In the tall, thin warrior, with a long white beard, nobly wearing a regal diadem about his burnished helmet, no one would recognise the emaciated anchorite who scourged and starved himself. The words of Bernardo have stung him to the quick. He has cast off the delusions which filled his brain; the French monks have been sent whence they came, the armed messenger dismissed, the pledges given to Charlemagne have been withdrawn. Even the horror of his sister’s sin in the person of Bernardo has yielded to the nobleness of his conduct, and like a man distraught suddenly restored to his right senses, he has ridden out to join him. The shouts of the crowd (for the distance from Leon has not prevented many of the citizens following the soldiers) for a time drowns every other sound. Again and again King Alonso bows to the saddle-bow, and again and again from three thousand voices comes the cry, “_Viva el Rey!_ Leon! Leon to the rescue!” Nor, in this moment of triumph, as he lingers on the brink of the river, proudly contemplating the gallant body of knights, who crowd round him to touch, if possible, the nobler charger which bears him, his mailed hands, his rich saddle-cloth, and the royal standard borne before him, does he forget Bernardo. Calling to him in a loud voice he commands him to leave the van of the army and place himself at his side. Then raising the crossed hilt of his jewelled sword before his face, he utters a brief prayer, and turns towards the thousands of eager visages upraised to his. “O men of Leon,” are his words, contemplating them with moistening eyes, “to this brave knight--Bernardo del Carpio--I confide the land. Where he leads, follow!” CHAPTER XX Death of Sir Roland the Brave In front of the many valleys opening out from under the dark range of the Pyrenees, they met--the Gaul and the Spaniard. The Emperor Charlemagne with good cause curses the fickleness of the King of Leon, who had invited him to inherit his kingdom, and instead came out to offer him battle. Personally, he is not mentioned as taking part in the battle--indeed, it is said he was encamped eight miles off, near Fontarabia, but he sent forward the flower of his chivalry, those doughty paladins, to be sung by the romanceros and troubadours to all time: Guarinos, ferocious Ferragol, Sir Oliver the Gentle, handsome Gayferos, and Roland the Brave, who went mad for the love of Angelica, mounted on a powerful steed, which bounds and caracoles as if preparing for a tourney, firmly ruled with one hand, while with the other he carried aloft his famous sword Durindana, followed by his vassals and retainers, in short hauberks and upright caps, with round targets like the Moors.