"Rolland raised to his lips the olifant, Drew a deep breath, and blew with all his force.

High are the mountains, and from peak to peak The sound reechoes; thirty leagues away 'Twas heard by Carle and all his brave compeers.

Cried the king: 'Our men make battle!' Ganelon Retorts in haste: 'If thus another dared To speak, we should denounce it as a lie.'

Aoi"

_Chanson de Roland_ (Rabillon's tr.).

[Sidenote: Steed Veillantif slain.] Wounded and faint, Roland now slowly dragged himself to the entrance of the pa.s.s of Cisaire,--where the Basque peasants aver they have often seen his ghost, and heard the sound of his horn,--and took leave of his faithful steed Veillantif, which he slew with his own hand, to prevent its falling into the hands of the enemy.

"'Ah, nevermore, and nevermore, shall we to battle ride!

Ah, nevermore, and nevermore, shall we sweet comrades be!

And Veillintif, had I the heart to die forgetting thee?

To leave thy mighty heart to break, in slavery to the foe?

I had not rested in the grave, if it had ended so.

Ah, never shall we conquering ride, with banners bright unfurl'd, A shining light 'mong lesser lights, a wonder to the world.'"

BUCHANAN, _Death of Roland_.

[Sidenote: Sword Durandana destroyed.] Then the hero gazed upon his sword Durandana, which had served him faithfully for so many years, and to prevent its falling into the hands of the pagans, he tried to dispose of it also. According to varying accounts, he either sank it deep into a poisoned stream, where it is still supposed to lie, or, striking it against the mighty rocks, cleft them in two, without even dinting its bright blade.

"And Roland thought: 'I surely die; but, ere I end, Let me be sure that thou art ended too, my friend!

For should a heathen hand grasp thee when I am clay, My ghost would grieve full sore until the judgment day!'

Then to the marble steps, under the tall, bare trees, Trailing the mighty sword, he crawl'd on hands and knees, And on the slimy stone he struck the blade with might-- The bright hilt, sounding, shook, the blade flash'd sparks of light; Wildly again he struck, and his sick head went round, Again there sparkled fire, again rang hollow sound; Ten times he struck, and threw strange echoes down the glade, Yet still unbroken, sparkling fire, glitter'd the peerless blade."

BUCHANAN, _Death of Roland_.

Finally, despairing of disposing of it in any other way, the hero, strong in death, broke Durandana in his powerful hands and threw the shards away.

Horse and sword were now disposed of, and the dying hero, summoning his last strength, again put his marvelous horn Olivant to his lips, and blew such a resounding blast that the sound was heard far and near. The effort, however, was such that his temples burst, as he again sank fainting to the ground.

One version of the story (Turpin's) relates that the blast brought, not Charlemagne, but the sole surviving knight, Theodoricus, who, as Roland had been shriven before the battle, merely heard his last prayer and reverently closed his eyes. Then Turpin, while celebrating ma.s.s before Charlemagne, was suddenly favored by a vision, in which he beheld a shrieking crew of demons bearing Marsiglio's soul to h.e.l.l, while an angelic host conveyed Roland's to heaven.

Turpin immediately imparted these revelations to Charlemagne, who, knowing now that his fears were not without foundation, hastened back to Roncesvalles. Here the scriptural miracle was repeated, for the sun stayed its course until the emperor had routed the Saracens and found the body of his nephew. He p.r.o.nounced a learned funeral discourse or lament over the hero's remains, which were then embalmed and conveyed to Blaive for interment.

Another version relates that Bishop Turpin himself remained with Roland in the rear, and, after hearing a general confession and granting full absolution to all the heroes, fought beside them to the end. It was he who heard the last blast of Roland's horn instead of Theodoricus, and came to close his eyes before he too expired.

The most celebrated of all the poems, however, the French epic "Chanson de Roland," gives a different version and relates that, in stumbling over the battlefield, Roland came across the body of his friend Oliver, over which he uttered a touching lament.

"'Alas for all thy valor, comrade dear!

Year after year, day after day, a life Of love we led; ne'er didst thou wrong to me, Nor I to thee. If death takes thee away, My life is but a pain.'"

_Chanson de Roland_ (Rabillon's tr.).

[Sidenote: Death of Roland.] Slowly and painfully now--for his death was near--Roland climbed up a slope, laid himself down under a pine tree, and placed his sword and horn beneath him. Then, when he had breathed a last prayer, to commit his soul to G.o.d, he held up his glove in token of his surrender.

"His right hand glove he offered up to G.o.d; Saint Gabriel took the glove.--With head reclined Upon his arm, with hands devoutly joined, He breathed his last. G.o.d sent his Cherubim, Saint Raphael, _Saint Michiel del Peril._ The soul of Count Rolland to Paradise.

Aoi."

_Chanson de Roland_ (Rabillon's tr.).

It was here, under the pine, that Charlemagne found his nephew ere he started out to punish the Saracens, as already related. Not far off lay the bodies of Ogier, Oliver, and Renaud, who, according to this version, were all among the slain.

"Here endeth Otuel, Roland, and Olyvere, And of the twelve dussypere, That dieden in the batayle of Runcyvale: Jesu lord, heaven king, To his bliss hem and us both bring, To liven withouten bale!"

_Sir Otuel_.

On his return to France Charlemagne suspected Ganelon of treachery, and had him tried by twelve peers, who, unable to decide the question, bade him prove his innocence in single combat with Roland's squire, Thiedric.

Ganelon, taking advantage of the usual privilege to have his cause defended by a champion, selected Pinabel, the most famous swordsman of the time. In spite of all his valor, however, this champion was defeated, and the "judgment of G.o.d"--the term generally applied to those judicial combats--was in favor of Thiedric. Ganelon, thus convicted of treason, was sentenced to be drawn and quartered, and was executed at Aix-la-Chapelle, in punishment for his sins.

"Ere long for this he lost Both limb and life, judged and condemned at Aix, There to be hanged with thirty of his race Who were not spared the punishment of death.

Aoi."

_Chanson de Roland_ (Rabillon's tr.).

[Sidenote: Roland and Aude.] Roland, having seen Aude, Oliver's sister, at the siege of Viane, where she even fought against him, if the old epics are to be believed, had been so smitten with her charms that he declared that he would marry none but her. When the siege was over, and lifelong friendship had been sworn between Roland and Oliver after their memorable duel on an island in the Rhone, Roland was publicly betrothed to the charming Aude. Before their nuptials could take place, however, he was forced to leave for Spain, where, as we have seen, he died an heroic death.

The sad news of his demise was brought to Paris, where the Lady Aude was awaiting him. When she heard that he would never return, she died of grief, and was buried at his side in the chapel of Blaive.

"In Paris Lady Alda sits, Sir Roland's destined bride.

With her three hundred maidens, to tend her, at her side; Alike their robes and sandals all, and the braid that binds their hair, And alike the meal, in their Lady's hall, the whole three hundred share.

Around her, in her chair of state, they all their places hold; A hundred weave the web of silk, and a hundred spin the gold, And a hundred touch their gentle lutes to sooth that Lady's pain, As she thinks on him that's far away with the host of Charlemagne.

Lulled by the sound, she sleeps, but soon she wakens with a scream; And, as her maidens gather round, she thus recounts her dream: 'I sat upon a desert sh.o.r.e, and from the mountain nigh, Right toward me, I seemed to see a gentle falcon fly; But close behind an eagle swooped, and struck that falcon down, And with talons and beak he rent the bird, as he cowered beneath my gown.'

The chief of her maidens smiled, and said; 'To me it doth not seem That the Lady Alda reads aright the boding of her dream.

Thou art the falcon, and thy knight is the eagle in his pride, As he comes in triumph from the war, and pounces on his bride.'

The maiden laughed, but Alda sighed, and gravely shook her head.

'Full rich,' quoth she, 'shall thy guerdon be, if thou the truth hast said.'

'Tis morn; her letters, stained with blood, the truth too plainly tell, How, in the chase of Ronceval, Sir Roland fought and fell."

_Lady Alda's Dreams_ (Sir Edmund Head's tr.).

[Sidenote: Legend of Roland and Hildegarde.] A later legend, which has given rise to sundry poems, connects the name of Roland with one of the most beautiful places on the Rhine. Popular tradition avers that he sought shelter one evening in the castle of Drachenfels, where he fell in love with Hildegarde, the beautiful daughter of the Lord of Drachenfels. The sudden outbreak of the war in Spain forced him to bid farewell to his betrothed, but he promised to return as soon as possible to celebrate their wedding. During the campaign, many stories of his courage came to Hildegarde's ears, and finally, after a long silence, she heard that Roland had perished at Roncesvalles.

Broken-hearted, the fair young mourner spent her days in tears, and at last prevailed upon her father to allow her to enter the convent on the island of Nonnenworth, in the middle of the river, and within view of the gigantic crag where the castle ruins can still be seen.

"The castled crag of Drachenfels Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of water broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossomed trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scattered cities crowning these, Whose fair white walls along them shine."

BYRON, _Childe Harold_.

With pallid cheeks and tear-dimmed eyes, Hildegarde now spent her life either in her tiny cell or in the convent chapel, praying for the soul of her beloved, and longing that death might soon come to set her free to join him. The legend relates, however, that Roland was not dead, as she supposed, but had merely been sorely wounded at Roncesvalles.

When sufficiently recovered to travel, Roland painfully made his way back to Drachenfels, where he presented himself late one evening, eagerly calling for Hildegarde. A few moments later the joyful light left his eyes forever, for he learned that his beloved had taken irrevocable vows, and was now the bride of Heaven.

That selfsame day Roland left the castle of Drachenfels, and riding to an eminence overlooking the island of Nonnenworth, he gazed long and tearfully at a little light twinkling in one of the convent windows. As he could not but suppose that it illumined Hildegarde's cell and lonely vigils, he watched it all night, and when morning came he recognized his beloved's form in the long procession of nuns on their way to the chapel.

[Sidenote: Rolandseck.] This view of the lady he loved seemed a slight consolation to the hero, who built a retreat on this rock, which is known as Rolandseck. Here he spent his days in penance and prayer, gazing constantly at the island at his feet, and the swift stream which parted him from Hildegarde.

One wintry day, many years after he had taken up his abode on the rocky height, Roland missed the graceful form he loved, and heard, instead of the usual psalm, a dirge for the dead. Then he noticed that six of the nuns were carrying a coffin, which they lowered into an open tomb.

Roland's nameless fears were confirmed in the evening, when the convent priest visited him, and gently announced that Hildegarde was at rest.

Calmly Roland listened to these tidings, begged the priest to hear his confession as usual, and, when he had received absolution, expressed a desire to be buried with his face turned toward the convent where Hildegarde had lived and died.

The priest readily promised to observe this request, and departed. When he came on the morrow, he found Roland dead. They buried him reverently on the very spot which bears his name, with his face turned toward Nonnenworth, where Hildegarde lay at rest.

CHAPTER IX.