He was very hungry and the clover was very good, and hence he did not notice a company of priests and knights that came riding down the highway, or, if he noticed them, he did not think of their harming his master. He therefore kept on grazing, and neglected to awaken Ogier and warn him of the possible danger. At the head of the company was the archbishop of Rheims, who had been making his usual rounds among the sick people of the neighborhood, and was returning to his palace. He was himself a warrior of no little note, and therefore delighted always to have a retinue of knights and squires around him. One of these young men, seeing Ogier asleep upon the ground, was so struck by his noble appearance that he rode back quickly and told his master. The archbishop, curious to know who it might be, spurred his horse and, followed by his whole company, cantered down to the spring. The old man was astounded when he saw that it was Ogier, for he had marched with the Dane in many a campaign, and fought by his side in many a hard-won battle.

He would have given a whole year's revenue if he had not seen him, for it pained his heart to think that he was obliged to make a prisoner of his old friend and comrade and deliver him into the hands of the king. But his oath of fealty to Charlemagne would not allow him to do otherwise. At his command, therefore, one of his knights secured Ogier's sword, another his shield, and another the good horse Broiefort. Then twenty men with drawn swords stood around the fugitive while the archbishop awakened him.

"My old-time friend, Ogier," he said, "awake and look around you! You can see that it is useless for you to resist; for here are forty men, most of them armed, while you are unarmed and alone. Yield yourself, then, as our prisoner!"

But Ogier was not the man to be taken so easily. He sprang to his feet, and with a blow of his great fist crushed the head of the knight who stood nearest to him. Then he tore the saddle from the back of one of the priest's pack-horses, and with it dealt furiously about him until ten of his assailants were laid sprawling in the dust, and the rude weapon was broken in pieces in his hands. But the struggle was of no avail, for other knights closing in upon him, he was wounded sorely, and finally bound hand and foot with strong ropes. He begged his captors that they would kill him then and there, rather than give him up to Charlemagne. They made no answer, however, but put him astride of a mule, tied his feet together underneath, and took him into Rheims, where the archbishop ordered him to be placed in his own prison.

As for Broiefort, the gallant horse was taken to Meaux, where he was made to draw a heavy two-wheeled cart loaded with stones and bricks and mortar. For seven years he toiled, half-fed, broken-spirited, hopeless. His once beautiful coat became rough and ragged, showing the outlines of every rib beneath; his mane, unkempt and uncared for, was knotted in many a snarl; his long tail, which had once been his pride, was filled with burs and thorns; his breast and shoulders were galled by the ill-fitting harness; his eyes lost their fire, and his chin drooped with despair.

By and by, however, sad changes came to France and to Ogier. The archbishop was slain in that famous fight at Roncesvalles, where all the flower of French chivalry perished. The prison at Rheims passed into the hands of other keepers. All of Ogier's old friends were dead, and it was not long until Ogier himself seemed to be forgotten.

Charlemagne was hard beset by his foes. A pagan king named Brehus invaded France from the south, and threatened to overrun the whole empire. Battle after battle was fought, and the French, having no leaders, were beaten every time. Everybody was in despair. People began to compare the former glorious times with the present. They thought of Roland and of Oliver, and of Reinold, and of the brave archbishop of Rheims, who used to lead them in battle—all dead, now. Then they thought of Ogier, and wondered if he, too, was dead.

"If we only had Ogier to lead us!" said some.

And the cry was echoed by many others: "If we only had Ogier to lead us!"

"Ogier is not dead. He is still in the prison at Rheims," said a young knight, a kinsman of the late archbishop. "Let every brave Frenchman petition the king to set him free!"

Thereupon, three hundred knights, all sons of counts, dukes, or princes, marched in a body to Charlemagne's tent, crying: "Ogier! Ogier! Give us Ogier the Dane for our leader!"

The king was angry at first, but seeing that something must be done, he said at last: "I know not whether Ogier be alive or dead. If, however, he be still alive, I will fetch him and make him your leader as you desire."

He sent at once to Rheims to inquire if Ogier were still in prison. Yes, the keeper thought that there was some such man shut up in one of the lower dungeons. The squires who had brought the king's message fancied that they heard him in his dismal cell, fighting the snakes and water-rats which had come into the place from the river. They called to him, and he answered. Then ropes were let down and he was drawn up into the daylight to which he had been for a long time a stranger. He was given a bountiful meal and clad in rich garments, such as he had worn in former days, and then led into the presence of the king.

Ogier's armor was quickly found, but nobody remembered anything about his steed. The king offered his own war-horse to the Dane, but when Ogier leaned his great weight upon it the animal was crushed to the ground. Several other steeds were tried, but all with the same result. Finally, an old priest who had just arrived from Meaux said that he believed that Broiefort himself was still alive, and was used as a draft-horse by the monks of the abbey. Ten squires were sent out at once to bring the old horse to his master.

Ogier wept when he saw the sad plight of his once beautiful war steed, and Broiefort would have done the same had it been possible for horses to weep, so great was his joy. As it was, the fire came back into his eyes; he lifted his head with somewhat of the old-time pride; he scratched his feet with delight; he fondled his master with his jet-black nose, and whinnied softly, as though he wanted to speak. Ogier put his arm over him, and leaned with his whole weight. The horse stood up bravely, and shrank not in the least beneath him. Then the grooms washed the steed in warm spring water, and combed and oiled his mane and tail, and trimmed his fetlocks, and polished his hoofs, and covered him with a richly embroidered cloth, and put the golden bits in his mouth. You would not have known him as the draft-horse that had hauled stones for the abbot of Meaux—he was the Broiefort who fought in the famous battle of St. Ajossa. Brave Ogier wept again, but this time for joy, when he mounted the grand old steed and rode forth to give battle to the pagan invaders.

There is no need to describe that last fierce fight which ended in a hand-to-hand combat between Ogier and King Brehus. In all his lifetime the gallant Dane had never met so equal a foe; and had it not been for Broiefort's aid he would not have come out of the fray alive. The combat was a long one, and the fate of France depended upon the issue. The sun had set, and the twilight was deepening into darkness, and yet neither of the combatants seemed able to gain any advantage over his foe. At last the treacherous pagan, by an overhanded sweep of his long sword, struck Broiefort squarely on the neck. The faithful horse, with a cry of anguish, fell dead to the earth. Never had anything caused Ogier so great grief. But his anger held down his sorrow, and nerved him to desperation. He made one final terrible thrust with his sword, and his pagan foe was stretched lifeless by the side of the steed he loved so well.

Ogier took for his own the gray war-horse, Marchevallé, which King Brehus had ridden in the battle. But nothing could ever console him for the loss of his faithful friend, Broiefort, the matchless black Arabian.