A Book of Myths
led to it was so narrow that it must be traversed in single file. The
dangers for the rearguard naturally seemed to Charlemagne to be the
greatest, and to his Douzeperes he turned, as before, for counsel.
"Who, then, shall command the rearguard?" he asked. And quickly
Ganelon answered, "Who but Roland? Ever would he seek the post where
danger lies."
And Charlemagne, feeling he owed much to Ganelon, gave way to his
counsel, though with heavy forebodings in his heart. Then all the
other Douzeperes, save Ganelon, said that for love of Roland they
would go with him and see him safely through the dangers of the way.
Loudly they vaunted his bravery:
"_For dred of dethe, he hid neuer his hed._"
Leaving them behind with twenty thousand men, and with Ganelon
commanding the vanguard, Charlemagne started.
"Christ keep you!" he said on parting with Roland--"_I betak you to
Crist._"
And Roland, clad in his shining armour, his lordly helmet on his head,
his sword Durendala by his side, his horn Olifant slung round him, and
his flower-painted shield on his arm, mounted his good steed
Veillantif, and, holding his bright lance with its white pennon and
golden fringe in his hand, led the way for his fellow-knights and for
the other Franks who so dearly loved him.
Not far from the pass of Roncesvalles he saw, gleaming against the
dark side of the purple mountain, the spears of the Saracens. Ten
thousand men, under Sir Gautier, were sent by Roland to reconnoitre,
but from every side the heathen pressed upon them, and every one of
the ten thousand were slain--hurled into the valley far down below.
Gautier alone, sorely wounded, returned to Roland, to tell him, ere
his life ebbed away, of the betrayal by Ganelon, and to warn him of
the ambush. Yet even then they were at Roncesvalles, and the warning
came too late. Afar off, amongst the beech trees, and coming down
amongst the lonely passes of the mountains, the Franks could see the
gleam of silver armour, and Oliver, well knowing that not even the
most dauntless valour could withstand such a host as the one that came
against them, besought Roland to blow a blast on his magic horn that
Charlemagne might hear and return to aid him. And all the other
Douzeperes begged of him that thus he would call for help. But Roland
would not listen to them.
"I will fight with them that us hathe sought
And or I se my brest blod throughe my harnes ryn
Blow never horn for no help then."
Through the night they knew their enemies were coming ever nearer,
hemming them in, but there were no night alarms, and day broke fair
and still. There was no wind, there was dew on the grass; "dew dymmd
the floures," and amongst the trees the birds sang merrily. At
daybreak the good Bishop Turpin celebrated Mass and blessed them, and
even as his voice ceased they beheld the Saracen host close upon them.
Then Roland spoke brave words of cheer to his army and commended their
souls and his own to Christ, "who suffrid for us paynes sore," and
for whose sake they had to fight the enemies of the Cross. Behind
every tree and rock a Saracen seemed to be hidden, and in a moment the
whole pass was alive with men in mortal strife.
Surely never in any fight were greater prodigies of valour performed
than those of Roland and his comrades. Twelve Saracen kings fell
before their mighty swords, and many a Saracen warrior was hurled down
the cliffs to pay for the lives of the men of France whom they had
trapped to their death. Never before, in one day, did one man slay so
many as did Roland and Oliver his friend--"A Roland for an Oliver" was
no good exchange, and yet a very fair one, as the heathen quickly
learned.
"Red was Roland, red with bloodshed;
Red his corselet, red his shoulders,
Red his arm, and red his charger."
In the thickest of the fight he and Oliver came together, and Roland
saw that his friend was using for weapon and dealing death-blows with
the truncheon of a spear.
"'Friend, what hast thou there?' cried Roland.
'In this game 'tis not a distaff,
But a blade of steel thou needest.
Where is now Hauteclaire, thy good sword,
Golden-hilted, crystal-pommelled?'
'Here,' said Oliver; 'so fight I
That I have not time to draw it.'
'Friend,' quoth Roland, 'more I love thee
Ever henceforth than a brother.'"
When the sun set on that welter of blood, not a single Saracen was
left, and those of the Frankish rearguard who still lived were very
weary men.
Then Roland called on his men to give thanks to God, and Bishop
Turpin, whose stout arm had fought well on that bloody day, offered up
thanks for the army, though in sorry plight were they, almost none
unwounded, their swords and lances broken, and their hauberks rent and
blood-stained. Gladly they laid themselves down to rest beside the
comrades whose eyes never more would open on the fair land of France,
but even as Roland was about to take his rest he saw descending upon
him and his little band a host of Saracens, led by Marsile himself.
A hundred thousand men, untired, and fiercely thirsting for revenge,
came against the handful of wearied, wounded heroes. Yet with
unwavering courage the Franks responded to their leaders' call.
The war-cry of the soldiers of France--"Montjoie! Montjoie!"--rang
clear above the fierce sound of the trumpets of the Saracen army.
"'Soldiers of the Lord,' cried Turpin,
'Be ye valiant and steadfast,
For this day shall crowns be given you
Midst the flowers of Paradise.
In the name of God our Saviour,
Be ye not dismayed nor frighted,
Lest of you be shameful legends
Chanted by the tongues of minstrels.
Rather let us die victorious,
Since this eve shall see us lifeless!--
Heaven has no room for cowards!
Knights, who nobly fight, and vainly,
Ye shall sit among the holy
In the blessed fields of Heaven.
On then, Friends of God, to glory!'"
Marsile fell, the first victim to a blow from the sword of Roland,
and even more fiercely than the one that had preceded it, waged this
terrible fight.
And now it seemed as though the Powers of Good and of Evil also took
part in the fray, for a storm swept down from the mountains, thick
darkness fell, and the rumble of thunder and the rush of heavy rain
dulled the shouts of those who fought and the clash and clang of their
weapons. When a blood-red cloud came up, its lurid light showed the
trampled ground strewn with dead and dying. At that piteous sight
Roland proposed to send a messenger to Charlemagne to ask him for aid,
but it was then too late.
When only sixty Franks remained, the pride of Roland gave way to pity
for the men whom he had led to death, and he took the magic horn
Olifant in his hand, that he might blow on it a blast that would bring
Charlemagne, his mighty army behind him, to wipe out the Saracen host
that had done him such evil. But Oliver bitterly protested. Earlier in
the day, when he had willed it, Roland had refused to call for help.
Now the day was done. The twilight of death--Death the inevitable--was
closing in upon them. Why, then, call now for Charlemagne, when nor he
nor any other could help them? But Turpin with all his force backed
the wish of Roland.
"The blast of thy horn cannot bring back the dead to life," he said.
"Yet if our Emperor return he can save our corpses and weep over them
and bear them reverently to la belle France. And there shall they lie
in sanctuary, and not in a Paynim land where the wild beasts devour
them and croaking wretches with foul beaks tear our flesh and leave
our bones dishonoured."
"That is well said," quoth Roland and Oliver.
Then did Roland blow three mighty blasts upon his horn, and so great
was the third that a blood-vessel burst, and the red drops trickled
from his mouth.
For days on end Charlemagne had been alarmed at the delay of his
rearguard, but ever the false Ganelon had reassured him.
"Why shouldst thou fear, sire?" he asked. "Roland has surely gone
after some wild boar or deer, so fond is he of the chase."
But when Roland blew the blast that broke his mighty heart,
Charlemagne heard it clearly, and no longer had any doubt of the
meaning of its call. He knew that his dreams had come true, and at
once he set his face towards the dire pass of Roncesvalles that he
might, even at the eleventh hour, save Roland and his men.
Long ere Charlemagne could reach the children of his soul who stood in
such dire need, the uncle of Marsile had reached the place of battle
with a force of fifty thousand men. Pierced from behind by a cowardly
lance, Oliver was sobbing out his life's blood. Yet ever he cried,
"Montjoie! Montjoie!" and each time his voice formed the words, a
thrust from his sword, or from the lances of his men, drove a soul
down to Hades. And when he was breathing his last, and lay on the
earth, humbly confessing his sins and begging God to grant him rest in
Paradise, he asked God's blessing upon Charlemagne, his lord the
king, and upon his fair land of France, and, above all other men, to
keep free from scathe his heart's true brother and comrade, Roland,
the gallant knight. Then did he gently sigh his last little measure of
life away, and as Roland bent over him he felt that half of the
glamour of living was gone. Yet still so dearly did he love Aude the
Fair, the sister of Oliver, who was to be his bride, that his muscles
grew taut as he gripped his sword, and his courage was the dauntless
courage of a furious wave that faces all the cliffs of a rocky coast
in a winter storm, when again, he faced the Saracen host.
Of all the Douzeperes, only Gautier and Turpin and Roland now
remained, and with them a poor little handful of maimed men-at-arms.
Soon a Saracen arrow drove through the heart of Gautier, and Turpin,
wounded by four lances, stood alone by Roland's side. But for each
lance thrust he slew a hundred men, and when at length he fell,
Roland, himself sorely wounded, seized once more his horn and blew
upon it a piercing blast:
"... a blast of that dread horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne,
That to King Charles did come,
When Rowland brave, and Olivier,
And every paladin and peer,
On Roncesvalles died."
Sir Walter Scott.
That blast pierced right into the heart of Charlemagne, and
straightway he turned his army towards the pass of Roncesvalles that
he might succour Roland, whom he so greatly loved. Yet then it was too
late. Turpin was nearly dead. Roland knew himself to be dying.
Veillantif, Roland's faithful warhorse, was enduring agonies from
wounds of the Paynim arrows, and him Roland slew with a shrewd blow
from his well-tried sword. From far, far away the hero could hear the
blare of the trumpets of the Frankish army, and, at the sound, what
was left of the Saracen host fled in terror. He made his way, blindly,
painfully, to where Turpin lay, and with fumbling fingers took off his
hauberk and unlaced his golden helmet. With what poor skill was left
to him, he strove to bind up his terrible wounds with strips of his
own tunic, and he dragged him, as gently as he could, to a spot under
the beech trees where the fresh moss still was green.
"'Ah, gentle lord,' said Roland, 'give me leave
To carry here our comrades who are dead,
Whom we so dearly loved; they must not lie
Unblest; but I will bring their corpses here
And thou shalt bless them, and me, ere thou die.'
'Go,' said the dying priest, 'but soon return.
Thank God! the victory is yours and mine!'"
With exquisite pain Roland carried the bodies of Oliver and of the
rest of the Douzeperes from the places where they had died to where