Part 11 (1/2)

”'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-pommelled?' '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.'”

When the sun set on that welter of blood, not a single Saracen was left, and those of the Frankish rearguard who still lived were very weary men.

Then Roland called on his men to give thanks to G.o.d, and Bishop Turpin, whose stout arm had fought well on that b.l.o.o.d.y day, offered up thanks for the army, though in sorry plight were they, almost none unwounded, their swords and lances broken, and their hauberks rent and blood-stained. Gladly they laid themselves down to rest beside the comrades whose eyes never more would open on the fair land of France, but even as Roland was about to take his rest he saw descending upon him and his little band a host of Saracens, led by Marsile himself.

A hundred thousand men, untired, and fiercely thirsting for revenge, came against the handful of wearied, wounded heroes. Yet with unwavering courage the Franks responded to their leaders' call.

The war-cry of the soldiers of France--”Montjoie! Montjoie!”--rang clear above the fierce sound of the trumpets of the Saracen army.

”'Soldiers of the Lord,' cried Turpin, 'Be ye valiant and steadfast, For this day shall crowns be given you Midst the flowers of Paradise. In the name of G.o.d our Saviour, Be ye not dismayed nor frighted, Lest of you be shameful legends Chanted by the tongues of minstrels. Rather let us die victorious, Since this eve shall see us lifeless!-- Heaven has no room for cowards! Knights, who n.o.bly fight, and vainly, Ye shall sit among the holy In the blessed fields of Heaven. On then, Friends of G.o.d, to glory!'”

Marsile fell, the first victim to a blow from the sword of Roland, and even more fiercely than the one that had preceded it, waged this terrible fight.

And now it seemed as though the Powers of Good and of Evil also took part in the fray, for a storm swept down from the mountains, thick darkness fell, and the rumble of thunder and the rush of heavy rain dulled the shouts of those who fought and the clash and clang of their weapons. When a blood-red cloud came up, its lurid light showed the trampled ground strewn with dead and dying. At that piteous sight Roland proposed to send a messenger to Charlemagne to ask him for aid, but it was then too late.

When only sixty Franks remained, the pride of Roland gave way to pity for the men whom he had led to death, and he took the magic horn Olifant in his hand, that he might blow on it a blast that would bring Charlemagne, his mighty army behind him, to wipe out the Saracen host that had done him such evil. But Oliver bitterly protested. Earlier in the day, when he had willed it, Roland had refused to call for help. Now the day was done. The twilight of death--Death the inevitable--was closing in upon them. Why, then, call now for Charlemagne, when nor he nor any other could help them? But Turpin with all his force backed the wish of Roland.

”The blast of thy horn cannot bring back the dead to life,” he said. ”Yet if our Emperor return he can save our corpses and weep over them and bear them reverently to la belle France. And there shall they lie in sanctuary, and not in a Paynim land where the wild beasts devour them and croaking wretches with foul beaks tear our flesh and leave our bones dishonoured.”

”That is well said,” quoth Roland and Oliver.

Then did Roland blow three mighty blasts upon his horn, and so great was the third that a blood-vessel burst, and the red drops trickled from his mouth.

For days on end Charlemagne had been alarmed at the delay of his rearguard, but ever the false Ganelon had rea.s.sured him.

”Why shouldst thou fear, sire?” he asked. ”Roland has surely gone after some wild boar or deer, so fond is he of the chase.”

But when Roland blew the blast that broke his mighty heart, Charlemagne heard it clearly, and no longer had any doubt of the meaning of its call. He knew that his dreams had come true, and at once he set his face towards the dire pa.s.s of Roncesvalles that he might, even at the eleventh hour, save Roland and his men.

Long ere Charlemagne could reach the children of his soul who stood in such dire need, the uncle of Marsile had reached the place of battle with a force of fifty thousand men. Pierced from behind by a cowardly lance, Oliver was sobbing out his life's blood. Yet ever he cried, ”Montjoie! Montjoie!” and each time his voice formed the words, a thrust from his sword, or from the lances of his men, drove a soul down to Hades. And when he was breathing his last, and lay on the earth, humbly confessing his sins and begging G.o.d to grant him rest in Paradise, he asked G.o.d's blessing upon Charlemagne, his lord the king, and upon his fair land of France, and, above all other men, to keep free from scathe his heart's true brother and comrade, Roland, the gallant knight. Then did he gently sigh his last little measure of life away, and as Roland bent over him he felt that half of the glamour of living was gone. Yet still so dearly did he love Aude the Fair, the sister of Oliver, who was to be his bride, that his muscles grew taut as he gripped his sword, and his courage was the dauntless courage of a furious wave that faces all the cliffs of a rocky coast in a winter storm, when again, he faced the Saracen host.

Of all the Douzeperes, only Gautier and Turpin and Roland now remained, and with them a poor little handful of maimed men-at-arms. Soon a Saracen arrow drove through the heart of Gautier, and Turpin, wounded by four lances, stood alone by Roland's side. But for each lance thrust he slew a hundred men, and when at length he fell, Roland, himself sorely wounded, seized once more his horn and blew upon it a piercing blast: ”... a blast of that dread horn, On Fontarabian echoes borne, That to King Charles did come, When Rowland brave, and Olivier, And every paladin and peer, On Roncesvalles died.”

Sir Walter Scott.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ROLAND SEIZED ONCE MORE HIS HORN]

That blast pierced right into the heart of Charlemagne, and straightway he turned his army towards the pa.s.s of Roncesvalles that he might succour Roland, whom he so greatly loved. Yet then it was too late. Turpin was nearly dead. Roland knew himself to be dying. Veillantif, Roland's faithful warhorse, was enduring agonies from wounds of the Paynim arrows, and him Roland slew with a shrewd blow from his well-tried sword. From far, far away the hero could hear the blare of the trumpets of the Frankish army, and, at the sound, what was left of the Saracen host fled in terror. He made his way, blindly, painfully, to where Turpin lay, and with fumbling fingers took off his hauberk and unlaced his golden helmet. With what poor skill was left to him, he strove to bind up his terrible wounds with strips of his own tunic, and he dragged him, as gently as he could, to a spot under the beech trees where the fresh moss still was green.

”'Ah, gentle lord,' said Roland, 'give me leave To carry here our comrades who are dead, Whom we so dearly loved; they must not lie Unblest; but I will bring their corpses here And thou shalt bless them, and me, ere thou die.' 'Go,' said the dying priest, 'but soon return. Thank G.o.d! the victory is yours and mine!'”

With exquisite pain Roland carried the bodies of Oliver and of the rest of the Douzeperes from the places where they had died to where Turpin, their dear bishop, lay a-dying. Each step that he took cost him a pang of agony; each step took from him a toll of blood. Yet faithfully he performed his task, until they all lay around Turpin, who gladly blessed them and absolved them all. And then the agony of soul and of heart and body that Roland had endured grew overmuch for him to bear, and he gave a great cry, like the last sigh of a mighty tree that the woodcutters fell, and dropped down, stiff and chill, in a deathly swoon. Then the dying bishop dragged himself towards him and lifted the horn Olifant, and with it in his hand he struggled, inch by inch, with very great pain and labour, to a little stream that trickled down the dark ravine, that he might fetch some water to revive the hero that he and all men loved. But ere he could reach the stream, the mists of death had veiled his eyes. He joined his hands in prayer, though each movement meant a pang, and gave his soul to Christ, his Saviour and his Captain. And so pa.s.sed away the soul of a mighty warrior and a stainless priest.

Thus was Roland alone amongst the dead when consciousness came back to him. With feeble hands he unlaced his helmet and tended to himself as best he might. And, as Turpin had done, so also did he painfully crawl towards the stream. There he found Turpin, the horn Olifant by his side, and knew that it was in trying to fetch him water that the brave bishop had died, and for tenderness and pity the hero wept.

”Alas! brave priest, fair lord of n.o.ble birth, Thy soul I give to the great King of Heaven!

May thy fair soul escape the pains of h.e.l.l, And Paradise receive thee in its bowers!”

Then did Roland know that for him, also, there ”was no other way but death.” With dragging steps he toiled uphill a little way, his good sword Durendala in one hand, and in the other his horn Olifant. Under a little clump of pines were some rough steps hewn in a boulder of marble leading yet higher up the hill, and these Roland would have climbed, but his throbbing heart could no more, and again he fell swooning on the ground. A Saracen who, out of fear, had feigned death, saw him lying there and crawled out of the covert where he lay concealed.

”It is Roland, the nephew of the Emperor!” he joyously thought, and in triumph he said to himself, ”I shall bear his sword back with me!” But as his Pagan hand touched the hilt of the sword and would have torn it from Roland's dying grasp, the hero was aroused from his swoon. One great stroke cleft the Saracen's skull and laid him dead at Roland's feet. Then to Durendala Roland spoke: ”I surely die; but, ere I end, Let me be sure that thou art ended too my friend! For should a heathen grasp thee when I am clay, My ghost would grieve full sore until the judgment day!”

More ghost than man he looked as with a mighty effort of will and of body he struggled to his feet and smote with his blade the marble boulder. Before the stroke the marble split asunder as though the pick-axe of a miner had cloven it. On a rock of sardonyx he strove to break it then, but Durendala remained unharmed. A third time he strove, and struck a rock of blue marble with such force that the sparks rushed out as from a blacksmith's anvil. Then he knew that it was in vain, for Durendala would not be shattered. And so he raised Olifant to his lips and blew a dying blast that echoed down the cliffs and up to the mountain tops and rang through the trees of the forest. And still, to this day, do they say, when the spirit of the warrior rides by night down the heights and through the dark pa.s.s of Roncesvalles, even such a blast may be heard, waking all the echoes and sounding through the lonely hollows of the hills.

Then he made confession, and with a prayer for pardon of his sins and for mercy from the G.o.d whose faithful servant and soldier he had been unto his life's end, the soul of Roland pa.s.sed away.

”... With hands devoutly joined He breathed his last. G.o.d sent his Cherubim, Saint Raphael, Saint Michel del Peril. Together with them Gabriel came.--All bring The soul of Count Rolland to Paradise. Aoi.”

Charlemagne and his army found him lying thus, and very terrible were the grief and the rage of the Emperor as he looked on him and on the others of his Douzeperes and on the bodies of that army of twenty thousand.

”All the field was with blod ouer roun”--”Many a good swerd was broken ther”--”Many a fadirles child ther was at home.”

By the side of Roland, Charlemagne vowed vengeance, but ere he avenged his death he mourned over him with infinite anguish: ”'The Lord have mercy, Roland, on thy soul! Never again shall our fair France behold A knight so worthy, till France be no more!

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!'”

A terrible vengeance was the one that he took next day, when the Saracen army was utterly exterminated; and when all the n.o.ble dead had been buried where they fell, save only Roland, Oliver, and Turpin, the bodies of these three heroes were carried to Blaye and interred with great honour in the great cathedral there.

Charlemagne then returned to Aix, and as he entered his palace, Aude the Fair, sister of Oliver, and the betrothed of Roland, hastened to meet him. Where were the Douzeperes? What was the moaning murmur as of women who wept, that had heralded the arrival in the town of the Emperor and his conquering army? Eagerly she questioned Charlemagne of the safety of Roland, and when the Emperor, in pitying grief, told her: ”Roland, thy hero, like a hero died,” Aude gave a bitter cry and fell to the ground like a white lily slain by a cruel wind. The Emperor thought she had fainted, but when he would have lifted her up, he found that she was dead, and, in infinite pity, he had her taken to Blaye and buried by the side of Roland.

Very tender was Charlemagne to the maiden whom Roland had loved, but when the treachery of Ganelon had been proved, for him there was no mercy. At Aix-la-Chapelle, torn asunder by wild horses, he met a shameful and a horrible death, nor is his name forgotten as that of the blackest of traitors. But the memory of Roland and of the other Douzeperes lives on and is, however fanciful, forever fragrant.

”... Roland, and Olyvere, And of the twelve Tussypere, 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.

THE CHILDREN OF LIR.

”Silent, O Moyle, be the roar of thy water; Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose; While murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter Tells to the night-star her tale of woes.”

Moore.

They are the tragedies, not the comedies of the old, old days that are handed down to us, and the literature of the Celts is rich in tragedy. To the romantic and sorrowful imagination of the Celts of the green island of Erin we owe the hauntingly piteous story of the children of Lir.

In the earliest times of all, when Ireland was ruled by the Dedannans, a people who came from Europe and brought with them from Greece magic and other arts so wonderful that the people of the land believed them to be G.o.ds, the Dedannans had so many chiefs that they met one day to decide who was the best man of them all, that they might choose him to be their king. The choice fell upon Bodb the Red, and gladly did every man acclaim him as king, all save Lir of Shee Finnaha, who left the council in great wrath because he thought that he, and not Bodb, should have been chosen. In high dudgeon he retired to his own place, and in the years that followed he and Bodb the Red waged fierce war against one another. At last a great sorrow came to Lir, for after an illness of three days his wife, who was very dear to him, was taken from him by death. Then Bodb saw an opportunity for reconciliation with the chief whose enemy he had no wish to be. And to the grief-stricken husband he sent a message: ”My heart weeps for thee, yet I pray thee to be comforted. In my house have I three maidens, my foster-daughters, the most beautiful and the best instructed in all Erin. Choose which one thou wilt for thy wife, and own me for thy lord, and my friends.h.i.+p shall be thine forever.”

And the message brought comfort to Lir, and he set out with a gallant company of fifty chariots, nor ever halted until he had reached the palace of Bodb the Red at Lough Derg, on the Shannon. Warm and kindly was the welcome that Lir received from his overlord, and next day, as the three beautiful foster-daughters of Bodb sat on the same couch as his queen, Bodb said to Lir: ”Behold my three daughters. Choose which one thou wilt.”

And Lir answered, ”They are all beautiful, but Eve is the eldest, so she must be the n.o.blest of the three. I would have her for my wife.”

That day he married Eve, and Lir took his fair young wife back with him to his own place, Shee Finnaha, and happy were both of them in their love. To them in course of time were born a twin son and a daughter. The daughter they named Finola and the son Aed, and the children were as beautiful, as good, and as happy as their mother. Again she bore twins, boys, whom they named Ficra and Conn, but as their eyes opened on the world, the eyes of their mother closed on pleasant life forever, and once again Lir was a widower, more bowed down by grief than before.

The tidings of the death of Eve brought great sorrow to the palace of Bodb the Red, for to all who knew her Eve was very dear. But again the king sent a message of comfort to Lir: ”We sorrow with thee, yet in proof of our friends.h.i.+p with thee and our love for the one who is gone, we would give thee another of our daughters to be a mother to the children who have lost their mother's care.”