Chapter XX: Death of Sir Roland the Brave

In front of the many valleys opening out from under the dark range of the Pyrenees, they met--the Gaul and the Spaniard. The Emperor Charlemagne with good cause curses the fickleness of the King of Leon, who had invited him to inherit his kingdom, and instead came out to offer him battle. Personally, he is not mentioned as taking part in the battle--indeed, it is said he was encamped eight miles off, near Fontarabia, but he sent forward the flower of his chivalry, those doughty paladins, to be sung by the romanceros and troubadours to all time: Guarinos, ferocious Ferragol, Sir Oliver the Gentle, handsome Gayferos, and Roland the Brave, who went mad for the love of Angelica, mounted on a powerful steed, which bounds and caracoles as if preparing for a tourney, firmly ruled with one hand, while with the other he carried aloft his famous sword Durindana, followed by his vassals and retainers, in short hauberks and upright caps, with round targets like the Moors.

The two armies met on undulating ground, descending from the chain of the Pyrenees in front of the Pass of Roncesvalles--through which the French had marched into Spain confident of victory--a close and terrible defile, narrow and deep, cleft into precipitous cliffs following from St. Jean de Luz and the defile of Guvarni on the French side, among almost impassable gorges, which back the city of Pampeluna close on the province of Cantabria, the land of Pelayo.

As a forest of lances and spears set on a plain of gold did the glittering helmets look from afar in the radiance of the sunshine, darkened by clouds of arrows, and the blades of javelins and lances cutting the light of day as the ranks closed in deadly strife of quivering spears and flying pennons falling round wounded horses, the blast of trumpets and cries of dying men.

And gallantly did the King of Leon bear himself, the jewelled crown on his _morion_ shining out in the thick of the battle, Favila and Ricardo fighting by his side, when lo! a company of Gallic lords bore down with such force as to leave the king alone, face to face with a knight in dark armour, taller than the rest, a steel helmet pressing on his fiery eyes, and the bars of his vizor raised that all might know him, as he brandished a sword no other man could wield.

“Where,” cries this terrible paladin known as Sir Roland the Brave, flashing fire as he whirls his good sword Durindana in the air, “is that perjured Goth, Alonso of Leon, who bids strangers to his land and seeks to slay them?”

“If you mean me,” answers Alonso, spurring forward, “I am here to answer the charge.”

“Then make short shrift, false king,” cries Roland, “for traitor and felon you are to Charlemagne, and as such you shall die.”

In courage the king is not wanting, but he stands almost alone; several of the knights about him are dismounted, and swarms of the enemy are gathering about them where they lie. Already the swords strike fire, but he is soon in evil plight; Durindana has cleft the crown on his head-piece and wounded his good charger. The weakness of his blows show that he is no match for such an antagonist. Alonso staggers in the saddle, when Bernardo, pounding through the centre of the Gothic knights as with the shock of a thunderbolt, spurs forward.

“Shame on you, Sir Paladin,” he shouts, “as a craven. Are you blind, that you see not the king’s arm is stiff with age? Turn now the fury of your weapon on me, Bernardo del Carpio.”

“I know you not, vain boy,” is the reply, eyeing Bernardo with disdain. “Get you a beard upon your chin before you feel the steel of Durindana.”

“Come on!” shouts Bernardo, glaring at him through the bars of his helmet. “I promise you, you shall know me all too soon for your glory. I am a man in search of death.”

The onslaught is so furious that blood flows in the first encounter; the horses are disabled by the shock. To extricate themselves is the work of a moment, and on their feet they fight.

Then Bernardo, round whose head the good sword Durindana flashes dangerously near, seizes a battle-axe from the hands of a warrior lying lifeless at his feet, and gathering all his strength, deals such a blow on Sir Roland that the steel pierces down upon his neck, and stretches him, mortally wounded, on the ground.

Smitten to death, like a pious Christian he prepares to yield up his soul to God. But first, collecting all his strength, he clutches his faithful sword and thus addresses it: “O sword of unparalleled brightness, fair Durindana, with hilt of ivory and cross of gold, on which is graven the name of God--whom now wilt thou call master? He that possessed thee was never conquered before; nor daunted by foes, nor appalled by phantoms. O happy sword, never was a fellow made like thee! That thou shalt never fall into the hands of a craven or an infidel, I will smite thee on a rock in twain.” And so he did, in the throes of death as he was, cleaving the weapon in twain and flinging it afar. The “_Breach of Roland_,” in the Pyrenees, is noted from that day. Then, raising the horn slung over his corselet to his lips, with fast-ebbing breath he blew a blast so shrill that the sound reached even to Charlemagne’s camp, who, ignorant of the great disaster, lay in

the valley of Fontarabia awaiting the issue of the battle.

At length those eyes called by the minstrels, “the bright stars of battle and victory,” close in death, the hands drop which could root up live trees, the noble form stiffens as he lay with outstretched arms in the form of the cross, the sword-hilt of Durindana and the bugle by his side.

Not only Roland, but the gentle Oliver lost his life, and the grim admiral, Guarino, was taken prisoner, so that the Franks lost heart and retreated into the mountain paths by which they came. A terrible massacre ensues, led by Bernardo, and to this day Roncesvalles is known as the “Valley of the Pass of Blood.”