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In the lost battle we have won.
I.
Charlemagne, the mighty Emperor, led a great army of his
trusty Franks to fight against the Saracens of Spain. One by one
the strong walled cities fell before the Christian Franks till at
last only Saragossa remained in the hands of the heathen
Saracens.
Marsila, King of Saragossa, called a council of his captains.
"Charlemagne and his warriors are upon us," he cried. "Tell
me, my lords, what shall we do?" Thereupon one of the captains
advised the King to send envoys to meet the conqueror with offers
of submission. Charlemagne would then leave the country, and the
Saracens would be free to do as they pleased, without regard to
their promises.
The envoys therefore set out ten in number, clothed in rich
garments, mounted on milk-white mules, and bearing in their hands
the olive-branches of peace. They found the Frankish host resting
after a victory, and were led at once to the Emperor. He sat
beneath a pine-tree on a chair of massive gold. His beard and
hair were white as driven snow, his face full of kingly pride and
majesty. He seemed a giant in stature and a worthy leader and
captain of heroic warriors.
The Emperor listened graciously to the message borne by the
envoys, and promised to give his answer on the following day.
When the morning dawned Charlemagne called together the chiefs of
his host in council. Among them came Roland and Oliver, the fame
of whose valour and friendship had spread through many lands; and
Archbishop Turpin, more of a soldier than a priest; Ganelon, the
stepfather of Roland, a knight of fair fame, but one who was
afterwards to prove a traitor to his lord and his comrades in
arms.
The Emperor had doubts of the good faith of Marsila. The
promises of the Saracen King seemed fair, but what were the
thoughts of his heart? Roland was for carrying on the war to the
end. He would not trust the Saracens, who had already made
promises only to break them. Ganelon opposed him, called him rash
and hare-brained, and advised the Emperor to trust the pledges of
the Saracen King. In the end the advice of Ganelon was taken, and
he was chosen to carry the Emperor’s reply to the Court of
Marsila.
He set out at once on his journey to Saragossa, travelling
alone and bearing the herald’s staff. On the way he overtook
the Saracens envoys, the chief of whom had rightly guessed that
Ganelon was bitterly jealous of Roland, and would be only too
glad to do him an injury.
He was therefore able, with wily words, to persuade Ganelon to
become a traitor to his trust.
The travellers before long arrived at Saragossa, and were
taken to the presence of the King. There Ganelon delivered his
message, and then took his first step on the path of treachery
which no true knight should tread. He advised Marsila to surprise
the rearguard of the Frankish army while in retreat from Spain,
and gave the King much information, which afterwards proved of
great use to him. The traitor also promised to see that Roland
was placed in command of the rearguard. In this manner he would
be able to avenge himself on his hated rival.
The keys of the city were then delivered to Ganelon as a sign
of submission, and he set out for the Emperor’s camp. When he
arrived there he told the result of his mission. He was
graciously thanked by his royal master, and word was given to
break up the camp and begin the retreat across the Pyrenees into
France. The trumpets gave the signal, the camp was broken up, and
the great host of weary warriors turned their faces to the home
from which they had been exiled for seven long and laborious
years.
II.
Before setting out on the march Charlemagne selected from his
warriors a sufficient force to form a strong rearguard. The
command of this body was given to Roland, and he was bidden to
guard the passes in the mountains till the whole army had safely
crossed the barrier between Spain and France. It was Ganelon who
named Roland to the Emperor as the man best fitted for the task.
It was the post of danger, and therefore the post of honour,
and Roland was only too proud and eager to take command. He
quickly armed himself in coat of mail, mounted his fiery charger,
and girded with his golden-hilted sword of Durendal, rode forward
to a small hillock, where he hoisted his ensign. He was at once
joined by Oliver, his brother-at-arms, by Turpin, the
warrior-priest, and by many others of the leaders, who were proud
to serve beneath the banner of Roland.
Then the army set out. The passes were held by the bodies of
men under Roland’s command, and the Frankish warriors marched
steadily upward towards the high ground, from which they gained
their first glimpse of the sweet land of France, the home of all
they held most dear. Soon they began the descent into level
ground, and before long the greater number were marching through
the plains of Gascony.
While the last of the Frankish army were climbing the steep
mountain passes, Oliver, from his post on a piece of rising
ground, heard in the distance the tramp of a great host, and the
sound of a thousands trumpets. "We shall yet do battle with the
Saracens, comrade!" he said, turning to Roland. "God grant
it!" said the other; "for right is on our side, and the
minstrels of the after-time shall sing of us no songs of blame
and reproach." Before long the brave leaders saw in the
distance the armour of a great Saracen host flashing in the
sunlight, and knew only too well that Ganelon had played them
false.
Beyond the mountain barrier a storm was at that time raging.
Darkness as of night had fallen suddenly, then the lightning
flashed, the thunder rolled, the earth quaked, and the blinding
hail fell heavily as the warriors of Charlemagne marched steadily
through the land. They knew not that heaven and earth were
mourning for the approaching end of a hero.
Before long the Saracens had reached the plain at the foot of
the mountains, and their design was clear. Oliver turned to
Roland. "Sound a blast on thy horn, brother!" he cried;
"and, though he be many leagues away, Charlemagne will hear it
and return to our aid." "Shall I lose my name and renown,
then?" asked Roland in scorn. "Nay, we will fight, though it
be against odds, and these heathen shall rue the day that they
dared to give us battle." Again and yet again Oliver urged his
friend to sound his horn, for he saw plainly that the small
rearguard could not overcome the Saracen in his strength. But
Roland was steadfast. "God forbid," he cried, "that I
should bring such shame on my father’s race and name! We are
few, they are many, I grant ye; the more do I yearn for the fray.
Play the man! We can but die. Better is death than the life of a
craven."
Then the leader gathered together his warriors, and prepared
to face the foe. "See the Saracens!" cried Turpin to the
assembled heroes. "See how they come on in their pride! But it
was Charles, our King, who bade us remain here, and to yield to
fear is to fail in our duty to him. Stand ye up for the right! If
we fall in the battle, ours will be the martyr’s glorious
death." So the leaders of the Franks with fiery words of
exhortation roused the spirit of their men. Oliver, too, now
added his voice to that of Roland and of Turpin, and preparations
were made for the great fight.
Forth from the Saracen vanguard rode a richly-dressed and
haughty champion. With words of scorn and pride he taunted the
Frankish warriors. Roland spurred forward his horse, and drove
his strong lance through the heart of the boaster, who fell dead
from his charger. "To the battle, ye Franks!" cried the
victor; "the first blow is ours!"
In a few moments the two armies had closed in desperate
conflict. Before the fierce onset of the Frankish heroes the
Saracens fell in hundreds. Roland and Oliver performed deeds of
desperate valour as they had done in many a former battle. Turpin
was among the foremost, and laid about him lustily. Again and
again the Saracens were driven back, but they seemed in number
like the sands on the seashore; and as soon as one body was
overcome another came on to the charge.
Then the ring of twelve brave knights, the famous paladins of
Charlemagne, was broken by the fall of one of their number.
Another fell and yet another, till six lay dead on the field, and
the number of their followers was reduced to sixty men. Roland
looked round in dismay. Even his strength was failing, and he
resolved to sound his horn, that the King might, at least, bring
vengeance on their enemies for the death of his brave knights. He
blew one mighty blast and then another upon his horn, and so
great was the strain on his fast-failing strength that the blood
burst from his temples.
The Emperor, now thirty leagues away, heard the sound of that
horn, and made ready to hasten to the help of his rearguard.
Once more the Saracens came on to the attack. Marsila sallied
forth to fight with Roland single handed. Three of the famous
twelve fell beneath his sword before he was met by Roland
himself. Then the shining blade and golden hilt of Durendal
flashed in the light, and Marsila’s sword-hand fell to the
earth, severed at the wrist. The King turned and fled in great
pain, filled with dismay.
III.
Before long the Saracens recovered from the panic which had
come upon them when Marsila fled from his conflict with Roland. A
body of negro soldiers advanced to the final attack. Roland had
fifty men remaining, Turpin was still to the fore, but the brave
Oliver was sorely wounded to death. "Woe to me!" cried
Roland, as he gazed in the face of his beloved friend. "Where
shall I find a comrade like to thee? And our liege lord Charles;
his loss is greater than words can say." So great was the
hero’s sorrow that he swooned as he sat in his saddle.
The anguish of his wound drove Oliver to madness. Not knowing
what he did, he smote Roland, his comrade, on the head with his
sword. The blow was strong with the strength of madness, and
clove the helmet of Roland, though it did not harm his head. With
eyes of pity he looked at his comrade, and said gently:
"Friend, it is Roland thou smitest—Roland, who loveth
thee!"
The face of Oliver was ashy pale; his eyes rolled; his
strength failed; slowly and with pain he slid from his horse, and
rough earth became his couch of death. "Lord, grant me," he
prayed, "a place at Thy right hand. Bless my King, my country,
and Roland, my dear comrade!" then his hands unclasped, his
head drooped, and his spirit fled.
The negro warriors were now closing round him, and Roland had
little time to mourn the loss of his comrade. Manfully he faced
the foe side by side with Turpin and one other survivor of the
famous twelve. Turpin was struck from his horse and sorely
wounded, but he nobly supported his friend Roland, who now longed
for the coming of Charlemagne. Once more he blew a blast on his
horn, and before long the sound of warlike trumpets was heard
amid the mountains. "Charlemagne!" cried the enemy in
despair. "He comes, the mighty Emperor, the avenger!"
Four hundred of them now banded together to lay Roland low.
But with one last effort the Count spurred his good steed into
the midst of them, and, turning as one man, they fled from the
field. Roland’s horse stumbled and fell dead. Then the hero
looked about him, and his eye sought Turpin, who had so bravely
stood by him to the last. The good priest and warrior lay not far
away, and Roland knelt by his side to unlace his helmet. He laid
him down gently upon the greensward. "Our comrades," he said,
"they are sped, and lie dead on the field. I will seek them out
and bear them to you."
So he turned and sought the paladins of Charlemagne, and
brought them one by one to the dying bishop. He wept when he saw
the forms of the goodly warriors, and raised his failing hands to
bless them.
Then lifting his eyes he saw Roland stagger and fall near the
body of Oliver. Spent as he was, he rose tottering, grasped the
horn of Roland, and moved painfully towards a rippling stream
hard by to bring water for his fainting leader. But his strength
was sped, and he fell dead to the earth.
IV.
Roland recovered from his swoon, grasped once again his trusty
sword and his horn, and set his face towards the mountains from
whence in vain he had looked for timely help. Fainting from loss
of blood he fell again to the earth, and lay upon a mound above
the field of the slain. Not far away lay a Saracen, who had
pretended to be dead in order to escape taking his share in the
fight. He saw Roland fall, and crept forward to deprive him of
his sword—Durendal of the golden hilt—but as his cowardly
hand grasped the blade the dying hero rallied, raised his horn,
and with a mighty blow struck the craven dead at his feet.
Sword in hand the warrior rose. He was unwilling that Durendal
should pass to another when his life was sped, so he raised it
high above his head and rained blow after blow upon a sturdy
rock, hoping to shatter the blade; but the steel rang true, and
bounded unbroken from the rock at each blow. Then he laid it on
the earth, placed his horn beside it, and threw himself down,
turning his face towards the foe. With his last breath he asked
pardon for his sins, commended his King, his country, and his
friends to God, and then his soul passed, and the treachery of
Ganelon the traitor knight was complete.
But vengeance was at hand. The Emperor Charles had reached the
place of death, and when he saw the field strewn with his mighty
dead his spirit rose in anger, and, urging onward his warriors,
he overtook and utterly vanquished the Saracen host. Then he
returned to the field of Roncesvalles, where Roland, Oliver, and
Turpin had served him to the death, and with words of bitter
grief mourned over his fallen heroes.
Meanwhile Ganelon had been disgraced and made a prisoner. The
Emperor gave him into the hands of some of his camp-followers,
who treated him with scorn and indignity. When the Frankish army
reached the Emperor’s capital the traitor was bound to a post
and whipped before the eyes of his comrades and those who had of
old served under his banner; then after trial he met the awful
death of a traitor, the manner of which is too terrible to tell.
Such is the famous story of
" Roland and Charlemagne
And the dead who deathless all
Fell at famous Roncesvalles."
Told from the "Song of Roland"
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