 19 Toward the close of the eighteenth century, there was pointed out to visitors in the old town of Krakow, the house of the magician Twardowski, who quite properly was called the Faust of Poland because of his dealings with the evil one. In his youth, Twardowski had followed the study of medicine, and with such industry and such eagerness and such a clear mind did he practice his profession that it was not long before he was the most celebrated doctor in all Poland. Twardowski was not satisfied with this. He craved greater and still greater power. At last, one day, as he was reading, he found in an old book of magic that for which he had long been seeking, the formula for summoning the devil. When night came a storm had risen, but caring not for that, he hurried away to the lonely mountain Kramenki. There in a rudely constructed hut, he began his incantations. Before long there was an earthquake. Great rocks were loosened, the ground opened, and Twardowski's feet and flames leaped out, and in the flames appeared the evil one himself. In the form of a man, clad in a red cloak and the well-known pointed red cap. What do you wish? the devil asked. The power of your most secret wisdom was the answer. And how is this to be done? You shall make me the most celebrated of all learned men of the century, and shall besides give me such happiness as no man has ever enjoyed upon this earth before. So be it, said the devil, but on condition that at the end of seven years I gain possession of your soul. You may take me, answered Twardowski, but only in Rome may you have power over me. There there at the end of seven years will I go. The devil hesitated over this clause, but thinking of the fun he could have in the holy city, finally agreed. Leaning against the wall of stone he wrote the compact, which Twardowski, making a slight wound in his arm, signed with his own blood. When Twardowski descended from the mountain and made his way, buck under arm, through the valley, he heard the bells in all the towers of the city ringing out clearly and solemnly on the still night air. He listened, wondering at the unaccustomed noise, then hurried into the town inquiring from everyone he met what the occasion was. But no one seemed to have heard the sound. Then a deep feeling of sadness came over him as he realized the meaning of the bells. They were the funeral knell of his own soul. When morning came, however, doubts were forgotten, and Twardowski was glad to have the devil at his command. The first thing that he demanded was to have all the silver of Poland gathered together in one place and covered over with a great mound of sound. Similar requests followed, and it was not long before the devil repented of his bargain. One day it would please Twardowski to fly without wings through the air. On another, to the delight of the crowd, to gallop backward on a cock. On another to float in a boat without a rudder or sail, accompanied by some maiden who for the moment hadn't flamed his heart. One day, by the use of his magic mirror, he set fire to the castle of an enemy a mile away. This last feat made him greatly feared by people far and wide. At last the seven years were up. The devil appeared to Twardowski and said, Twardowski, the time of our pact is over and I command you to fulfill your promise and go to Rome. What shall I do there? Give me your immortal soul, was the answer. Do you think I'm a fool, asked Twardowski? You gave me your promise to go to Rome after seven years. That I have already done, said Twardowski, and I did not promise to stay in Rome. Noble deceiver, exclaimed the evil one. Stupid devil, cried Twardowski. Then, after a struggle, the devil vanished and Twardowski returned home. For over a year he poured incessantly over his books of magic until at last he found a formula for warding off death. Then he called his disciple, Famulus, to him and explained that he was going to test the formula. You have always obliged me without questions, said Twardowski, and I expect you to now take this knife and thrust it into my heart. God forbid, cried Famulus, why are you frightened? I know what I am doing. Take the knife and kill me as the parchment directs. I cannot. You must, insisted Twardowski. It's impossible. No more exclamations do as I tell you. Oh, oh, oh, welled Famulus. Strike, thundered Twardowski, or I will kill you this instant. Then, Famulus did as he was bid and forced the blade into his master's heart. Twardowski uttered a low cry, fell, and was soon dead. Famulus dropped trembling into a chair and covered his face with his hands. Then he remembered that he must read the remainder of the parchment in order to find out what he must do to restore the body to life. Then he set about the task, severed the limbs of the dead body, and worked and brood and distilled until the elixir described in the parchment was prepared. With the elixir he rubbed the members of the master's body, put them together, and laid the corpse in a coffin. As he buried on the following night, explaining to Twardowski's friends that such had been the master's wish. Now, the parchment stated that the body must remain in the grave seven years, seven months, seven days, and seven hours. So Famulus could do nothing but wait. At last the time had expired, and on a snowy cold December night he found his way to the grave. He dug out the coffin, brushed off the snow and earth, opened the casket, and found not the body of Twardowski, but that of a child who lay sleeping in a bed of fragrant violets. The child is like Twardowski, Famulus thought, and he gathered him up under his cloak and carried him home. And next morning the child was the size of a twelve-year-old. And after seven weeks he was a full-grown man. Twardowski who now seemed quite himself, only younger and stronger, thanked Famulus and resumed again his study of magic. He desired above all things to be freed forever from his compact with the devil. As he read in one of the books, he might do if he would brave the terrors of the underworld. So Twardowski determined to enter the gates of hell. At his magic speech the ground opened and he began the path of descent. Blue flames lighted the way, deeper and deeper he went through dark and winding passages. At last he reached the underworld itself and many awful sights did he behold. And the farther he went the more frightened did he become. He could not help feeling that the devil had plotted something against him. Finally he found himself in a small room and cast a hasty glance around, looking for means of escape. Then a child in a cradle in one corner of the room he seized it hastily, threw his cloak around it and was about to leave when the door opened and the evil one entered. He made a respectful bow and said, Will you be good enough to go with me now? Why so? asked Twardowski obstinately. Because of our agreement. But, said the magician, only in Rome have you power over me. Yes, replied the devil, in Rome is the name of this house. You think to trick me by a pun, but you cannot. I carry this tolless man of innocence and throwing aside his cloak he disclosed the sleeping child. Torder showed in the face of the devil, but he stepped nearer to Twardowski and said softly, What are you thinking of Twardowski? Have you forgotten your promise? The nobleman's word is sacred to him. Pride awoke in the breast of the magician. I must keep my word, he said, laying the child back in his crib and surrendering himself. On the shoulders of the devil two wings appeared, like the wings of a bat. He seized Twardowski and flew away with him, mounting higher and higher into the night. The magician was so terrified and suffered such anguish in the clutches of the evil one that in a few moments he was changed into an old man, but he did not lose consciousness. At last so high were they that cities appeared like flies and cracker with its mighty turrets like two spiders. Deeply moved, Twardowski looked down upon the scene of all his struggles and all his joys. But higher and higher they went, higher than any eagle has ever flown, and more lonely and more fearful did it seem to Twardowski. Only occasionally bright stars passed by them are fiery meteors leaving a long streak of light behind. At last they came to the moon, which stared at them with dead eyes. Then a song that Twardowski had read in his mother's hymn book rose to his lips. And as he repeated mechanically the prayer his mother had taught him, an angel suddenly appeared and said, Satan, let Twardowski go, and you, Twardowski, hang you there between heaven and earth to atone for your sin until the last judgment. Then will you be reunited with your mother in heaven. The prayer which you remembered in your hour of need has saved you. And so, according to the story, Twardowski is suspended in the vault of heaven to this very day. End of Chapter 19, Recording by Ronda Fetterman. Chapter 20 of Myths and Legends of All Nations. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Paradise Camouflage. Myths and Legends of All Nations by Logan Marshall. Chapter 20, Elia Morometz of Russia. When we think of Russia, we think of a great dark country, a country of long winterism, abundant snow and ice. It was here long ago in the city of Kiev that the hero Elia Morometz was born. There was at the time a great castle in the city, and this was well protected by Elia Morometz and his twelve armed knights. For thirty long years had they kept watch at their post, and no stranger had ever passed by them. But one morning, Dobarnia, the knight after Elia Morometz, most powerful, perceived on the ground the imprint of a horse's hoof, then he said to the knights, Now is the mighty Zia Dovian in the neighborhood of our castle. What is your will? The knights with one accord agreed that Dobarnia should ride out against the stranger, so Dobarnia mounted his war horse and galloped forth to meet Zia Dovian, calling to him in a deep gruff voice. Here, my insolence, sir, you have come all the way to our castle and have omitted to send greeting to our captain Elia Morometz, or to inform him of your approach. When Zia Dovian heard these words, he turned quickly and rode towards Dobarnia with such force that springs and lakes appeared wherever the hoofs of his black horse touched the ground, and the trembling of the earth caused great waves to rise on the sea. Dobarnia was so frightened that he jerked his horse about, and with swiftness of the cyclone galloped back to the castle. When he entered, almost exhausted, he told him great excitement of his encounter. Immediately, Elia decided to go forth himself against the enemy, and all the entreaties of his knights could not restrain him, so he rode out to a high point where he could see Zia Dovian, watch him as he threw his hundred weight club into the clouds, caught it with one hand and swung it around in the air as if it had been a feather. Then Elia spurred his horse and rode towards Zia Dovian, a horrible fight ensued. Swords crashed and deep fishers were made in the earth, but neither night fell. It seemed as if both heroes had grown fast to their saddles, so unshakable were they. At last they jumped from their horses and fought hand to hand with lances. All day long and all night long they struggled, until Elia finally fell wounded to the ground. Zia Dovian, kneeled on his breast, drew out his sharp knife and was about to cut off the head of his enemy. Elia meantime was thinking, surely the holy fathers did not lie to me when they said that I should not lose my life in battle? Then suddenly he felt his strength redoubled, and he hurled Zia Dovian from him with such force that his body touched the clouds before it fell again in the moist earth at his feet. Cutting off the warrior's head he mounted his horse and rode back to the castle. To his knights he said, 30 years have I ridden in the field and 30 years have I fought with heroes and tested my strength. But such a mighty man as Zia Dovian have I in all that time never met. LibriVox.org Recording by Lucy LaFaro, New South Wales, Australia. Myths and Legends of All Nations by Logan Marshall. Kralowitz Marco of Serbia. Kralowitz Marco was the son of a Serbian king who lived many, many years ago. He was very fond of hunting and one day he rode forth on his horse Saria to the mountain Sargail, being tired he dismounted, tied his horse to a tree, sat down in its shade and fell asleep. And as he slept it happened that Arbane's neater with his seven brothers rode by. They all dismounted, lifted Kralowitz, bound him to his horse and rode away with him to Jedrina, where they presented him to the vizier. Only pleased over the gift, the vizier took the king's son and threw him into prison. Two long years Kralowitz lay there, longing for liberty and home. Then he learned that in a few days he was to be executed. Immediately he wrote a letter to his friend Milos Obilis asking for help. This important message he entrusted to his only companion, a white falcon, tying the letter under the bird's wing he set it free. The falcon easily found its way, alighted on Milos's window and was admitted. Scarcely had Milos read the letter when he and two of his friends were ready to set out for Jedrina. They reached there the day before the execution. In the morning the gate of the city was opened and Marco was let out. Milos and his companions accompanied the mournful procession to an open field in which the execution was to take place. Two Arabs stood up with gleaming swords, prepared to cut off Marco's head. "'Hold on, brothers,' cried Milos. "'I will give you a sharper sword with which to cut off the malicious head of the noble PM. "'See, with this sword did the good-for-nothing treacherously slay my father. Curse be his hand.'" With these words he rushed to Marco's side. Then with one swift stroke he cut off the head of one Arab and with another the head of the other. With still another stroke he severed the chains that bound Marco, and Marco seizing a sword swung himself into his saddle, and with his friends began to attack the horde of Turks. Frightened the Turks fled before them and Marco and his companions returned to their own country. Marco waited for and soon found the opportunity of showing his gratitude to his friend. For Milos and two of his brothers were thrown into prison in Varadon. Milos wrote with his own blood a letter to Marco, asking for help. Then the king's son sprang to his horse Saria and rode to Varadon. Outside of the city he dismounted, stuck his spear in the earth, tied Saria and began drinking the black wine which he had brought with him. He poured it into huge beakers, half of which he drank himself and half of which he gave to Saria. At the same time a beautiful maiden, the daughter-in-law of the general, passed by. When she saw the king's son she was frightened and ran and told her father-in-law. Then the general sent out his son Velomir with three hundred men to take Marco prisoner. The knights encircled Crowdo at Smarco, but he continued drinking his wine and paid no attention to them. But Saria noticed them and, drawing near, her master began beating the ground with her hoofs. At this Marco looked up and saw himself surrounded. He emptied his beaker, threw it to the ground and sprang to his horse. Like a falcon among doves Marco charged against the enemy. He cut off the heads of some and drove the rest before him into the Danube. He had tried to flee, but Marco threw him from his horse, tied his hands and feet, and bound him to Saria. Then again he began to drink his wine. All this the maiden watched and reported to her father. He gathered together three thousand knights and rode forth against the stranger. They surrounded Marco, but he was undismayed, bravely he charged against them, his sword in his right hand, his spear in his left, and the reins held between his teeth. Every night he touched with either sword or spear fell instantly to the ground, and when Vuka the general, wholly dismayed, tried to escape on his fiery Arabian horse, Marco followed him, threw him, bound him and led him to the palace, where his son lay. Then he bound the two together, tossed them on the saddle of the Arabian horse and rode home. There he put them in prison. Hearing this the wife of the general wrote a letter to Marco, begging for mercy for her husband and son. Marco promised to release them on condition that she released Milos and his brothers. This she did, honouring them and making them rich presents. Now for the love of heaven, said she, see that my husband and my son returned to me. Never fear, answered Milos, give me the general's black horse, adorn him as the general adorned him, give me a golden chariot with twelve horses, such as the general rides in when he journeys to the emperor in Vienna, and give me the robe that the general wears on state occasions. The wife provided all that he asked and gave the prisoners for themselves a thousand due-cats, then they rode away. Marco welcomed them, released the general and his son, and provided them with a strong bodyguard back to Veraden. Then Milos and his brothers divided the due-cats among them, kissed the hand of the king's son, and rode away into their own country. End of Chapter 21 Chapter 22 of Myths and Legends of All Nations. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Paradise Camouflage. Myths and Legends of All Nations by Logan Marshall. Chapter 22 The Decision of Libousce. They dwelt once in the neighborhood of Grönberg Castle in Bohemia, two brothers, Stagwów and Chrudus, of the distinguished family of Klomovita, and these two had fallen into a fierce dispute over the inheritance of their father's lands. The oldest son, Chrudus, thought that he should inherit all of the estate, that is the custom in some countries, you know, while the younger son, Stagwów, declared that the property should be equally divided. Now it happened that a sister of the princess Libousce, Viched, lived in the court. She entreated the princess to settle the quarrel according to law. The princess yielded to her wish, and decided that the brothers should inherit either their father's estate jointly or divide it into equal shares. All the lords of the country assembled to hear the rendering of the decision. Brave knights from far and near, Chrudus and Stagwów, of course, were present, very curious to hear what their princess would decide. Pungel of Hadyo, proclaimed far and wide as the bravest of all the knights of Bohemia, was also among the company. The princess herself rendered the decision, standing in white robes before her people. The two brothers stood near and scarcely had the last word been uttered when the knight Chrudus, who, as first born, claimed the estate for himself, sprang excitedly to his feet, mocking and insulting the princess. Poor people, he said, addressing the assembly, I am sorry for you, who have to be ruled over by a girl. Deeply grieved the maiden princess Libousce Rose, explaining that she would no longer rule alone. She commanded the people to choose her a husband. No matter whom you choose, she declared, I will abide by your decision. Whereupon the assembled subjects cried out that they would have Pungel of Hadyo as prince, and Libousce, stepping towards him, extended her hand to him in token of her arrangement. Thus did Pungel become the leech lord of the Bohemian nobles. No one knows how long ago all this happened, for the manuscript that tells the story was very old when it was discovered in the year 1817. It had laid for many, many years, among other old documents in the great chests that line the walls of the courtroom in the ancient castle Glöenburg in Bohemia. The manuscript is now in a great museum in Prague, and perhaps someday when you go there you will see it for yourself. CHAPTER XXXIII The trumpet sounded, and the army went on its way to France. The next day King Charles called his lords together. You see, said he, these narrow passes, whom should I place to command, the rearguard, choose a man yourselves? Said Ganellon, whom should we choose but my son-in-law, Kant Roland? You have no man in your host so valiant, of a truth he will be the salvation of France. The king said when he heard these words, what ails you, Ganellon, you look like to one possessed. Kant Roland knew what was proposed concerning him. He spake out as a true knight should speak. I am right thankful to you, Father-in-law, that you have caused me to put in this place. Of truth the king of France shall lose nothing by my means, neither charger nor mule nor pack horse nor beast of burden. Then Roland turned to the king and said, Give me twenty thousand only, so they be men of valour, and I will keep the passes in all safety. As long as I shall live, you need not fear no man. Then Roland mounted his horse. With him were Oliver, his comrade, and Otho and Beringa, and Gerard of Rusulon, an aged warrior and others, men of renowned, and Turban, the archbishop cried, By my head I will go also, so they chose twenty thousand warriors with whom to keep the passes. Meanwhile King Charles had entered the valley of Ronsaval, high with the mountains on either side of the way, and the valleys were gloomy and dark, but when the army had passed through the valley they saw the fair land of Gascony, and as they saw it thought of their homes and their wives and daughters. There was not one of them but wept for the tenderness of heart, but of all that company there were none sadder than the king himself, when he thought how he had left his nephew, Count Roland, behind him in the passes of Spain. And now the Saracen king, Marsilis, began to gather his army. He laid a strict command on all his nobles and chiefs, that they should bring with them to Saragossa, as many men as they could gather together. And when they came to the city, it being the third day from the issuing of the king's command, they saluted the great image of Mohammed, false prophet, that stood on the topmost tower. This done they went forth from the city gates, they made all haste marching across the mountains and valleys of Spain, till they came in sight of the standard of France, where Roland and Oliver and the twelve peers were ranged in battle array. The Saracen champions donned their coats of mail, of double substance most of them, and they sat upon their heads, helmets of Saragossa, of well-tempered metal, and they girded themselves with swords of Vienna, fair where their shields to view, their lances were from Valentia, their standards were of white, blue and red, their mules they left with the servants, and mounted their charges, so moved forward. Fair was the day, and bright the sun, as their armour flashed in the light, and the drums were beaten so loudly that the Frenchmen heard the sound. Said Oliver to Roland, Comrade, we think we shall soon do battle with the Saracens. God granted, answered Roland, it is our duty to hold the place of the king, and we will do it, come what may. As for me, I will not set any example. Oliver climbed to the top of the hill, and saw from thence the whole army of the heathen. He cried to Roland, his companion, I see the flashing of arms, the men of France shall have no small trouble therefrom. This is the doing of Gannelon, the traitor. Be silent, answered Roland, till you shall know, say no more about him. Oliver looked again from the hilltop, and saw how the Saracens came on. So many there were that he could not count their battalions. He descended to the plain with all speed, and came to the array of the French, and said, I have seen more heathen than man ever yet saw together upon the earth. There are a hundred thousand at the least, we shall have such a battle with them as never before been fought. My brethren of France, quit you like men. Be strong, stand firm that you not be conquered, and all the army shouted with one voice, Cursed be he that shall fly. When Oliver turned to Roland, and said, Sound your horn, my friend, Charles will hear it, and will return. I were a fool, answered Roland, so to do. Not so, but I will deal these heathen some mighty blows, with Durandhal my sword. They have been ill-advised to venture into these passes. I swear that they are condemned to death, one and all. After a while Oliver said again, Friend Roland, sound your horn of ivory, then will the king return, and bring his army with them to our help. But Roland answered again, I will not do dishonour to my kingsmen. Nor to the fair land of France, I have my sword, that shall suffice for me. These evil-minded heathen are gathered together against us, to their own hurt. Surely not one of them shall escape from death. As for me, said Oliver, I see not where the dishonour would be. I saw the valleys and the mountains covered with the great multitude of Saracens. There is, in truth, a mighty array, and we are but few. So much the better, answered Roland. It makes my courage grow. It is better to die than to be disgraced, and remember the harder our blows, the more the king will love us. Roland was brave, but Oliver was wise. Consider, he said, comrade, these enemies are over near to us, and the king over far. Were he here, he would not be in danger, but there are some here today who will never fight in another battle. Then Turpin, the archbishop, struck spurs into his horse and rode to a hill-top, and he turned to the men of France and spake. Lords of France, King Charles, has left us here. Our king he is, and it is our duty to die for him. Today our Christian faith is in peril. Do ye fight for it? Fight ye must. But be sure of that, for there, under your eyes are the Saracens. Confess, therefore, your sins, and pray to God that he have mercy upon you, and now for your soul's health I will give you all absolution. If you die, you will be God's martyrs, every one of you, and your places are ready for you in his paradise. Thereupon the men of France dismounted and knelt upon the ground, and the archbishop blessed them in God's name. He said, I set you a penance, smite these pagans. Then the men of France rose to their feet. They had received absolution, and they were set free from all their sins, and the archbishop had blessed them in the name of God. After this they mounted their swift steeds and clad themselves in armor, and made themselves ready for the battle. Said Roland to Oliver, Brother, you know that it is Ganalon who has betrayed us. Good store he has had of gold and silver as a reward. It is the king, Marsilus, that has made merchandise of us. But verily it is with our swords that he shall be paid. So saying, he rode on to the pass, mounted on his good steed, Vailantif. His spear he held, with a point to the sky, a white flag it bore with the fringes of gold which fell down to his hands. A stalwart man was he, and his countenance was fair and smiling. And him followed Oliver, his friend, and a men of France pointed to him, saying, See, I were champion. Pride was in his eye when he looked towards the Saracens. But to the men of France, his regard was all sweetness and humility. Full courtesy, he spake to them. Ride not so fast, my lords, he said. Verily these heathens have come hither seeking martyrdom. It is a fair spoil that we shall gather from them today. Never has King of France gained any so rich. And as he spake, the two hosts came together. Said Oliver, you did not deem it fit, my lord, to sound your horn. Therefore, you lack the help which the king would have sent. Not his the blame, for he knows nothing of what is chanced. But to you, lords of France, charge as fiercely as you may, and yield not one whit to the enemy, think upon these two things only, how to deal, a straight blow, and how to take it. And let us not forget King Charles' cry of battle. When all the men of France, with one voice cried out, Mount Joy, he that heard them so cry, had never doubted that they were men of valor, but was their array, as they rode on to battle, spurring their horses, that they might speed them all. And the Saracens on their part came forward with a good heart, thus did the Frenchmen and the heathen meet in the shock of battle. Full many of the heathen warriors fell that day. Not one of the twelve peers of France but slew his men. But of all none bore himself so valiantly as Roland. Many a blow did he deal to the enemy with his mighty spear, and when the spear was shivered in his hand, fifteen warriors having fallen before it, then he seized the good sword Durandal, and smote man after man to the ground. Red was he with the blood of his enemies, red was his Hauberg, red his arms, red his shoulders, eye in the neck of his horse. Not one of the twelve lingered in the rear, or was slow to strike. But Count Roland was the bravest of the brave. Well done, sons of France, cried Turban the Archbishop, when he saw them lay on in such sword. Next to Roland for valor and hardyhood came Oliver, his companion. Many a heathen warrior did he sleigh, till at last his spear was shivered in his hand. What are you doing, comrade? cried Roland, when he was aware of the mishap. A man wants no staff in such a battle as this. It is the steel and nothing else that he must have. Where is your sword, Hauklare, with its hilt of gold and its pommel of crystal? On my word, said Oliver, I have not had time to draw it. I was so busy with striking. But as he spake, he drew the good sword from its scabbard, and smote a heathen knight. And of the iron valley, a mighty blow it was, cleaving the man in twain down to his saddle. I, and the saddle itself, with the adorning of gold and jewels, and the very backbone also of the steed, were upon he rode. So that horse and man fell dead together on the plains. Well done, cried Roland. You are a true brother of mine, it is such strokes as this that make the king love us. Nevertheless, for all the valor of Roland and his fellows the battle went hard with the men of France. Many lances were shivered, many flags torn, and many gallant youths cut off in their prime. Nevermore would see mother and wife. It was the nil deed that the traitor Ganlon wrought when he sold his fellows to King Marcellus. And now they befell a new trouble. King Almerus, with a great host of heathen, coming up by an unknown way, fell upon the rear of the host, where there was another pass. Fiercely did the noble Walter that kept the same charge the newcomers, but they outpowered him and his followers. He was wounded with four several lances, and four times did he swoon. So that at last he was constrained to leave the field of battle, that he might call the Count Roland to his aid, but small was the aid which Roland could give him, or any one. Valiantly he held up the battle, and with him Oliver and Turpin the Archbishop, and others also. But the lines of the men of France were broken, and their armor thrust through, and their spears shivered, and their flags trodden in the dust. For all this they made such slaughter among the heathen that King Almerus, who led the armies of the enemy scarcely could win back his way to his own people, wounded in four places and sorely spent. A right good warrior was he, had he but been a Christian, but few had matched him in battle. That Roland saw how grievously his people had suffered, and spake thus to Oliver his comrade. Dear comrade, you see how many brave men lie dead upon the ground. Well, may we mourn for fair France, widowed as she is of so many valiant champions. But why is our King not you? O Oliver, my brother, what shall we do to send him tidings of our state? I know not, answered Oliver. Only this I know, that death is to be chosen rather than dishonour, and after a while King Roland said again, I shall blow my horn, King Charles will hear it, where he has encamped beyond the passes, and he and his host will come back. That would be ill done, answered Oliver, and shame both you and your race. When I give you this council you would have none of it. Now I like it not. It is not for a brave man to sound the horn and cry for help now that we are in such case. The battle is too hard for us, said Roland again, and I shall sound my horn that the King may hear, and Oliver answered again. When I gave you this council you scorned it. Now I myself like it not. It is true that had the King been here he had not suffered this loss, but blame is not his. It is your folly, Count Roland, that has done to death all these men of France. But for that we should have conquered this battle and have taken and slain King Marcellus. But now we can do nothing for France and the King. We can but die, woe is me for our country I, and for our friendship which will come to grieve us in this day. The Archbishop perceived that the two friends were at variance, and spurred his horse till he came where they stood. Listen to me, he said. Sir Roland and Sir Oliver, I implore you not to fall out with each other in this fashion. We sons of France that are in this place are of a truth condemned death, neither will the sounding of your horn save us, for the King is far away, and cannot come in time. Nevertheless, I hold it to be well that you should sound it. When the King and his army shall come they will find us dead. That I know full well, but they will avenge us so that our enemies shall not go away rejoicing, and they will also recover our bodies, and will carry them away for burial in holy places, so that the dogs and wolves shall not devour them. You say well, cried Roland, and he put his horn to his lips, and gave so mighty a blast upon it that the sound was heard thirty leagues away. King Charles and his men heard it, and the King said, Our countrymen are fighting with the enemy. But Ganalon answered, Sire, had any but you so spoken. I had said that he spoke falsely. Then Roland blew his horn a second time, with great pain and anguish of body he blew it, and the red blood gushed from his lips, but the sound was heard yet farther than the first. Again the King heard it, and all his nobles and all his men. That said he is Roland's horn. He never had sounded it, were he not in battle with the enemy. But Ganalon answered again, Believe me, Sire, there is no battle. You are an old man, and you have the fancies of a child. You know what a mighty man of Valor is this Roland. Think you that anyone would dare to attack him? No one of a truth. Ride on, Sire. Why halt you here? The fair land of France is yet far away. Roland blew his horn a third time, and when the King heard it he said, He that blew that horn drew a deep breath, and King names cried out, Roland is in trouble. On my conscience he is fighting with the enemy. Someone has betrayed him, it is he, no doubt, that would deceive you now. To arm, Sire, utter your war cry, and help your own house and your country. You have heard the cry of the noble Roland. Then King Charles bade all the trumpet sound, and forthwith all the men of France armed themselves with helmets and howberts and swords of pommels of gold. Mighty were their shields, and their lances strong, and the flags they carried were white and red and blue. And when they made an end of their arming, they rode back with all haste. There was not one of them but said to his comrade, If we find Roland yet alive, what a mighty stroke we will strike for him. But Ganalon the King handed over to the knaves of his kitchen. Take this trader, he said, who has sold his country. Ill did Ganalon fare among them. They pulled out his hair and his beard, and smote him with their starves. Then they put a great chain, such as that, with which a bear is bound about his neck, and made him fast to a packhorse. This done, the King and his army hastened with all speed to the help of Roland. In the van and the rear sounded the trumpets, as though they would answer Roland's horn. Full of wrath was King Charles as he rode. Full of wrath were all the men of France. There was not one among them but wept and sobbed. There was not one but prayed. Now may God keep Roland alive till we come to the battlefield, so that we may strike a blow for him. Alas, it was all in vain. They could not come in time for all their speed. Count Roland looked around on the mountain sides and on the plains. Alas, how many noble sons of France he saw lying dead upon them. Dear friends, he said, weeping as he spoke, may God have mercy on you and receive you into his paradise. More loyal followers have I never seen. How is the fair land of France widowed at her bravest? And I can give you no help, Oliver dear comrade. We must not part. If the enemy slay me not your, surely I will be slain by sorrow. Come then, let us smite these heathen. Dust did Roland again charge the enemy, whose good saw Durandell in his hand. As the stag flies before the hounds, so did the heathen fly before Roland. By my faith cried the archbishop when he saw them. That is a right good night. Such courage, and such a steed, and such arms I love well to see. If a man be not brave and a stouter fighter, he had better by far be a monk in some cloister where he may pray all day long for our sins. Now the heathen, when they saw how few the Frenchmen were, took fresh courage, and the caliph, spurring his horse, rode against Oliver and smote him in the middle of his back, making his spear pass right through him. That is a shrewd blow, he cried. I have avenged my friends, and countrymen upon you. Then Oliver knew he was stricken to death, but he would not fall unevenged. With his great sword, Hout Clare, he smote the caliph on the head and cleft it to the teeth. Curse you, Pagan, either your wife nor any woman in the land of your birth shall boast that you have taken a penny's worth from King Charles. But to Roland he cried, Come, comrade, help me. Well, I know that we too shall part in great sorrow this day. Roland came with all speed and saw his friend, how he lay all pale and fainting on the ground, and how the blood gushed in great streams from his wound. I know not what to do, he cried. This is an ill chance that has befallen you. Truly, France is bereaved of her bravest son. So, saying, he went near to swoon in the saddle as he sat. Then there befell a strange thing. Oliver had lost so much of his blood that he could not any more see clearly or know who it was that was near him. So he raised up his arm and smote with all his strength that yet remained to him on the helmet of Roland his friend. The helmet he cleft in twain to the visor, but by good fortune it wounded not the head. Roland looked at him and said in a gentle voice, Did you this of set purpose? I am Roland your friend, and have not harmed you. Ah! said Oliver. I hear you speak, but I cannot see you. Pardon me that I struck you. Was not done of set purpose. It harmed me not, answered Roland, with all my heart and before God I forgive you. And this was the way these two friends parted at last, and now Oliver felt the pains of death come over him. He could no longer see nor hear. Therefore he turned his thoughts to making his peace with God, and clasping his hands lifted them to heavens and made his confession. O Lord, he said, Take me to Paradise, and do thou bless King Charles and the sweet land of France. And when he had said thus he died, and Roland looked at him as he lay, there was not upon earth a more sorrowful man than he. Dear comrade, he said, This is indeed an evil day. Many a year have we two been together. Never have I done wrong to you. Never have you done wrong to me. How shall I bear to live without you? And he swooned where he sat on his horse, but the stirrup held him up that he did not fall to the ground. When Roland came to himself, he looked about him and saw how great was the calamity that had befallen his army. For now they were left alive to him too only. Turpin the Archbishop, and Walter have hum. Walter had, but that moment come down from the hills where he had been fighting so fiercely with the heathen that all his men were dead. Now he cried to Roland for help. People count where are you? I am Walter of Hum, and I am not unworthy to be your friend. Help me, therefore, for see how my spear is broken and my shield cleft in twain. My how-burk is in pieces and my body sorely wounded. I am about to die, but I have sold my life at great price. When Roland heard him cry, he said spurs to his horse and galloped to him. Walter said he, You are a brave warrior and a trustworthy. Tell me now where are the thousand valiant men whom you took from my army? They were right good soldiers, and I am sore in need of them. They are dead, answered Walter. You will see them no more. A sore battle we had with the Saracens yonder on the hills. They had the men of Canaan there, and the men of Armenia, and the giants. They were no better men in their army than these. We dealt with them, so they will not boast themselves of this day's work. But it cost us dear. All the men of France lied dead on the plain, and I am wounded to the death. And now, Roland, blame me not that I fled. For you are my lord, and all my trust is in you. I blame you not, said Roland. Only as long as you live, help me against the heathen. And as he spake, he took his cloak and rented it to strips and bound up Walter's wounds therewith. This done, he and Walter and the Archbishop set fiercely on the enemy. Five and twenty did Roland's sleigh, and Walter slew six and the Archbishop five. Three valiant men of war they were. Fast and firm they stood, one by the other. Hundreds there were of the heathen. But they did not come near to these three valiant champions of France. They stood far off and cast at the three spears and darts and javelins and weapons of every kind. After of Hum was slain forthwith, and the Archbishop's armour was broken and he wounded and his horse slain under him. Nevertheless he lifted himself from the ground, still keeping a good heart in his breast. They have not overcome me yet, said he. As long as a good soldier lives, he does not yield. Roland took his horn once more and sounded it. For he would know where the King Charles was coming. It was a feeble blast that he blew. But the King heard it, and he halted and listened. My lords, said he, things go ill for us. I doubt not. Today we shall lose. I fear me much, my brave nephew Roland. I know by the sound of his horn that he has but a short time to live. Put your horses to their full speed. If you would come in time to help him and let a blast be sounded every trumpet that there is in the army. So all the trumpets in the host sounded a blast, all the valleys and the hills re-echoed with the sound. Sword discouraged with heathen when they heard it. King Charles has come again, they cried. We are all as dead men. When he comes he shall not find Roland alive. Then four hundred of them, the strongest and most valiant knights that were in the army of the heathen, gathered themselves into one company and made a yet fiercer assault on Roland. Roland saw them coming and waited for them without fear. So long as he lived he would not yield himself to the enemy or give place to them. Better death than flight, said he, as he mounted his good steed, valent if, and rode towards the enemy, and by his side went Turpin the archbishop on foot. Then said Roland to Turpin, I am on horseback and you are on foot, but let us keep together, never will I leave you. We too will stand against these heathen dogs, they have not, I warrant, among them such a sword as Durandal. Good! answered the archbishop. Shame to the man who does not smite his hardest. And though this be our last battle, I know well that King Charles will take ample vengeance for us. When the heathen saw these two stand together, they fell back in fear and hurled at them spears and darts and javelins without them. Roland's shield they broke and his howburg, but him they hurt not. Nevertheless they did him a grievous injury, for they killed his good steed, valent if. Thirty wounds did valent if receive, and he fell dead under his master. At last the archbishop was stricken and Roland stood alone, for the heathen had fled from his presence. When Roland saw that the archbishop was dead, his heart never did he feel a greater sorrow for Comrade Slane, save Oliver only. Charles of France, he said, come as quickly as you may, many a gallant night. Have you lost in Ronseval, but King Marcellus on his part has lost his army, for one that has fallen on the side, they have fallen full 40 on that. So saying he turned to the archbishop, he crossed the dead man's hands upon his breast and said, I commit thee to the father's mercy. Never has man served God with a better will. Never since the beginning of the world has there lived a sturdier champion of the faith. May God be good to you and give you all good things. Now Roland felt that his own death was near at hand. In one hand he took his horn and in the other his good sword Durandal, and made his way the distance of a furlong or so till he came to a plain and in the midst of the plain hill, on the top of the hill in the shade of two fair trees with four marble steps. There Roland fell in a swoon upon the grass. There a certain Saracen spied him. The fellow had feigned death and had laid himself down among the slain, having covered his body and his face with blood. When he saw Roland he raised himself for where he was lying among the slain and ran to the place and being full out. He is conquered. He is conquered. He is conquered. The famous nephew of King Charles. See? Here is his sword. It is a noble spoil that I shall carry back with me to Arabia. Thereupon he took the sword in one hand with the other. He laid hold of Roland's beard. But as the man lay hold, Roland came to himself and knew that someone was taking his sword from him. This only fellow, you are nine of hours. And he smote him a mighty blow upon his helmet. The steel he break through and the head beneath and laid the man dead at his feet. Coward, he said. What made you so bold that you dared lay hands on Roland? Whosoever knows him will think you a fool for your deed. Roland's own death was very near. And now Roland knew that death was near the army. How pale his face was. And took in his hand his good sword Durandal. Before him was a great rock. And upon this in his rage and pain he smote ten mighty blows. Loudering the steel upon the stone. But it neither break nor splintered. Help me, he cried. Oh, my good sword, my Durandal. What an evil lot is in the day when I must part with you. My power over you is lost. Many a battle I have won with your help. And many a kingdom I have conquered. But my Lord Charles possesses this day. Never has anyone possessed you that would fly before another. So long as I live you shall not be taken from me. So long have you been in the hands for loyal night. Then he smote a second time with a sword. This time upon the marble steps. Loudering the steel but neither break nor splintered. Then Roland began to bemoan himself. Oh, my good Durandal, he said. How bright and clear thou art, shining as shines the sun. While I mind me on the day when a voice that seemed to come from heaven spade King Charles give thee to a valiant captain. And forthwith the good King girded it on my side. Many a land have I conquered with thee for him. And now I grieve and I die and leave thee to be handled by some heathen and a third time he smote the rock with it. Loudering the steel but it break not bounding back as though it would rise to the sky. And when Kant-Roland saw that he could not break the sword he spake again but with more content in his heart. Oh, Durandal, he said. Fair sword art thou and holy is fair. There are holy relics of St. Peter and St. Dennis and St. Basil. These heathens shall never possess thee nor shall thou to be held but by a Christian hand. And now Roland knew the death was very near to him. He laid down with his head upon the grass putting under him his horn and his sword with his face turned towards the heathen foe. Ask you why he did so to show forsooth to Charlemagne and the men of Christ who died in the midst of victory. This done he made a loud confession of his sins stretching his hand to heaven. Forgive me Lord he cried my sins little and great all that I have committed since the day of my birth to this hour in which I am stricken to death so he prayed and as he lay he thought of many things kinsfolk and of the good King Charles. Nor as he thought could he keep himself from sighs and tears yet one thing he remembered beyond all others to pray for forgiveness of his sins O Lord he said who art the God of truth and didst save Daniel thy prophet from the lions do thou save my soul and defend it against all perils. So speaking this guy and his head fell back upon his arm and the angels carried him to heaven. So died the great Count Rowland. Chapter 24 of Myths and Legends This is a Libervox recording. All Libervox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit Libervox.org Myths and Legends of All Nations by Logan Marshall The Sid Unlike some of the other heroes told about in this book the Sid was a real man whose name was Rodrigo Díaz or Rudez. He was born in Burgos in the 11th century and won the name of Sid which means conqueror by defeating five Moorish kings. This happened after Spain had been in the hands of the Arabs for more than 300 years so it is small wonder that the Spaniards looked upon their hero a very remarkable man. When Rodrigo was still a youth his father Diego Lenez was grossly insulted by Don Gomez. The custom in those days was to event such an insult by slaying the offender but Diego was too old and feeble to bear arms. When he finally told his son of the wrong Rodrigo sought out Don Gomez and challenged him to fight. So bravely and skillfully did Rodrigo manage his weapons that he slew his father's enemy then he cut off the head and carried it to Diego. Soon after this Diego bade his son to do homage at King Ferdinand's court. Rodrigo appeared before the king but his bearing was so defiant that Ferdinand was frightened and banished him. Rodrigo departed with three hundred followers and countered some Moors who were invading Castile defeated them and took five of their kings captive releasing them only after they had promised to pay tribute and to refrain from further warfare. It was these kings who first called him Sid. In return for his brave service Rodrigo was restored to favor and given place among the king's courtiers. One day Dona Zemena daughter of Don Gomez appeared and demanded justice from the king. Recognizing Rodrigo among the courtiers she called to him to slay her also. But both demand and cry were unheeded for the king had been too well served by Rodrigo to listen to any accusation against him. Three times the maiden returned with the same request and each time she came she heard greater praise of the young hero. At last she decided to alter her demand. A fourth time she returned consenting to forego all thoughts of vengeance if the king would order the young hero to marry her. The Sid was very willing for he had learned to love the girl admiring her beauty and spirit. The marriage was celebrated with great pomp and the king gave Rodrigo four cities as a marriage portion. Rodrigo vowing that he would not be worthy of his wife until he had won five battles after a pious pilgrimage to the shrine of the patron saint hastened off to Calora a frontier town claimed by two kings the king of Castile and Oregon. It had been decided that the dispute over the town should be settled by combat. Rodrigo became the champion of Ferdinand of Castile. The other champion, Martin Gonzalez began as soon as the combat opened to taunt the Sid. Never again will you mount your favorite steed, Babaca, he said. Never will you return to your castle. Never will you see your beloved Zemina again. But the Sid was undaunted and had soon laid his enemy low. Great praise then was given to the Sid. So great that the knights of Castile were jealous and plotted to kill him. But the Moorish kings, whom he had captured and released, warned him in time to avert the danger. Then the Sid aided Ferdinand in defeating the hostile Moors after a siege of Coimbra lasting seven months. Several other victories over his country's enemies were added to this and Rodrigo returned to his beloved wife. But not for long was he permitted to remain in the quiet of home. Henry III, Emperor of Germany, complained to the Pope that King Ferdinand had refused to acknowledge his superiority. The Pope sent a message to Ferdinand demanding homage and tribute. The demand anchored both Ferdinand and the Sid. Never yet have we done homage, cried the Sid, and shall we now bow to a stranger? A proud refusal was then sent to the Pope, and he, knowing of no better way to settle the dispute, bade Henry send a champion to meet Rodrigo. The Emperor's champion was, of course, defeated and all of Ferdinand's enemies were so awed by the outcome of the fight that none ever again demanded homage or tribute. Rodrigo was indeed a very useful subject. When Ferdinand died he was succeeded by his son, Don Sancho. The latter, planning a visit to Rome, selected the Sid to accompany him. Arriving they found that in the preparations that had been made for their reception a lower seat had been prepared for Don Sancho than for the King of France. The Sid would not suffer such a slight and became so violent that the Pope excommunicated him. Nevertheless the seats were made of equal height and the Sid, who was a good Catholic, humbled himself before the Pope and was forgiven. It was an age of great wars and the Sid aided his King in many a brave fight. At last in the siege of Zamora the King was treacherously murdered and, as he had no sons, Don Alfonso, his brother, succeeded. When he arrived at Zamora the Sid refused to acknowledge Alfonso until he should swear that he had no part in the murder. The King, angered by Sid's attitude, plotted revenge. Opportunity came during a war with the Moors and the Sid was banished upon a slight pretext. I obey, O King! replied the Sid when he heard the decree. I am more ready to serve you than you are to reward me. I pray that you may never more in battle need the right arm and sword that so often served your father. Then the Sid rode away, threw a crowd of weeping people and camped outside of the city until he could make definite plans. The people longed to bring him food or offer him shelter, but they feared the displeasure of the King. One old man, however, crept outside of the city with food, declaring that he cared not a fig for Alfonso's commands. The Sid needed money and to get it he pledged two locked coffers to some Jews. The Jews in those days were much despised by the Christians, though usually very wealthy. The men thinking that the boxes contained vast treasures when in reality they were filled with sand advanced the Sid six hundred marks of gold. Then the hero bade farewell to his wife and children and rode away, vowing that he would return, covered with glory and carrying with him rich spoils. Within two weeks time the Sid and his little band of followers had captured two Moorish strongholds and carried off much spoil. The Sid then prepared a truly royal present and sent it to the King. Alfonso, upon receiving the gift, pardoned the Sid and published an edict permitting all who wished to join in the fight against the Moors to join Rodrigo and his band. Toledo, thanks to the valor of the Sid, soon fell into the hands of Alfonso, but a misunderstanding arose and the King insulted the Sid. The latter in great rage left the army and made a sudden raid on Castile. Then the Moors, knowing that the Sid had departed, took courage and captured Valencia. But the Sid, hearing of the disaster, promptly returned, recaptured the city and sent a message to Alfonso asking for his wife and daughters. At the same time he sent more than the promised sum of money to the Jews who up to this time had not learned that the coffers were filled with sand. To the messenger he said, tell them that although they can find nothing in the coffers but sand they will find that the pure gold of my truth lies beneath the sand. As the Sid was now master of Valencia and of vast wealth his daughters were sought in marriage by many suitors and the marriage of both girls was celebrated with great splendour. But the counts of Carian, their husbands were not brave men like the Sid and after lingering at Valencia in idleness for two years their weakness was clearly shown. One evening while the Sid was sleeping a lion broke loose from his private menagerie and entered the room where he lay. The two princes who were playing in the room fled, one in his haste falling into an empty vat and the other taking refuge behind the Sid's couch. The roaring of the lion wakened the Sid and jumping up he seized his sword caught the lion by the mane led it back to its cage and he returned to his place. The cowardly conduct of the counts of Carian roused the anger of the Sid's followers and in the siege of Valencia that followed their conduct brought only contempt. When the moors were finally driven away the counts asked permission to return home with their brides and gifts. So the Sid parted from his daughters weeping at the loss. The procession started. The first morning the counts found their escorts ahead and left alone with their wives stripped them of their garments beat them and kicked them and left them for dead. But Filet's manaz, a loyal follower of the Sid's riding back found the two wives bound up their wounds and obtained shelter for them in the house of a poor man whose wife and daughters promised to nurse them. Then he rode on to tell the Sid. The Sid swore that he would be avenged and as Alfonso was responsible for the marriage he applied to him for redress. The king who had long since forgiven the Sid and learned to value his services was very angry. A battle was finally arranged. The counts of Carian and their uncle were defeated and banished and the Sid returned in triumph to Valencia. Here his daughters' second marriage took place. The moors returned five years later and the Sid was prepared to meet them when he received a vision of Saint Peter predicting that he would die within thirty days but that even through death he would triumph over his enemy. He accordingly made preparations for his death and after appointing a successor he gave instructions that none should weep over his death and that his body when embalmed should be set upon his horse Babashia and that with his sword Tezona in his hand he should be led on a certain day against the enemy. The hero died and his successor together with his wife Zamina strode to carry out his instructions. A battle was planned and the Sid strapped upon his war-horse rode in the van. The moors filled with terror fled before him. After the victory the body was placed in the church of San Pedro de Cardena where for ten years it remained seated in view of all. End of chapter 24