So to war the margrave under helmet strode;Sharpest swords his meiny brandished as they rode;Each in hand, bright-flashing, held his shield before.That saw the dauntless minstrel, and seeing sorrow'd sore.Then too was by young Giselher his lady's father seenWith helm laced as for battle. "What," thought he, "can he mean?But nought can mean the margrave but what is just and right."At the thought full joyous wax'd the youthful knight."I know not what you trust in;" thus the stern minstrel spake;"Where saw you warriors ever for reconcilement's sakeWith helmets laced advancing, and naked swords in hand?On us will earn Sir Rüdeger his castles and his land."Scarcely the valiant minstrel his words had utter'd all,When the noble Rüdeger was close before the hall.His shield, well proved in battle, before his feet he laid,But neither proffered service, nor friendly greeting made.To those within he shouted, "Look not for succor hence;Ye valiant Nibelungers, now stand on your defence.I'd fain have been your comrade; your foe I now must be.We once were friends together; now from that bond I'm free.""Now God forbid," said Günther, "that such a knight as youTo the faith wherein we trusted, should ever prove untrue,And turn upon his comrades in such an hour as this.Ne'er can I think that Rüdeger can do so much amiss.""I can't go back," said Rüdeger, "the deadly die is cast;I must with you do battle; to that my word is pass'd.So each of you defend him as he loves his life.I must perform my promise; so wills King Etzel's wife."* * * * * * *"Tarry yet a little, right noble Rüdeger!I and my lords a moment would yet with you confer;Thereto hard need compels us, and danger gathering nigh;What boot were it to Etzel though here forlorn we die?"I'm now," pursued Sir Hagan, "beset with grievous care;The shield that Lady Gotelind gave me late to bear,Is hewn, and all-to broken by many a Hunnish brand.I brought it fair and friendly hither to Etzel's land."Ah! that to me this favour heaven would be pleas'd to yield,That I might to defend me bear so well-prov'd a shieldAs that, right noble Rüdeger, before thee now display'd!No more should I in battle need then the hauberk's aid.""Fain with the same I'd serve thee to th' height of thy desire,But that I fear such proffer might waken Kriemhild's ire.Still, take it to thee, Hagan, and wield it well in hand.Ah! might'st thou bring it with thee to thy Burgundian land!"While thus with words so courteous so fair a gift he sped,The eyes of many a champion with scalding tears were red,'T was the last gift, that buckler, e'er given to comrade dearBy the lord of Bechelaren, the blameless Rüdeger.However stern was Hagan, and of unyielding mood,Still at the gift he melted, which one so great and goodGave in his last few moments, e'en on the eve of fight,And with the stubborn warrior mourn'd many a noble knight."Now God in heaven, good Rüdeger, thy recompenser be!Your like on earth, I'm certain, we never more shall see,Who gifts so good and gorgeous to homeless wanderers give.May God protect your virtue, that it may ever live!"Alas! this bloody bus'ness!" Sir Hagan then went on,"We have had to bear much sorrow, and more shall have anon.Must friend with friend do battle, nor heaven the conflict part?"The noble margrave answer'd, "That wounds my inmost heart.""Now for thy gift I'll quit thee, right noble Rüdeger!What e'er may chance between thee and my bold comrades here,My hand shall touch thee never amidst the heady fight,Not e'en if thou shouldst slaughter every Burgundian knight."For that to him bow'd courteous the blameless Rüdeger.Then all around were weeping for grief and doleful drear,Since none th' approaching mischief had hope to turn aside.The father of all virtue in that good margrave died.* * * * * * *What a fearful clatter of clashing blades there rang!From shields beneath the buffets how the plates they sprang,And precious stones unnumber'd rain'd down into the gore!They fought so fell and furious as man will never more.The lord of Bechelaren went slashing here and there,As one who well in battle knew how himself to bear.Well prov'd the noble Rüdeger in that day's bloody fight,That never handled weapon a more redoubted knight.* * * * * * *Loud o'er the din of battle stout Gernot shouted then,"How now, right noble Rüdeger? not one of all my menThou 'lt leave me here unwounded; in sooth it grieves me soreTo see my friends thus slaughter'd; bear it can I no more."Now must thy gift too surely the giver harm to-day,Since of my friends so many thy strength has swept away.So turn about and face me, thou bold and high-born man!Thy goodly gift to merit, I'll do the best I can."Ere through the press the margrave could come Sir Gernot nigh,Full many a glittering mail-coat was stain'd a bloody die.Then those fame-greedy champions each fierce on th' other leapt,And deadly wounds at distance with wary ward they kept.So sharp were both their broadswords, resistless was their dint,Sudden the good Sir Rüdeger through th' helmet hard as flintSo struck the noble Gernot, that forth the blood it broke;With death the stern Burgundian repaid the deadly stroke.He heaved the gift of Rüdeger with both his hands on high,And to the death though wounded, a stroke at him let flyRight through both shield and morion; deep was the gash and wide.At once the lord of Gotelind beneath the swordcut died.In sooth a gift so goodly was worse requited ne'er.Down dead dropp'd both together, Gernot and Rüdeger.Each slain by th' other's manhood, then prov'd, alas! too well.Thereat first Sir Hagan furious wax'd and fell.Then cried the knight of Trony, "Sure we with ills are cross'd;Their country and their people in both these chiefs have lostMore than they'll e'er recover;—woe worth this fatal day!We have here the margrave's meiny, and they for all shall pay!"All struck at one another, none would a foeman spare.Full many a one, unwounded, down was smitten there,Who else might have 'scap'd harmless, but now, though whole and sound,In the thick press was trampled, or in the blood was drown'd."Alas! my luckless brother who here in death lies low!How every hour I'm living brings some fresh tale of woe!And ever must I sorrow for the good margrave too.On both sides dire destruction and mortal ills we rue."Soon as the youthful Giselher beheld his brother dead,Who yet within were lingering by sudden doom were sped.Death, his pale meiny choosing, dealt each his dreary dole.Of those of Bechelaren 'scaped not one living soul.King Günther and young Giselher, and fearless Hagan too,Dankwart as well as Folker, the noble knights and true,Went where they found together out-stretched the valiant twain.There wept th' assembled warriors in anguish o'er the slain."Death fearfully despoils us," said youthful Giselher,"But now give over wailing, and haste to th' open airTo cool our heated hauberks, faint as we are with strife.God, methinks, no longer, will here vouchsafe us life."This sitting, that reclining, was seen full many a knight;They took repose in quiet; around (a fearful sight!)Lay Rüdeger's dead comrades; all was hush'd and still;From that long dreary silence King Etzel augur'd ill."Alas for this half friendship!" thus Kriemhild frowning spake,"If it were true and steadfast, Sir Rüdeger would takeVengeance wide and sweeping on yonder murderous band;Now back he'll bring them safely to their Burgundian land."What boot our gifts, King Etzel? was it, my lord, for thisWe gave him all he asked us? The chief has done amiss.He, who should have reveng'd us, will now a treaty make."Thereto in answer Folker, the gallant minstrel, spake,"Not so the truth is, lady! the more the pity too!If one the lie might venture to give a dame like you,Most foully against the margrave you've lied, right noble queen!Sore trick'd in that same treaty he and his men have been."With such good will the margrave his king's commands obey'd,That he and all his meiny dead on this floor are laid.Now look about you, Kriemhild! for servants seek anew;Well were you served by Rüdeger; he to the death was true."The fact if still you're doubting, before your eyes we'll bring."'T was done e'en of set purpose her heart the more to wring.They brought the mangled margrave, where Etzel saw him well.Th' assembled knights of Hungary such utter anguish ne'er befell.When thus held high before them they saw the margrave dead,Sure by the choicest writer could ne'er be penn'd nor saidThe woeful burst of wailing from woman and eke from man,That from the heart's deep sorrow to strike all ears began.Above his weeping people King Etzel sorrow'd sore;His deep-voic'd wail resounded loud as the lion's roarIn the night-shaded desert; the like did Kriemhild too;They mourn'd in heart for Rüdeger, the valiant and the true.Lettsom's Translation, Thirty-seventh Adventure.
The Song of Roland is one of the many mediaeval romances that celebrate the deeds of Charlemagne.
The oldest text now in existence was written about 1096, but the poem was current in other forms long before this.
The author was a Norman, for the poem is written in the Norman dialect; but it is uncertain whether the Turoldus or Théroulde named in the last line of the poem, "Thus endeth here the geste Turoldus sang," was the author, a copyist, or ajongleur.
It is said that Taillefer, the minstrel of Normandy, sang the Song of Roland at the battle of Hastings. "Taillefer, who right well sang, mounted on his rapid steed, went before them singing of Charlemagne, and of Roland, and Olivier, and of the vassals who died in Roncesvalles."
The only text of the poem now in existence is one of the thirteenth century, preserved in the Bodleian library at Oxford.
On the fifteenth of August, 778, in the valley of Roncesvalles, in the Pyrenees, Charlemagne's rear guard, left under the command of Roland, Prefect of the Marches of Brittany, was attacked and slaughtered by a large army of Gascons.
This incident forms the historical basis of the poem; but the imagination of the poet has made of Charlemagne, then a young man, the old emperor, with "beard all blossom white," and transformed his Gascon foes to Saracens.
The Song of Roland is written in the heroic pentameter; it is divided into "laisses," or stanzas, of irregular length, and contains about three thousand seven hundred and eight lines. It is written in the assonant, or vowel rhyme, that was universal among European nations in the early stage of their civilization.
Each stanza ends with the word "aoi," for which no satisfactory translation has yet been offered, although "away" and "it is done" have been suggested.
The author of the Song of Roland undertook, like Homer, to sing of one great event about which all the interest of the poem centres; but unlike Homer, his poem is out of all proportion, the long-drawn out revenge being in the nature of an anti-climax. The Song of Roland is a fair exponent of the people among whom it originated. It contains no ornament; it is a straightforward relation of facts; it lacks passion, and while it describes fearful slaughter, it never appeals to the emotions. Though the French army shed many tears, and fell swooning to the ground at the sight of the fearful slaughter at Roncesvalles, we are rather moved to smile at the violence of their emotion than to weep over the dead, so little power has the poet to touch the springs of feeling. However, there are passages in which the poem rises to sublimity, and which have been pronounced Homeric by its admirers.
J. Banquier's Bibliographie de la Chanson de Roland, 1877;
T. Bulfinch's Legends of Charlemagne, 1863;
Sir G. W. Cox and E. H. Jones's Popular Romances of the Middle Ages, 1871, pp. 320-347;
Léon Gautier's Les épopées françaises, vol. i., 1878;
J. Malcolm Ludlow's Story of Roland (see his Popular Epics of the Middle Ages, 1865, vol. i., pp. 362-427);
Gaston Paris's La poésie épique (see his Histoire poétique de Charlemagne, 1865, pp. 1-33);
Gaston Paris's Les Chansons de Gestes françaises (see his Histoire poétique de Charlemagne, 1865, pp. 69-72);
George Saintsbury's The Chansons de Gestes (see his Short History of French Literature, 1892, pp. 10-25);
Henri Van Laun's The Carlovingian Cycle (see his History of French Literature, 1876, vol. i., pp. 141-148);
Ancient Literature of France, Quarterly Review, 1866, cxx. 283-323;
The Chanson de Roland, Westminster Review, 1873, c. 32-44;
M. Hayden's The Chansons de Geste, Dublin Review, 1894, cxiv. 346-357;
Charles Francis Keary's The Chansons de Geste: the Song of Roland, Fraser's Magazine, 1881, civ. 777-789;
J. M. L.'s The Song of Roland, Macmillan's Magazine, 1862, vi. 486-501;
Agnes Lambert's The oldest epic of Christendom, Nineteenth Century, 1882, xi. 77-101;
Andrew Lang's The Song of Roland and the Iliad, National Review, 1892, xx. 195-205;
Legend of Roland, Encyclopædia Britannica, vol. xx.;
Gustave Masson's The Chanson de Roland, Leisure Hour, 1877, xxvi. 618-620;
The Song of Roland, Catholic World, 1873 and 1874, xviii. 378-388, 488-500;
The Song of Roland, Harper's Monthly, 1882, lxiv. 505-515;
The Month, 1880, xl. 515-527; Temple Bar, 1886, lxxviii. 534-540.
The Song of Roland, as chanted before the Battle of Hastings by the Minstrel Taillefer, Tr. from the French translation of Vitet by Mrs. Anne Caldwell Marsh, 1854;
The Song of Roland, Tr. into English verse by John O'Hagan, ed. 2, 1883;
La Chanson de Roland, Tr. from the seventh ed. of Léon Gautier, by Leonce Rabillon, 1885.
For full seven years had Charlemagne tarried in Spain, and all the land lay conquered save the city of Saragossa. There, in an orchard, upon a terrace paved with blue marble, sat its king, Marsile, taking counsel with his lords.
"No army have I," said the king; "no people to array against the hosts of the great emperor. Advise me, my lords, what I shall do to save ourselves from disgrace and shame."
The wily Blancandrin, wisest and greatest among the pagans, advanced before him. "Where might cannot prevail, often craft gains the day. My lord, send gifts to mighty Carle. Drive forth a long train of camels; heap many mules with gold; send chariots filled with precious gifts. Advise him that on the day of Saint Michael's feast you will seek him at Aix, and there become a Christian, and his vassal. Yea, even send hostages; my own son shall go, even though he lose his head. Then will Carle depart for France. The day set by you will come, but he will hear naught from us. The hostages' heads will fall. What of it? Better this than for us to lose forever Spain the fair."
The king, pleased with the craft of Blancandrin, dismissed his council, and ordered ten of his fiercest barons to seek Charlemagne at Cordova, bearing the olive-branch, and make the offer suggested by Blancandrin.
Cordova, filled with rich spoils, had been taken, and its surviving inhabitants given the choice of the sword or Christian baptism. Therefore the happy emperor sat at his ease in a wide-spreading orchard. Around him stood Roland, Olivier, Samsun the duke, Anseis, Gefrei d'Anjou, and Gerier. At least fifteen thousand French knights were diverting themselves with different games in the beautiful orchard, where, under a pine-tree, the great King of France sat upon a golden chair. His white hair and flowing white beard added majesty to his already majestic figure, so that the olive-bearing messengers needed not to have great Carle pointed out to them.
The emperor heard the message of Marsile in silence, and dismissing the pagans for the night to a pavilion, called together in council his wisest barons, Duke Ogier, Archbishop Turpin, Gerier, Roland, Olivier, a thousand Franks, among them Ganelon, the step-father of Roland, and laid before them the message of Marsile.
"Rich gifts he offers me, but he demands that I return to France; thither will he follow me, and at Aix will become a Christian and a vassal. A fair promise, but what is in his heart I cannot tell."
After a moment's silence Roland stood forth.
"Sire, have no faith in the words of Marsile. When have we found aught but treachery in the Saracen? For seven years I have been winning victories for you here in Spain. Once before you yielded to such a message as this, from this same Marsile, and lost, in consequence, the heads of your Counts Bazan and Bazile. War on as you have begun. Besiege his city! subdue Saragossa!"
Then strode forth the angry Ganelon. "My king, this young hot-head is a fool; hearken not unto him. Accept the offer of Marsile, and lose no more lives by the foolhardiness of one who cares more for his own glory than for human life."
The voice of the others, among them Duke Naimes, Charlemagne's wisest counsellor and truest vassal, was with Ganelon. The emperor stroked his white beard. "My lords, whom shall we send to meet Marsile at Saragossa?"
"I will go," said Duke Naimes.
"Nay, I cannot spare you from my councils," replied the king.
"I am here!" cried Roland.
"Not you! You are too hot-headed to venture into the court of the enemy!" cried his friend Olivier. "Let me go instead, sire!"
"Nay!" cried the king. "Silence! Not one of the twelve peers sets his foot in the kingdom of the Moors."
"Then let my step-father go," suggested Roland. "No wiser man than he can be found."
"Come forward," said the king, as the Franks murmured assent, "and receive the staff and glove. The Franks have chosen you."
Ganelon rose, wrathful, casting off his fur robe. His eyes were gray, his face fierce, his form noble.
"This is Roland's work. I shall hate him forever, and Olivier, and the twelve peers, because they love him. Ne'er shall I return; full well I know it. If e'er I do, it will be to wreak vengeance on my enemy."
"Go!" said the king. "You have said enough!"
As Ganelon went forward, full of rage, to receive the king's glove, it fell ere he touched it. "A bad omen!" exclaimed the French.
"Sirs, ye shall hear of this!" said Ganelon.
On his way to Saragossa with the legates of Marsile, Ganelon laid the impious plot that was to result in the destruction of Roland and the peers. It saved his life at Saragossa, where Marsile threatened to kill him on reading Charlemagne's message. He explained carefully to the Saracens how the rear guard, left at Roncesvalles under the command of Roland and the twelve peers, could be destroyed by the pagan forces before the knowledge of the battle could reach Charlemagne, and that, with these props of his kingdom gone, the king's power would be so diminished that Marsile could easily hold out against him. Then the traitor hastened back to Cordova, laden with rich gifts.
When Ganelon rode back, the emperor was preparing to return to sweet France. "Barons," said Carle, "whom shall I leave in charge of these deep defiles and narrow passes?"
"My step-son Roland is well able to take the command," said Ganelon; "he your nephew, whom you prize most of all your knights."
Rage filled the hearts of both Roland and Carle; but the word was spoken, and Roland must remain. With him remained the twelve peers, his friends, Olivier, his devoted comrade, the gallant Archbishop Turpin, and twenty thousand valiant knights.
While Charlemagne's army toiled over the terrible gorges and high mountains into Gascony, the emperor, ever grieving over the untimely death his nephew might meet in the defiles of Spain, down came the pagans, who had been gathering on the high mountains and in the murky valleys,—emirs, sons of noble counts were they, brave as the followers of Charlemagne.
When Olivier descried the pagan horde he at once exclaimed,—
"This is the work of Ganelon!"
"Hush!" replied Roland. "He is my step-father. Say no more."
Then Olivier, when from the hill he saw the one hundred thousand Saracens, their helmets bedecked with gold, their shields shining in the sun, besought his friend to sound his horn, the olifant, and summon the king to their aid.
"Never will I so disgrace myself!" exclaimed Roland. "Never shall sweet France be so dishonored. One hundred thousand blows shall I give with my sword, my Durendal, and the Moors will fall and die!"
When Olivier found his pleading vain, he mounted his steed and rode with Roland to the front of the lines.
Long was the fight and terrible. If gallantry and strength sat with the twelve peers and their followers, they were with their opponents as well. No sooner had Roland, or Olivier, or Turpin, or Engelier cleft the body of a Moorish knight down to the saddle, than down fell a Christian, his helmet broken, his hauberk torn by the lance of his dreaded foe. The nephew of Marsile fell by the hand of Roland, who taunted him as he lay in death; Olivier struck down Marsile's brother. "A noble stroke!" cried Roland.
"A baron's stroke!" exclaimed the archbishop, as Samsun pierced the Almazour with his lance and he fell dead. Olivier spurred over the field, crushing the pagans and beating them down with his broken lance.
"Comrade, where is thy sword, thy Halteclere?" called Roland to his friend.
"Here, but I lack time to draw it," replied the doughty Olivier.
More than a thousand blows struck Turpin; the pagans fell by hundreds and by thousands, and over the field lay scattered those who would nevermore see sweet France.
Meanwhile, in France, hail fell and rain; the sky was vivid with lightning bolts. The earth shook, and the land lay in darkness at noonday. None understood the portent. Alas! it was Nature's grief at the death of Count Roland.
When Roland perceived that in spite of their mighty efforts the passes were still filled with heathen knights, and the French ranks were fast thinning, he said to Olivier, "What think you if we call the king?"
"Never!" exclaimed Olivier. "Better death now than shame!"
"If I blow, Carle will hear it now and return. I shall blow my olifant," cried Roland.
"When I begged you to blow it," said Olivier, "you refused, when you could have saved the lives of all of us. You will show no valor if you blow it now."
"Great is the strife," said Roland. "I will blow that Carle may come."
"Then," said Olivier, "if I return to France, I pledge you my word my sister Aude shall never be your wife. Your rashness has been the cause of our destruction. Now you shall die here, and here ends our friendship."
Across the field the archbishop spurred to reconcile the friends. "Carle will come too late to save our lives," said he, "but he will reach the field in time to preserve our mangled bodies and wreak vengeance on our foes."
Roland put his horn to his lips and blew with such force that his temples burst and the crimson blood poured forth from his mouth. Three times he sounded his horn, and each time the sound brought anguish to the heart of Carle, who heard it, riding thirty leagues away. "Our men make battle!" cried he; but this Ganelon hastened to deny, insisting that Roland was but hunting and blowing the horn, taking sport among the peers. But Duke Naimes exclaimed, "Your nephew is in sore distress. He who would deceive you is a traitor. Haste! Shout your war-cry, and let us return to the battle-field. You yourself hear plainly his call for help!"
Commanding Ganelon to be seized and given to the scullions of his house to be kept for punishment until his return, Carle ordered his men to arm and return to Roncesvalles, that they might, if possible, save the lives of the noble peers. All the army wept aloud as they thought of the doom of Roland. High were the mountains, deep the valleys, swift the rushing streams. The French rode on, answering the sound of the olifant; the emperor rode, filled with grief and rage; the barons spurred their horses, but in vain.
After Roland had sounded the horn he again grasped Durendal, and, mounted on his horse Veillantif, scoured the battle-field, cutting down the heathen. But still their troops pressed him, and when he saw the Ethiopian band led by the uncle of Marsile, he knew his doom had come. Olivier, riding forth to meet the accursed band, received his death-wound from the Kalif, but lived to cut his enemy down, and call Roland to him. Alas! sight had forsaken his eyes, and as he sat on his steed he lifted his bright sword Halteclere, and struck Roland a fearful blow that clove his crest but did not touch his head. "Was the blow meant for me, my comrade?" asked Roland softly. "Nay, I can see no more. God pity me! Pardon me, my friend!" and as the two embraced each other, Olivier fell dead.
Then, in the agony of his grief, Roland fainted, sitting firm in his saddle, and again recovering consciousness, became aware of the terrible losses of the French. Only himself, the archbishop, and the gallant Gaultier de l'Hum were left to defend the honor of the French. After Gaultier fell, Roland, unassisted save by Turpin, who fought transfixed by four spear shafts, put the enemy to flight. Feeling his death wounds, Roland besought Turpin to let him bring together the bodies of his fallen comrades that they might receive the blessing of the archbishop. Weak and trembling from loss of blood, Roland passed to and fro over the corpse-bestrewn field, and gathered together his comrades: here, Gerin and Gerier, Berengier and Otun; there, Anseis, Samsun, and Gerard de Roussillon, and last of all, his beloved Olivier, and placing them before the knees of Turpin, he saw them receive his blessing.
In his great grief at the sight of the dead Olivier, Roland again fainted, and Turpin hastened to a little brook near by for water to revive him. But the strain was too great for his already weakened body, and, when Roland revived, it was to find the archbishop dead.
Then Roland, realizing that his hour, too, had come, sought out a place in which to die. Upon a hill between two lofty trees, where was a marble terrace, he placed himself with his head towards the enemy's country; and there a Saracen, who had feigned death to escape it, tried to wrest from him his beloved Durendal.
Roland crushed the pagan's head with his olifant, but now he was troubled, for he feared that his sword would fall into other than Christian hands. Ill could he bear to be parted from his beloved sword. Its golden hilt contained rare relics,—a tooth of Saint Peter, blood, hair, and bones of other saints, and by the strength of these holy relics it had conquered vast realms. Ten and more mighty blows he struck with Durendal upon the hard rock of the terrace, in the endeavor to break it; but it neither broke nor blunted. Then, counting over his great victories, he placed it and the olifant beneath him, and committed his soul to the Father, who sent down his angels to bear it to Paradise.
When the French army, led by Charlemagne, found the passes heaped high with the bodies of the dead and no living soul to tell the story of the slaughter, they wept, and many fell swooning to the earth. But the enraged Charlemagne, unwilling then to give time for mourning, spurred on his soldiers, overtook the fleeing enemy, and drove them into the Ebro, so that those who survived the sword, perished by the wave. Then, returning to the field of Roncesvalles, he wept over his beloved Roland and the peers.
Great was his grief; handfuls of hair he tore from his head, and many times wished that his soul were in Paradise, and his body beside that of Roland. He commanded that the hearts of Roland, Olivier, and Turpin be taken from their bodies, wrapped, and inurned, and the bodies borne home in chariots. The bodies of the others were gathered together in one tomb, and assoiled and blessed by the priests who accompanied the army.
As Charlemagne prepared to start for France, he saw a new army approaching. The aged Emir Baligant, from Babylon, who had long ago been summoned by Marsile, had just arrived in Saragossa, and hastened forth to meet Charlemagne. The emir's army was countless, and Charlemagne's was weakened by its great loss. But the thought of the slaughtered peers spurred on the French, and with great Carle for their leader, they quickly put the pagans to flight.
The Franks pursued the enemy to Saragossa, where the wounded Marsile expired on hearing of his defeat. The city was taken, its inhabitants either slain, or converted and baptized, and Queen Bramimunde taken to France to be won to the true faith by gentler means.
When Charlemagne entered his stately palace at Aix, he was met by the fair lady Aude.
"Where is Roland, my betrothed?"
Carle wept, tearing his white beard.
"Thou askest of one who is no more. But in his place I will give thee my son. I can do no better."
"Nay, God forbid that I should live if Roland is dead;" and so saying, Aude, the beautiful, fell dead at the feet of the emperor.
From all his lands Carle summoned men to Aix for the trial of Ganelon.
"Judge him according to the law, my barons," said the king. "He lost me twenty thousand of my Franks. My nephew Roland, Olivier, my twelve peers, he sold."
"My king," pleaded Ganelon, "call it not treason. I was ever loyal to you. I thought not of gain, but of revenge against my rebellious and haughty step-son."
The sentiment of many was with Ganelon, and Pinabel offered to fight for him against Thierri, the champion of the king. Thirty knights of his kin gave themselves as legal sureties of his pledge, and the combat began. Pinabel was conquered and slain, and Ganelon was condemned to be torn to pieces by wild horses. His thirty sureties were also compelled to suffer death.
Ganelon was punished; Bramimunde was made a Christian, and the emperor thought at last to have peace. But as night fell and he sought rest in his lofty room, Gabriel appeared to him.
"Summon thy hosts and march into Bire to succor King Vivien. The Christians look to thee for help."
The king wept and tore his beard. "So troubled is my life!" said he.
The Rear Guard of the French army, left behind at Roncesvalles, under Roland, was attacked by a great host of Moors. In the beginning of the battle Olivier besought Roland to recall the emperor by blowing the olifant, whose sound could be heard for many leagues, but Roland refused. But when he saw the overwhelming forces of the Moors, and the field strewn with the corpses of the French, he resolved to blow the horn.
Seeing so many warriors fall'n around,Rollánd unto his comrade OlivierSpoke thus: "Companion fair and dear, for GodWhose blessing rests on you, those vassals trueAnd brave lie corses on the battle-field:Look! We must mourn for France so sweet and fair,From henceforth widowed of such valiant knights.Carle, 'would you were amongst us, King and friend!What can we do, say, brother Olivier,To bring him news of this sore strait of ours!"Olivier answers: "I know not; but thisI know; for us is better death than shame."Aoi.Rollánd says: "I will blow mine olifant,And Carle will hear it from the pass. I pledgeMy word the French at once retrace their steps."Said Olivier: "This a great shame would be,One which to all your kindred would bequeatheA lifetime's stain. When this I asked of you,You answered nay, and would do naught. Well, nowWith my consent you shall not;—if you blowYour horn, of valor true you show no proof.Already, both your arms are drenched with blood."Responds the count: "These arms have nobly struck."Aoi."The strife is rude," Rollánd says; "I will blowMy horn, that Carle may hear."—Said Olivier:"This would not courage be. What I desired,Companion, you disdained. Were the king here,Safe would we be, but yon brave men are notTo blame."—"By this my beard," said Olivier,"I swear, if ever I see again sweet Aude,My sister, in her arms you ne'er shall lie."Aoi.Rollánd asked Olivier—"Why show to meYour anger, friend?"—"Companion, yours the fault;True courage means not folly. Better farIs prudence than your valiant rage. Our FrenchTheir lives have lost, your rashness is the cause.And now our arms can never more give CarleTheir service good. Had you believed your friend,Amongst us would he be, and ours the field,The King Marsile, a captive or a corse.Rollánd, your valor brought ill fortune, norShall Carle the great e'er more our help receive,A man unequalled till God's judgment-day.Here shall you die, and dying, humble France, . . .This day our loyal friendship ends—ere fallsThe Vesper-eve, dolorously we part!"Aoi.The archbishop heard their strife. In haste he drivesInto his horse his spurs of purest gold,And quick beside them rides. Then chiding them,Says: "Sire Rollánd, and you, Sire Olivier,In God's name be no feud between you two;No more your horn shall save us; nathless't wereFar better Carle should come and soon avengeOur deaths. So joyous then these Spanish foesWould not return. But as our Franks alight,Find us, or slain or mangled on the field,They will our bodies on their chargers' backsLift in their shrouds with grief and pity, allIn tears, and bury us in holy ground:And neither wolves, nor swine, nor curs shall feedOn us—" Replied Rollánd: "Well have you said."Rollánd raised to his lips the olifant,Drew a deep breath, and blew with all his force.High are the mountains, and from peak to peakThe sound re-echoes; thirty leagues away'T was heard by Carle and all his brave compeers.Cried the king: "Our men make battle!" GanelonRetorts in haste: "If thus another daredTo speak, we should denounce it as a lie."Aoi.The Count Rollánd in his great anguish blowsHis olifant so mightily, with suchDespairing agony, his mouth pours forthThe crimson blood, and his swol'n temples burst.Yea, but so far the ringing blast resounds;Carle hears it, marching through the pass, Naimes harks,The French all listen with attentive ear."That is Rollánd's horn!" Carle cried, "which ne'er yetWas, save in battle, blown!" But GanelonReplies: "No fight is there! you, sire, are old,Your hair and beard are all bestrewn with gray,And as a child your speech. Well do you knowRollánd's great pride. 'Tis marvellous God bearsWith him so long. Already took he NobleWithout your leave. The pagans left their wallsAnd fought Rollánd, your brave knight, in the field;With his good blade he slew them all, and thenWashed all the plain with water, that no traceOf blood was left—yea, oftentimes he runsAfter a hare all day and blows his horn.Doubtless he takes his sport now with his peers;And who 'neath Heav'n would dare attack Rollánd?None, as I deem. Nay, sire, ride on apace;Why do you halt? Still far is the Great Land."Aoi.Rollánd with bleeding mouth and temples burst,Still, in his anguish, blows his olifant;Carle hears it, and his Franks. The king exclaims:"That horn has a long breath!" Duke Naimes replies:"Rollánd it is, and in a sore distress,Upon my faith a battle rages there!A traitor he who would deceive you now.To arms! Your war-cry shout, your kinsman save!Plainly enough you hear his call for help."Aoi.Carle orders all the trumpeters to soundThe march. The French alight. They arm themselvesWith helmets, hauberks and gold-hilted swords,Bright bucklers, long sharp spears, with pennons whiteAnd red and blue. The barons of the hostLeap on their steeds, all spurring on; while throughThe pass they march, each to the other says:"Could we but reach Rollánd before he dies,What deadly blows, with his, our swords would strike!"But what avails? Too late they will arrive.Aoi.The ev'n is clear, the sun its radiant beamsReflects upon the marching legions, spears,Hauberks and helms, shields painted with bright flowers,Gold pennons all ablaze with glitt'ring hues.Burning with wrath the emperor rides on;The French with sad and angered looks. None thereBut weeps aloud. All tremble for Rollánd.
The king commands Count Ganelon be seizedAnd given to the scullions of his house.Their chief, named Bègue, he calls and bids: "Guard wellThis man as one who all my kin betrayed."Him Bègue received, and set upon the countOne hundred of his kitchen comrades—bestAnd worst; they pluck his beard on lip and cheek;Each deals him with his fist four blows, and fallsOn him with lash and stick; they chain his neckAs they would chain a bear, and he is thrownFor more dishonor on a sumpter mule,There guarded so until to Carle brought back.Aoi.High are the mountains, gloomy, terrible,The valleys deep, and swift the rushing streams.In van, in rear, the brazen trumpets blow,Answering the olifant. With angry lookRides on the emp'ror; filled with wrath and grief,Follow the French, each sobbing, each in tears,Praying that God may guard Rollánd, untilThey reach the battle-field. With him what blowsWill they not strike! Alas? what boots it now?Too late they are and cannot come in time.Aoi.Carle in great anger rides—his snow-white beardO'erspreads his breast-plate. Hard the barons spur,For never one but inwardly doth rageThat he is far from their great chief, Rollánd,Who combats now the Saracens of Spain:If wounded he, will one of his survive?O God! What knights those sixty left by him!Nor king nor captain better ever had....Aoi.Rabillon's Translation.
When all the French lay dead upon the field except Roland and the Archbishop Turpin, Roland gathered together the bodies of his dead comrades, the peers, that they might receive the archbishop's blessing. He then fell fainting from grief, and aroused himself to find the archbishop dead also.