# The book of romance/The Battle of Roncevalles

illustrator: H. J. Ford
THE BATTLE OF RONCEVALLES
About twelve hundred years ago there lived an Emperor of the West whose name was Charles the Great, or, as some called him, Charlemagne, which means Carolus Magnus. When he was not making war he ruled well and wisely at Aix-la-Chapelle, but at the time that this story begins he had been for seven years in Spain, fighting against the Saracens. The whole country had fallen before him, except only Saragossa, a famous town on the river Ebro, not far from the outskirts of the Pyrenees, which was held by the Moorish King Marsile, with a great host.
One hot day Marsile was lying on a cool slab of blue marble which was shaded by overhanging fruit trees, and his nobles were sitting all round him. Suddenly the King sat up, and, turning to his followers, he said:
‘Listen to me, my Lords, for I have something of note to say unto you. Evil days are upon us, for the Emperor of fair France will never rest until he has driven us out of our country, and I have no army wherewith to meet him. Then counsel me, my wise men, how to escape both death and shame.’
At the King’s speech there was silence, for none knew how to reply, till Blancandrin, Lord of Val-Fonde, stood up.
‘Fear nothing,’ he said to the King, ‘but send a messenger to this proud Charles, promising to do him faithful service and asking for his friendship. And let there go with the messenger presents to soften his heart, ​bears and lions, and dogs to hunt them; seven hundred camels and four hundred mules, loaded with gold and silver, so that he shall have money to pay his soldiers. The messenger shall tell him that on the Feast of St. Michael you yourself will appear before him, and suffer yourself to be converted to the faith of Christ, and that you will be his man and do homage to him. If he asks for hostages, well! send ten or twenty, so as to gain his confidence; the sons of our wives. I myself will offer up my own son, even if it leads to his death. Better they should all die, than that we should lose our country and our lands, and be forced to beg till the end of our lives.’ And the nobles answered, ‘He has spoken well.’
King Marsile broke up his Council, and chose out those who were to go on the embassy. ‘My Lords,’ he said, ‘you will start at once on your mission to King Charles, and be sure you take olive branches in your hands, and beg him to have pity on me. Tell him that before a month has passed over his head I will follow you with a thousand of my servants, to receive baptism and do him homage. If, besides, he asks for hostages, they shall be sent.’ ‘It is well,’ said Blancandrin, ‘the treaty is good.’
UNDER A PINE TREE CLOSE TO A SWEET BRIAR ON A SEAT OF GOLD SAT THE KING OF THE FAIR COUNTRY OF FRANCE
Charlmagne
​with his beard white as snow. But his rest was short. Soon came the messengers of the Saracen King, and, descending from their mules, they bowed low before him.
It was Blancandrin who first spoke, showing with his hands the presents he had brought with him, and offering that the King would receive baptism, and do homage for his lands, if only the Emperor Charles would return with his army into France, ‘for,’ said Blancandrin, ‘you have been too long in this country.’
When Blancandrin had spoken, the Emperor sat silent with his head bent, thinking of the words of the Saracen, for never was it his custom to be hasty in his speech. At length he looked up, and a proud look was on his face.
‘You have said well,’ he answered, ‘yet King Marsile is my deadly enemy, and how do I know that I can put my trust in your offers?’
‘You will have hostages,’ replied the Saracen, ‘sons of the highest nobles, and my own son will be among them. And when you have gone back to your own palace, my master will follow you on the Feast of St. Michael, and will be made a Christian in the waters of Aix.’
‘If he does this,’ said Charles, ‘his soul may still be saved,’ and he bade hospitality to be shown to his guests.
Before sunrise next morning the Emperor left his bed, and heard Mass said and Matins sung. Then he seated himself under a pine, and called his Barons to council. Many there were whose names men still remember: Ogier the Dane, and Archbishop Turpin of Rheims, and the brave Count of Gascony, Count Roland, nephew of Charles, and his friend the valiant Oliver. Ganelon was there too, by whom the wrong was to be wrought. As soon as they were all seated, the Emperor spoke and told them afresh what the messengers had said. ‘But Marsile makes one condition,’ continued Charles, ‘which is that I must return to France, where he will come to me as my vassal. Now, does he swear falsely, or can I trust his oath?’ ​‘Let us be very careful how we answer him,’ cried the nobles with one voice.
At that Roland sprang to his feet. ‘It is madness to put faith in Marsile.’ said he; ‘seven years have we been in Spain, and many towns have I conquered for you, but Marsile we have always proved a traitor. Once before he sent us an embassy of Unbelievers each one bearing an olive branch, and they made you the same promises. Once before you called a meeting of your Barons who counselled you to do the thing they knew you wished, and you sent to the Court of the Unbelievers the noble Counts Basil and Bazan. And how did Marsile treat them? He commanded that they should be led into the mountains and that their heads should be cut off, which was done. No! Go on with the war, as you have begun it; march on Saragossa and lay siege to the town, though it should last to the end of your life, and avenge those whom Marsile put to death.’
With bent head the Emperor listened to Roland, twisting all the while his fingers in his moustache. He kept silent, turning over in his mind the things Roland had said, and the nobles kept silence, too, all except Ganelon. For Ganelon rose and stood before Charles and began to speak. ‘Believe none of us,’ he said; ‘think of nothing but your own advantage when Marsile offers to become your vassal, and to do homage for the whole of Spain, and to receive baptism besides; he who wishes you to reject such offers cares nothing for the deaths the rest of us may die. Pay no attention to such madness, but listen to your wise men.’
He sat down in his place, and then the Duke Naimes took up his words. ‘You have heard,’ he said to Charles, the words of Ganelon. Wise council, if we only follow it! Marsile knows that he is conquered at last. You have won his towns, and vanquished him in battle, and he is reduced to beg for your pity. It would be shameful to ask for anything further, and the more so as you ​have hostages as pledges of his good faith. It is time that the war ended; therefore send him one of your Barons to speak with him face to face.’ And the nobles answered, ‘The Duke has spoken well.’
‘Noble Lords, what envoy shall we send to King Marsile at Saragossa?’ ‘I will go, if it is your pleasure,’ said Duke Naimes. ‘Give me your glove and the wand of office.’ ‘No,’ replied Charles, ‘your wisdom is great, and I cannot spare you from my side. Remain where you are, I command you.’
‘Let me go,’ cried Roland. ‘No, no,’ answered Count Oliver; ‘you are too hasty and too imprudent. You would only fall into some trap. With the King’s good leave I will go instead.’
‘Hold your peace,’ said Charles, shaking his head; ‘you will neither of you go. None of my twelve peers shall be chosen.’
Then Turpin of Rheims left his seat and spoke to Charles with his loud and ringing voice. ‘Fair King, give your Franks a little peace. For seven years you have been in Spain, and your Barons have all that time been fighting and suffering. It is now, sire, that the glove and the wand of office should be given. I will go and visit this Unbeliever, and will tell him in what scorn I hold him.’ But the Emperor, full of rage, cried out, ‘By my beard, you will stop with me. Go to your place on the white carpet, and give me none of your advice unless I ask for it.’
‘Good Frankish Knights,’ said Charles, ‘choose me a Baron from my own land, who shall be envoy to King Marsile, and who, at need, can fight well.’
‘Ah,’ cried Roland, ‘let it be Ganélon, my stepfather; you will not find a better man.’ ‘Yes,’ said the Franks, ‘he is the man; let him go if the King pleases.’
‘Ganélon,’ commanded the King, ‘come here and I will give you the glove and the wand of office. It is the voice of the Barons that has chosen you,’
​‘No,’ replied Ganélon, ‘it is Roland’s doing, and to the end of my life I will bear him hatred for it. Oliver also will I hate, since Oliver is his friend. And never more will I love the twelve peers, for they love him. Under your own eyes, sire, I throw down my challenge.’
‘You are angry about nothing,’ said the King, ‘and as I have commanded you, you will go.’
‘I can go, but it will be my death, as it was the death of Basil and of his brother Bazan. Who goes there, returns not. But, sire, do not forget that your sister is my wife and that I have a son Baldwin, who, if he lives, will be the bravest of the brave. To him I leave all my lands. Guard him well, for I shall see him no more.’
‘Your heart is too tender,’ said Charles, ‘but there is no help for it, you must go.’
At the words of the King, Ganélon flung his fur mantle to the ground in fury. ‘It is to you,’ he cried, turning to Roland, ‘that I owe this peril. I am your stepfather, and that is reason enough that you send me to lose my head at the Court of King Marsile. Let it be so; but if ever I return I will bring on you such trouble that it will only end with your life.’
‘You talk like a madman,’ said Roland. ‘All men know that I care nothing for threats. But it needs a wise man to go on such a mission, and if the King pleases, I will go in your place.’
‘You will not go in my place,’ answered Ganelon. ‘I am not your vassal, to do as you bid me. Charles has commanded me to go to Saragossa, therefore to Saragossa I go. But beware of what I do when I get there.’
At this Roland began to laugh, and when Ganélon saw him laughing, it seemed as if his heart would burst with anger. ‘I hate you,’ he muttered to Roland. ‘I should never have been chosen but for you. Great Emperor,’ he said aloud to Charles, ‘behold me ready to obey your orders.’
‘Listen, fair Count,’ replied Charles, ‘for this is the
MARSILE THREATENS GANELON WITH A JAVELIN
​message I would have you bear to King Marsile, If he agrees to become my vassal, and to receive Holy Baptism, I will give him half of Spain as a fief. The other half will be held by Roland, my nephew. If these terms do not please King Marsile, I will myself besiege Saragossa, and will take him and bind him in chains. Then he shall be brought to Aix, where he shall be put to a shameful death. So take this letter which is sealed with my seal, and give it into the hand of the Infidel.’ When Ganelon had put the letter in safety, the King held out to him his glove, but the Count was not quick to seize it, and it fell to the ground. ‘Heavens,’ cried the Franks who were standing round, ‘how dreadful an omen! This message will be the cause of dire misfortunes.’ ‘I will send you news of them,’ Ganélon answered. And he said to Charles, ‘Let me depart, sire, as I must go. I wish to lose no time.’
‘Go then,’ replied the King, making over him the sign of the cross and giving him the wand of office. And Ganélon went.
It was not long before he overtook the Saracens, who had lingered, hoping he might join them, and Blancandrin began to sing the praises of Charles and his conquests. ‘He is a wonderful man,’ answered Ganélon, ‘and of such a strong will that no man may strive against it.’
‘How brave are these Franks,’ went on Blancandrin; ‘but your nobles were ill-advised in the counsel they gave the King upon this matter. It bodes evil to Charles and to many beside him.’
‘None of them merit this blame,’ said Ganelon, ‘save Roland only, and the shame will be on his head. His pride is so great that he thinks no sword can touch him, but until he is really dead peace we can never have.’ Here the Saracen glanced at Ganélon beside him. ‘He is a fine man,’ thought he, ‘but there is cunning in his eye,’ and then Blancandrin spoke. ‘Let us understand each other plainly,’ he said; ‘is it your wish to be ​avenged of Roland? Then, by the beard of Mahomet, deliver him into our hands. King Marsile is a generous master, and knows how to repay those who serve him.’ Ganélon heard his words, and bent his head in silence.
But the silence did not last long: before they had arrived at Saragossa, Ganélon had made an agreement with Blancandrin, that they would find some means of causing Roland to perish. This decided, they rode through the gates of the town, and dismounted from their horses. In the shadow of a pine, a throne was placed covered with soft silk from Alexandria, and on it sat he who was once the master of the whole of Spain. Twenty thousand Saracens stood, around him, but not a sound was made, so eager they were to hear Charles’s answer. Blancandrin advanced to the King’s throne, leading Ganélon by the wrist. ‘Greeting, great King,’ said he; ‘we delivered your message to Charles, and he raised his two hands to heaven, and answered nothing. But he has sent you one of his great Lords, and he will tell you if it is peace or no peace.’
‘Let him speak,’ replied Marsile, ‘and we will listen.’
Ganélon waited a little before he spoke, for he knew that one careless word might prove his own ruin. ‘Greeting,’ he said, when at last he had made ready his speech. ‘This is the message sent you by Charlemagne. You must receive Holy Baptism, and Charles will allow you to do homage for half of Spain. The other half he gives to Roland, his nephew, and a proud neighbour you will find him. If these terms do not please you, he will lay siege to Saragossa, and will seize your person, and carry you to Aix, the capital of the Empire, where you will die a shameful death.’ When he heard this, Marsile trembled with rage, and drawing a dart he would have thrown it at Ganélon had not someone held him from behind. Ganélon looked on, his hand on his sword, which he drew a little from its scabbard. ‘Sword,’ said he, ‘you are sharp and bright. While I wear you at the Court of ​this King, the Emperor can never say that I have died alone in a foreign land. But before I die you shall drink the blood of the best in his army.’
The Infidels who were standing by prayed Marsile to go back to his seat in order that the matter might be decided. ‘You put yourself in the wrong,’ said the old Caliph, ‘when you wish to strike this Frank.’
‘Sire,’ answered Ganélon, ‘I will suffer this insult patiently, but not all the treasure of your kingdom should hinder my delivering the message of my master.’ With that he threw from his shoulders his mantle of zibeline, but kept light hold of his sword. ‘See,’ said the Saracens, ‘did you ever behold a prouder warrior?’ Ganélon drew near the King and repeated the message that Charles had given him. When he had finished he held out the letter, and Marsile, who had studied in the best schools of learning, broke the seal and read it to himself. ‘Listen to this, my Lords,’ he cried, ‘and say if ever you heard such madness! Charles bids me think of Basil and Bazan, whose heads I cut off, up there in the mountains. And if I wish my own life to be spared, I am to send him my uncle, the Caliph, to deal with as he thinks fit.’ The Saracens heard the message in grim silence, which was broken by the voice of the King’s son. ‘Ganélon must be mad indeed to give such a message as that,’ said he, ‘and he deserves death for his boldness. Deliver him to me, and I will do justice on him.’ Ganélon understood his words but said nothing, only he quietly placed his back against a pine tree, and played with the hilt of his sword.
King Marsile rose and went into his orchard, followed by his best councillors, Jorfalon his son, his uncle the Caliph, and others whom he most trusted. ‘Summon the Frank also,’ Blancandrin whispered in his ear, ‘for he has promised to throw in his lot with us.’ ‘Bring him,’ answered the King, and Blancandrin brought him into the orchard, where the web of treason was woven. ​‘Noble Ganélon,’ said Marsile, ‘I acted foolishly towards you just now, when, in my anger, I sought to strike you. Let me offer you the mantle of marten fur in amends. It has just arrived from a far country, and is worth five hundred pounds in gold.’ ‘I accept it gladly,’ replied Ganelon as the King hung the cloak round his neck, ‘and may you be rewarded in as splendid a gift!’
‘Ganélon,’ continued the King, ‘I wish you to be my friend, though it will not be wise to show you openly my good will. Tell me about Charlemagne, and whether what I have heard of him is really the truth. They say he is very old, nearly two hundred years, and that he has wandered from one country to another and been in the thick of every fight, and has made the most powerful Kings beggars. When will he grow tired of all these wars? It is time that he rested himself at Aix.’
‘No,’ said Ganelon, ‘those who told you that Charlemagne was like that did not speak truly. My tongue could never tell of his goodness and his honour towards all men. Who could ever paint what Charlemagne is? I would rather die than leave his service.’
‘What you say is wonderful,’ replied Marsile, ‘but after all he has done, will repose never seem sweet to him?’
‘Not while his nephew Roland lives,’ said Ganelon. ‘There is not such a fighter under heaven, and his comrade Oliver is famous also for his prowess. The twelve peers whom the Emperor so dearly loves, with twenty thousand picked men from the van of the army—truly Charlemagne may rest in peace, and fear no man.’
‘Fair Lord,’ answered Marsile, ‘my subjects are the finest you can see, and at any moment I can summon four hundred thousand men to give battle to Charlemagne.’
‘You will not conquer him this time,’ said Ganelon, ‘and in a fight thousands of your soldiers would be killed. Hear my counsel. Send Charles yet more gold and ​silver, and offer twenty other hostages, on condition he returns himself to France, leaving his rear-guard behind him. This, being the post of danger, will be claimed by his nephew Roland, whose comrade Oliver is always by his side. It will be easy to manage that the two Counts shall meet their deaths, and Roland and Oliver once dead the King will have no more heart for war.’
‘Fair Lord,’ replied Marsile, ‘what shall I have to do in order to kill Roland?’
‘That I can easily tell you,’ answered Ganelon. ‘When Charlemagne has passed safely through the mountains, with the most part of his soldiers, his baggage and his hostages, then have a hundred thousand of your Infidels ready to fall upon Roland and his rear-guard of twenty thousand men. The Franks will fight hard, but they cannot stand against such numbers, though of their foes many will be left upon the field. Then lose not a moment, but give them battle a second time. They will be too few and too weak to fight long, and for the rest of your life you will have peace. If you kill Roland, you will have cut off the Emperor’s right arm. Farewell to the splendid armies of the Franks; never more will such forces be gathered together; never will Charles wear again his golden crown, but all Spain shall be in peace.’
Marsile heard the words of Ganélon, and stooped and kissed his neck, and ordered his costhest treasures to be brought before him. Then he said: ‘There is no further need of speech between us; swear that I shall find him in the rear-guard, and I shall swear that you shall have your revenge.’ And Ganélon swore. But Marsile was not content with the oath that Ganélon made. He commanded that a copy of the Koran should be brought, the sacred book of Mahomet, and placed it on a chair of ivory, which stood under an olive tree. With his hand on the book Marsile also took his oath, that if among the rear-guard of Charlemagne’s army he found Roland, he would fall upon him with all his host and compass his ​death, and that of the twelve peers of France. So the bond of treachery was sealed. Then the Infidels crowded round, and one offered Ganélon his sword, and another his helmet, while the Queen brought bracelets of precious stones as gifts for his wife. Marsile asked his treasurer if he had made ready the presents that were to be sent to Charles, and pressing Ganélon in his arms, he declared that not a day should pass without his friend likewise receiving presents, if only he would give his help in the slaying of Roland. ‘You keep me too long,’ was Ganélon’s answer, and he mounted his horse and went.
All this while the Emperor Charles was marching towards France, but he halted at a small town which long ago had been taken by Roland, waiting till he heard some tidings of Ganélon, and received the news that Marsile had agreed to do homage for Spain. At length, one morning at dawn, a messenger came to the King’s tent telling him that Ganélon had arrived, and Charles hastened forth with Roland and Oliver, Duke Naimes and a thousand more, to meet Ganélon. ‘Greeting,’ said the traitor, bowing low; ‘I bring you the keys of Saragossa, and twenty hostages, and great gifts. The noble King Marsile beseeches you not to blame him, because the Caliph, his uncle, has not come with me. I have seen—seen with my own eyes—three hundred thousand men all covered with armour sail away in ships with the Caliph for their leader, because they could neither defend their own faith nor forswear it. But hardly were they out of sight of land than a fierce tempest overtook them, and they were all lost. The Caliph must have died with the rest, or the King would have bade him come with me. As to the King himself, sire, before a month has passed he will be in France, ready to receive baptism in your presence. And he will become your vassal, and do homage for the kingdom of Spain.’
‘You have done wisely,’ said Charles, ‘and your reward shall be great.’ So trumpets were sounded and tents ​were struck, and the host marched with gaiety in their hearts to France the Fair.
‘My war is finished,’ said the King, as his army gladly
turned their backs on Spain, and at nightfall spread their tents and slept till day began. But little he knew that four hundred thousand Unbelievers, with shields slung ​from their necks and swords in their hands, were riding silently through the mountain passes with the intent of hiding themselves in a wood till the moment came. There they were, and the Franks knew nothing of it, nor what would come.
Charles slept, and in his sleep he dreamed that Ganélon took his stout lance of ash wood from his hands and brandished it in the air, then broke it with his fists. After this dream came another. He was no longer shut fast in by the mountains, but was at home in France, standing in his chapel at Aix. Here a bear appeared before him and bit so deep into his arm that it reached the bone. Then from the other side, from the Ardennes, there sprang a leopard and would have torn him in pieces, had not a greyhound come to his aid, and attacked first the bear and then the leopard. ‘A fight! a fight!’ cried the Franks, but they knew not which would be victorious. And all the while Charles slept soundly. With the dawn a thousand horns awoke the sleepers, and the clamour of a camp began. ‘My Lords,’ said Charles, calling all his Barons together, ‘you see these narrow defiles through which we must pass? To whom shall I give the command of the rear-guard which must protect the rest of my army?’
‘To Roland, to Roland my stepson,’ cried Ganélon. ‘No Knight is so brave as he, and we may trust to him the safety of our host.’ Charles listened and looked him in the face. ‘You must be the devil himself,’ he said, ‘for you seem as if your body was shaken by some evil passion. If Roland goes to the rear, who then shall command the van?’
‘Ogier, the Dane,’ answered Ganélon. ‘There is no better man.’
When Count Roland heard his name he pressed forward. ‘Fair stepfather, I owe you much love for proposing me to lead the rear-guard of the army. Charles the King shall lose nothing through me; not a horse or a ​mule shall fall till his price is paid in blows received by the Infidels.’ ‘You speak well,’ said Ganelon, ‘and what you say is true.’
Then Roland turned to Charlemagne: ‘Give me, King, the bow which you hold in your hand. I will promise not to let it fall, as Ganélon did your glove.’
But the King sat silent, with his head bent, and tears ran down his cheeks. At last Naimes drew near and spoke to hm, and among them all Charles had no more faithful friend. ‘You have heard, sire, what Count Roland said. If he is to lead the rear-guard—and there is no man that can do it better—give him the bow that you have drawn, for which he asks.’ So the King gave it to him, and Roland took it gladly. ‘Fair nephew,’ said the King, ‘I wish to leave half of my army behind with you; keep it close to you, it will be your safeguard.’
‘No,’ answered the Count; ‘to accept the half of your army would be to shame my race. Leave me twenty thousand Franks, and you will pass the defiles in safety. While I live you need fear no man.’ Quickly Count Roland girded on his armour, girded on his sword Durendal, the comrade of many fights, and mounted his horse Veillantif, whom all men knew. ‘We will follow you to death,’ cried the Franks as they saw him. But Roland answered them nothing. The first to come to his side was Oliver, his old companion, then Turpin the Archbishop, the Count Gautier, and many more, and after that they chose twenty thousand men, the best that Charles had with him. Some of them he sent, under Count Gautier, to drive the Unbelievers from the hilltop, and that same day they fought a fierce battle. And while Charles and his army entered the pass of Roncevalles, Roland took up his ground and prepared for the fight, which he knew must come shortly. And Ganélon, the traitor, knew it too.
High were the mountains, and dark the valleys; terrible were the defiles amidst the black rocks. The army ​marched slowly and with great difficulty; fifteen miles away you could hear the sound of their tramping. But when they caught sight of Gascony, of France, where they had left their homes and their wives, there was not a man among them who did not weep for happiness. Charles alone shed tears of sorrow, for he thought of his nephew in the passes of Spain. ‘Ganélon has betrayed us,’ said he to Duke Kaimes, ‘and he has betrayed Roland too. It was he who caused him to stay behind with the rear-guard, and if I lose him—God! I shall never find such another.’
The nephew of Marsile had craved a boon, that he and eleven of his comrades should measure themselves against the Twelve Peers of France, and that none but himself should strike the first blow at Roland. The noblest subjects of Marsile flocked at his call, and a gay show they made when ready for battle, and mounted on horses as eager for the fray as themselves. So great was the noise that the sound reached even to the French camp. ‘I think, comrade, that it will not be long before we fight with the Saracens,’ said Oliver.
‘May it be as you say,’ answered Roland; ‘it is our duty to make a stand here for the King, as one should be ready to suffer all pains for one’s liege lord. For him one must endure heat and cold, hunger and thirst, and strike hard blows with all one’s might, and take heed that no evil song can be made on us after we are dead. The right is on the side of the Christians. Look to yourselves, for you will never see a bad example from me.’
THE BATTLE
Oliver had climbed a hill, from which he could see into the plains of Spain. ‘Roland,’ cried he, ‘do you see those shining helmets and glittering swords? It is Ganélon who has done this, and it was he who had you left here.’
‘Be silent, Oliver,’ answered Roland. ‘He is my stepfather. I will not hear him ill spoken of.’ Then Oliver went down the hill and told his soldiers what he had seen. ‘No battle will ever be like this one,’ he said; ‘you will need all your strength to keep your ground and not be driven back.’ ‘Cursed be he who runs away,’ answered they. ‘There is not one of us but knows how to die.’
‘The Infidels are many,’ said Oliver again, ‘and our Franks are but few. Koland, blow your horn; Charles will hear it and come to our help.’
‘You are mad to say that,’ replied Roland, ‘for in France I should lose all my glory. No; but my sword Durendal knows how to strike, and our Franks will fight hard, and with what joy! It was an ill day for the Unbelievers when they came here, for none, I tell you, none will escape.’
‘The Unbelievers are many,’ said Oliver again, ‘and we are very few. Roland, my friend, sound your horn; Charles will hear it, and come to our help.’
‘I should be mad if I did so,’ answered Roland. ‘In France, when they knew it, I should lose all my glory! No; but my sword Durendal knows how to strike, and ​our Franks will fight hard, and with what joy! It was an ill day for the Unbelievers when they came here, for none, I tell you, none will escape death.’
‘Roland, I pray you sound your horn, and Charles will hear it as he passes the defiles, and the Franks, I will swear it, will come to our help.’
‘Now God forbid,’ said Roland, ‘that through me my parents should be shamed, or that I should bring dishonour on the fair land of France. No; but my sword Durendal knows how to strike. The Unbelievers have come to their death, and they will find it.’
‘I see no dishonour,’ said Oliver. ‘With my own eyes have I beheld the Saracens of Spain; the mountains and the valleys alike are full of them. And how few are we!’
‘Then we shall have the more fighting,’ answered Roland. ‘God forbid that I should turn my Franks into cowards! Rather death than dishonour. The more we kill, the better the Emperor will love us.’
Roland was brave, but Oliver was wise also, and the souls of both were as high as their words. ‘Look round you, and think for a moment,’ said Oliver; ‘they are close to us, and Charles is far. Ah! if you would only have sounded your horn, the King would have been here, and our troops would not have been in danger. The poor rear-guard will never more be again such as it is to-day.’
‘You speak foolishly,’ answered Roland. ‘Cursed be he whose heart is afraid. We will be strong to hold our ground. From us will come the blows, from us the battle.’
When Roland saw that he must give battle to the Infidels, he called his Franks and bade Oliver stand beside him. ‘Do not say these things, my friend and comrade,’ said he. ‘The Emperor has left us twenty thousand picked men, with not one craven heart amongst them. For our liege lord, one must be ready to suffer cold and heat, hunger and thirst, and cheerfully shed his blood and endure every ill. Strike with your lance, Oliver, ​as I shall strike with Durendal, the sword which was given me by the King himself. And if I am slain, the man who wins it may say, “it was the sword of a noble vassal.”’
Then from a little hill Turpin the Archbishop spoke to them. ‘Charles has left us here; he is our King, and it is our duty to die for him. Christianity is in danger, and you must defend it. You cannot escape a battle; then fight, and ask God’s pardon for your sins. In His Name, I will give you absolution, and already they wait for you in Paradise.’ The Franks got off their horses and knelt on the ground, and the Archbishop blessed them. After this they mounted again, and placed themselves in order of battle.
Like lightning Roland on his horse Veillantif swept along the defiles, his face bright and smiling, his lance in rest. Oliver his friend was close behind him, and the Franks said to each other, ‘Look at our champion!’ He glanced proudly at the Infidels, but when his eyes fell upon the Franks they were soft and gentle. ‘Go slowly, noble Barons,’ said he; ‘the Unbelievers to-day are seeking their martyrdom, and you will find richer booty than ever King of France did before.’
‘Words of mine are useless,’ said Oliver; ‘you would not let Charles know of our peril, so you cannot blame him for our danger. Ride as hard as you can, and think only of two things, how best to give and receive blows. And do not forget the battle cry of King Charles.’
‘Montjoie! Montjoie!’ shouted the Franks, as the two armies came together with a crash.
It were long to tell of that battle and of the brave deeds that were done both by Christians and Unbelievers. Roland was there where the strife was hardest, and struck with his lance till the wood snapped. Then he drew Durendal from the scabbard and drove a bloody path through the ranks of the Infidels. Oliver and the Twelve Peers were not far behind him, and the ground was ​red from the corpses of the pagans. ‘Well fought, Well fought!’ cried the Archbishop, ‘Montjoie, Montjoie!’
Oliver seemed to be everywhere at once. His lance was broken in two, and there was only the head and a splinter remaining, but it dealt more death blows than the sword of many another man. ‘What are you doing, comrade?’ cried Roland, when for a moment their horses touched. ‘It is not wood that is needed in this battle, but well-tempered steel! Where is your sword Hauteclair, with its guard of gold and its handle of crystal?’
‘I have no time to draw it,’ said Oliver. ‘There are too many blows to strike.’
Fiercer and fiercer grew the combat; thicker and thicker the corpses lay on the ground. Who could count the Franks who were stretched there, never more to see their wives or their mothers, or the comrades that awaited them in the defiles? But the number of the dead Saracens was greater even than theirs. And while they fought on Spanish soil, a strange tempest arose in France, thunder and wild winds, and a trembling of the earth; walls fell down, and at mid-day there was darkness. Men whispered to each other, ‘It is the end of the world,’ No, no; the end of all things was not yet, it was nature mourning for the death of Roland. At length the Saracens turned and fled, and the Franks pursued them, and Margaris the Valiant was left alone. His lance was broken, his shield pierced with holes, his sword-blade bloody, while he himself was sorely wounded. Heavens! what a warrior he would have made if he had only been a Christian. He rode fast to Marsile the King, and cried to him to mount his horse, and rally his men, and bring up fresh soldiers to deal the Franks a last blow, while they were exhausted from the long fight. ‘It will be easy to revenge the thousands that they have slain,’ said he; ‘but if you let them slip now the tide of battle may turn against us.’
The King Marsile sent for fresh forces, and at sight ​of them the Franks embraced each other for the last time, while the Archbishop promised them a speedy entrance into Paradise, ‘The Emperor will avenge the treachery of Ganelon,’ cried Roland, ‘whether we live or die, but the worst part of the fight is before us, and we shall need all our strength to beat back the Unbelievers. They must not tell tales of cowardice in the fair land of France.’ Then they spurred their horses and advanced in line, crying ‘Montjoie! Montjoie!’
‘Count Roland is not as other men,’ said King Marsile, ‘and as he is not content with two battles, we will give him a third. To-day Charles will cease to have power over Spain, and France will bow her head with shame.’ And he gave his orders to the vanguard to go forward, while he himself waited on a little hill till the moment came to charge. Fierce was the shock as the two armies met, and bravely did their leaders fight, hand to hand and sword to sword. None struck harder than Turpin the Archbishop, who cursed his foes as he bore them from their saddles. ‘He fights well,’ said the Franks who watched his blows. But the Franks had fought long, and were faint and weary. They had lost much blood, and their arms were weak to strike. ‘See how our brothers fall,’ they whispered one to another, and Roland heard their groans, and his heart was near breaking. Thousands lay dead, thousands more were wounded, but still the battle went on. Horses without riders wandered about the field neighing for their masters. Then Marsile bade the trumpets sound, and his army gathered round the great standard with the Dragon, borne by a Saracen named Abimus. When Turpin the Archbishop caught sight of him, he dashed straight towards the banner, and with one blow of his mighty sword stretched the Unbeliever dead on the ground before the Dragon. ‘Montjoie! Montjoie!’ he cried, and the Franks heard, and said one to the other, ‘Heaven send that Charles has many like him!’ The lances ​of the Franks were broken, and their shiekls were for the most part split in two, but three hundred naked swords still were left to deal blows at the shining helmets of the Infidels. ‘Help! help! King!’ cried the Saracens, and Marsile heard, and answered, ‘Better die than flee before these Franks. Let no one think of himself, but all press round Roland. If Roland dies, Charles is conquered. If Roland lives, all is over for us!’ But Roland, with Oliver at his side, swept a clear space with Durendal, and none might come near him; the Archbishop kept his enemies at bay with his lance. Four times the Franks endured the shock of the onset, but at the fifth they were borne down by numbers, and now only sixty remained upon the ground.
Then Roland turned to Oliver and said, ‘Fair sir and dearest friend, well may we pity France who will henceforth be widowed of such brave warriors. Charles, my King, why do you not come to us? Oliver, tell me, how can we let him know what straits we are in?’ ‘There is no way,’ said Oliver, ‘and death rather than dishonour.’
‘I will sound my horn,’ said Roland, ‘and Charles will hear, and come back through the defiles. I know that the Franks will retrace their steps and come to our aid.’
‘That would be a shameful thing for them,’ replied Oliver; ‘all our kinsfolk would blush for us for ever, and we should likewise blush for ourselves. When I begged you to do it you would not, and now the time is past.’
‘The battle is sore,’ said Roland, ‘I shall sound the horn, and Charles will hear it.’
‘You refused to do it while yet there was time,’ answered Oliver. ‘If the Emperor had come then, so many of our best warriors would not be lying dead before us. It is not his fault that he is not here. But if you sound the horn now, I will never give you my sister, the fair Aude, for your wife.’
‘Why do you bear such malice?’ said Roland.
‘It is your fault,’ answered Oliver. ‘Courage and
ROLAND WINDS HIS HORN IN THE VALLEY OF RONCESVALLES
​madness are not the same thing, and prudence is always better than fury. If so many Franks lie dead, it is your folly which has killed them, and now we can no longer serve the Emperor. If you would have listened to me, Charles would have been here, and Marsile and his Saracens would have been slain. Your courage, Roland, has cost us dear! For yourself, you will be killed and France be covered with dishonour. And before night falls our friendship will be ended.’ Then he wept, and Roland wept also.
The Archbishop had been near, and heard their words. ‘Do not quarrel at this hour,’ he said. ‘Your horn could not save them now. Charles is too far; it would take him too long to come. Yet sound it, for he will return and avenge himself on the Unbelievers. And they will take our bodies and put them on biers, and lay them on horses, and will bury us with tears of pity among the mountains, building up high walls round us, so that the dogs and the wild boar shall not devour us.’ ‘What you say is good,’ answered Roland, and he lifted his horn, and its mighty voice rang through the mountains, and Charles heard the echo thirty miles away. ‘Our men are fighting,’ he cried, but Ganélon answered, ‘If another man had said that, we should have called him a liar.’ Count Roland was sorely wounded and the effort to sound the horn caused the blood to pour from his mouth. But he sounded it once more, and the echoes leaped far. Charles heard it in the defiles, and all his Franks heard it too. ‘It is Roland’s horn,’ said the King, ‘and he is fighting.’
‘He is not fighting,’ answered Ganélon; ‘you are old, and your words are those of a child. Beside, you know how great is the pride of Roland; it is a marvel that God has suffered him to live so long. For a hare, Roland would sound his horn all day, and at this moment he is most likely laughing with his Twelve Peers over the fright he has caused us. And again, who is there who ​would dare to attack Roland? No one. March on, sire; why make halt? France is still distant.’
Count Roland suffered grievous pain and a great wound was across his forehead. He sounded his horn for the third time, and Charles and his Franks heard it. ‘That horn carries far,’ said he, and Naimes answered, ‘It is Roland who is calling for help. A battle is going on; some one has betrayed him. Quick, sire, he has called often enough. Sound your war-cry and hasten to his help.’ Then the Emperor ordered his trumpets to be sounded, and his army gathered itself together and girded on their armour with what speed they might, and each man said to the other, ‘If only we are in time to save Roland from death, what blows we will strike for him.’ Alas, they are too late, too late!
But before the march back there was something for the Emperor to do. He sent for his head cook to appear in his presence, and he delivered the traitor Ganélon into his custody, and told him to treat his prisoner as he liked, for he had shown himself unworthy to mix with warriors. So the head cook did as he pleased with him, and beat him with sticks and put a heavy chain about his neck. And thus he guarded him till Charles came back.
How tall the mountains seemed to the returning army! how deep the valleys, and how swift the streams! but all the while the trumpets were sounded, that Roland might hear them and take heart. And as he rode, Charles had only one thought, ‘If Roland is slain, shall I find one man alive?’
Roland stood looking at the mountains and at the plains, and wherever his eyes fell his dead comrades lay before him. Loudly he mourned their loss, and then he turned to Oliver, saying, ‘Brother, we must die here with the rest of the Franks.’ He spurred his horse and blew his horn, and dashed into the ranks of the foe, shouting ‘Montjoie! Montjoie!’ The remnant that was left closed eagerly round him, and the battle-cries were fierce ​and loud. If Marsile and his host fled before them, others not less valiant remained behind, and Roland knew that the hour of his doom was come. And in valour, Oliver was no whit behind him, but flung himself into the thickest of the battle. It was the Caliph who gave Oliver his death blow. ‘Charles made a mistake when he left you to guard these defiles,’ said he, ‘but your life will pay for many that you have slain.’ But Oliver was not dead yet, and the taunt of the Caliph stung his blood. With all the strength he had left, he swung his sword Hauteclair on high, and it came down upon the Caliph’s helmet with a crash, cleaving it clean through. ‘Ah, pagan,’ said he, ‘you will never boast now of the prizes you have taken in battle.’ Then ‘Roland! Roland!’ he cried, and Roland came. When he saw Oliver before him, livid and bleeding, he swayed on his horse as if he should faint. Oliver’s sight was weak and troubled from loss of blood, and not hearing Roland’s voice he mistook him for an enemy, and struck him a hard blow on his helmet. This blow restored Roland to his senses, and he sat upright. ‘My friend,’ said he, ‘why have you done this? I am Roland, who loves you well, and never did I think you could lift your hand against me.’
‘I hear you,’ answered Oliver, ‘I hear you speak, but I cannot see you. If I have struck you, forgive me, for I knew it not.’
‘I forgive you from my heart,’ said Roland, and they embraced each other for the last time.
The agony of death was falling upon Oliver; his sight had failed, his hearing was fast failing too. Slowly he dismounted from his horse and laid himself painfully on the ground, making, in a loud voice, the confession of his sins. Then he prayed God to bless Charlemagne, fair France, and Roland his friend, and after that his soul left him. And Roland returned and found him dead, and wept for him bitterly. At last he stood up ​and looked around. Of all the twenty thousand men, not one was left except himself, and Turpin and Gautier. And these three placed themselves shoulder to shoulder, and sent many an Infidel to join his dead brothers. But the wounds they received in their bodies were without number, and at length the Archbishop tottered and fell. But they had not slain him yet; with a mighty struggle he rose to his feet and looked round for Roland. ‘I am not conquered yet,’ he said; ‘a brave man dies but never surrenders.’ Then with his good sword he rushed into the mêlée dealing death around him. Roland fought as keenly as his friend, but the moments seemed long till Charles brought them help. Again he sounded his horn, though the wound in his head burst out afresh with his effort. And the Emperor heard it, and stopped for an instant on his march. ‘My Lords,’ he said, ‘things are going badly with us; we shall lose my nephew Roland to-day, for I know by the way he blows his horn that he has not long to live. Spur your horses, for I would fain see him before he dies. And let every trumpet in the army sound its loudest!’ The Unbelievers heard the noise of the trumpets, which echoed through the mountains and valleys, and they whispered fearfully to each other, ‘It is Charles who is coming, it is Charles!’ It was their last chance, and a band of their best warriors rode straight at Roland. At that sight the strength rushed back into his veins, and he waited for them proudly. ‘I will fight beside you,’ he said to Turpin, ‘and till I am dead I will never leave you. Let them strike as hard as they will; Durendal knows how to strike back.’
‘Shame be upon every man who does not fight his best,’ answered the Archbishop, ‘for this is our last battle. Charles draws near, and will avenge us.’
The Infidels said afterwards that an army could not have wrought the ruin that was done that day by the Archbishop and Roland. Veillantif received thirty wounds in his body and then fell dead under his master. ​But Roland leaped off, and smote the Saracens, who turned and fled before him. He was too weak to follow after them, and turned to see if the Archbishop still breathed. Kneeling by his side he unlaced Turpin’s golden helmet, and bound up his gaping wounds. Then he pressed him closely to his heart and laid him gently on the ground. ‘O friend, we must take farewell of each other, now all our comrades have gone before us. But let us do all we can for their bodies, which cannot be left lying here. I will myself go and seek their corpses, and bring them here and place them in rows before you.’
‘Go,’ answered the Archbishop, ‘but do not stay long. Thanks be to God, the victory remains with you and me.’
Alone Roland searched the battle-field; he went up the sides of the mountains, he descended into the plains, and everywhere he saw the dead faces of his friends. One after another he brought them, and laid them at the feet of Turpin, and at the sight of their faces the Archbishop wept sore. Then he held up his hand to bless them for the last time. ‘Noble Lords,’ he said, ‘you have fallen upon evil days. May God receive your souls into His Paradise. As for me, among all the pains I suffer, the worst is that never shall I see my Emperor again.’
Under a pine, close to a sweet-briar, the corpse of Oliver was lying, and Roland raised him in his arms and bare him to the Archbishop, where he laid him on a shield, near to the other peers. Then his heart broke with a cry, and he fell fainting beside Oliver. At the sight of Roland’s grief the Archbishop’s own sorrow grew double, and he stretched out his hand for the horn which lay near him. A stream ran down the valley of Roncevalles, and he dragged himself towards it, to fetch water to revive Roland. But he was too weak from the blood he had lost to reach the river, and he fell where he stood. ‘Pardon for my sins,’ he said, and died, the servant of ​God and of Charles. The cry was heard by Roland, who was slowly coming back to life, and he rose to his feet and went to the dead Archbishop and crossed his hands upon his breast. ‘Ah, noble Knight,’ he said, ‘in God’s hands I leave you, for never since the Apostles has He had a more faithful servant. May your soul henceforth be free from sorrow, and may the Gates of Paradise stand wide for you to enter in!’
As he spoke, Roland knew that his own death was not far off. He made his peace with God, and took his horn in one hand and Durendal in the other. Then he mounted a small hill where stood two pine trees, but fell almost unconscious as soon as he reached the top. But a Saracen who had watched him, and had feigned to be dead, sprang up and seeing him cried, ‘Conquered! he is conquered, the nephew of Charles! and his famous sword will be carried into Arabia’; so he grasped Durendal tightly in his fist, and pulled Roland’s beard in derision. If the Saracen had been wise he would have left Roland’s beard alone, for at his touch the Count was brought back to consciousness. He felt his sword being taken from him, and with his horn, which was always beside him, he struck the Saracen such a blow on his helmet that he dropped Durendal, and sank dead to the earth. ‘Coward,’ said Roland, ‘who has told you that you might dare to set hands on Roland, living or dead? You were not worthy a blow from my horn.’ Still death was pressing closer and closer, and Roland knew it. He rose panting for breath, his face as white as if he was already in the grave, and took Durendal out of its scabbard. Ten times he struck it hard on a brown rock before him, but the steel never gave way. ‘my faithful Durendal, do you know that the hour of our parting has come?’ he cried. ‘You have gained many battles for me, and won Charles many kingdoms. You shall never serve another master after I am dead.’ Again he smote the rock with all his force, but the steel of Durendal glanced aside. ​When Roland saw that he could not break it, he sat down and wept and lamented sore, calling back to him all the fights that they had fought together. Yet another time he struck, but the steel held good. Death was drawing nearer; what was he to do? Under a pine tree he laid himself down to die, his head resting on the green grass, his face turned towards the Infidels. Beneath him he placed Durendal and his horn. Alone on the mountain, looking towards Spain, he made the confession of his sins, and offered up his last prayer. Then he held up his right hand, and the Angels came and bore his soul to Paradise.