Journeys Through Bookland Volume Iii Part 50

Though two hundred thousand of the pagans lay dead, many thousand Christians mingled with them. Of the Twelve but two remained, when the hosts of Marsilius began to flee and he looked with dismay upon the slain. Then would Roland have won his battle in spite of numbers but that from the mountainside came the sound of trumpets, and down into the valley came twenty fresh battalions of Saracens, eager for the fray. Yet Roland and the remainder of his scattered force kept even these new legions long at bay, laughing in scorn at the Saracen warriors and calling out grim jests at them as though the deadly battle were a friendly game. So marvelously did the Christians fight that the pagans almost yielded, for it seemed to them as though G.o.d and his angels must be fighting for the Christians.

Yet slowly and surely was the rear guard dwindling away. Dead were the n.o.ble Twelve and dead all the brave knights that were the immediate companions and guard of Roland, the flower of the rear guard.

"Comrade," said Roland to Oliver, "now will I blow my horn, which perchance Charles may hear and come to us."

"Thou art now too late," said the angry Oliver. "Hadst thou but taken my advice thou hadst saved much weeping among the women and children of France. Charles would not have lost his rear guard nor France her valiant Roland."

"Blow thy horn," said the Archbishop Turpin, "and talk not of what might have been. It is now too late for Charles to save our lives, but he may avenge them."

Then Roland put his horn to his lips and blew a mighty blast that rose up against the sides of the mountains and was echoed across the valleys over hill and dale till it reached the king among his courtiers in his great hall.

"What is that I hear?" he said; "surely our men are fighting to-day."

Said Ganelon, "What you hear is but the sighing of the wind in the trees."

Still more weary grew Roland, and he took the horn again and winded it with all his strength.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ROLAND FEEBLY WINDED HIS HORN]

So loud, so long and so mighty was the blast that the veins stood out like whipcords on his brow; and even then he stopped not, but blew until his temples broke and the blood streamed down his face.

Charles heard the mighty blast in his palace and cried, "That is the horn of Roland; I know it. He is hard pressed in battle or he would not sound it."

Then answered the treacherous Ganelon, "If that be the horn of Roland, he hunteth perchance in the woods. Too brave is he to sound it in battle. My lord the king groweth old, and his fears are childish. What a merry jest would it be should the king call his thousands and go to the succor of Roland only to find him hunting the hare."

In pain and great weariness now, almost spent with loss of blood and the agony of his bursting temples, Roland again feebly winded his horn. In his palace Charles heard the feeble echo, and springing from his seat while the salt tears streamed from his eyes and rushed down his snowy beard, cried, "Oh Roland, my brave captain, too long have I delayed. Sorry is thy need, I know, by the wailing of thy horn. Men, to arms! Straightway will we go to help Roland. Seize that man," he said pointing to Ganelon; "bind him fast in chains, and keep him till I return. Then shall we judge whether by his treason he hath duped us."

Fierce was the cruel throbbing in the brain of Roland as he turned wearily again to his fight, but his good sword leapt savagely out, and the redoubtable pagans fell around him in heaps. Those who were left of the rear guard cut down great ma.s.ses of the pagans as a reaper cuts down ripening corn at the harvest time, but one by one the weary reapers fell ere the harvest could be gathered in. Yet beside each dead Frank was a sheaf of pagan dead to show how well he had reaped his little field.

Then a pagan king, seeing where Oliver was fighting, stole up behind and smote him through the back a deadly wound, but Oliver turned, and with the fierce strength of a dying man swung his huge sword Haltclere, and before the pagan could know his triumph struck the king's helmet and cleft his head from forehead to teeth. Even now, with the pains of death so fastened upon him that his vision was blotted out, Oliver struck valiantly on every hand, shouting "Montjoy, Montjoy."

Roland heard the feeble shout and cut his way through to help his companion from his horse; but Oliver, not knowing him, struck Roland such a mighty blow that he shattered his helmet on his throbbing head.

In spite of all his pain, Roland lifted Oliver gently down from his horse, saying, "Dear comrade, I fear a deadly evil has happened to thee."

"Thy voice is that of Roland, but I cannot see thy face."

"It is I, Roland, thy comrade."

"Forgive me that I smote thee," said Oliver; "it is so dark that I cannot see thy face. Give me thy hand. G.o.d bless thee, Roland. G.o.d bless Charlemagne and France."

So saying, he fell upon his face and died. With a heavy heart Roland turned from his fallen comrade and looked about for his valiant rear guard. Only two men were left beside himself. Turpin the Archbishop, Count Gaulter and Roland set themselves back to back while the pagans ran upon them in a mult.i.tude. Twenty men Roland slew, Count Gaulter six, and Turpin five. Then another charge of a thousand hors.e.m.e.n throwing spears and javelins bore down upon them. Count Gaulter fell at the first charge, and the archbishop's horse was killed; and there upon the ground Turpin lay with four wounds upon his forehead and four upon his breast.

Yet strange to say in those fearful charges Roland got never a wound, although in his broken temples his brain was parting asunder, and the pain was more than he could bear. Once more he winded his feeble horn, and Charles heard it as he came with his army to the relief of the rear guard. "Spare not spur nor steed for Roland's sake. I hear the sighing of his horn and know that he is in a last distress. Sound all our clarions loud and long."

The mighty mountains tossed the sound from peak to peak and carried it down into the valley of Roncesvalles where the pagans heard the echoes and knew that Charles was approaching for revenge.

"There is but one man more to slay," they cried. "Let us slaughter him and flee."

Then four hundred of the mounted Moslems charged at Roland, flinging their long javelins but venturing not to approach within reach of his sword, for they thought no man born of woman could slay this Roland.

Veillantif dropped down dead, and Roland, his armor pierced with spear points, fell beneath him with a last great "Montjoy."

Spent with the fall, he lay there in a swoon, though not a single spear had touched his body. When the pagans looked on him they thought him dead, and fled through the pa.s.s, leaving the gloomy field in possession of the dead and wounded.

When the spirit of Roland came back from its swoon he looked about him and saw that the pagans had fled. With great pain he drew himself from beneath his horse and staggered to his feet, for scarcely could he stand from the pain beating in his temples. He dragged his bruised and weary body, searching everywhere among the slain. Round about each Christian lay a heap of pagan slain, and as Roland's eye wandered o'er the b.l.o.o.d.y field he said, "Charles will see that the rear guard has done its duty." At last he found where Oliver lay, and lifting the body tenderly in his arms, he said, "Comrade dear, ever wast thou a friend to me, kind and gentle. No better warrior ever broke a spear or wielded a sword. Now do I repent the only time that I failed to heed thy counsel. G.o.d rest thy soul. A sweeter friend and truer comrade no man ever had."

Then Roland heard a feeble voice, and turning, saw the Archbishop Turpin dying on the ground, a piteous sight, his face all marred with wounds and his body well-nigh cut in twain. Yet Turpin raised his hand and blessed the dead about him, saying, "Thank G.o.d, dear Roland, the field is thine and mine. We have fought a good fight."

Then he joined his hands as though in prayer, but his strength failed him and he fell back fainting. Roland crawled away towards a little rill where water was flowing, but his own weakness was so great that when he came feebly to where the Archbishop lay he found him with his hands still clasped, but now at rest; for neither thirst nor pain would trouble him again. All alone in that field of death Roland wept with his slaughtered friends.

When Roland found death was drawing near he took Durendal in one hand and his good horn in the other and crept away to a green hillock, where he lay down in his armor. While he lay there in agony a Saracen appeared plundering the dead and as he stole by Roland he saw the glitter of Durendal's hilt and put out his hand and s.n.a.t.c.hed the sword. Roland opened his eyes and saw the thief before him with the sword in his hands, and turning suddenly he raised his horn and dealt the fellow so heavy a blow upon the skull that he stretched him dead upon the ground. Then, recovering Durendal, he clasped it in his hands and said, "Oh Durendal, keen of edge and bright of blade, G.o.d sent thee by his angels to Charles to be his captain's sword. Charles girt thee at my side, and many a country hast thou helped to conquer in my hands. Though it grieveth me sore to part with thee, yet would I rather break thee asunder than that thou shouldst fall into the hands of an enemy of France."

So, praying G.o.d to give him strength, he struck the sword so mightily upon a gray stone of granite that the stone was chipped and splintered, but the good sword broke not nor was its good edge turned in the least. A second time he struck the stone, and though under the blow it was cleft in twain, the blade leaped back unharmed. On the third blow he powdered the stone, but failed to turn the blade of polished steel.

Then Roland knew that the sword was indeed holy, and holding the cross upon its hilt before his eyes, he said, "Oh Durendal, I am to blame.

The angels brought thee and they will keep thee safe for Charles and France."

Now indeed Roland felt the throes of death approach, and turning his face toward Spain and toward his enemies he placed his sword and horn beneath him, and lifting his weary hands to heaven he closed his eyes.

Death and silence brooded o'er the valley; the mists of night came up, and darkness hid the scene.

Charles and his followers had ridden hard and did not draw rein till they reached the mountain top and looked down into the valley of Roncesvalles. They blew the clarions loud, but no answering sound was heard save the echoes from the mountain sides. Then down through the mists and darkness they rode and saw the awful carnage. Roland and Oliver dead, Archbishop Turpin and the n.o.ble Twelve, and all the twenty thousand stretched among the heaps of pagan corpses.

Charles fell upon his face and wept, for he had brought up and nourished Roland from a babe, had taught him war and made him the bravest of knights and captain in his army. But anger burned in his bosom and dried his tears, so that when his officers approached and told him that they had found the tracks of the flying pagans he was ready to follow fiercely along their track.

Looking up, he saw that the sun was still some hours high, for G.o.d had miraculously stayed its pa.s.sage that the Christians might be avenged.

They overtook the flying enemy in the valley of Tenebrus, close by the swift torrent of the Ebro, and there with the swollen river in front and the fierce Franks on the flanks and rear the pagans were slowly cut to pieces. Only Marsilius and a little band, who had gone another way, escaped. Every Saracen in Tenebrus had perished before the Franks gave up their b.l.o.o.d.y work. Back to Roncesvalles went King Charles, where he buried the dead, all excepting Roland and Oliver, whose bodies he embalmed and carried in his richest chariots on his return journey.

Bitterly mourned the king in spite of the richness of his revenge. "Oh my Roland," he cried, "little pleasure have I in the land we have conquered. When I come again to my palace and people ask tidings, what can I say but that we have conquered cities, provinces and countries and left Roland dead? Then will there be no rejoicing. Sadness will fall upon our land, and every one will say the war has been in vain.

Oh Roland, my friend, would G.o.d that I had died for thee."

When Charles had returned to Aachen he haled Ganelon before him and flatly accused the knight of treachery. This Ganelon denied, and the king set him on trial. By using the price of his treason, Ganelon secured among the judges thirty of his kinsmen, who by spending riches lavishly procured judgment for him, all voting him no traitor excepting a gentle youth, Tierry, who persisted in impeaching Ganelon as a felon and traitor who had betrayed Roland and the twenty thousand. Moreover, he accused the judges of treason and false judgment and offered to prove his charges upon any champion the accused should bring forth.

Tierry was a slender little lad, slight of limb and feeble in strength, and the champion selected by the accused was Pinabel, a giant among the Franks. All pitied Tierry and urged that some more doughty champion take up the cause, but King Charles said, "G.o.d will show the right."

So the lists were made ready and the combat began. Long and terrible was the fight, for the little champion seemed endowed with more than human strength and courage. Yet ever was he beaten back, and ever it seemed that he must be crushed to death under the terrific blows of the mighty Pinabel. At last a blow came which cut his helmet in two and split off his right cheek. Then with vision clouded by the blood and with fast-failing strength, Tierry aimed a blow with all his force straight at the head of Pinabel. G.o.d gave force to the weakening arm and directed the stroke so that it cleft the steel helmet and the skull, and entered the brain of Pinabel, who fell gasping to the earth and died there in his sins.

Then all the people with one accord shouted, "G.o.d hath spoken the word. Again has the right triumphed in trial by battle. Away with Ganelon and his fellows."

King Charles from his judgment hall p.r.o.nounced sentence. "Take the thirty false judges and hang them. Let not one escape," decreed the king.

As for Ganelon, ten times worse was his punishment. Ropes were tied to the wrists and ankles of Ganelon and fastened to four prancing horses.

Whining and begging for his life, the traitor lay extended while the horses, proud of their part, stood with n.o.ble arching necks ready without whip or spur to drag the coward traitor limb from limb. The halters were cast off, the horses sprang away, and Ganelon had paid his penalty.

Then to his lonely chamber retired the king, very old and decrepit, for years of grief had done more to age Charlemagne than years of war.