"Not a heathen did there remain,But confessed him Christian, or else was slain."
"Not a heathen did there remain,But confessed him Christian, or else was slain."
In celebration of the taking of Cordres, Charlemagne shortly afterwards held court with great pomp and splendor in a beautiful orchard in the heart of the conquered city.
It was the custom of the emperor to take counsel of his peers and knights in all mattersof import, and he now desired to discuss with them how best to bring to a happy close this long and bitter war,—for Marsilius was still in possession of Saragossa. With the fall of Cordres the end seemed near at hand; and Charlemagne rejoiced, for he had grown old and weary of strife, and he longed to return to his own again. No less relieved at heart, his warriors gathered about him that day, eager to plan some means of ending their cruel exile.
The sky was fair, as with the promise of yet fairer things; and the olive-trees of Cordres spread out their branches above and about the Christian hosts as if in token of the peace they so earnestly craved.
Seated upon a throne of beaten gold was the Emperor of ample France. Proud, and mighty of frame was he, but the curls that rested on his shoulders and the beard that flowed over his bosom were white as the snow-caps of the Sierra Nevadas. Small wonder the Moslems believed that two hundred winters had piled their snows upon his head!
The flower of Frankish chivalry pressed about him—fifteen thousand doughty knights of France. Gorgeous carpets were spread upon the greensward, upon which the cavaliers sat atgames or practised fencing with light arms. But nearest to the great Charlemagne—and dearest too—were the two sworn comrades, Roland and Oliver.
King Karl had not yet opened the council when there rode into the orchard twelve messengers from King Marsilius, each mounted upon a snow-white mule, each bearing an olive-branch of peace. A gallant company they seemed—fair and honest—as they alighted from their beasts and knelt at the feet of the Christian emperor.
Great was the astonishment among the Franks to behold what seemed to them a miraculous answer to their prayers for peace; and they listened, spell-bound, as the leader of the heathens bowed to the earth and said:—
"O king, may thy God of glory save thee! Our lord, Marsilius, doth send greeting to thee. Much hath he mused on thy Christian law, and now he hath determined to embrace it as his own. If it please thee to depart from the land of Spain, where too long thou hast tarried, King Marsilius will hasten after thee, and in thine own city of Aix, at Michaelmas, will receive Christian baptism and swear fealty to thy royal self forever. Our lord doth further say that, an so it please thee to hearken unto him, he willlay much of his wealth at thy feet. Bears and lions and dogs of chase will he send to thee; seven hundred camels that bend the knee, and a thousand hawks also. Four hundred mules laden with gold and silver such as fifty wains could scarce bear away shall be thine, so it please thee to depart, O king!"
The Frankish lords stood silent.
King Charlemagne, never hasty of speech, bent his hoary head in thought for many minutes. When he raised it again, a lofty look was on his face.
"Thou hast spoken well," he said, "but King Marsilius was ever a deadly foe to us. How may we know that his fair promises will not lack of fulfilment?"
"Hostages wilt thou, my lord?" cried the heathen. "Ten or twenty or more will I give thee,—mine own son the first. King Marsilius will come to redeem them, for he would fain be laved in the fountain of thy Christ."
"Yea, he may yet be saved!" cried the pious emperor. Then he caused good cheer to be made for the Saracen emissaries. Twelve servitors were detailed to attend their bidding, and they remained in the Christian camp till morning.
Now when the dawn came, Charlemagne arose and attended mass, as was his wont. Then he betook himself to the orchard, and again summoned his barons around him. He had pondered much during the hours of darkness, and was now determined to act as his lords advised.
A goodly company they gathered about him—Archbishop Turpin, the warlike churchman, Duke Ogier bold, and Richard the Old were close about the throne. Gerien and Gerier, brothers-in-arms, were there, and Roland and his faithful Oliver, and many other knights, including, alas! Count Ganelon.
Then Karl spoke to his barons concerning the offer of the Saracen king. He reviewed the rich promises of Marsilius, and reminded the Christian company of the heathen king's desire to be baptized, adding, however,
"I know not what may lie in his heart." When he had ceased speaking, there arose a warning cry from the Franks—
"Beware! Beware!"
Scarcely was the word repeated when Count Roland came forward and faced his uncle.
"Believe not this Marsilius!" he cried. "For full seven years we have warred in Spain, and he hath been ever a traitor. Hast thou forgot thetime when he sent unto thee fifteen of his heathen bearing olive boughs of peace and speaking flattering words, as now? Hast thou forgot that when thou didst hearken unto his words and send two of thy chiefest knights to treat with him, he did cause their heads to be stricken off? War! I say. End as you began. Besiege him in Saragossa!"
Roland ceased, and the Franks were silent; but every eye was bent on him as he stood in his youthful pride before the emperor. Right well beloved was he among his people, for many a brave city had gone down before him. There was not his peer for courage and spirit in all the Frankish hosts, except, perhaps, the gentle Oliver. The emperor bent his head and mused. Suddenly Count Ganelon sprang to his feet.
"Be not misled by me or others!" he cried, addressing the emperor. "Look to thine own interest, my lord. King Marsilius assures thee of his faith. He will be thy vassal, and receive thy Christian law even as ourselves. Who counsels thee against this treaty cares not what death we die. Good does not come from counsel of pride, my lord; list to wisdom, and let madmen be."
Then the white-haired and reverend Duke ofNaimes arose; there was than he no better vassal in all France.
"My King," he said in deepest reverence, "well hath Count Ganelon made reply. King Marsilius is broken and beaten in battle. Thou hast captured his castles and shattered his walls; thou hast burned his cities and slain his soldiers; it were a sin to molest him further. Receive the hostages he offers, and send him in return one of thy Christian knights to arrange terms of peace with him. It is time this war were closed."
"The duke hath spoken well!" the Franks exclaimed. The emperor paused, then said, at length,
"Who, then, amongst you were best to take this mission?"
"I," said the duke, quickly. "I pray thee yield me thy royal grace."
"Nay," answered King Karl; "thou art my wisest counsellor. By my beard I swear thou shalt not depart from my side."
"I," cried Count Roland, "will go right gladly."
"Not so," said Oliver; "thou art too fiery to play such perilous part. I shall go myself, if the king so will."
"Silence, I command ye both!" said the king. "Neither of you shall perform this errand." Then he commanded his knights to make a choice from among their number for the perilous journey.
Again Roland spoke:
"Be it, then, my step-sire, Ganelon. In vain will ye seek for a meeter man."
Instantly the Franks echoed Roland's choice, crying,
"So it please the king, it is right and just!"
Ganelon heard, and his rage against Roland was fierce indeed. He flung his mantle from him, and faced the younger knight in a mighty wrath.
"Thou madman!" he cried. "What meaneth this rage against me? I am thy step-sire, and thou doomest me to danger like this! So God my safe return bestow, I promise to work thee ill as long as thou hast the breath of life." Then Roland answered him haughtily—
"Am I known to reck of the threats of men? But this is work for the sagest. So it please the king, I will go in thy stead."
At this, Count Ganelon's anger was deep and bitter indeed; and he spurned the insulting offerof his step-son to go in his stead, after which he turned to King Karl, saying,
"O righteous emperor! I stand ready to execute thy high command."
Then the emperor bade him go to King Marsilius with the terms of peace, which were that he, the Moslem, was to hold half of Spain in vassalage to Charlemagne; that the other half of the conquered territory was to be ruled by the emperor's well-beloved Roland; and that Marsilius was to journey to France at Michaelmas and receive Christian baptism.
Bitter indeed it was to Count Ganelon that his enemy should thus profit by the perilous service to which he himself had been thus condemned, but he was too proud to retreat in the face of danger.
Now, when all was arranged, the emperor handed Ganelon a missive to Marsilius; he gave the count his right-hand glove also, in token of the high authority with which he vested him.
As the count bent low to receive his commission, the emperor's glove dropped to the ground, and the startled Franks whispered to one another:
"God! What is this? Evil will come of this quest." But it was treated as an accident, and Ganelon passed on his journey.
And on that journey he held deep and evil converse with the heathen concerning Roland and his overweening pride.
Now when the Saracen emissaries were returned to Saragossa, they stood before Marsilius, crying, "Mahomet save thee!" and presented Ganelon, who bore King Karl's answer.
When the Christian was summoned to speak, he gave his emperor's answer boldly. Marsilius listened in silence to the terms of treaty till Ganelon reached the part where Charlemagne declared that if his terms were rejected, he would besiege Saragossa, and bear Marsilius captive to France, there to die a "villainous death of shame." At this Marsilius was sorely enraged, and, forgetting how serious were his straits, sprang from his throne, and would have dealt death to the Christian had not his wise nobles interposed and persuaded him to temper his wrath with judgment.
When Marsilius was pacified, Ganelon was again asked for the terms of the treaty, and he again gave them as they had been intrusted to him. Much the heathen questioned him concerning King Karl, and he answered without fear, always praising his emperor; but when Marsilius desired of him the secret of Charlemagne's aggressive and warlike policy,—for the emperor was past the age when men are given over to ambition,—Ganelon assured him that Roland was the evil genius of the emperor, always urging him to greater deeds of violence, always inciting him to greater heights of power.
The wily heathen put the question several times, in as many forms, but Ganelon's answer was always the same,—Roland ruled the emperor, and as long as Roland lived, so long would Charlemagne slay and oppress. And he ended significantly,—
"Whoso shall bring death to Roland shall wring from Karl his greatest strength; he shall see the marvelous hosts of Franks melt away and leave this mighty land at peace."
Then villainous heathen and treacherous Christian devised there a plan by which the gallant Roland was to suffer death, and the Frankish power in Spain was to be forever destroyed. It was Ganelon's evil brain that conceived the plot; it was the heathen, Marsilius, who was to execute it.
By his own terms of treaty, Charlemagne agreed to withdraw his Franks from Spain; and to do this, it would be necessary for him to leadthem through a deep and narrow defile in the Pyrenees Mountains. Ganelon knew full well that the emperor would intrust the rear-guard of his army in the retreat to none but his valiant Roland, for there would be great danger of the treacherous Moslems' falling upon the rear and dealing slaughter among the retiring hosts. This fact Ganelon pointed out to the Saracen king, and he undertook to have Roland placed in the rear-guard of the Franks. He suggested that the Moslem hosts be massed together in overwhelming numbers, ready to make a sudden descent upon the rear-guard when Karl should be too far in front to save them.
Marsilius agreed eagerly, and in his joy at the thought of revenge, he fell upon Ganelon's neck and kissed him. Then he bade his attendants bring royal gifts, which he bestowed upon the traitor; after which they both took a solemn oath to compass the fall of Roland,—Ganelon swearing by the cross on his sword-hilt, and Marsilius by the Koran, the sacred book of the Mohammedans.
The joyful Moslems closed around Ganelon, and he pledged them Roland's death with many kisses, receiving from them costly gifts and great riches. Then Marsilius made ready the riches hehad promised to Charlemagne, and sent them and twenty hostages, with Ganelon, to the emperor.
So Count Ganelon came back to his emperor with treason in his heart and a lie on his lips, and "Charles the Great" believed him.
Then all was astir in the Frankish camps; a thousand bugles sounded retreat, and a hundred thousand faces were turned toward France and home. There was eager joy in the Christian ranks that day, and the mighty Karl sighed with relief,—
"My wars are done."
But the ambitious and fiery Roland was ill-satisfied, and Count Ganelon carried in his breast fiendish hatred and jealousy.
From the nature of the country, and the plan of the march homeward, it was plain to all that the rear of the army was the position most exposed to danger; so it was of great concern to Charlemagne who should be left to guard it. As was his custom in matters of great import, the emperor took counsel with his knights as to who should be left to command the rear-guard, and before any one else could speak, Count Ganelon answered,—
"My liege, on my step-son let thy royal choice fall. Knight like him thou hast none beside."
Roland heard, and he knew full well the deep hatred that prompted the count's reply, but he made answer in full knightly fashion,—
"Sir step-sire, I thank thee that thou hast named me for this trust, and I do assure thee that if King Karl lose aught in this retreat, our swords shall tell the reason."
So it was settled as Ganelon and the Saracen king had schemed,—Roland, the first of Charlemagne's peers and the darling of the emperor's heart, was left to guard the rear of the retiring hosts; and the heathen, silently, and by thousands and tens of thousands, were massing together,—watchful, alert.
Count Roland hastened to make him ready. He donned a suit of peerless armor, and hung his flower-emblazoned shield about his neck. Girt at his side was his matchless "Durindana,"—the blade that had been given to Charlemagne by an angel, who told the emperor that it must be the sword of a valorous captain. Thus arrayed and armed, with the gold fringe of his white pennon floating over his shoulders, Roland rode out on his fiery "Veillantif"; and his men, as with one voice, exclaimed,—
"We will follow thee!"
The ones who followed him were the flowerof the Frankish army,—twenty thousand picked men. First chosen of all was Oliver, and among the others was the valorous Archbishop Turpin.
Then right cautiously the van-guard began the homeward march. Beyond the Pyrenees lay their well-beloved France; and they pressed on toward her vine-clad provinces, but with anxious thoughts of the rear-guard, leagues behind, between them and the Moslem hosts. The way to home and loved ones lay through the Vale of Roncesvalles. This vale was a long and narrow defile in the mountains, through which the army was obliged to march in a scattered and dismembered way; and so it was that Karl and the van had already gained France, while the beloved Roland and his chosen followers were just entering the pass of Roncesvalles.
Now Charlemagne knew full well where the danger lay, and he was grievously concerned for his sister's son. Moreover, on the night before, he had dreamed a dream, in which he beheld a vision, symbolizing the treachery of Ganelon. But it was not a time to hearken to the misgivings of his heart, and the emperor pressed on, solacing himself with the thought that his best and bravest were behind with the rear-guard.
From far over the marches of Spain the heathenhosts were gathering. Swiftly, surely, their serried ranks were closing in on the Christian band. Mountain, plain, and valley glittered red with their burnished arms, as on their light Arab steeds they swept like the wind of the desert on Roland's track. And as the rear-guard of the Christian army rode into the deep defile of Roncesvalles, the Saracen bugles rang out a challenge from the far distance.
Now Oliver, though brave as any of King Karl's peers, was wise enough to recognize danger and to fear it. The sound of the war-trumpet brought him at once to Roland's side, and he said,—
"Sir Comrade, there is battle at hand with the heathen!"
But Roland lacked wisdom, and exclaimed with his usual pride,—
"God grant it may be so! Let us be strong for mighty blows, lest songs of scorn be sung against us. No craven part shalt thou see me fill this day."
Oliver was not so anxious for an encounter with the enemy, and he hastily climbed to a high point to get some idea of their numbers. Far over the plain his eye could reach, and he was bewildered and dismayed by the sight before him.Greater far than he had reckoned were the Paynim hosts, and many times more ominous was their battle-array. One long look at their serried, glittering masses, and he hastened down to Roland.
"My comrade," urged he, "I have seen the enemy, and never on earth did such host appear. I pray thee, sound thy horn, that Karl may hear and return to our succor." But Roland answered:
"Such deed were madness! Lost in France would be my glory. My good sword shall seal the felons' fate."
"Nay, Roland, sound on thine ivory horn, that Karl may bend his legions back and lend us aid," exclaimed his wise companion. In vain he pleaded.
Nearer and nearer the Moslems swept, and Oliver exclaimed in reproach,—
"See, comrade, see how close are they, and help, alas, how far! The rear-guard will make their last brave stand this day!"
But Roland was drunk with the joy of battle and cried,—
"My friend, my brother, my Oliver, the emperor hath left us here his bravest. Full twenty-thousand men he gave to us, and among them no coward heart. I shall so strike with this matchless blade that he who wears it when I liedead shall say, ''Twas the sword of a valorous captain.'"
The time was all too short—the Moslems were almost upon them. Archbishop Turpin, seeing their straits, spurred his horse to a jutting crag, and addressed the men. There was silence among the Franks as the voice of the beloved churchman rang through the hollow pass:
"Barons, we are here for our emperor's sake; strike we for him, though death be our portion." He stretched out his arms above them, and the Franks alighted and knelt on the ground, crying, "Mea culpa!" Then he assoiled them and blessed them, giving them for penance, to smite their best.
The next instant the storm of battle broke, and Paynim and Christian closed in the death-struggle, each hoping, believing, to find in the blood of the other his passport into Paradise; each with the name of God on his lips.
Well might the emperor bow his white head in woful fear, though the blue skies of his native France were smiling above him. Death stalked triumphant at Roncesvalles, and Frank and Saracen yielded him tribute till the pass was covered with the dying and the dead.
If only King Karl could have seen his knightsthat day, the glory of the sight would have blotted out its tragedy. Roland was proud, but there was none braver than he; and he flung himself upon the enemies of his king, his country, and his God with a fierce courage that none might withstand. Wherever his splendid form was seen, his followers greeted him with loud acclaim, and he cheered them on with their emperor's battle-cry,—"Montjoie, Saint Denis!"
No less courageous was his dear comrade. But no fierce joy impelled Oliver to the great deeds that he performed. He saw his duty, and met it like a true knight.
Nor were the ten others of the emperor's peers less zealous in his cause. Each gave his all for Charlemagne; and if that all was less than the mighty Roland gave, it was not the fault of the knight who pledged it.
Conspicuous in the fight was the great archbishop,—here blessing and assoiling according to his holy office; there rushing to the charge like the warrior that nature had made him, crying,—
"Strike, barons! Remember your chivalry!"
But not to the Franks alone belong all the glory and all the praise. The Moslem hosts that opposed them were "worthy of their steel,"—equally zealous in their own cause, equally certain of the approval of God.
Wilder and fiercer grew the strife, and Paynim and Christian mingled together in dire confusion. At length the Moslem ranks wavered for an instant, gave back a little, and then broke in panic. And a pitiful remnant of the mighty host of King Marsilius fled from the field, leaving slain in the pass the great body of that once proud army. But even this remnant did not escape, for they were followed by the Christians; and only one, wounded and bleeding, escaped to tell King Marsilius the story of his woful loss.
Nearly an hundred thousand Moslems lay dead in the pass of Roncesvalles. But they had sold their lives full dearly. Beneath, above, and beside them were piled the flower of the Frankish army—Christian and Paynim, asleep on one mother's breast, unheedful alike of triumph and defeat.
In spite of the fact that theirs had been the places of greatest danger all through the battle, Roland and Oliver and the good archbishop had escaped unhurt; and they and their comrades betook them to the sad duty of searching the bloody field for their best-beloved dead. Long they had wandered thus among the dead anddying, when a mighty blast of trumpets smote on their ears.
"O God, our Father, what straits are ours!" they cried, as looking up they beheld in the distance another Saracen host, greater by far than the one they had crushed, bearing down upon them.
Now happened a thing most wondrous to tell. In far-away France an awful darkness came down upon the land; a great whirlwind swept the face of the country; the rain fell, the earth rocked, and the thunder rolled along the sky. For a long time the darkness was unbroken, save when the lightning cleft the storm-clouds and gave to the scene a yet wilder fear. On all there came a mighty dread, and they deemed the end of the world at hand. They knew not that it was an augury of the fateful tragedy at the gates of Spain.
The lone heights about Roncesvalles had looked upon the Christian in his pride and triumph; now were they destined to behold another sight.
Like that awful storm-cloud, the heathen came down upon the Christian few, the thunder of hoof-beats waked the echoes of Roncesvalles, and the hard earth reeled with the shock of arms.
The rear-guard made their last brave stand that day. Lance to lance and sword to sword, they held their own while there was yet life in them, and they achieved all but the impossible. Twice did the heathen swarms break and fly before the fierce onslaughts of the Christians, but twice, reinforced, they rushed to the attack again. Knight after knight went down before them,—Engelier, Duke Sampson, Anseis, Gerien, and Gerier! Where might the emperor find their like again?
At length only sixty of the Franks were left, pressed together by the Moslem thousands. Every man in that "marvelous little companie" knew that death that day would be his portion; but each was stanch and true, and was resolved to sell his life "full hardily."
As the once haughty Roland gazed on his slaughtered men and on the pitiful few who rallied around him in his last stand against the Moslem power, his heart smote him grievously for the ruin he had wrought, and he cried to his companion,—
"Would to God he had been with us—our emperor and friend! Speak, Oliver, and lend thy counsel. How may we yet send tidings to Karl?" But Oliver, in spite of his usual gentleness, was bitter against his friend, and he said mockingly,—
"'Such deed were madness; lost in France would be thy glory!'"
But Roland's anguish and humility were great, and he insisted,—
"I will sound upon my horn that Karl may hear."
"Nay," cried Oliver. "Wouldst thoucall for aid?"
The broken-hearted Roland protested, but Oliver continued bitterly,—
"See how our Franks lie slain of thy madness, nevermore to render service to our emperor. Thou too shalt die, and forever shall France be dishonored!"
Thus, in face of death, did these two quarrel—they who had been dearer than all else to each other. The good archbishop heard their strife, and rebuked them sadly, saying,—
"Sir Roland, and thou, Sir Oliver, I pray ye, in the name of God, contend not. To wind the horn shall not avail to save us now. Yet were it meet to sound it, too; for Karl will return to avenge our fall, and bear our bodies back to gentle France to sleep in hallowed earth."
Then Roland sounded a mighty blast upon hishorn,—so mighty that a vein in his temple burst with the effort, and the bright blood flowed from his lips. But the powerful strain, echoing and re-echoing along the hollow pass of Roncesvalles, came faintly to the ear of Karl, and told its tale of tragedy.
"It is Roland's horn," cried the white-haired emperor. "He had not blown it save in dire distress." Then, though the traitor, Ganelon, did all in his power to dissuade him, Charlemagne turned back along the mountain path toward Spain.
And even in that hour, though weakened by loss of blood, and heart-sick at the fate he had brought upon his comrades, Roland rushed to the fight once more,—fleeter, fiercer, and more terrible.
"Oh, Oliver, brother," he cried in his anguish, "I die of shame and grief if I escape unhurt!"
Deeper yet he pressed into the fight, and showered blows as only Roland could, driving the foe before him. But, alas! the heathen hosts were thick as the sands of their native deserts, and thousands upon thousands came to reinforce their wavering ranks. Then Roland cried,—
"Our hour of fate is come!" and even as hespoke, a villainous heathen bore down upon Sir Oliver and thrust him through with his lance.
"Sir Roland, Sir Comrade," the dying Oliver cried—for his anger against his friend had burned out—"ride near me still; our parting is at hand."
"O God, my gentle Oliver!" cried the anguished Roland, "is this the end of all thy valor? Ah, hapless France, bereft of thy bravest! Who shall measure thy loss!" His grief was greater than he could bear, and he swooned upon his charger's neck.
Now Sir Oliver's eyes were dimmed with bleeding, so that he knew not friend from foe; and soon, in the surge of battle, he mistook his swooning comrade for a Moslem, and dealt a fierce blow on Roland's golden crest. The stroke did naught but rouse his unconscious friend, for the arm of the dying Oliver had lost its wonted power.
"My comrade," said Roland, softly, "didst thou strike me knowingly? I am Roland, who loves thee so dearly."
And Oliver answered,—
"Have I struck thee, brother? Forgive it me. I hear thee, but I see thee not." Then Roland pressed closer to him, saying,—
"I am not hurt, my Oliver."
Then Oliver alighted from his horse, and couching upon the red earth, cried aloud hisMea Culpa. Then passed his gentle spirit to Paradise; and Roland cried in his anguish,—
"Since thou art dead, to live is pain!"
But life and pain were Roland's for yet a little space, and he had need to bear him to the end a cavalier. Rousing himself from his grief, he beheld about him a mere handful of the sixty he had counted last, each fighting "as if knight there were none beside"; so, grasping Durindana, he pressed into the strife. The next instant he beheld the good archbishop flung to the ground from a dying charger. But Turpin was on his feet almost instantly; and though he bore four lance-wounds in his body, he raised his sword on high and ran to the side of Roland, crying,—
"I am not defeated! A brave soldier yields with life alone!" Then wreaked he such vengeance upon the heathen hordes that some say God wrought a miracle in his behalf.
If miracle of God there was, it was not granted to save the Christian few from destruction. In the last struggle, the valiant Turpin, wounded and afoot, and the matchless Roland faced the Moslem hosts alone.
Fled was Count Roland's pride and vanity. With certain death before him, his one thought was to summon Karl to vengeance, and to die like a cavalier. The pain in his brow, from the bursting of the vein, was growing more and more intense; not long, he knew, could his fainting spirit bide. Once again he raised his ivory horn to his lips, and sounded a call to the hosts of Charlemagne.
It was but a feeble strain, but on the north wind an answer came. Suddenly, along the pass, rang a peal of sixty thousand clarions, and the mountains caught up the strain and shouted it back again.
"King Karl! King Karl!" the echoes seemed to call to each other.
"Let us flee and save us!" cried the heathen. "These are the trumpets of France! Karl, the mighty emperor, is upon us!"
Never was heathen but trembled at that name. Aghast for one moment the hosts of the Moslem stood, then, like hunted things, they broke and fled from the field.
As the infidels gave way in dire panic, Count Roland called to the archbishop,—
"Let us give the heathen back their onset!" and he spurred his Veillantif after their flying numbers.
"Who spares to strike is base," answered the valiant churchman; and wounded though he was, he joined in the pursuit.
"Leave not this Roland alive!" cried one of the fleeing infidels; and he turned and flung his javelin at the Christian knight. A hundred Moslems at once followed his lead. Weapon after weapon was hurled upon the dauntless Roland; but though his armor was all broken, and his raiment frayed, his flesh remained unscathed. Veillantif, his noble charger, however, was slain under him, and fell to the ground, pierced by thirty wounds.
The heathen vanished; and Roland, unable to keep up on foot, was left alone on the field. His first thought was to succor the good archbishop, who had been grievously wounded in the fight, so he turned back and searched till he found the faithful Turpin.
"The field is thine, and God's the glory," was Turpin's greeting to him; and even as he spoke, his head drooped upon his breast, and his pious spirit passed away. So died the great Archbishop Turpin,—a champion ever of the Christian faith with word and weapon.
Noble and generous always, Roland had thought of his comrade first. Now, left alone,his thoughts turned upon himself, and he knew from the pain in his brow that his end was at hand. Karl and his legions were still some leagues away; he might not hope to meet his emperor again, but he desired much that Charlemagne should know that his Roland had died unconquered.
So he grasped his Durindana and his ivory horn, and recrossed the marches of Spain—as far as he had followed the fleeing heathen. There, on a mound, between two great trees, he laid him down to die. Yet was his spirit troubled, for he knew that if he died thus, his good sword might fall into unworthy and unknightly hands.
"Ah, my ill-starred blade!" he cried; "no longer may I be thy guardian. Yet never shalt thou know master who shall turn his face from mortal enemy."
So saying, he struggled to his feet, and essayed to shatter his blade upon a great rock. Many blows he smote with it, yet it broke not. Then Roland was sorely grieved. Once more he summoned his failing strength, and showered such mighty strokes upon the stone that the blade, unbroken still, was bent "past word to tell."
Then, for death was upon him, Roland laidhim down in the shade of a pine. His sword and his horn he placed beneath his head, that Karl might know he had not surrendered. When this was done, he raised his right glove to heaven as a sign of repentance, and cried aloud,—
"O God, I do repent me of my sins, both great and small, from my natal hour to this day. Father, receive my soul!"
Saint Gabriel leaned from heaven, so the legend says, and took the raised glove from his hand.
And Karl, his emperor, came, and found him with his head upon his unsurrendered sword, and his face toward Spain.
The vengeance that Charlemagne wreaked upon the traitor, Ganelon, and upon the Moslems in Spain was unspeakably terrible.
It is touching to know, however, that Roland's lady-love—Oliver's gentle sister Alda—refused to be comforted when she heard of her lover's death. She died of a broken heart at the feet of Charlemagne, even as the emperor begged her to accept his own son in marriage, and thus become, in time, empress of all the Franks.
As warlike sons, with mighty deeds,Exalt the power of Rome;And Arthur deathless glory addsUnto his island home;As France will ever nobler seemBecause of Charlemagne—So dost thou, ever-conquering Cid,Immortalize thy Spain!Paraphrase of Latin epitaph,D. W. K.
As warlike sons, with mighty deeds,Exalt the power of Rome;And Arthur deathless glory addsUnto his island home;As France will ever nobler seemBecause of Charlemagne—So dost thou, ever-conquering Cid,Immortalize thy Spain!
Paraphrase of Latin epitaph,D. W. K.
In the eleventh century there lived in Castile a Spanish noble of high degree, called Diego Laynez. His family estates of Bivar lay near the city of Burgos, and in his castle there, Don Diego, when not in attendance upon the king, dwelt in the state befitting his rank and wealth. A stern and proud man was Don Diego, and justly renowned for his great valor in battle.
This knight had long desired an heir to his ancient name, and was happy beyond measure when his wish was gratified by the coming of a little son. The child was named Rodrigo, and soon grew to be a wonderfully strong and fearless youth. Doubtless Diego hoped that his son would become a valiant warrior, for fighting was then the chief business of life, and peaceful occupations were held in little esteem. In those days, a man was obliged to fight to defend life and property,and a brave knight, with only the help of his good sword, could win fame and fortune. But even the fond parents of Rodrigo could never have dreamed of the glory that awaited their son, who was to become the greatest warrior in all Spain, the delight and admiration and envy of every true Spanish knight.
It was a stormy age,—that in which the little Rodrigo lived. For three hundred years there had been almost constant warfare in Spain. Sometimes the Christians battled against the Moors, sometimes Christians against Christians, and Moors against Moors; but always there was conflict and struggle. And well was the son of Diego Laynez fitted for that rough age, as you shall see.
While still very young, Rodrigo showed a most independent spirit. Once he asked his godfather, the priest Don Pedro, to give him a colt, and the kind old man took him to the paddock and told him to choose one as the colts were driven slowly by. After all the finest had passed, a very ugly and mangy colt came ambling along, and Rodrigo called out,—
"This is the one for me!" His godfather, angry at a choice that seemed so foolish, exclaimed,—
"Booby, [Babieca] thou hast chosen ill!" but the boy, not at all abashed, laughed as he replied confidently,—
"This will be a good horse, and Booby shall be his name."
Time proved the boy to have shown excellent judgment, and Babieca became almost as famous as his master.
Not only self-reliance, but a fierce and warlike temper, was shown in the first youthful exploit of Rodrigo. His father Diego, when too old to bear arms, was grossly insulted by an enemy, the Count of Gormaz. Diego wept and raged at the insult put upon him and his inability to resent it. Moved deeply by his father's grief, Rodrigo determined to avenge the insult to the honor of his family.
Donning the discarded armor of Diego, the youth next took down from the wall an ancient sword. This treasured weapon had once belonged to a celebrated warrior, Mudarra, and with it that knight had avenged the death of his seven brothers. Buckling on the good blade, Rodrigo said,—
"O valiant sword! bethink thee that mine is Mudarra's arm! Thou hast now as great a wrong as his to right. Thou lackest thy greatmaster's hand; yet never shalt thou see me turn my back on a foe. Thou shalt find me true as thy tempered steel, for thy second master, like thy first, was not born to yield. Should the foe overmaster me, not long will I endure the shame, but plunge thee straightway in my breast!"
Then Rodrigo sallied forth secretly from Bivar, and seeking the haughty count, challenged him to battle. Gormaz laughed him to scorn.
"Fight thee? Thou art mad, thou silly boy. Get thee hence, or thy skin shall suffer for thine insolence."
"Thou art no true knight," cried Rodrigo, "but a craven who dost insult old men! If thou fight me not, all Castile shall hear of thy shameful deed!" Many more deadly insults he added, until the enraged count consented to fight him, expecting an easy victory over the youth. But Rodrigo was strong as a man, and his deadly hate of the count added vigor to his arm. Though soon wounded and bleeding, he yet parried with skill the blows aimed at his heart, and finally, with one desperate effort, drove the sword of Mudarra through and through the body of Gormaz. The head of his fallen enemy Rodrigo carried home in triumph to the proud Diego. Thus did the youthfulRuy Diaz de Bivar avenge the wrongs of his father.
Soon after this combat with Gormaz, Rodrigo, while riding with some companions, unexpectedly met a band of Moors. These men were returning to Aragon from a thieving expedition into Castile, driving their captives and stolen cattle before them. Rodrigo and his friends fell upon this band with great fury and soon defeated the infidels; but the prisoners taken were generously set free by their youthful captor. Later, when Rodrigo went to the Saracen court of Saragossa, these Moors, in return for his kindness, gave him the title of Sidy, or Said,—an Arabic word, meaning lord, or my lord. In Spanish this became Cid; and as the Cid, Rodrigo is best known, though he has still another title, won in the following manner. In those days any knight who had suffered wrong at the hands of another, could, with the king's consent, challenge his enemy. Then, in the presence of the king and court, the two knights would fight on horseback until one was killed or acknowledged himself vanquished. The victor was deemed to have right on his side, and judgment was given accordingly. Sometimes either party to the quarrel was allowed to choose a substitute to fightfor him. It was also the custom when hostile armies met, for the boldest warrior to challenge one of the enemy to come out and fight in single combat. Often, wars were decided by such a contest between two or more knights chosen from each army. By his wonderful success in many combats of this kind, Rodrigo won the title of Campeador, or Champion, and came to be called the Cid Campeador.
On his way to engage in one of these contests as a champion of the King of Castile, Rodrigo met with a marvelous adventure. He and his knights came upon a leper fallen into a ditch by the wayside, and calling upon the passers-by for help. Now, none would heed his call for fear of the terrible disease, with which the poor wayfarer was afflicted. But Rodrigo dismounted, pulled the leper out of the ditch, and placing him on Babieca, brought him to the inn where they were to lodge. Not another knight would come near the outcast, so Rodrigo, out of pure kindness, ate from the same dish with him, and afterwards had a bed prepared, in which they two slept together.
In the middle of the night, a cold blast seemed to strike through Rodrigo, and he waked and put out his hand to touch his bedfellow; but theleper was gone. The Cid called aloud; none answered. While Rodrigo was considering this strange thing, a man in white, shining garments appeared, and asked softly,—
"Sleepest thou, Rodrigo?"
"Nay, I am awake; but who art thou who bearest about thee so bright a light and so sweet a smell?"
"I am Saint Lazarus," answered the vision, "and would have thee know that I am that leper to whom thou didst show such kindness for the love of God. And for that deed, God bestows on thee this great boon,—that when the blast thou didst feel but now shall come upon thee, thou mayest undertake that on which thy heart is fixed, whether it be fighting or other matters, and it shall go well with thee. For never shalt thou be conquered, but ever victorious; for God grants thee His blessing. So rest thee well and do ever the right." And so Rodrigo prayed until morning, and then went on his way rejoicing.
Meanwhile the day came, on which the combat was to be fought between the Cid and a knight of Aragon, to decide whether the city of Calahorra should belong to the King of Castile or the King of Aragon. The two kings, with asplendid company of nobles, had taken places to watch the combat, the lists were all prepared, and the heralds stood ready to give the signal; but the Cid did not appear. Very uneasy was King Fernando at the absence of his champion. A cousin of the tardy knight offered to take his place, and was about to mount and enter the lists, when the Cid came spurring up in hot haste. Leaping from his tired horse, he sprang upon the steed that stood ready, and, wasting no time in words, lowered his lance and charged fiercely on his waiting adversary. The two met with a shock that shivered the lances. Both knights were badly wounded, but they drew their swords and prepared to fight on. The knight of Aragon now thought to frighten the Cid, and exclaimed boastfully,—
"Right sorely shalt thou rue that thou hast come into this place with me, for never shalt thou return alive to Castile!"
But Rodrigo was not at all troubled by the threat.
"Don Martin Gonzales," he replied coolly, "thou art a good knight, but such words befit not this place. We must fight with our hands, and not with empty words." And grasping his sword, he suddenly brought it down on thehelmet of his foe with such tremendous force that it wellnigh drove the head of Gonzales down to the neck of his steed. The knight of Aragon, however, was a stout fighter, and rallying from the shock, he dealt a blow that cut through the edge of the Cid's shield. So firmly fixed was the sword that, when drawn back, it brought the shield with it. Enraged at this loss, the Cid cut his adversary fiercely across the face; but Gonzales, though bleeding copiously, still fought on bravely. Only after a long, fierce fight did the Champion unhorse and slay this valiant knight. Then the umpires announced that the Cid had conquered, and so won the good city of Calahorra for his king.