was the beginning of that march; but, ah, how sad the ending! The
French did not see the crafty Moors following them through the upper
valleys, their banners furled, their helmets closed, their lances in
rest.

That first night the king was troubled with sad dreams. He thought
that Ganelon seized his lance and shook it, and that it fell in pieces.
He thought that he hunted in the forest of Ardennes, and that both a
boar and a leopard attacked him. A thousand fearful fancies vexed him.
Mountains fell upon him and crushed him; the earth yawned and swallowed
him; perils beset him on every side: but amid them all, the face of
Ganelon was ever to be seen.

By and by the army came to the Pyrenees, and the great land of France
lay just beyond the mountains.

"To whom now," said the king to his peers, "shall we intrust our
rear-guard while we pass safely through the mountain gates?"

"Give It to Roland, your nephew," said Ganelon. "There is none more
worthy than he."

"And who shall lead the vanguard?"

"Ogier, the Dane. Next to Roland, he is the bravest of your barons."

Right willingly did Roland accept the dangerous trust.

"I will see to it," said he, "that no harm come to the French while
passing through the gates. Neither pack-horse, nor mule, nor palfrey,