ve one--the city of Saragossa, the stronghold of King Marsile or
Marsiglio. Here amongst the mountains the King and his people still
held to their idols, worshipped "Mahommed, Apollo, and Termagaunt,"
and looked forward with horror to a day when the mighty Charlemagne
might, by the power of the sword, thrust upon them the worship of the
crucified Christ. Ere Charlemagne had returned to his own land,
Marsile held a council with his peers. To believe that the great
conqueror would rest content with Saragossa still unconquered was too
much to hope for. Surely he would return to force his religion upon
them. What, then, was it best to do? A very wily emir was Blancandrin,
brave in war, and wise in counsel, and on his advice Marsile sent
ambassadors to Charlemagne to ask of him upon what conditions he would
be allowed to retain his kingdom in peace and to continue to worship
the gods of his fathers. Mounted on white mules, with silver saddles,
and with reins of gold, and bearing olive branches in their hands,
Blancandrin and the ten messengers sent by Marsile arrived at Cordova,
where Charlemagne rested with his army. Fifteen thousand tried
veterans were with him there, and his "Douzeperes"--his Twelve
Peers--who were to him what the Knights of the Round Table were to
King Arthur of Britain. He held his court in an orchard, and under a
great pine tree from which the wild honeysuckle hung like a fragrant
canopy, the mighty king and emperor sat on a throne of gold.

The messengers of Marsile saw a man of much more than ordinary stature
and with the commanding presence of one who might indeed conquer
kingdoms, but his sword was laid aside and he watched contentedly the
contests between the older of his knights who played chess under the
shade of the fruit trees, and the fencing bouts of the younger
warriors. Very dear to him were all his Douzeperes, yet dearest of all
was his own nephew, Roland. In him he saw his own youth again, his own
imperiousness, his reckless gallantry, his utter fearlessness--all
those qualities which endeared him to the hearts of other men. Roland
was his sister's son, and it was an evil day for the fair Bertha when
she told her brother that, in spite of his anger and scorn, she had
disobeyed his commands and had wed the man she loved, Milon, a poor
young knight.

No longer would Charlemagne recognise her as sister, and in obscurity
and poverty Roland was born. He was still a very tiny lad when his
fa