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THE SONG OF ROLAND.

Among the epic romances of the middle ages, the first place must be given to the Song of Roland. It deserves this, not only on account of its antiquity, but also for the importance of the hero, and for the triumphant loss, as Montaigne would have called it, which it immortalizes. It is a chanson de geste, supposed to have been composed by Turold or Théroulde, a troubadour who lived during the first thirty years of the XIth century, though the only place where he is mentioned is the line with which the Bodleian MS. of the Chanson de Roland terminates.

This poem is a curious example of the work of popular imagination upon actual events, and shows, with remarkable unity and originality, the power of this species of transformation.

The historical narrative, as related by Eginhard, son-in-law of Charlemagne, recounts a grievous and unavenged disaster—the complete destruction of the rear-guard of the French army, which, after a succession of victories, was returning from Spain, and, being surprised by mountaineers in the gorges of Roncevaux, left no living witnesses.

But Charlemagne's nephew, Roland, with all his peers, were among the slain; it was needful, therefore, to do honor to his fall, and wash away the affront against the arms of the always victorious king. Grief and admiration combined to accomplish the task, and we have before us the legend, which not only perpetuates the memory of the catastrophe, but which makes of a death-dirge a hymn of victory.

The most ancient manuscript of this poem extant is, without doubt, the copy in the Bodleian library at Oxford, which is supposed to be of the XIIth century. Among other considerations, the brevity of this manuscript as compared with others is a proof of its greater antiquity. It has not more than four thousand lines, whereas others have six, and even eight, thousand. But whether even this is the primitive version, without alteration or addition, we have not the means of knowing.

That which, in the first place, distinguishes the Chanson de Roland from all other productions of the mediæval poets anterior to Dante is its unity of composition; but there are also other noticeable differences. The first is in the subject itself, which is matter of actual history, as we have seen from the testimony of Eginhard, who adds, "This reverse poisoned in the heart of Charles the joy of all the victories which he had gained in Spain." It was not a simple skirmish, but the utter defeat of a valuable portion of his army—the only defeat he had known during the thirty-eight years of his reign. It is easy to understand how profound would be the impression produced by the catastrophe, which, moreover, was indelibly deepened, when, half a century later, the army of one of the sons of Charlemagne, by a fatal coincidence, was cut to pieces in this same defile.

The imagination of the people was not long in merging these two disasters into one, and in gradually changing nearly all the accessory circumstances of the first event. But it matters little that Charles is invested with the imperial purple more than twenty years before the time; that he is represented as a white-bearded patriarch, when, actually, he could not have been more than thirty-five years of age; that his relationship to the hero of Roncevaux is more than doubtful; that the Gascon mountaineers are transformed into Saracens; and that, instead of their chief, Lopez, Duke of Gascony, of whom the charter of Charles the Bald speaks as "a wolf in name and in nature," we have two personages—King Marsilion and the traitor Ganelon. All these transformations, which are easy to be accounted for, alter in nothing the basis of the poem, which is historic truth, while legendary truth has become its surface and superstructure.

Another point to be remarked is that in the Chanson de Roland the subject is national. In other compositions of the period, the heroes are Normans, Provençals, Gascons, and so forth, animated by a patriotism either as circumscribed as their own domain, or as wide as the world which they traversed in search of adventures. In the poems recounting their acts and deeds, the name of France, when it happens to be mentioned, has merely a geographical sense, being used as simply designating the province of which Paris was the capital—"La France," "La douce France," so often invoked in the "Lay of Roland"; and the glow of true and loving patriotism which warms this poem would alone distinguish it from every other chanson de geste that has been written.

The figure of Charlemagne next demands our attention. By a strange contradiction the Carlovingian poems, so called because they glorify the companions of the great emperor and the deeds performed by them during his reign, are, with scarcely any exception, nothing more than so many satires upon Charlemagne himself, who is represented either as a mute and doting imbecile, or else as a capricious despot; all the wisdom and courage of the time being monopolized by the great barons. The reason is not far to seek. At the epoch when these poems were written or "improved," royalty in France was struggling to recover the power of which the great crown vassals had possessed themselves at its expense, and the feudal league defended its acquisitions not by force of arms alone. One of the most effectual means at that period of acting upon the popular mind was by the influence of minstrelsy—that is to say, by poesy and song; and the troubadours and jongleurs of the time willingly gave their services to promote the interests of their more immediate protectors and patrons. Under the name of Charlemagne, it is, in fact, Louis le Gros or Louis le Jeune whom they attack, glorifying his epoch, but depreciating himself, as in "Les Quatre Fils d'Aymon" and similar sarcastic romances. Turold is almost alone in showing us the king "à la barbe grifaigne," with the authority and grandeur befitting so great a monarch, and as one who rises above his peers more by his dignity than by his lofty stature. The knights by whom he is surrounded are noble and valiant, but he surpasses them all.

In this homage rendered to the personal glory of Charlemagne, and in this sentiment of nationality, which is a remnant of the old monarchical unity, of which, in the XIIIth century, the remembrance had long been extinguished, but which, towards the close of the XIth, still existed, we have two characteristics which stamp the date of this poem more unmistakably than could be done by any peculiarities of orthography or versification.

It is marked by two other specialties: the absence of gallantry or amorous allusions, and the austerity of the religious sentiment. Scarcely a line here and there lets us know that Roland has a lady-love. It is his own affair, with which the public has nothing to do. In the whole poem two women only appear, and these only in slightly sketched outline. One is Queen Bramimonde, who appears for an instant, as she unfastens her bracelets, and lets their priceless jewels sparkle temptingly before the eyes of Ganelon; while later on we are again given a passing glimpse of her, first as captive, and then as Christian. In the other, "la belle Aude," the affianced bride of Roland, we have a momentary vision of beauty and faithful devotion even to death. She appears but to die of love and grief too deep for words. A few centuries later, could any French poet have been able to resign so excellent an opportunity for pouring forth a flood of sentimental verses? Even the poets of the XIIIth and XIVth centuries have lengthened out this tempting subject in endless variations.

As we pass on to the last consideration, we meet with other contrasts between the forefathers and their posterity. Religion, in the time of Wace and of Chrestien of Troyes, was still powerful and honored. Their heroes, even the most worldly and pugnacious, are exact in saying their prayers, kneeling devoutly, and confiding their souls to the care of the Blessed Virgin; still, in times of great solemnity or extremity, in the midst of danger, or face to face with death, we do not find the calm and serene fervor, the submission as well as faith, which fill the heart of Roland and his companions.

With regard to another point: if the "Lay of Roland," or, rather, if the popular tradition which gave it birth, makes Saracens instead of Gascons appear at Roncevaux, it is not pure fiction. After the death of Charlemagne, the Saracens had so often quitted their province of Castile to make inroads upon Aquitaine, and Western Europe had them in such terror, that the fear of present misfortune had soon effaced the remembrance of the old combats of Christian against Christian on the Spanish frontier. A fixed belief had grown that every enemy ambushed in the Pyrenees could not at any period have been other than an army of mis-believers; and to this may be added the idea, which was germinating, that a day would come when, in defence of Europe and of the faith, it would be necessary to destroy the vulture in its nest by carrying the sword into the country of Mahomet. It was not only that the slaughter of Roncevaux cried out for vengeance; the Holy War was in the spirit of the times, and naturally passed into the poems. These, without preaching a crusade, prepared the way a century beforehand, and the idea, dimly shadowed, it is true, but actually present, is expressed in the last five or six lines of the poem, which is, moreover, especially noticeable as being one which immortalizes defeat and death. It is the glorification of courage, in misfortune and in success, vain as to this world, but of eternal value for the next, where the glory of the warrior pales before the glory of the martyr.

And this thought leads us to our last consideration, namely, the meaning of the vowels A O I, with which every stanza terminates. From the moment that Roland had died fighting against the Mussulmans, he became a saint, whose name must forthwith be inscribed in the popular martyrology. It was, therefore, only fitting to consecrate to him a poem after the model of the hymns of the church, so many of which, as well as the Latin poem on S. Mildred, are terminated by the vowels e u o u a e—the modulation of sæculorum amen. This is the opinion of the learned Abbé Henry, although neither he nor any of the other writers whom we have consulted mention their suppositions as to the exact meaning of the vowels A O I.

The Song of Roland is mentioned in numberless romances, was imitated in almost every language of Western Europe, and appears to have been made use of as a war-song by the French armies before it had developed itself to the proportions in which it has reached us. There is no reasonable doubt that it was parts of this poem that were sung by Taillefer on the advance of the Normans at the Battle of Hastings, and not the "Song of Rollo," their first duke, as several modern authors have supposed. We quote the words of Robert Wace:

Although we are not about to give a translation of the whole poem of four thousand lines, we will present the reader with an abridgment containing not only the thread of the narrative, but also all the principal parts of the poem, without change or abbreviation; commencing with the first stanza in the original French, as a specimen of the rest:

LA CHANSON DE ROLAND.
I.

ABRIDGED TRANSLATION OF THE SONG OF ROLAND.

Charles the king, our great emperor, has been for seven full years in Spain, where he has conquered the mountainous land even to the sea. Not a castle which has held out before him, not a town which he has not forced to open its gates; Saragossa on the height of its mountain alone excepted. King Marsilion holds it, who loves not God, serves Mahomet, and invokes Apollo(!) Nor can he hinder that evil shall befal him.

King Marsilion is reclining in his orchard, on a marble terrace, in the shade of the trees, and surrounded by more than twenty thousand men. He takes counsel of his dukes and of his counts how to escape death or an affront; his army not being strong enough to give battle. He asks, What shall be done?

No one answers. One only, the subtle Blancandrin, then ventures to speak. "Feign submission," he says; "send chariots, laden with gold, to this proud emperor. Promise that, if he will return to France, you will there join him in his chapel at Aix on the great feast of S. Michael; that there you will become his vassal, and receive his Christian law. Does he demand hostages, we will give them. We will send our sons. At the risk of his life I will send mine. When the French shall have returned to their homes far away, the day will arrive, the term will pass by; Charles will have no word from us, no news of us. Should the cruel one cut off the heads of our hostages, better is it that they should lose their heads than we our fair Spain."

And the pagans answered, He is in the right.

King Marsilion has broken up his council. He commands that six beautiful white mules be brought, with saddles of silver and bridles of gold. To Blancandrin and nine others who are faithful to him he says: "Present yourselves before Charles, carrying olive branches in your hands in token of peace and submission. If by your skill you compass my deliverance from him, what gold, what silver, what lands will I not bestow upon you!"

The messengers mount their mules, and set forth upon their journey.

The scene changes. We are at Cordova. There it is that Charles holds his court. He also is in an orchard. At his side are Roland, Oliver, Geoffrey of Anjou, and many others, sons of sweet France; fifteen thousand are there. Seated upon silken stuffs, they pass their time in playing; the oldest and wisest exercise themselves in the game of chess, the young knights in fencing.

The emperor is seated in a chair of gold, in the shade of a pine-tree and an eglantine. His beard has the brightness of snow, his figure is tall and nobly formed, and his countenance majestic. Any man seeking him has no need to be told which is he.

The pagan messengers, alighting from their mules, humbly salute the emperor. Blancandrin then addresses him, showing the rich treasures which his master sends him, and saying: "Are you not weary of remaining in this land? Should you return to France, the king, our lord, promises to follow you thither." Thereupon the emperor raises his hands towards God; then, bending down his head, he begins to reflect. This was his wont, never hasting to speak. Presently raising himself, he says to the messengers, "You have spoken well; but your king is our great enemy. What shall be a pledge to me for the fulfilment of your words?"

"Hostages," replies the Saracen. "You shall have ten, fifteen, or even twenty, and among them my own son. What more noble hostage could be given? When you shall have returned to your royal palace, on the great feast of S. Michael my master will follow you thither. There, in those baths which God has made for you, he desires to become a Christian."

And Charles made answer, "He may, then, yet be saved!"

The day was bright, the sun shining in full splendor. Charles caused a large tent to be prepared in the orchard for the ten messengers. There they passed the night.

The emperor rises betimes. He hears Mass and Matins, and thence going forth, under the shadow of a tall pine-tree prepares to take counsel with his barons; for without them he will do nothing.

Soon they are all before him: the duke Oger, the archbishop Turpin, Roland, the brave Oliver, and Ganelon, the one who would betray them all.

The council opens. Charles repeats to his barons the words of Blancandrin. "Will Marsilion come to Aix," he asks. "Will he there make himself a Christian? Will he be my vassal? I know not what to deem of his words."

And the French reply, Beware of him.

Roland rises, saying: "Trust not Marsilion. Seven years have we been in Spain, and during all that time naught have you had from him but treachery. Fifteen thousand of his pagans have already been to you, bringing olive branches and the same words as to-day. Your counsellors advised you to allow a truce. What did Marsilion? Did he not behead two of your counts, Basan and his brother Basil? Continue the war. Continue it as you have begun it: lead your army to Saragossa, besiege the city, and avenge those whom the felon has caused to perish."

While listening to him, the emperor's countenance darkens. He strokes his beard, and answers nothing. All the French keep silence. Ganelon alone rises, and, advancing to the emperor with a haughty air, thus addresses him: "Heed not the headstrong! Heed not me nor any other, but your own advantage. When Marsilion declares to you with joined hands that he desires to be your liege-man, to hold Spain from your hand, to receive your sacred law, are there those who dare to counsel you to reject his offers? Such have scant regard to the sort of death they are to die. It is a counsel of pride which ought not to prevail. Let us leave fools to themselves, and hold to the wise."

After Ganelon rises the duke Naymes. In the whole court there is no braver warrior. He says to Charles: "You have heard Count Ganelon. Weigh well his words. Marsilion is conquered; you have razed his castles, overthrown his ramparts; his towns are in ashes, his soldiers scattered abroad. When he gives himself up to your mercy, offering you hostages, wholly to overwhelm him would be a sin. There ought to be an end to this terrible war."

And the French said, The duke has well spoken.

"Lords barons," resumes Charlemagne, "whom, then, shall we send to Saragossa to King Marsilion?"

"By your favor, I will go," answers Naymes. "Give me, therefore, the gauntlet and the staff."

"No," says the emperor. "No, by my beard! A sage like you go so far away? You will in nowise go. Sit down again." ... "Well, my lords barons, whom, then, shall we send?"

"Send me," says Roland.

"You!" cries Oliver. "Your courage is too fiery. You would not fail to get yourself into some difficulty. If the king permits it, I can very well go."

"Neither you nor he," answers the emperor; "both of you hold your peace. In that place not one of my twelve peers shall set his foot!"

At these words, every one keeps silence. However, Turpin rises from his seat—Turpin, Archbishop of Rheims. He, in turn, asks for the glove and staff; but Charles commands him to sit down, and not say another word. Then addressing himself once more to his barons, he says, "Free knights, will you not, then, tell me who shall carry my message to Marsilion?"

And Roland answers: "Let it be my father-in-law, Ganelon." And the French agreed, saying: "He is the man you want; for a more skilful one you could not find."

Ganelon at these words falls into a horrible anguish. He lets slip from his shoulders his great mantle of marten; his figure is imposing, and shows well under his coat of silk. His eye sparkles with anger. "Fool!" he says to Roland, "whence this madness? If God permits me to return, the gratitude I owe thee shall end but with thy life!"

"I heed not your threatenings," answers Roland. "Pride takes away your reason. A wise messenger is needed. If the emperor gives me leave, I set out in your stead."

"Nay," replies Ganelon, "I go. Charles commands me, and I must obey him; but I would fain delay my departure for a little season, were it but to calm my anger."

Whereupon Roland began to laugh. Ganelon perceived it, and his fury was redoubled, insomuch that he was well-nigh out of his senses. He darted words of wrath at his son-in-law, and then, turning towards the emperor, said: "Behold me ready to do your bidding. I see well that I must go to Saragossa; and he who goes thither returns not. Sire, forget not that I am the husband of your sister. Of her I have a son, the most beautiful that could be seen. Baldwin will one day be brave. I leave to him my fiefs and my domains. Watch over him, for never shall I see him more!"

And Charles made answer: "You have too tender a heart. When I command it, you must go. Draw near, Ganelon; receive the staff and gauntlet. You have heard that our Franks have chosen you."

"No, sire, but it is Roland's work; therefore, I hate him—him and his dear Oliver, and the twelve peers likewise, who love him so well! I defy them all before your eyes!"

The emperor silences him, and commands him to depart. Ganelon approaches to take the gauntlet from the hand of Charlemagne, but it falls to the ground. Heavens! cry the French; what may this forebode?

"My lords," says Ganelon, "you will know by the tidings." He then turns to the emperor for his dismissal, saying, "Since I must go, wherefore delay?" Charles with his right hand makes him a sign of pardon, and places in his hands a letter and the staff.

Ganelon, retiring, equips himself in preparation to depart, fastening on his heels his beautiful gold spurs; and with his good sword Murgleis at his side, he mounts his horse Tachebrun, while his uncle Guinemer holds his stirrup. The knights of his house entreat him with tears to let them accompany him. "God forbid!" he answers. "Better that I alone should perish than cause the death of so many brave knights. Go home to sweet France. Salute on my behalf my wife, and Pinabel, my friend and comrade; likewise, Baldwin, my son. Aid him, serve him, and hold him for your lord." Having said thus, he departed on his way.

He had not ridden far before he came up with the Saracen messengers; Blancandrin, in order to wait for him, having slackened his pace. Then began between them cautious words. It is Blancandrin who speaks first: "What a marvellous man is this Charles! He has conquered Apulia, Calabria, passed the sea, and acquired at St. Peter's the tribute of the English; but what comes he to seek in our land of Spain?"

And Ganelon makes answer: "Thus his courage wills it. Never will any man hold out before him!"

"The French," replies the other, "are an exceedingly brave people; but these dukes and counts who give council to overturn and desolate everything do great wrong to their lord."

"Of such I know but one," says Ganelon; "it is Roland, and he shall repent him yet." Thereupon he relates that on a certain day, before Carcassone, the emperor being seated in a shady meadow, his nephew came to him, clad in his cuirass, and holding in his hand a rosy apple, which he presented to his uncle, saying: "Behold, fair sire, of all the kings in the world I offer you the crowns!" "This mad pride will end in his ruin, seeing that every day he exposes himself to death. Welcome will be the stroke that shall slay him! What peace would then be ours!"

"But," said Blancandrin, "this Roland, who is so cruel—this Roland, who would have every king at his mercy, and take possession of their dominions—by whose aid will he accomplish his design?"

"By the aid of the French," answered Ganelon. "They so greatly love him that never will they suffer any fault to be laid at his door. All of them, even to the emperor, march but at his will. He is a man to conquer the world from hence to the far East."

By dint of talking as they rode along, they made a compact to work the death of Roland. By dint of riding, they arrived at Saragossa, and under a yew-tree they got down.

King Marsilion is in the midst of his Saracens. They keep a gloomy silence, anxious to learn what news the messengers may bring.

"You are saved!" exclaims Blancandrin, advancing to the feet of Marsilion, and holding Ganelon by the hand—"saved by Mahomet and Apollo, whose holy laws we observe. Charles has answered nothing; but he sends this noble baron, by whose mouth you shall learn whether you will have peace or war."

"Let him speak," said the king.

Ganelon, after considering a moment, thus begins: "May you be saved by the God whom we are all bound to adore! The will of the puissant Charlemagne is this: you shall receive the Christian law; the half of Spain will be given you in fief. If you refuse to accept these terms, you shall be taken and bound, led to Aix, and condemned to a shameful death."

At this discourse the king grows pale, and trembles with fury. His golden javelin quivers in his hand; he is about to cast it at Ganelon, but is held back. Ganelon grasps his sword, drawing it two fingers' length out of the scabbard, and saying, "My beautiful sword! while you gleam at my side, none shall tell our emperor that I fell alone in this strange land; with the blood of the best you shall first pay for me."

The Saracens cry out: Let us hinder the combat. At their entreaties, Marsilion, calming himself, resumed his seat. "What evil possesses you?" said his uncle, the caliph, "that you would strike this Frenchman when you ought to hear him?" And Ganelon, meanwhile, composed his countenance, but kept his right hand still on the hilt of his sword. The beholders said to themselves, "Truly, he is a noble baron!"

Gradually he draws nearer to the king, and resumes his discourse: "You are in the wrong to be angry. Our king bestows upon you the half of Spain; the other half being for his nephew Roland, an insolent companion I admit; but if you do not agree to this, you will be besieged in Saragossa, taken, bound, judged, and beheaded. Thus says the emperor himself in his message to you." So saying, he places the letter in the pagan's hands.

Marsilion, in a fresh access of rage, breaks the seal, and rapidly glances over the contents. "Charles talks to me of his resentment! He calls to mind this Basan, this Basil, whose heads flew off at my bidding! To save my life, I am to send him my uncle, the caliph; otherwise he listens to no terms!"

Upon this the king's son exclaims: "Deliver Ganelon to me, that I may do justice upon him." Ganelon hears him, and brandishes his sword, setting his back against a pine.

The scene suddenly changes. The king has descended into his garden; he is calm, and walks with his son and heir, Jurfalen, in the midst of his vassals. He sends for Ganelon, who is brought to him by Blancandrin.

"Fair Sire Ganelon," says the king, "it may be that I received you somewhat hastily, and made as if I would have stricken you just now. To make amends for this mistake, I present you with these sable furs. Their value is more than five hundred pounds of gold. Before to-morrow, still more costly ones shall also be yours."

"Sire, it is impossible that I should refuse, and may it please Heaven to recompense you!"

Marsilion continues: "Hold it for certain, Sir Count, that it is my desire to be your friend. I would speak with you of Charlemagne. He is very old, it appears to me. I give him at least two hundred years; how worn out, therefore, he needs must be! He has spent his strength in so many lands, when will he be weary of warfare?"

"Never," said Ganelon, "so long as his nephew lives. Roland has not his equal in bravery from hence to the far East. He is a most valiant man, and so, likewise, is Oliver, his companion, and these twelve peers, so dear to the emperor, who march at the head of twenty thousand knights. Can you expect that Charles should know fear? He is more powerful than any man here below!"

"Fair sire," replies Marsilion, "I, also, have my army, than which a finer cannot be found. I have four hundred thousand knights wherewith to give battle to Charles and his French."

"Trust it not at all," the other answers; "it will cost you dear, as well as your men. Lay aside this rash boldness, and try a little management instead. Give the emperor riches so great that our French will be dazzled by them, and give him twenty hostages. He will then return into the sweet land of France, leaving the rear-guard to follow, in which, I trust, may be Count Roland and the valiant Oliver. Only listen to my counsel, and, believe me, they are dead."

"Show me, fair sire (and may Heaven bless you for it!), how I may slay Roland."

"I am well able to tell you. When once the emperor shall be in the great defiles of Cisaire, he will be at a great distance from his rear-guard. He will have placed in it his beloved nephew and Oliver, in whom he so greatly confides, and with them will be twenty thousand French. Send, then, a hundred thousand of your pagans. I do not in any wise promise that in a first conflict, murderous as it will be to those of France, there will not also be great slaughter of your men; but a second engagement will follow, and, no matter in which, Roland will there remain. You will have done a deed of exceeding bravery, and through all the rest of your life you will have no more war. What could Charles do without Roland? Would he not have lost the right arm of his body? What would become of his wonderful army? He would never assemble it more. He would lose his taste for warfare, and the great empire would be restored to peace."

Scarcely has he done speaking, when Marsilion throws his arms round his neck, and embraces him; then offers, without more delay, to swear to him that he will betray Roland.

"Be it so, if so it please you," answers Ganelon; and upon the relics of his sword he swears the treason, and completes his crime.

Marsilion, on his part, causes to be brought, on an ivory throne, the book of his law, even the book of Mahomet, and swears upon it that, if he can find Roland in the rear-guard, he will not cease fighting until he has slain him.

Thereupon Valdabron, a Saracen, who was formerly the king's guardian, draws near, and, presenting his sword, the best in the world, to Ganelon, says: "I give you this for friendship's sake; only help us to get rid of Roland, the baron."

"With all my heart." And they embrace.

Another, Climorin, brings him his helmet: "I never saw its like. Take it, to aid us against Roland, the marquis."

"Most willingly," says Ganelon; and they also embrace.

Comes at last the queen, Bramimonde. She says to the count, "Sire, I love you well, seeing that you are very dear to my lord and to all his subjects. Take these bracelets to your wife. See what gold, what amethysts and jacinths! Your emperor has none like these; they are worth all the treasures of Rome!"

And Ganelon takes the jewels.

Marsilion then summons Mauduit, his treasurer. "Are the gifts prepared for Charlemagne?"

"Sire, they are in readiness. Seven hundred camels laden with gold and silver, and twenty hostages of the noblest under heaven."

Then, with his hand on Ganelon's shoulder, the king says to him: "You speak fair and fine; but, by this law which you hold to be the best, beware of changing purpose towards us." After this, he promises that every year he will send him, as rent, ten mules laden with gold of Arabia; he gives him the keys of Saragossa to be carried to Charlemagne. "But, above all, see that Roland be in the rear-guard, that we may surprise him, and give him mortal combat."

Ganelon replies, "It seems to me that I have already tarried here too long." And he mounts his steed and departs.

At daybreak he reaches the emperor's quarters. "Sire," says he, "I bring you the keys of Saragossa, twenty hostages, and great treasure; let them be guarded well. It is Marsilion who sends them. As to the caliph, marvel not because he does not come. With my own eyes I saw him embark on the sea with three hundred thousand armed men; they were all weary of the rule of Marsilion, and were going forth to dwell in the midst of Christians; but at four leagues from the coast a furious tempest overwhelmed them, so that all were drowned. If the caliph had been living, I would have brought him hither. Believe me, sire, before a month is over, Marsilion will have joined you in France; he will receive the Christian law, and will, as your vassal, do you homage for the kingdom of Spain."

"Then God be praised!" said Charles. "You have well delivered your message, and it shall profit you well."

The clarions sound. Charles proclaims the war at an end. The soldiers raise the camp; they load the sumpter horses; the army is in motion, and on its way towards the sweet land of France. Nevertheless, the day closes; the night is dark. Charlemagne sleeps. In a dream he sees himself in the great defiles of Cisaire, with his lance of ash-wood in his hand. Ganelon seizes hold of it, shaking it so violently that it flies in pieces, and the splinters are scattered in the air.

TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.