When Roland heard that he was to command the rearguard he knew not whether to be pleased or not. At first he thanked Ganelon for naming him. "Thanks, fair stepfather, for sending me to the post of danger.

King Charles shall lose no man nor horse through my neglect." But when Ganelon replied sneeringly, "You speak the truth, as I know right well," Roland's grat.i.tude turned to bitter anger, and he reproached the villain. "Ah, wretch! disloyal traitor! thou thinkest perchance that I, like thee, shall basely drop the glove, but thou shalt see!

Sir King, give me your bow. I will not let my badge of office fall, as thou didst, Ganelon, at Cordova. No evil omen shall a.s.sail the host through me."

Roland for the Rearguard

Charlemagne was very loath to grant his request, but on the advice of Duke Naimes, most prudent of counsellors, he gave to Roland his bow, and offered to leave with him half the army. To this the champion would not agree, but would only have twenty thousand Franks from fair France. Roland clad himself in his shining armour, laced on his lordly helmet, girt himself with his famous sword Durendala, and hung round his neck his flower-painted shield; he mounted his good steed Veillantif, and took in hand his bright lance with the white pennon and golden fringe; then, looking like the Archangel St. Michael, he rode forward, and easy it was to see how all the Franks loved him and would follow where he led. Beside him rode the famous Peers of France, Oliver the bold and courteous, the saintly Archbishop Turpin, and Count Gautier, Roland's loyal va.s.sal. They chose carefully the twenty thousand French for the rearguard, and Roland sent Gautier with one thousand of their number to search the mountains. Alas! they never returned, for King Almaris, a Saracen chief, met and slew them all among the hills; and only Gautier, sorely wounded and bleeding to death, returned to Roland in the final struggle.

Charlemagne spoke a mournful "Farewell" to his nephew and the rearguard, and the mighty army began to traverse the gloomy ravine through the dark ma.s.ses of rocks, and to emerge on the other side of the Pyrenees. All wept, most for joy to set eyes on that dear land of fair France, which for seven years they had not seen; but Charles, with a sad foreboding of disaster, hid his eyes beneath his cloak and wept in silence.

Charles is Sad

"What grief weighs on your mind, sire?" asked the wise Duke Naimes, riding up beside Charlemagne.

"I mourn for my nephew. Last night in a vision I saw Ganelon break my trusty lance--this Ganelon who has sent Roland to the rear. And now I have left Roland in a foreign land, and, O G.o.d! if I lose him I shall never find his equal!" And the emperor rode on in silence, seeing naught but his own sad foreboding visions.

The Saracen Pursuit

Meanwhile King Marsile, with his countless Saracens, had pursued so quickly that the van of the heathen army soon saw waving the banners of the Frankish rear. Then as they halted before the strife began, one by one the n.o.bles of Saragossa, the champions of the Moors, advanced and claimed the right to measure themselves against the Twelve Peers of France. Marsile's nephew received the royal glove as chief champion, and eleven Saracen chiefs took a vow to slay Roland and spread the faith of Mahomet.

"Death to the rearguard! Roland shall die! Death to the Peers! Woe to France and Charlemagne! We will bring the Emperor to your feet! You shall sleep at St. Denis! Down with fair France!" Such were their confident cries as they armed for the conflict; and on their side no less eager were the Franks.

"Fair Sir Comrade," said Oliver to Roland, "methinks we shall have a fray with the heathen."

"G.o.d grant it," returned Roland. "Our duty is to hold this pa.s.s for our king. A va.s.sal must endure for his lord grief and pain, heat and cold, torment and death; and a knight's duty is to strike mighty blows, that men may sing of him, in time to come, no evil songs.

Never shall such be sung of me."

Oliver Descries the Saracens

Hearing a great tumult, Oliver ascended a hill and looked towards Spain, where he perceived the great pagan army, like a gleaming sea, with shining hauberks and helms flashing in the sun. "Alas! we are betrayed! This treason is plotted by Ganelon, who put us in the rear,"

he cried. "Say no more," said Roland; "blame him not in this: he is my stepfather."

Now Oliver alone had seen the might of the pagan array, and he was appalled by the countless mult.i.tudes of the heathens. He descended from the hill and appealed to Roland.

Roland will not Blow his Horn

"'Comrade Roland, sound your war-horn, Your great Olifant, far-sounding: Charles will hear it and return here.'

'Cowardice were that,' quoth Roland; 'In fair France my fame were tarnished.

No, these Pagans all shall perish When I brandish Durendala.'

"'Comrade Roland, sound your war-horn: Charles will hear it and return here.'

'G.o.d forbid it,' Roland answered, 'That it e'er be sung by minstrels I was asking help in battle From my King against these Pagans.

I will ne'er do such dishonour To my kinsmen and my nation.

No, these heathen all shall perish When I brandish Durendala.'

"'Comrade Roland, sound your war-horn Charles will hear it and return here.

See how countless are the heathen And how small our Frankish troop is!'

'G.o.d forbid it,' answered Roland, 'That our fair France be dishonoured Or by me or by my comrades-- Death we choose, but not dishonour!'"

Roland was a valiant hero, but Oliver had prudence as well as valour, and his advice was that of a good and careful general. Now he spoke reproachfully.

It is Too Late

"Ah, Roland, if you had sounded your magic horn the king would soon be here, and we should not perish! Now look to the heights and to the mountain pa.s.ses: see those who surround us. None of us will see the light of another day!"

"Speak not so foolishly," retorted Roland. "Accursed be all cowards, say I." Then, softening his tone a little, he continued: "Friend and comrade, say no more. The emperor has entrusted to us twenty thousand Frenchmen, and not a coward among them. Lay on with thy lance, Oliver, and I will strike with Durendala. If I die men shall say: 'This was the sword of a n.o.ble va.s.sal.'"

Turpin Blesses the Knights

Then spoke the brave and saintly Archbishop Turpin. Spurring his horse, he rode, a gallant figure, to the summit of a hill, whence he called aloud to the Frankish knights:

"'Fair sirs and barons, Charles has left us here To serve him, or at need to die for him.

See, yonder come the foes of Christendom, And we must fight for G.o.d and Holy Faith.

Now, say your shrift, and make your peace with Heaven; I will absolve you and will heal your souls; And if you die as martyrs, your true home Is ready midst the flowers of Paradise!'"

The Frankish knights, dismounting, knelt before Turpin, who blessed and absolved them all, bidding them, as penance, to strike hard against the heathen.

Then Roland called his brother-in-arms, the brave and courteous Oliver, and said: "Fair brother, I know now that Ganelon has betrayed us for reward and Marsile has bought us; but the payment shall be made with our swords, and Charlemagne will terribly avenge us."

"Montjoie! Montjoie!"

While the two armies yet stood face to face in battle array Oliver replied: "What good is it to speak? You would not sound your horn, and Charles cannot help us; he is not to blame. Barons and lords, ride on and yield not. In G.o.d's name fight and slay, and remember the war-cry of our Emperor." And at the words the war-cry of "Montjoie! Montjoie!"

burst from the whole army as they spurred against the advancing heathen host.

The Fray

Great was the fray that day, deadly was the combat, as the Moors and Franks crashed together, shouting their cries, invoking their G.o.ds or saints, wielding with utmost courage sword, lance, javelin, scimitar, or dagger. Blades flashed, lances were splintered, helms were cloven in that terrible fight of heroes. Each of the Twelve Peers did mighty feats of arms. Roland himself slew the nephew of King Marsile, who had promised to bring Roland's head to his uncle's feet, and bitter were the words that Roland hurled at the lifeless body of his foe, who had but just before boasted that Charlemagne should lose his right hand.

Oliver slew the heathen king's brother, and one by one the Twelve Peers proved their mettle on the twelve champions of King Marsile, and left them dead or mortally wounded on the field. Wherever the battle was fiercest and the danger greatest, where help was most needed, there Roland spurred to the rescue, swinging Durendala, and, falling on the heathen like a thunderbolt of war, turned the tide of battle again and yet again.

"Red was Roland, red with bloodshed: Red his corselet, red his shoulders, Red his arm, and red his charger."

Like the red G.o.d Mars he rode through the battle; and as he went he met Oliver, with the truncheon or a spear in his grasp.

"'Friend, what hast thou there?' cried Roland.

'In this game 'tis not a distaff, But a blade of steel thou needest.

Where is now Hauteclaire, thy good sword, Golden-hilted, crystal-pommeled?'

'Here,' said Oliver; 'so fight I That I have not time to draw it.'

'Friend,' quoth Roland, 'more I love thee Ever henceforth than a brother.'"