their companions; holy rites attended their stately burial; Ganelon was
tried, condemned, torn to pieces by wild horses. But the joy of the
Franks, their hero, their idol, was gone forever from them; retribution,
even the bitterest, could count for little against the passing of that
peerless spirit.

A pathetic meeting was afterward the old Emperor's with Alva, the
affianced of Roland:

"'Where is my Roland, sire,' she cried,
'Who vowed to take me for his bride?'"

Brokenly at length he told her of the news. A moment she gazed at him
unseeing:

"'God and his angels forbid, that I
Should live on earth if Roland die!'
Pale grew her cheek,--she sank amain
Down at the feet of Charlemagne."

So let us leave this tender poem, tender unwontedly among its times; an
epic which sincerely merits a vogue more near to its value.




CHAPTER V.

THE CITY OF THE ARROW-PIERCED SAINT;