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ROLAND’S SQUIRES.
OUSIN ROLAND had, as all the world knows, conducted the wars of his uncle, the Emperor Charles, with glory and success, and had done immortal deeds, recited by poets and romance singers, until Ganelon the traitor deprived him of the victory over the Saracens, and at the same time of life, at Roncesvalles, at the foot of the Pyrenees. Of what avail was it to the hero that he had slain the son of Anak, the giant Ferracutus,—the insolent Syrian, of the race of Goliath, since he still must succumb to the sabre-strokes of the unbelievers! against whom his good sword Duridana could not protect him this time; for he had run through his heroic career, and was now at its close. Deserted by all the world, he lay among the heaps of slain, grievously wounded, and tormented with burning thirst. In this sad condition, he collected all his strength, and sounded three times his wonderful horn, to give Charles the concerted sign that he was in the last extremity.
Although the Emperor, with his army, was encamped at eight miles’ distance from the battle-field, he yet recognised the sound of the wondrous horn, dismissed the feast (to the great chagrin of his courtiers, who scented a dainty pasty which was just then served up), and caused his army to set forth immediately to the succour of his nephew. It was then, however, too late; since Roland had already breathed out his heroic soul. The Saracens, however, rejoiced in their victory, and gave to their general the honourable title of “Malek al Raffer,” or the victorious king.
In the confusion of the fight, the shield and armour bearers of the brave Roland had become separated from their lord, and had lost sight of him, when he flung himself into the midst of the enemies’ squadrons. When the hero fell, and the dispirited army of the Franks sought safety in flight, most of them were hewn down. Only three out of the multitude succeeded, by swiftness of foot, in escaping from death or slavish chains. The three comrades in misfortune fled far into the mountains, among untrodden places, and looked not behind them in their flight; since they believed Death pursued them with hasty feet. Wearied with thirst and the heat of the sun, they lay down to rest under a shady oak; and, after they had breathed a little, they took counsel together what they should now do. Andiol, the sword--bearer, first broke the silence, which the hurry of the flight and the fear of the Saracens had imposed on them.
“What counsel, brothers?” asked he. “How shall we reach the army, without falling into the hands of the unbelievers; and what road shall we follow? Let us make an attempt to force our way through these wild mountains; on the other side of them are, I believe, the Franks, who will certainly conduct us to the camp.”—“Thy proposition would be good, companion,” answered Amarin, the shield-bearer, “if thou wouldst give us the wings of eagles, to transport us over the wall of steep rocks; but with these wearied legs, from which hunger and the sun’s power have consumed the marrow, we shall certainly not climb the cliffs which separate us from the Franks. Let us first find a spring to quench our thirst, and to fill our gourd, and afterwards slay a deer, that we may eat: then we will spring over the rocks like light-footed chamois, and soon find a way to the encampment of Charles.” Sarron, the third squire, who was wont to bear the spurs of the Knight Roland, shook his head and said, “As concerns the stomach, comrade, thy counsel is not bad; but both propositions are dangerous for our necks. Do you imagine that Charles would feel grateful to us if we returned without our good lord, and did not even bring back his costly armour which was confided to us? If we should kneel at his throne, and say, ‘Roland is fallen!’ and he should answer, ‘Very sad is this news; but where have you left his sword Duridana?’ what wouldst thou answer, Andiol? Or should he say, ‘Squires, where have you his mirror-polished steel shield?’ what wouldst thou reply, Amarin? Or should he inquire for the golden spurs, with which he invested our lord when he dubbed him Knight, must I not keep silence in shame?”—“Well remembered,” replied Andiol; “thy understanding is as clear as Roland’s shield, as penetrating, bright, and sharp as Roland’s sword. We will not return to the camp of the Franks.”
Amongst these counsels night had approached; no star glistened in the clouded heavens; no zephyr awoke. In the wide desert the stillness of death reigned around, unbroken, save by the occasional croak of some night-bird. The three fugitives stretched themselves on the turf under the oak, and thought by sleep to cheat the ravenous hunger which the severe fast of the long day had awakened; but the stomach is a relentless creditor, who is not willing to give credit even for four-and-twenty hours. Notwithstanding their weariness, hunger permitted them no sleep, although they had taken their shoulder-belts for girdles, and drawn them as tight as possible. When, by way of passing the time, they began again, in their sadness, to converse, they perceived, through the bushes, a small distant light, which they at first considered to be the exhalation from a sulphureous marsh; but when, after some time, this same light neither changed its
ROLAND’S SQUIRES.
OUSIN ROLAND had, as all the world knows, conducted the wars of his uncle, the Emperor Charles, with glory and success, and had done immortal deeds, recited by poets and romance singers, until Ganelon the traitor deprived him of the victory over the Saracens, and at the same time of life, at Roncesvalles, at the foot of the Pyrenees. Of what avail was it to the hero that he had slain the son of Anak, the giant Ferracutus,—the insolent Syrian, of the race of Goliath, since he still must succumb to the sabre-strokes of the unbelievers! against whom his good sword Duridana could not protect him this time; for he had run through his heroic career, and was now at its close. Deserted by all the world, he lay among the heaps of slain, grievously wounded, and tormented with burning thirst. In this sad condition, he collected all his strength, and sounded three times his wonderful horn, to give Charles the concerted sign that he was in the last extremity.
Although the Emperor, with his army, was encamped at eight miles’ distance from the battle-field, he yet recognised the sound of the wondrous horn, dismissed the feast (to the great chagrin of his courtiers, who scented a dainty pasty which was just then served up), and caused his army to set forth immediately to the succour of his nephew. It was then, however, too late; since Roland had already breathed out his heroic soul. The Saracens, however, rejoiced in their victory, and gave to their general the honourable title of “Malek al Raffer,” or the victorious king.
In the confusion of the fight, the shield and armour bearers of the brave Roland had become separated from their lord, and had lost sight of him, when he flung himself into the midst of the enemies’ squadrons. When the hero fell, and the dispirited army of the Franks sought safety in flight, most of them were hewn down. Only three out of the multitude succeeded, by swiftness of foot, in escaping from death or slavish chains. The three comrades in misfortune fled far into the mountains, among untrodden places, and looked not behind them in their flight; since they believed Death pursued them with hasty feet. Wearied with thirst and the heat of the sun, they lay down to rest under a shady oak; and, after they had breathed a little, they took counsel together what they should now do. Andiol, the sword-​bearer, first broke the silence, which the hurry of the flight and the fear of the Saracens had imposed on them.
“What counsel, brothers?” asked he. “How shall we reach the army, without falling into the hands of the unbelievers; and what road shall we follow? Let us make an attempt to force our way through these wild mountains; on the other side of them are, I believe, the Franks, who will certainly conduct us to the camp.”—“Thy proposition would be good, companion,” answered Amarin, the shield-bearer, “if thou wouldst give us the wings of eagles, to transport us over the wall of steep rocks; but with these wearied legs, from which hunger and the sun’s power have consumed the marrow, we shall certainly not climb the cliffs which separate us from the Franks. Let us first find a spring to quench our thirst, and to fill our gourd, and afterwards slay a deer, that we may eat: then we will spring over the rocks like light-footed chamois, and soon find a way to the encampment of Charles.” Sarron, the third squire, who was wont to bear the spurs of the Knight Roland, shook his head and said, “As concerns the stomach, comrade, thy counsel is not bad; but both propositions are dangerous for our necks. Do you imagine that Charles would feel grateful to us if we returned without our good lord, and did not even bring back his costly armour which was confided to us? If we should kneel at his throne, and say, ‘Roland is fallen!’ and he should answer, ‘Very sad is this news; but where have you left his sword Duridana?’ what wouldst thou answer, Andiol? Or should he say, ‘Squires, where have you his mirror-polished steel shield?’ what wouldst thou reply, Amarin? Or should he inquire for the golden spurs, with which he invested our lord when he dubbed him Knight, must I not keep silence in shame?”—“Well remembered,” replied Andiol; “thy understanding is as clear as Roland’s shield, as penetrating, bright, and sharp as Roland’s sword. We will not return to the camp of the Franks.”
Amongst these counsels night had approached; no star glistened in the clouded heavens; no zephyr awoke. In the wide desert the stillness of death reigned around, unbroken, save by the occasional croak of some night-bird. The three fugitives stretched themselves on the turf under the oak, and thought by sleep to cheat the ravenous hunger which the severe fast of the long day had awakened; but the stomach is a relentless creditor, who is not willing to give credit even for four-and-twenty hours. Notwithstanding their weariness, hunger permitted them no sleep, although they had taken their shoulder-belts for girdles, and drawn them as tight as possible. When, by way of passing the time, they began again, in their sadness, to converse, they perceived, through the bushes, a small distant light, which they at first considered to be the exhalation from a sulphureous marsh; but when, after some time, this same light neither changed its