alty of all the heroes of France to
their wise and mighty emperor Charlemagne, triumphant even in
misfortune; and the epic of the hopeless resistance against a craven and
capricious despot Charles of the most righteous and whole-hearted among
his feudatories: the epic of Roland, and the epic of Renaud. Of the
first there remains to us, in its inflexible and iron solemnity, an
original rhymed narrative, "The Chanson de Roland," which we may read
perhaps almost in the self-same words in which it was sung by the
Normans of William in their night watch before the great battle. The
centripetal force of feudalism gained the upper hand, and the song of
the great empire, of the great deeds of loyal prowess, was consecrated
in the feudal monarchy. The case was different with the tale of
resistance and rebellion. The story of Renaud soon became a dangerous
lesson for the great barons; it fell from the hands of the nobles to
those of humbler folk; and it is preserved to us no longer in mediaeval
verse, but in a prose version, doubtless of the fifteenth century, under
the name, familiar on the stalls of village fairs, of "The Quatre Fils
Aymon." But, as Renaud is the equal of Roland, so is this humble prose
tale nevertheless the equal of the great song of Roncevaux; and even
now, it would be a difficult task to decide which were the grander, the
tale of loyalty or the tale of resistance.

In each of these tales,"The Chanson de Roland" and "The Quatre Fils
Aymon," there is contained a picture of its respective hero, which sums
up, as it were, the whole noble character of the book; and which, the
picture of the dying Roland and the picture of the dying Renaud, I would
fain bring before you before speaking of the other Roland and the other
Renaud, the Orlando of Ariosto and the Rinaldo of Boiardo. The traitor
Ganelon has enabled King Marsile to overtake with all his heathenness
the rear-guard of Charlemagne between the granite walls of Roncevaux;
the Franks have been massacred, but the Saracens have been routed;
Roland has at last ceded to the prayers of Oliver and of Archbishop
Turpin; three times has he put to his mouth his oliphant and blown a
blast to call back Charlemagne to vengeance, till the blood has foamed
round his lips and his temple has burst. Oliver is dead, the archbishop
is dying, Roland himself is slowly bleeding to death. He goes down into
the defile, heaped with corpses, and seeks for the bodies of the
principal pal