ly at his heart, but he must
obey the call of honour and duty, and, informing the royal messenger
that he would arrive at the imperial camp in three days, he turned
sorrowfully away, Hildegunde sobbing at his side.

III.

The cross and the half-moon were fighting furiously for the upper hand
in Spain. Terrible battles were fought, and much blood flowed from
both Christians and Infidels. Bloody victories were gained by the
emperor's brave knights, the chief of whom was Roland. His sword
forced a triumphant way for Charlemagne, it guarded his army, passing
victoriously through the unknown country of the enemies. But the sad
day of Ronceval, so often sung by German and other poets was yet to
come. Separated from the main body of the army, Roland's brave
rearguard was making its way through the dusky forest. Suddenly wild
shouts sounded from the heights, and the cowardly Moor pressed down on
the little band, threatening them with destruction. But the noble
Franks fought like lions. Roland's charger, Brilliador, flew now here,
now there, and many a Saracen was hewn down by its noble rider's
sword, Durant. But numbers conquer bravery. The little army of Franks
became less and less, and at last Roland sank, struck by the lance of
a gigantic Moor. The combat continued furiously round him. When night
spread mournfully over the battle-field, the Infidels had already done
their terrible work. The Franks lay dead; only a few had escaped from
the slaughter.

"Where is Roland?" was the frightened cry from pale lips. He was not
among the saved. "Where is Roland?" asked Charlemagne anxiously of the
messengers. Through the whole kingdom their answers seemed to
resound, Roland the hero had fallen in battle fighting against the
Saracens; wherever this cry was heard, it awakened deep sorrow.

The news soon spread as far as the Rhine, and one day the imperial
messengers appeared at the Drachenburg, bringing the sad tidings and
the deepest sympathy of the emperor. Heribert sighed deeply on hearing
the news and covered his eyes with his hands; Hildegunde's grief was
heart-breaking. Before the altar of the Queen of sorrows she lay
sobbing her heart out, imploring for comfort in her great need. For
days on end she shut herself up in her little bower, and even her
father's gentle sympathy could not assuage her bitter grief.

Weeks passed. Then one day the pale maiden entered the knight's
chamber, her grief quite transfigured. He drew her