perished to a man in this ambuscade.  “The news of this disaster,” says Eginhard, in his Annales, “obscured the glory of the successes the king had but lately obtained in Spain.”  This fact, with large amplifications, became the source of popular legends and songs, which, probably towards the end of the eleventh century, became embodied in the Song of Roland, attributed, in two manuscripts, but without any certainty, to a certain Thuroulde (Turold), Abbot of Malmesbury and Peterborough under William the Conqueror.  It must suffice to reproduce here only the most beautiful and most characteristic passages of this little national epopee, a truly Homeric picture of the quasi-barbarous times and manners of knightly Christendom.

The eighty-second strophe of the poem commences thus: 

“‘Of Paynim yonder, saw I more,’
Quoth Oliver, ’than e’er before
The eye of man hath seen
An hundred thousand are a-field,
With helm and hauberk, lance and shield,
And pikes and pike-heads gleaming bright;
Prepare for fight, a fiercer fight
Than ever yet hath been. 
Blow Olifant, friend Roland, blow,
That Charles and all his host may know.’

“To whom Sir Roland in reply: 
’A madman, then, good faith, were I
For I should lose all countenance
Throughout the pleasant land of France
Nay, rather, facing great and small,
I’ll smite amain with Durandal,
Until the blade, with blood that’s spilt,
Is crimson to the golden hilt.’ 
’Friend Roland, sound a single blast
Ere Charles beyond its reach hath passed.’ 
‘Forbid it, God,’ cried Roland, then,
’It should be said by living men
That I a single blast did blow
For succor from a Paynim foe!’
When Roland sees what moil will be,
Lion nor pard so fierce as he.

“Archbishop Turpin looks around,
Then forward pricks to higher ground
He halts, he speaks; the French give ear: 
’Lords barons, Charles hath left us here,
And for our king we’re bound to die;
For him maintain the Christian cause;
Behold! how near the battle draws;
Behold! where yonder Paynim lie;
Confess to God; and I will give
Absolvement, that your souls may live. 
Pure martyrs are ye if ye fall;
And Paradise awaits ye all.’

“Down leap the French, on bended knee
They fall for benison; and he
Doth lay on all a penance light—­
To strike their hardest in the fight.

“The French have risen to their feet;
They leap upon their chargers fleet;
Into the defiles rides their chief
On his good war-horse, Veillantif. 
O, in his harness he looks grand! 
On, on he goes with lance on high
Its tip is pointed to the sky;
It bears a snow-white pennon, and
Its golden fringes sweep his hand. 
He scans the foe with haughty glance,
With meek and sweet the men of France
’Lords barons, gently, gently ride;
Yon Paynim rush to suicide;
No king of France could ever boast
The wealth we’ll strip from yonder host.’ 
And as the words die off his lips,
Christian and Paynim are at grips.