Meantime Reinold was hastening back to Montalban as quickly as he could. He was determined to save his brothers, and knew that delay would be fatal. Arrived at home, he went straight to the stables, where Bayard whinnied with joy to see him. After eating a few mouthfuls of food hastily, he mounted his gallant steed and started for Paris, as swiftly as if his horse had had wings.
He halted in a thick wood near the town, dismounted, and while his horse grazed beside him, threw himself down at the foot of a great tree, and began to consider what would be his best plan of operation. Overmastered by fatigue, he presently fell asleep, and dreamt that a necromancer was stealing his horse. When he awoke he looked about him anxiously, and called “Bayard,” but in vain. He called louder and louder. No answer was returned. He looked carefully for marks of his horse’s feet, but found none.
At the edge of the wood, he met a pilgrim, who spoke to him humbly. After some conversation, the pilgrim pushed back his hood, and looked at Reinold with a smile, and the young man recognised his cousin Malagis. The necromancer then promised to restore the brothers and Bayard safe and sound. He took some yellow powder out of a box, and sprinkled it over himself and Reinold, at the same time muttering his Abracadabra, and in a moment they were changed into the likeness of crippled beggars. Together they limped into Paris.
A crowd of richly-dressed lords and ladies were crossing the bridge over the Seine, which at that time connected the island-city with the mainland. The emperor was there also, and beside him was the famous hero Roland, to whom he had promised the horse Bayard, if he would fight and conquer the sons of Haymon. The horse was led by several grooms. All at once it stopped short, whinnied, jerked the reins out of the grooms’ hands, and trotted up to the two beggars, who were watching the procession.
“Bayard is strangely constituted,” cried Count Roland; “the beast seems actually to like poor folk better than noble knights.”
“Bayard! Is this Bayard?” asked one of the beggars. “Oh, noble gentleman, if this be Bayard, pray permit my poor comrade to mount him. A holy man told us that if he did so, he would at once be cured, and, as you see, he is a lamester.”
“Well, Cousin Roland,” said the emperor, “help the poor fellow up, that we may see a miracle for once in our lives. I only hope it will be a miracle, and that the miserable wretch’s arms and legs may not be broken.”
Roland signed to his servants, who with much difficulty hoisted the ragged lamester into the saddle. They had to do it three times before he was safely settled. No sooner was he firmly seated than he drew himself up proudly, touched Bayard with the heel of one of his wooden shoes, and galloped away so fast that no one could overtake him. Malagis pretended to be much frightened lest his comrade should meet with some injury from the runaway horse.
At midnight, a little man might have been seen creeping along the streets of Paris, dressed in a grey coat. He kept continually murmuring, “Ista, sista, pista, abracadabra!” And dark clouds rose and covered the sky, making the moon and stars grow dim. He at last reached a tall, gloomy-looking house, before which a guard was set; but the watchmen had bent their heads and fallen asleep at his approach. The strong oak doors opened when he touched them with the point of his staff. He entered, and went straight to an underground dungeon, where three men were chained to the wall. He muttered some mysterious words, and the chains fell from off them.
“Rise, brothers,” he said; “your cousin Malagis is here. He has come to save you.”