THE DAYS OF CHIVALRY

CONTENTS

PREFACE.

BOOK THE FIRST — THE TOURNEY AT FRONSAC — A.D. 769.

CHAPTER I. CHARLEMAGNE.

CHAPTER II. WHICH THE AUTHOR CONGRATULATES HIMSELF ON NOT HAVING TO READ.

CHAPTER III. CHARLEMAGNE’S CORTEGE.

CHAPTER IV. HOW GANELON, COUNT OF MAYENCE, WAS NEARLY SMOKED IN THE COMPANY OF TWO HOGS, AND WHAT FOLLOWED THEREAFTER.

CHAPTER V. ANGOULAFFRE OF THE BRAZEN TEETH, GOVERNOR OF JERUSALEM.

CHAPTER VI. MURAD’S THREE WHIMS.

CHAPTER VII. A FORMIDABLE FRIEND.

CHAPTER VIII. WHEREIN THE GOVERNOR OF JERUSALEM BEGINS TO SHOW HIS TEETH.

CHAPTER IX. WHEREIN THE EAGLE STOOPS, THE RAVEN CROAKS, THE WOLF HOWLS, AND THE LION ROARS.

CHAPTER X. ANGOULAFFRE THE MERCIFUL!

CHAPTER XI. HOW ANGOULAFFRE HAD AN ATTACK OF TOOTHACHE, WHICH WAS THE DEATH OF HIM.

CHAPTER XII. THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF ANGOULAFFRE.

CHAPTER XIII. THE TWO ROGUES RELEASED.

CHAPTER XIV. THE CORSELET OF CAMBRIC.

CHAPTER XV. MONTJOIE! MONTJOIE! ST. DENIS!

CHAPTER XVI. A FUNERAL MARCH.

BOOK THE SECOND — THE PROPHET’S PARADISE.

CHAPTER I. HOW CROQUEMITAINE WAS CHRISTENED.

CHAPTER II. THE KING OF BEAUTY,

CHAPTER III. HOW THE EMPEROR CHARLEMAGNE SAW A VISION.

CHAPTER IV. HOW KING MARSILLUS SAW A VISION.

CHAPTER V. THE TWO ALCALDES.

CHAPTER VI. CHARLEMAGNE IN SPAIN.

CHAPTER VII. THE TRAP.

CHAPTER VIII. HOW ROLAND UNDERTOOK TO CARRY SARAGOSSA BY STORM.

CHAPTER IX. A TRIP TO MAHOMET’S PARADISE.

CHAPTER X. WHEN ROLAND REMEMBERS HIS LATIN, AND THE DEVIL FORGETS HIS.

BOOK THE THIRD — THE FORTRESS OF FEAR.

CHAPTER I. THE FOUR FOES OF CROQUEMITAINE.

CHAPTER II. THE SIGN OF THE CROCODILE.

CHAPTER III. HOW ALLEGRIGNAC, MARAGOUGNIA, PORC-EN-TRUIE, AND MONT-ROGNON OPENED THE CAMPAIGN.

CHAPTER IV. ALI PÉPÉ’S LITTLE HARVEST.

CHAPTER V. HOW ALI PÉPÉ, HAVING DONE ALL THAT COULD BE EXPECTED OF AN HONEST MAN, WAS HANGED.

CHAPTER VI. SHOULDER TO SHOULDER, FACE TO FACE!

CHAPTER VII. MITAINE OPENS THE CAMPAIGN.

CHAPTER VIII. THROUGH THE FORESTS.

CHAPTER IX. A NIGHT IN THE FORTRESS OF FEAR.

EPILOGUE — RONCESVALLES — A. D. 778.

IN translating L’Epine’s charming legend, I have felt it my duty to adhere as closely as possible to the text. “Adaptations” and “versions,” whether presented on the stage or set down in black and white, seem to claim for those, who give them in English, a greater share of the glory than I feel myself to deserve, in the slightest degree, in this instance. The delicacy with which the moral is interwoven in the narrative, without in the least injuring the true legendary tone of the adventures related, is as far beyond any improvement I could make, as it is above the usual clap-trap “tag” with which dramas and children’s stories are ordinarily burdened.

I scarcely know to whom I should appeal as my readers, for the story I have delighted in rendering into English seems to me likely to afford pleasure in the perusal to older heads than those which I am sure would gather over the pages in the nursery. For there are a quiet humour and a delicate fancy running through the legend, amid all the exciting accounts of loves and wars, tourneys and battles, accidents and adventures, which do not lose interest because they are illustrated by the powerful pencil of Gustave Doré. That great artist’s fancy supplies these introductory lines with a tail-piece, which aptly typifies the book. Its author has ably made the doings of knights and paladins point a useful moral as well as adorn an interesting tale, just as the artist makes the arms of the chivalric age serve to frighten the birds from the fields that supply our humble daily bread.

THE story which I am about to relate happened (if it ever did happen) in the time of the famous Emperor Charlemagne. There is no necessity, in speaking of that remarkable epoch, to invent facts. The truth is so astounding that it will make you open your eyes quite wide enough. What marvellous doings of fairies, ogres, or demons, can compare with the deeds of Charlemagne? and what magic ring could be as potent as his sword?

But before I proceed further it will be as well to sketch for you, in a few lines, the portrait of this hero.

He was eight feet in height, according to the measurement of his own feet, which historians allege with fervour were of remarkable length. His eyes were large and piercing. When he was enraged you could almost have fancied they flashed fire. His face was broad and ruddy, his hair brown, and he wore a beard that was innocent of the barber’s shears. Although he measured eight feet round the middle, his figure was wellproportioned. He devoured with ease at one repast a quarter of mutton, or a goose, or a ham, or a peacock. He was moderate in the matter of wine, which he used to take with water. His strength was so enormous that it was mere child’s play to him to straighten with his naked hands three horse-shoes at a time. He could lift at arm’s length, on the palm of his hand, a knight in full armour; and lie could cleave in twain, with one blow of his sword, a horseman in panoply of war—aye, and his horse into the bargain. This was mere sport to him, and often, with a charming complaisance which was peculiarly his own, he would take pleasure in thus giving those about him an ocular demonstration of his superhuman strength.

His anger was as terrible as the thunder, for it was as ready to burst forth and to strike.

He carves out a kingdom, with the compassion of a Titus, the sound judgment of a Solomon, the piety of a Joseph, the magnificence of a Sardanapalus, and the wisdom of an Æsop, he united two qualities more rare than all these put together? when he spoke he meant what he said, and when others spoke to him he took time for reflection, in order to make sure that he thoroughly understood their meaning.

The dominion which his father bequeathed him did not suit the largeness of his views, so he carved out for himself a kingdom which was more in harmony with his gigantic instincts.

Born in 742, and raised to the throne in 768, he had in 770 already made conquest of Aquitaine and Lombardy. Four years after Germany was subjugated by him. He made fifty-three military expeditions, and he began the ninth century by having himself crowned Emperor of the West by Pope Leo the Third. He was a generous dispenser of crowns, and gave away principalities and duchies as freely as now-a-days we give away recorderships. Pie had two capitals in his dominions: the one was Rome, the other was Aix-la-Chapelle. He promulgated the code of laws known as Capitularies. He defended religion, spread the Gospel, encouraged the fine arts, and introduced into his cathedrals organs which he imported from Lombardy. Surrounded by mighty minds, whose efforts he stimulated, and whose labours he shared, he founded many schools and universities. He died in 814, after three-and-forty years of sovereign power—three-and-forty years of victories and wonders.

Really, my dear readers, if you are not satisfied with Charlemagne for a hero, you must be very difficult to please!

I SHOULD be extremely sorry to weary you, my dear readers; in fact, I should be wretched if you were to look on this volume as serious reading, and yet I am compelled to sum up in a few words the great events which agitated France at the time my story commences. However, put a bold face on it, and bolt this chapter without taking breath, as you would swallow any peculiarly nauseous draught.

After the death of Pepin the Short, in 768, his two sons, Carloman and Charlemagne, divided his kingdom. Carloman, who was the elder, took Burgundy, Provence, Septimania, and the chief part of Neustria. His coronation took place on the 9th October, 768, at Laon. Charlemagne had part of Neustria, Bavaria, and Thuringia. He was crowned at Soissons on the same day as Carloman. Aquitaine was also shared between the brothers. You are probably aware that Pepin the Short was the founder of the second line of French kings. The first line, that of the Merovingians, was not, however, extinct when he came to the throne, for the Dukes of Aquitaine were of Merovingian descent. They sprang from Caribert, King of Toulouse, the son of Clotaire the Second. Eudes, who shares with Charles Martel the glory of having conquered the Saracens in the sanguinary battle of Poitiers, in 732, was also of this family.

Hunald, the son of Eudes, had, at the time of Pepin’s death, lived five-and-twenty years in the convent to which that monarch had consigned him. Now, the Merovingian Dukes of Aquitaine had a fierce hatred of the Carlovingian Kings of France, and accordingly, as soon as Hunald heard of the accession of Carloman and Charlemagne, he quitted the monastery, took up arms, and proclaimed the independence of Aquitaine.

The two newly-crowned kings had reason to be alarmed at an outbreak like this, for, unless put down at the outset, it might arouse and encourage the pretensions of the descendants of Clovis with regard to Neustria. Charlemagne summoned a Parliament, to which he invited his brother. They both came to it, attended by their ecclesiastics and nobles, and war was decided upon.

The two kings crossed the Loire together; but Carloman, who, if one may judge from the chronicles of the period, was of an un-amiable disposition, had such quarrels with his brother about the partition of their inheritance, that it was even feared they would come to blows. They therefore determined to part company. Carloman returned to Laon, and Charlemagne prosecuted the enterprise alone. He overran Aquitaine without meeting any resistance, as Charles Martel had done before him. Hunald, a fugitive, and hard pressed, found himself obliged to seek shelter with his nephew Wolf, Duke of Gascony. Wolf! When was a name in a fairy tale bestowed with more propriety? This Wolf was most deservedly called so, as you will see. As soon as Charlemagne discovered where his enemy had found an asylum, he dispatched some of his foremost knights to the Duke of Gascony, commanding him to deliver up the fugitive, and threatening, if he refused, to enter his duchy and lay it waste.

In those days, my dear readers, travelling was not quite so expeditious as it ‘s now! so Charlemagne, foreseeing he would have to wait some months, established his camp on the borders of the forest. In the next place, in order to put the time of his stay to profitable use, and to give employment to his troops, about five leagues from Bordeaux he had a strong fortress which was called Fronsac, or rather Fransiac, the castle of the Franks. The building of the castle was hardly completed when the by Wolf of Gascony, who did not in the least scruple to deliver up to Charlemagne, as a proof of his fealty, Hunald and his family, who had claimed shelter of him.

The insurrection having been thus deprived of its leader, Aquitaine submitted to Charlemagne.

CHARLEMAGNE determined to celebrate the fortunate issue of his campaign. Jousts and tourneys were organised, and heralds were sent out far and wide; and before long knights began to pour in from the various provinces: some to show their courage and exercise their strength and skill, others in the hope of enriching themselves with the spoils of their vanquished adversaries.

The spot chosen for the tournament was an extent of velvet sward situated at the edge of a forest of oaks that were five hundred years old. A semi-circle of low hills formed a sort of amphitheatre, in the centre of which a vast area, reserved for the combatants, was surrounded with palisades. There were two entrances to the lists—one on the north, the other on the south—each wide enough to admit of the passage of six knights on horseback abreast. Two heralds and six pursuivants had charge of each of these entries. Small detachments were scattered about here and there to maintain order—no easy task, for the inhabitants of the surrounding country, with their wives, had assembled from all quarters alongside of the camp. On them it was difficult to impress a due observance of discipline, and the unmanageable came in for showers of blows that were not laid on less heavily because it was a conquered country.

On a level space not far from the northern gate were raised twelve gorgeous pavilions, reserved for the twelve principal French champions who held the lists. Pennons with their colours, and those of their lady-loves, fluttering in the wind, waved in the sunlight like flying serpents. Each knight had his shield suspended before his tent, under the charge of a squire.

Further off, less costly tents served as lodgings for numerous warriors, who were drawn together either by friendship or want of means. This community formed a quaint sort of town, which had, as it were, suburbs consisting of stable-sheds, and huts of all sorts, occupied by armourers, farriers, surgeons, and artisans, whose presence on such occasions was indispensable. Merchants at these times were exempted from all tolls and taxes, and accordingly the Jews had come to sell Venetian trinkets and Oriental perfumes to the ladies; the Bretons brought their honey for sale, and the Provencals displayed their clear olive oil; and amid all these good things were to be seen, rambling about at random, jugglers, troubadours, minstrels, and all other classes of poor Bohemians, whose wits are sharp if their purses are scant. On the borders of the wood was erected a pavilion more magnificent than all the others—it was that of Charlemagne; it was of cloth of gold, with purple stripes, powdered with gold eagles, and it was so bright that one would have needed the eye of an eagle to support its lustre for an instant. All about it were knights, squires, lackeys, and pages, coming and going as thickly as bees in a hive around their queen. On either side of the royal tent, and all along the edge of the forest, were erected seats for the spectators of rank, who promised to be numerous. They flocked-in every hour in crowds, so delighted were they with spectacles of this description, and, above all, so desirous were they of beholding Charlemagne, whose name had already begun to resound through Europe. The royal box, more lofty than the others, and more richly decorated, was a little in front of the tent. Charlemagne had ordained that the Queen of Beauty should share this with him, in order that she might be surrounded by the most valiant knights and the most lovely ladies. The two retinues attended on her amid incessant peals of mirth and merriment.

Finally, my dear readers, to finish the picture, figure to yourselves, situated half-way between the lists and the forest, and surmounted by a huge iron cross, a Gothic chapel, in which, each morning, Turpin, the good and gallant Bishop of Rheims, officiated as priest in the presence of the kneeling multitude.

At length the day of the tournament arrived. There had been many jousts before, but never had there been one of equal magnificence. From the earliest dawn the places were all occupied. Even the old trees were as thickly loaded with curious spectators as a plum-tree in August; and the good folks were right to crowd so, for had they lived their lives six times over, they would never have seen anything equal to the sight again, it was absolutely necessary for the soldiers to lay about with their pike-staves, in order to calm the eager ardour of the most enthusiastic; but nobody took any notice of thumps that, under any other circumstances, would have been received with an ill grace.

All of a sudden a flourish of trumpets made the air resound. A glittering advanced-guard entered the enclosure and took up their position, and then Charlemagne entered the arena at the head of a numerous escort of knights and nobles, and of ecclesiastics in rich vestments. Enthusiasm knew no bounds. “Montjoie! Montjoie!” resounded on every side. Charlemagne, who later in life affected the greatest simplicity in dress, had assumed for this great occasion the most brilliant attire. His shirt was of fine linen, its border enriched with gold embroidery. His tunic was of silk, plated with gold, and was covered with precious stones of surpassing brightness—emeralds, rubies, and topaz. His armlets and girdle were chased with the most exquisite art, and his alms-pouch, which hung at his side, was besprinkled with pearls and gems enough to dazzle a blind man. His brow was bound with a glittering diadem. His whole figure shone with an unaccustomed splendour, and he greatly surpassed in magnificence the grandest of his dukes, counts, or barons. His steed, covered with gold and rich trappings, seemed proud of the burthen it carried.

The Queen Himiltrude, a Frank by birth, advanced in the midst of her attendants. Her neck was tinged with a delicate rose, like that of a Roman matron in former ages. Her locks were bound about her temples with gold and purple bands; her robe was looped up with ruby clasps. Her coronet and her purple robes gave her an air of surpassing majesty. She was a worthy queen of Charlemagne. But if the queen surpassed all other women in nobleness of mien, Aude, the niece of Gerard of Vienne, and sister of Oliver the Brave, surpassed her as much by her beauty, her grace, and her attractiveness. She wore a light crown, embossed with jewels of all colours. Her hair was fair, falling naturally into becoming curls; her eyes were blue as the sea of the south; her complexion was pink, like the heart of a white rose; and her hands were marvellously small. As she passed Roland, she turned slightly pale. If she had been less lovely, I should have said more about her rich attire; but what is the use, since nobody notices it? The queen must have been very strong-minded, to retain so charming a lady of honour about her person. On seeing the beautiful Aude, every one said, “There, or I’ll die for it, is the Queen of Beauty!”

Aude had near her her sister Mita, fair as herself, but slightly browned by the Spanish sun under which she had been brought up. Two black eyes, full lips, a finely-cut and regular nose, hair hanging down entwined with long strings of threaded pearls and diamonds—there you have her portrait in a few words.

Her bodice was covered with small pearls; yu might have called it a pearl corslet. Indeed, those who saw her pass, admiring her martial bearing and her rich breastplate, gave her the nickname of “the little knight in pearl.”

After Aude and her sister came a bevy of beautiful young girls, but the people hardly cared to look at them.

At last came the peers and barons, clad in their most splendid armour. What a clash of gold, iron, and steel! How many swords that had won renown! Every one of these puissant arms was worth ten ordinary knights in the tourney-ground—in battle worth a thousand!

It is difficult to explain the agility displayed by these men under such a formidable weight of armour. An ox in these days could scarcely carry one of them. The helmet alone weighed a hundred and twenty-five pounds. They handled like playthings swords which we can hardly lift. “At the battle of Hastings,” says Robert Wace, “Taillefer threw his up, and caught it as if it had been a light stick.” The horses were as powerful as the men. Reared in the rich pastures of the Rhine borders or Bavaria, high-standing and big-chested, they often took part in the contest, tearing with their splendid teeth the enemies of their masters. As soon as they were broken they were clad in iron, to protect them against javelins, spears, and swords.

Last of all appeared Roland, Count of Mans and Knight of Blaives, son of Duke Milo of Aiglant, and of Bertha, the sister of Charlemagne. You would have taken him for a statue of iron and marble. His right hand brandished a spear that in these days would serve for the mast of a frigate; his left reposed on his faithful sword Durandal. I know of no one to whom to compare him but the Archangel Michael. His air is at once terrible and tender: should one love him or fear him? He is of such a majestic, awe-inspiring presence, that one can hardly be astonished at any wonders he performs. He appears to belong to a race that is more than human, and you would hardly be surprised were he to drag a star from its sphere or seize a comet by the beard. He is of the same height as Charlemagne, but more imposing in figure and gait. His open countenance invites confidence and inspires respect. When Roland gives a man his hand, the lucky fellow, who is thus honoured as with a royal favour, feels, in the pride of having achieved such a distinction, a greater confidence in his own worth. Roland is mounted on Veillantif, the only horse in the world worthy of such a rider.

Close at hand is Oliver, Count of Genes, the brother of the beautiful Aude. He is hardly second to Roland in strength, in agility, and in appearance. At his side gleams Haute-Claire, and he is mounted on Ferrant d’Espagne, a steed that darts straight towards the foe like an arrow. Then follow Duke Oger, Richard of Normandy, Thibault of Rheims, Guy of Burgundy, Ogier the Dane, Duke Naimes of Bavaria, Girard of Montdidier, Bernard, the uncle of Charlemagne; Miton of Rennes, the friend of Roland; William of Orange, with the short nose, whose name made evil-doers tremble (as you have trembled, little people, at the name of Bogey!); besides a thousand others, not forgetting Turpin, the good Archbishop of Rheims, so learned in the council-hall, so pious in the cathedral, so brave on the field of battle. Turpin was armed in warlike fashion; his rosary and his mace hung side by side; in the handle of the latter was enclosed a precious relic, a bone of St. Clet. He could not wield a sword, for his religion forbade him to shed blood; but it is a fact that his mace weighed a hundred and fifty pounds.

Near Charlemagne was to be seen Wolf, Duke of Gascony—Wolf, who sold his guest and his family—Wolf, who was without a rival in treachery, except Ganelon. Oh, how you will hate the pair of them, my friends, if you read my story to the end! Wolf was chiefly noticeable for his armour, which was of browned steel, damasked with silver, and which he had purchased of the Saracens in Spain. He is more terrible in peace than in war, and his favourite weapon is the gallows. He was less feared by his enemies than by his subjects, and would sooner knock a man down with a blow of his fist than say, “Thank you.” He was noted for his ingenuity in matters of torture, and has the credit of being the originator of the plan of tying wetted ropes round the temples of his prisoners to make their eyeballs start out of their sockets. It was he, too, who had them sewed up in freshly-stript bulls’ hides, and exposed to the sun until the hides in shrinking broke their bones. But what is the most awful to tell is that no one had ever seen him in a rage. He was cruel in cold blood from inclination and appetite. The smell of blood delighted him more than frankincense or verbena. Charlemagne hardly spoke to him, and it was with difficulty that he could prevent his dislike of him from appearing.

Count Ganelon, of Mayence, was not quite so base a savage. At all events, his bravery was unquestionable; he could be a useful councillor, and if the envy with which Roland inspired him had not driven him to evil deeds, he might have been one of the foremost of Charlemagne’s followers. A lover of solitude, a taciturn and even savage man, an irreligious unbeliever in all noble sentiments—such was Ganelon in moral disposition. Need I say he had no friends? In height he was hardly six feet and a half, and he wished all those who were taller than he was, even by the breadth of a line, were of his height. His eyes glared from beneath the shadow of his fiery locks, like those of a savage hound. He loved gold only to hoard it, and affected great poverty. You would have thought him one of Attila’s Huns rather than one of the paladins of Charlemagne’s court. Ganelon could not forgive Roland for having rendered him a service on several occasions. The superiority of Charlemagne’s nephew drove him mad. This may, perhaps, surprise some, of the younger of my readers, but it is too true that to evil minds gratitude is displeasing and troublesome. But I had better make you acquainted with the particular grievances of the Count of Mayence.

GANELON’S castle was situated on the loftiest peak of the Hartz Mountains, the Blocksberg. There, in the midst of the Hercynian forest, which cannot be less than twenty-four leagues in length by ten in breadth, towered the eyrie of this vulture. One road, and only one, traversed this vast extent of forest, but Ganelon took care that it should always be in good repair; it was a courtesy which he felt was due from him to the travellers he despoiled.

The count had gathered round him a collection of the best assorted ruffians of every country; Saxons, Danes, Lombards, Jews, and Saracens, lent him a hand to forward the interests of the Evil One. One morning he called them all together, and said to them—-

“I have pleasant news for you. We have the opportunity of playing a pretty trick on some Saxon traders. I have just been informed that a caravan, consisting of thirty mules, laden with treasure, and conveyed by a small escort, is about to cross the Hartz Mountains this morning, to attend the fair of St. Denis. I have conceived the design of protecting French commerce, and putting a stop to the opposition which is meditated against it. Under the protection of our patron saints, the two thieves, we will make ourselves masters of this venture.”

Ganelon and his rascals placed themselves in ambush along the border of the forest, and before long saw a thick cloud of dust rising along the road in the distance.

“Here,” cried they, “beyond a doubt, are those we are waiting for. Let us save them three-quarters of their journey;” and they rushed forward, sword in hand. The two opposing storms of dust approached each other, and from the further came the cry, “i’ what are you doing? You’ll destroy the beasts!”

Ganelon and his men had charged into the midst of an army of porkers, driven by Westphalian swineherds.

The surprise of the assailants was so great that it allowed the swineherds time to form in a body and draw their knives; and those weapons were not to be sneered at, readers mine, for they were those which butchers use for quartering and cutting up carcases.

Ganelon remained for a moment undecided. That hesitation was fatal. The Jews and Saracens, to whom pork is a forbidden dish, did not think it worth while to press matters further. They accordingly retreated, taking with them several of their fellows, who thought their chief would retire into ambuscade again. But a Count of Mayence is not the man to despise bacon and sour-crout. So Ganelon, gazing over the ocean of lard which grunted at his feet, began to lick his lips, and think that here was a booty which was quite as well worth having as the other. But the swineherds knew with whom they had to deal, and, indeed, had come in such numbers solely because they expected an attack. They rushed on the count and his lances, and began to hamstring the horses. The horsemen were soon rolling in the dust among the hogs. Two of them, who showed an inclination to resist, were very properly run through on the spot, and mingled their lifeblood with that of two pigs that had been run down by the horses. The others were disarmed, and allowed to escape. As for Ganelon, they tied his hands tightly behind his back.

“Now then,” said the head swineherd, “before they pluck up courage to come back in force, suppose we hang their leader?”

This idea appeared very agreeable to everybody except Ganelon, who uttered the most furious oaths. But they dragged him, armed as he was, under an oak, and then, having chosen a stout bough worthy of such fine fruit, they adjusted the cord round his neck. Then they brought the two slaughtered pigs—the only victims of the Count of Mayence—and having fitted each with a strong hempen cravat, suspended them one at each end of the bough, reserving the post of honour for the knight. These preparations concluded, Ganelon was dragged, bound hand and foot, to the place of execution. He writhed about in the madness of his rage, foaming at the mouth, calling on his companions in villany, and cursing them for their desertion. In vain did he struggle—a score of sturdy arms speedily hoisted him up between his two companions.

“Pull down his visor,” said the head swineherd to the man who was on the bough adjusting the noose, “the monster is hideous enough at the best of times—what will he look like presently?”

Ganelon continued to struggle at the end of the cord, to the great delight of the spectators, who, though they found him tenacious of life, did not complain on that account.

Meanwhile, the count began to find that death was rather slow in coming. He had hanged too many not to know something about it, and in this instance it was so personally interesting to him that it could not fail to arrest his attention. “These knaves,” said he to himself, “have made a sad bungle of the job. I ought to have been dead some time.” And then it dawned on him that he was only suspended, not hanged. His executioners had put the noose round the gorget of his helmet.

“Oho!” said Ganelon to himself, “this is quite another affair, and all is not yet lost, possibly. Only, if I continue my gambols, I may, perhaps, give the hint to these idiots, and they might hang me again more carefully. I’ll sham dead, and it’s odd if the Evil One doesn’t send some one to my aid. It would be very inconsiderate of him to let me die like this!”

Nevertheless, for one who wasn’t dead, the count was uncommonly near death. The blood rushed to his head, and filled his eyes. He began to hear a dismal noise in his ears, like the tolling of a bell. His mouth grew dry, his lips were contracted, and presently his limbs gave one last convulsive struggle. Ganelon confessed to himself that all was over, and lost consciousness while faintly murmuring a final imprecation. The swineherds, encouraged by their success, and not wishing to leave the two hogs for the enemy, resolved to cook and eat them. They posted sentinels, collected their herds, and prepared to celebrate their victory with a feast.

“It strikes me,” said the chief swineherd, “if we were to omit an opportunity of throwing a light on a point of interest to culinary science, we should regret it all our lives. A rare and remarkable opportunity offers itself to us now—we must not allow it to escape us. Are you not all equally anxious, with myself, to learn whether it takes longer to smoke a peer than a pig?”

The suggestion was a great success. They collected a heap of sticks and leaves under each of the three victims, and lighted it. And then, joining hands, they began to dance round, uttering wild shouts.

Roland, it so chanced, was returning this way from Saxony, whither he had been sent by Charlemagne. He had, certes, in war laid many a man dead in his path, but he had never permitted a cruelty to be committed in his presence. His indignation was roused by these vile chantings, this demoniac dance, and all the hideous apparatus of torture. He was not long in deciding what course to pursue. He rode at the dancers, and dispersed them with the flat of his sword, not deigning to honour them by using against them the edge, which he reserved for foemen more worthy of him.

Then he made to the hanging man, and in order to cut the roue, had to keep Veillantif for a few seconds trampling on the embers in the midst of the flames. The Count of Mayence tumbled heavily into the middle of the fire. Roland dismounted, with one hearty kick sent him rolling some fifty paces, and then ran to assist him.

His first care was to relieve him of his helmet. When he recognised whose life he had saved, I must admit he made a grimace. The Count of Mans, the faultless mirror of chivalry, could feel no liking for such wretches, but he was not the less ready to aid them.

Ganelon re-opened his eyes. His succession of tumbles had done more to recover him than all the eau-de-cologne in the world would have done. When he saw his preserver, he heartily wished it had not been Roland.

“Are you hurt, count? What can I do to assist you?”

“I don’t want your pity, Knight of Blaives. Why have you rescued me? I am not of a race or of a disposition likely to love those who place me under an obligation, and it would have been less bitter for me to die than to owe my life to you!”

“I forgive these words, Sir Ganelon. You have just undergone such a shock, that you have evidently not quite recovered your senses!”

At these words the Count of Mayence was seized with such a paroxysm of rage, that he found strength enough to try to avenge the insult. He flung himself on his preserver, and seized him by the throat.

“You’ll make yourself ill again,” said Roland, coolly freeing himself from the other’s grasp. “You forget that you are not quite well yet. Allow me to administer a curative process which you ought to undergo.”

With these words he caught his adversary by the scruff of the neck, dragged him beside his horse into the heart of the forest, tied his hands with the cord that had already served him as a halter, and bound him fast to a tree.

Ganelon foamed at the mouth, and bit his lips till the blood came. The fury in his eyes would have been terrible to any but Roland.

“Now, count, calm yourself. You see I am anxious to cure you in spite of yourself. Nothing conduces to meditation like solitude. Now that you are alone, you will have time for reflection; and if you are a wise man, you will say to yourself, ‘This Roland is a very good fellow not to break every bone in my body;’ and, since you are a coward and a villain, you will possibly say, ‘This Roland was a fool not to kill me outright.’ You will finish by perceiving that such a man as I can only despise one like you. Meditate, and if Heaven is kind, it will counsel you prudence. Anyhow, do not make an uproar, for fear your enemies should disturb your reflections, which, in that case, very likely, might come to a termination at the end of a rope. I will call at your castle, and send some one to your assistance: as my royal uncle is awaiting me at Cologne, you must excuse my attending on you further. Don’t forget, moreover, that I am, and always shall be, ready to honour you with a thrust of my lance or blow of my sword, in spite of the disgust I should feel at having to cross swords with a highway robber!”

Ganelon’s thoughts were so frightful that the human language is unable to express them. He hung down his head, and when he found himself alone he wept. His tears fell upon the grass; an innocent caterpillar, wandering in search of food, mistook them for dewdrops, tasted them, and died of the poison.

Two hours after, the swineherds had disappeared, and Ganelon re-entered his castle. Eight hours after, all whom Ganelon believed to be acquainted with his mishap were dead.

Six months after, he was at the court of Charlemagne, seated at the same table as Roland. Pork was placed on the table, but the Count of Mayence refused it.

“You bear malice, count,” said Roland; “that is wrong. Who knows? perhaps you are refusing an old brother in misfortune.”

Ganelon turned livid, but he did not stir. After the feast was over Roland came to him.

“Have you forgotten,” he asked, “the threats you uttered and the offer I made to you in your domain on the Hartz?”

“I never forget,” said the Count of Mayence.

Here, then, was the prime cause of Ganelon’s hatred of Roland.

WHILE I have been wandering with you, my friends, on the Blocksberg, Charlemagne, followed by his brilliant retinue, has been making a tour of the list upon his prancing charger. He had just regained the royal tent when a shout was heard from the crowd. All eyes were turned towards the Southern gate, whence proceed strains of wild music and strange cries. Charlemagne halted, and sent to inquire who ventured to disturb the ceremony. A squire rode off at full galop, and promptly returned to make the following report:—

“Sire, certain miscreant Saracens from Spain have come to challenge your peers in the name of King Marsillus, who holds his court at Saragossa. Their appearance is frightful. They come in procession, preceded by a band of unearthly music truly worthy of pagans, and demand admittance to your presence.”

“Let them enter,” said Charlemagne, motioning to the heralds who guarded the gate. “See,” he added, turning to his barons, “what a lucky to try your hands 011 the Spanish hounds in anticipation of the time when we shall pay them a visit at Saragossa—ay, and even at Granada, for we must compel then to be baptised for the glory of God and the safety of their souls.”

“Have they lost all shame that they dare look a Christian in the face?” said Miton of Rennes. “Why, the earth has barely yet had time to drink up all the blood that was shed on the plains of Poitiers.”

“No doubt they are bent upon a pilgrimage thither,” remarked Turpin, “to pray for the repose of their sires—that is, if such miscreants have fathers, and do not spring fully grown and ready armed from the jaws of hell!”

“How could they blush?” said Aude, pointing to the first of the Saracens who had passed the barriers; “their complexion is of the colour of our horses’ harness.”

“Oh, the hideous brutes!” said Himiltrude, shutting her eyes. “It is impossible they can be men.”

“Let none forget that these are our guests,” said Charlemagne. “We must be courteous even to Pagans.”

Curiosity was at its height. Every one rose to catch a glimpse of the emissaries of Marsillus; even the knights of Charlemagne’s escort raised themselves in their stirrups to obtain a view of the strangers.

There entered first sixty horsemen, blacker than Satan. Their flattened noses, their huge ears decorated with large ear-rings, their thick lips, were for the spectators so many objects of ridicule. Their bare arms were loaded with bracelets from wrist to shoulder; their heads were protected by light casques, around which were wound turbans of white silk. All were clad in the richest stuffs, and vied with one another in appearance. Some were loudly beating kettle-drums; others were blowing with distended cheeks horns of extraordinary shape; others, again, were ringing hand-bells or striking triangles of steel; while from time to time there resounded the deep bellowing of ten bronze gongs, whose vibrations so vehemently shook the spectator as even to induce a desire to cough!

Immediately after these came a hundred knights, of noble aspect, clad in triple mail, so flexible and light that a girl of fifteen might wear it with ease, and yet so stout that it was proof against the thrust of a Saracen lance; as for the thrust of a French lance, we will see about that by and by. Their faces were protected by Saragossan helmets, and they were armed with the heavy spear of Valence; while their swords’, although light, could cut through or hack away steel armour, so dexterous were they in wielding them.

Behind them marched twelve standard-bearers. Here the crescent and the horse-tail of the Moslem took the place of the red cross and the bannerets which led the Christians to combat.

Last of all, ten horse-lengths from this vanguard, appeared the envoys of Marsillus, King of Portugal, Castile, Arragon, Leon, and Valence. All who beheld them trembled, and ridicule gave place to alarm.

He was twelve cubits in height, and his face measured three feet across, his nose being nine inches long. His arms and legs were six feet long; his fingers were six inches and two lines. His inordinately large mouth was armed with sharp-pointed yellow tusks, and seemed less like human jaws than the portcullis of some rude stronghold. He was descended from Goliath, and assumed the title of Governor of Jerusalem. He had the strength of thirty men, and his mace was made of the trunk of an oak three hundred years old.*

This monster was attired in the hides of strange wild beasts, slain by himself on the peaks of Atlas, whither no other mortal had been able to penetrate.

His horse was without a match in the world, for it was up to his enormous weight. It gave a loud neigh on entering the list, and so alarmed all the other steeds that they reared, and in some instances unseated their riders—a disaster at which the Saracens burst into roars of laughter.

Himiltrude, in her terror, crossed herself, convinced that the new-comers would vanish in smoke before she could say “Amen!” But the Pagans continued to advance in good order.

“Hell must surely have gaped to-day!” said Mita.

“I do not know,” said Oliver, “whether these miscreants have issued thence this morning, but I’m sure they will sleep there to-night!”

Charlemagne knitted his brows. Aude trembled for Roland, whose thoughts she could read in his face.

Hard by Angoulaffre of the Brazen Teeth rode Murad Henakyeh Meimoumovassi, son of Marsillus. He was styled “The Lord of the Lion.”

* Some of the learned have alleged that Angoulaffre
travelled in Italy, and that one evening, while at Pisa,
being a little the worse for his potations, he leant against
the well-known tower, which, unable to bear his weight, lost
from that moment its centre of gravity. This is an error,
which I am glad to have an opportunity of rectifying. The
Leaning Tower, begun in the year 1174 was not finished until
the middle of the fourteenth century.

MARSILLUS one day observed that his son’s manner was more caressing than usual, so he took him on his knee and said—

“What does my child want to-day? Generally he does not embrace me at all, but since the morning he has done so three times!”

“Sire,” said Murad, leaning his little head on his father’s shoulder, “I should like to have your yataghan that hangs at your side!”

“What! Have you broken all your toys, or are you tired of play that you ask me for such a formidable weapon?”

“I am seven years old,” said Murad, drawing himself up; “I am no longer a child, and can carry arms. The sight of blood has no terror for me—nay! look”—and rapidly snatching the yataghan before the king had time to stop him, he gave himself a gash in the arm. Then, without flinching, he looked at his father, and said, “You see you can trust me with it!” The king staunched the blood and bound up the gash with his scarf. Then, embracing his son, he gave him the coveted weapon.

The same evening Murad was seized with a second whim.

He had never been allowed to to out alone—what could be more delightful than to take a stroll abroad at night? He only knew the face of Nature by day, he wished to see her in her silent moments, in the hours of gloom and half-obscured moonlight. He had heard of the songs of night-birds, of the roar of the hungry lion; of those insects which, glittering among the leaves, turn every bush into a casket of diamonds; of the mysterious odours which earth yields to the flowers only in the solemn hours of darkness; but now he determined to see, to hear, and to learn all these for himself.

He retired to rest as usual, placed his yataghan under his pillow, and waited till all was quiet in the palace. Then he rose softly, dressed himself, and walked to the door of his apartments. There he found his governor sleeping across the threshold. He paused to reflect.

“If I try to open this door, I shall rouse my guardian. If I wake him, will he grant my prayers? Certainly not. Will he yield to my threats? No; he will only laugh at them. If I disturb his slumbers, therefore, it will be to place him in a position of great difficulty, which I should exceedingly regret. It will be better, then, not to wake him!”—and Murad quietly thrust the point of his sword down the sleeper’s throat, and quitted the place.

The first thing he had to do was to cross the gardens. It seemed as if he had never seen them before. The fountains falling back into their basins made a silvery tinkling, which formed a ravishing accompaniment to the song of the nightingales. The bats, which looked like great leather birds, wheeled in circles through the air upon noiseless wings. The trees, allowing the moonbeams to filter through their foliage, flung mosaics of light and shade upon the sward.

Murad fancied he saw one of the marble lions move, and started back, but speedily seeing his mistake, was heartily ashamed of himself, although he knew there was no one near to laugh at his alarm. If a real lion had chanced to pass at that moment he would have had to pay for the fright which the statue had cost Murad. As soon as he had recovered the first feeling of surprise at the novelty, of the scene, Murad, who was not exactly of a poetic temperament, hurried on. What he wanted to see was not the garden—fine enough in its way, but only a prison, beyond the walls of which he had never wandered at liberty—where every step he set was on a well-kept lawn. He wanted freedom of space and chance adventure. He sprang over the wall and fell into the midst of a detachment of Nubians going their rounds.

When he saw the guards coming he said to himself, “These people have run away once, so they may do it again. Ought I to wait for them to come? No! My best plan is to rush upon them.”

He did so. They met. The first who encountered him had reason to regret it, but his regret did not last long. In two minutes he was dead. Murad flung some silver to the others and plunged into the thicket.

The Nubians left their dead comrade on the ground, but they picked up the money. It is, however, a matter of time to find coins in long grass, even by the bright light of an Eastern moon, so that Murad could escape at leisure, and at last reached a sombre and dense wood. When, however, the Nubians had divided the spoil, their captain called them together, and said—

“You are a pack of cowards and fools. This was but a lad we had to do with—some precious young rascal, who has just been making a hole in the royal treasury. Why, he’s a mine of wealth, that boy—a stream of riches, which glided away between our legs after besprinkling us with a few silver drops. We must track it to the fountain head. He escaped in this direction. Our own interests, as well as our duties, point out plainly enough the course we should take.”

The nine guards set forward, marching carefully, and trying the bushes with their spears.

Murad heard them approaching, but remained quite still in his hiding-place.

At last they had to cross an open glade flooded with moonlight. They held a brief consultation as to the direction in which they should prosecute the search. The leader, picking out the darkest nook at the edge of the wood, pointed it out to his men. The unthinking and inexperienced always pitch on the darkest spot for a hiding-place, overlooking the fact that it is sure to be the first to be searched. At the moment when the officer was indicating to his men the direction they should take, Murad, who was crouching in the underwood, felt a warm breath upon his neck and ten sharp claws on his shoulders.

If I said he was not frightened I should tell a falsehood, especially when, on turning his head, he saw two eyes—two glowing red stars—gazing on him in the gloom. But fear did not abide long in the breast of Murad. He saw, however, close by him another group of stars, an alarming constellation; in short, the young prince had hidden himself in a den with three young lions.

Unseen danger could make him tremble, but when he knew what he had to deal with he recovered himself, and began to reflect on what he had to do.

“Here I am, between three lions and nine Nubians, armed to the teeth; which should I dread most? The latter, of course, for I frightened them, and I killed one of them. They have two things to avenge on me. If I kill one of the lions he will roar, and at his voice these birds of night will run away.”

Murad then seized by the throat the brute which was still tearing at his flesh, and drove the yataghan into his breast. But he miscalculated for the cub paid the penalty of his life without uttering a single growl.

Still the little army of invaders continued to advance, only instead of coming on steadily they did so at the double. The child sprang to his feet, seized the second of the lions, and flung him straight in the teeth of the advancing’ band when it was but a few steps from the copse. This new style of projectile had a most telling effect. The Nubians retraversed in ten seconds the ground it had taken them five-and-twenty minutes to get over in the first instance.

The field was Murad’s. Of the three lion whelps one was dead, and a second one was struggling on the ground with a huge wound in the flank. He did not emulate the taciturnity of his brother, for he filled the air with piercing yells. The third was squatting under some thick boughs, uttering a low growling.

And now Murad was seized with a third whim. It was not a bad one for a beginner.

He wished to carry off the third cub as a memento of his first expedition. He re-entered the bushes and searched about. Before long the two youngsters came face to face. The cub, warned by the fate of his brothers, stood on the defensive, and, as soon as Murad came within reach, plunged his talons into his neck. Murad smiled. He would not have cared to bag his game without some trouble, so taking his captive by the throat he made him loose his hold. The lion gasped, choked, and at last, half-strangled, fell on his side, whereon the son of Marsillus took him by the scruff of the neck and carried him off.

The wounded cub continued its moanings, which were soon answered by a fierce and formidable cry. The mother was coming to the rescue of her young! Murad saw that flight was impossible. The lioness came to a halt on a neighbouring height, relieved in profile against the pale sky.

She searched with anxious and terrified eyes the glade whence the cries proceeded. Perceiving the wounded cub she made but one bound to it, rolled it over and over, licking its wounds, trampling and tearing the ground with her claws. At intervals she raised her head, and gave utterance to a menacing roar. Her fierce caresses hastened the cub’s death. When she saw he no longer stirred she devoted herself to searching for some one on whom to avenge the great calamity which had overtaken her. Then she heard the complainings of the other cub which was being carried off, and she stood astonished at the audacity of the robber. You would have declared she knew Murad could not fly. Without hurrying herself at all, she advanced towards him in narrowing circles, of which he was the centre, lashing her sides with her tail, lowering her head, laying back her ears, and opening her terrific jaws.

Murad availed himself of the delay to drag off his clothes, and roll them round his left arm; and then, scimitar in hand, awaited her attack, determined to make a stout defence, but feeling certain he had but few minutes to live. He continued to retreat, fixing his eyes on those of his terrible adversary, until he reached a rock, against which he placed his back.

On arriving within a few paces of the lad, the lioness sprang upon him. Murad sank on one knee, and thrust nearly the whole of his left arm down the monster’s throat. The pain he suffered was horrible, and drew from him so savage a shout that even the lioness was terrified. Then, not knowing what he was doing, mad with rage and pain, and guided less by presence of mind than instinct, he drove his steel into the creature’s belly, and ripped it entirely open. Then, bathed in blood, he sank beneath the corpse of his victim, and lost consciousness.

And now, my young friends, we will no longer stop out of doors at this time of night, but re-enter the palace, and see what is going on there.

Every hour the guards went the rounds of the building. One of the soldiers, in passing the door of Murad’s chamber, slipped, and fell at full length on the pavement, to the great scandal of his commanding officer. Picking himself up, he beat a retreat to the guard-room, amid the jeers of his brothers-in-arms.

The guard-room was dimly lit by a smoky lamp, which, however, gave enough light to enable the soldier, on approaching it, to perceive that his hands were covered with blood. Thinking that he was wounded, he felt himself all over, and found that his clothes were similarly discoloured.

“This is odd,” said he to his officer. “I am not wounded, and yet look at the state of my hands and my uniform!”

The officer seized a lantern, and hastened to retraverse the rounds of the palace. On arriving at the door of Murad’s apartment, he paused in alarm, for he perceived a slender stream of blood, which took its rise within the chamber. He rushed off in haste to inform the commandant in charge for the night.

The commandant, terrified at the news, flew to inform the governor of the palace of the discovery. He, in turn, hurried off to the lord chamberlain, who, dreading the responsibility of waking the sultan, went, at the top of his speed, to find the prime minister. The prime minister ran, out of breath, to break the alarming intelligence to his master.

Marsillus dressed in a twinkling.

Pale and trembling, with his eyes but half open, and his clothes huddled on anyhow, he hastened to the sultana. She, not expecting such a visit, and never having seen her lord in such trim before, gave a loud shriek, at which her fifty attendants rushed in in alarm. On hearing the news Marsillus had to impart, the lovely Hadrama and ten of her ladies-in-waiting fainted away.

“By the beard of the Prophet!” said the sultan, impatiently, “this is no time for such monkey tricks! We have not a moment to lose. That one of you that is last to recover her senses shall receive fifty strokes of the bastinado.”

In an instant all were on their feet, and prepared to depart. The sultan, the sultana, the prime minister, the chamberlain, the commandant, the officer of the guard, the sentry, the fifty ladies-in-waiting, the fifty life guards, and the eunuchs, set forward, preceded by twenty black slaves bearing torches. The procession arrived at Murad’s apartment; the door was burst open; his majesty perceived who was the victim, and breathed more freely.

“Really,” said the fair Hadrama, “this tutor has given us a most unnecessary alarm.”

“This is your stupidity, vizier!” said the king, frowning. “How dare you disturb us for a trifle like this?”

“Sire, it was your lord chamberlain who roused me, and stated that the prince was murdered. If I had for a moment supposed——” but at this the chamberlain, seeing himself in danger of losing the royal favour, threw the blame on the governor, who turned upon the commandant. The commandant passed on the charge to the officer of the guard; and he, being a man of action, promptly ordered a hundred blows of the bamboo to be administered to the soldier who was the prime origin of the mishap.

The procession, reassured, was about to resume its progress, when the queen suddenly uttered a piercing shriek.

“What’s the matter now?” said Marsillus, giving a start, which was repeated by all around him.

“Do you not see that the room is empty? They have killed my child. There is no doubt about it: I was dreaming of a cat when you woke me! My child is dead!”

“Then,” said the chamberlain, “the tutor must have killed him.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Marsillus; “and as for you, madam, you’re a fool. Retire to your apartments. And do you take notice, governor of the palace, that if my son is not found by sunrise, you will be honoured by immediate impalement. Go!—I rely upon your zeal and activity!”

Marsillus retired to bed again, flung himself on his pillow, and slept till nine, which was a thing he never did before. On waking, he saw the governor of the palace seated motionless at the foot of his couch.

“Oh, there you are! You bring good news?”

“Sire, the young prince is found!”

“There!” said the sultan to the fair Hadrama, who had just come in, “you see you were too ready to alarm yourself.”

The sultana only answered by wiping away a tear.

“And pray where did you find Murad?”

“In the olive-grove which borders the royal park.”

“Oh, ho! so my young eaglet is trying his wings. What was he doing?”

“The prince was taking a nap, surrounded by a lioness and three young lions.”

“That is impossible, governor. I know you too well: you would never have gone to look for him there!”

“My lord, the lioness was dead, and so were two of the cubs. The third, failing to obtain any other nutriment from its dam, was breakfasting off her.”

“And pray who had done all this slaughter?”

“I!” said Murad, who entered, pale and gory, followed by two slaves dragging the young lion along in chains.

Marsillus rose, ran to his son, clasped him in his arms, and covered him with caresses.

His son did not return them, for he had fainted, overcome with pain and loss of blood. I need hardly say he was tended as became the son of a king, and the slayer of lions.

A few days after, the prime minister submitted a report to the sultan, proving in the clearest manner that the prince’s tutor had committed suicide. Marsillus smiled.

“Well done, vizier! I see how to reward you: you shall take the place left vacant by my son’s tutor.”

Murad grew up. He and the young lion were never separated. They were seen together everywhere—even on the field of battle, and thus it was that in course of time they made their appearance in the lists at Fronsac.

Now that you have, made the acquaintance of Murad Henakyeh Meimoumovassi, we will return to Charlemagne.

WHEN the Saracens had entered the lists they formed in a semi circle, and the two ambassadors rode forward.

Murad was spokesman.

“I come to thee Charles, King of the French, on the part of my father, Marsillus, King of Portugal, Valentia, Leon, and Castile. My name is Murad Henakyeh Meimoumovassi; that of my companion in arms is Angoulaffre. He is governor of Jerusalem, and direct lineal descendant of Goliath. We come to challenge to combat à l’outrance your peers and barons, for whom, we here declare to you, we care no more than for the pip of a pomegranate. We will compel those who hear us to reverence the name of Allah and his prophet Mahomet. We offer combat singly against twenty, thirty, forty, on foot or on horseback, armed or unarmed, accepting in anticipation all the conditions which you or your knights may choose to make. If you decline the meeting, we here proclaim our intention of holding you up to the scorn and derision of all quarters of the globe, regarding as felons and cowards those who refuse to measure their strength with us. In support whereof, there lies my glove!”

Murad flung his gauntlet into the midst of the lists, and Angoulaffre did the same. A low murmur ran round the assembled multitude, but Charlemagne silenced it with a motion of his hand, and spoke as follows:—

“I thank King Marsillus of Saragossa for the honour he has done us in sending his son among us. But his son is a young man, and his words are the words of youth. He appears to be ignorant of our history, our tastes, and our customs. Nothing delights us more than to do battle in a righteous cause, and it was not therefore necessary to accompany with threats an offer which would be well received on its own merits, and which, too, would have lost nothing by being conveyed in courteous terms. We accept your challenge, glad to fight for the love of Heaven and the Trinity, and to the confusion of Mahomet. None of us, it is true, is accompanied by wild beasts as a guard, but we have all hunted large game—the bear, or the huge-horned buffalo, so that we do not fear the cautious master or his attendant. Neither is any one of us descended from Goliath, or any other misbegotten child of the Evil One; but we all know how to show ourselves worthy of the divinely-favoured David. What brave and good men, animated by the love of God and their country, can accomplish, we will do, relying on Him who disposes the victory.”

The escort of Charlemagne on this uttered loud shouts of approval, which were answered by the Saracens with cries in honour of Mahomet.

Charlemagne appointed his uncle Bernard, and Maynes, Duke of Bavaria, marshals of the list, to arrange the conditions of battle. Murad selected Priamus, King of Persia, and Garlan the Bearded, alcalde of Valentia. While this was going on, Murad’s lion, who was called Oghris, which is, in the Saracen tongue, “Throat of Brass,” had ceased to roar; and, marvellous to relate, his eyes, usually filled with fire, had become as gentle as those of a lamb. Everything about him grew mild. He gazed as if fascinated at Aude, who, ignorant of the charm her beauty had wrought, was talking with Roland. The lion approached her softly, never taking his eyes off her, and growing ever more submissive as he came near her.

Every one was so pre-occupied that the monster had reached almost to the spot where Aude was standing before any one noticed him. But the horses shied as he came near, and began to tremble so violently, that the jingling of their accoutrements attracted the attention of Charlemagne and his suite. Their eyes fell on the lion, but he, lost in contemplation, continued to advance, more submissively than ever. The knights, perceiving his object, drew their swords and shouted at him, but he continued to advance without regarding them. Murad, in astonishment, called to his lion; three times did he utter the call which always brought the animal to his feet, but the lion continued to advance without paying any attention to his voice. Murad, pale with fury and disappointment, sprang on him, and struck him with the flat of his sword, but the lion continued to advance without turning his head.

Aude, who was surprised;—Aude, who only did not tremble because she had Roland and Oliver at her side;—Aude, who took pity on the poor fascinated monster that came towards her, docile and trembling, had the courage to dismount and approach the lion. When he saw her near him how great was his delight! You would have vowed that in order to reassure her and make her forget his power he made himself as small as possible. When she came up to him he lay down and licked her feet. Aude bent down and ran her fingers through his mane. The great brute licked her hand tremblingly. Then the fair one took her scarf and bound it round the neck of Oghris, who, rising gently on his feet for fear of alarming her, allowed her to lead him in a string.

Great was the astonishment of the spectators; but the most astounded of all was Murad. He did not pride himself particularly on gallantry and good manners, so, dismounting from his horse, he seized the lion by the mane, and, without taking the least notice of the slight bunds by Avhich Aude the Fair held the lion, strove to drag him with him. But the lion, furious, showing his teeth angrily, began to roar in such sort that a terrible confusion ensued.

The horses reared, unseating knights even who were usually firmest in their saddles. The spectators, on hearing it, took to flight in every direction, and for two leagues round the startled peasantry looked with astonishment at the clear sky, convinced that the sound was that of thunder.

After a time the uproar subsided, and they beheld with horror Murad extended on the ground. They did not, however, so much recognise him as guess that he was represented by fragments of flesh and broken steel, and a few fluttering rags of cloth—all that remained of the son of Marsillus.

ANGOULAFFRE, who up to this had remained unmoved, now began to choke with rage. He rushed at the lion, who had again laid himself at the feet of the mistress of his choice, and, catching it up by the ear, as one would serve a rabbit, began to twist its neck. On this Oliver stepped forward.

“What ransom do you set on the lion? It is a pet that my sister has taken a fancy to, and I should like to present it to her. Will you take a ransom in gold or precious stones?”

“In the land I govern, on the shores of the Red Sea, I have a palace of turquoise, built upon pillars of crystal. It is so vast that the best walker cannot make the circuit of it between sunrise and sunset. There a hundred silver towers rise into the air; on each is a choir of singers, or a band of musicians. In the centre is a gigantic dome of embossed gold, surmounted by a diamond so huge and so bright, that even at night it can be seen thirty leagues off at sea. It is called ‘The Diamond Beacon of Safety,’ because it guides our sailors as surely as the north star.”

“I have,” said Oliver, “a sword called Glorious. Galas, Munifican, and Ansias laboured at its forging two years each. You are aware that they made nine other swords—three each. Ansias made Baptism, Florence, and Graban for Strong-i’-th’-Arm; Munifican made Durandal for Roland, and Sauvagine and Courtain for Ogier the Dane; and Galas made Flamberge and Joyeuse for Charlemagne, and Hauteclair, the third, for Closamont. When the ten swords were made, the three brothers summoned a giant, and bade him smite with Glorious against the edges of the nine others. Glorious came out of the trial triumphant, and hacked each of the other blades about a foot from the pommel. Give me the lion, and Glorious is yours!”

Angoulaffre smiled, showing his double row of teeth, yellow as brass, and sharp as pikes.

“What could I do with your arms? Look at me, and tell me if I need them. See these nails!—they pierce deeper into wrought steel than your weapon can into flesh. Behold these teeth! what engine of war is so powerful? With them I can with one gnash divide a knight in half at the waist. Look at these hands!—they can snap off an oak as you would pick a violet. Regard these arms, and tremble! With these, one day, while out hunting with the King of Persia, I strangled an elephant. Observe these feet, and dread to come near them! In Nubia a mad rhinoceros dared to attack me; he struck me in the calf; the horn broke off, and remained in the wound, while I trampled the huge beast to death under my feet. What use would your weapon be to me?”

“Nevertheless, I must have that lion; and, since you will not accept any ransom for it, let it be the prize of our combat.”

“And do you suppose you can encounter me alone?” asked Angoulaffre, grinning so horribly that the lion thought his last hour was come.

“Does it want more than one to kill a dog?”

The giant, furious, let go the lion, which hurried off, crouching behind Aude for shelter, like a chastised cur.

“Well! I am in good humour to-day,” said Angoulaffre. “You see I am disposed to smile. Be thankful for it. I shall be happy to show you how the dogs of my country bite.”

During this discussion the spectators, whose curiosity overcame their fears, had resumed their places. The knights, by the aid of their squires, had remounted their horses, and the mangled remains of Murad had disappeared. Charlemagne, reaching the royal seats, gave the signal for the commencement of the tourney.

The trumpets again resounded, mingling their music with the discordant notes of the Saracen instruments. The heralds scoured the lists, arranging all in their places. Then Angoulaffre approached Charlemagne.

“Are you, then, he whom they call the king? What sort of people are these French, who are satisfied with such a sovereign? Is it an emperor I see before me, dressed in silk like a woman? You call us dogs, accursed Christians, and you dwell in burrows, as if you knew you shamed the sun, that deigns to touch you with a few unimportant beams. In my land the king is king not only by birth. If he were disguised amid a multitude, you would say, on beholding him, “This is the king!” He clothes his limbs in steel, and would blush to be seen in soft attire when his faithful knights are going to do battle. Coward and effeminate! You have allowed a hero, the son of a king, to be slain before your eyes without attempting to rescue him. You have had more regard for yourself and your knights than for your guest; and indeed you, all of you, have reason to rejoice at his fall. Mahomet has summoned him to his presence, ashamed to see that there were two of us to defend his name against such wretched adversaries. I alone am sufficient for such a task. Send, therefore, your peers and knights against me, either in a body or singly; and if they dare undertake the adventure, believe me, you had better give each a farewell embrace before you part.” Then pointing to Oliver, Angoulaffre continued—“This pigmy here has dared to challenge me. Give him a guard worthy, if possible, of my attention, and I consent to waste a few seconds upon him!”

Charlemagne was not accustomed to hear such language. His blood boiled with rage, and, coursing wildly through his veins, made him at one moment red as fire and the next pale as death. It must be held a final proof that a man cannot expire of rage that Charlemagne continued to live. His nobles were not a whit less moved than he. As for Angoulaffre, he continued to smile savagely.

“It is by sword-stroke and lance-thrust that such words are answered,” said Charles, “and you will receive a hundred blows for every syllable you have dared utter.”

“Ill-said, paltry kingling!” replied the giant. “Our warriors never need two blows at a foeman.”

“Enough of parley, sir,” said Roland. “Do you not see how you are delaying us?” and then he added, aside, to Oliver, “My brother and dear friend, you admire, I know, my castle on the banks of the Seine. Take it, and let me fight him first.”

“No,” said Oliver, “not for the crown would I resign this chance of earning my passport to heaven.”

“Take my horse, and give me up your place,” said Ogirr the Dane. “You know that Tachebrune is a horse without peer.”

“You are mad to persist in asking me. You do me a wrong. Neither of you would do what you ask of me.”

And saying this, Oliver, having kissed the king’s hand, assumed his arms, and ran to take his post at the extremity of the lists, opposite to Angoulaffre, who continued to grin horribly.

LARGE tears coursed down the cheeks of Charlemagne, as he gazed sadly on his nobles and knights, and asked himself if Heaven would permit such heroes to fall ingloriously by the hand of a miscreant.

Oliver crossed himself, and rode at the giant. All trembled; Oliver alone trembled not.

It is hardly necessary to say that the usual conditions of this class of duel were, perforce, somewhat modified on this occasion, for they forbade any blows except at the body, and permitted only cuts, not thrusts. As Angoulaffre was six times the height of Oliver, it was impossible they could be strictly adhered to.

The two combatants rushed at each other, and quickly disappeared in a cloud of dust. Then came the clash of steel, which sent a chill to all hearts. Was Could that be the noise of his fall? No! the dust cleared away, and Oliver was seen firmly seated in his saddle at the end of the lists, prepared for another course. His lance had broken the buckle of Angoulaffre’s sword-belt. The huge weapon, in falling, had made a great dent in the soil.

Frantic cries of “Hurrah for the brave knight!” rent the air.

“Charge!”

Again they dashed forward, and disappeared in the storm of dust. This time, too, Oliver escaped unharmed; but the giant, confused by the limited area of the lists, and miscalculating his distance, came down full tilt upon the public gallery, his terrible lance made a deadly passage through the crowd, and smashed the timber-work, which fell in upon the sitters. In the crash Angoulaffre’s horse lost its breast-piece.

Ganelon had never been so delighted. He hated Oliver, whose friendship for Roland was proverbial. “This evening,” said he to himself, “these boasters will sleep between four planks.”

Wolf was as pleased and malicious as Ganelon.

The Duke of Aquitaine, you must know, had been struck with Aude’s beauty, and had demanded her hand; but Gerard de Vienne had rejected the offer with scorn, and Oliver had said, with a laugh, “Go and ask Roland for it.”

Wolf and Ganelon were made to understand each other: they did not fail to joke together in a whisper while Oliver was doing battle.

Now Charlemagne was never particularly pleased to see people jesting on such occasions, and he was not slow to perceive their smothered laughter, and grew very angry at it. This sarcastic sniggering enraged him. The words of Angoulaffre still grated in his ears, and he fancied that he was the subject of pleasantry for his vassals. Turning round, delighted at a chance of relieving his anger, he said to Ganelon and Wolf—

“The wolf and the crow, Heaven help us! dare to laugh at the eagle! Has he sunk so low that he must submit to this?”

“Nay, His Majesty must not misunderstand us thus,” said Wolf. “Our recent submission to his commands should place our loyalty beyond suspicion of that sort.”

“What, then, is the reason of this unwholesome pleasantry? When the wolf is pleased, the shepherd should be on his guard.”

“An awkward blow of Oliver’s made us laugh,” said Ganelon, scowling at the combatants.

“Oho! so that Gallant knight must serve you for a laughing-stock? In truth, you would have done better to laugh at me. Am I no longer Charlemagne? Did that miscreant say true? Because a giant dares look me in the face, these dwarfs must snap at my heels! One of my bravest knights undertakes, out of regard for me, an enterprise, the very thought of which is enough to turn one’s head; he is in danger of his life, and people dare laugh at him under my very eyes! You have done ill, let me tell you; and, since the venture which Oliver undertakes is such good sport, you shall, both of you, take part in it at once. Now, raven!—now, wolf! to your prayers for this hero; for I swear by Heaven you shall take his place in the field!”

Then, leaving Ganelon and Wolf dumb with confusion, Charlemagne resumed his place. Angoulaffre and Oliver, who only awaited the monarch’s return, ran another course. This time Ferrant d’ Espagne arrived alone at the end of the lists. The giant had adopted surer measures.

He had couched so low in the saddle that his face had touched his horse’s neck. Oliver, taking advantage of this, had thrust his lance into his left eye, whereon Angoulaffre had seized him in his mighty grasp, and had gripped him so hard, that his armour, bent and bruised, forced itself into his flesh. Then the giant was seen to rise in his saddle, and hurl the luckless knight to the ground, where he lay without stirring, his armour broken, and bathed in blood.

Cries of horror resounded on all sides, but they were speedily drowned by the shouts and music of the Saracens.

Charlemagne sat motionless, with his eyes fixed on the body of Oliver. His bravest knights pressed round him, imploring him to send them to fight the giant, but he did not hear them.

They brought a litter; the surgeons entered the lists, and soon the cry was raised, “Oliver still breathes!” Then Charles roused himself, and, with tears in his eyes, exclaimed—

“Blessed St. James! I have ever had full faith in you. Save this gallant champion, and I promise you a chapel in the land of the Saracens. It shall be so lovely, it shall be the envy of all the calendar.”

Then, turning to Ganelon and Wolf, he said, “Now, as for you, Count of Mayence, and you, Duke of Aquitaine, if you do not accept the combat, I swear by Heaven that to-morrow you shall be degraded from the order of knighthood on the very spot where this brave knight has just fallen.”

“So be it,” said Ganelon, “‘twill be strange if we do not let you see we are of as gallant and noble a lineage as your favourites!” and, followed by Wolf, he descended into the lists.

WHEN Angoulaffre saw these new adversaries approaching he frowned.

“Aha! for what do you take me, and why do you send these brats against me? By my faith, Kingling, I do not thank you. If this be a sample of your court it is but a poor one, and it is no wonder you are foremost in it. But, in truth, I believe you are but sending me the refuse of your knighthood, which you are not sorry to be rid of. You hope thus to tire me, and to rid yourself of these small fry of warriors. I shall not satisfy your wishes. I should blush to deal seriously with these puny creatures. By the Prophet, my father would be astonished to see the task I have had set me!”

Shrugging his shoulders, Angoulaffre took his post at the end of the lists. He refused the lance which was brought him by thirty squires.

“It would be a rare jest if I needed arms to fight these pigmies,” said he, as he rode forward at an easy pace. Ganelon and Wolf charged upon him, lance in rest, but instead of aiming at the giant they aimed at his horse.

“Cowards and bunglers!” shouted Angoulaffre. “Oh, Charlemagne, I shall not do you the pleasure of ridding you of such knights. I intend to spare them, and let them go in peace for your disgrace for ever after.”

So saying, the giant stooped, and, seizing the two as he had done Oliver, he looked at them quite unconcernedly.

“Faugh! the wretched Christians! it would be a murder to put them to death;” and with these words he rode off towards the chapel, still holding Ganelon and Wolf in his grasp.

You have, of course, my dear readers, not forgotten the chapel of which I spoke at the beginning of the story. It was surmounted by a huge iron cross. Angoulaffre went up to it, and without injuring his prisoners, he hung them by their belts, one on each limb of the cross, like a couple of rings on a ringstand.

“Gallant defenders of the cross,” said the colossus, as he rode back to his place in the lists; “become its guardians also!”

ROLAND heard no further. The insolence of the giant had aroused in his heart one of those fits of fury which, when coupled with strength and courage like his, nothing can resist. The dishonour done to Ganelon and Wolf enraged him, for he no longer saw in them either rivals or unworthy opponents. They were knights—they were Christians, and he felt a share of the insult offered to them.

He sprang on the back of Veillantif, and dashed into the lists. A murmur of applause saluted his entrance. People felt that the real struggle was only now commencing, and that if Roland were vanquished there was no one to take his place. The honour of the French name was the stake of this contest.

Three pages ran to pick up the gauntlet which Angoulaffre had flung down in defiance, and dragged it with difficulty into the middle of the lists. Roland stooped, picked it up, and flung it in the giant’s face.

On receiving this insult the Saracen lost his self-possession, and gave vent to an oath so terrible that all the assemblage crossed themselves. You will not, therefore, be surprised, my friends, that I do not repeat it, although it formed the entire speech of the Governor of Jerusalem. He felt himself in the presence of an enemy worthy of him, and understood that the time for words was gone by. As an habitual drinker likes wine that is rough, warriors delight in foemen who smite hard.

This time the giant assumed his lance and his vast shield. The spectators had not a drop of blood left in their veins, and many prayers were breathed to Heaven for the success of the Christian knight.

The signal was given. The combatants dashed forward and encountered half way. Angoulaffre had stooped down to await Roland, but he, with superhuman activity, avoided the fearful blow which was aimed at him, and struck his adversary on the face with his lance.

The spear lodged between two of his teeth and broke.

The greatest courage is often accompanied by little weaknesses.

The hero who sports with life on the battle-field will often shrink at the sight of a spider. Angoulaffre, now, had a horror of a dentist—as, my young readers, is the case, I conjecture, with most of you.

A decayed grinder had given him considerable pain for the last six weeks. Imagine his rage, then, when he received a tremendous blow from a lance on that particular tooth. He ceased to be a man—to be a giant: he was a wild beast, mad with fury. He lost his presence of mind, which until now had lent him double strength. Flinging aside his arms he flung himself blindly upon his foe.

But Roland, whom danger never stirred, evaded him craftily, and harassed him. He seemed to be playing with his formidable adversary. A deft stroke severed the girths of Angoulaffre’s horse; the saddle turned round; the giant lost his balance, and fell to earth amid shouts of laughter from the spectators. Roland approached him, gave him his hand, and assisted him to rise. Then he asked him if he required rest.

“I never leave a fight half finished,” said the giant; “but I am thirsty, that is all.”

Charlemagne, hearing these words, ordered his pages to roll a hogs-head of Spanish wine into the middle of the lists. Angoulaffre broached it with one blow of his fist, emptied it at one draught, and then, flinging the cask beyond the barriers, remounted his steed.

The combatants selected fresh spears, and, having taken their places on the field, rode at each other once more. This time they smote one another full on the breast. What a terrific crash, my young friends! No ironclad of our day could have resisted it. Angoulaffre was driven back on his horse’s crupper; he stuck his knees in so tight, to save himself from a second fall, that the unhappy animal had all the breath knocked out of its body. It was a misery to hear it cough.

Roland had bent beneath the stroke. His back had touched the crupper of Veillantif, but the brave knight did not lose his seat. The spear had glanced off his excellent armour from girdle to shoulder, and he escaped unhurt, though the blood flowed from his mouth.

“I should be loth to kill so brave a knight,” said the Governor of Jerusalem. “I offer you your life; take it at my hands.”

“I can accept nothing from you but blows,” said Roland, quietly; “because I feel certain I can give you as good as I take, and perhaps even throw in a little over.”

“As you please,” said Angoulaffre; and once more they resumed the fight.

The giant flung aside his lance, and took a battle-axe, the sight of which gave the spectators a fit of cold shivers. Roland also laid aside his spear, and drew Durandal from its sheath.

Veillantif seemed endowed with human intelligence. The brave creature divined the slightest wish of its master. Now it bounded, now it scoured the plain; anon it charged or it reared, and ever it went unhurt through the shower of blows. The horse of the Saracen was not worth half of Roland’s. Its size and weight rendered it difficult to manage. For some minutes it coughed incessantly, and scarcely obeyed bit or spur. Roland, by a clever turn, took the giant in flank, and with one blow of his tremendous sword clove in two the horse of his opponent.

Angoulaffre came to earth, seated between the two severed halves of his steed, and bellowing with astonishment and anger.

The Saracens had left off laughing now. Their music was silenced. Garlan the Bearded, who commanded them, foamed with rage; he tore out a good tenth of his beard by the roots. The Alcalde of Valentia foresaw the fate of Angoulaffre, and was asking himself whether he and his men should ever see Spain again.

Roland was loudly cheered; but, without taking any heed of it, he dismounted, and, approaching the colossus, who had not yet regained his feet, he said—-

“Keep your seat, governor, and while you rest yourself, send some of your warriors to me; there will then be no time lost.”

“May I be struck by a thousand thunderbolts, if I give you a moment’s respite! Mount, and defend yourself!”

“I am not in the habit of taking any advantage in a combat. Since you are dismounted, I will continue the contest on foot.”

During this conversation ten horses had drawn from the lists the remains of Angoulaffre’s steed.

Then began a combat yet more terrible than any of its predecessors. The marvel was how Roland escaped the rain of blows aimed at him; but the bold knight managed so admirably, that he got close to the monster, and cut off his right leg at the knee.

You will guess, my friends, how sad a figure the Governor of Jerusalem cut with such a very ill-assorted pair of legs. He fell, biting the ground with rage, and rolling to and fro in his attempt to rise, until he wept at his own impotence. Roland approached him.

“You cannot continue the struggle. Your life is in my power. Accept Christian baptism, and I will spare you.”

Angoulaffre, without answering, rolled himself to the place where his axe had fallen, seized it, and cut off his left leg at the knee. Then raising himself on his stumps, he gazed sternly at Roland, and said, simply—

“I am ready!”

At the sight of this act of Spartan heroism both Christians and Pagans applauded. Charlemagne himself was touched.

“Governor of Jerusalem,” said he, “desist from this useless struggle. What greater proof could you give of your courage? Believe me, when you appear again before your king in this guise, and tell him, ‘It is Roland who has conquered me,’ you will not see him sneer at you.”

“You—you Christians, then—can live after the shame of having been vanquished? That, and that only, is beyond our power. Behold, faint hearts! You have seen how we can fight; see now how well we know how to die!”

I will not, my dear young friends, relate to you the end of this fearful conflict. It was no longer a battle—it was a butchery. Blows followed one another without pause. Roland was covered with wounds; his armour was hacked away piece by piece, but he did not give ground. He felt his strength failing, and desired at any price to bring the contest to an end. Without regarding the almost certain death to which he exposed himself, he closed with his foe, and dealt him a tremendous blow, which stretched him at his feet.

There was one short minute, during which the impressed spectators kept silence. The respect which bravery always commands restrained the burst of the general rejoicing; but, these first few seconds past, every one felt himself relieved of an immense peril.

The sight of Roland, to whom Charlemagne had hastened, was the signal for an outburst of frantic cheering from every side.

The king embraced his nephew, and said—

“I would reward you for so splendid a victory. What would you have? My gratitude is unbounded: let your desire be without limit. Which of my provinces shall I bestow on you?”

“I am yet more ambitious. When I wish to own a province, I will go win it with my sword.”

“What would you have, then?”

Aude had just left Oliver, who had no longer need of her care. She felt that the triumph of her lover would not be complete if she did not share it.

Roland gazed at her so meaningly, that Charles turned to Gerard de Vienne, and said—

“Here is an ambitious gallant, who seeks his reward at your hands. What say you, Gerard, and you, Lady Guibourg? Does it not seem to you that your niece will be fortunate in having for a spouse my friend and nephew, Roland? I ask her hand of you for him.”

“Sire,” said Gerard, “it is doing us too great an honour.”

“Aude could not have a nobler husband than Roland, who comes of your royal line, sire,” said the Lady Guibourg.

“I was not rich enough to satisfy this grasping soul,” replied Charlemagne, “and I thank you, Gerard, for coming to my help. Ah! Turpin, here is work for you. No other is worthy to celebrate such nuptials as these. Have ready a splendid sermon for the occasion, for the wedding shall take place on our return to Cologne.”

ANGULAFFRE was stretched on the ground, surrounded by his companions in arms when the surgeons came to dress his wounds, he rejected their aid.

“Go to the Evil One, vile concocters of drugs! My soul is not foolish enough to dwell in so dilapidated a mansion as that which I have to offer now. All your remedies will but drive her away the sooner. Come hither, Alcalde of Valentia, Corsablix, Margariz—all of you—come round me, that I may die while looking on the faces of friends. Tell to King Marsillus the manner of Murad’s death—and mine. Tell him that: with my last breath I called for vengeance on Roland. I bequeath to you a hatred so fierce and strong, that it cannot but survive me. I leave all my property, without exception, for the furtherance of vengeance. If bribery can help you, spare nothing: there is no human integrity that could withstand the sight of the wealth you have to offer. Swear to me you will spare no means of hastening the downfall of this accursed one, and I shall die more happy.”

“Rely upon us,” said Priamus. “We inherit your hatred; and whether it be ten years, or whether it be twenty years hence, rely on it, this Roland shall perish by our hands!”

“We will hew him into as many pieces as he has given you wounds,” said Garlan the Bearded.

“His death shall become a tradition,” added Abysm, the favourite of Marsillus. “I swear to you, people shall speak of it when the recollection of this petty Charles shall be extinct.”

“You had better implore the aid and protection of the Prophet in your undertaking, for he who has vanquished me is not to be lightly overcome,” said Angoulaffre.

“If we have to unpeople Nubia, Persia, Egypt, the Atlas, the Caucasus, Scythia, and Spain, to swell our forces,” said Ecremis of Vauterne, “as sure as Mahomet is greater than St. Peter, Charles and his knights shall perish ere long.”

“Before a year elapses we will sleep at Cologne,” said another.

“Enough, babblers and boasters!” said Angoulaffre, who felt the chills of death approaching; “do your best to carry back your carcasses whole to Spain, and if Mahomet grants you that favour, renew there these promises. In the meantime, take care of your precious hides in to-morrow’s tourney. Death grasps me by the throat—farewell! Ah, dog of a Roland!”

These were the last words of the Governor of Jerusalem.

Sixty Saracens, marching in two files, bearing thirty spears between them (a soldier holding each end of a spear), extemporised a litter, on which the dead body of the giant was placed.

Two hours before, he had entered the lists, mounted on his steed, followed by a brilliant suite of kings, emits, and alcaldes, and preceded by a band of barbarous music; proud of his strength, relying on his own bravery, boasting, and threatening. But if Heaven does not favour the cause of the lion, it not unfrequently happens that the Iamb gets considerably the better of him.

The enraged Garlan.

THE whole assembly was so full of other matters, that no one gave a thought to Ganelon or Wolf. Pinabel, the nephew of the Count of Mayence, was the first to recollect them. Approaching Charlemagne, he inquired if it would not be proper to release the two suspended knights, and if the king would entrust the task to him.

“That concerns Roland,” said the king; “he has achieved their deliverance, and therefore they are his property. Go, then, nephew, and take down the two heroes, who are cutting so very sorry a figure up yonder. You will, of course, think it proper to give them the use of their wings.”

Roland was talking with Aude, and was not particularly pleased at the interruption. However, he went to the chapel, where he arrived in a very bad humour.

“It is very hard,” said he to Ganelon, “to be put to inconvenience every minute for people who are not the least grateful for what one does. When a man hasn’t the strength to carry out an enterprise, he should not attempt it. This is the second time that I have had to release you from a state of suspense, and for no fault of mine. For Heaven’s sake, in future don’t put the credit of France in jeopardy lightly. Remember, you are not the only Frenchman in the world, and also that I cannot always be close at your heels to repair your blunders.” And, without further delay, he restored the two suspended knights to the ground, and returned to the fair Aude.

“Well,” said Wolf to Ganelon, “are you in the humour to digest affronts like those?”

“I fancy, my lord duke, you have had your share of them too, and they don’t seem to disagree with you.”

“It would be only right to chastise him for his insolence.”

“And pray what hinders you?” said the count, smiling.

“The same reason that teaches you patience. This Roland is a brute and a——”

Cut here the idlers congregated around the two vanquished knights, and mocked at them unsparingly. Not being anxious to supply public amusement gratis, they thought fit to retreat, and returned to their tents, where they passed the night in the formation of projects that were far from Christian, though they originated in Christian brains.

IT is nine o clock. All is quiet in the camp. The fires have been extinguished as a measure of prudence, and only the moon is allowed to gleam.

In the plain, however, a few tumblers displayed their feats by torchlight to a few spectators, but ere long, losing their public, they were fain to pack up their traps and seek repose beneath some forest tree. By degrees every noise died away. Hardly a chirrup was heard to give life to a lovely night; still, now and then, one heard from afar the ringing of steel. It was some watch on its rounds. The armour glittered a moment in the moonbeams and then disappeared, and that was all.

Let us, too, go our rounds, and see what is passing in the camp. We will begin with the Royal tent. If you were not with me, my dear young people, I would defy you to enter it. Never was treasure or sacred relic so carefully guarded. Charles slept in a great bed of state, and a hundred of his bravest and stoutest men were appointed to guard him. Forty knights kept watch, changing guard three times a night, according to the muster-roll—ten at the head, ten at the foot, and ten on either side, each with a drawn sword and a torch.

Aude, too, had retired to her pavilion. She could not sleep, however, for thinking of all that had happened during the day—a day that had been at once hateful and glad: hateful, because it had nearly deprived her of her dear Oliver; joyful, because it had decided her marriage with Roland—her dear Roland. Her waiting-women surrounded her. Ten Moorish maidens sang to her Spanish ballads, which she preferred to all others, but to-night she heard them not—she was lost in meditation. Four Saxon damsels combed her long tresses, waiting for the signal to dress it for the night, a signal she forgot to give. Eight Lombard girls had made ready a perfumed bath, but it had been three times prepared already, for it grew cold while she was musing. Oghris was not more fortunate. He had gently placed his head in her lap, but she had not bestowed on him a single glance. He was a guard that made a mockery of the precaution taken to put sentinels at the tent-door.

Roland slept beside Oliver. The two gallant fellows had fallen asleep hand in hand. The friends were now virtually brothers.

Meanwhile Ganelon and Wolf had concocted a murderous undertaking.

“Don’t you think Marsillus would give a handsome price for Roland’s body?”

“I believe you,” answered the Duke of Aquitaine; “but it would be better to deliver him up alive, and let the king manage him. It is by craft we must oppose him; as to force, we must not dream of that, for neither you nor I could do anything with him in that line.”

Let us take a Stroll now Roland and Oliver reposing, beyond the camp, and see who they are that wander in the skirts of the forest. A delightful couple are whispering together. Mita, the worthy sister of Aude, whom we remarked at the head of the royal cortège, and who was called “the little knight of pearls,” Mita was walking along, leaning on the arm of Miton of Rennes, the friend of Roland. They were followed by a waiting-maid and a page.

“My sister is fortunate in having for her knight such a man as Roland.”’

“Cannot you see how it breaks my heart to hear you speak so? To win your favour must one be the only knight who has no equal in the field?”

“I know my own value, and it seems to me that I deserve to have prodigies of valour done to win me. Listen, Sir Miton. You would wed me: is it not so? You repeat, over and over again, you would achieve miracles for my sake!”

“It is true.”

“Then I shall seek a proof of this to-morrow. At daybreak you will receive my commands. If you carry out well the enterprise I shall plan for you, I will be yours—yours devotedly. If you attempt it, but do not succeed, I shall be your friend as heretofore, but nothing beyond. If you draw back, never speak to me again, for I should speak to you as to a poltroon.”

They had now reached the camp, where they must part.

“Farewell, Miton; may you succeed to-morrow. I go to pray for your success.”

She reached out a hand, which trembled in that of the knight, and which he kissed respectfully. Miton returned to his tent, but did not close his eyes all night. Every time a footstep passed near his tent he rushed to the door, expecting to receive the message from Mila. At early dawn an attendant came with a packet, which she gave to him, and said—

“My mistress sends me to you to communicate her wishes. ‘Go seek Sir Miton,’ she said to me, ‘and bid him rejoice it he be truly desirous of proving to me that he is worthy of my love, for I am going to give him an opportunity of proving it. Give to him this cambric garment of mine, and bid him wear it to-morrow in the fight. If he loves me he will consider it a talisman more potent and more secure than steel, and, full of confidence, will present himself at the tournament without any other armour except his greaves, his shield, and his helmet. If he does this and triumphs, I shall be ready to give him any proof of my love that he may demand. If he does not succeed, he shall none the less have my esteem and friendship for having essayed it. If he should fall, I will wear mourning for him and die in a convent. If he refuse, I shall despise him as the falsest and most cowardly of men.’”

Miton, who had sunk on his knees to receive from the messenger of his love the packet, which he covered with kisses, rose smilingly, and spoke thus to the attendant:—

“Return to her whom you have the honour to serve, and tell her that I am happy and proud that she has given me an opportunity of dying for her pleasure. Without her, life is nothing to me: and this is putting me to too easy a trial, for I feared she would send me away from her, and that would have been to put me to a slow and lingering death. I feel truly blest now, since I can devote to her openly every minute as it passes to her service.”

Miton gave all the gold and silver he possessed to the messenger, dismissed her, and prepared himself for the battle.

He put on the garment sent him by Mita, and I assure you he looked very well, and not at all ridiculous, when he was equipped as his lady had commanded.

I ought to tell you, my friends, that our knight was about twenty-three, and had a handsome face, framed in long yellow locks. He was second to none in either elegance or strength.

The cambric corselet which he had assumed, bound round his waist with a rich girdle, came down to his knees, leaving bare his neck and arms, which were very white.

Thus equipped he visited the Archbishop Turpin, related to him his adventure, confessed to him, took the sacrament, and then gave himself up to prayer until the hour for entering the lists.

IT was nine o’clock in the morning. The heralds went about everywhere, shouting aloud, “Lace your helms, brave knights! lace your helms!”

The combatants got ready for the conflict. They examined for the last time with the greatest care every minute point of their armour, and made sure that their horses were properly equipped and saddled. These precautions taken, they hurried off to the lists; the Saracens by the southern gate, the Christians by the northern.

Charlemagne took his place in the Royal pavilion, with Himiltrude by his side. Aude placed herself on the throne reserved for the Queen of Beauty. Oghris laid himself at her feet, surveying the crowd with wondering eyes.

The benches were crowded. The knights took their places. Trumpet-peal and shout rent the air. The Emperor was in his place.

The heralds next proclaimed silence, read the conditions of the tournament, and called on the knights to do their duty, for the honour of Heaven, the Emperor, and the ladies. Then they called the two leaders, Christian and Saracen, to take command of their forces.

Garlan the Bearded rode forth, and reviewed his men. Miton did the same, and advanced into the centre of the lists. His novel style of armour attracted some attention.

“What is this?” said Charlemagne. “Is Miton out of his senses, or does he come here to seek certain death? Go instantly, and command him to quit the lists.”

Ogier the Dane darted forward to convey the Royal command, but was stopped by Turpin, who had heard Charles’s exclamation.

“Pardon me, sire, for thus suspending the execution of an order you have given; but Miton is performing a vow. Your Majesty would find it vain to forbid him the combat. Heaven alone is able to preserve him.” The severe eye of the bishop met the supplicating looks of Mita, and her eyes sought the ground.

Aude understood all, and wished to interpose.

“Sire, you will not suffer so brave a knight to be slain——”

Charlemagne shook his head sadly. “I know Miton, and nothing will prevent him from carrying out his enterprise.”

Then turning towards the suite of the Queen of Beauty, he said—

“I have among you, ladies, a cruel foe, who thus devotes to death one of my bravest knights. Let us say the prayer for the dead on behalf of the victim of this relentless beauty.”

All rose, and repeated the supplication in a low voice, Turpin leading them. The terrified Mita alone had not the power to rise. She sank on her knees, and would have remained there motionless and overcome, had not her sister raised her.

In the meantime Miton, ignorant of what was passing, and not even hearing the shouts of the crowd, or the entreaties of his comrades, who begged him not to devote himself in this way to destruction—

Miton, gay and proud, to think of the trial he was subjected to, had made all his dispositions for the combat.

There were a hundred horsemen in the field—fifty on either side. Their leaders drew them up in two lines of twenty-five. It was truly an imposing sight—these brave fellows, clad in their glittering arms; in firm and compact lines, planted well in their war-saddles. One might have called them a column of iron. The horses, no less impatient than their masters, whinnied and pawed the ground.

At last Charlemagne gave the signal.

“Charge!” shouted the heralds.

Scarcely were their voices heard ere the first rank of combatants dashed forward. The two parties met halfway with an alarming crash. In vain did the spectators attempt to make out the result of this first onset. They were obliged to wait till the dust had blown off. The heart of Mita beat very fast during those few seconds, but at last she beheld her knight hand-to-hand with Garlan the Bearded. One half of the combatants were stretched on the earth; some so sorely wounded, that their squires had to come, raise them, and drag them out of the mêlée. Others, however, got up without aid, and went to seek fresh adversaries.

Priamus had his spear broken, but he had kept his seat in the saddle. Seeing Girars of Roussillon engaged with Corsablix, a wild chief from the Atlas, he rushed towards them with uplifted blade. But the Burgundian knight perceived his approach, and rapidly dashing at his first opponent, he seized him by the throat, made him do service as a shield against the blows of the King of Persia, and finally flung him, a bleeding and mangled corpse, under the feet of the horses. Then, having but one enemy to deal with, he determined to seize Priamus’s horse, and made such good use of his feet, nails, and teeth, that in a twinkling he was in the saddle; while the King of Persia, rolling in the dust, yielded up his impious soul through twenty gaping wounds.

“Allah Akbar! Allah is great!” cried the Saracens.

“St. Denis, Montjoie! Montjoie!” cried the knights; and, lo! the second rank flung itself into the conflict.

The blare of trumpets and Saracen horns, the beating of drums and gongs, drowned the noise of groans and imprecations.

The dead and dying were once more dragged out. The wounded sought shelter as best they could. Forty warriors yet remained to contest the field—twenty-five Saracens and fifteen Franks.

For a quarter of an hour Miton and Garlan had fought together, with no advantage on either side. With his keen blade the Count of Rennes had cleft the casque of the Alcalde of Valentia, and would have split his skull open but for the turban, which deadened the blow. Garlan had hacked in pieces his adversary’s shield, and the corselet of cambric began to be marbled with streaks of gore. Miton saw that the ranks of his warriors were thinning, and was anxious to make an end of his foe in order to hasten to their aid. He closed with him, knee to knee, foot to foot, and, regardless of the danger to which he exposed himself, seized Garlan by the gorget of his coat of mail, dragged him from his horse, and then passing him from his right hand to his left, held the point of his sword to his throat, and compelled him to yield to his mercy. Then he sent the miscreant a foot beyond the barriers, and gave his charger to Thierry, Duke of Ardennes, who had just been unhorsed.

Cha’chaân el Da’djah, Emir of Toledo, entertained the presumptuous idea of avenging Garlan the Bearded, as if, because he had strangled a few lions in the desert, ripped up a few elephants, and cut in pieces a million or so of enemies, he could pretend to hope for, the conquest of a French knight. He shouted his war-cry, and darted forward to meet the Count of Rennes, brandishing, as he did so, a huge flail with seven chains, the same with which Attila armed himself when fighting the legions of Aétius. But the blow was delivered in empty air—dragged the Emir forward, and made him lose his balance. Miton took advantage of this miss to seize Cha’chaân el Da’djah by the leg, and dragged him from his seat with such violence as to break the saddle, entangle him with the harness, and throw the horse down on its side. Then the spectators beheld a strange sight. The Count of Rennes grasped his foeman by the ankles, rose in his stirrups, and, using the body as a mace, swung it round his head, dashed into the thick of the fight, and began laying about right and left at the Saracens with the Emir. Every time this novel arm fell it encountered some weapon of defence, so that before long little was left of it but shreds. After a time the mortal instrument of war lost its weight, and became useless. When Miton flung it away it had stretched eight Saracens on the plain.

He cast his eye over the field. Marganice, Governor of Carthagena, was fighting with Roard of Limoges and Itiers of Clermont; Garnaille, King of Ethiopia, confronted Lambert the Short and Humbert, Count of Bourges; M’kamat Iladdada, Caliph of Mecca, was showing a bold front to Riol of Mans, Hoël of Nantes, and Bazin of Geneva. Alis, King of Morocco, was engaged with Pinabel; while Sangaran, who ruled at the source of the Niger, Baimalanko, chief of the tribes on the borders of the Dead Sea—each one of these two blacker than the other—and Zunizum-Kalakh, King of Garbe, pressed hard on Aimery of Narbonne, who was, however, giving them two blows for one.

Miton flew to his rescue, and in three minutes, and with twenty strokes of his sword, had ridded him of his foes. Sangaran and Baimalanko fell before his arm, and went to rejoin the Evil One whose livery they wore.

“Thanks, I owe you a similar service,” said Aimery to the Count of Rennes. “I shall have finished with this villain in a few seconds. I am not afraid of a single encounter, so leave me and go succour Pinabel, who has scarce blood enough left to keep him alive.”

And, in truth, the nephew of Ganelon was fighting in the dark, for he was blinded with his own blood. The King of Morocco, who saw a new foeman coming towards him, determined to abandon the contest with Pinabel and charge at once on Miton, a manouvre he accomplished so rapidly that he took the latter by surprise. For four seconds the Count of Rennes was exposed defenceless to the fury of Alis, and this unguarded moment cost him a gash which laid open his left arm from shoulder to elbow, and marked him with a purple chevron on the wrist. Mita uttered a shriek as if she had received the blow, and hid her face in her hands.

“See,” said Himiltrude, “what interest the little Mita takes in the combat, sire. The wound the Count of Rennes has just received makes her heart bleed.”

“Keep your nonsense to yourself, madam,” said the Emperor, who hated to be interfered with at the wrong moment. “When men wield the sword, women should not wag the tongue and he abruptly turned his back on his consort. In point of fact, it was not a well-chosen time for talking.”

And now Riol of Mans had, with a dexterous back stroke, sent the head of M’kamat Haddada flying, and this new kind of projectile had struck Marganice, Governor of Carthagena, in the face, and so confused him that he neglected to parry a furious blow aimed at him by Itiers of Clermont. This really excusable oversight cost him his life. One sharp thrust pinned him to his horse’s crupper like a butterfly on a cork.

Garnaille also perceived his end approaching. Lambert the Short gave him no respite.

“It shall never be said,” cried, fiercely, the King of the Ethiopians, “that I received my death-blow from a Christian hand.” Thereupon, resting the pommel of his sword on the ground, he flung himself on the point and expired shouting, “Allah!”

Aimery of Narbonne, a lad of sixteen, seemed to be playing with his opponent.

“Dog!” exclaimed Zumzum-Ivalakh, “cannot you fight more steadily?”

“I will give you a lesson in politeness,” said Aimery, still smiling. “First of all, I don’t approve of people addressing me without baring their heads.” As he spoke, his sword sent the King of Garbe’s helm flying. It was one of the famous casques of the ancient tribes of Beni-Ad.

“Bravo, Pagan. Are not you afraid of getting sunburnt?”

A blow of the battle-axe, which shivered the Count of Narbonne’s shield, was all the answer vouchsafed by Zumzum-Ivalakh.

“Bless me! he’s getting vicious,” said Aimery, without being in the least put out. “We must teach him to say he’s sorry.”

His sword whirled in the air and smote off the wrist of the King of Garbe, and so brought the combat to a close.

The King of Morocco alone continued to make resistance. Miton hastened to dispatch him, for he felt his strength failing him. However, he would receive aid from no quarter save Heaven. His shield was riven, his left arm, laid open with a terrible gash, hung powerless by his side, and every blow he dealt his enemy cost him five in return.

Mita had no eyes for any but the Count of Rennes. She lived with his life, she suffered for his wounds, and she would have fallen dead had he perished. How she blamed her cruel commands, and how she hated the King of Morocco! In truth few men’s deaths have been as fervently prayed for as his was.

Miton felt a cold sweat seize him; a mournful singing in his ears made him fancy his end was approaching. He struggled against death, and gave one last blow at his opponent, then fell senseless under his horse’s hoofs. That blow was the last the Moorish king received. The sword pierced his bosom, and the steel remained fast in the wound. He was immediately seized with the death shudder, flung wide his arms, dropped his weapons, and uttered so terrible a cry that his frightened steed ran away at full speed straight ahead until he dashed against the walls of the lists. His rider rolled in the dust. The King of Morocco was no more.

Charlemagne sprang up beaming with joy.

“Ogier,” said he to the King of Denmark, “go bring me news of Miton, and tell him how I prize his valour. I am, moreover, not the only one who prizes him here, it appears. Well, little one,” he added, turning to Mita, “you have perilous fancies. For this once all has turned out well, but you must promise me not to tempt the devil a second time.”

Mita flung herself at the Emperor’s feet, and kissed his hand in silence. Charlemagne smiled.

“Come,” said he, “rise, Countess of Rennes.”

THUS ended this brilliant passage of arms. Was I not right, my children, when I told you that its equal was never seen?

The wounded Saracens were conveyed to hospital, and I need hardly add, they were as well cared for as if they had been duly-baptised Christians.

The dead were buried; they were sixty-three in number, neither more nor less. There were, after this tournament, a great many thrones to let in the East.

The surgeons declared that the wounded would not be fit to move for a month at the very least.

Charlemagne loaded the survivors with rich gifts, and then, after four or five days of rejoicing, he prepared to depart, leaving Fronsac strongly garrisoned. He wished to spend Advent Sunday at a town anciently called Durie, in the diocese of Julliers, and the Feast of the Resurrection at the Cathedral of St. Lambert, in Liege.

When the Saracens were left alone, they determined, after a long consultation, to inform King Marsillus without delay of the melancholy fate of his envoys, and to bear to him the mortal remains of his son. Nobody, however, cared to be the bearer of such tidings, and one and all professed to suffer horribly from their wounds. In short, of all that brilliant expedition, there were none left to perform this duty except the band.

The solemn procession set out for Spain. The drums, covered with mourning, preceded the hearse about twenty paces.

Thus it was that Murad Henakyeh Meimoumovassi re-entered his father’s dominions!

IN turning over the last page, my young friends, you have grown nine years older. You see time flies quickly when you read my writings. Do I ask too much in begging you to make a hasty flight with me, in five minutes, from the year 769 to the year 778?

Charlemagne, after having, as I said just now, performed his religious duties at Duren and at Liege, returned to Worms at the beginning of the year 770. There Miton and Mita were married, and there, subsequently, the latter gave birth to a lovely little girl, who was called Mitaine—a lovely little angel, plump and soft, with large black eyes, and golden locks as bright as the glory of a saint. Charlemagne saw the infant one day in its mother’s arms, and believed he beheld a vision.

“Surely,” said the good Emperor, “this is Our Lady with her holy babe!”

When he came nearer, he recognised the Countess of Rennes.

“You are too blest, Lady Mita. You are favoured of Heaven indeed. It is not possible but that this little angel should bring good fortune to all who approach her; and, if she has not already been christened, I should like to be one of her sponsors. Would you wish me to be her godfather?”

Charlemagne took one of the child s tiny hands, and kissed it, the little arm disappearing entirely in the monarch’s bushy beard and moustache.

Then, radiant with joy at this meeting, which he looked upon as a good omen, the Emperor hastened to an assembly of the people that he had convened. He was so happy and devoid of anxiety, that he yielded to the intercession of his mother, Bertha of the Big Feet, who had long been trying in vain to bring about a reconciliation between him and his brother Carloman.

During this same year Himiltrude bore a son, who was charming in face, but, unfortunately, deformed in figure. Charles christened him Pepin, but the people nick-named him Hunchback; and when the populace takes upon itself to act as sponsor, the names it gives do not die out.

This son and heir was not calculated to flatter the Emperor’s dignity. His father did not receive him very favourably, and determined to divorce Himiltrude.

Aude and Roland, less fortunate than Miton and Mita, were not yet married.

“Sire, is it not time to celebrate our nuptials?” said the Count ot Mans one day to Charlemagne. “For eight months I have been waiting your pleasure, and I trust you will at last fix a day for the marriage.”

The Emperor had just had a dispute with his queen about the child, so that he did not just then regard marriage very favourably. He did not listen with a very good grace to his nephew’s entreaty.

“By my beard, I consider you’re in too great a hurry:—know that! Your beard is scarce grown, and yet you want to be at the head of an establishment. That is not what I consider proper. You have to make a name for yourself before you think of transmitting it to others. Besides, a man never fights so well if he has a wife and family; so don’t bother my head any more about it. You are, both of you, young enough to wait—wait!”

Queen Bertha, who had no more affection for her daughter-in-law than Charles had for his wife set out for Lombardy to settle a fresh alliance, and before long returned with Desiderade, daughter of Didier, King of Lombardy. Himiltrude, I should add, was divorced, despite the threats of the Pope, Stephen the Third.

Charlemagne spent his Christmas this year in Burgundy, and Easter at Valenciennes, in Hainault.

The reconciliation of the brothers had never been more than a formal one; so that when, about the second week in December, 771, Charles heard of Carloman’s death at Samoucy, a royal palace in the old diocese of Laon, he did not waste any time on tears. He called together a full court at Valenciennes, announced to his lords the death of his brother, and led them into Neustria. He encamped on the royal farms of Carbonac, in the midst of the forest of Ardennes. The formidable appearance of the forces he commanded induced the nobles and bishops to do fealty to him. Gerberge, daughter of Didier, and widow of Carloman, endeavoured vainly to assert her children’s rights. She was compelled to fly with them and a few attendants, and seek refuge at the court of her father. Charlemagne was then proclaimed sole ruler of all the realm of the Franks.

Queen Bertha’s choice had not proved a very fortunate one. Desiderade, sister of the dethroned Queen of Neustria, did not make a very sprightly appearance at the Court of France, so Charles determined to get rid of her.

Roland, who was ever lamenting the indefinite postponement of his marriage, once more addressed his uncle on the subject.

“You do not intend, I am sure, sire, to do me a wrong, but you inflict more suffering on me than I can express by thus perpetually adjourning my union with Aude.”

Charlemagne, who had just been having high words with the queen, was not favourably disposed to marriages. He replied, in an ill humour—? “Do you want to drive me crazy, my fine nephew? Marriage is a folly, take my word for it. Resides, I have a fancy to ravage the land of Saxony. I hear that in a town they call Eresburg—I don’t know why—they worship an idol named Irminsul, and I have set myself the task of burning this impudent divinity. I count on your assistance. On my return we will talk about your marriage.”

Roland went away sadly to find his Aude.

In the year 771, the Emperor spent Easter at Herstall, and Christmas at Attigny. About the beginning of the year 772 he convened his nobles at Worms, placed himself at their head, and invaded Saxony. This land, subdivided into numerous petty states, was inhabited by Westphalians, Osterlindsi, Sclaves, Hungarians. All these tribes were driven back to the Baltic, their idols were destroyed, and their lands devastated. Compelled to sue for peace, they came in and did homage 011 the banks of the Weser.

Charlemagne, who was no less terrible to his wives than to his enemies, got rid of Desiderade, his second queen, and determined to marry a third. He was of this mind when Roland once more sought him.

“Sire, since you have given me encouragement to hope, I come to remind you that I love Aude, the niece of Gerard of Vienna, your friend, and that you have promised her to me in marriage as a reward for conquering Angoulaffre. You desired me to follow you to Saxony, and I did so; no one can say, surely, that I was sparing of my person in the campaign. You have often spoken severely against marriage, but I understand you have changed your views, since you are, for a third time, going to do yourself what you used to say was bad for others. I am your sister’s son. I have served you to the best of my ability, and every one agrees that the ability of Roland is no trifle. Will you not please to fix a day for my nuptials?”

Charlemagne was in a particularly good humour that day. He burst out laughing at his nephew, and said—

“By my beard? and sceptre, I believe this youngster is going to set me to school. My friend Ganelon was right when he had me beware lest this rogue should lead me by the nose. So-ho! my warrior, have I not made you Count of Mans and peer of the realm? Have not I granted you the Marches of Brittany? And must I now reward you for the blows you have struck in defence of your own precious hide? No, my fine nephew; I don’t approve of people who try to force my game. Besides, I have a notion, after my marriage, of making an excursion in the direction of Lombardy. You will accompany me. When we come back we will see what is to be done.”

This year (772) Charles kept the festivals of Easter and Christmas at Herstall, on the Meuse. About this period Didier, King of Lombardy, invaded the states of St. Peter. Coming at the head of ten thousand stout lances, he laid siege to Rome. Pope Adrian did not lose heart for a trifle like that. He closed the gates of the Eternal City, carefully inspected the walls, and manned them with troops, determined to perish amid the ruins of his capital rather than surrender.

Then he sent a deputation of bishops and men of distinction to Charlemagne, to remind the son of King Pepin that he was a Roman noble, and that it was his duty to defend the Church in the person of its supreme head. The Emperor was not desperately fond of his ex-father-in-law, at whose court all his enemies found refuse. He had lone meditated an expedition in his direction, and so, accepting with joy this providential chance, he convened a full court at Paderborn. The expedition was resolved on enthusiastically, and Geneva was chosen as the rendezvous of the forces. The army was divided into two sections. Bernard, Charlemagne’s uncle, had command of one column, with orders to cross Mount Joux (St. Bernard), and open a campaign in the plains of Milan, while the Emperor led his half of the army over Mount Cenis.

In vain did Adalgisus, son of Didier, attempt to defend the passes of the Alps. He was everywhere repulsed, and was hemmed in at Pavia, where his father joined him (October, 773). Pavia was then a castle, which would well have deserved the reputation of being impregnable if it had not (as is the case with all impregnable places) been taken several times. Nevertheless, it displayed some coquettishness in the matter, never permitting itself to be captured till after a wearisome war; for it required no less than a whole winter to scale its walls, which were seventy feet high, to carry its seventeen gates, and make oneself master of its sixty-two towers.

Charlemagne went to Rome to spend the Holy Week. He entered it in triumph on the 2nd of April, 774. A grand procession of bishops and nobles went out to meet him at Novi, and accompanied him to St. John at the Lateran, where Adrian waited to receive him. The crowd hailed him as a preserver. He was surrounded by banners and crosses; people of distinction vied for the honour of carrying his victorious arms; and little children, dressed in ancient costume, strewed flowers in his horse’s path. The Pope and the Emperor embraced, and the latter, after having taken the sacrament, visited, attended by his suite, all the sacred spots in the great capital of the Christian world.

A council was called, at which one hundred and fifty-three bishops and priests assembled to assist the Pope in conferring on Charlemagne the most extensive powers and privileges.

During this time famine was making fearful havoc in Pavia. Every day people died of starvation in hundreds, but the town did not surrender. Charlemagne was not one who liked to see work long about. He quitted Rome and assumed the command of the army, and a few days after Didier was forced to surrender. Neither his courage nor his submission could appease the Emperor, and the conquered prince, his head sprinkled with ashes, had to kneel to his new lord. The last of the Lombard kings became a monk, and finished his days, under the name of Brother Desiderat, in the monastery of Corbie. Ansa, his wife, the two sons of Carloman, and Gerberge their mother, with Desiderade, the divorced wife of the King of the Franks, all fell into Charles’s hands, and he condemned them to the cloister. Lombardy was thus made the property of the crown of France.

Aude and Mita had retired to Paris, where they awaited mournfully the return of Roland and Miton. Here the Countess of Rennes gave birth to a marvellously beautiful boy, who was christened Mitis. Never was a baby made so much of. Nothing was good enough for him. The two women, left to themselves, formed endless projects, and counted with impatience the hours which seemed to pass so slowly. But one day the weeping attendants made their appearance, bearing the dead body of the little cherub. They related that a knight, with his visor closed, had attacked them and snatched the child from his nurse; that, without regarding their cries or supplications, he had made his way at full galop to a neighboring stream, where he had dismounted, and, thrusting the child into the water, had held it down with his foot for some minutes. Despite the threats he uttered they came up with him, but too late. The monster, having lifted the corpse ashore with his foot, remounted his horse and fled.

The two sisters were for a long time like a couple of mad women. So excessive was the grief of each that one might fairly have asked which was the mother of the murdered babe.

Now it happened that on the day of the murder Ganelon had passed through Paris on his way to Brittany.

The Saxons, taking advantage of Charlemagne’s absence, had invaded the territory lying between the Rhine and the Weser. The Emperor, but just returned from Lombardy, sent against them four formidable armies; then, having held an assembly at Duren, he placed himself at the head of a fifth column and crossed the Rhine (775). He made himself master of Eresburg, and left a garrison there to hold it, and next defeated at Brunsberg the masses of Saxons that endeavoured to stop his passage of the Weser. He advanced as far as the Oder, cutting the Westphalian forces into pieces on his route, and then marched back after having reinforced the garrison of Eresburg, which was to serve as a prison for his Saxon captives.

This year Hildegarde presented Charlemagne with a daughter, who was christened Rotrude. The Emperor was so delighted with her that Roland ventured to renew his request.

“Sire, you bade me share the campaigns in Saxony and Lombardy, and I did my duty to the best of my power. Is it not time——”

“My dear nephew, spare your eloquence. I see you coming, and begin to know your petition by heart. Well, by St. Nazaire! I will grant you the request you press so warmly. In one month you shall be wed.”

Five days after they had to mount, and march for Italy again. Rotgause, Duke of Friuli, and Adalgisus, son of Didier, had resolved to attack Rome and Italy by sea and land (776).

Charles once more crossed the Alps, took Rotgause a prisoner, and, having cut his head off, handed over the government of Friuli to one of his French nobles, the Count Markaire. Then he set out for Worms.

One day the Emperor was riding at the head of his army, with Roland beside him. They were marching alongside of a splendid corn land. The reapers, terrified at the sight of the soldiers, had flung down their sickles, and fled; but, their curiosity restoring them their courage to some o o degree, they ventured to watch the column from a safe distance.

“Have you never, sire, envied the lot of these peasants?” asked the Count of Mans.

Charles looked at his nephew in wonderment, thinking he was gone mad.

“When once their work is over,” continued Roland, “they return to their homes to find a wife waiting on the threshold to embrace them, and a bevy of children who storm them for kisses; while we——”

“I understand you, nephew mine. This is a new way of putting it that you are trying, and if I let you have your talk out, it would infallibly end in the old question, ‘When is the marriage to be?’ I am not more hard-hearted than most people; and, by the mass! on my return—-”

The Emperor paused. He had just caught sight of a whirlwind of dust a long way off. By degrees the whirlwind lessened to a cloud—the cloud turned into a horseman—the horseman proved to be Hugo of Cotentin.

The Count Palatine had spurred fast to tell Charles that the Saxons were again in revolt, and were ravaging the banks of the Rhine.

Roland sighed. “Aude—dearest Aude!” said he, “shall we never be united except in Paradise? If I thought so, I would hasten the period, and get myself killed in the very next fight.”

But I should never finish my story if I were to relate to you all the expeditions of Charlemagne against the Saxons. He was always crossing the Rhine, sweeping away whole nations, receiving their submission, and taking hostages; but scarcely had he turned his back before he heard the growlings of a fresh eruption. You will learn all this from pages more serious than mine. I will only add, that in 777 Charlemagne assembled the Saxons and their rulers at Paderborn, and that a great many came, and were baptised.

I must now resume my story.

Charlemagne is at Paderborn, surrounded by his Court. Hildegarde had borne him a son, who received the name of Carloman. Aude was more lovely than ever. Miton was now thirty-two, Mita twenty-seven, and Mitaine eight. Oghris was growing old now. His coat was turning silvery. He now required a long ten minutes to quarter an ox, but his claws were still good. He had taken a mighty fancy to Mitaine; and often, when they had tried to separate them, the lion had grown so thin, and the child so melancholy, that they were compelled to abandon the idea.

The god-child of Charlemagne had often been made the aim of assassins, and, without doubt, the same fate was intended for her that had befallen her brother. But Oghris was always at hand, and the murderers had to take to flight. On one occasion, however, one of them had not got off quickly enough, and so paid the penalty for the others.

“Now, at last,” said Miton, “I shall understand the meaning of all this!”

Unfortunately, the lion had not thought of this, and his victim was reduced to such small fragments that nothing could be discovered from them.

Charles flew into a great rage on hearing of the attempts to which his god-child had, more than once, nearly fallen a victim.

“By Joyeuse! he who touches my god-child is a bold man. Tell me, Mitaine, have you no indication to give me which might put us on the track of this devourer of babes?”

“None, my lord; the monster appears and disappears as if by magic.”

“Well, be he fay, ogre, or vampire, I swear to Heaven I will deliver him into your hands. But until it is in our power to hang, draw, and quarter him, how shall we distinguish this monster, who wishes to devour you, by name?”

“Let us call him Croquemitaine!”

“So be it. Well, then, Croquemitaine shall be hanged: take my word for it.”

In the year 777 Charlemagne celebrated Easter at Nimègue.

ONE chronicle which I have discovered, and which is only known to me, assures us that Charlemagne was devotedly fond of children. It was his pleasure one day to call a couple of hundred of them together, in his royalty of Paderborn, and say to them—

“You are the masters here, and my servants are at your disposal. Make hay of all the flowers in my gardens, and my gardeners shall assist you. Plan a dinner tremendous enough to kill my friend Guy of Burgundy with indigestion, and my cooks are under your orders. Ransack my illuminated books; and if by chance you tear them, Eginhard will restore them so that it can’t be detected. Break the silver strings of the queen’s harp, and they shall be replaced before she suspects mischief. Command, bully, pillage, if you like, to your hearts’ content. There is but one thing I forbid”—and Charles, knitting his great brows, spoke in a voice of thunder—“one thing I forbid, do you hear? I forbid you to put yourselves out of the way in the slightest degree.”

This speech was calculated to raise the wildest enthusiasm. In a moment the palace was ravaged. Mad with liberty, the little folks rushed hither and thither, pillaging everywhere at random, and to no purpose, like silly butterflies. The happiness of being free to do what they pleased was enough.

It was indeed a deafening tumult, an unequalled outburst of jollity. They tore down the hangings; they broke open the aviaries; they smashed the statues; they ransacked the sideboards; they tore up the flowers—until, at last, by degrees, their impetuosity wore itself out. At the end of an hour the children, left to themselves, and having nothing more to destroy, could not invent any means of amusing themselves.

When the Emperor returned he found his little visitors scattered throughout the palace, tired, idle, and melancholy. Charles called them all round him, and inquired if they, were all enjoying themselves. The children hung down their heads without answering. He repeated the question with the same result. At last Mitaine, more confident than the rest, opened her mouth—

“God-papa—not to keep anything from you—we don’t know what to do, and were never so bored in all our lives.”

“My children,” answered Charlemagne, “let this be a timely lesson to you. In pleasure, as in war, everything goes wrong without a clever commander. To play well, just as to fight well, you need a captain. Choose some one who shall be general of your games; and, by my beard! you will see that all will go well.”

“Beloved sire!” said the children, trooping round him, “choose our general for us.”

“I will,” said Charles; “but you must at least promise me to obey him whom I select.”

“We will! we will!”

Charles perceived a fair boy of twelve in the crowd; and, taking him gently by the ear, he led him out, and presented him to his small subjects.

“Here is the little king I offer you. Obey him as you would me; and as for you, Joel the Fair, will you take my advice?”

“I permit you to offer it, cousin,” said the youngster, drawing himself up grandly.

“Then, sire, since you deign to listen to me, accept this hint. Would you rule without discomfort, sleep without fearing some evil dream, and live at ease?”

“That would suit me nicely!”

“Well, then, Joel the Fair, make yourself beloved!”

“We will take care to do so,” said the boy, and immediately gave one of his subjects a rare buffet for leaning too familiarly on his royal shoulder.

Charlemagne withdrew to rejoin Eginhard, Theodulph, Leidrade, and Alcuin, with whom he had shut himself up to work at his code of laws.

But he had hardly been in his closet half an hour when a great hubbub was heard under the windows; shouts, laughter, and cries were mingled together, and soon rose to such a pitch that the Emperor rose, curious to see what was the cause of the tumult, and went to the window.

I can assure you, young people, that he was not a little astonished to see Mitaine fighting with a big boy, whom she had just thrown down and was kneeling upon.

“So, Master Joel, you have a strange way of ruling,” said Charles, opening the window. “Is this the way in which you ensure the peace of your dominions? What is the meaning of this?”

The tumult ceased. Mitaine released her victim, and Joel advanced and addressed Charles.

“I must remind you, sire, that you promised us uninterrupted liberty, and I have therefore some right to feel astonished when you interfere with my kingdom. What would your Majesty say if the King of Saragossa or of Persia were to question you about your doings in your own realm? However, I have not forgotten that it is to you I owe my crown, and as I am a gallant prince, I will consent to answer your questions. We had determined to hold a tournament, and in order that it might be done in a manner becoming my state, I first chose myself a court. It is composed of those whom you see yonder, half-inclined to quarrel over the scrag-end of a pie. I armed my knights—those are they on the lawn yonder, where they are now holding gallant encounters, which will prove to you I have chosen well. I improvised arms as I had invented knights. The ladies chose their gallants. Mitaine was unanimously elected Queen of Beauty, and she selected for her knight that big boy to whom she has just been giving such thumps. The trumpets sounded, and I took my place on the throne with a majesty that could not have failed to please you. The jousts commenced, and all went well enough. Riolet received a blow on the eye from Chariot, which lends quite a martial air to his visage; Loys has had two teeth knocked out; and Ode has left two handfuls of hair on the field.”

“We did not expect it to stop here when Berart, the chosen cavalier of Mitaine, entered the lists. He presented himself proudly, and arrogantly defied Odille, who, without disturbing himself, gave him a kick on the shin, so dexterously applied that the unhappy youth lost heart and ran away. At this sight Mitaine was transported with anger, and jumping quickly down from her throne, she rolled the astonished and terrified Berart in the dust; and then, turning on his opponent, upbraided him for his cowardice—in short, you can see what has befallen poor Odille. For my part, I abstained from placing any obstacle in the way of Mitaine’s triumph. She was hitherto our queen by virtue of her rank and beauty: now she has won the title by her courage also.”

Charlemagne laughed for seven minutes without stopping—so says the historian—as he had never laughed before. Then he called his god-child to him.

“By my sceptre! this is the conduct of a heroine, and you shall be well rewarded. It seems to me that a triumphant march would be about the right thing at this period. What thinks our brother Joel of the proposal?”

“Excellently said, sire. Let there be a march of triumph.”

“There’s only one thing that puzzles me. If we crown Mitaine for her valour, we shall have no Queen of Beauty.”

“By my beard, sire,” said little Joel, stroking his smooth, twelve-year old chin, and aping Charles to the best of his ability—“by my beard, sire, you are puzzled about trifles.” Then he went in search of his friend Riolet, whose eye was getting blacker every minute.

“What do you say to a King of Beauty like that? It is but right that both sexes should have their part in the triumph as usual.”

“What a philosopher he is!” said Charles, laughing till the tears ran down his face. “Let Oghris be brought—he is the only animal worthy to carry my courageous god-child. And you, rival and discomfited knights—it is to you, Berart, and you too, Odille, that I am speaking—go, conduct your conqueror in triumph. But now, what are we to do with the King of Beauty, brother?”

Joel, without answering, called on four knights to volunteer, and placed Riolet on their shoulders, the pain and confusion making him pull some very strange grimaces. In this fashion the procession set out amid loud laughter and cheering.

In the evening Charles took Miton aside with him, and said, “Learn, my friend, that our Mitaine is not intended to wear a petticoat for long. A sword will suit her hand better than a needle. The secret attacks from which, thank Heaven, she has till now escaped unhurt may be renewed, and I would fain have her under my own guardianship. I have an offer to make to you, Count of Rennes. Give her to me for a page, and I will have her brought up to the use of arms. I am greatly mistaken if I do not thus rear a staunch supporter of my son.”

The offer was accepted, and from the next day Mitaine, to her delight, took rank with the pages, whose male attire she adopted.

CHARLEMAGNE only took repose in order to give others an opportunity of resting. The chronicles tell us that he used to break off his slumbers four or five times during the night, rise, dress himself, and dispatch some matters of business. At Paderborn he occupied a chamber on the ground floor, and was often seized with the inclination to go down into the park, where, being alone with his thoughts, he used to allow himself to become lost in reverie.

One beautiful night in the spring he perceived in the heavens what seemed like an immense causeway, paved with stars, which commenced above the Gulf of Friesland and disappeared about the Galician frontier, passing over Germany, Aquitaine, Gascony, and Navarre.

Little by little there seemed to him to glitter an unusual number of luminaries; they increased in size, changed their forms, and began to move all in the same direction from the northeast to the south-west, and presently he beheld, moving across the heavens, crowds of armed warriors. He had mistaken for stars the glint of the moon upon their armour. For a whole hour troop succeeded troop; the horses, excited to a mad ardour, galloped among the clouds, raising a dust of star-sparkles with their hoofs. Then all became motionless as at first. The night grew dark and silent, and Charles, lost in reflection, turned his eyes to earth. The sight he saw froze for some seconds the blood in his veins. It appeared like a moving light, which had assumed a human shape—a lingering sunbank forgotten by the twilight, and animated by some supernatural power. It advanced slowly, its outline showing clearly against the darkness of the park. At last the Emperor could distinguish a form more beautiful than is granted to the mortal inhabitants of the globe. The figure spoke, and the air became laden with odours. Its voice hushed the songs of the nightingales, who perched on the boughs to listen.

“My son, why have you forgotten me?”

“My lord, who are you?” inquired Charles.

“I am St. James, the apostle, the brother of St. John the Evangelist.”

The Emperor fell on his knees.

“You called upon me at the tournament of Fronsac, and promised me a chapel in exchange for Oliver’s life, and I heard you. Oliver lives, and nine years have passed and still my bones lie in Galicia, forgotten by Christians and given up to Saracens. You have led your legions to the Roman shores, to the ocean, and to the Gulf of Friesland. One part of Europe only have you omitted to visit: it is that where my bones are laid, and to which you swore to me to make an expedition in my honour. I am sent to you from above. If Heaven makes you the most powerful among the mighty ones of earth, it is that you may accomplish its designs. Arise, then; rescue my remains from profane hands, and open the route for pilgrims to my shrine. Arm your brave Franks, Lombards, Saxons, and Austrians, and march straight for the Saracens of Spain. I shall be with you in danger, and by-and-by you will find me ready to conduct you to Heaven.”

The vision vanished. Two hours later Eginhard, coming to seek Charlemagne, found him still upon his knees in the park praying, with tears in his eyes.

A SHORT time previous to the foregoing events, Marsillus had a vision at Saragossa.

Come with me now to Spain, my young friends. Do not murmur, for there exists nothing so lovely as Spain, unless it be “the terrestrial paradise,” of which I am not in a position to form an opinion.

There the sandal-wood, the spikenard, the saffron, the ebony, and the clove, the most extraordinary flowers, the most delicious fruits, all grow wild. The streams prattle more gaily there than anywhere else, joyfully sprinkling with dewy drops the ever-verdant banks. On all sides trees, clothed with luxuriant foliage, provide shelter for the most musical birds in the world. The choir numbers the tomtit, the nightingale, the phoenix, the turtle-dove, and a thousand others. Must I, at the risk of making your mouths water, mention a few of the fruits of this marvellous land? What do you say to the fig, the grape, the pomegranate, the almond, the lemon, the pine-apple, the olive, and the orange? And the flowers!—clumps of roses everywhere, lilies, chrysanthemums! Here, grow ox-eyes; there, spring violets; yonder bloom the narcissus and the balsam. The cool brooklets, abundant and limpid as glass, flow over pebbles as bright as crystal and topaz. There are gardens like those of Persia, minarets like those of Bagdad, a blue sky’ like that of no other part of the world. The nights are so delicious, one is sorry to go to sleep. Everywhere are seen wealth, beauty, joy, and plenty! Such is Spain.

All this, however, was ruined by the presence of the Saracens.

Marsillus was taking a nap. He was lying on cushions of priceless material. The pavilion in which he had sought repose was of stained ivory, inlaid with gold. In the midst a joyous fountain diffused coolness around it; while an incense, compounded of musk, ambergris, and camphor, made into a paste with distilled otto of roses, burning in marble bowls, filled the air with sweetness.

All at once the daylight turned sickly pale. A chill like that of the tomb succeeded the agreeable coolness and the perfumes yielded to sickening odours like those of the grave. The flowers faded; all that was brightest became dull and tarnished; and a corpse came and seated itself beside the King of Saragossa. It scarcely retained the human form, being made up of shreds and rags of flesh, and rendered only the more hideous by the gay robes in which it was enveloped.

“My father!” said the corpse, “have you, then, forgotten me?” Marsillus opened his eyes, uttered a shriek, and, after gazing round vainly for some way of escape, sank back motionless, with haggard eyes and bristling locks, and bathed in a cold sweat.

“Is it thus you receive your son, after a separation of ten years? Open your arms to me, beloved monarch, for I hunger for your embrace!” On seeing Murad approaching him, the terrified Marsillus sprang to his feet, and strove to get out of his way, but in vain. The corpse caught him in its arms, folded him to its bosom, which cracked in a ghastly way with the force of the hug, and “covered with cold and clammy kisses the face and white locks of the King of Saragossa, on which they left gory stains!

“Leave me—depart!” shrieked the old man. “What have I done to you, or what would you have me do?”

“I would be avenged on Roland of France.”

“I will avenge you, Murad. But now leave me, if you do not wish me to perish on the spot.” And Marsillus, putting forth all his strength, freed himself from the embraces of his son, and rushed to the other end of the chamber.

“In truth, my lord, you are not altered. As I left you nine years ago I find you now. You have just asked me two questions. I will answer them. You have asked what I would have you do? To that I answer, Avenge my death! I would see this accursed Roland and his friends punished in a way that should never be forgotten by the rest of mankind. I am astonished that so affectionate a father and so just a king should have been so long thinking about vengeance. Your other question was, ‘What had you done to me?’ Those words, by the Prophet! should have died away on your lips; but since your conscience does not assist your memory, I will take its place. You do not question, of course, my dear lord, that death reveals everything to us? One has reason to complain of it not so much because it takes us from this world, as because it places the past before us in naked truth—brings in review before us all our errors and our beliefs—and teaches one, for instance, that one has had such a father as you.”

Marsillus dug his nails into the wall, against which he had placed his back, as if he would fain scoop out for himself some place of refuge.

Murad continued:—“While I was a child, happily for me, I did not occupy any place in your life; but from the hour when you saw me return the conqueror of the lioness and her cubs, you began to keep an eye on me. I grew up under your personal superintendence, and if the queen, Hadrama, my mother, had not at times pressed me to her bosom, I believe I should have become a wild beast, and not a man. My name became famous; the prodigies of my valour, my wisdom, and bravery won you many kingdoms. In a short time I had doubled your empire. Your jealousy increased with my fame, until, unable to look undazzled at the glory of my renown, you determined to make away with me. From that moment I had to encounter a thousand plots—a thousand treacheries, over which I triumphed by a miracle, but of which I never once suspected the origin.”

Marsillus would fain have denied this, but his voice stuck in his parched throat.

“Your slaves one day found a huge snake, a venomous monster, which they at once slew. It was a female, and would have left twenty little ones to lament her loss if you had not considerately ordered the destruction of the whole family. The father alone escaped. Once in possession of this little stock of poison, you asked yourself how you could best dispose of it, and being neither selfish nor thoughtless—you see, I do you the fullest justice—you were not long in remembering me. Your creatures took the twenty young snakes and scattered them from their nest to my room, where they concealed the mother’s body under my bed. As soon as night came, the male snake traced from corpse to corpse the path you had so obligingly mapped out for him, and, full of fury, arrived almost at the bed where I was sleeping. I will spare you the recital of what followed, for it would wring your heart. All I have to observe is, that on my making my appearance before you next day, you knitted your brows; you were even put out when I laid at your feet the two serpents, one only of which owed its destruction to me. It was fortunate for you that on the previous night I had struck one of your slaves, for it was at once decided that he had attempted to revenge himself on me, and, in your anxiety to see me righted, you sliced his head off before he had time to utter a word in defence.”

“I shall only briefly recall to you the horse, which, maddened with some noxious drench, almost leaped with me into a bottomless abyss. Thanks to Allah, I did not lose my self-possession, and gave the animal such a blow behind the ear with my fist that he dropped lifeless, sending me rolling within a few paces ot the gulf which you had intended for my grave. Next day, on rising, I beheld a startling sight. You had, in your stern sense of justice, ordered the impalement of all my faithful grooms, who were devoted to me, and you replaced them by creatures of your own.”

Marsillus hid his face in his hands.

“Finally, after ten years spent in futile efforts to get rid of me, you determined to send me to the French tournament, where I met my death. Now I might certainly desire, and insist, that you should pay dearly for your past vagaries; but I offer you pardon, and only ask one thing in return; but that I must and will have.”

Marsillus raised his head.

“Angoulaffre, Priamus, Corsablix, and all the other victims who shared my fate, speak to you with my lips. We demand the death of Roland and the knights of Charlemagne. Swear to avenge us!”

“I swear!” murmured the old man.

“Give me your hand on it!” And Murad strode towards him. But at that Marsillus shouted so lustily, that his guards rushed in. They found the King stretched on the ground, his robes dishevelled, and his lips uttering disconnected sentences.

“Don’t leave me!—don’t leave!” he cried, dragging himself to the feet of the guard. “I have seen Murad! He calls for vengeance! His kisses have chilled my very marrow. You won’t leave me?—promise me you won’t! If you do, I’ll have you all put to death!”

The most experienced physicians were at once sent for. They agreed that His Highness was suffering from brain fever. But as nobody had the courage to convey this intelligence to His Majesty, no attempt was made to cure him; to which circumstance he owed his recovery.

By degrees the dreadful scene vanished from his mind, and in a month he had almost forgotten it.

“Go to war at my age!” said the King to himself. “What nonsense! I have the finest kingdom in the world. Charlemagne leaves me alone: why should I provoke him? Not I, i’faith! I must have had a bad dream, and I must mind I don’t get an unpleasant waking-up by going to tweak Charlemagne by the beard. Sleep sweetly, Prince Murad, and let me live in peace!”

From that time Marsillus never passed a day without receiving a visit from his son. He had a guard constantly in his presence, but it was no use.

Then he tried to discover some means of ridding himself of this frightful spectre; and, at length, one night determined to await its approach resolutely, yataghan in hand.

Murad came as usual, and approached his father; but he, with four blows of his sword, sliced off the head, legs, and arms of the corpse. Then he breathed more freely. But the head immediately burst out laughing, while the right arm politely picked up the weapon Marsillus had let fall, and handed it to him.

“Take this yataghan, sire; it is one I wore for a long time—the one, in short, you gave me as a boy. Have you forgotten it?”

The King, more driven to his wits’ end than ever, tremblingly flung his son’s limbs into a mat, and tied the four corners together. Then he ran at full speed into the garden, accompanied by roars of laughter from the head, which did not cease to move as he bore it. Arrived at the end of the park, he dug six deep holes; put the head in the first, the right arm in the second, the left arm in the third, the right leg; in the fourth, the left leg in the fifth, and the trunk in the sixth. Then he threw the earth in upon them, and ran in again, without daring to look behind him.

Marsillus by this means gained a month’s respite. But, at last, the Sultana one day begged him to accompany her to the bottom of the grounds, where she had discovered some unknown description of flowers, which gave out an odour so sweet, it was almost impossible to tear yourself away from them when once you had gone near them. The King refused with such evident horror, that the surprised Hadrama only persisted the more, and he had to give way. As he approached nearer, his blood froze in his veins; his eyes were blinded with mist; his teeth chattered horribly. Walk slowly as he would, he must at last reach the terrible spot where his son’s remains were concealed.

On arriving there, the Sultana said, “See how thick the turf is! Did you ever see anything like it?”

To the terrified Marsillus it seemed as if human hair was growing and covering the ground on which he trod.

“Is there anything more delicious than the scent of these flowers?” But Marsillus could only smell the foul odours of a grave.

“See what flocks of birds perch in the branches! Hark! how sweetly they sing!”

But Marsillus seemed but to hear a laugh that came from under the ground. He saw that the leaves of this strange tree were shaped like human tongues, and when the breeze shook them, low’ voices murmured—“Revered sovereign, avenge my death!”

The King of Saragossa fell on his knees and to his prayers. The big tears ran down his white beard. “Sow sin, and you will reap remorse!” he exclaimed, with his eyes fixed on the earth.

The next day he called together his nobles, and announced to them his intention of avenging the death of Murad!

MARSILLUS commenced his address in the following words:—

“May Allah enlighten you, and shed his glory on you, for I have assembled you to a council. Listen to this brief recital, and give me your opinion on it.

“A lion, full of youth and strength, was gaping and yawning enough to put his jaws out of joint. He had done nothing for the day, but yet, wholly given up to idleness, he stretched himself on the warm sand, roasting first one side and then the other in the hot rays of the sun. An ant happened to pass close by him, painfully dragging a small fly. Seeing such great labour bestowed on so small an object, the lion burst out laughing. ‘It is not very becoming in you to make a jest of me,’ said the toiler, without ceasing from his task; ‘I am weak, but I make full use of the little strength Heaven has given me, while you, who might do anything, are giving way to slumber before you have earned it by fatigue. Leave off smiling, for you are in the wrong. I am stronger and braver than you. Remember, ‘a busy ant does more than a dozing lion.’”

Mahomet, who was leaning on a cloud, and happened to hear them, greatly approved of the ant’s remarks.

“By the divinity of the Ka’abah, by the shrine of Mecca, are not we like this lion? We pass our lives in sloth and luxury, while the ruler of the Franks is hard at work extending his dominions. The day before yesterday he was in Aquitaine—yesterday he was in Lombardy—to-day he is in Saxony—to-morrow he may be in our kingdom. But do you, the sons of those whom Mussa led along the banks of the Rhone and the Saone—do you feel inclined to sit still and wait his coming? If, gorged with prosperity, you have forgotten the past, the people of Nimes and Arles, of Narbonne and Bordeaux, of Toulouse and Chalons, do not forget it when they gaze on their ruined cities, their desolated cathedrals, their overthrown fortresses. Children of Alsamah, of Abdel-Rahman, Ambissa, and Marsufle, have at the descendants of Charles Martel, Eudes, and Pepin! If these victorious names do not make your hearts leap, will they quail at the recollection of our disasters at Poitiers? The bones of our sires enrich French soil—the harvests the Franks reap have been fattened by the blood of our bravest, which fed the fields. They are ours, but we have been robbed of them. Let us go and win them back again!”

The assembly received this harangue with terrific cheering. Shouts, observations, threats, and warnings were mixed in such inextricable confusion that Marsillus did not know what to listen to. He remarked, however, that two of his emirs held themselves apart and maintained silence. When the tumult had subsided, he beckoned to them to draw near.

“Why do you keep aloof instead of sharing in the general enthusiasm? Answer, Abiathar—answer, Ibn al Arrabi. You are generally more lively when there is a prospect of war.”

“Sire,” said Abiathar, the Alcalde of Huesca, “I grieve to behold you undertaking an enterprise which will bring you no credit.”

A threatening murmur ran through the assembly.

“This is a fearful responsibility you take on yourself,” said, in his turn, Soleyman Jaktan Ibn al Arrabi, Alcalde of Saragossa. “Is it not possible you may have reason to repent having called down upon yourself the wrath of the King of the Franks?”

This speech caused such an outburst of anger, that some of Marsillus’s knights drew their swords and threatened the lives of the two emirs.

“Verily, I feel no gratitude to you,” said the King of Saragossa. “I hope I may attribute the cowardly expressions you have just uttered to your increasing years!”

“In spite of our age, we lack neither strength nor valour,” said Abiathar, who turned a ghastly white with sheer rage; “and we prove that, I think sufficiently, by having the courage to talk reason to madmen!” Several chiefs rushed at them with drawn swords.

“We don’t in the least lack strength,” said Ibn al Arrabi, as he seized one of the most violent of his assailants by the throat, and flung him twenty paces away. “Any one who doubts it can easily try the experiment.”

Marsillus descended from his throne, and placed himself between the contending parties.

“Do you,” he said to his knights, “reserve your ardour for a more fitting occasion. I thank you for having proved that I was right in relying on your support. As for you, Abiathar, and you, Ibn al Arrabi, I feel obliged to you for your frankness. But your prophetic powers will, of course, have enabled you to guess that I shall confide the defence of Huesca and Saragossa to others. Having, then, no office under the crown, you will be enabled to hear without regret the plans about which you are so full of caution and prudence.”

With that he gave them the signal to withdraw. The two emirs bowed and departed. One month after they presented themselves at the Court of France.

ABIATHAR and il Ibn al Arrabi found Charlemagne at Paderborn, where he immediately accorded them an audience.

“Sire,” said Abiathar, “we come, accompanied by a hundred followers, to do homage and service to you. The report of your unrivalled glory has reached even us, and we have arrived at the conclusion that he who accomplishes so many great things must be the favourite of Heaven. We have studied in secret the teachings of your faith, and we have found in them the springs of truth and virtue. They have, in short, convinced us, and inspired us with an ardent wish to become Christians. We would then strive to make proselytes, and, trampling the crescent under foot, would raise the cross on high. Martyrdom in our case almost preceded baptism. Marsillus is in pursuit of us, and has commanded that when taken we shall be subjected to the most hideous tortures. But Heaven has been our aid. We have escaped the executioners who were on our track, and here we are at the feet of the most powerful monarch in the Christian world, asking of him to baptise us!” These falsehoods made the greatest impression on Charles.

“We come, moreover, sire,” said Ibn al Arrabi, “to announce to you that Marsillus is busily preparing a religious war, and is ready to invade your realms. We do not bring, it is true, the ordinary gifts of envoys—gold, jewels, and fine merchandise; but we do what is better, we bring you Spain as a present. The chief people of Huesca, Valentia, and Saragossa are yours. These cities are devoted to us, and wait but our signal to tear down the crescent and erect the cross. We announce ourselves from this moment to be vassals of the Crown of France, and we undertake to show to you the only four practicable passes of the Pyrenees which exist—those of Barcelona, Puycerda, Pampeluna, and Toulouse. The Christians in Aragon, Castille, and Leon, are ripe for revolt. At the first hint they will descend from the inaccessible fastnesses in which they find shelter, to join your triumphant armies. In Asturia and Catalonia the standard of the cross is ready to be displayed. Call together, therefore, a large army, and hasten to anticipate the measures of those who wish to take you by surprise.”

Charlemagne was so delighted that he clasped the two emirs in his arms, and kissed them on the cheek and chin. Subsequently he presented them to his peers, knights, and bishops, and invited a new recital of the intelligence they had brought him. They acceded to his request.

“It is St. James who has sent them,” said the Emperor; adding, “he shall not have to wait, I swear by Our Lady!”

The war had been resolved upon more than a month, when the two alcaldes arrived at Paderborn. They soon beheld the forces which Charles had called together marching in from all quarters.

You must know, my young friends, that the nobles who held fiscal territory—that is to say, belonging to the Crown lands—were bound to hold themselves always in readiness for warfare, to present themselves at the first summons, with their contingents of men-at-arms, at the place where the sovereign ordered them to assemble. Charlemagne had never made such gigantic preparations as he did for this Spanish expedition. He called together the whole of his faithful vassals of Neustria, Burgundy, Austrasia, Germany, Bavaria, Septimania, and Provence; he even summoned the Lombards, although they had only just been reduced to submission.

It was the beginning of spring, a time which the Emperor thought favourable for commencing his campaign. He set out for his country estate of Casseneuil, in Poitou, whence, after celebrating Easter, he marched to Spain at the head of the most wonderful army he had ever led.

The two Saracens, who were present at the inspection of this vast force, were astounded at it. There passed before them two hundred thousand soldiers, armed in a hundred different styles, according to the fashion of the country from which they came,—and they had come from every part of Europe. Then followed the machines of war—towers, balistæ, onagri, * scorpions, and catapults. Next rode the paladins, the nobles and knights of the realm, followed by the bishops, priests, and clerks of the Chapel Royal. When Charlemagne appeared, clad in his panoply of war, the Saracens shook with terror.

* Onagri were machines which discharged large stones.
Scorpions flung showers of arrows darts, and small missiles.

“All is over with Spain,” said they, shedding abundant tears. “What people, what cities, what fortresses could resist such armies? An iron tempest is about to burst over the heads of the children of the Prophet. What could we do in this world after that? Let us return and die in the land that gave us birth.”

And the Saracens, without waiting to see the end of the spectacle, rode off at full gallop. At a later period they were recognised among the slain before the walls of Saragossa. The Emperor divided his army into two columns. One, consisting of the Lombards and Austrasians, marched from narbonne under the command of Count Bernard, entered Spain at Perpignan, marched along the coast to Barcelona, and overran Catalonia as far as the Ebro. The second column, composed of the flower of the army, knights and nobles, and commanded by the Emperor in person, crossed the Pyrenees from Gascony and Navarre, and sat down before Pampeluna, whither in his turn came Count Bernard.

The siege lasted three months, and was carried on, with great losses on both sides, until one day Charlemagne, being at prayers, petitioned Heaven to allow him, since he had entered Spain for the glory of the Christian faith and the destruction of the Saracen race, to take this stronghold of the infidels, which he would purify, and where sacred chants should rise instead of incense offered up to false deities. “Saint James,” said the Emperor, “if it was really you who appeared to me—if I have rightly obeyed the orders you gave to me—intercede for me that I may win this city.”

He rose, comforted in his mind, ordered an assault, and on that day Pampeluna fell. One hundred thousand Saracens received baptism; all who wished to persist in error were put to death.

The Franks marched along the banks of the Ebro and laid siege to Saragossa, which made as stout a resistance as it could; but it was fated to fall, as Pampeluna had done. The Saracens, growing alarmed at Charlemagne’s success, submitted. Alcaldes and emirs came in from all sides to render homage to the Frank monarch; even those who could not come sent him hostages and tribute.

Charles overran the whole of the north of Spain with his victorious army. From Catalonia to Galicia, and extending to the line of the Ebro, he was everywhere received by, rather than took possession of, cities and fortresses. Arriving at Compostella, he paid a devout visit to the sepulchre of St. James, according to his promise, and had baptised there those of the Galicians who had forsaken the faith of their forefathers for the service of Mahomet. He established priests of the Holy Church in all the chief towns of Spain, and assembled in the month of July a council of sixty bishops and a parliament of peers, by whom it was decided that all the archbishops, bishops, kings, and princes of Spain and Galicia, present or future, should recognise the authority of the Archbishop of Compostella. The church was dedicated to St. James, Turpin officiating. It was endowed by means of a tax of four deniers per annum imposed upon the innkeepers, and was released from all feudal service. The King also declared it to be his wish that all the bishops of the country should be ordained, and all the kings crowned, by the archbishop of the diocese.

In this way the King discharged his obligation to the saint. This done, he pursued his route to the southern extremity of Spain, now known as Cape Finisterre. There, finding he could advance no further, he flung his lance into the sea, and returned thanks to Heaven and St. James for having aided him to bring his expedition to a successful issue. The gold and silver which the Emperor brought back with him from Spain enabled him to restore and found many churches—to wit, one to Our Lady at Aix-la-Chapelle, and also of St. James; a second of St. James at Beziers; a third at Toulouse; a fourth in Gascony, between the village of St. Jean de Sorgeat and Ax; and, finally, one at Paris, between the Seine and Montmartre, of which nothing remains but the lofty tower known as the St. James’s Shambles. The Emperor divided his new provinces into two Marches, called those of Septimania and Gascony. The first, which consisted of Catalonia proper, had its capital at Barcelona; the second, embracing Navarre and Aragon, had Saragossa as its seat of government. To Louis of Aquitaine, Charlemagne’s son, was committed the task of keeping the country in submission as far as the Ebro.

MITAINE had followed Charlemagne into Spain. She was now so skilful in the use of her sword that her want of strength was not noticeable. She rode well, and easily bore the weight of hauberk and suit of mail, casque and greaves of steel. She only needed wings to be so like, as to deceive the spectator, one of the armed cherubs who accompany the Archangel Michael.

Charlemagne, who had not forgotten the attacks of which Mitaine had more than once been the object, gave her a command of twenty men, under pretence of rewarding her for her good services. It was, in reality, a body-guard which he established about her.

From this moment, then, please to picture to yourselves our fair young friend marching proudly at the head of her twenty veterans.

The precaution was a wise one. It happened, however, that Mitaine one day wandered forth beyond the bounds of the camp. Night overtook her in a forest, which, however lovely by daylight, was not at all an inspiriting spot at night. She dismounted in the midst of a glade, where she resolved to await the return of day rather than venture further. It was so dark that the Old Gentleman himself—sharp-sighted as he is—could not have seen his tail before him or behind him.

Mitaine stretched herself on the sward, sleeping with one eye and waking with the other. Before lone the moon showed herself above the horizon, but her light could scarcely penetrate the thick foliage, and only lighted imperfectly some portions of the thicket.

Mitaine heard approaching footsteps, and was instantly on the alert. “What a fool I am!” she said to herself, after listening for a few seconds; “it is my horse trampling on the broken branches.” Again she heard it: it was impossible for her to close her eyes. All was now silent, but the silence alarmed her more than the noise. Three times she called her steed—“Vaillant, Vaillant, Vaillant!” A distant neigh was the only response. She rose and went on tiptoe to inspect the spot where she had tied up her horse, but her horse was gone. Then she fancied she could make out under one of the trees a human form—a little further off another,—a third—in short, she counted eight. She saw them move, and come towards her in a circle, which narrowed every moment. She drew her sword, and rushed on them; but soon found herself seized by powerful hands, which grasped her like a vice. Nevertheless she did not lose heart, but began to fight and struggle, to bite and hit out to such effect that, if the night had been less dark, one might have seen a writhing mass of human forms struggling fearfully. Every time when they thought they held her prisoner she contrived to break loose. It was no easy work for the attackers or the attacked, for none of them could see a bit. One would have declared it was blind men quarrelling over their booty.

“Why don’t you use your weapons?” said a sinister voice. The speaker was merely a spectator of the combat.

“It is easier to say use your weapons than to do it,” answered one of the ruffians. “One can’t see a bit, and the young demon goes on so that we don’t know how to get hold of her.”

Mitaine continued to lay about her on all sides until one of her opponents cried out, with a fierce oath, “Curse the girl! she has stabbed me in the eye!” And the wounded man in his fury, listening only to the voice of rage, struck out wildly and hit one of his comrades, whereupon ensued a general melee, of which the young girl availed herself to escape.

“Farewell, Croquemitaine!” she cried; “he will have to be swift of foot who overtakes me in running.” But instead of making her escape she climbed into a tree, and hid herself among the branches.

“Follow her! I swear by the Evil One that I’ll hang every one of you if she escapes!”

Mitaine now heard her enemies groping among the underwood, trying the holly and juniper bushes with the points of their swords, until at last the sound died away, and she heard no more. However, she determined on remaining in her place of concealment until dawn.

“I shall know how to recognise you this time, Master Croquemitaine! One of your fellows has lost an eye, and I have noticed that they have a Westphalian accent,” said the brave girl, as she reached the ground. “If Heaven conducts me safely to the camp of my royal sponsor, you shall be uncloaked, I will promise you on my faith!”

She knelt down, breathed her matin prayer, and resumed her way, trusting to Providence to recover her right path. When she had walked for about an hour she heard distant shouts, and the blast of a horn.

“Who can tell what I may have to encounter now? Prudence is not cowardice; so I had better conceal myself, and reconnoitre.”

Again Mitaine climbed into a tree, and watched. Before long she saw a party of soldiers approaching, exploring the forest, beating the bushes, and shouting to the full extent of their lungs. She then heard her own name, and recognised her father, who, in great alarm, headed the searchers in person. She was not long in descending from her perch, I assure you. How delighted she was to fling herself into Miton’s arms!

For a minute they occupied themselves in exchanging embraces and broken sentences, to which neither thought of listening, and which had to be begun afresh as soon as the first outbreak of joy was over. The Count of Rennes related his fears at not seeing his beloved child return on the previous evening, his alarm when Vaillant returned home alone, and how he had spent the night in searching the forest. Having said thus much, he allowed his words to give place to renewed caresses.

When they were once more on the move, Mitaine informed her father of the dangers she had escaped. She also recited her adventures to Charles.

The Emperor listened attentively, and then said to Miton—

“Count of Rennes, send out in every direction, and bid them bring before me, dead or alive, all the one-eyed men within ten leagues round.” Bodies of cavalry were dispatched in every quarter, and acted with such vigour, that by the next morning early forty blind men awaited His Majesty’s inspection. They were of all races—Franks, Jews, and Saracens. Charles examined them carefully; and when he had rejected those who seemed to him to have been blind for a long period, or those whose presence in camp for two days past was established on good evidence, he remarked, with great astonishment, that there only remained ten men in the livery of the Count of Mayence, and that they were all recently wounded in the right eye. The emperor knit his brows, and sent for Ganelon.

“Prithee, friend, can you explain to me how it is that all your men here have become blind since yesterday, and all of the same eye, too?”

“Nothing can be more simple. Because I am short-sighted.”

“You dare jest with me!” shouted the Emperor, with a voice of thunder.

“Heaven preserve me if I should!” said the count, with a low reverence. “Your Majesty will perceive that there is nothing in this at all unnatural. Having very weak sight, I am always seeking for anything that will strengthen it. I have tried all remedies, and have found only quacks in France. One physicked me; another bled me; a third invoked the devil; a fourth sent me to take the waters at Aix-la-Chapelle——”

“Speak no evil against those waters!” interposed Charlemagne, who frequently had recourse to them, and believed in them firmly.

“Some put the bones of St. Ursula on my eyes; others wished me to remain for five years in complete darkness. I had quite given up all hope of any good results, when chance flung in my way a Saracen more learned than Esculapius, or even Hermes Trismegistus himself. This wise person explained to me that in all things it was necessary to make the most of your powers; that I had only a certain strength of vision to dispose of, and that in dividing it between my two eyes I employed it without profit. It would be better for me to have one eye that saw as well as two, than two eyes which only saw as well as one; and he recommended me to have one eye put out. His discourse appeared to me so full of logic and common sense, that I gave him his freedom.”

“But that does not explain——”

“One moment’s patience, sire. The remedy appeared to me good, but extreme; and I confess I hesitated, for fear of committing a mistake which would be irreparable. It was then that I sent for these objects that you observe: they all complained of being short-sighted. I deprived them of their right eyes——”

“And—?”

“They can’t see any better now than you and I!”

“Speak for yourself, count. If you are short-sighted, I have a tolerably keen vision. It would serve you right, by St. James! if I were to have both your eyes put out for telling me such absurd nonsense. Now, I am neither an Esculapius nor a Hermes Trismegistus; but I am going to prescribe a remedy which will do you a very great deal of good. You will start, with your one-eyed warriors, for Aquitaine, where the air is said to be very beneficial to the sight, and you will take a letter for me to your friend Wolf, and bring me back an answer.”

Charlemagne thereupon turned his back on the count, who set out the same night for Toulouse.

The meeting of Miton and Milaiue

IF, my young friends, I have for some few chapters omitted mention of Roland, don’t jump at the conclusion that he did not distinguish himself during the war in Spain, for he took the most notable part in it, as you may judge for yourselves.

After three months spent in fruitless attacks, Saragossa still stood as strong as it was on the first day of the siege. The catapults and balistæ had become disabled without making the slightest impression on the ramparts. The scaling parties had been repulsed, and the stormers, hacked in pieces with daggers and lances, had been flung from the walls into the fosse, or fell among the flames of the raging fires—for burning pitch had been flung over the walls until it had covered them with a coating of bitumen as impenetrable as iron.

Roland lost patience. “Prepare everything for the storm to-morrow,” said he to Charlemagne. “In one hour the breach shall be made!” And he descended into the fosse with no other arms, offensive or defensive, than Durandal and his shield.

“Whither goes your nephew, sire?” said Turpin to Charlemagne, following Roland with his eyes. “Is he mad, or tired of life?”

“I don’t know what he is going to do, but he has bidden me have all ready for the assault, saying that within an hour the breach will be made.”

“He will do it, then, sire, as he has said it; and, by my faith! I am grateful to him, for we are beginning to grow mouldy here.”

Charles mounted his horse, and began to make his dispositions for the assault. The Saracen sentries on guard on the rampart hardly took any notice of the single warrior who approached the city; but, hearing a great noise, they leant over and saw Roland, who was hammering at the wall with repeated strokes of the pommel of Durandal.

The Saracens laughed, and asked one another what the idiot wanted.

“Shall we smash him?” said one of them, preparing to roll a huge stone over the rampart.

“What for?” said another. “Is there any reason to be afraid of him? Shouldn’t you like; to know what he has come here to do?”

Curiosity is the worst of advisers. The sentinels exposed themselves in order to see better, and four arrows struck them in the face. It was the hour of target-practice with the pages of Charlemagne.

“I am afraid this is likely to make the infidels squint!” said Mitaine, choosing a new arrow.

Roland, heedless of all that was passing around him, continued his work of destruction. The wall began at last to yawn, and the knight to smile, delighted at his success.

By-and-by the tremendous hammering excited the curiosity of the besieged, and some of the soldiers, seeing the sentinels leaning over the ramparts and never stirring, were anxious to discover what was so engrossing their attention. They in their turn leant over, and each received an arrow in his ear.

“What do you think of those ear-rings?” said Mitaine, laughing. “Were ever such lovely trinkets seen? Saint Eloi, the goldsmith, could not have fashioned finer!”

During this time Roland redoubled his force. A rent thirty cubits long began to threaten the wall with ruin. Marsillus, who was passing in the neighbourhood, felt the earth tremble beneath his feet. Every blow of the pommel of Durandal made the whole quarter of the city shake to its foundation.

“So, then,” said the King of Saragossa, “these wretches have brought new engines of war against us! Why has no one told me of this? Ebrechin, go see what it is, and hasten back with intelligence of what is passing.”

The earth continued to quake, and several houses began to tremble to their fall.

“It is not an ordinary balista at work there,” said Marsillus. “None of those in use now can deliver such hard blows.”

But hardly had the King finished his sentence when a mosque fell in ruins within a hundred paces of where he stood. Then a still more awful noise froze his blood with terror. The breach was made: Roland had kept his word.

WHILE Roland was descending into the fosse of Saragossa, Mahomet was taking his afternoon nap in his Paradise. A houri had rolled a cloud under his head, and he was snoring serenely near the fountain.

The first blow of Durandal’s pommel awoke the Prophet.

“Come in,” said he, turning round, in no pleasant humour at being disturbed. The second stroke put him out still more; and he rang for the angel Namous, and inquired of him who dared to make such an uproar.

“Great Prophet,” said the heavenly messenger, “it’s that Roland at his tricks again. He has undertaken to fling down the walls of Saragossa; and I really can’t help trembling for the fate of your followers!”

“I must see to this,” said Mahomet; “I feel certain you are exaggerating as usual, and that my brave Marsillus will not let himself be beaten by a Christian.”

The Prophet stepped down into his observatory, and turned his telescope on Saragossa.

“By the crescent! I never remember anything like it. The dog has the mien of a demigod! I am anxious to see him more closely. Etiquette and propriety will not permit me to go to him. Namous, saddle Borak, and seek Roland. Tell him I shall have much pleasure in seeing him, and don’t fail to bring him.”

The Prophet’s horse was turned out to graze in the Milky Way. Namous called him.

“Come here, Borak. You have browsed enough here; you feed too freely, and will injure yourself. A peck of stars ought to suffice you for one feed. We have got to descend to earth, and you can hardly stir. If the Blessed Prophet knew it——” With that the angel sprang into his saddle, and began to ply his spurs. In a quarter of an hour they had left the planets behind them.

When Namous alighted, Saragossa was taken and sacked; and Roland was wondering how on earth to spend the evening. The angel approached him respectfully and said, “I am Namous, the envoy and familiar minister of the Prophet. The Lord of the Iva’abah has noted you chief among the Christians, and he desires a visit from you. Be pleased, therefore, to follow me at once.”

“Your master does me a great honour, and one of which many of my brothers in arms are more deserving than I. You must convey to him my excuses, and tell him that I lead a very quiet life; that I have my religious duties to attend to; that, in short, I don’t go much into society.”

“The Prophet will very justly feel surprised and hurt at such an answer. He will demand of me the real reason of your refusal. Are you afraid you may be led astray by the beauties of his paradise?”

“If you had known Aude, my beloved Aude, that foolish notion would never have crossed your mind.”

“Are you afraid of a trip through the air?”

“If I thought I might tumble I would set out at once. Fear is a complete stranger to me; but I have heard of it so often that I should be anxious to make its acquaintance.”

“You are fatigued with your day’s work, perhaps?”

“Offer me an opponent worthy of my sword, and you shall see if it is possible to weary Roland.”

The angel bowed, and prepared to spring into his saddle again. The attention of the Count of Mans was attracted by Borak, who fretted, pranced, champed his bit, and pawed the ground, impatient to return to his celestial stable.

“What a fine animal!” said Roland, admiringly.

In truth, one rarely sees one so handsome. Borak was a fine-limbed, high-standing horse, strong in frame, and with a coat as glossy as marble which is constantly laved by a fountain. His colour was saffron, with one hair of gold for every three of tawny; his ears were restless, pointed like a reed; his eyes large, and full of fire; his nostrils wide and steaming, with a white star on his forehead, a neck gracefully arched, and decked with a mane soft and silky enough to make a young girl envious. He had a long, thick tail, that swept the ground.

“It is the Prophet’s favourite mount. He has sent it in your especial honour.”

Roland was touched at the delicate attention.

“I wished,” continued the angel, “to bring you some quieter animal; but Mahomet said you were the best rider he knew, and he was sure you would be able to master it. At the same time,” added Namous, treacherously, “if it be that which stops you, I can provide you with other means of transport.”

The Count of Mans simply shrugged his shoulders, and by way of answer leaped into the saddle—despite the weight of his armour—without setting foot in stirrup, or putting hand to mane. Borak swerved an instant, then dashed into space, scaling the cloud-mountains at full gallop. The angel spread his wings, and took the lead.

When Roland recovered the surprise, he was as high as the constellation Scorpio. He felt anger would be out of place; so, assuring himself that Durandal was at his side, he resigned himself to circumstances.

The journey was made without difficulty. Only once was the knight in danger of falling, when Borak, scared by a shooting star, which passed between his legs, almost unseated him with a buck-jump. At length, after an ascent of half an hour, the steed paused, while the angel knocked at the largest of the eight gates of Paradise. As soon as it opened Roland uttered a cry of admiration.

How can I—with only human language—describe to you so many superhuman wonders? I ought first of all to tell you that all the faculties of our brave knight acquired an immense augmentation on passing the threshold of Paradise. His sight, for instance, although good enough, had only permitted him on earth to distinguish objects at an inconsiderable distance. Imagine his surprise on beholding clearly and minutely the most tiny creatures six or seven hundred leagues off—and that without the laws of perspective being in the least degree deranged. The same thing occurred with regard to hearing and smelling. He used subsequently to relate the pleasure with which he smelt the perfume of a flower which had just come in bloom in a neighbouring state, while listening at the same time to the song of a bird which was warbling at the opposite pole. His mind, too, had become so enlarged that he felt no inconvenience from this vastly increased acuteness of the senses. At one glance he gazed over two thousand square parasangs of country, each parasang being something larger than a league. The virgin forests of America are but brushwood compared with those he beheld. On all sides were cities of shining whiteness, surmounted by thousands of spires and cupolas of gold and silver. At the foot of their walls flowed majestic rivers, in which the Rhine, the Euphrates, and the Nile would have been swallowed up. Nothing which troubles the inhabitants of earth existed in this enchanted clime. The lion, the tiger, the serpent, and the leopard were but the ornaments of the forest. They fed upon the green herbage, and submitted to human rule with perfect docility. There was no wind—only a gentle breeze; no storms—only perfumed showers. It was an Italian climate beneath an Egyptian sky!

A winged band, commanded by Israfel, the angel of the resurrection, came to meet Roland.

“The Prophet has sent us to you to announce his approach. Will you follow us, or will you await him here?”

“I will follow you,” said Roland, joining the troop. He saw with wonder that the forests retired to make way for him; the rivers changed their courses on his approach. He wished to assure himself that this was not a deception of the mirage, and galloped rapidly towards a lake which lay beside his route. His horse did not refuse the leap, but the water respectfully drew back, and he alighted on level and thickly-blossomed sward.

Israfel, remarking Roland’s astonishment, said, “The Prophet has taken care that all here shall do you homage. He is aware that you go through life, as through battle, straight at your mark, and he wished to prove that he knew your tastes and habits.”

Roland continued his progress until he met the procession, when he halted to let it pass. The ground, before he was aware of it, rose beneath his horse’s feet, and he found himself in a minute on a mound, from which he gazed down on the crowd. Israfel made a sign: two trees at once sprang from the soil, and afforded the knight a pleasant shade. The Count of Mans, in silent astonishment, watched the procession without stirring.

First came a thousand horsemen, each bearing a white and ruby banner, and mounted on a white charger. Next to these came a thousand more, clad in suits of mail, armed with maces, and riding on bay horses; behind them came two thousand Berbers from the regions of Timbuctoo, who brandished lances with green pennons, and bore sword-proof bucklers of rhinoceros hide. Their steeds were as black as their faces. Then followed three thousand more horsemen, with serpent-skin girdles. They carried hide shields, and had bows hung at their saddle-pommels. Long lances, furnished with sharp barbs, gleamed in their hands; their horses were cream-coloured. To these succeeded an army composed of soldiers, as many in number as there are drops in the sky; some were armed with spears or bills, others with javelins or maces. A hundred paces behind these came eight thousand elephants, in ranks of twenty-five abreast, the first line white, the second black, and so on.

On the back of each was a tower, containing twenty armed men. Behind these, again, came thirty white elephants, covered with golden stars, and so richly caparisoned you could hardly look at them without winking. On these were borne the favourite wives of the Prophet, twenty on each elephant. Canopies of dazzling whiteness, raised upon silver columns, shielded them from the sun. Ten thousand chosen warriors formed their escort. Last came an endless number of camels, laden with palanquins, whose curtains fluttered in the breeze. Each animal was led by a richly-clad Ethiopian, who held the zimzam, or nose-bridle, in his hands. In each palanquin ten houris, far more lovely than anything you can conceive, fluttered their feather fans.

Then followed twenty thousand dancing girls, attired in light drapery, with bare arms and legs. You saw, as they moved, among their tresses and round their necks, coruscations of precious stones, so bright you were compelled to shade your eyes. The bracelets that quivered on their wrists, the bangles that gleamed on their ankles, kept up a musical and enticing tinkling.

Shall I enumerate to you the multitude of female performers on the guitar, the tambourine, and the mandolin, and of the singers as well? Of what use is it to crowd the page with strings of numerals?

These houris were of no common origin. Mahomet had formed their bodies of musk, saffron, amber, and frankincense. Their faces were so radiant with beauty, that they diffused a gentle splendour in the night, like the moon when she mounts above the horizon amid the mists of earth. Their voices were so sweet, that every syllable which fell from their lips was precious.

After these beauties came the Prophet, attired in a green robe, and seated on a white palfrey. He was dressed with the greatest simplicity, and far from showily mounted, and yet one felt an inward inclination to bend the knee to him as he passed. On his right hand rode his grandsire, Abd el Motalleb; on his left his father, Abdallah; and he was surrounded by Ali, his cousin and most warm disciple; by Said, his adopted heir; by the four sages of Mecca—Waraca, Othman, Obaydallah, and Zaid; by the fiery Omar, the faithful Aboubeker, and thousands of others just as famous.

A hundred thousand horsemen brought up the rear of the cavalcade.

As the troops took up their positions, the scenery underwent a complete change, unobserved of Roland, who was absorbed in watching the procession. When he cast a look around him, he beheld himself surrounded by mountains whose summits were beyond his ken. These gigantic heights, which were composed of gneiss, mica, agate, onyx, trap, and porphyry were clothed halfway up by forests whose flora comprised the growths of all climes. The vast baobab spread its branches in close contiguity to an island of palms, which displayed their delicate foliage against the blue sky. The silvery mohonono contrasted well with the dark motsouri; the moupanda-panda of Central Africa, the jacquier of Malacca, the oak of Europe, mingled their boughs. Rivers, whose source was hidden in the clouds, bounded from rock to rock, flinging up at every obstacle crests of feathery spray, spanned by rainbows.

The troops occupied positions on the heights. Roland beheld clouds of warriors proudly occupying apparently inaccessible peaks. The elephants were drawn up in two lines, four thousand in each, and the thirty white elephants of the Prophet’s favourites were grouped in front of them. And now angels appeared, who, spreading their wide wings, offered their aid to enable the six hundred chosen beauties to dismount. They alighted close to the Count of Mans, before whom they bowed low, and then took their places on a carpet spread for them on his right. The camels came next, and knelt down gently, whereupon the houris sprang from their palanquins with a lightness and grace which astonished Roland more than all. Their feet hardly left an imprint in the sand. Like the favourites of the harem, they also approached Roland, and, kissing the ground before him, ranged themselves on his left. Then like a flood advanced the troop of celestial dancers, tripping along to the sound of castanets, flutes, theorbos, timbrels, guitars, and mandolins, amid loud singing, accompanied by the most lively strains of music.

The animation of their movements increased or diminished according to the rhythm, which they marked by accurate beats of the foot and clapping of hands, in slow or quick time. Their eyes were now filled with soft languor—now darted glances of fire. Balancing themselves from the hips, they swung their bodies and waved their arms with ease and grace. At times a comb, unable to imprison such a wealth of tresses, fell out, and freed locks that were as dark as the night.

But now the Prophet gave the signal: the dances ceased, and the houris flew, like a flock of frightened birds, to take their position opposite Roland, and under shelter of the elephants.

Mahomet, in his turn, drew nearer to the nephew of Charlemagne, who immediately dismounted—an act of courtesy to age he invariably observed.

“May Allah, who has made all things of earth and heaven, of day and night, extend his blessing to you in this world and in the one you inhabit! You are welcome,” said the Prophet! “I must ask your pardon for the poverty of this reception, as our meeting has been arranged at such short notice that I have only had time to bring as my suite a few of my immediate followers, and the troops which happen to be my guard of honour for the day. Besides, I feared that in surrounding myself with too great pomp, I might seem to be offering a defiance to a late enemy, whom I only desire to make a friend of. If I have not treated you with more ceremony, it is because I wish to treat you like a brother.”

Roland made a wry face, which the Prophet thought it convenient to attribute to the glare of the sun in his eyes, and therefore made a sign to four angels, who immediately flew off and spread a rosy cloud before the luminary. .

“I accept your explanation,” said Roland, coolly, half doubting whether the Prophet were not making fun of him. “I have equal need of pardon; but if I have come without a fitting retinue, you must attribute it to my desire to answer your invitation promptly.”

After this exchange of courtesies, Roland commenced the conversation by saying, “You will forgive me if I beg you at once to inform me what it is that has obtained me the honour of this interview, as I am in a hurry to return to earth. I mount guard to-night in the Emperor’s tent, and I never like to fail in the performance of duty.”

“Never fear,” said Mahomet; “I’ll have the sun put back. We have all time for our interview.”

“I am all attention.”

“There is not a more valiant knight than you living. Your single arm is worth an army. Your judgment is sound, your decision speedy——”

“How much do you expect for this panegyric? I warn you, before you go any further, not to set too high a price on it, as I have a clear estimate of my modest worth.”

“I am in the habit of giving far more than I get, so fear not, but suffer me to proceed. In my youth I was called El Amin—‘the Safe Man.’ I know that I possess a generous soul, and that none can be more loyal than you.”

“This eulogy is evidently the prologue of some treason you are going to ask of me.”

“If it be treason to leave a bad cause for a good one, to renounce attempts which are futile, and to accept good fortune when it is offered, I have, in effect, treason to propose to you.”

“By the Trinity! but you are putting a high price on compliments for which nobody asked you!”

“I swear by the holy mountain—by the temple of pilgrimage—by the vault of heaven and the depths of ocean—that the divine vengeance is about to fall! nothing can delay it. The convulsed skies shall totter! the uprooted mountains shall move! I swear by the resting-place of the star—”

“Of a truth, here is plenty of fine words!” said Roland, shrugging his shoulders. “When we gallant Christian knights make a statement, they believe us without our having to call in the aid of the sky, and sea, and stars.”

“As surely as I overthrew the three idols of Mecca, Lata, Aloza, and Menât, the Christians shall be driven from Spain, and their lands invaded. Their army shall be dispersed, and shall fly shamefully. Their hour is come, and it will be bitter and terrible.”

“I have read all that in the Koran,” answered Roland, who felt his patience failing him. “But that does not say what you want of me, or why you are thus wasting my time. Since the future is revealed to you, and you are so certain of our approaching overthrow, there can be no obstacle to my returning to my post.”

“Yes, the future is ours. You alone delay the coming of the day of glory. We shall conquer, but while you live it will be only at the price of terrible sacrifices that we can purchase victory. Why persist in returning to a world in which death awaits you? I offer you the sovereignty of this realm, its wealth, its women, its warriors. The inhabitants of air, earth, and water, the stars which move in the firmament—all that is gifted with reason or instinct, essence and matter—in one word, everything shall belong to you and owe to you unreserved obedience. If the sun annoys you, the moon shall take its place. Give but the sign, and rivers shall dry up to let you pass. A population more vast than all the nations of earth put together shall live only to serve you. These warriors are brave.”

“Of what use is their bravery if they have no enemies to contend with?”

“These horses are more swift than the wind.”

“Of what service is their speed, since there is here no goal that I desire to reach?”

“These women are lovely.”

“Their beauty is sheer waste, for I do not love them!”

“Durandal is famous on earth, and yet the humblest of these soldiers could cut it in two with the edge of his poniard.”

“Enough!” interposed Roland. “I have already told you I am in a hurry. You have not, I imagine, the impudence to suppose you are rich enough in wonders to induce me to commit a base action—your Allah himself would be ashamed of such a thing. You have told me I am the bravest of living knights: should I be so if I feared the death you threaten me with? ‘My single arm is worth a whole army,’ you add. Have I any right, then, to deprive my comrades of its aid at that moment, of all others, when you profess that they are in danger? ‘My judgment is sound:’ allow me to offer you a further proof of it by laughing at your menaces, and predicting your complete overthrow. Mahomet and Jupiter will soon meet and shake hands, and the crescent will be sent where the old moons go.”

“You will not listen?”

“I have heard too much already!”

“Behold these lovely creatures, who stretch out their arms towards you!

“They but make me see how far lovelier my Aude is.”

“See the lands I offer you!”

“What is a region of wonders compared with the spot where a man was born?”

“Roland, by the faith of Mahomet! you shall never again behold the land of France!”

“I am a Christian, besides being a Frenchman. The native land to which I aspire is Heaven, and that birthplace you cannot prevent me from beholding once more.”

“Infidel hound!” said the Prophet, “I——” But the words were such as Roland could not listen to patiently. Mahomet did not finish his sentence, for the gauntlet of the knight smote him on the mouth.

I AM unable to tell you what followed. Even Roland had no clear recollection. When he recovered his senses, he rose and cast his eyes round him, to find himself in the midst of a vast sandy plain, stretching on all sides to the horizon. The sun poured its hostile rays upon him so fiercely, that in a few minutes his armour became insupportably hot. The atmosphere was so charged with electricity, that the plume of his helmet crackled, and gave out sparks. In vain he searched the horizon for a place of shelter—there was nothing to be seen but level plain and blue sky. Gigantic red ants came and went busily—they were the only occupants of this desert. All of a sudden he beheld before him in the distance white mosques, knots of palms, and a sea-port with some vessels at anchor, and others sailing out of the harbour. He saw, too, long caravans, which journeyed to the city gates.

Roland felt his courage revive, and set out in the direction of the city. But he did not appear to come any the closer to it; he took to running until he fell down with fatigue on the burning sand. Then the city seemed to turn of a yellow hue, the blue of the sea grew paler, and was lost in that of the sky; the trees vanished, and the Count of Mans found himself once more alone in the desert.

“Why come to a halt?” said he to himself. “Better move forward in any direction at hap-hazard. I can only gain by the change.”

He rose, determined to struggle on as long as his limbs would sustain him. What was his surprise to see, in an opposite direction to that he had just been pursuing, a mountain covered with verdure, on the summit of which stood a castle! Three walls of circumvallation surrounded it. At the foot of each flowed a river covered with vessels of war. Three hanging ladders of marvellous workmanship united the three platforms of the fortress, and four bastions guarded the approach to each ladder.

Roland once more pushed on; but as he advanced, the fortress rose into the skies, until, after about an hour’s walking, he found himself with nothing before him save the blank horizon of the desert. Then despair seized him. He sank on his knees, crossed himself, and shed four tears, the first he had ever wept. They fell on the sand, and there formed four springs for a stream of cool and clear water. Roland received from this new vigour, and having rendered thanks to Providence, he was preparing to move forward, when he remarked with surprise a great stirring of the sand. Little clouds of dust began to rise in all directions, although there was not a breath stirring. Then the sand began to whirl round incessantly, marking a great circle at a short distance from our hero.

As it began to whirl, it heaped itself up, drawn towards the centre by some strange force of attraction. You would have said that some gigantic polypus was sucking up all the sand of the desert. After a few minutes there mounted, still eddying round, a huge column, which grew as Roland watched it, until the summit was lost to sight in the sky. A hot wind, like the harmattan of the Guinea coast, rose and drove the sand before it in clouds. The sun turned red as molten iron.

The pillar of sand at last lost its equilibrium, and fell with a horrible rushing sound. Roland closed his eyes, but he did not recoil. Hearing a great roar of laughter, he instinctively clutched his sword by the hilt. What he saw next induced him to draw it from its sheath.

The sand, in falling, had reared a mound, the base of which formed an enormous circle, in the centre of which Roland perceived, with surprise, a huge monster buried in sand to his waist. It was Eblis, the Devil of the East.

His Majesty was a hundred feet in height, which is a respectable size, even for a demon of the highest rank. His black skin, striped with red, was covered with small scales, which made it glisten like armour. His hair was so long and curly, a snake might have lost its way in it. His flat nose was pierced with a ring of admirable workmanship, as you see done to the wild bulls of the Roman Campagna. His white teeth, set with precious stones, gave to his smile a very variegated appearance. His small eyes assumed, one after the other, all the prismatic colours, which made it impossible to sustain his gaze. His ears, which exactly resembled those of an elephant, flapped on his shoulders; but he had, to make up for it, a tail sixty feet long, terminating in a hooked claw, which could have wielded the Monument easily as a toothpick.

Eblis had no other covering than his wings, which were large, soft, and marvellously pliable, and in which he delighted to wrap himself. Conceive, further, that a phosphorescent gleam played incessantly over the monster’s skin, and you will easily understand why Roland unsheathed Durandal.

Eblis was writhing with laughter.

“I haven’t roared so through all eternity, upon my honour! Here, I say, my little man, do you know you have just done a master-stroke?”

This familiar tone displeased Roland.

“I have just met Mahomet,” continued Eblis, “and you have broken five of his front teeth. I have seen a good many prophets in my time, but I vow, on the faith of the accursed, I never saw one in such a rage. I have, in honour of the blow, given three days’ holiday in the infernal regions. There will be concerts, balls, hunts, and theatres. I have had written, by one of our best authors, a little comedy in the style of Apollodorus, in the last scene of which Mahomet receives a hundred strokes of the bastinado. I have given orders to an army of cooks; you can hear even here a rattle of stew-pans altogether refreshing. I will undertake to let you see we are not so backward in this respect as people pretend. You will meet with many old friends among the guests; we have quite a crowd of visitors just now. My wife, who is a lively one, will be delighted to make your acquaintance. Come, let me present you to her as the best of my friends.”

“Babbler!” exclaimed Roland, but little flattered at these marks of friendship. “What right have you to address me in this style?”

Eblis, who was not accustomed to be treated so cavalierly, was dumb with surprise for a moment.

“By my father’s horns!” said he, at last, “I must have misunderstood you. Give me your hand, Roland, to disabuse me of the error.”

He stretched out his tail to the knight, who, however, only drew back a few steps.

“What, puny wretch!” shrieked Eblis, turning as white with rage as it was possible for one so black to do. “I shall send you back to earth. Do you think I am of the same stuff as Mahomet?”

“But here Roland flung his second gauntlet in the demon’s face.

“That makes the pair!” said the nephew of Charlemagne, placing himself in an attitude of defence.

“Zacoum Zimzim Galarabak!” shouted Eblis, mad with fury. (You must know that is the most terrible oath that can be uttered in the Saracen tongue.) The earth shook and gaped at Roland’s feet. He felt himself launched into space. His armour suddenly became icy cold.

“If I get back without an attack of rheumatism I shall be lucky,” said the knight.

He heard around him the flapping of wings; it was a troop of afreets and djins.

“Reflect, Roland. There is yet time. Mahomet is prepared to forgive you.”

All the answer Roland vouchsafed was the intoning of the canticle—

“Sub tuum Fræsidium confugimus.”

“In a few moments your body will be dashed to pieces on earth. Remember the wondrous things the Prophet offered to share with you.”

“Sancta Dei genitrix; nostras deprecationes ne despicias,” continued Roland. And now it seemed to him that, instead of falling at hazard, he was being gently carried. The chorus of afreets and djins was left far behind, but he still heard the sound of pinions.

“Set your mind at rest,” said a voice so exquisitely musical that Roland trembled to hear it. “I am the Archangel Michael. Our Blessed Lady has sent me to preserve you. She had been touched by your constancy and courage. Repose in safety on my wings, and we shall soon reach earth.”

And, in truth, in a few minutes’ time the Count of Mans, to his astonishment, found himself before Saragossa. He was at prayer in his tent when he heard the voice of Miton.

“My dear Roland, where are you?” cried the Count of Rennes, anxiously.

“Here I am,” said the knight, hurrying to his friend.

“Charlemagne, who knows how punctual you are, seeing you were ten minutes behind your time to take on your guard, has sent to look for you in every direction. You are pale, my dear Count; what has happened to you?”

“I will tell you all about it,” said Roland, as he hastened to his post near the Emperor.

CHARLEMAGNE had an excellent memory. He never omitted to ponder over the dangers to which Mitaine was exposed at every turn. He had the scene of the late ambush carefully searched by his spies in the first place, and afterwards by his soldiers. All, on their return, made the same report. They said the forest was inhabited, and there was a good deal of talk about a castle called “The Fortress of Fear,” which was to be found somewhere in the neighbourhood, although nobody they met with had seen it. None, however, doubted its existence. If a child disappeared, or any cattle were carried off, the trembling peasants said, “The Lord of Fear-fortress had taken them.” If a fire broke out anywhere, it was the Lord of Fear-fortress who must have lit it. The origin of all accidents, mishaps, catastrophes, or disasters was traced to the mysterious owner of this invisible castle.

“I should like to have the mystery cleared up,” said Charlemagne to himself. “I can hardly resign myself to the belief that it is Ganelon, my old brother-in-arms.”

He called his knights together.

“My faithful champions, I need four of you for a perilous adventure, I know not where I am sending you—I know not whether you will return. Who will risk death for my good favour?”

All the knights at once flung themselves at his feet, each entreating the Emperor to honour him with his choice.

“You place me in a difficult position,” said the Emperor, greatly moved; “I see that chance must point out the four champions. I can without fear trust to it, for you are all equally brave.”

The names of all the knights present were put into a helmet, and Mitaine played the part of Destiny to the best of her power, little thinking she was choosing her own champions and avengers. The first name she called out was that of Allegrignac of Cognac, Count of Salençon and Saintonge.

“The lot suits me admirably,” said the Emperor, giving a friendly wave of his hand to the knight. “You know the language of the country, and will be a safe guide for your companions.”

Mitaine next named the Baron of Mont-Rognon, Lord of Bourglastic, Tortebesse, and elsewhere.

“This is indeed a capital choice! There is no stouter arm in the Arvennes than yours; and if there be a postern to be burst open by a powerful shoulder, you will be there, Mont-Rognon.”

“Porc-en-Truie, Lord of Machavoine,” cried Mitaine.

“I am in luck to-day, by St. James! You are known to be experienced, Porc-en-Truie, and you will conduct the adventure, I entrust to you, to a prosperous end, I feel sure. But I am curious to know who is my fourth champion.”

“Maragougnia, Count of Rioin,” said Mitaine.

“Now we have wisdom, strength, and cunning. Maragougnia can give the serpent points at wisdom, and beat him. If I do not succeed with such knights I shall despair altogether.”

Charlemagne withdrew with his four champions, told them of the perils to which his god-child had been exposed, the investigation he had instituted, the suspicions he had entertained; and finally, he spoke of the Fortress of Fear, winding up in these terms:—

“I am anxious to square accounts with this Croquemitaine. You will pass through the forest till you arrive at Alagon, a little hamlet on the banks of the Ebro. There you will inquire for the Fonda del Caïman, or, if you prefer it, the sign of the Crocodile. You will there rest yourselves for a short time, and then set out on your quests. You, Allegrignac, striking off from the river, will pursue your course towards Pampeluna. You, Mont-Rognon, will proceed in the direction of Catalyud; and look out for the Saracens, my friend, who on that side are disgusted enough with the trouble we have given them. You, Porc-en-Truie, will make for Fuentes. If you are guided by me, you will travel by night only, and conceal yourself carefully by day. You will appreciate my counsel when once you are on the road. You, finally, my gallant Maragougnia, will have to direct your steps towards Lerida, but you will not go beyond the river Alcander. I have reserved this expedition for you because it is the most hazardous—there, you need not thank me. I understand you! Quarter the country in every direction, and find out for me this Fortress of Fear. He who brings me the head of its dreaded lord shall be created a baron and peer of my realm.”

The Emperor replenished the purses of his champions, and took leave of them with an embrace. When they’ found themselves alone they interchanged looks of bewilderment.

“What do you think of that?” said Porc-en-Truie, with a grimace.

“That I shall be a duke,” said Allegrignac, cutting a caper. “This adventure won’t take me a minute!”

“To think that we must set out to-night!” said Mont-Rognon, in tones of regret; “and to think that I have ordered a splendid supper for to-night, which my fellows will get the benefit of!”

“To think that we shall none of us ever come back again!” said Maragougnia, in a melancholy voice, as he wiped away a tear with the sleeve of his chain-mail.

“Pshaw! who knows?” broke in Porc-en-Truie, with a smile. “Let us set out, and then we can see!”

They appointed to meet on the borders of the forest, and within an hour afterwards they’ were all on the spot, equipped for war or for travel.

Porc-en-Truie, Lord of Machavoine, was a great fellow of thirty years of age, more skilled in avoiding blows than in dealing them. He invariably shirked all his military duties, not because he was a coward, but because he was incorrigibly idle. He had been known to tramp three hours afoot to save himself the trouble of saddling his horse, and he had killed his dearest friend in a tournament, in order to terminate a long and fatiguing tilting match. He arrived at the rendezvous on horseback, with no weapon but his sword.

“How imprudent!” cried Allegrignac, the moment he saw him coming. “Are we going to a wedding only, or are you desirous of emulating Miton’s great feat at the Tourney of Fronsac?”

“I hate a load of weapons, and I don’t mean to kill myself for this Mitaine—for whom, between you and me, I don’t care a grain of mustard-seed!”

Allegrignac of Cognac, Count of Salençon, was twenty-five years of age, and six feet six high. He had an open countenance, a stout heart, an untiring tongue, limbs of steel, a stomach of leather, and a very slender patrimony. His hair was curly, his teeth were white. He was as proud as a Spaniard, as brave as a Frenchman, as simple-minded as a goose. He was possessed of a pleasant contralto voice, a cheerful spirit, and a grey horse called Serenade.

Picture to yourself a figure clad in complete steel, and with weapons of vast weight, like one of those armed and bandy-legged giants you see in a procession of trades, capable of lifting enormous weights, not to mention cattle, and any other unconsidered trifles he could lay hands on, and you have a portrait of the Baron of Mont-Rognon, Lord of Bourglastic, Tortebesse, and elsewhere. This huge mass of muscle existed only to eat and drink. He was a descendant of Esau on his father’s side, and of Gargantua on his mother’s. He once performed a gigantic feat—he killed six hundred Saracens who happened to get in his way as he was going to dinner. He had an elastic stomach, and a mouth armed with four rows of teeth.

Having described his stomach and his mouth,

I need not go on with the likeness, for all that remained were mere incidental appurtenances.

He arrived third at the place of meeting, leading by the halter a mule laden with provisions and bottles.

“What’s this?” said Allegrignac, laughingly.

“That!” said Mont-Rognon, offended at his bluntness. “That’s supper.”

“What’s the use of that?” said Porc-en-Truie.

Mont-Rognon the Monstrous.

Mont-Rognon in a hurry for his dinner

“Charlemagne has ordered us to perish for him,” broke in the Lord of Bourglastic, “but he did not stipulate that we should perish of hunger.”

Maragougnia, Count of Riom, was the last to arrive. He was equipped in the most gloomy style. His armour was of browned steel, sprinkled with silver tears. From the coronet that surmounted his helmet sprang a few mangy black feathers, which drooped over his shoulders like the branches of a weeping willow, and all the rest of his accoutrements were to match.

He had one extraordinary quality, which was his strong point—instead of making him lose his head, fear only gave him increased presence of mind. They related deeds of prowess of his which were, in reality, only prodigies of cowardice. He did everything with a profound air of melancholy. His first wife, they say, died of yawning; the second perished of sheer weariness in three weeks.

Behind him came a page, who might be considered to have originated the sombre livery worn nine hundred years later by the page of the Duchess of Marlborough.*

* Vide “Malbrouck:”—

“Elle voit venir son page
De unir tout habillé.”