Hero-Myths & Legends of the British Race
seized the imperial spear of tough ash-wood, and broke it, so that
the splinters flew far and wide. In another dream he saw himself at
Aix attacked by a leopard and a bear, which tore off his right arm; a
greyhound came to his aid but he knew not the end of the fray, and
slept unhappily.
A Morning Council
When morning light shone, and the army was ready to march, the
clarions of the host sounded gaily, and Charlemagne called his barons
around him.
"'My lords and Peers, ye see these strait defiles:
Choose ye to whom the rearguard shall be given.'
'My stepson Roland,' straight quoth Ganelon.
''Mid all the Peers there is no braver knight:
In him will lie the safety of your host.'
Charles heard in wrath, and spoke in angry tones:
'What fiendish rage has prompted this advice?
Who then will go before me in the van?'
The traitor tarried not, but answered swift:
'Ogier the Dane will do that duty best.'"
When Roland heard that he was to command the rearguard he knew not
whether to be pleased or not. At first he thanked Ganelon for naming
him. "Thanks, fair stepfather, for sending me to the post of danger.
King Charles shall lose no man nor horse through my neglect." But when
Ganelon replied sneeringly, "You speak the truth, as I know right
well," Roland's gratitude turned to bitter anger, and he reproached
the villain. "Ah, wretch! disloyal traitor! thou thinkest perchance
that I, like thee, shall basely drop the glove, but thou shalt see!
Sir King, give me your bow. I will not let my badge of office fall, as
thou didst, Ganelon, at Cordova. No evil omen shall assail the host
through me."
Roland for the Rearguard
Charlemagne was very loath to grant his request, but on the advice of
Duke Naimes, most prudent of counsellors, he gave to Roland his bow,
and offered to leave with him half the army. To this the champion
would not agree, but would only have twenty thousand Franks from fair
France. Roland clad himself in his shining armour, laced on his lordly
helmet, girt himself with his famous sword Durendala, and hung round
his neck his flower-painted shield; he mounted his good steed
Veillantif, and took in hand his bright lance with the white pennon
and golden fringe; then, looking like the Archangel St. Michael, he
rode forward, and easy it was to see how all the Franks loved him and
would follow where he led. Beside him rode the famous Peers of France,
Oliver the bold and courteous, the saintly Archbishop Turpin, and
Count Gautier, Roland's loyal vassal. They chose carefully the twenty
thousand French for the rearguard, and Roland sent Gautier with one
thousand of their number to search the mountains. Alas! they never
returned, for King Almaris, a Saracen chief, met and slew them all
among the hills; and only Gautier, sorely wounded and bleeding to
death, returned to Roland in the final struggle.
Charlemagne spoke a mournful "Farewell" to his nephew and the
rearguard, and the mighty army began to traverse the gloomy ravine
through the dark masses of rocks, and to emerge on the other side of
the Pyrenees. All wept, most for joy to set eyes on that dear land of
fair France, which for seven years they had not seen; but Charles,
with a sad foreboding of disaster, hid his eyes beneath his cloak and
wept in silence.
Charles is Sad
"What grief weighs on your mind, sire?" asked the wise Duke Naimes,
riding up beside Charlemagne.
"I mourn for my nephew. Last night in a vision I saw Ganelon break my
trusty lance--this Ganelon who has sent Roland to the rear. And now I
have left Roland in a foreign land, and, O God! if I lose him I shall
never find his equal!" And the emperor rode on in silence, seeing
naught but his own sad foreboding visions.
The Saracen Pursuit
Meanwhile King Marsile, with his countless Saracens, had pursued so
quickly that the van of the heathen army soon saw waving the banners
of the Frankish rear. Then as they halted before the strife began, one
by one the nobles of Saragossa, the champions of the Moors, advanced
and claimed the right to measure themselves against the Twelve Peers
of France. Marsile's nephew received the royal glove as chief
champion, and eleven Saracen chiefs took a vow to slay Roland and
spread the faith of Mahomet.
"Death to the rearguard! Roland shall die! Death to the Peers! Woe to
France and Charlemagne! We will bring the Emperor to your feet! You
shall sleep at St. Denis! Down with fair France!" Such were their
confident cries as they armed for the conflict; and on their side no
less eager were the Franks.
"Fair Sir Comrade," said Oliver to Roland, "methinks we shall have a
fray with the heathen."
"God grant it," returned Roland. "Our duty is to hold this pass for
our king. A vassal must endure for his lord grief and pain, heat and
cold, torment and death; and a knight's duty is to strike mighty
blows, that men may sing of him, in time to come, no evil songs.
Never shall such be sung of me."
Oliver Descries the Saracens
Hearing a great tumult, Oliver ascended a hill and looked towards
Spain, where he perceived the great pagan army, like a gleaming sea,
with shining hauberks and helms flashing in the sun. "Alas! we are
betrayed! This treason is plotted by Ganelon, who put us in the rear,"
he cried. "Say no more," said Roland; "blame him not in this: he is my
stepfather."
Now Oliver alone had seen the might of the pagan array, and he was
appalled by the countless multitudes of the heathens. He descended
from the hill and appealed to Roland.
Roland will not Blow his Horn
"'Comrade Roland, sound your war-horn,
Your great Olifant, far-sounding:
Charles will hear it and return here.'
'Cowardice were that,' quoth Roland;
'In fair France my fame were tarnished.
No, these Pagans all shall perish
When I brandish Durendala.'
"'Comrade Roland, sound your war-horn:
Charles will hear it and return here.'
'God forbid it,' Roland answered,
'That it e'er be sung by minstrels
I was asking help in battle
From my King against these Pagans.
I will ne'er do such dishonour
To my kinsmen and my nation.
No, these heathen all shall perish
When I brandish Durendala.'
"'Comrade Roland, sound your war-horn
Charles will hear it and return here.
See how countless are the heathen
And how small our Frankish troop is!'
'God forbid it,' answered Roland,
'That our fair France be dishonoured
Or by me or by my comrades--
Death we choose, but not dishonour!'"
Roland was a valiant hero, but Oliver had prudence as well as valour,
and his advice was that of a good and careful general. Now he spoke
reproachfully.
It is Too Late
"Ah, Roland, if you had sounded your magic horn the king would soon be
here, and we should not perish! Now look to the heights and to the
mountain passes: see those who surround us. None of us will see the
light of another day!"
"Speak not so foolishly," retorted Roland. "Accursed be all cowards,
say I." Then, softening his tone a little, he continued: "Friend and
comrade, say no more. The emperor has entrusted to us twenty thousand
Frenchmen, and not a coward among them. Lay on with thy lance, Oliver,
and I will strike with Durendala. If I die men shall say: 'This was
the sword of a noble vassal.'"
Turpin Blesses the Knights
Then spoke the brave and saintly Archbishop Turpin. Spurring his
horse, he rode, a gallant figure, to the summit of a hill, whence he
called aloud to the Frankish knights:
"'Fair sirs and barons, Charles has left us here
To serve him, or at need to die for him.
See, yonder come the foes of Christendom,
And we must fight for God and Holy Faith.
Now, say your shrift, and make your peace with Heaven;
I will absolve you and will heal your souls;
And if you die as martyrs, your true home
Is ready midst the flowers of Paradise!'"
The Frankish knights, dismounting, knelt before Turpin, who blessed
and absolved them all, bidding them, as penance, to strike hard
against the heathen.
Then Roland called his brother-in-arms, the brave and courteous
Oliver, and said: "Fair brother, I know now that Ganelon has betrayed
us for reward and Marsile has bought us; but the payment shall be made
with our swords, and Charlemagne will terribly avenge us."
"Montjoie! Montjoie!"
While the two armies yet stood face to face in battle array Oliver
replied: "What good is it to speak? You would not sound your horn, and
Charles cannot help us; he is not to blame. Barons and lords, ride on
and yield not. In God's name fight and slay, and remember the war-cry
of our Emperor." And at the words the war-cry of "Montjoie! Montjoie!"
burst from the whole army as they spurred against the advancing
heathen host.
The Fray
Great was the fray that day, deadly was the combat, as the Moors and
Franks crashed together, shouting their cries, invoking their gods or
saints, wielding with utmost courage sword, lance, javelin, scimitar,
or dagger. Blades flashed, lances were splintered, helms were cloven
in that terrible fight of heroes. Each of the Twelve Peers did mighty
feats of arms. Roland himself slew the nephew of King Marsile, who had
promised to bring Roland's head to his uncle's feet, and bitter were
the words that Roland hurled at the lifeless body of his foe, who had
but just before boasted that Charlemagne should lose his right hand.
Oliver slew the heathen king's brother, and one by one the Twelve
Peers proved their mettle on the twelve champions of King Marsile, and
left them dead or mortally wounded on the field. Wherever the battle
was fiercest and the danger greatest, where help was most needed,
there Roland spurred to the rescue, swinging Durendala, and, falling
on the heathen like a thunderbolt of war, turned the tide of battle
again and yet again.
"Red was Roland, red with bloodshed:
Red his corselet, red his shoulders,
Red his arm, and red his charger."
Like the red god Mars he rode through the battle; and as he went he
met Oliver, with the truncheon or a spear in his grasp.
"'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-pommeled?'
'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.'"
The Saracens Perish
Thus the battle continued, most valiantly contested by both sides, and
the Saracens died by hundreds and thousands, till all their host lay
dead but one man, who fled wounded, leaving the Frenchmen masters of
the field, but in sorry plight--broken were their swords and lances,
rent their hauberks, torn and blood-stained their gay banners and
pennons, and many, many of their brave comrades lay lifeless. Sadly
they looked round on the heaps of corpses, and their minds were filled
with grief as they thought of their companions, of fair France which
they should see no more, and of their emperor who even now awaited
them while they fought and died for him. Yet they were not
discouraged; loudly their cry re-echoed, "Montjoie! Montjoie!" as
Roland cheered them on, and Turpin called aloud: "Our men are heroes;
no king under heaven has better. It is written in the Chronicles of
France that in that great land it is our king's right to have valiant
soldiers."
A Second Saracen Army
While they sought in tears the bodies of their friends, the main army
of the Saracens, under King Marsile in person, came upon them; for the
one fugitive who had escaped had urged Marsile to attack again at