aladins rise out of the mists of the past and face
their fate; we heard the tread of the innumerable hosts sweeping down to
shut them in; we saw this human tide flow and ebb, ebb and flow, and
waste away before that little band of heroes; we saw each detail pass
before us of that most stupendous, most disastrous, yet most adored and
glorious day in French legendary history; here and there and yonder,
across that vast field of the dead and dying, we saw this and that and
the other paladin dealing his prodigious blows with weary arm and failing
strength, and one by one we saw them fall, till only one remained--he
that was without peer, he whose name gives name to the Song of Songs, the
song which no Frenchman can hear and keep his feelings down and his pride
of country cool; then, grandest and pitifulest scene of all, we saw his
own pathetic death; and out stillness, as we sat with parted lips and
breathless, hanging upon this man's words, gave us a sense of the awful
stillness that reigned in that field of slaughter when that last
surviving soul had passed.

And now, in this solemn hush, the stranger gave Joan a pat or two on the
head and said:

"Little maid--whom God keep!--you have brought me from death to life this
night; now listen: here is your reward," and at that supreme time for
such a heart-melting, soul-rousing surprise, without another word he
lifted up the most noble and pathetic voice that was ever heard, and
began to pour out the great Song of Roland!

Think of that, with a French audience all stirred up and ready. Oh, where
was your spoken eloquence now! what was it to this! How fine he looked,
how stately, how inspired, as he stood there with that mighty chant
welling from his lips and his heart, his whole body transfigured, and his
rags along with it.

Everybody rose and stood while he sang, and their faces glowed and their
eyes burned; and the tears came and flowed don their cheeks and their
forms began to sway unconsciously to the swing of the song, and their
bosoms to heave and pant; and moanings broke out, and deep ejaculations;
and when the last verse was reached, and Roland lay dying, all alone,
with his face to the field and to his slain, lying there in heaps and
winrows, and took off and held up his gauntlet to God with his failing
hand, and breathed his beautiful prayer with his paling pips, all burst
out in sobs and wailings. But when the final great note died out and the
song was done, the