bt or dread, for did not Roland the brave guard the rear?
With him remained Oliver his friend, Turpin, the bold Archbishop of
Rheims, all the peers, and twenty thousand more of the bravest knights
of France.

As the great army wound along, the hearts of the men were glad. For
seven long years they had been far from home, and now soon they would
see their dear ones again. But the Emperor rode among them sadly with
bowed head. His fingers again twined themselves in his long white
beard, tears once more stood in his eyes. Beside him rode Duke Naimes.
"Tell me, Sire," he said, "what grief oppresseth thee?"

"Alas," said Charlemagne, "by Ganelon France is betrayed. This night I
dreamed I saw him break my lance in twain. And this same Ganelon it
is that puts my nephew in the rear-guard. And I, I have left him in a
strange land. If he die, where shall I find such another?"

It was in vain that Duke Naimes tried to comfort the Emperor. He would
not be comforted, and all the hearts of that great company were filled
with fearful, boding dread for Roland.

III

ROLAND'S PRIDE

Meanwhile King Marsil was gathering all his host. From far and near
came the heathen knights, all impatient to fight, each one eager to
have the honor of slaying Roland with his own hand, each swearing that
none of the twelve peers should ever again see France.

Among them was a great champion called Chernuble. He was huge and ugly
and his strength was such that he could lift with ease a burden which
four mules could scarcely carry. His face was inky black, his lips
thick and hideous, and his coarse long hair reached the ground. It was
said that in the land from whence he came, the sun never shone, the
rain never fell, and the very stones were black as coal. He too,
swearing that the Franks should die and that France should perish,
joined the heathen host.

Very splendid were the Saracens as they moved along in the gleaming
sunshine. Gold and silver shone upon their armor, pennons of white and
purple floated over them, and from a thousand trumpets sounded their
battle-song.

To the ears of the Frankish knights the sound was borne as they rode
through the valley of Roncesvalles.

"Sir Comrade," said Oliver, "it seemeth me there is battle at hand
with the Saracen foe."

"Please Heaven it may be so," said Roland. "Our duty is to hold this
post for our Emperor. Let us strike mighty blows, that nothing be said
or sung of us in scorn. Let us