his first touch,
Roland--recovering his senses--deals him so mighty a blow with his
horn, that the Saracen falls with crushed helmet and skull. Having
thus recovered his beloved Durendal, Roland, to prevent its again
falling into the enemy's hands, vainly tries to break it by hewing at
the rocks around him, but, although he uses all the strength he has
left to deal blows that cut through the stone, the good sword remains
undinted. Full of admiration, Roland then recalls the feats Durendal
has enabled him to perform, and, lying down on the grass, places
beneath him sword and horn, so as to defend them dead as well as
alive! Then, having confessed his sins and recited a last prayer,
Roland holds out his glove toward heaven, in token that he surrenders
his soul to God, and begs that an angel be sent to receive it from his
hand. Thus, lying beneath a pine, his face toward Spain, his last
thoughts for France and for God, Roland dies in the presence of the
angels, who bear his soul off to Paradise.
Roland feeleth his hour at hand;
On a knoll he lies towards the Spanish land.
With one hand beats he upon his breast:
"In thy sight, O God, be my sins confessed.
From my hour of birth, both the great and small,
Down to this day, I repent of all."
As his glove he raises to God on high,
Angels of heaven descend him nigh.