CHARLEMAGNE had an excellent memory. He never omitted to ponder over the dangers to which Mitaine was exposed at every turn. He had the scene of the late ambush carefully searched by his spies in the first place, and afterwards by his soldiers. All, on their return, made the same report. They said the forest was inhabited, and there was a good deal of talk about a castle called “The Fortress of Fear,” which was to be found somewhere in the neighbourhood, although nobody they met with had seen it. None, however, doubted its existence. If a child disappeared, or any cattle were carried off, the trembling peasants said, “The Lord of Fear-fortress had taken them.” If a fire broke out anywhere, it was the Lord of Fear-fortress who must have lit it. The origin of all accidents, mishaps, catastrophes, or disasters was traced to the mysterious owner of this invisible castle.
“I should like to have the mystery cleared up,” said Charlemagne to himself. “I can hardly resign myself to the belief that it is Ganelon, my old brother-in-arms.”
He called his knights together.
“My faithful champions, I need four of you for a perilous adventure, I know not where I am sending you—I know not whether you will return. Who will risk death for my good favour?”
All the knights at once flung themselves at his feet, each entreating the Emperor to honour him with his choice.
“You place me in a difficult position,” said the Emperor, greatly moved; “I see that chance must point out the four champions. I can without fear trust to it, for you are all equally brave.”
The names of all the knights present were put into a helmet, and Mitaine played the part of Destiny to the best of her power, little thinking she was choosing her own champions and avengers. The first name she called out was that of Allegrignac of Cognac, Count of Salençon and Saintonge.
“The lot suits me admirably,” said the Emperor, giving a friendly wave of his hand to the knight. “You know the language of the country, and will be a safe guide for your companions.”
Mitaine next named the Baron of Mont-Rognon, Lord of Bourglastic, Tortebesse, and elsewhere.
“This is indeed a capital choice! There is no stouter arm in the Arvennes than yours; and if there be a postern to be burst open by a powerful shoulder, you will be there, Mont-Rognon.”