The Book of the Epic. H. A. Guerber

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СКАЧАТЬ eagerly suggests that, as Roland is the most valiant of the peers, the task be allotted to him. Anxious to keep his nephew by him, Charlemagne resents this suggestion, but, when he prepares to award the post to some one else, Roland eagerly claims it, promising France shall lose nothing through him.

      "God be my judge," was the count's reply,

       "If ever I thus my race belie.

       But twenty thousand with me shall rest,

       Bravest of all your Franks and best;

       The mountain passes in safety tread,

       While I breathe in life you have nought to dread."

      Because it is patent to all that his step-father proposed his name through spite, Roland meaningly remarks that he at least will not drop the insignia of his rank, and in proof thereof proudly clutches the bow Charlemagne hands him, and boastfully declares twelve peers and twenty thousand men will prove equal to any emergency.

      Fully armed and mounted on his steed (Veillantif), Roland, from an eminence, watches the vanguard of the French army disappear in the mountain gorges, calling out to the last men that he and his troop will follow them soon! This vanguard is led by Charlemagne and Ganelon, and, as it passes on, the heavy tramp of the mailed steeds causes the ground to shake, while the clash of the soldiers' arms is heard for miles around. They have already travelled thirty miles and are just nearing France, whose sunny fields the soldiers greet with cries of joy, when Duke Naimes perceives tears flowing down the emperor's cheeks, and learns that they are caused by apprehension for Roland.

      High were the peaks, and the valleys deep,

       The mountains wondrous dark and steep;

       Sadly the Franks through the passes wound,

       Fully fifteen leagues did their tread resound.

       To their own great land they are drawing nigh,

       And they look on the fields of Gascony.

       They think of their homes and their manors there,

       Their gentle spouses and damsels fair.

       Is none but for pity the tear lets fall;

       But the anguish of Karl is beyond them all.

       His sister's son at the gates of Spain

       Smites on his heart, and he weeps amain.

      The evident anxiety of Charlemagne fills the hearts of all Frenchmen with nameless fear, and some of them whisper that Ganelon returned from Saragossa with suspiciously rich gifts. Meantime Roland, who has merely been waiting for the vanguard to gain some advance, sets out to cross the mountains too; where, true to his agreement with Ganelon, Marsile has concealed a force of one hundred thousand men, led by twelve Saracen generals, who are considered fully equal to the French peers, and who have vowed to slay Roland in the passes of Roncevaux.

      PART II. PRELUDE TO THE GREAT BATTLE. It is only when the Saracen army is beginning to close in upon the French, that the peers become aware of their danger. Oliver, Roland's bosom friend, the first to descry the enemy, calls out that this ambush is the result of Ganelon's treachery, only to be silenced by Roland, who avers none shall accuse his step-father without proof. Then, hearing of the large force approaching, Roland exclaims, "Cursed be he who flees," and admonishes all present to show their mettle and die fighting bravely.

      The Pride of Roland. Because the enemies' force so greatly outnumbers theirs, Oliver suggests that Roland sound his horn to summon Charlemagne to his aid; but, unwilling to lose any glory, this hero refuses, declaring he will strike one hundred thousand such doughty blows with his mighty sword (Durendal), that all the pagans will be laid low.

      "Roland, Roland, yet wind one blast!

       Karl will hear ere the gorge be passed,

       And the Franks return on their path full fast."

       "I will not sound on mine ivory horn:

       It shall never be spoken of me in scorn,

       That for heathen felons one blast I blew;

       I may not dishonor my lineage true.

       But I will strike, ere this fight be o'er,

       A thousand strokes and seven hundred more,

       And my Durindana shall drip with gore.

       Our Franks will bear them like vassals brave.

       The Saracens flock but to find a grave."

      In spite of the fact that Oliver thrice implores him to summon aid, Roland thrice refuses; so his friend, perceiving he will not yield, finally declares they must do their best, and adds that, should they not get the better of the foe, they will at least die fighting nobly. Then Archbishop Turpin—one of the peers—assures the soldiers that, since they are about to die as martyrs, they will earn Paradise, and pronounces the absolution, thus inspiring the French with such courage that, on rising from their knees, they rush forward to earn a heavenly crown.

      Riding at their head, Roland now admits to Oliver that Ganelon must have betrayed them, grimly adding that the Saracens will have cause to rue their treachery before long. Then he leads his army down the valley to a more open space, where, as soon as the signal is given, both friends plunge into the fray, shouting their war-cry ("Montjoie").

      The Medley. In the first ranks of the Saracens is a nephew of Marsile, who loudly boasts Charlemagne is about to lose his right arm; but, before he can repeat this taunt, Roland, spurring forward, runs his lance through his body and hurls it to the ground with a turn of his wrist. Then, calling out to his men that they have scored the first triumph, Roland proceeds to do tremendous execution among the foe. The poem describes many of the duels which take place—for each of the twelve peers specially distinguishes himself—while the Saracens, conscious of vastly superior numbers, return again and again to the attack. Even the archbishop fights bravely, and Roland, after dealing fifteen deadly strokes with his lance, resorts to his sword, thus meeting the Saracens at such close quarters that every stroke of his blade hews through armor, rider, and steed.

      At the last it brake; then he grasped in hand

       His Durindana, his naked brand.

       He smote Chernubles' helm upon,

       Where, in the centre, carbuncles shone:

       Down through his coif and his fell of hair,

       Betwixt his eyes came the falchion bare,

       Down through his plated harness fine,

       Down through the Saracen's chest and chine,

       Down through the saddle with gold inlaid,

       Till sank in the living horse the blade,

       Severed the spine where no joint was found,

       And horse and rider lay dead on ground.

      In spite of Roland's doughty blows, his good sword suffers no harm, nor does that of Oliver (Hauteclaire), with which he does such good work that Roland assures him he will henceforth СКАЧАТЬ