Gerold mounted and rode off to Casseneuil, greatly disappointed that his appeal had failed. Yet his heart was far lighter than when he came, for, like Amalwin, he was convinced that the subtle insinuations of Duke Lupus had no foundation in truth. His greatest desire was to tell all to Roland; but when he reached Casseneuil he found that the count had just left by boat for Bordeaux, in company with Lupus. So he had to content himself with telling his convictions to his sister.
All was confusion at the villa. The king had already taken leave of wife and children, and was riding off, with half the court in his train, Rothada and Fastrada among the others. Gerold could have wished to join the gay company; but he had to ride in hot haste to overtake his command,--the contingent of wild mountaineers sent by the haughty but weak Tassilo, Duke of Bavaria.
Like a swarm of giant locusts, the Frankish host had risen from about Casseneuil and passed over the Garonne. Before midday the rearguard had left the valley, and the entire host was sweeping across Vascon Land toward the Pyrenees.
The march over the thorny sand-plains of the Landes and down the valley of the Adour was so directed as to intersect the old Roman way which ran from Bordeaux across the mountains to Astorga, in the little kingdom of Alfonzo the Goth. Profiting by this useful relic of the one-time world-rulers, the thousands of Northern buskins trod the ancient road with quickened step, and rapidly drew near the outlying spurs of the Pyrenees.
The last halt made before the attempt to cross the barrier was in the valley of the Little Nive, where, after the cork forests and sterile marshes of the Landes, the intense verdure appeared like a carpet of green velvet flung over upland and meadow.
Horse and foot alike made the most of their rest in the pleasant dale, for the morning promised a march that would try the strength of the sturdiest. Many gazed upon the wild rampart, the shadow of whose peaks fell early across their camp, with thoughts which boded greater misfortune than mere journey toil, and around the fires that night the old tale was told, how, in days gone by, the host of King Dagobert the Merwing was beset in this very pass by the fierce mountain Vascons, and routed with great slaughter.
But when the bluff-spoken Hardrat ventured to remind Karl of his predecessor's disaster, the king passed off the omen with a laugh, and, in turn, reminded the Thuringian how Roland had come fresh from Lupus, bearing heartiest assurances of the duke's service and friendship. Anselm, the astute judge, noted the furtive look which passed between Fastrada and Hardrat at this; but the others gathered no more from the incident than the knowledge of the king's confidence. They spread the story throughout the camp, and by break of day the faintest-hearted in the host was strong for the advance.
In the delightful freshness of early morning, while the first sun-rays sparkled on the dewdrops, Hardrat's horn brayed the marching note. From all sides of the royal pavilion the heavy Frankish horse gathered and formed in column, five thousand strong,--ponderous steeds, backed by riders whose leathern cuirasses were banded with long iron plates. Some wore rude armlets and thigh-pieces. Slow and unwieldy in their massive strength, these horsemen were none the less formidable. So, at least, the Saracens had found, when on the plains of Touraine wave after wave of the swift-rushing Moslemah had dashed forward, to shatter on the rock-like wall of the Franks.
The king, mounted upon a powerful white stallion and backed by the brightly clad retinue, surveyed the horsemen with his clear gaze, and nodded to their waiting commander. At once Count Hardrat spurred to the front of the riders, and the long column, breaking into a trot, thundered away up the valley. As the rearmost troop passed the pavilion, the king turned to Count Worad with a half-frown.
"Where are the Danes?" he demanded. "You had word to bid them be at hand."