The emperor knew well that Roland would be found before his men, with his face to the foe. Thus he advanced a bowshot from his companions and climbed a little hill, there found the little flowery meadow stained red with the blood of his barons, and there at the summit, under the trees, lay the body of Roland on the green gra.s.s. The broken blocks of marble bore traces of the hero's dying efforts, and Charlemagne raised Roland, and, clasping the hero in his arms, lamented over him.

His Lament

"'The Lord have mercy, Roland, on thy soul!

Never again shall our fair France behold A knight so worthy, till France be no more!

"'The Lord have mercy, Roland, on thy soul!

That thou mayest rest in flowers of Paradise With all His glorious Saints for evermore!

My honour now will lessen and decay, My days be spent in grief for lack of thee, My joy and power will vanish. There is none, Comrade or kinsman, to maintain my cause.

"'The Lord have mercy, Roland, on thy soul!

And grant thee place in Paradise the blest, Thou valiant youth, thou mighty conqueror!

How widowed lies our fair France and how lone How will the realms that I have swayed rebel Now thou art taken from my weary age!

So deep my woe that fain would I die too And join my valiant Peers in Paradise While men inter my weary limbs with thine!'"[14]

The Dead Buried

The French army buried the dead with all honour, where they had fallen, except the bodies of Roland, Oliver, and Turpin, which were carried to Blaye, and interred in the great cathedral there; and then Charlemagne returned to Aix.

Aude the Fair

As Charles the Great entered his palace a beauteous maiden met him, Aude the Fair, the sister of Oliver and betrothed bride of Roland. She asked eagerly:

"Where is Roland the mighty captain, who swore to take me for his bride?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: Aude the Fair

Evelyn Paul]

"Alas! dear sister and friend," said Charlemagne, weeping and tearing his long white beard, "thou askest tidings of the dead. But I will replace him: thou shalt have Louis, my son, Count of the Marches."

"These words are strange," exclaimed Aude the Fair. "G.o.d and all His saints and angels forbid that I should live when Roland my love is dead." Thereupon she lost her colour and fell at the emperor's feet; he thought her fainting, but she was dead. G.o.d have mercy on her soul!

The Traitor Put to Death

Too long it would be to tell of the trial of Ganelon the traitor.

Suffice it that he was torn asunder by wild horses, and his name remains in France a byword for all disloyalty and treachery.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] _See_ "Myths and Legends of the Middle Ages," by H. Guerber.

[13] Marked out for death.

[14] The poetical quotations are from the "Chanson de Roland."

CHAPTER VIII: THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN

Celtic Mysticism

In all Celtic literature there is recognisable a certain spirit which seems to be innate in the very character of the people, a spirit of mysticism and acknowledgment of the supernatural. It carries with it a love of Nature, a delight in beauty, colour and harmony, which is common to all the Celtic races. But with these characteristics we find in Ireland a spiritual beauty, a pa.s.sion of self-sacrifice, unknown in Wales or Brittany. Hence the early Irish heroes are frequently found renouncing advantages, worldly honour, and life itself, at the bidding of some imperative moral impulse. They are the knights-errant of early European chivalry which was a much deeper and more real inspiration than the carefully cultivated artificial chivalry of centuries later.

Cuchulain, Diarmuit, Naesi all pay with their lives for their obedience to the dictates of honour and conscience. And in women, for whom in those early days sacrifice of self was the only way of heroism, the surrender even of eternal bliss was only the sublimation of honour and chivalry; and this was the heroism of the Countess Cathleen.

The Cathleen Legend

The legend is old, so old that its root has been lost and we know not who first imagined it; but the idea, the central incident, doubtless goes back to Druid times, when a woman might well have offered herself up to the cruel G.o.ds to avert their wrath and stay the plagues which fell upon her people. Under a like impulse Curtius sprang into the gulf in the Forum, and Decius devoted himself to death to win the safety of the Roman army. In each case the powers, evil or beneficent, were supposed to be appeased by the offering of a human life. When Christianity found this legend of sacrifice popular among the heathen nations, it was comparatively easy to adopt it and give it a yet wider scope, by making the sacrifice spiritual rather than physical, and by finally rewarding the hero with heavenly joys. It is to be noted, too, that even at this early period there is a certain glorification of chicanery: the fiend fulfils his side of the contract, but G.o.d Himself breaks the other side. This becomes a regular feature in all tales that relate dealings with the Evil One: all Devil's Bridges, Devil's d.y.k.es, and the Faust legends show that Satan may be trusted to keep his word, while the saints invariably kept the letter and broke the spirit. To so primitive a tale as that of "The Countess Cathleen" the pettifogging quibbles of later saints are utterly unknown: G.o.d saves her soul because it is His will to reward such abnegation of self, and even the Evil One dare not question the Divine Will.

The Story. Happy Ireland

Once, long ago, as the Chronicles tell us, Ireland was known throughout Europe as "The Isle of Saints," for St. Patrick had not long before preached the Gospel, the message of good tidings, to the warring inhabitants, to tribes of uncivilised Celts, and to marauding Danes and Vikings. He had driven out the serpent-worshippers, and consecrated the Black Stone of Tara to the worship of the True G.o.d; he had convinced the High King of the truth and reasonableness of the doctrine of the Trinity by the ill.u.s.tration of the shamrock leaf, and had overthrown the great idols and purified the land. Therefore the fair sh.o.r.es and fertile vales of Erin, the cl.u.s.tered islets, dropped like jewels in the azure seas, the mist-covered, heather-clad hill-sides, even the barren mountain-tops and the patches of firm ground scattered in the solitudes of fathomless bogs, were homes of pious Culdee or lonely hermit. There was still strife in Ireland, for king fought with king, and heathen marauders still vexed the land; but many warlike Irish clans or "septs" turned their ardour for fight to religious conflicts, and often every man of a tribe became a monk, so that great abbeys and tribal monasteries and schools were built on the hills where, in former days, stood the chieftain's stronghold (_rath_ or _dun_, as Irish legends name it), with its earth mounds and wooden palisades. Holy psalms and chants replaced the boastful songs of the old bards, whilst warriors accustomed to regard fighting and hunting as the only occupations worthy of a free-born man, now peacefully illuminated ma.n.u.scripts or wrought at useful handicrafts. Yet still in secret they dreaded and tried to appease the wrath of the Dagda, Brigit of the Holy Fire, aengus the Ever-Young, and the awful Washers of the Ford, the Choosers of the Slain; and to this dread was now joined the new fear of the cruel demons who obeyed Satan, the Prince of Evil.

The Young Countess

At this time there dwelt in Ireland the Countess Cathleen, young, good, and beautiful. Her eyes were as deep, as changeful, and as pure as the ocean that washed Erin's sh.o.r.es; her yellow hair, braided in two long tresses, was as bright as the golden circlet on her brow or the yellow corn in her garners; and her step was as light and proud and free as that of the deer in her wide domains. She lived in a stately castle in the midst of great forests, with the cottages of her tribesmen around her gates, and day by day and year by year she watched the changing glories of the mighty woods, as the seasons brought new beauties, till her soul was as lovely as the green woods and purple hills around. The Countess Cathleen loved the dim, mysterious forest, she loved the tales of the ancient G.o.ds, and of

"Old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago;"

_Wordsworth._

but more than all she loved her clansmen and va.s.sals: she prayed for them at all the holy hours, and taught and tended them with loving care, so that in no place in Ireland could be found a happier tribe than that which obeyed her gentle rule.

Dearth and Famine

One year there fell upon Ireland, erewhile so happy, a great desolation--"For Scripture saith, an ending to all good things must be"[15]--and the happiness of the Countess Cathleen's tribe came to an end in this wise: A terrible famine fell on the land; the seed-corn rotted in the ground, for rain and never-lifting mists filled the heavy air and lay on the sodden earth; then when spring came barren fields lay brown where the shooting corn should be; the cattle died in the stall or fell from weakness at the plough, and the sheep died of hunger in the fold; as the year pa.s.sed through summer towards autumn the berries failed in the sun-parched woods, and the withered leaves, fallen long before the time, lay rotting on the dank earth; the timid wild things of the forest, hares, rabbits, squirrels, died in their holes or fell easy victims to the birds and beasts of prey; and these, in their turn, died of hunger in the famine-stricken forests.

"I searched all day: the mice and rats and hedgehogs Seemed to be dead, and I could hardly hear A wing moving in all the famished woods."[16]

Distress of the Peasants

A cry of bitter agony and lamentation rose from the starving Isle of Saints to the gates of Heaven, and fell back unheard; the sky was hard as bra.s.s above and the earth was barren beneath, and men and women died in despair, their shrivelled lips still stained green by the dried gra.s.s and twigs they had striven to eat.

"I pa.s.sed by Margaret Nolan's: for nine days Her mouth was green with dock and dandelion; And now they wake her."

The Misery Increases