“O Guottibuoffi!” exclaimed he, “behold thy prophecies come true! behold the last day of the glory of Charles!  Every where I see the arms of the traitors around us.  I feel Paris tremble all the way through France, to the ground beneath my feet.  O Malagigi, too much in the right wert thou!  O devil Gan, this then is the consummation of thy good offices!”

Uliviero put spurs to his horse, and galloped back down the mountain to Orlando.

“Well,” cried the hero, “what news?”

“Bad news,” said his cousin; “such as you would not hear of yesterday.  Marsilius is here in arms, and all the world has come with him.”

The Paladins pressed round Orlando, and entreated him to sound his horn, in token that he needed help.  His only answer was, to mount his horse, and ride up the mountain with Sansonetto.

As soon, however, as he cast forth his eyes and beheld what was round about him, he turned in sorrow, and looked down into Roncesvalles, and said, “O valley, miserable indeed! the blood that is shed in thee this day will colour thy name for ever.”

Many of the Paladins had ridden after him, and they again pressed him to sound his horn, if only in pity to his own people.  He said, “If Caesar and Alexander were here, Scipio and Hannibal, and Nebuchadnezzar with all his flags, and Death stared me in the face with his knife in his hand, never would I sound my horn for the baseness of fear.”

Orlando’s little camp were furious against the Saracens.  They armed themselves with the greatest impatience.  There was nothing but lacing of helmets and mounting of horses; and good Archbishop Turpin went from rank to rank, exhorting and encouraging the warriors of Christ.  Accoutrements and habiliments were put on the wrong way; words and deeds mixed in confusion; men running against one another out of very absorption in themselves; all the place full of cries of “Arm! arm! the enemy!” and the trumpets clanged over all against the mountain-echoes.

Orlando and his captains withdrew for a moment to consultation.  He fairly groaned for sorrow, and at first had not a word to say; so wretched he felt at having brought his people to die in Roncesvalles.

Uliviero spoke first.  He could not resist the opportunity of comforting himself a little in his despair, with referring to his unheeded advice.

“You see, cousin,” said he, “what has come at last.  Would to God you had attended to what I said; to what Malagigi said; to what we all said!  I told you Marsilius was nothing but an anointed scoundrel.  Yet forsooth, he was to bring us tribute! and Charles is this moment expecting his mummeries at St. John Pied de Port!  Did ever any body believe a word that Gan said, but Charles?  And now you see this rotten fruit has come to a head;—­this medlar has got its crown.”