his enemies. He said: "O Durendal, how keen of edge, how bright of blade thou art! God send thee by His angel to King Charles, to be his captain's sword. Charles girt thee at my side. How many countries thou has conquered for him in my hands! O Durendal, though it grieves me sore, I had rather break thee than that pagan hands should wield thee against France." Then he prayed that God would now give him strength to break his sword; and lifting it in his hands, he smote mightily upon the topmost marble step. The gray stone chipped and splintered, but the good blade broke not, neither was its edge turned. He smote the second step; the blade bit it, and leaped back, but blunted not, nor broke. The third step he smote with all his might; it powdered where he struck, but the sword broke not, nor lost its edge. And when he could no more lift the sword, his heart smote him that he had tried to break the holy blade; and he said, " O Durendal, the angels will keep thee safe for Charles and France!"

Then Roland, when he felt death creeping upon him, lay down and set his face toward Spain and his enemies, that men should plainly see he fell a conqueror. Beneath him he put the sword and horn. Then lifted he his weary hands to heaven and closed his eyes; and whilst he

mused God sent his swift archangels, Gabriel and Michael, to bear his soul to Paradise.

Gloom fell; the mists went up, and there was only death and silence in the valley. The low red sun was setting in the west.

Charles and his host rode hard, and drew not rein until they reached the mountain top, and looked down on the Valley of Roncesvalles. They blew the trumpets, but there was no sound and there was no answer but the echoes on the mountain sides. Then down through the gloom and mist they rode, and saw the field; saw Roland dead, and Oliver; saw the Archbishop and the twelve valiant peers, and every man of the twenty thousand chosen guard; saw how fiercely they had fought, how hard they died.

There was not one in all the king's host but lifted up his voice and wept for pity at the sight they saw. But Charles the King fell on his face on Roland's body, with a great and exceeding bitter cry. No word he spake, but only lay and moaned upon the dead that was so dear to him. Then the king left four good knights in Roncesvalles to guard the dead from birds and beasts of prey, and set out in chase of the pagans.

In a vale the Franks overtook them, hard by a broad and swift river. There being hemmed in, the river in front, and the fierce Franks behind, the pagans were cut to pieces; not one

escaped, save Marsilius and a little band who had taken another way and got safe to Saragossa. Thence Marsilius sent letters to the king of Babylon, who ruled forty kingdoms, praying him to come over and help him. And he gathered a mighty army and put off to sea to come to Marsilius.

Now after this Marsilius and the king of Babylon came out to battle with King Charles before the walls of Saragossa. But Charles utterly destroyed the pagans there and slew the two kings, and broke down the gates of Saragossa and took the city. So he conquered Spain and avenged himself for Roland and his guard.

-G. W. Cox: Romance of the Middle Ages. Adapted.

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.

They chained us each to a column stone,
And we were three,-yet each alone;
We could not move a single pace,
We could not see each other's face,
But with that pale and livid light
That made us strangers in our sight;
And thus together,- yet apart,—
Fettered in hand, but pined in heart;
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth
Of the pure elements of earth,
To hearken to each other's speech,
And each turn comforter to each
With some new hope, or legend old,
But even these, at length, grew cold.

I was the eldest of the three,

And to uphold and cheer the rest,
I ought to do,- and did my best,-
And each did well in his degree.

The youngest, whom my father loved,
Because my mother's brow was given
To him, with eyes as blue as heaven,
For him my soul was sorely moved;
For he was beautiful as day,
And, in his natural spirit, gay;

With tears for naught but others' ills, And then they flowed like mountain rills, Unless he could assuage the woe

Which he abhorred to view below.

The other was as pure of mind,
But formed to combat with his kind;
Strong in his frame, and of a mood
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood,
And perished in the foremost rank

With joy; but not in chains to pine,—
His spirit withered with their clank,-
I saw it silently decline.

He loathed and put away his food,-
It was not that 't was coarse and rude,
For we were used to hunters' fare,
And for the like had little care;
The milk drawn from the mountain goat,
Was changed for water from the moat;
Our bread was such as captives' tears
Have moistened many a thousand years,
Since man first pent his fellow-men
Like brutes within an iron den.
But what were these to us or him?
These wasted not his heart or limb;
My brother's soul was of that mold
Which in a palace had grown cold