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+The Project Gutenberg eBook, La Chanson de Roland, by Léon Gautier,
+Translated by Léonce Rabillon
+
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+
+
+
+Title: La Chanson de Roland
+
+
+Author: Léon Gautier
+
+
+
+Release Date: December 11, 2007  [eBook #23819]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+
+***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LA CHANSON DE ROLAND***
+
+
+E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Turgut Dincer, and the Project
+Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
+
+
+
+LA CHANSON DE ROLAND
+
+Translated from the Seventh Edition of Leon Gautier,
+Professor at the Ecole des Chartes, Paris.
+
+by
+
+LÉONCE RABILLON,
+
+Licencié en droit, Paris University, French Lecturer at
+Johns Hopkins University.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+New York
+Henry Holt and Company
+1885
+
+Copyright, 1885
+by
+Henry Holt & Co.
+W. L. Mershon & Co.,
+Printers and Electrotypers,
+Rahway, N. J.
+
+
+
+
+                        TO
+
+                 DANIEL C. GILMAN,
+
+      _President of Johns Hopkins University_,
+
+                _THIS TRANSLATION_
+
+         _IS MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED._
+
+
+
+
+                     PREFACE.
+
+
+Several years ago, the maker of this version translated into French one
+of the early works of H. W. Longfellow. This circumstance was not
+forgotten by the American poet who kindly consented to listen to this
+new attempt at rendering into English the "CHANSON DE ROLAND."
+
+To his encouragement is due the present publication. The writer will
+ever proudly treasure up the remembrance of his friendly welcome and
+counsel....
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The translator has followed, as literally as possible, the text of the
+Oxford MS., as revised by Léon Gautier. The parts inclosed in
+parentheses are interpolations of the learned Professor. This revised
+text should be kept in hand by the English reader for comparison with
+the original, which is nine centuries old. The translator may thus be
+more likely to obtain the indulgence of the reader for the quaint
+representation, in a modern language, of the coloring of this most
+ancient poem.
+
+The orthography of all the names, as well as their prosodic accent, has
+been preserved in their ancient form; and accordingly, an index has been
+appended to the work.
+
+The seventh edition of Léon Gautier's "CHANSON DE ROLAND," contains a
+vast amount of explanatory notes, grammatical and historical, to which
+the reader is referred.
+
+
+HISTORY OF THE POEM.
+
+On the 15th of August, 778, in a little Pyrenean Valley, still known in
+our days by the name of Ronceval, a terrible event took place.
+Charlemagne, returning from his expedition to Spain, crossed that valley
+and the Pyrenees, leaving his rear-guard in command of Roland, Prefect
+of the Marches of Brittany. His main army had passed unmolested; but at
+the moment when the rear-guard advanced into the defiles of the
+mountain, thousands of Gascons rushed from their ambush, fell upon the
+French army and slaughtered the whole guard to the last man. So perished
+Roland.
+
+Eginhard, the historian of Charlemagne, terminates his narrative with
+these words: "The House-intendant, (Regiæ mensæ præpositus), Eggihard,
+Anselm, Count of the Palace, Roland, Prefect of the Marches of Brittany
+(Hruolandus britannici limitis præfectus), with many more, perished in
+the fight. It was not possible to take revenge on the spot. The
+treacherous attempt once perpetrated, the enemy dispersed and left no
+trace." (Eginhard's Life of Charlemagne, Vol. I., p. 31; edition of the
+Société de l'histoire de France.)
+
+From the moment of the defeat of Ronceval, legend commenced its labor
+upon this truly epic event which, in its origin, is absolutely French,
+but has found its echoes throughout Europe, from Iceland to Eastern
+regions.
+
+The commentators generally agree in dating the composition of the Poem
+before the first crusade in the year 1096. The author, it is
+ascertained, was Norman, the dialect used by him being Norman
+throughout. Whether this author was really Turoldus, named in the last
+line of the Poem, is a point which Léon Gautier refuses to affirm. We
+refer the reader to the very interesting preface of _Genin_, and to the
+learned introductions of Léon Gautier, for more complete information.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The word "_Aoi_," which is placed at the end of every stanza, and found in
+no other ancient French poems, is interpreted differently by the
+commentators. M. Francisque Michel assimilated it at first to the
+termination of an ecclesiastical chant--Preface, xxvii.--and later to
+the Saxon _Abeg_, or the English _Away_, as a sort of refrain which the
+"_jongleur_" repeated at the end of the couplets. M. Génin explains it by
+_ad viam_, a vei, avoie, away! it is done, let us go on!
+
+M. Gautier, with his skeptical honesty, declares the word unexplained.
+See Note 9, p. 4, of his seventh edition.
+
+
+MANUSCRIPTS.
+
+The most complete and ancient is that of Oxford, in the Bodleian
+Library, marked "Digby, 23," a copy of the XIIth. century. All others
+are _Rifaccimenti_, Refashionings.
+
+Two in Venice, in St. Mark Library, XIIIth. century; French MSS., No. 4
+& 7.
+
+In the National Library, Paris, No. 860, XIIIth. century.
+
+The Versailles MS., now deposited in the Library of Chateauroux, a copy
+of which is in Paris Nat. Library; 15, 108; XIIIth. century.
+
+In the Lyons Library, 964; XIVth. century.
+
+In Cambridge, Trinity Collage, R. 3-32; XVIth. century.
+
+One called the Lorrain, a fragment found near Metz.
+
+The Karlomagnus Saga, an Icelandic copy of the Oxford MS.; XIIIth.
+century.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In M. Petit de Julleville's Introduction to his version can be found a
+chronological list of the works which concern the "CHANSON DE ROLAND,"
+the translations of it, and dissertations on the subject in France and
+Germany.
+
+      *       *       *       *       *
+
+There are twenty-one translations in different languages:
+
+Four in German, by Th. Müller, Hertz, Boehmer, Eug. Kölbing.
+
+One in Polish, by Mad. Duchinska.
+
+One in Danish, by Unger.
+
+One in Icelandish, Karlomagnus' Saga.
+
+Twelve in French, by Francisque Michel, Bourdillon, Delécluze, Génin, P.
+Paris, Vitet, Jônain, de Saint-Albin, d'Avril, Petit de Julleville,
+Lehugeur and Léon Gautier, of whose translation seven editions were
+issued.
+
+Two in English, one in England by J. O'Hagan, and one in America, the
+latest and present one.
+
+Besides, a version from Vitet's French paraphrase, by Mrs. Marsh.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+  SARRAGOSSA.
+
+  COUNCIL HELD BY KING MARSILE.
+
+
+  I.
+
+  Carle our most noble Emperor and King,
+  Hath tarried now full seven years in Spain,
+  Conqu'ring the highland regions to the sea;
+  No fortress stands before him unsubdued,
+  Nor wall, nor city left, to be destroyed,
+  Save Sarraguce, high on a mountain set.
+  There rules the King Marsile who loves not God,
+  Apollo worships and Mohammed serves;
+  Nor can he from his evil doom escape.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  II.
+
+  The King Marsile abides in Sarraguce
+  Where underneath an orchard's leafy shade,
+  Upon a terrace with blue marble paved
+  He rests. Around him twenty thousand men
+  And more are ranked. His Dukes and Counts he calls:
+  "Oyez, _Seigneurs_, what gath'ring ills are ours:
+  Great Carle, the Emperor who rules Sweet France
+  Comes to this land to 'whelm us with his might.
+  To give him battle I no army have,
+  Nor people to array against his host:
+  Your counsel give me, Lords, as my wise men,
+  And so defend your King from death and shame;"
+  But answer none a single Pagan gave,
+  Save Blancandrin _del Castel Val-Fondé_.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  III.
+
+  Blancandrin, 'midst the wisest Pagans wise,
+  Who, in his vassalage a valiant knight,
+  Most prudent counsels gave to help his lord,
+  Said to the King:--"Be not by this dismayed!
+  To Carle the proud, the fierce, send messengers
+  With words of faith and love. Send to him gifts
+  Of bears and lions, packs of dogs; present
+  Seven hundred camels also, fifty score
+  Of molted[1] falcons, and four hundred mules
+  With heavy weight of gold and silver packed;
+  Then fifty chariots with their burthens heaped:
+  Well can this treasure all his soldiers pay.
+  Within this land he long enough has camped.
+  To France--to Aix let him at last return;
+  There will you join him on Saint-Michael's feast,
+  Accept the Christian law, and swear to be
+  His man in faith and honor. Should he ask
+  Hostages, ten or twenty grant, to lure
+  His trust; let us send our wives' sons. Mine--although
+  He die, I give. Far better that their heads
+  Should fall than we lose honor and domain,
+  Than we ourselves to beggary be brought."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  IV.
+
+  He further said:--"By this right hand of mine,
+  And by the beard the air waves on my breast,
+  Soon shall you see the host of Franks disperse;
+  To France, their land, the Franks will take their way.
+  When each has gained the shelter of his home,
+  King Carle will in his chapel be at Aix,
+  To celebrate Saint Michael's solemn feast.
+  The day will come, the term allowed will pass,
+  And from us shall he hear nor word nor news.
+  The King is fierce, his soul is hard; and thus
+  Each hostage head beneath his sword shall fall.
+  'Twere better far that these should lose their heads
+  Than we for aye lose glorious Spain the Fair,
+  And suffer so great ills and doleful woes."
+  Then say the Pagans:--"This may be the truth."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  V.
+
+  Hereat the King Marsile the council closed.
+  Then summon'd he Clarin de Balaguer,
+  Estramarin and Eudropin his peer;
+  With Priamon Guarlan the bearded knight,
+  And Machiner together with Mahen
+  His uncle, Joïmer and Malbien born
+  Beyond the sea, and Blancandrin, to hear
+  His words. These ten, the fiercest, he addressed:
+  "Seigneurs Barons, ye shall go toward Carl'magne;
+  He to Cordrès, the city, now lays siege.
+  Bear in each hand a branch of olive-tree
+  In token of humility and peace.
+  If by your arts his favor you can gain,
+  I give of gold and silver, lands and fiefs
+  To each, whatever he may ask of me."
+  The Pagans answer all:--["Well said our lord!"]
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  VI.
+
+  Marsile his council closed:--"My Lords, ye shall
+  Set forth;--an olive branch bear in each hand:
+  And in my name adjure King Carlemagne
+  That by his God he mercy have on me;
+  And ere a month be past, he shall behold
+  Me follow with a thousand faithful knights,
+  There to submit myself to Christian law
+  And be his man in love and faith; and if
+  He hostages require, them shall he have."
+  Quoth Blancandrin:--"Good treaty will be yours."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  VII.
+
+  Marsile then ordered forth the ten white mules
+  The King of Sicily once sent to him;--
+  Golden their bits--their saddles silver-wrought--
+  And on them mounted his ambassadors.
+  Thus holding each a branch of olive-tree,
+  They rode away and came to Carle of France.
+  Nor can he from the treacherous snare escape.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  COUNCIL OF CHARLEMAGNE AT
+  CORDOBA.
+
+
+  VIII.
+
+  Cheerful and blithe the Emp'ror, for Cordrès
+  Has been subdued, its massy walls o'erthrown,
+  Its towers by mighty catapults destroyed;
+  And there his knights have found abundant spoils
+  Of gold and silver, and rich garnitures.
+  Nor was one Pagan in the city left
+  Alive, who did not own the Christian Faith.
+  Now is the Emperor within a wide
+  And spreading orchard; there around him stand
+  Rollánd and Olivier, Samsun the Duke,
+  And Anseïs the bold, Gefrei d'Anjou,
+  Gonfaloneer of Carle, and also there
+  Gerin and Gerier. Where these were, came
+  Of others many more. In all, from France
+  Were gathered fully fifteen thousand knights.
+  Upon white _pallies_[2] sit these chevaliers;
+  They play at tables[3] to divert themselves;
+  The wiser and the elder play at chess.
+  In mimic sword-play strive the joyous youths.
+  Under a pine-tree, near an eglantine,
+  Is placed a faldstool of pure gold whereon
+  Sits he, the King--great Ruler of Sweet France.
+  White is his beard, his head all flowering white;
+  Graceful his form and proud his countenance;
+  None need to point him out to those who come
+  The Pagan messengers, dismounting, stood
+  Before him, proffering humble faith and love.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  IX.
+
+  Blancandrin was the first to speak, and said
+  Unto the king:--"Hail! in the name of God,
+  The Glorious One we must adore! To you
+  I bring this message from Marsile the brave:
+  Well has he studied your Salvation's Law;
+  And would upon you lavish his great wealth.
+  Bears--lions--packs of hounds enchained he gives,
+  Seven hundred camels also--fifty score
+  Of molted falcons--mules, four hundred, packed
+  With gold and silver--fifty carts to carry
+  These gifts, and _bezants_[4] of the purest gold
+  He also sends, which will your soldiers pay.
+  Too long within our land you have remained;
+  To France--to Aix he wills you straight return.
+  There will he follow you: so says my lord."
+  To God the Emperor uplifts his hands;
+  Bends low his head and counsel takes in thought.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  X.
+
+  The Emperor sat silent with drooped head.
+  Ne'er rash in words, he never speaks in haste.
+  At last he rose. Proudly he looked and spake
+  Unto the messengers:--"Ye have well said
+  That King Marsile e'er stood my greatest foe!
+  On these fair-seeming words how far can I
+  Rely?" The crafty Saracen replied:
+  "Would you have hostages? you shall have ten,
+  Fifteen, yea, twenty. Though his fate be death
+  My son shall go, and others nobler still,
+  I deem. When to your lordly palace, home
+  Returned--when comes Saint Michael del Peril,
+  His feast, my Lord will follow to those springs,
+  He says, brought forth by God for you, and there
+  Baptized, a faithful Christian will become!"
+  Carl'magne makes answer:--"He may yet be saved!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XI.
+
+  The eve was soft and fair, the sunset bright;
+  The ten mules stabled by the King's command;
+  In the great orchard a pavilion raised
+  To house the messengers, his Pagan guests.
+  Twelve sergeants to their service were assigned,
+  And there they rested till the dawn repelled
+  The night. With day the Emperor arose;
+  Heard mass and matins first, then having gone
+  Beneath a stately pine, he summons all
+  His wisest barons, council grave to hold,
+  Thus ever guided by the men of France.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XII.
+
+  Beneath a pine the Monarch has repaired;
+  His barons to the council called: the Duke
+  Ogier--Archbishop Turpin--old Richard,
+  Also his nephew Henri, and the brave
+  Count Acelin of Gascuïgne--Tedbald
+  De Reins--his cousin Milon--Gerier,
+  Gerin, together with the Count Rollánd,
+  And Olivier, the brave and noble knight.
+  One thousand Franks of France and more were met--
+  Then Ganelon came, who treason wrought; and now
+  Was opened that ill-fated council thus:
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XIII.
+
+  "Seigneurs Barons," began the Emp'ror Carle,
+  "The King Marsile his messengers hath sent
+  To offer me large store of his great wealth;
+  Bears--lions--hounds in leash;--of camels he
+  Gives seven hundred--falcons, fifty score--
+  Four hundred mules packed high with Arab gold,
+  And more than fifty chariots loaded full;
+  But he demands that I return to France.
+  There will he follow: then arrived at Aix,
+  Will in my palace take Salvation's Faith,
+  Will Christ obey, and hold his lands from me;
+  But what is in his heart, I do not know."
+  The French exclaim:--"Of him we must beware!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XIV.
+
+  The Emp'ror ended thus. But Count Rollánd
+  Approving not the terms, stands forth and speaks
+  Unto the King with arguments adverse:
+  "Trust never more Marsile. 'Tis full seven years
+  Since we came into Spain. For you I took
+  Both Noplés and Commiblés; gained Valterne
+  And all the land of Pine, and Balaguer,
+  And Tuele and Sebile--yet King Marsile
+  Still plotting treachery, sent from his horde
+  Of Pagans, fifteen men; each bore in hand
+  Like these, a branch of olive-tree, and spake
+  The self-same words. On that you counsel took
+  From your too lightly flattering French; two Counts
+  Of yours you to the Pagan sent, the one,
+  Bazan, Bastile the other, and their heads
+  He struck off near Haltoie. As you began,
+  War on! To Sarraguce your army lead,
+  Besiege her walls, though all your life it take,
+  And thus avenge the knights the felon slew."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XV.
+
+  At this the Emperor, bending low his head,
+  Twists his mustache and plucks his hoary beard,
+  Answering his nephew neither yea nor nay.
+  The Franks keep silence--all save Ganelon
+  Who rose and stood before the King, and spake
+  Bold words and haughty:--"Put not faith in fools,
+  Nor me nor others; follow your own rede!
+  Since King Marsile makes offer to become
+  Your man, with hands joined; furthermore will hold
+  Spain as a fief from you; yea, will receive
+  Our law as his law, he who counsel gives
+  Such proffer to reject, cares not a whit
+  What death we die. No counsel take of pride;
+  Let pass the fools and listen to the wise."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XVI.
+
+  And now Duke Naimes arose: his beard and hair
+  As white as drifted snow. In all the court
+  No better vassal stood; and to the King:
+  "Have you marked well the words Count Ganelon
+  In answer spoke but now? His plan is wise;
+  Follow it then. This King Marsile in war
+  Is overcome, his strongholds all pulled down;
+  By warlike engines are his walls destroyed,
+  His cities burned, his men subdued;--when now
+  He for your mercy prays, foul sin it were
+  To press him harder. Since he, furthermore
+  Will bind his word by gift of hostages,
+  [One of your barons also send to him.]
+  In truth no longer this great war should rage."
+  The French all cry:--"Duke Naimes has spoken well."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XVII.
+
+  "Seigneurs Barons, which of you shall we send
+  To meet the King Marsile in Sarraguce?"
+  Duke Naimes responds:--"I, with your leave will go;
+  Give me the glove and staff."--"Nay," quoth King Carle,
+  "A sage you are in council, well I know:
+  By this mustache and by this beard of mine,
+  So far away from me you shall not go.
+  Back to your seat, since none hath summoned you."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XVIII.
+
+  "Seigneurs Barons, which of you shall we send
+  As messengers to Sarraguce where rules
+  Marsile?"--Rollánd responds:--"Behold me here!"
+  "--You shall not, by my troth!" cries Olivier,
+  "Your pride too fierce, and courage far too hot;
+  I fear some misadventure from your zeal.
+  Should our King grant me but his leave, 'tis I
+  Will go!"--The King exclaimed:--"Be silent both--
+  Nor you, nor he, shall yonder set your foot!
+  Ay, by this hoary beard of mine, I swear,
+  Not one of my twelve Peers shall thither go."
+  The French are dumb---all silenced by these words.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XIX.
+
+  Turpin de Reins arises from the ranks
+  And to the King he says: "Let your Franks stay,
+  To this land seven years ago you came,
+  And they have suffered much of toil and pain.
+  Give me the glove and staff, and I will go
+  And speak my mind to that proud Saracen."
+  With anger great the Emperor replies:
+  "Back to your seat on yonder _pallie_ white
+  Nor speak another word, save by command!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XX.
+
+  Then said the Emperor:--"Chevaliers of France,
+  Choose ye for me a baron of my realm,
+  One who can bear my words to King Marsile!"
+  Rollánd rejoins:--"Let my step-father go;
+  If he remain, no wiser man is found."
+  The French say:---"Well can he fulfill the task:
+  [If the King wills, 'tis right he should be sent."]
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXI.
+
+  Thus spoke the King:--"Sire Ganelon, draw near:
+  Receive the glove and staff--you heard the Franks
+  Pass judgment, and on you their choice has fallen."
+  Said Ganelon:--"All this Rollánd has done!
+  My life-long, never will I love him more,
+  Nor Olivier, his comrade and his friend,
+  Nor the twelve Peers, for that they love him well.
+  Here in your presence, I defy them all!"
+  The King replied:--"Too wroth you are. At once
+  You shall depart.--I spoke it."--"Sire, I go,
+  Although for me there is nor shield nor guard:
+  Basile had none, Bazan, his brother, none!
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXII.
+
+  "To Sarraguce I go, and know full well
+  Who thither goes, may ne'er return. Nay more,
+  Your sister is my wife, and I by her
+  Have one fair son, Baldewin, the goodliest child
+  Who [if he live] will be a noble knight.
+  To him I leave my fiefs and honors: guard
+  Him well, for him these eyes no more shall see."
+  Carle answers:--"Much too tender is your heart;
+  Since I command, your duty 'tis to go."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXIII.
+
+  Count Ganelon, at this, rose full of wrath,
+  And, casting from his neck his zibelline
+  Of fur, stood forth, clothed in his silk _blialt._[5]
+  Gray were his eyes and very fierce his face;
+  Graceful his form--his breast, of mighty mold.
+  So fair was he, all eyes upon him rest.
+  "Rollánd," he said, "wherefore this foolish wrath?
+  Since thy step-father, 'tis well known, I am,
+  For this thou choosest me to seek Marsile!
+  'Tis well. If God but grant me safe return,
+  I such ill fortune hurl on thee, shall smite
+  Thy life from now and ever with a curse."
+  Rollánd replies:--"Mad words and proud I hear.
+  All know it well, I care for no man's threat;
+  But since a wise man must this message bear,
+  If the King wills it, in your place I go."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXIV.
+
+  "Thou shalt not take my place," said Ganelon;
+  "My vassal art thou not, nor yet am I
+  Thy lord; and since the King hath given me
+  Command this service I should take, I shall
+  Go to Marsile. But once in Sarraguce
+  Will I with fuel feed my heart's fierce ire."
+  Rollánd, on hearing this, began to laugh.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXV.
+
+  When Ganelon saw the laughter of Rollánd,
+  It seemed as though his breast would burst with wrath;
+  His brain was well-nigh maddened by his rage.
+  Unto the Count he cried:--"I love you not;
+  This judgment have you caused on me to fall!
+  Right Emp'ror, in your presence, lo! I stand,
+  And I am ready to fulfill your word."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXVI.
+
+  The King presents to him his right hand glove;
+  But Ganelon would well have ne'er stood there,
+  For ere he touched the royal glove, it fell.
+  The French exclaim:--"What bodes this omen? Shall
+  This embassy not have a woeful end?--"
+  "_Seigneurs_," said Ganelon, "you will hear of this!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXVII.
+
+  Said Ganelon:--"Give me dismissal, Sire!
+  Since I must go, my time is precious." Then
+  Adjured the King:--"For Jesus' sake and mine!"
+  With his right hand he Ganelon absolved
+  And blessed, deliv'ring up the brief and staff.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXVIII.
+
+  Count Ganelon his own house seeks, to make
+  Equipment and prepare his arms: his choice
+  The best that he can find. With golden spurs
+  He clasps his heels; belts to his side his sword,
+  Murgleis, and mounts his courser Tachebrun.
+  His uncle Guinemer the stirrup held;
+  There many a chevalier you might have seen
+  In tears, who said: "Baron, such evil fate
+  Was yours. You, in the King's Court so long, and there
+  Revered as liege-man high!--The man who judged
+  That you should go, not Carle himself shall cure
+  Or save; the Count Rollánd bethought him not
+  Of that high lineage whence you sprang!"--And they
+  Entreat:--"My lord with you take us along!"
+  But Ganelon replies:--"Lord God forbid!
+  Better to die alone than with me fall
+  So many brave!--Lords, to sweet France ye will go.
+  Salute for me my wife, and Pinabel,
+  My friend and peer, and my son Baldewin whom
+  Ye all know--guard him--hold him for your lord."
+  The Count departs and goes upon his way.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  THE EMBASSY AND CRIME OF GANELON.
+
+
+  XXIX.
+
+  The Count rides on beneath tall olive trees
+  And joins the messengers of King Marsile.
+  To meet him Blancandrin has checked his speed:
+  With skillful words each to the other spake.
+  Blancandrin said: "A wond'rous man is Carle
+  Who conquered Pouille and overran Calabre,
+  Crossed the salt-seas to England, and from thence
+  Gained tribute for _Saint-Pierre_. In this our land
+  What claims he?" "Such his might," said Ganelon,
+  "No man shall ever match with him in arms."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXX.
+
+  Said Blancandrin: "The Franks are noble, but
+  Those Dukes, those Counts harm much their lord, who give
+  To him such counsels, wronging him and all."
+  Ganelon answered: "No man, save Rollánd,
+  Know I, who should this blame incur; it was
+  But yestermorn, the King sat in the shade,
+  When Rollánd came before him, all encased
+  In glittering arms, fresh from the siege and sack
+  Of Carcasonne, holding an apple red;
+  And thus his uncle greeted: 'Sire, behold!
+  I lay the crowns of all Kings at your feet.'
+  Swift punishment should overtake such pride,
+  For ev'ry day he blindly runs to death.
+  Were he but slain, all lands might rest in peace."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXXI.
+
+  Blancandrin said: "Most cruel is Rollánd
+  Who makes all nations cry for mercy thus,
+  And will o'er all the lands his power impose.
+  Upon what people doth he then rely
+  For such attempt?" Ganelon said: "The French!...
+  They love him so, they fail him ne'er in aught.
+  Lavish is he of gifts: Silver and gold,
+  Mules, chargers, silken robes and garnitures,
+  He gives the King himself all that he craves;
+  From here to the far East, all lands must fall!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXXII.
+
+  Blancandrin with Count Ganelon rode on,
+  Until together had they pledged their faith
+  To snare Rollánd and lead him to his death.
+  Thus on they rode through vales and mountain-paths,
+  Till Sarraguce was reached. Beneath a yew
+  They lighted: a faldstool by shady pines
+  O'erhung, was spread with Alexandrine silk.
+  There sat the King who ruled all Spain, and stood
+  Around him twenty thousand Saracens,
+  Who neither spoke nor breathed, to hear the news;
+  And lo! came Blancandrin with Ganelon.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXXIII.
+
+  Blancandrin stepped before the Pagan King
+  With Ganelon the Count held by the wrist.
+  Thus to Marsile he said: "Mohammed save
+  The King! Apollo, too, whose holy law
+  We keep. We bore your message to Carl'magne;
+  Both hands he lifted, praying to his God;
+  No other answer gave.--He sends you here
+  One of his noble Barons, a rich Frank.
+  Learn from his lips if it be peace or war."
+  Responds Marsile: "Then let him speak. We hear!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXXIV.
+
+  Then Ganelon, who well had weighed his thoughts,
+  Begins to speak as one of knowledge vast,
+  And says unto the King: "By God be saved,
+  The Glorious God we must adore! Carl'magne
+  The Baron, sends his message to Marsile:
+  The holy Christian Faith if you receive,
+  One half of Spain he grants to you in fief.
+  These terms refuse, and your fair Sarraguce
+  He will besiege, and drag you forth in chains
+  To Aix, his royal city, there to meet
+  A felon's doom."--Quivering with rage and fear,
+  The King Marsile, who held a gold-winged dart,
+  Aims it at him; but others stayed his hand.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXXV.
+
+  The King Marsile turned pale, and full of wrath,
+  Brandished the shaft of his winged dart on high.
+  Ganelon saw, laid hand upon his sword,
+  And quick unsheathed two fingers' breadth of blade,
+  Saying: "Sword of mine you are most fair and bright;
+  As long as by me borne in this King's court,
+  Never shall say the Emperor of France
+  Ganelon died alone in foreign land,
+  Ere a high price for you the best have paid!"
+  The Pagans cry in haste: "Check this affray."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXXVI.
+
+  The wisest Pagans urged the wrathful King,
+  Till, yielding, on his throne he has resumed
+  His seat. The Kalif said: "Great wrong you brought
+  Upon us, menacing to strike the Frank.
+  You should have hearkened to his words." "This wrong,"
+  Said Ganelon, "I calmly will endure;
+  But for the gold that God hath made all wealth
+  Stored in this land, I would not leave untold,
+  While I have power of speech, the message sent
+  By Carle, the mighty Emperor, through me
+  His messenger, to thee his mortal foe."
+  Ganelon on the ground his mantle dropped
+  Of Alexandrine silk, and richly lined
+  With zibelline; Blancandrin took it up:
+  But from his sword the Count would never part;
+  And his right hand still grasps the golden hilt.
+  The Pagans say:--"Behold a Baron true!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXXVII.
+
+  Then Ganelon strode nearer to the King
+  And said:--"All idle is this wrath of yours.
+  This is the message of King Carle of France;
+  Hear his command:--"Receive the Christian law"--
+  One half of Spain he grants to you in fief,
+  And to Rollánd, his nephew, he will give
+  The other half. (A haughty partner he
+  Will prove.) To this agreement should you not
+  Consent, 'gainst Sarraguce his host will lay
+  The siege; by force you will be tak'n and bound,
+  And brought to Aix, the royal seat. Hope not
+  To ride on palfrey, nor on steed, on mule
+  Female or male;--on a vile beast of burden
+  You shall be thrown, and doomed to have your head
+  Struck off.--Behold the Brief our Emp'ror sends!"
+  With his right hand he gives it to the King.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXXVIII.
+
+  White with exceeding wrath, the King Marsile
+  Has brok'n the seal, let fall the wax on earth,
+  And, glancing on the Brief, has read the script:
+  "I learn from Carle who holds France in his sway,
+  That I should bear in mind his ire and grief:
+  Bazan--Basile, his brother, they whose heads
+  I took on Mount Haltoïe, his anger's cause.
+  If I my body's life would save, to him
+  The Kalif, my good uncle, I must send,
+  Or else can he ne'er be my friend."--Then spake
+  To King Marsile his son:--"This Ganelon,"
+  Said he, "speaks madly, and such wrong hath done,
+  That he should live no more. Now give him up
+  To me, that I to him quick justice deal!"
+  Ganelon, hearing this, unsheathed his sword,
+  And set his back against a branching pine.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXXIX.
+
+  Into his orchard King Marsile repaired,
+  Attended only by his wisest men;
+  Came thither too the gray-haired Blancandrin
+  With Turfaleu his son and heir; with them
+  The Kalif, brother and good friend of King
+  Marsile.--Said Blancandrin:--"Recall the Frank;
+  To serve us he has pledged his faith."--The King
+  Replied:--"Go, bring him hither."--Then he took
+  Ganelon's fingers into his right hand,
+  And brought him to the grove before the King;
+  And lo! was woven there the traitor's plot.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XL.
+
+  The King Marsile said:--"Fair Sire Ganelon,
+  Unwise and all too hasty was I, when
+  In my great wrath I poised my lance to strike.
+  This gift of sables take as your amends:
+  More than five hundred marks their weight in gold.
+  Before to-morrow-eve the boon is yours."
+  Ganelon answers:--"I reject it not.
+  May God, if 'tis his will, your grace reward."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XLI.
+
+  Marsile spake thus:--"Sire Ganelon, believe,
+  Much I desire to love you, and of Carle
+  I crave to hear. Is he not old, his prime
+  Has he not passed? Men tell me he has lived
+  More than two hundred years; his body dragged
+  Throughout so many lands; so many blows
+  Upon his shield!--So many mighty Kings
+  To beggary reduced!--When will he cease
+  To march on battle-fields?"--Then Ganelon
+  Responded:--"Such is not King Carle; no man
+  Alive who sees and knows him but will tell
+  How our great Emperor is Baron true.
+  I could not praise and honor him enough,
+  For no man lives so valiant and so good.
+  His valor ... who on earth could ever tell?
+  His soul God with such virtue has illumed,
+  I'd rather die than quit my noble lord!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XLII.
+
+  The Pagan said:--"Amazed am I at Carle
+  So old and so white-haired; his age, I know,
+  Two hundred years and more. His limbs he toiled
+  Across so many lands; so oft was struck
+  By swords and spears; so many kings compelled
+  To beg!--When will he cease to war?"--"Carle?--ne'er!"
+  Ganelon answered, "while his nephew lives:
+  No vassal like him 'neath the starry arch;
+  And bold as he his comrade Olivier.
+  The twelve Peers held by Carle so dear, behold!
+  The vanguard form of twenty thousand knights;
+  With them King Carle is safe, and fears no man."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XLIII.
+
+  Again the Pagan:--"I am wonder-struck
+  On knowing Carle so old and so white-haired!
+  Methinks he passed two hundred years; by arms
+  He won so many lands--so many wounds
+  In battle he received from trenchant swords!
+  So many powerful kings on battle-fields
+  Conquered or slew!--When will he cease to war?"
+  "--Never!"--said Ganelon, "while lives Rollánd:
+  From here to farthest east no knight his peer
+  E'er lived: his comrade too, Count Olivier,
+  Is brave; and the twelve Peers, so dear to Carle,
+  The van-guard make of twenty thousand knights.
+  Carle may have peace, and fears no living man!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XLIV.
+
+  "Fair Sire," said King Marsile to Ganelon,
+  "Than mine no fairer people can you see:
+  Four hundred thousand knights I can array
+  In combat 'gainst King Carle and 'gainst his Franks."--
+  Ganelon says:--"The time has not yet come,
+  Yea, and great loss your people then will have.
+  But leave this folly, and to wisdom hold;
+  Offer the King of treasures such a store
+  That all the French will marvel at the gift.
+  For twenty hostages that you will send,
+  Back to Sweet France will Carle ere long repair.
+  His rear-guard, notice well, will rest behind:
+  There will Rollánd, his nephew, be, I trow,
+  With Olivier the brave and courteous knight.
+  Trust to my counsel and both Counts are doomed,
+  Nay, Carle shall see his lofty pride cast down
+  And never more shall covet war with you."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XLV.
+
+  [Thus King Marsile] said:--"Fair sire Ganelon,
+  What means have I to kill the Count Rollànd?"
+  Ganelon answered:--"This can I well say:
+  The King will reach the wider pass of Sizre
+  And leave his rear behind, where great Rollànd
+  Eke Olivier, whom both he greatly trusts,
+  Will be the chiefs of twenty thousand Franks.
+  On these your hundred thousand Pagans throw,
+  And let them straightway make an onset fierce:
+  Stricken and slain shall be the men of France;
+  I say not that of yours none shall be slain,
+  But follow up this fight with like attack,
+  And Count Rollánd cannot escape them both,
+  Then will you deeds of chivalry achieve,
+  And free your life from war for evermore."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XLVI.
+
+  "Who could contrive that there Rollánd should die,
+  Would strike off Carle's right arm. Then on the field
+  That wond'rous host in death shall lie. No more
+  Thereafter could King Carle such forces raise,
+  And the Great Land at last would rest in peace."
+  Marsile, this hearing, kissed him on the neck,
+  And then began his treasures to display.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XLVII.
+
+  Exclaimed Marsile:--"What further [shall I say?]
+  No good adviser he of faith unsure.
+  Swear if Rollánd be there that he shall die!"
+  Thus answered Ganelon:--"Your will be done."
+  Upon the relics of his sword Murgleis
+  The treason swore; thus forfeited himself.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XLVIII.
+
+  An ivory-faldstool there was set. Marsile
+  The order gives to bring a book before it,
+  Mohammed's law and that of Tervagant,
+  The Spanish Saracen thus took his oath:
+  "If in the rear-guard Count Rollánd be found,
+  He will attack him there with all his men;
+  And, if it may be, there Rollánd shall die."
+  Ganelon answers:--"May [our treaty thrive!]"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XLIX.
+
+  Behold a Pagan, Valdabrun, who armed
+  Marsile a Knight; with cheerful smile he said
+  To Ganelon:--"Take this my sword; no man
+  E'er drew its peer; the hilt alone is worth
+  More than a thousand marks.--For love I give it,
+  But lend us help against the Count Rollánd,
+  And show us how to find him in the rear."
+  "--So shall it be," replies Count Ganelon;
+  Whereon they kissed each other's chin and face.
+
+
+  L.
+
+  Another Pagan came. 'Twas Climorin
+  Who gayly smiling, said to Ganelon:
+  "My helmet take--None better have I seen,
+  But help us now against _Marchis_ Rollánd
+  That we may throw dishonor on his name."
+  "--Well shall it be," responded Ganelon,
+  And then they kissed each other's lips and cheek.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LI.
+
+  And now behold, comes Bramimunde the Queen;
+  "Sire Ganelon," said she, "I love you much,
+  You, by my sire and all our men esteemed.
+  Two necklaces unto your wife I send,
+  With jacinths and with amethysts and gold
+  Adorned, worth more than all the wealth of Rome;
+  Jewels so rich your Emp'ror never had."
+  The Count receives and puts them in his hose.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LII.
+
+  The King calls up Malduit, his treasurer:
+  "Hast thou prepared my gifts for Carle the King?"
+  Malduit responds:--"Yea sire, the whole are there:
+  Seven hundred camels with their loads of gold
+  And silver; then of hostages a score,
+  The noblest ever lived beneath the stars."
+                                        Aoi
+
+
+  LIII.
+
+  Marsile took by the shoulder Ganelon
+  And told him:--"Thou hast wisdom and art brave.
+  By that great law ye hold the best, beware
+  Thy heart fails not. Rich treasures will I give
+  To thee: ten mules laden with purest gold
+  From Araby; each year shall bring the like.
+  Meantime of this great city take the keys,
+  And in my name present this wealth to Carle.
+  But let Rollánd be ordered to the rear.
+  If in the pass or mount I find the knight,
+  I swear to give him combat to the death."
+  Says Ganelon:--"Methinks too long I stay."--
+  He mounts his horse and goes upon his way.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LIV.
+
+  The Emperor nears his realm, and reaching now
+  The city of Valterne sacked by Rollànd
+  And left in ruins, which thereafter lay
+  A hundred years a desert; there he waits
+  For news of Ganelon, and tribute due
+  By the great land of Spain. One morning when
+  The early dawn was brightening into day,
+  Count Ganelon drew nigh unto the camp.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LV.
+
+  In early morn the Emperor arose.
+  Having attended mass and matins both,
+  Upon the verdant grass, before his tent
+  He stood, surrounded by the Count Rollánd,
+  The valorous Olivier, and the Duke Naimes,
+  With many more besides. There also came
+  The perjurer, the treacherous Ganelon,
+  Who, stepping forth, with most perfidious tongue
+  Began to speak:--"Hail! God save Carle the King!--
+  I bring you here the keys of Sarraguce:
+  Great treasures follow through my care conveyed
+  With hostages a score. So, guard them well.
+  The King Marsile the brave bears not the blame
+  If I bring not the Kalif unto you.
+  Myself three hundred thousand men in arms
+  Beheld, with hauberks clad, and helmets clasped,
+  Swords by their sides, hilts bright with gold inlaid,
+  Who with him crossed the sea, not to submit
+  To Christ's law which they will not hold nor keep.
+  But scarce five leagues had they sailed on the main,
+  When wind and tempest rising, down they sank.
+  All perished!... Never shall you see them more.
+  Had but the Kalif lived, I would have brought
+  Him hither. For the Pagan King, know well,
+  Ere you shall see this first month pass away,
+  Your vassal will he be, with joinèd hands,
+  And hold the realm of Spain a fief from you."
+  Thus said the King:--"Thanks be to God for this!
+  Well have you done, and great your recompense
+  Shall be."--He bids a thousand trumpets sound...
+  The camp is struck:--the Franks then load their mules
+  And set forth on their journey to Sweet France.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  THE REAR GUARD.
+
+
+  ROLLÁND DOOMED TO DEATH.
+
+
+  LVI.
+
+  King Carle the Great has made a waste of Spain,
+  The cities violated, the castles seized.
+  Now saith the King his war is at an end,
+  And toward Sweet France the Emperor directs
+  His steed.... The Count Rollánd the pennon white
+  Has planted on a hill, high 'gainst the sky.
+  In all the country round the Franks their tents
+  Are pitching, while the Pagans ride along
+  The mighty vales. In hauberk clad--their backs
+  In armor cased; with helmets clasped--sword girt
+  On thigh--shields on their necks--each lance in rest,
+  Within a thicket on the mount they halt.
+  Four hundred thousand men there wait the dawn.
+  The French yet know it not. Ah God! what woe!
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LVII.
+
+  Passes the day; the shades of night have fallen.
+  Carle the great Emp'ror sleeps; and in a dream
+  He marches through the deep defiles of Sizre.
+  In his right hand his ashen spear he holds,
+  Which suddenly Count Ganelon has snatched
+  From him, and shook and brandished in such wise
+  That, breaking, high tow'rd Heav'n the splinters flew.
+  Carle sleeps--naught from his slumber can arouse him.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LVIII.
+
+  Another vision followed hereupon:
+  He is in France, in his _Chapelle_, at Aix.
+  A bear his right arm caught with such sharp fangs
+  [That from the bone the flesh is torn away.]
+  From toward Ardennes he saw a leopard come,
+  Which in his dream, made on him fierce attack;
+  But then a greyhound dashes from the hall
+  Unto Carle's rescue, swift of leap and bound;
+  First from the treach'rous bear the hound tears off
+  An ear, then with the leopard combat makes.
+  "See!" cry the French, "what battle fierce is here."
+  But they know not which of the two will win
+  The field--Carle still asleep naught can awake.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LIX.
+
+  Vanished the night, and the clear dawn appeared.
+  With noble mien the Emperor mounts his steed,
+  And 'mid the host one thousand trumpets sound:
+  "_Barons_," said Carle:--"You see those deep defiles
+  And narrow passes--judge who in the rear
+  Will take command." Said Ganelon:--"Rollánd,
+  My step-son, whom among your valiant knights
+  You prize the most." Carle hearing this, upon
+  Him sternly looked:--"Thou art the devil's self,"
+  Said he, "or else a mortal rage has stung
+  Thy heart! Say, who before me in the van
+  Will march? 'Twill be Ogier de Dannemarche!
+  You have no better Baron for the post."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LX.
+
+  When hears the Count Rollánd the lot has fallen
+  Upon himself, as loyal knight he speaks:--
+  "You, sire step-father, dear and well beloved
+  Must be, since you have named me for the rear;
+  Nor shall Carl'magne, the King of France, lose aught,
+  Nor palfrey, nor fleet steed, if knowledge true
+  I have, nor male nor female mule that man
+  Can ride, nor beast of burden, horse or ass,
+  Unreckoned for with these good swords of ours."
+  Said Ganelon:--"The truth you speak, I know."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXI.
+
+  When hears Rollánd the rear shall be his lot,
+  To his step-father thus in wrath he speaks:--
+  "Ah! traitor, evil man of race impure,
+  Thou thought'st to see me here let fall the glove
+  As thou erst dropped the staff before the King!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXII.
+
+  The Count Rollánd [addressing thus Carl'magne:]
+  "Give me the bow that now your hand doth hold,
+  For, to my knowledge, none will e'er throw blame
+  On me for dropping it, as fell on earth
+  Your right hand glove, when he received the staff."
+  With head declined the Emperor remains:
+  Oft plucks and twists the beard on lip and cheek,
+  Nor can his eyes restrain their falling tears.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXIII.
+
+  Naimes after came--no better ever was
+  A vassal in the court. He said to Carle:
+  "You hear him; greatly wroth is Count Rollánd;
+  The rear guard is assigned to his command;
+  No baron have you that with him would make
+  Exchange. Give him the bow and your hand has bent,
+  And look for those who best may lend him help."
+  Carle gives the bow which Count Rollánd receives.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXIV.
+
+  The Emperor calls to Rollánd and says:--
+  "Fair sire, my nephew, truly you must know
+  Half of my army will I leave with you;
+  Keep them; in their good help your safety lies."
+  Then said the Count:--"Of this will I do naught!
+  May God confound me, ere my race I shame;
+  But twenty thousand valiant knights I keep!
+  Through the defiles you can in safety pass
+  And fear no harm from man while yet I live."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXV.
+
+  Rollánd sits on his steed, and nigh him rides
+  His comrade Olivier. There came Gerin,
+  Gerier the brave, Othon and Berengier;
+  There came Sansun, Anseïs the fierce; there came
+  Also Gerard de Roussillon the old,
+  Together with the _Gascuin_ Engelier.
+  The Archbishop said:--"I, by my head, will go!"
+  "--And I with you," exclaimed the Count Gualtier;
+  "Rollánd's own man am I, and follow him!"
+  From all are chosen twenty thousand knights.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXVI.
+
+  The Count Rollánd calls up Gualtier de l'Hum:
+  "One thousand Franks of France, our land, array,
+  And with them cover heights and passes, that
+  The Emperor may lose none of his host."
+  Responds Gualtier:--"This am I bound to do
+  For you."--Forthwith one thousand Franks of France
+  O'errun each height and pass.--None shall descend
+  Despite ill news, ere seven hundred swords
+  Unsheathe. That very day King Almaris
+  Who rules Belferne, met them with battle fierce.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXVII.
+
+  High are the mounts, the valleys murky-dark--
+  The rocks are black, the gorges terrible.
+  The French toiled through them painfully; their march
+  Was heard for fifteen leagues; then the Great land
+  Reaching, they viewed Gascuigne, their lord's estate,
+  And sweet remembrance felt of honors, fiefs,
+  Of lovely maidens and of noble wives:
+  Not one is there but weeps from tenderness;
+  But more than all is Carle distressed; he mourns
+  His nephew left in the defiles of Spain....
+  By pity moved he cannot choose but weep.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXVIII.
+
+  The twelve Peers staid in Spain. A thousand score
+  Of Franks are under their command, to whom
+  Unknown is wavering fear or dread of death.
+  Carl'magne to France returns--within his cloak
+  He hides his face--Naimes, riding near, inquired:
+  "What thought, O King, weighs now upon your heart?"--
+  "Who questions me doth wrong. So sad am I
+  I can but mourn. Sweet France by Ganelon
+  Shall be destroyed. An angel in my sleep
+  Appeared, and, dreaming, I beheld my lance
+  Broken up within my hand by him who named
+  My nephew for the rear guard ... and I left
+  Him in a foreign land;--O mighty God,
+  Should I lose him, I ne'er should find his peer!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXIX.
+
+  Carle the great King, no more restrains his tears:
+  One hundred thousand Franks great sympathy
+  Give him, with strangest fear for Count Rollánd.
+  Vile Ganelon, the wretch, this treason wrought!
+  He, from the Pagan King received rich gifts
+  Of gold and silver, silk and ciclatons,
+  Lions and camels, horses, mules. Behold,
+  King Marsile summons all his Counts from Spain,
+  His Viscounts, Dukes and Almazours; with these
+  The Emirs, and the sons of noble Counts;
+  Four hundred thousand gathered in three days,
+  In Sarraguce are beaten all the drums;
+  Mohammed's image to the loftiest tower
+  Is raised on high.--No Pagan but adores
+  And prays before him.--They then madly ride
+  Throughout the land, o'er mountain and o'er vale.
+  At last they see the gonfalons of France;
+  It is the rear-guard of the twelve compeers:
+  Nor will they fail to give them battle now.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXX.
+
+  Hastes to the front the nephew of Marsile,
+  Goading the mule that bears him, with a staff.
+  Says to his uncle, gayly laughing loud:
+  "Fair King, till now I served you well; for you
+  Endured hard pain and grief.--The only fee
+  I ask is this:--To strike Rollánd! I swear
+  To give him death with my good trenchant sword,
+  And if his help Mohammed will bestow,
+  On me, forever shall all Spain be free,
+  From the defiles of Aspre to Durestant.
+  Carle then will yield,--the Franks, surrender all;
+  No more in all your life will you have war."
+  The King Marsile bestows on him the glove.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXI.
+
+  The nephew of Marsile holds in his grasp
+  The glove, and to the King with haughty pride
+  Speaks:--"Fair Sire King, your gift I dearly prize;
+  Choose you for me eleven of your Knights,
+  And I will go and combat the twelve Peers."
+  The first response was that of Falsaun:
+  He was the brother of the King Marsile.--
+  "Fair nephew, we shall go, both you and I;
+  In battle side by side, we shall engage.
+  The rear of Carle's great host is doomed to die!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+  LXXII.
+
+  King Corsalis stands on the other side;
+  He comes from Barbary; a soul of guile.
+  Still speaks he there not unlike vassal true
+  Who would not for the gold of heav'n be base:
+  "If there I find Rollànd, we meet in fight.
+  I am the third; now choose ye out the fourth."
+  See you the spurring Malprimis de Brigal,
+  Faster on foot than runs the fastest steed?
+  Before Marsile in a loud voice he cries:
+  "I shall my body take to Ronceval;
+  If there I find Rollànd, by me he dies."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXIII.
+
+  An Emir now is there, from Balaguer.
+  Of handsome form, with proud and cheerful face,
+  When on his steed he vaults, well doth he show
+  With what great pride his armor's mail is borne.
+  For truest vassalage he is renowned;
+  Were he but Christian, 'twere a baron true.
+  Before Marsile he stands and loudly cries:
+  "My body I will take to Ronceval;
+  If there I face Rollànd his doom is sure,
+  Eke Olivier and the twelve peers, all die.
+  The Franks shall perish in despair and shame.
+  Carl'magne is old and dotes. O'erwhelmed, at last
+  He will give up this waging war, and Spain
+  Forever shall be kept beneath our sway."
+  The King Marsile on him bestows great thanks.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXIV.
+
+  Then from the Moorish land an Almazour
+  Steps forth. All Spain can show no greater wretch.
+  Before Marsile he makes a boastful vaunt:
+  "To Ronceval will I my people lead--
+  Full twenty thousand men with lance and shield.
+  If I Rollànd find there, I pledge his death;
+  No after-day shall dawn but Carle shall weep."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXV.
+
+  From elsewhere comes Turgis de Turteluse.
+  He is a count, and o'er this city wields
+  His sway; hate unto Christians has he vowed,
+  And stands with all the rest before Marsile.
+  He thus addressed the king: "Ne'er be dismayed!
+  More worth Mohammed than Saint Pierre of Rome;
+  But serve him well, the honor of the field
+  [Is ours]. I'll meet Rollánd at Ronceval
+  Where none can guard him. Mark this sword of mine;
+  Its blade, so good and long, in desperate fight
+  Will cross with Durendal; and you will hear
+  Which of the two shall win the victory.
+  Abandoned unto us the French must die.
+  The old King Carle will have both grief and shame,
+  And never more on earth will wear a crown."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXVI.
+
+  Comes up besides Escremiz de Valterne,
+  A Saracen, and of that country lord.
+  Before Marsile among the throng he cries:
+  "To Ronceval I go, to crush the proud;
+  Nor shall Rollánd, if there, bear off his head,
+  Nor Olivier, chief of the other knights;
+  The twelve peers, all are doomed to perish there.
+  The French shall die, and France become a waste.
+  Of such good vassals Carle will see the loss."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXVII.
+
+  And came with Esturgant, Estramaris,
+  His friend; both wretches, traitors, villains are....
+  Thus spake Marsile: "Come forth, Seigneurs; ye both
+  To Ronceval's defiles shall go and help
+  Me there to lead my host." Both answer: "King,
+  At your command, Rollánd and Olivier
+  Will we assault. No power can the twelve peers
+  From death defend against our trenchant swords
+  Whose blades shall redden with hot blood. The French
+  Are doomed to death and Carle to doleful life.
+  France, the Great Land, shall through our arms become
+  Your realm. Come, King, to see this verified;
+  The Emperor's self a captive we'll present."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXVIII.
+
+  There hastens Margariz de Sibilie
+  Who holds the country toward the distant sea.
+  His beauty such, all ladies are his friends;
+  Not one looks on him but to smile, nor can
+  Restrain her laughing joy. No Pagan else
+  More glorious deeds of chivalry achieved;
+  Pressed through the crowd, he cries above the rest
+  Unto the king: "Be not dismayed, for I
+  To Ronceval will go to kill Rollánd,
+  And Olivier shall not escape alive;
+  To martyrdom the twelve Peers are condemned.
+  See my good sword with gold-embossèd hilt,
+  Given me by the _Amiralz_ of Prime;
+  I pledge my faith it will be dyed in blood.
+  The French shall perish, France be steeped in shame,
+  And Carle the old, with beard all blossom-white,
+  Shall see no day uncursed by grief and wrath.
+  Before one year we shall have conquered France
+  And slept beneath the roofs of Saint-Denis."
+  At this, the Pagan king bowed low his head.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXIX.
+
+  Next you can see Chernubles de [Val-neire].
+  His hair so long, it sweeps the earth, and he
+  Can, for his sport, lift greater weight than bear
+  Four hundred loaded mules.--In his [far-land]
+  They say--the sun ne'er shines, corn cannot grow,
+  The rain falls not, the dew wets not the soil;
+  No stone there but is black, and it is said
+  By some that in that land the demons dwell.
+  Thus said Chernubles:--"My sword hangs at my belt;
+  At Ronceval I will dye it crimson! should
+  I find Rollánd the brave upon my path,
+  Nor strike him down, then trust to me no more;
+  This my good sword shall conquer Durendal,
+  The French shall die, and France must be destroyed."
+  At these words, rally King Marsile's twelve Peers,
+  And lead one hundred thousand Saracens
+  Who for the battle hasten and prepare,
+  Arming themselves beneath a grove of pines.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXX.
+
+  The Pagans put their Moorish hauberks on;
+  The greater part are triply lined; they lace
+  Their helms of Sarraguce, gird to their thighs
+  Swords of Vienna steel; bright are their shields;
+  Their lances from Valence; their banners white
+  And blue and crimson. Mules and sumpter-beasts
+  Are left behind. They mount their battle steeds,
+  And forward press in closely serried lines.
+  Clear was the day, and brilliant was the sun;
+  No armor but reflected back the light.
+  A thousand clarions sound their cheering blasts
+  So loud, the French can hear--. Says Olivier:
+  "Rollànd, companion, hearken! Soon, methinks,
+  We shall have battle with the Saracens!"
+  To which Rollánd: "God grant it may be so.
+  Here must we do our duty to our King;
+  A man should for his Lord and for his cause
+  Distress endure, and bear great heat and cold,
+  Lose all, even to his very hair and skin!
+  'Tis each man's part to strike with mighty blows,
+  That evil songs of us may ne'er be sung.
+  The wrong cause have the Pagans, we the right.
+  No ill example e'er shall come from me."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  PRELUDE TO THE GREAT BATTLE.
+
+
+  LXXXI.
+
+  Olivier from the summit of a hill
+  On his right hand looks o'er a grassy vale,
+  And views the Pagans' onward marching hordes;
+  Then straight he called his faithful friend Rollánd:
+  "From Spain a distant rumbling noise I hear,
+  So many hauberks white and flashing helms
+  I see!--This will inflame our French men's hearts.
+  The treason is the work of Ganelon
+  Who named us for this post before the King."
+  "Hush! Olivier!"--the Count Rollánd replies,
+  "'Tis my step-father, speak no other word."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXXII.
+
+  Count Olivier is posted on a hill
+  From whence Spain's Kingdom he descries, and all
+  The swarming host of Saracens; their helms
+  So bright bedecked with gold, and their great shields,
+  Their 'broidered hauberks, and their waving flags,
+  He cannot count the squadrons; in such crowds
+  They come, his sight reached not unto their end.
+  Then all bewildered he descends the hill,
+  Rejoins the French, and all to them relates.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXXIII.
+
+  Said Olivier: "I have seen Pagans more
+  Than eyes e'er saw upon the earth; at least
+  One hundred thousand warriors armed with shields,
+  In their white hauberks clad, with helmets laced,
+  Lances in rest, and burnished brazen spears.
+  Battle ye will have, such as ne'er was before.
+  French Lords, may God inspire you with his strength!
+  Stand firm your ground, that we may not succumb."
+  The French say: "Cursed be those who fly the field!
+  Ready to die, not one shall fail you here."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  ROLAND'S PRIDE.
+
+
+  LXXXIV.
+
+  Olivier said: "So strong the Pagan host;
+  Our French, methinks, in number are too few;
+  Companion Rollánd, sound your horn, that Carle
+  May hear and send his army back to help."
+  Rollánd replies:--"Great folly would be mine,
+  And all my glory in sweet France be lost.
+  No, I shall strike great blows with Durendal;
+  To the golden hilt the blade shall reek with blood.
+  In evil hour the felon Pagans came
+  Unto the Pass, for all are doomed to die!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXXV.
+
+  "Rollànd, companion, sound your olifant,
+  That Carle may hear and soon bring back the host.
+  With all his Baronage the king will give
+  Us held!"--Replied Rollánd:--"May God fore-fend
+  That for my cause my kindred e'er be blamed,
+  Or that dishonor fall upon sweet France.
+  Nay, I will deal hard blows with Durendal,
+  This my good sword now girt unto my side
+  Whose blade you'll see all reeking with red blood.
+  Those felon Pagans have for their ill fate
+  Together met--yea, death awaits them all."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXXVI.
+
+  "Companion Rollánd, sound your olifant!
+  If Carle who passes through the mounts shall hear,
+  To you I pledge my word, the French return."
+  Answered Rollánd:--"May God forbid!--Ne'er be
+  It said by living man that Pagans could
+  Cause me to blow my horn, to bring disgrace
+  Upon my kin!--When on the battle field,
+  I'll strike one thousand seven hundred blows,
+  And Durendal all bleeding shall you see.
+  [The French are brave and bravely will they strike.]
+  Those Spanish Moors are doomed to certain death."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXXVII.
+
+  Olivier said:--"To me there seems no shame;
+  I have beheld the Moors of Spain; they swarm
+  O'er mountains, vales and lands, hide all the plains;
+  Great is this stranger host; our number small."
+  Rollánd replies:--"The more my ardor grows.
+  God and his [blessed] angels grant that France
+  Lose naught of her renown through my default.
+  Better to die than in dishonor [live.]
+  The more we strike the more Carle's love we gain!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXXVIII.
+
+  Rollánd is brave and Olivier is wise;
+  Both knights of wond'rous courage--and in arms
+  And mounted on their steeds, they both will die
+  Ere they will shun the fight. Good are the Counts
+  And proud their words.--The Pagan felons ride
+  In fury on!--"Rollánd," said Olivier,
+  "One moment, look! Our foes so close, and Carle
+  Afar from us--you have not deigned to blow
+  Your horn! If came the king, no hurt were ours.
+  Cast your eyes toward the great defiles of Aspre;
+  There see this most unhappy rear-guard. [Those
+  Who here fight, ne'er shall fight on other fields."]
+  Rollànd retorts:--"Speak not such shameful words.
+  Woe unto him who bears a coward's heart
+  Within his breast. There firm shall we remain;
+  The combat and the blows from us shall come."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXXIX.
+
+  Now when Rollánd the battle sees at hand,
+  More than a leopard's or a lion's pride
+  He shows. He calls the French and Olivier:
+  "Companion, friend, pray, speak of this no more.
+  The Emperor who left his French in trust
+  To us, has chos'n those twenty thousand men.
+  Right well he knows none has a coward's soul.
+  A man should suffer hurt for his good lord,
+  Endure great cold or scorching heat, and give
+  Even to his flesh and blood--Strike with your lance,
+  And I with Durendal, my trusty sword,
+  Carle's gift. If here I die, may he who wins
+  It, say:--'Twas once the sword of a brave knight."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+  XC.
+
+  Turpin the Archbishop from another side,
+  Spurring his courser, mounts a hill and calls
+  The French around. This sermon to them speaks:
+  "_Seigneurs Barons_, Carle left us here: for him,
+  Our King, our duty is to die, to aid
+  In saving Christendom, the Faith of Christ
+  Uphold. There, battle will ye have, for there
+  Before your eyes behold the Saracens.
+  Confess your sins, and for God's mercy pray!
+  For your soul's cure I absolution give....
+  If you should die, as holy martyrs ye
+  Will fall, and places find in Paradise!"
+  The French alight and fall upon their knees;
+  The Godly Archbishop grants them benison,
+  Giving for penance his command to strike.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XCI.
+
+  The French arise. They stand assoiled and quit
+  Of all sins, blessed by Turpin in God's name.
+  On swift destriers they mount, armed cap-a-pie
+  As Knights arrayed for battle. Count Rollánd
+  Calls Olivier:--"Companion, sire, full well
+  You know, it is Count Ganelon who has
+  Betrayed us all, and guerdon rich received
+  In gold and silver; well the Emp'ror should
+  Avenge us! King Marsile a bargain made
+  Of us, but swords will make the reck'ning good."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XCII.
+
+  Through the defiles of Spain hath passed Rollánd
+  Mounted on Veillantif, his charger swift
+  And strong, bearing his bright and glitt'ring arms.
+  On goes the brave Rollánd, his lance borne up
+  Skyward, beneath its point a pennon bound,
+  Snow-white, whose fringes flap his hand.
+  Fair is his form, his visage bright with smiles.
+  Behind him follows Olivier his friend;
+  The French with joy, him as their champion, hail.
+  He on the Heathens throws a haughty glance,
+  But casts a sweet and humble look upon
+  His French, and to them speaks with courteous tone:
+  "_Seigneurs Barons_, march steadily and close.
+  These Pagans hither came to find a grave;
+  We here shall conquer such great spoil to-day
+  As never yet was gained by Kings of France."
+  Even as he spoke the word, the armies met.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XCIII.
+
+  Said Olivier:--"No care have I to speak,
+  Since you deigned not to blow your olifant,
+  All hope of help from Carle for you is lost.
+  He knows no word of this; the fault lies not
+  In him, nor are yon Knights to blame--ride on
+  And gallop to the charge as best you can.
+  _Seigneurs Barons_, recoil not from the foe,
+  In God's name! bearing ever this in mind,
+  Hard blows to deal and hard blows to endure
+  Forget we not the war-cry of King Carle!"
+  At this word all the French together shout.
+  Who then had heard the cry, "Montjoie!" had known
+  What courage is. Then all together rush
+  Right onward; God! with what an onset fierce!
+  Deeply they spur their steeds for greater speed;
+  They burn to fight. What else can they desire?
+  The Saracens stand firm and nothing fear....
+  Behold the Franks and Pagans hand to hand....
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  THE MELEE.
+
+
+  XCIV.
+
+  The nephew of Marsile--his name Aëlroth,
+  Forward the first of all spurs on his horse
+  Against our French, hurling forth insulting words:
+  "To-day, French villains, ye will joust with us;
+  Who was to guard you, has betrayed you; mad
+  Must be the King who left you in the pass.
+  So now the honor of sweet France is lost,
+  And Carle the great shall lose his right arm here."
+  Rollànd heard.--God! what pain to him! He drives
+  His golden spurs into his courser's flanks,
+  And rushes at full speed against Aëlroth;
+  His shield he breaks, dismails the hauberk linked;
+  Cleaving his breast, he severs all the bones,
+  And from the spine the ribs disjoint. The lance
+  Forth from his body thrusts the Pagan's soul;
+  The Heathen's corse reels from his horse, falls down
+  Upon the earth, the neck cloven in two halves.
+  Rollánd still taunts him:--"Go thou, wretch, and know
+  Carle was not mad. Ne'er did he treason love,
+  And he did well to leave us in the pass.
+  To-day sweet France will not her honor lose!
+  Strike, Frenchmen, strike; the first sword-stroke is ours;
+  We have the right, these gluttons have the wrong!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XCV.
+
+  Then comes a Duke whose name is Falsarun;
+  He is the brother of the King Marsile.
+  The lands of Dathan and of Abirun
+  He holds: no viler wretch lives under Heaven.
+  Vast is his forehead, and the space between
+  His deeply sunken eyes is half a foot.
+  Seeing his nephew dead, in grief he bounds
+  Forth from the serried ranks, and shouts aloud
+  The Pagan war-cry, furious 'gainst the French.
+  "To-day," he cries, "at last sweet France shall lose
+  Her fame!"--When Olivier heard this, in wrath
+  He pricks with golden spurs his charger's flanks,
+  And, like true baron, lifts his arm to strike,
+  Shivers the Pagan's shield, his hauberk tears
+  Apart. The pennon's folds pass through his breast
+  As with the shaft he hurls him from the selle,
+  A mangled corpse;--here lies he on the ground.
+  Unto the prostrate body Olivier
+  Says proudly:--"Wretch, to me thy threats are vain!
+  Strike boldly, Franks! The victory shall be ours!
+  Montjoie!" he shouts, the battle-cry of Carle.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XCVI.
+
+  A king, named Corsablis, from Barbarie,
+  A distant land, is there.--The Pagan host
+  He calls;--"The field is ours with ease: the French
+  So few in numbers we may well disdain,
+  Nor Carle shall rescue one; all perish here.
+  To-day, they all are doomed to death!" Turpin
+  The Archbishop heard him; lived no man on earth
+  He hated more than Corsablis; he pricks
+  His horse with both his spurs of purest gold,
+  And 'gainst him rushes with tremendous force.
+  The shield and hauberk split; and with a stroke
+  Of the long lance into his body driven,
+  Corsablis lifeless drops across the path;
+  Him, though a corpse, Turpin addresses thus:
+  "Thou, coward Pagan, thou hast lied! Great Carl
+  My lord, was ever and will ever be
+  Our help; and Frenchmen know not how to fly.
+  As for thy fellows, we can keep them here;
+  I tell you, each this day shall die.--Strike, Franks,
+  Yourselves forget not. This first blow, thank God,
+  Is ours! Montjoie!" cries he, to hold the field.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XCVII.
+
+  Gerin attacks Malprimis de Brigal
+  Whose good shield now was not a denier worth:
+  The crystal boss all broken, and one half
+  Fall'n on the ground. Down to the flesh Gerin
+  His hauberk cleaves, and passes through his heart
+  The brazen point of a stout lance. Then falls
+  The Pagan chief and dies by that good blow;
+  And Sathanas bears off the wretched soul.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XCVIII.
+
+  Gerier, his comrade, strikes the Amurafle,
+  Breaks his good shield, his hauberk white unmails,
+  Plants in his heart a spear's steel point with such
+  Good aim, one blow has pierced the body through;
+  And his strong lance-thrust hurls him dead to earth.--
+  Said Olivier: "A noble combat ours!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XCIX.
+
+  Duke Sansun rushes on the Almazour;
+  He splits the shield with painted flowers and gold
+  Embossed. The strong-mailed hauberk shelters not,
+  As he is pierced through liver, heart and lungs.
+  For him may mourn who will--death-struck he falls:
+  "That is a Baron's stroke!" the Archbishop cries.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  C.
+
+  Anseïs gives his steed the rein, and charges
+  Fierce on Turgis de Turteluse; beneath
+  The golden boss asunder breaks the shield,
+  Rips up the hauberk double-linked; so true
+  The thrust, that all the steel passed through his breast.
+  With this one blow the shaft has struck him dead.
+  Rollánd exclaimed: "The stroke is of a Knight!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CI.
+
+  Then Engelier, the Gascuin of Burdele,
+  Spurs deep his horse, and casting loose the rein,
+  Rushes upon Escremiz de Valterne;
+  Breaks down the buckler fastened to his throat
+  And rends his gorget-mail; full in the breast
+  The lance strikes deep and passes in between
+  The collar bones; dead from the saddle struck
+  He falls.--And Turpin says: "Ye all are lost!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CII.
+
+  Othon assails a Pagan, Estorgant,
+  His thrust hits hard the leather of the shield,
+  Effacing its bright colors red and white,
+  Breaks in his hauberk's sides, and plunges deep
+  Within his heart a strong and trenchant spear,
+  From off the flying steed striking him dead.
+  This done, he says:--"No hope for you remains!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CIII.
+
+  And Berengier smites now Estramaris,
+  Splits down his shield, shivers his coat of mail
+  In shreds and through his bosom drives a lance.
+  Dead 'midst one thousand Saracens he drops.
+  Of their twelve Peers now ten have breathed their last:
+  Chernuble--Margariz, the Count, survive.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CIV.
+
+  Most valiant Knight is Margariz. 'Mid all
+  Beauteous, strong, slender, quick of hand. He spurs
+  His horse and charges Olivier; beneath
+  The boss of purest gold his shield breaks down,
+  Then at his side a pointed lance he aims;
+  But God protects him, for the blow ne'er reached
+  The flesh. The point grazed only, wounding not.
+  Then Margariz unhindered rides away
+  And sounds his horn to rally his own men.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CV.
+
+  The battle rages fierce. All men engage.
+  Rollánd, the dauntless, combats with his lance
+  As long as holds the shaft. Fifteen good blows
+  It dealt, then broke and fell; now his good sword,
+  Loved Durendal, he draws, spurs on his steed
+  'Gainst Chernubles, splits his bright helm adorned
+  With gems; one blow cleaves through mail-cap and skull,
+  Cutting both eyes and visage in two parts,
+  And the white hauberk with its close-linked mail;
+  Down to the body's fork, the saddle all
+  Of beaten gold, still deeper goes the sword,
+  Cuts through the courser's chine, nor seeks the joint.
+  Upon the verdant grass fall dead both knight
+  And steed. And then he cries: "Wretch! ill inspired
+  To venture here! Mohammed helped thee not....
+  Wretches like you this battle shall not win."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CVI.
+
+  The Count Rollànd rides through the battle-field
+  And makes, with Durendal's keen blade in hand,
+  A mighty carnage of the Saracens.
+  Ah! had you then beheld the valiant Knight
+  Heap corse on corse; blood drenching all the ground;
+  His own arms, hauberk, all besmeared with gore,
+  And his good steed from neck to shoulder bleed!
+  Still Olivier halts not in his career.
+  Of the twelve Peers not one deserves reproach,
+  And all the French strike well and massacre
+  The foe. The Pagans dead or dying fall.
+  Cries the Archbishop: "Well done, Knights of France!
+  Montjoie! Montjoie! It is Carle's battle cry!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CVII.
+
+  Olivier grasps the truncheon of his lance,
+  Spurs through the storm and fury of the fight,
+  And rushes on the Pagan Malsarun,
+  Breaks down his shield with flowers and gold embossed,
+  Thrusts from their orbs his eyes; his brains dashed out
+  Are crushed and trampled 'neath the victor's feet;
+  With seven hundred men of theirs he fell.
+  The Count next slew Turgis and Estorgus;
+  But now the shaft breaks short off by his hand.
+  Then said Rollánd: "What mean you, _Compagnon_?
+  In such a fight as this 'tis not a staff
+  We need, but steel and iron, as I deem.
+  Where now that sword called Halteclere, with hilt
+  Of gold and crystal pommel?" "I lack time
+  To draw it," valiant Olivier replies,
+  "So busy is my hand in dealing blows!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CVIII.
+
+  Lord Olivier then his good sword unsheathed,
+  For which Rollánd entreated him so much,
+  And showed it to his friend with knightly pride;
+  Strikes down a Pagan, Justin de Val-Ferrée,
+  Whose head is severed by the blow; cuts through
+  Th' embroider'd hauberk, through the body, through
+  The saddle all with studs and gold embossed,
+  And through the back-bone of the steed. Both man
+  And steed fall on the grass before him, dead.
+  Rollánd exclaims: "Henceforth, you are indeed
+  My brother! These, the strokes loved by King Carle!"
+  And echoes round the cry: "Montjoie! Montjoie!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CIX.
+
+  The Count Gerin sits on his horse, Sorel,
+  And his companion Gerier, on Passe-Cerf,
+  They loose the reins, and both spur on against
+  A Pagan, Timozel. One strikes the shield,
+  The other strikes the hauberk;--in his heart
+  The two spears meet and hurl him lifeless down.
+  I never heard it said nor can I know
+  By which of them the swifter blow was struck.--
+  Esperveris, son to Borel, was next
+  By Engelier de Burdele slain. Turpin
+  With his own hand gave death to Siglorel
+  Th' Enchanter who once entered hell, led there
+  By Jupiter's craft. Turpin said:--"Forfeit paid
+  For crime!"--"The wretch is vanquished," cried Rollánd,
+  "My brother Olivier, such blows I love!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CX.
+
+  The combat paused not. Franks and Pagans vie
+  In dealing blows; attacking now, and now
+  Defending. Splintered spears, dripping with blood
+  So many; o'er the field such numbers strewn:
+  Of banners torn and shattered gonfalons!
+  So many valiant French mowed in their prime,
+  Whom mothers and sweet wives will never see
+  Again, nor those of France who in the Pass
+  Await them! Carle for these shall weep and mourn.
+  But what avails? Naught can he help them now.
+  Ill service rendered Ganelon to them
+  The day when he to Sarraguce repaired
+  To sell his kin. Ere long for this he lost
+  Both limb and life, judged and condemned at Aix,
+  There to be hanged with thirty of his race
+  Who were not spared the punishment of death.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXI.
+
+  The battle rages. Wonders all perform;
+  Rollánd and Olivier strike hard; Turpin
+  Th' Archbishop, deals more than a thousand blows;
+  The twelve Peers dally not upon the field,
+  While all the French together fight as if
+  One man. By hundreds and by thousands fall
+  The Pagans: none scapes death, save those who fly
+  Whether they will or no, all lose their lives.
+  And yet the French have lost their strongest arms,
+  Their fathers and their kin they will ne'er see
+  Again, nor Carle who waits them in the Pass.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Meantime in France an awful scourge prevails:
+  Wind, storm, rain, hail and flashing lightning bolts
+  Conflict confusedly, and naught more true,
+  The earth shook from Saint Michiel-del-Peril
+  As far as to the Saints, from Besançon
+  Unto the [sea-port] of Guitzand; no house
+  Whose walls unshaken stood; darkness at noon
+  Shrouded the sky. No beam of light above
+  Save when a flash rips up the clouds. Dismayed
+  Beholders cry:--"The world's last day has come,
+  The destined end of all things is at hand!"
+  Unwitting of the truth, their speech is vain....
+  'Tis dolour for the death of Count Rollánd!
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXII.
+
+  The French [strike] hard; they strike with all their force.
+  In multitudes--by thousands die their foes;
+  Not two out of one hundred thousand now
+  Survive. [Turpin] says:--"Brave are all our men;--
+  None braver under Heaven--In the Geste
+  Of France 'tis writ true vassals have our Kings."
+  Seeking their friends, they overrun the field.
+  Their eyes are filled with tenderness and tears
+  For their dear kindred they so fondly loved....
+  Now King Marsile with his great host appears....
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXIII.
+
+  Marsile advances 'midst a valley deep,
+  Surrounded by the mighty host he brought,
+  In twenty squadrons mustered and arrayed.
+  Bright shine the helmets strewn with gold and gems,
+  And shields and hauberks graved. They sound a charge
+  With seven hundred clarions sending forth
+  Loud blasts throughout the land--Thus said Rollánd:
+  "Companion Olivier, my brother, friend,
+  The traitor, Ganelon, has sworn our death....
+  His treason is too sure; the Emp'ror Carle
+  For this vile crime will take a vengeance deep.
+  A long and cruel battle we shall have,
+  Ere this unknown to man. There, I will fight
+  With my good Durendal; you, friend, will strike
+  With Halteclere--Those noble swords we bore
+  Throughout so many lands; such combats won
+  By them, vile strains must never chant their deeds."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXIV.
+
+  When the French see the Pagan cohorts swarm
+  The country o'er, they call on Olivier,
+  Rollánd and the twelve Peers to guard their lives.
+  Unto them now the Archbishop speaks his mind:
+  "Barons, be not unworthy of yourselves!
+  Fly not the field, for God's sake, that brave men
+  Sing not ill songs of you! Far better die
+  In battle. Doomed, I know, we are to death,
+  And ere this day has passed, our lives are o'er.
+  But for one thing ye can believe my word:
+  For you God's Paradise stands open wide,
+  And seats await you 'mid the blessèd Saints."
+  These words of comfort reassure the French;
+  All in one voice cry out:--"Montjoie! Montjoie!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXV.
+
+  There was a Saracen from Sarraguce
+  Lord of one half the city--Climorin,
+  Unlike a Baron; he received the faith
+  Of Ganelon, and sealed the treacherous bond
+  By pressing on his lip a kiss--Besides
+  Unto him gave his sword and carbuncle.
+  "I will," said he, "put your great France to shame
+  And from the Emperor's head shake off the crown!"
+  Mounted on Barbamouche that faster flies
+  Than hawk or swallow on the wing, he spurs
+  His courser hard, and dropping on its neck
+  The rein, he strikes Engelier de Gascuigne;
+  Hauberk nor shield is for him a defense:
+  Deep in the core the Pagan thrusts his spear
+  So mightily, its point comes out behind,
+  And with the shaft o'erturns him on the field
+  A corse;--he cries. "Fit for destruction these!
+  Strike, Pagans, strike, and let us break their lines!"
+  The French cry: "God! to lose so brave a Knight!"....
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXVI.
+
+  The Count Rollánd calls Olivier: "You know,
+  Companion, sire, Engelier is no more....
+  No better Knight had we"--The Count replies:
+  "God grant that I avenge him well!" He drives
+  His golden spurs into his charger's flanks;
+  And waving Halteclere's blood dripping blade,
+  The Pagan he assails, and deals a blow....
+  O'erthrown is Climorin. The fiends of hell
+  Bear off his soul. The Knight then slays the Duke
+  Alphaïen, beheads Escababi,
+  Unhorses seven Arabs with such skill
+  They rise no more to fight. Then said Rollánd:
+  "Wroth is my sire, and by my side achieves
+  Renown! by such good blows Carl's love is gained.
+  Strike, Chevaliers! strike on!"--he cries aloud.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXVII.
+
+  From otherwhere is Valdabrun who armed
+  Marsile a Knight; lord of four hundred ships.
+  There is no sailor but swears by his name;
+  'Twas he by treason took Jerusalem,
+  Who there the shrine of Solomon profaned,
+  And slew before the Fonts the Patriarch;
+  'Twas he, received Count Ganelon's vile oath
+  And gave him with his sword a thousand marks;
+  Faster than falcon in its flight his steed
+  Named Graminond. He sharply spurs his flanks
+  And rushes 'gainst the mighty Duke Sansun,
+  Breaks down his shield--the hauberk rends, and thrusts
+  Within his breast the pennon of the flag;
+  The shaft o'erthrows him from the saddle, dead.
+  "Strike Pagans! strike, for we shall conquer them!"
+  The French say:--"God! what Baron true we lose!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXVIII.
+
+  When Count Rollánd sees Sansun lifeless fall,
+  You may well know what grief was his. He spurs
+  His horse down on the Pagan. Durendal
+  More worth than precious gold he lifts to strike
+  With all his might; gold studded helm, head, trunk,
+  Hauberk asunder cleaves; the blow, e'en through
+  The gold boss'd saddle, strikes the courser's back,
+  Killing both horse and man. Blame or approve
+  Who may. The Pagans say:--"Hard is this blow!"
+  Retorts Rollánd:--"For yours no pity can
+  I feel--With you the vaunting and the wrong!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXIX.
+
+  An African fresh from the desert land
+  Was there, Malquidant, son of king Malcud;
+  His armor highly wrought in beaten gold
+  Outshines all others in the sun's bright rays.
+  Mounted upon his horse named Salt-Perdut,
+  He aims a blow at Anseïs' shield, and cuts
+  The azure and vermillion all away.
+  His hauberk rives asunder, side from side,
+  And through his body pass both point and shaft.
+  The Count is dead.--His last breath spent and flown.
+  The French say:--"Baron, such great woe for you!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXX.
+
+  The Archbishop Turpin rides across the fields;
+  No shaven priest sang ever mass so well
+  As he, and showed such prowess in his deeds.
+  He to the Pagan:--"May God send all ills
+  To thee, who slew the knight my heart bewails!"
+  Turpin spurs hard his good steed 'gainst the wretch;
+  One blow strikes down his strong Toledo shield:
+  The miscreant dead upon the green sward falls.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXI.
+
+  Elsewhere stands Grandomie who is the son
+  Of Capuel king of Cappadoce. He sits
+  A steed named Marmorie, than flying bird
+  More swift. Loosening the rein, and spurring deep,
+  To smite Gerin with all his force he rides;
+  Torn from the neck which bears it, shattered falls
+  The purple shield, through the rent mail he drives
+  The whole blue pennon in his breast. Gerin
+  Drops lifeless by this blow, against a rock.
+  The Pagan also slays Gerier, his friend,
+  And Berengier, and Gui de Saint-Antoine;
+  Assailing then the noble Duke Austoire
+  Who holds Valence and fiefs along the Rosne,
+  He strikes him dead. The Saracens extol
+  Their triumph, but how many fall of ours!
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXII.
+
+  Hearing the Frenchmen's sobs, the Count Rollánd
+  Grasps in his hand his sword, all reeking blood.
+  His mighty heart nigh breaking with his grief,
+  Cries to the foe:--"May God all evils send
+  On thee! him hast thou slain for whom thou shalt
+  Most dearly pay!--" He spurs his flying steed....
+  Conquer who may--these two fight hand to hand.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXIII.
+
+  A wise and valiant knight was Grandonie,
+  Virtuous and fearless vassal. 'Mid his way
+  Encountering Count Rollánd, though never seen
+  Before, at once he knew 'twas he, as well
+  By his proud mien and noble beauty, as
+  By his fair countenance and lofty look.
+  Awe-struck, despite himself, he vainly tries
+  To fly, but rooted to the spot he stays.
+  The Count Rollánd smites him so skillfully,
+  He splits in two the nazal, helm, nose, mouth,
+  And teeth, the body and mailed-armor, then
+  Hews through the golden selle, both silver-flaps;
+  With a still deeper stroke the courser's back
+  Is gashed. So both are slain past remedy.
+  The men of Spain cry out all sorrowful;
+  But say the French:--"Well our defender strikes."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXIV.
+
+  Marv'lous the battle, and the tumult fierce;
+  The French of strength and fury full, raise high
+  Their swords: backs, ribs and wrists are slashed; the flesh
+  Cut through rent garments to the quick; along
+  The verdant soil the red blood runs in streams.
+  The Pagans cry:--"We cannot more endure!
+  Great land, Mohammed curse thee!--More than all
+  This people bold."--Not one who does not cry
+  "Marsile! ride on, O King, thy aid we need!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXV.
+
+  A battle fierce and wonderful!--Hard strike
+  The French with glittering lance, and there you might
+  Have seen what miseries man can suffer: Mowed
+  And heaped in bloody mounds, all gasping out
+  Their lives, some on their backs, some on their teeth--
+  The Saracens give way, willing or not;
+  By the French lances forced, they fly the field.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXVI.
+
+  Marsile his warriors massacred beholds,
+  And, bidding all his horns and trumpets blow,
+  Rides forward, and his whole van rides with him.
+  In the van rode a Saracen, Abisme,
+  The vilest wretch among his men, sunk deep
+  In crimes and shame, who has no faith in God,
+  Sainte Marie's son; as black as melted pitch
+  His face; more fond of blood and treason foul
+  Than of the gold of all Galice. None saw
+  Him laugh or play; for courage and rash deeds
+  He pleased the vile Marsile whose dragon flag
+  He bears. No pity can the Archbishop feel
+  For him, and at his sight he craves to try
+  His arm, all softly saying to himself:
+  "This Saracen is but a heretic;
+  Far better die than not to give him death.
+  Ne'er cowardice nor coward I endured!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXVII.
+
+  The Archbishop gives the signal for the fight;
+  He rides the horse he captured from Grossaille,
+  A King he slew among the Danes: a horse
+  Of wondrous fleetness, light-hoofed, slender-limbed;
+  Thigh short; with broad and mighty haunch; the flanks
+  Are long, and very high his spine; pure white
+  His tail, and yellow is his mane--his ears
+  Are small--light brown his head. This paragon
+  Of all the beasts of earth has not his peer.
+  The Archbishop, baron-like, spurs on the horse,
+  Full bent upon the encounter with Abisme;
+  He gains his side and hard he strikes his shield
+  Glittering with gems, topaz and amethyst,
+  Crystals and carbuncles, which to him gave
+  The Emir Galafés--a demon's gift
+  To this in Val-Metas. Him Turpin smites
+  Nor mercy shows; 'gainst such a blow avails
+  The shield but little; sheer from side to side
+  Passes the blade ... dead on the place he falls.
+  At such exploit amazed, the French exclaim:
+  "The archbishop's crosier in his hand is safe!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXVIII.
+
+  The Count Rollánd calls Olivier: "With me,
+  Companion, sire, confess that 'mong brave knights
+  The archbishop upon earth or under Heav'n
+  Has not his peer in casting spear or lance."
+  Olivier answers:--"To his rescue on!"
+  At this the French once more resume the fight.
+  Hard are the blows, rough is the strife--Meantime
+  The Christian host in greatest sorrow mourn.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXIX.
+
+  Whoever could this fight describe? Rollánd
+  And Olivier vie with Turpin in skill
+  And glorious deeds--The slain can counted be;
+  In charts and briefs their numbers are enrolled:
+  More than four thousand fell, so says the Geste.
+  Four times the French arms were victorious,
+  But on the fifth, a cruel fate they met;
+  The knights of France found there a grave, except
+  Three more whose lives God saved; yet those brave knights,
+  Ere falling, their last breath will dearly sell.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  THE HORN.
+
+
+  CXXX.
+
+  Seeing so many warriors fall'n around,
+  Rollánd unto his comrade Olivier
+  Spoke thus: "Companion fair and dear, for God
+  Whose blessing rest on you, those vassals true
+  And brave lie corses on the battle-field:
+  Look! We must mourn for France so sweet and fair,
+  From henceforth widowed of such valiant knights.
+  Carle, 'would you were amongst us, King and friend!
+  What can we do, say, brother Olivier,
+  To bring him news of this sore strait of ours!"
+  Olivier answers:--"I know not; but this
+  I know; for us is better death than shame."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXXI.
+
+  Rollánd says;--"I will blow mine olifant,
+  And Carle will hear it from the pass. I pledge
+  My word the French at once retrace their steps."
+  Said Olivier:--"This a great shame would be,
+  One which to all your kindred would bequeathe
+  A lifetime's stain. When this I asked of you,
+  You answered nay, and would do naught. Well, now
+  With my consent you shall not;--if you blow
+  Your horn, of valor true you show no proof.
+  Already, both your arms are drenched with blood."
+  Responds the Count:--"These arms have nobly struck."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXXII.
+
+  "The strife is rude," Rollánd says--"I will blow
+  My horn, that Carle may hear."--Said Olivier:--
+  "This would not courage be. What I desired,
+  Companion, you disdained. Were the king here,
+  Safe would we be, but yon brave men are not
+  To blame"--"By this my beard," said Olivier,
+  "I swear, if e'er I see again sweet Aude,
+  My sister, in her arms you ne'er shall lie."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXXIII.
+
+  Rollánd asked Olivier--"Why show to me
+  Your anger, friend!"--"Companion, yours the fault;
+  True courage means not folly. Better far
+  Is prudence than your valiant rage. Our French
+  Their lives have lost, your rashness is the cause.
+  And now our arms can never more give Carle
+  Their service good. Had you believed your friend,
+  Amongst us would he be, and ours the field,
+  The King Marsile, a captive or a corse.
+  Rollànd, your valor brought ill fortune, nor
+  Shall Carle the great e'er more our help receive,
+  A man unequaled till God's judgment-day.
+  Here you shall die, and dying, humble France, ...
+  This day our loyal friendship ends--ere falls
+  The Vesper-eve, dolorously we part!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXXIV.
+
+  The Archbishop heard their strife. In haste he drives
+  Into his horse his spurs of purest gold,
+  And quick beside them rides. Then chiding them,
+  Says:--"Sire Rollánd, and you, Sire Olivier,
+  In God's name be no feud between you two;
+  No more your horn shall save us; nathless 'twere
+  Far better Carle should come and soon avenge
+  Our deaths. So joyous then these Spanish foes
+  Would not return. But as our Franks alight,
+  Find us or slain or mangled on the field,
+  They will our bodies on their chargers' backs
+  Lift in their shrouds with grief and pity, all
+  In tears, and bury us in holy ground:
+  And neither wolves, nor swine, nor curs shall feed
+  On us--" Replies Rollánd:--"Well have you said."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXXV.
+
+  Rollánd raised to his lips the olifant,
+  Drew a deep breath, and blew with all his force.
+  High are the mountains, and from peak to peak
+  The sound re-echoes; thirty leagues away
+  'Twas heard by Carle and all his brave compeers.
+  Cried the king:--"Our men make battle!--" Ganelon
+  Retorts in haste:--"If thus another dared
+  To speak, we should denounce it as a lie."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXXVI.
+
+  The Count Rollánd in his great anguish blows
+  His olifant so mightily, with such
+  Despairing agony, his mouth pours forth
+  The crimson blood, and his swoll'n temples burst.
+  Yea, but so far the ringing blast resounds;
+  Carle hears it, marching through the pass, Naimes harks,
+  The French all listen with attentive ear.
+  "That is Rollánd's horn!--" Carle cried, "which ne'er yet
+  Was, save in battle, blown!--" But Ganelon
+  Replies:--"No fight is there!--you, sire, are old,
+  Your hair and beard are all bestrewn with gray,
+  And as a child your speech. Well do you know
+  Rollánd's great pride. 'Tis marvelous God bears
+  With him so long. Already took he Noble
+  Without your leave. The Pagans left their walls
+  And fought Rollánd, your brave Knight, in the field;
+  With his good blade he slew them all, and then
+  Washed all the plain with water, that no trace
+  Of blood was left--yea, oftentimes he runs
+  After a hare all day and blows his horn.
+  Doubtless he takes his sport now with his peers;
+  And who 'neath Heav'n would dare attack Rollánd?
+  None, as I deem. Nay, sire, ride on apace;
+  Why do you halt? Still far is the Great Land."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXXVII.
+
+  Rollánd with bleeding mouth and temples burst,
+  Still in his anguish, blows his olifant;
+  Carle hears it, and his Franks. The king exclaims:
+  "That horn has a long breath!" Duke Naimes replies:
+  "Rollánd it is, and in a sore distress,
+  Upon my faith, a battle rages there!
+  A traitor he who would deceive you now.
+  To arms! Your war-cry shout, your kinsman save!
+  Plainly enough you hear his call for help."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXXVIII.
+
+  Carle orders all the trumpeters to sound
+  The march. The French alight. They arm themselves
+  With helmets, hauberks and gold hilted swords,
+  Bright bucklers, long sharp spears, with pennons white
+  And red and blue. The barons of the host
+  Leap on their steeds, all spurring on; while through
+  The pass they march, each to the other says:
+  "Could we but reach Rollánd before he dies,
+  What deadly blows, with his, our swords would strike!"
+  But what avails?--Too late they will arrive.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXXIX.
+
+  The ev'n is clear, the sun its radiant beams
+  Reflects upon the marching legions. Spears,
+  Hauberks and helms, shields painted with bright flowers,
+  Gold pennons all ablaze with glitt'ring hues.
+  Burning with wrath the Emperor rides on;
+  The French with sad and angered looks. None there
+  But weeps aloud. All tremble for Rollánd.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  The King commands Count Ganelon be seized
+  And given to the scullions of his house.
+  Their chief, named Bègue, he calls and bids: "Guard well
+  This man as one who all my kin betrayed."
+  Him Bègue received, and set upon the Count
+  One hundred of his kitchen comrades--best
+  And worst;--they pluck his beard on lip and cheek;
+  Each deals him with his fist four blows, and falls
+  On him with lash and stick; they chain his neck
+  As they would chain a bear, and he is thrown
+  For more dishonor on a sumpter mule,
+  There guarded so until to Carle brought back.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXL.
+
+  High are the mountains, gloomy, terrible,
+  The valleys deep, and swift the rushing streams.
+  In van, in rear, the brazen trumpets blow,
+  Answ'ring the olifant. With angry look
+  Rides on the Emp'ror; filled with wrath and grief,
+  Follow the French, each sobbing, each in tears,
+  Praying that God may guard Rollánd, until
+  They reach the battle-field. With him what blows
+  Will they not strike? Alas! what boots it now?
+  Too late they are and can not come in time.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXLI.
+
+  Carle in great anger rides--his snow-white beard
+  O'erspreads his breast-plate. Hard the Barons spur,
+  For never one but inwardly doth rage
+  That he is far from their great chief, Rollánd,
+  Who combats now the Saracens of Spain:
+  If wounded he, will one of his survive?
+  O God! What Knights those sixty left by him!
+  Nor King nor captain better ever had....
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  THE ROUT.
+
+
+  CXLII.
+
+  The Count Rollánd casts o'er the mounts and vales
+  A glance: French corses strew the plains in heaps;
+  He for them mourns as gentle chevalier.
+  At such a sight the noble hero weeps:
+  "Seigneurs, to you may God be merciful!
+  To all your souls may He grant Paradise,
+  And there may they on beds of heavenly flowers
+  Repose!--No better vassals lived! so long
+  Have ye served me! So many lands for Carle
+  Ye won!--The Emperor for this ill fate
+  Has nurtured you!--O land of France, most sweet
+  Art thou, but now forsaken and a waste.
+  Barons of France, to-day I see you die
+  For me; nor can I save or e'en defend
+  Your lives. Be God your aid, who ne'er played false!
+  Olivier, brother, I must not fail thee!
+  If other death comes not, of grief I die.
+  Come, sire companion ... come to fight again!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXLIII.
+
+  Soon to the field returns the Count Rollánd
+  With Durendal in hand; as a true knight
+  He fights. Faldrun del Pin he cleaves in half
+  With twenty-four among the bravest foes.
+  Never was man so bent upon revenge.
+  As run wild deer before the chasing hounds,
+  Before Rollánd the Pagans flee.--"Well done!"
+  The Archbishop cries, "Such valor a true Knight
+  Should have, when mounted, armed, on his good steed!
+  Else, not four deniers is he worth: a monk
+  In cloister should he be, and spend his life
+  In praying for our sins!...." "Strike," said Rollànd,
+  "No quarter!"--At the word the French renew
+  The combat ... yet the Christian loss was great.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+  CXLIV.
+
+  When soldiers on the battle-field expect
+  No quarter--desperate they fight; and thus
+  The French, like lions, fiercely stand at bay.
+  Like a true baron King Marsile rides forth
+  Upon his steed Gaignon, and spurs him on
+  Against Bevum, of Belne and Digun lord,
+  His buckler cleaves, his hauberk with a blow
+  Shatters, and lays him dead upon the field.
+  Then fall beneath the Pagan King, Ivoire
+  And Ivun; then Gerard de Roussillon.--
+  The Count Rollánd is nigh and cries aloud:
+  "God give damnation unto thee who thus
+  So foully slay'st my friends! But ere we part,
+  Dearly shalt thou abye it, and to-day
+  Shalt learn the name my good sword bears."--He strikes
+  The King a true Knight's stroke, and his right hand
+  Lops at the wrist; then Turfaleu the fair,
+  Marsile's own son, beheads. The Pagans say:
+  "Aid us, Mahum! Avenge us, Gods of ours,
+  On Carle, who brought such villains to our land,
+  As rather than depart will die."--And each
+  To each cries: "Let us fly!"--Upon the word,
+  A hundred thousand turn in sudden flight.
+  Whoever calls them, ne'er will they return.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXLV.
+
+  Alas, it not avails! If Marsile flies,
+  His uncle Marganice unhurt remained.
+  'Tis he who held Carthage, Alferne, Garnaille,
+  And Ethiopia, a land accursed;
+  Chief of the Blacks, a thick-nosed, large-eared race.
+  Of these he more than fifty thousand leads,
+  Who ride on proudly, full of wrath, and shout
+  The Pagan war-cry.--"Here," said Count Rollànd,
+  "Here shall we fall as martyrs. Well I know
+  Our end is nigh; but dastard I count him
+  Who sells not dear his life. Barons, strike well,
+  Strike with your burnished swords, and set such price
+  On death and life, that naught of shame shall fall
+  On our sweet France. When Carle, my lord, shall come
+  Upon this field, and see such slaughter here
+  Of Saracens, fifteen to one of ours,
+  Then will he breathe a blessing on his Knights."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  OLIVIER'S DEATH.
+
+
+  CXLVI.
+
+  When sees Rollánd this tribe accursed, more black
+  Than ink, with glist'ning teeth, their only gleam
+  Of white, he said:--"Truly I know to-day
+  We die! Strike, Frenchmen, that is my command."
+  And Olivier, "Woe to the laggards," cries.
+  These words the French hearts fired to meet the fray.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXLVII.
+
+  The Pagans, when they mark how few the French,
+  Are filled with pride and comfort, and they say
+  One to the other:--"Their King Carle is wrong!"--
+  Upon his sorrel steed sits Marganice;
+  Urging him hard with pricking spurs of gold,
+  Encounters Olivier--strikes him behind,
+  Drives his white hauberk-links into his heart,
+  And through in front came forth the pointed lance.
+  The Kalif cries:--"That blow struck home! Carlmagne,
+  For thy mishap, left you to guard the Pass!
+  That he has wronged us, little may he boast.
+  Your death alone for us a vengeance full!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXLVIII.
+
+  Olivier knows his death-wound. In his hand
+  He grasps Halteclere's bright steel, and strikes a blow
+  Well aimed upon the Kalif's pointed helm;
+  He scatters golden flow'rs and gems in dust.
+  His head the trenchant blade cleaves to the teeth,
+  And dead the Kalif falls.--"Pagan accursed,"
+  He cries, "not here shalt thou say Carle lost aught;
+  To wife nor lady shalt thou ever boast
+  In thine own land, that thou hast reft from Carle
+  One denier's worth, or me or others harmed!"
+  And then he called Rollànd unto his aid.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXLIX.
+
+  Olivier feels that he is hurt to death.
+  No vengeance can suffice him; Baron-like
+  He strikes amid the press, cuts shields embossed
+  And ashen shafts, and spears, feet, shoulders, wrists
+  And breasts of horsemen. He who saw him thus
+  Dismember Saracens, corse over corse
+  Heap on the ground, would of a vassal true
+  Remembrance keep. Nor does he now forget
+  The rallying cry of Carle:--"Montjoie!" he cries
+  Loudly and clear; then calls Rollánd, his friend
+  And compeer:--"Sire companion, stand by me!
+  This day our breaking hearts forever part!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CL.
+
+  Rollánd looks Olivier full in the face;
+  Pale, livid, colorless; pure crimson blood
+  Drips from his body, and streams on the earth.
+  "God!" cried Rollánd, "I know not what to do,
+  Companion, friend, thy courage was betrayed
+  To-day; nor will such courage e'er be seen
+  In human heart. Sweet France, oh! how shalt thou,
+  As widow, wail thy vassals true and brave,
+  Humbled and wrecked! The great heart of King Carle
+  Will break!" He spake and on his saddle swooned.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLI.
+
+  Behold Rollánd, there, fainting on his steed,
+  While Olivier stands wounded to the death.
+  So great the loss of blood, his troubled eyes
+  See naught afar or near, nor mortal man
+  Can recognize. Encount'ring there Rollánd,
+  Upon his golden-studded helm he struck
+  A dreadful blow, which to the nose-plate cleft,
+  And split the crest in twain, but left the head
+  Untouched. Rollánd at this, upon him looks,
+  And softly, sweetly asks:--"Sire _compagnon_!
+  Was that blow meant for me? I am Rollánd
+  By whom you are beloved so well; to me
+  Could you by any chance, defiance give?"
+  Said Olivier:--"I hear your speech, but see
+  You now no more. May God behold you, friend!
+  I struck the blow; beseech you, pardon me."
+  Rollánd responds:--"I am not wounded--here
+  And before God I pardon you." At this,
+  Each to the other bends in courtesy.
+  With such great tenderness and love they part.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLII.
+
+  Olivier feels the agony of death;
+  His vacant eyes roll wildly in his head,
+  And all his hearing and his sight are lost.
+  Dismounting, on the ground he lies, and smites
+  His breast, aloud confessing all his sins;
+  With joined hands tow'rd Heaven lifted up
+  He prays to God to give him Paradise,
+  To bless Carl'magne, sweet France, and far beyond
+  All other men, Rollánd, his _compagnon_.
+  His heart fails--forward droops his helmet--prone
+  Upon the earth he lies--'tis over now....
+  The Count is dead. Rollánd, the Baron, mourns
+  And weeps as never mortal mourned before.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLIII.
+
+  When sees the Count Rollánd the breath of life
+  Gone from his friend, his body stretched on earth,
+  His face low in the dust, his tears gush out
+  With heavy sobs. Then tenderly he speaks:
+  "Alas! for all thy valor, comrade dear!
+  Year after year, day after day, a life
+  Of love we led; ne'er didst thou wrong to me,
+  Nor I to thee. If death takes thee away,
+  My life is but a pain." While speaking thus,
+  The _Marchis_ faints on Veillantif, his steed.
+  But still firm in his stirrups of pure gold:
+  Where'er Rollánd may ride, he cannot fall.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLIV.
+
+  Scarce hath the Count recovered from his swoon,
+  When all the great disaster meets his sight;
+  The French lie on the field; all lost to him
+  Save the Archbishop and Gualtier de l'Hum,
+  Who had descended from the mountain height
+  Where he the men of Spain all day withstood
+  Till all his own fell 'neath the Pagan swords.
+  Willed he or not, he fled into the vale,
+  And now upon Rollánd he calls for aid;
+  "Most gentle Count, most valiant, where art thou?
+  Ne'er had I fear where'er thou wert!--'tis I,
+  Gualtier, who conquered Maëlgut, who am
+  Old gray-haired Droün's nephew; till this day
+  My courage won thy love. So well I fought
+  Against the Saracens, my spear was broke,
+  My shield was pierced, my hauberk torn and wrung,
+  And in my body eight steel darts I bear.
+  Done are my days, but dear the last I sold!"
+  The words of that brave knight Rollánd has heard,
+  Spurs on his steed and gallops to his help.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLV.
+
+  With grief and rage Rollánd's great heart is full;
+  Amidst the thick ranks of a swarming foe
+  He rides. He fights--and twenty Pagans fall
+  Slain by his hand; by Gualtier's six, and five
+  By the Archbishop's. Loud the Pagans cry:
+  "Vile wretches these! Let none escape alive!
+  Eternal shame to them who dare not make
+  Attack; foul recreants those who let their flight
+  Avail."--Renewing then their hues and cries,
+  The Pagans rush from all parts 'gainst the knights.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  CHARLEMAGNE APPROACHES.
+
+
+  CLVI.
+
+  The Count Rollánd was ever great in war;
+  Most valiant is Gualtier de l'Hum; Turpin
+  The Archbishop, of a valor proved: each leaves
+  The other naught to do, and 'mid the throng
+  Strikes Pagans down, who though one thousand foot
+  And forty thousand horsemen mustering, yet
+  Dare not approach, forsooth; but from afar
+  Against them hurl their jav'lins, spears and darts,
+  Their lances and winged arrows. First of all
+  Is slain Gualtier; Turpin de Reins' good shield
+  Is pierced, his helmet broken, and his head
+  Wounded, his hauberk shattered and dislinked;
+  Four spears have pierced his body; his good steed
+  Dies under him. Alas! the Archbishop falls.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLVII.
+
+  Hardly had Turpin fallen on the earth,
+  By four spear-shafts transfixed, when the brave knight
+  Sprang quickly to his feet once more. His look
+  Sought for Rollánd to whom he ran in haste.
+  One word he said:--"Unconquered yet am I!
+  While life doth last, a true knight yields it not!"
+  He draws Almace, his sword of burnished steel,
+  And rushing 'mid the throng, one thousand blows
+  And more he deals.--Carle said in after days,
+  Turpin spared none, as dead upon the field
+  He saw four hundred men, some cut in twain,
+  Some with lopped heads: so says the Geste of France,
+  And one who saw the field, the brave Saint-Gille
+  For whom God showed his might; who in the cloister
+  Of Loüm wrote the record of these deeds.
+  Who knows not this, he knows not any thing.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLVIII.
+
+  As hero fights the Count Rollánd; but all
+  His body burns with heat and drips with sweat;
+  His head is torn by pain; his temple burst
+  By that strong blast he gave the olifant.
+  Still would he know if Carle returns; once more
+  He blows his horn--Alas, with feeble blast.
+  Carle caught the distant sound, and, list'ning, waits:
+  "Seigneurs," cried he, "great evils fall apace;
+  I hear his dying blast upon his horn.
+  If we would find him yet alive, we need
+  Urge on our steeds. Let all our trumpets blow!"
+  Then sixty thousand trumps rang forth their peals;
+  The hills reëcho, and the vales respond.
+  The Pagans hear--and stay their gabbling mirth.
+  One to the other says:--"'Tis Carle who comes!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLIX.
+
+  The Pagans say:--"The Emperor returns;
+  These are the clarions of the French we hear.
+  If Carle should come, 'twill be our doom; if lives
+  Rollánd, the war begins anew, and Spain
+  Our land is lost to us for evermore."
+  Four hundred warriors well armed cap-a-pie,
+  The bravest of the host, then closed their ranks
+  And dashed in fierce attack against Rollánd.
+  Mighty the deeds the Count must now achieve!
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLX.
+
+  As they draw near, Rollánd calls up his pride
+  And summons all his strength to meet the charge.
+  No foot of ground he yields while life remains.
+  Firm on his courser Veillantif he sits
+  And gores his flanks with spurs of purest gold.
+  Into the thickest ranks he and Turpin
+  The Archbishop rush. And now the Pagans all
+  Unto each other cry: "Hence, friends, away!
+  The horns of those of France we now have heard,
+  Carlemagne the mighty Emperor returns!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXI.
+
+  Ne'er could the Count Rollánd a coward love,
+  Nor proud, nor wicked men, nor faithless knights.
+  He calls to the Archbishop: "You, on foot,
+  And I on horseback, sire! For love of you
+  I by your side will stand; together we
+  Will share or good or ill; I leave you not
+  For aught of human mold. This day we shall
+  Hurl back the Pagan charge, and Durendal
+  Shall deal his mightiest blows!"--To this replies
+  The Archbishop: "Traitor he who strikes not well!
+  King Carle returns--Great shall his vengeance be!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXII.
+
+  The Pagans say: "For such ill were we born!
+  What fatal morn this day for us has ris'n!
+  Dead lie our lords and Peers! With his great host
+  King Carle returns, the mighty Baron--Hark!
+  His clarions sound, and loud the cry 'Montjoie;'
+  Rollánd has so great pride, no man of flesh
+  Can make him yield, or vanquished fall. 'Twere best
+  We pierced him from afar, and left him lying
+  Upon the field!"----'Twas done: darts, lances, spears,
+  Javelins, winged arrows flew so thick,
+  That his good shield was pierced, his hauberk rent
+  And torn apart--his body yet unharmed.
+  Veillantif, pierced with thirty wounds, falls dead
+  Beneath the Count.--The affrighted Pagans fly.
+  The Count Rollánd stands on the field, alone.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  THE LAST BENEDICTION OF THE ARCHBISHOP.
+
+
+  CLXIII.
+
+  Raging in wrath the Pagans fly, and toward
+  The land of Spain they haste. The Count Rollánd
+  Pursues them not, for Veillantif lies dead.
+  On foot he stands whether he will or not.
+  To help Turpin, the Archbishop, fast he ran,
+  His helm unclasped, removed the hauberk white
+  And light, then ripped the sides of his _blialt_
+  To find his gaping wounds; then tenderly
+  Pressing him in his arms, on the green sward
+  He laid him gently down, and fondly prayed:
+  "O noble man, grant me your leave in this;
+  Our brave compeers, so dear to us, have breathed
+  Their last--we should not leave them on the field;
+  I will their bodies seek and gather here,
+  To lay them out before you."--"Go, and soon
+  Return," the Archbishop said; "the field is yours
+  And also mine, thanks to Almighty God!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXIV.
+
+  Alone the Count Rollánd retraced his steps
+  Throughout the field. Vales, mounts, he searched, and found
+  Gerin and his companion Gerier, then
+  Berengier and Otun; here Anseïs,
+  There Sansun, then beyond, Gerard the old
+  De Roussillon he found--one after one
+  He bore each knight within his arms, and placed
+  Them gently, side by side, before the knees
+  Of Turpin who cannot restrain his tears;
+  With lifted hands he blesses them and says:
+  "Most hapless Knights!--May God the Glorious
+  Receive your souls, and in his Paradise
+  'Mid holy flowers place them!--In this hour
+  Of death, my deepest grief is that no more
+  The mighty Emperor I shall behold!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXV.
+
+  Rollánd turns back, and searching through the field,
+  Has found, alas! his comrade Olivier....
+  He pressed him 'gainst his bosom tenderly,
+  And, as he could, returning to Turpin,
+  Stretched on a shield he lays him down among
+  The other knights. The Archbishop then assoils
+  And signs him with the holy cross. The grief
+  And pity were more sore than heart can bear....
+  Then said Rollánd:--"Fair comrade Olivier,
+  Son of the good Count Renier, he who held
+  The marches to the distant shores of Gennes;
+  To break a lance, to pierce a shield, the brave
+  To counsel, traitors to dismay and foil,
+  No land e'er saw a better _chevalier_."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXVI.
+
+  When Count Rollánd beheld his Peers lie dead,
+  And Olivier, that friend so tenderly
+  Beloved, his soul by pity was o'erflowed;
+  Tears from his eyes gush out, his countenance
+  Turns pale; distressed, he can no longer stand.
+  Would he or not, he swooned and fell to earth.
+  The Archbishop said: "Baron, what woe is yours!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXVII.
+
+  The Archbishop, when he saw Count Rollánd swoon,
+  Felt keener grief than e'er he felt before;
+  Stretched forth his hand, and took the olifant.--
+  Ronceval there is a running stream;
+  Thence will he water bring to Count Rollánd.
+  Staggering, with feeble steps, thither he goes,
+  But loss of blood has made him all too weak:
+  Ere he has gone an acre's length, his heart
+  Fails, and he sinks in mortal agony.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXVIII.
+
+  Meantime the Count Rollánd revives.--Erect
+  He stands, but with great pain; then downward looks
+  And upward. Then he sees the noble lord
+  The Archbishop, holy minister of God,
+  Beyond his comrades lying on the sward
+  Stretched out.--He lifts his eyes to Heav'n, recalls
+  His sins, and raising both his joinèd hands,
+  He prays Our God to grant him paradise.--
+  Turpin, Carle's Knight, is dead, who all his life,
+  With doughty blows and sermons erudite,
+  Ne'er ceased to fight the Pagans. May the Lord
+  Grant him His holy blessing evermore!
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXIX.
+
+  The Count Rollánd sees lifeless on the field
+  The Archbishop lie; gush from the gaping wounds
+  His entrails in the dust, and through his skull
+  The oozing brain pours o'er his brow.--In form
+  Of holy Cross upon his breast Rollánd
+  Disposes both his hands so fair and white,
+  And mourned him in the fashion of his land:
+  "O noble man! O knight of lineage pure!
+  To the Glorious One of Heav'n I thee commend;
+  For ne'er was man who Him more truly served,
+  Nor since the Apostles' days, such prophet, strong,
+  To keep God's law and draw the hearts of men.
+  From ev'ry pain your soul be freed, and wide
+  Before it ope the Gates of Paradise!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  ROLAND'S DEATH.
+
+
+  CLXX.
+
+  Rollánd now feels his death is drawing nigh:
+  From both his ears the brain is oozing fast.
+  For all his peers he prays that God may call
+  Their souls to Him; to the Angel Gabriel
+  He recommends his spirit. In one hand
+  He takes the olifant, that no reproach
+  May rest upon him; in the other grasps
+  Durendal, his good sword. Forward he goes,
+  Far as an arblast sends a shaft, across
+  A new-tilled ground and toward the land of Spain.
+  Upon a hill, beneath two lofty trees,
+  Four terraces of marble spread:--he falls
+  Prone fainting on the green, for death draws near.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXI.
+
+  High are the mounts, and lofty are the trees.
+  Four terraces are there, of marble bright:
+  There Count Rollánd lies senseless on the grass.
+  Him at this moment spies a Saracen
+  Who lies among the corpses, feigning death,
+  His face and body all besmeared with blood.
+  Sudden he rises to his feet, and bounds
+  Upon the Baron.--Handsome, brave and strong
+  He was, but from his pride sprang mortal rage.
+  He seized the body of Rollánd, and grasped
+  His arms, exclaiming thus:--"Here vanquished Carle's
+  Great nephew lies!"--"This sword to Araby
+  I'll bear."--He drew it;--this aroused the Count.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXII.
+
+  Rollánd perceived an alien hand would rob
+  Him of his sword; his eyes he oped; one word
+  He spoke:--"I trow, not one of us art thou!"
+  Then with his olifant from which he parts
+  Never, he smites the golden studded helm,
+  Crushing the steel, the head, the bones; both eyes
+  Are from their sockets beaten out--o'erthrown
+  Dead at the Baron's feet he falls:--"O wretch,"
+  He cries, "how durst thou, or for good or ill,
+  Lay hands upon Rollánd? Who hears of this
+  Will call thee fool. Mine olifant is cleft,
+  Its gems and gold all scattered by the blow."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXIII.
+
+  Now feels Rollánd that death is near at hand
+  And struggles up with all his force; his face
+  Grows livid;--[Durendal, his naked sword]
+  He holds;--beside him rises a gray rock
+  On which he strikes ten mighty blows through grief
+  And rage--The steel but grinds; it breaks not, nor
+  Is notched; then cries the Count:--"Saint Mary, help!
+  O Durendal! Good sword! ill starred art thou!
+  Though we two part, I care not less for thee.
+  What victories together thou and I,
+  Have gained, what kingdoms conquered, which now holds
+  White-bearded Carle! No coward's hand shall grasp
+  Thy hilt: a valiant knight has borne thee long,
+  Such as none shall e'er bear in France the Free!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXIV.
+
+  Rollánd smites hard the rock of Sardonix;
+  The steel but grinds, it breaks not, nor grows blunt;
+  Then seeing that he can not break his sword,
+  Thus to himself he mourns for Durendal:
+  "O good my sword, how bright and pure! Against
+  The sun what flashing light thy blade reflects!
+  When Carle passed through the valley of Moriane,
+  The God of Heaven by his Angel sent
+  Command that he should give thee to a Count,
+  A valiant captain; it was then the great
+  And gentle King did gird thee to my side.--
+  With thee I won for him Anjou--Bretaigne;
+  For him with thee I won Poitou, le Maine
+  And Normandie the free; I won Provence
+  And Aquitaine, and Lumbardie, and all
+  The Romanie; I won for him Bavière,
+  All Flandre--Buguerie--all Puillanie,
+  Costentinnoble which allegiance paid,
+  And Saxonie submitted to his power;
+  For him I won Escoce and Galle, Irlande
+  And Engleterre he made his royal seat;
+  With thee I conquered all the lands and realms
+  Which Carle, the hoary-bearded monarch, rules.
+  Now for this sword I mourn.... Far better die
+  Than in the hands of Pagans let it fall!
+  May God, Our Father, save sweet France this shame!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXV.
+
+  Upon the grey rock mightily he smites,
+  Shattering it more than I can tell; the sword
+  But grinds.--It breaks not--nor receives a notch,
+  And upwards springs more dazzling in the air.
+  When sees the Count Rollánd his sword can never break,
+  Softly within himself its fate he mourns:
+  "O Durendal, how fair and holy thou!
+  In thy gold-hilt are relics rare; a tooth
+  Of great saint Pierre--some blood of Saint Basile,
+  A lock of hair of Monseigneur Saint Denis,
+  A fragment of the robe of Sainte-Marie.
+  It is not right that Pagans should own thee;
+  By Christian hand alone be held. Vast realms
+  I shall have conquered once that now are ruled
+  By Carle, the King with beard all blossom-white,
+  And by them made great emperor and Lord.
+  May thou ne'er fall into a cowardly hand."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXVI.
+
+  The Count Rollánd feels through his limbs the grasp
+  Of death, and from his head ev'n to his heart
+  A mortal chill descends. Unto a pine
+  He hastens, and falls stretched upon the grass.
+  Beneath him lie his sword and olifant,
+  And toward the Heathen land he turns his head,
+  That Carle and all his knightly host may say:
+  "The gentle Count a conqueror has died...."
+  Then asking pardon for his sins, or great
+  Or small, he offers up his glove to God.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXVII.
+
+  The Count Rollánd feels now his end approach.
+  Against a pointed rock, and facing Spain,
+  He lies. Three times he beats his breast, and says:
+  "Mea culpa! Oh, my God, may through thy grace,
+  Be pardoned all my sins, or great or small,
+  Until this hour committed since my birth!"
+  Then his right glove he offers up to God,
+  And toward him angels from high Heav'n descend.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXVIII.
+
+  Beneath a pine Rollánd doth lie, and looks
+  Toward Spain--He broods on many things of yore:
+  On all the lands he conquered, on sweet France,
+  On all his kinsmen, on great Carle his lord
+  Who nurtured him;--he sighs--nor can restrain
+  His tears, but can not yet himself forget;
+  Recalls his sins, and for the grace of God
+  He prays:--"Our Father, never yet untrue,
+  Who Saint-Lazare raised from the dead, and saved
+  Thy Daniel from the lions' claws--Oh, free
+  My soul from peril, from my whole life's sins!"
+  His right hand glove he offered up to God;
+  Saint Gabriel took the glove.--With head reclined
+  Upon his arm, with hands devoutly joined
+  He breathed his last. God sent his Cherubim,
+  Saint-Raphaël, _Saint Michiel del Peril_.
+  Together with them Gabriel came.--All bring
+  The soul of Count Rollánd to Paradise....
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  THE CHASTISEMENT OF THE SARACENS.
+
+
+  CLXXIX.
+
+  Rollánd is dead: God has his soul in heaven.
+  To Ronceval the Emperor has come.
+  There, neither road nor any path is seen,
+  Nor vacant space, nor ell, nor foot of land
+  That mounds of mangled bodies cover not,
+  Pagans or French.--The Emperor exclaims:
+  "Fair nephew, where art thou? The Archbishop, where?
+  And Olivier, alas, where are they all?
+  Gerin, Gerier, the two companions, where
+  Are they? And where is Otes and Berengier,
+  Ives and Ivoire both to my heart so dear?
+  The Gascuin Engelier, Sansun the Duke,
+  Anseïs the rash, Gerard de Roussillon
+  The old, and my twelve Peers I left behind,
+  What fate is theirs?"--What boots it? None replies.--
+  "God," cries the King, "what grief is mine to think
+  I stood not here the battle to begin."
+  He tears his beard with anger; all his knights
+  And barons weep great tears; dizzy with woe
+  And swooning, twenty thousand fall to earth.
+  Duke Naimes feels pity overflow his heart.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXX.
+
+  No baron is there now, no chevalier
+  Who, in his pity, sheds not tears for sons,
+  For brothers--nephews--friends--and for liege-lords.
+  Many have fallen swooning on the earth,
+  But Duke Naimes bore himself as valorous knight:
+  He foremost said to Carle:--"Behold two leagues
+  Away!--The roads are dark with clouds of dust.
+  There swarm the Pagan tribes.... Ride on them now,
+  Avenge this bitter woe."--"O God," said Carle,
+  "Are they already flown so far?--our rights
+  And honor shield! Those Pagans took from me
+  The flower of my Sweet France!"--The King commands
+  Gebuin, Otun, Tedbalt de Reins and Count
+  Milun:--"Watch ye the field, the vales, the mounts;
+  The slain, leave to their rest; see that no beast
+  Nor lion, squire nor page approach. I charge
+  You, let no man upon them lay his hand
+  Until, with God's assistance, we return."
+  They lovingly and with sweet tone reply:
+  "Thus shall we do, just Emperor, dear sire!"
+  Upon the field they keep one thousand knights.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXXI.
+
+  Now bids the Emperor his trumpets blow,
+  Then forward at the head of his great host
+  He rides, that Baron true. Of those of Spain
+  He finds the tracks, points out the road; in quick
+  Pursuit all follow Carle.... When sees the King
+  The eve decline, he on the verdant grass
+  Dismounts, and prostrate prays to God our Lord
+  The sun to stay, the shades of night hold back
+  And longer make the day. To him appears
+  A Counselor-Angel with the swift command;
+  "Ride on, O King, nor fear that night shall fall!
+  God knows that thou hast lost the flower of France;
+  But vengeance canst have now upon that horde
+  Of unbelievers." Thus the Angel spake.
+  The Emp'ror rises and remounts his steed.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXXII.
+
+  To Carlemagne Our Lord now showed his might;
+  The sun stays in its course. The Pagans fly,
+  And fast the French pursuing, overtake
+  Them in the Val-Tenebre. They drive them on
+  Toward Sarraguce, while close behind them fall
+  The upraised swords, and strew the ground with dead.
+  No issue, no escape, by road or pass!
+  In front deep Ebro rolls its mighty waves:
+  No boat, no barge, no raft. They call for help
+  On Tervagant, then plunge into the flood.
+  Vain was their trust: some, weighted with their arms,
+  Sink in a moment; others are swept down,
+  And those most favored swallow monstrous draughts.
+  All drown most cruelly. The French cry out:
+  "For your own woe wished ye to see Rollánd!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXXIII.
+
+  When Carle sees all the Pagans dead--some slain,
+  The others drowned, his chevaliers enriched
+  With spoils, the noble King dismounts, on earth
+  Prostrates himself and offers thanks to God.
+  When he arose, the sun had set. "'Tis time,"
+  He said, "to think of camping now. Too late
+  It is for our advance to Ronceval.
+  Our horses are all weary and foredone:
+  Unsaddle them and take the bridles off;
+  And let them roam at large about these meads."
+  The French reply: "Sire, you have spoken well."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXXIV.
+
+  The Emperor makes here his harborage.
+  The French dismount, take off the golden curbs
+  And saddles from their steeds, and turn them loose
+  In the green mead, amid the plenteous grass:
+  No other care they need. Upon the ground
+  The over-wearied cast themselves and sleep.
+  No watch was set in all the host that night.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXXV.
+
+  The Emperor reposes on the field,
+  His mighty lance hard by his pillow planted,
+  For he, on such a night will not disarm.
+  His hauberk white, with orfreyed-marge he wears,
+  His helmet, rich with gold and gems is laced,
+  Girded Joyeuse, the sword without a peer,
+  Who thirty times a day can change his hue.
+  Many a time you all heard of the lance
+  Wherewith Our Lord was pierced upon the cross,
+  The steel whereof Carle has, thanks be to God,
+  Closed in the golden pommel of his sword.
+  For this great glory and exceeding worth
+  The brand was called _Joyeuse_. This all French Knights
+  Should bear in mind, for it was hence they took
+  Their war-cry of _Montjoie_, and for this cause
+  No other people can resist their arms.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXXVI.
+
+  Clear is the night, bright shines the moon; at rest
+  Lies Carle; but grief is with him for Rollánd,
+  And Olivier is heavy on his heart;
+  The twelve Peers, too, and all the men of France,
+  Left stark and bloody there at Ronceval.
+  He cannot help but weep, and sob, and pray
+  That mighty God be keeper of their souls.
+  Tired is the King, his toils being very great;
+  Deeply asleep he falls, and can no more.
+  Through all the fields the scattered French sleep sound,
+  Nor there a horse has strength enough to stand;
+  If one need grass, he bites it as he lies.
+  Right wise is he that's wise in lore of woe.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXXVII.
+
+  Carle sleeps as man by toil outdone. God sends
+  Saint Gabriel down, the Emperor to guard.
+  All night beside his head the Angel stands,
+  And in a dream forebodes that 'gainst the French
+  A battle is prepared, and its portent
+  Explains; then glancing up tow'rd Heav'n, King Carle
+  Sees thunder-clouds and winds, hail, raging storms
+  And wond'rous tempests--smould'ring fire and flames
+  Ready to burst forth. Suddenly on all
+  His people falls the blast. Their spears with shafts
+  Of apple-tree or ash--those shields ablaze
+  Unto their golden rings--shafts from their points
+  Break off--Steel helms and hauberks clash and clang.
+  He sees his Knights in dire distress. Meantime
+  Devouring pards and bears rush on them; snakes
+  And vipers--dragons, fiends--and with them more
+  Than thirty thousand griffons. 'Mong the French
+  None can escape this hideous horde.--"Carlemagne,
+  Come to our help!" they cry. With pity seized,
+  Fain would he thither, but his steps are stayed:
+  Deep from a wood a lion huge comes on.
+  The beast is haughty, fierce and terrible,
+  And, springing, seeks his very body out.
+  Each wrestles with the other in his arms;
+  But which shall fall, which stand, this no man knows.
+  Never a jot the Emperor awakes.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXXVIII.
+
+  Another vision follows this: in France
+  At Aix he is:--Upon a marble step
+  He stands, and holds in two-fold chains a bear.
+  From towards Ardennes he sees rush forth a pack
+  Of thirty other bears which speak as men.
+  They say:--"To us restore him, Sire! Not right
+  It were that you should keep him longer; help
+  Our kin we must."--Then from his palace runs
+  A greyhound fair which on the verdant grass
+  Assails the fiercer of the other beasts
+  Before them all. The King a wond'rous fight
+  Beholds: but who shall win or lose, none knows.
+  This is a dream God's Angel showed to Carle,
+  Who sleeps until the morrow's morn appeared.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXXIX.
+
+  By rapid flight Marsile reached Sarraguce.--
+  Dismounting 'neath a shady olive-tree,
+  He strips himself of breast-plate, helmet, sword,
+  And sinks upon the sward with ghastly look.
+  His right hand severed from the wrist whence blood
+  Is gushing forth, has made him swoon with pain.
+  Before Marsile, his spouse, Queen Bramimunde,
+  Bursts into tears, and cries, and woeful moans.
+  Around stand more than twenty thousand men
+  Who with one voice accuse Sweet France and Carle;
+  Apollo's grotto seek they, and with taunts,
+  Profane, insulting words, their God revile:
+  "What ails thee, evil God, to shame us thus,
+  And to confusion bring our Lord the King?
+  Who serves thee well vile guerdon gains from thee!"
+  Despoiled of crown and scepter, by the hands
+  They hang him on a column--neath their feet
+  They roll him down.--They with great clubs deface
+  And beat him; then from Tervagant they snatch
+  His carbuncle; Mohamed in a ditch
+  Throw down--there bitt'n, trampled on, by swine and dogs.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXC.
+
+  Recov'ring from his swoon, the King Marsile
+  Commands they lead him to his vaulted room
+  All bright with color and inscribed with verse.
+  There weeping bitterly, Queen Bramimunde
+  Tearing her hair, aloud proclaims her grief:
+  "O hapless Sarraguce, thou art bereft
+  Of the most gentle King that was thy Lord!
+  Our gods betrayed our trust, they who this morn
+  In battle failed us;--the Emir coward were
+  Would he not fight these people bold who are
+  So proud they care not for their lives. Carl'magne,
+  The Emperor, whose beard is strewn with gray,
+  Among his men has dauntless Knights; if e'er
+  He fight, no step he yields. Great woe it is
+  That there is no man who can give him death."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXCI.
+
+  By his great power the Emperor in Spain
+  Full seven years remained; he castles took
+  And many cities, bringing sore distress
+  To King Marsile. The year had scarce begun
+  Before his word went forth to seal the briefs
+  Which summoned Baligant from Babylone,
+  (The aged Emir, he whose life outlived
+  Homer and Virgil). Now the King Marsile
+  Had begged the Baron's help for Sarraguce.
+  Should he not come, gods, idols, once adored
+  He will renounce, the holy Faith of Christ
+  Embrace, and join in friendship with King Carle.
+  Afar was Baligant, and tarried long;
+  From forty realms his people had he called
+  And ordered to prepare his _dromonds_ vast,
+  Barks, galleys, ev'ry vessel. In the port
+  Of Alexandria the fleet had met;
+  In May it was, the first of summer-days,
+  A mighty host he launched upon the deep.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXCII.
+
+  Great are the forces of their hostile horde;
+  They swiftly skim the waves, and steer, and sail;
+  Their masts and yards so blazing with the light
+  Of carbuncles and lanterns, night gives up
+  Its darkness and still fairer shows the sea.
+  As they approached the shores of Spain, the land
+  Was all aglow, and tidings reached Marsile.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXCIII.
+
+  The Pagans halt no moment; soon they leave
+  The deep, and in fresh water steer; Marbreise
+  And then Marbruse is passed; along the shores
+  Of winding Ebro glides the armament,
+  Setting the night aflame with carbuncles
+  And lights: the same day reached they Sarraguce.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXCIV.
+
+  Clear is the day and bright the sun; descends
+  The Emir from his ship. Espaneliz
+  Walks forth upon his right; a train of Kings
+  In number seventeen, with Dukes and Counts
+  Innumerable, follow. 'Mid the plain
+  Grows a great laurel, and beneath its shade
+  They spread a _pallie_ of white silk upon
+  The verdant grass, and place a faldstool there
+  Of ivory. In this sits Baligant
+  The Pagan. All the others stand. First spake
+  The chief:--"Oyez, all ye, most valiant Knights!
+  King Carle, the Emperor, who leads the Franks,
+  Shall eat not, save by my command. Throughout
+  All Spain, 'gainst me a cruel war he waged:
+  Now I will seek him in sweet France, nor, while
+  My life lasts, cease until he dies the death,
+  Or, living, yields, and mercy begs." He spake
+  And struck his right-hand glove upon his knee.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXCV.
+
+  His word once spoken was to him a law:
+  Though it cost all the gold beneath the sky,
+  Yet would he march to Aix, where Carle was wont
+  To hold his court. Some praise him, even give
+  Him counsel. Two from out his host of Knights
+  He summons, Clarien, and Clarifan:
+  "Ye are the sons of King Maltraïen,
+  A willing message bearer: 'tis my will
+  Ye go to Sarraguce; there in my name
+  Give ye this message to the King Marsile:
+  I have come to succor him against the French,
+  And if I find them, great the fight will be.
+  Give him this gold-embroidered glove, and place it
+  On his right hand; give him this staff of gold;
+  And when he comes to pay me homage, as
+  A vassal to his lord, I then will lead
+  My force to France to fight with Carlemagne.
+  If he fall not before my feet to pray
+  For mercy, and abjure the Christian law,
+  I from his head will tear away the crown."
+  The Pagans answer all:--"Well spoken, Sire."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXCVI.
+
+  "Barons! to horse!" said Baligant. "Bear thou
+  The glove, and thou the staff." The two reply:
+  "Dear Sire, thus shall we do." So fast they rode
+  They soon reached Sarraguce. Beneath ten gates
+  They pass, four bridges cross, ride through the streets
+  Where stand the burghers. But on drawing near
+  The lofty citadel, they heard great noise
+  About the palace, where were thronging crowds
+  Of Pagans with loud wails and shrieks of woe,
+  Crying out against their gods, on Tervagan,
+  Mahum, Apollo, who avail them naught.
+  Each says to each, "Ah, caitiffs, what shall now
+  Befall us, miserable? for we have lost
+  The King Marsile whose hand Rollánd struck off;
+  For aye we are bereft of Turfaleu
+  The Fair, his son. This day the land of Spain
+  Into the Christian hands will fall enslaved!"
+  The message-bearers reach the royal gates.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXCVII.
+
+  Beneath an olive tree they halt, and soon
+  Two Pagans take their curbed steeds in charge.
+  The messengers, each holding by the cloak
+  The other, hasten to the highest tower.
+  Entering the vaulted hall where lay Marsile,
+  An evil greeting offer with good will:
+  "May Tervagan, Apollo, he who holds
+  Us in his service, and our Sire Mahum,
+  Preserve our king and guard the queen!"
+  Whereat cried Bramimunde:--"What folly this!
+  Our gods are false; too well in Ronceval
+  They showed their evil power, and let our knights
+  Be slain--amid the battle-field forsook
+  My lord the king with his right hand struck off
+  By mighty Count Rollánd. The realm of Spain
+  Will fall enslaved beneath the sway of Carle.
+  What shall become of me, most miserable?
+  Alas! is there no man to give me death!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXCVIII.
+
+  Said Clarien:--"Lady, speak not thus--Behold,
+  Messengers we, from Baligant, who swears
+  To free Marsile, and to him sends his glove
+  And staff as tokens--on the Ebro float
+  Four thousand galleys, skiffs and swiftest boats;
+  More sails than can be numbered! Rich and great
+  The Emir.--Carle, pursued to France, shall be
+  Per force, or still, or dead, or penitent."
+  Said Bramimunde:--"Yea, greater ills will come.
+  To meet the Franks you need not go so far;
+  Carle seven years in Spain has tarried. Brave
+  Is he in battle, and a Baron true;
+  Ready to die ere he will quit the field;
+  No king on earth but is to him a child.
+  Carle's spirit yields before no living man."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXCIX.
+
+  "Let all that be!" cried to the messengers
+  The King Marsile--"Seigneurs, speak but to me,
+  You see me now crushed unto death. No son
+  Nor daughter have I left, nor other heir;
+  One son I had, who yestereve was slain.
+  Say to my Lord his coming I beseech.
+  Some rights to Spain the Emir has; to him
+  I grant the realm in full, if he accept.
+  Let him defend this land against the French,
+  To meet Carlemagne good counsel I will give,
+  And victor he will be before this day
+  A month. Bear him the keys of Sarraguce;
+  Thence, if he trust my words, he ne'er will be
+  Expelled." They answer:--"Sire, you speak the truth."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CC.
+
+  "The Emperor Carle," said King Marsile, "has slain
+  My men, ravaged my land, shattered and stormed
+  My cities; now on Ebro's banks he camps,
+  But seven counted leagues away. Bid ye
+  The Emir march up all his force. Bear him
+  My order for the fight." With this he gives
+  Into their hands the keys of Sarraguce.
+  Upon these words the messengers bent low
+  In last salute, took leave, and went their way.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCI.
+
+  The messengers upon their horses mount
+  And gallop from the city in hot haste.
+  With terror struck, both to the Emir come,
+  Deliv'ring up the keys of Sarraguce.
+  Said Baligant:--"What found ye there? Where is
+  The King Marsile whom I commanded forth?"
+  Clarien makes answer:--"He is hurt to death;
+  The Emp'ror yesterday marched through the pass
+  Upon his homeward way into sweet France.
+  For greater honor, in the rear, Rollánd,
+  His nephew, had a post with Olivier,
+  All the twelve Peers and twenty thousand knights.
+  The King Marsile, the valiant Baron, fought
+  And fierce encounter had with Count Rollánd,
+  Who dealt with Durendal so dire a blow,
+  The king's right hand was severed from his arm.
+  Slain was the son he loved so tenderly,
+  With all the Barons he had brought with him;
+  Unable to resist, he took to flight,
+  And Carle, the Emperor, followed close behind.
+  Now give your help to King Marsile, who craves
+  Your aid, and as your guerdon all the realm
+  Of Spain receive." But Baligant remains
+  Deep sunk in thought, nigh maddened by his grief.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCII.
+
+  "Sire Emir," Clarien said, "on yesterday
+  A battle raged in Ronceval; Rollánd
+  And Olivier are dead, and the twelve Peers
+  To Carle so dear, with twenty thousand Franks
+  Have perished; King Marsile lost his right hand,
+  And fled in hottest speed pursued by Carle.
+  In all the land no Knight remains but slain
+  Or in the waters of the Ebro drowned.
+  Upon its banks the French encamp--So nigh--
+  Had you the will, unsafe would be their flight."
+  Then Baligant looks at him full of pride;
+  And his heart swells with courage and fierce joy.
+  Sudden from his footstool he springs, and loud
+  He cries:--"Delay not--disembark! To horse!
+  And forward! Now, unless Carlemagne the old
+  By flight escape, the King Marsile shall be
+  Avenged. For his right hand Carle's head shall pay."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCIII.
+
+  Out of their skiffs the Arab Pagans spring,
+  And mounting mules and horses, march; what else
+  But this for them to do? When forward moves
+  The host in serried lines, the Emir calls
+  On Genalfin, his chosen friend: "To thee
+  Command of all my armies I confide."--
+  He said--and straight on his bay destrier mounts;
+  Four Dukes rode with him, and so fast he sped,
+  Ere long they entered into Sarraguce.
+  Before a marble terrace he dismounts,
+  Four Counts his stirrup held, and by the steps
+  Which led up to the palace he ascends.
+  To him runs Bramimunde:--"What cruel dole
+  Is mine, oh, woe! How shamefully," she cried,
+  "Have I now lost my lord!"--And at his feet
+  Prostrate she fell. The Emir raised her up,
+  And, grieving, both into the chamber went.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCIV.
+
+  The King Marsile, on seeing Baligant,
+  Summoned two Spanish Saracens, and bade
+  His body to be raised that he might sit.
+  With his left hand he took a glove, and thus
+  He spoke:--"Sir King and Emir, all my lands
+  And kingdoms, Sarraguce, domains and fiefs
+  But wreck and ruin--Subjects, wealth--all lost."
+  Answered the Emir:--"I, so much the more,
+  Grieve for thy sorrow; but for longer speech
+  I can not stay; for Carle, I know, will not
+  Be still. But, nathless, I receive the glove."
+  O'erwhelmed with sorrow, weeping he departs;
+  The palace steps descending, mounts his horse
+  And spurs him towards the waiting hosts so fast,
+  That of the foremost ranks he takes the lead;
+  And cries aloud, going from man to man:
+  "Haste, Pagans! On!--Already flee the Franks."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCV.
+
+  At earliest morn, just as the dawn appeared,
+  From sleep awakes the Emp'ror Carlemagne;
+  Saint-Gabriel, his guardian, sent by God,
+  With hands uplifted signed him with the cross.
+  The King arises, takes his armor off,
+  And all the host disarm.--The mounted knights
+  Then ran at speed back o'er the trampled ways,
+  The weary roads, to view the woeful loss
+  Once more, on Ronceval's bloody battle-field.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCVI.
+
+  Arrived upon the field of Ronceval,
+  Where lay so many slain, Carle wept, and said
+  Unto the French:--"Seigneurs, move slowly here;
+  For I alone, will forward go in search
+  Of my fair nephew lost among the dead.
+  Erst when at Aix on Christmas' solemn feast,
+  My valiant bachelors, in warlike deeds
+  Their exploits vaunting, I could hear Rollánd
+  Say, should he ever die on foreign soil,
+  Before his peers and men he should be found
+  Facing the foe, true Baron, conqu'ror still."
+  A few steps further than a staff's throw, Carle
+  Far in advance of all, ascends a hill.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCVII.
+
+  When sought the Emperor his nephew there,
+  Amid the field, and found so many plants
+  With blossoms crimsoned by our Barons' blood,
+  By pity moved he can not choose but weep.
+  Mounting the hill, beneath two trees, he knew
+  The blow upon the three rocks Rollánd struck,
+  And saw his nephew lying on the sward,
+  A mangled corse--No wonder Carle is wroth;
+  Alights in haste and lifting in his arms
+  The Count, broken by grief upon him faints.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCVIII.
+
+  From his deep swoon the Emperor revives.
+  Duke Naimes, Count Acelin, Geffrei d'Anjou
+  His brother Tierri raise the King, and place
+  Him resting 'gainst a pine. There on the earth
+  He sees his nephew lying dead, and mourns
+  O'er him with gentle words and tender looks,
+  "Sweet friend, Rollánd, God's mercy unto thee!
+  Such peerless knight none ever yet has seen,
+  For noble combats ordered and achieved!
+  Mine honor turns to its decline!--" Once more
+  Carle's will and strength succumb.... He faints away.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCIX.
+
+  Again King Carle recovers from his swoon....
+  Four of his Barons, with their hands support
+  His form. His downcast looks see stretched on earth
+  His nephew's corpse. Discolored was the brow,
+  Yet proud the look; the dimmed and sightless eyes
+  Turned up.... In faith and love King Carle laments.
+  "Sweet friend Rollánd, may God enshrine thy soul
+  Among the Glorified, amidst the flowers
+  Of Paradise! For thy mishap, Seigneur,
+  Camest thou to Spain.... No future day shall dawn
+  For me, on which I mourn thee not.... Now fall'n
+  My strength and power! Who now will e'er support
+  My royal fiefs? Thou wast for me 'neath Heav'n
+  The one true friend! though other kindred mine,
+  Was none so brave and wise."--He tore his hair
+  In handfuls from his brow. So great the grief
+  Of those one hundred thousand Franks, that none
+  There was, of all, who wept not bitter tears.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCX.
+
+  "Beloved Rollánd, to France I now return.
+  When in my chamber I shall be at Loün,
+  And foreign men come from afar to ask
+  Where lives Rollánd the Captain, I shall say
+  'He lieth dead in Spain;' and I henceforth
+  Shall hold my realm in bitter pain. No day
+  Shall dawn for me unmarked by tears and moans."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXI.
+
+  "Sweet friend Rollánd, brave Knight and beauteous youth,
+  When I return to Aix, in my Chapelle,
+  And men shall come to hear me speak of thee,
+  What strange and cruel news I then shall have
+  To greet them with! 'My nephew who for me
+  Such conquests made ... is dead.' And Saxons now
+  Will rise against my power, and Hungres, and Bugres
+  With other foes--the men of Rome, of Pouille,
+  And all those of Palerne; and those who hold
+  Affrike and Califerne. Day after day
+  My pain will grow--Who then shall lead my host
+  With such an arm of might, since he is dead,
+  Who was our chief and head so long. Alas!
+  Sweet France, bereft art thou! So great my grief
+  I would not live!"--he plucks out his white beard
+  And tears his hair with both hands from his head.
+  Swoon on the earth one hundred thousand Franks--
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXII.
+
+  "Sweet friend," he cried, "Rollánd, thou art no more:
+  Oh! may thy soul have place in Paradise!
+  Who gave thee death brought grievous shame to France.
+  Such is my grief, I would not longer live.
+  My kinsmen died for me! I pray Our Lord,
+  The Blessed Mary's son, before I reach
+  Cizra's defiles, from mortal life to take
+  My soul away, and let it rest with theirs.
+  I would my body lay beside their own!"
+  And, weeping sore, he tears his hoary beard....
+  Then said Duke Naimes:--"What cruel pain is Carle's!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXIII.
+
+  "Sire Emperor," spoke forth Geffrei d'Anjou,
+  "Yield not so much to sorrow--Orders give
+  To seek our men throughout the battle-field,
+  In combat killed by those of Spain, and lay
+  Them in one grave"--Carle said: "Then sound your horn."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXIV.
+
+  Geffrei d'Anjou obeyed and blew his horn;
+  The French dismount, such was the king's command,
+  And all their friends found slain upon the field
+  Together in one charnel wide inter:
+  A crowd of bishops, abbots, canons, monks
+  And tonsured priests there gathered, in the name
+  Of God assoil and bless; incense and myrrh
+  Are burned in reverence and love before
+  The dead who, buried there with honors great,
+  Are left alone--what more was there to do?
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXV.
+
+  The Emp'ror Carle gives order that a watch
+  Be kept around Rollánd, Count Olivier
+  And the Archbishop Turpin; bade their breasts
+  Be oped before him, and their hearts enwrapped
+  In silken cloths--in tombs of marble white
+  Inurned; the bodies of the Barons then
+  Perfumed with wine and fragrant herbs; the three
+  Seigneurs in wrappings of stag's hide were cased;
+  By Carle's decree Tedbald and Gebuin,
+  _Marchis_ Othon and Count Milon escort
+  Them on their way, upon three chariots borne,
+  And covered well with palls of glazèd silk.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXVI.
+
+  King Carle about to start, sees suddenly
+  Emerge the Pagan van. From Baligant,
+  The battle to declare, two messengers
+  Advance:--"Proud king, from here thou must not go;
+  Behold, the Emir to thine encounter comes
+  And brings a mighty host from Araby.
+  This day will prove if truly valiant knight
+  Thou art." Carl'magne, the king, plucks his gray beard;
+  So cruel is the memory of all
+  His grief and wrong, proudly he casts a look
+  Upon his knightly host, and with loud voice
+  Exclaims:--"Seigneurs Barons! To horse! To arms!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXVII.
+
+  First of them all the Emperor is armed.
+  Quick donned his hauberk,--laced his helm--Joyeuse,
+  Whose brightness vies with the sun's dazzling rays,
+  Is girded on--a shield of Girunde hangs
+  Upon his neck,--his lance, forged in Blandune
+  He wields, and mounts his good steed Tencendur
+  Which nigh the ford below Marsune he won,
+  When he struck dead Malpalin de Nerbune.
+  Quick to a gallop spurred, rein loosed, the steed
+  Sped on, before one hundred thousand men.
+  Carle calls on Rome's Apostle and on God.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXVIII.
+
+  Spread o'er the field the men of France dismount.
+  More than one hundred thousand arm themselves
+  Together--Brilliant their array! Their steeds
+  Are fleet, arms gleaming; bright the pennons float
+  Above their helms: The foe once found, they give
+  Them certain battle. Mounted thus, how brave
+  Their show! When Carle beholds their faces bright,
+  Joseran de Provence he calls, the brave
+  Duke Naimes, also Anselme de Maience:
+  "In knights so good behooves men to have faith,
+  And mad indeed who doubts of the event.
+  Should not the Arabs their approach repent,
+  Rollánd's death I to them will dearly sell."
+  Responds Duke Naimes:--"May God vouchsafe your prayer."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXIX.
+
+  Carl calls Rabel and Guineman:--"Seigneurs,
+  I will that ye should take the place of Counts
+  Rollánd and Olivier--One bear the sword;
+  The olifant, the other--Be the chiefs
+  Of fifteen thousand bachelors of France,
+  In youth and valor famous among all--
+  As many more will follow after these,
+  Conducted by Gebuin and by Laurant."
+  Duke Naimes and Joseran the Count with speed
+  And care these hosts in full array dispose.
+  Let them encounter, great will be the fight.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXX.
+
+  These first two cohorts were from out the French
+  Composed; and after those a third was formed:
+  The vassals of Baviere--Their numbers mount
+  To thirty thousand knights who ne'er would blench
+  Before the foe. Beneath the sky live not
+  A people dearer to the heart of Carle,
+  Save those of France, the conquerors of realms.
+  The Count Ogier de Danemarche, the brave,
+  Will lead--What beauty sits upon their brows!
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXI.
+
+  Now has the Emp'ror Carle three squadrons; Naimes
+  The Duke, then forms the fourth with truly brave
+  Barons from Allemagne, who left La Marche.
+  These, twenty thousand count, so all report;
+  Well furnished with good steeds and arms; for dread
+  Of death in battle they will never yield.
+  Herman the Duke of Thrace, their chief, will die
+  Before he guilty proves of cowardice.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXII.
+
+  Duke Naimes and Joseran the Count, have formed
+  The fifth of Normans, twenty thousand men,
+  Say all the Franks. Their arms are bright, and fleet
+  Their steeds. These welcome death ere they succumb.
+  None under Heav'n more valiant in the fight.
+  Richard the old will lead them on the field,--
+  And with his trenchant lance will bravely strike.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXIII.
+
+  Composed of Bretons the sixth squadron was:
+  Full forty thousand chevaliers are they;
+  Barons in mien when mounted thus, each lance
+  In rest, its pennon rolled. Their lord is named
+  Oedun: These led by Nevelon the Count,
+  Tedbald de Reins and the Marchis Othon--
+  "My people guide," said Carle; "in ye my trust."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXIV.
+
+  King Carle has now six squadrons on the field.
+  Barons d'Alverne and Peitevins Duke Naimes
+  Has mustered in the seventh. They may count
+  Full forty thousand knights. How good their steeds,
+  How finely wrought their arms! They stand aloof
+  Within a shady vale. With his right hand
+  He gives to these his blessing. Joseran
+  And Godselmes their appointed leaders are.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXV.
+
+  Barons of Frise and Flamengs Naimes enrolled
+  For the eighth legion. Knights in number more
+  Than fifty thousand, men who never yield
+  In battle. Thus the king: "My service these
+  Will do, Rembalt and Hamon de Galice
+  Shall lead them forward in all chivalry."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXVI.
+
+  Duke Naimes and Joseran the Count equip
+  The ninth battalion,--brave among the brave.
+  Those warriors from Lorraine and Burgundy:
+  In number fifty thousand knights; close helmed,
+  In hauberk mailed--a stout short-handled lance
+  Each wields. Should Arabs not from combat shrink,
+  Lorrains and Bourguignons will deal hard blows;
+  Tierri Duke of Argonne will be their chief.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXVII.
+
+  Barons of France make up the tenth. They are
+  One hundred thousand captains 'mong the best;
+  Hardy and stout, of features proud, hair flecked
+  With gray, and beard all white; in hauberk clad
+  And linèd coat of mails, girt with their swords
+  Of Spain and France; for shelter, brilliant shields
+  With various blazons decked, among them known.
+  They mount their steeds and clamor for the fight:
+  "Montjoie!" they cry.--Comes now Carlemagne the king!
+  Geffrei d'Anjou bears up the oriflamme
+  Called Roman once, but since the day Saint Pierre
+  Made it a standard, it is named Montjoie.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXVIII.
+
+  The Emperor Carle dismounts, prostrates himself
+  Upon the verdant grass, invoking God
+  With eyes uplifted toward the rising sun:
+  "O father true, this day be my defense!
+  Thy hand it was saved Jonas from the whale
+  Within whose body he was swallowed up;
+  Thou sparedst too the king of Niniva;
+  And Daniel didst thou save from cruel pain
+  When thrown among the lions. By thy might
+  Stood the three children safe in burning flames,
+  This day grant also unto me thy love,
+  Merciful God! List to my prayer; vouchsafe
+  That I avenge my nephew, dear Rollánd!"
+  Thus having prayed, he stands erect and marks
+  His forehead with the sign of might: Then mounts
+  A fleet-hoofed courser. Naimes and Joseran
+  Carle's stirrup hold--With buckler on his arm
+  And trenchant lance in rest; strength, beauty, grace
+  Sat on his countenance and visage fair.
+  Then firmly seated on his horse he rides....
+  Clarions in rear and front reëcho 'round....
+  But above all rings out the olifant.
+  Meantime the French weep ... mourning for Rollánd.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXIX.
+
+  Most nobly on the Emp'ror Carle proceeds.
+  His long beard flowing o'er his coat of mail,
+  And so, for love of him, the knights, whereby,
+  Are surely known the hundred thousand Franks;
+  They march through mountains and o'ertopping peaks,
+  Deep vales, defiles of frightful look. At last
+  Leaving the narrow pass and wasted land,
+  They reach the Spanish bourne and make a halt
+  Amid a plain. Meanwhile to Baligant
+  Return his vanguard scouts; a Syrian spy
+  Heralds the news,--"We saw the proud King Carle.
+  His warriors fierce will never fail their King.
+  To arms--Within a moment look for fight!"
+  Baligant cried:--"Good news for our brave hearts!
+  Sound all your trumps and let my Pagans know!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXX.
+
+  Throughout the camp the drums sonorous beat,
+  With bellowing horns and blasts of trumpet clear.
+  The Pagans arm themselves, and least of all
+  The Emir would th' advance delay--He wears
+  A hauberk saffron--'broidered round the sides,
+  And clasps his helm with gold and gems inlaid.
+  On his left side a sword whereto, in pride,
+  He gave a name, as Carle had named his sword,
+  And called the blade his Precieuse. This name
+  Shall be the battle-cry his warriors shout----
+  Hangs from his neck a large and spreading shield
+  Whose golden boss shines with a crystal ring;
+  The strap of silk with rosy 'broidery;
+  The lance he bears is named Mallet, the shaft
+  Of which so huge, more than a beam it looks,
+  And steel so strong, beneath its weight a mule
+  Would groan. Upon his steed mounts Baligant;
+  His stirrup held by Marcule d'Ultremer.
+  Mighty the Emir's stride across the selle;
+  Thin-loined, wide-flanked, deep-chested, all his form
+  Well molded; broad his shoulders; clear his eye,
+  His visage haughty, curls around his brow.
+  White as a summer blossom he appears;
+  His valor proved by many feats of war.
+  God! what a Baron, had he Christian faith!
+  He spurs his horse until the crimson blood
+  Reddens its flanks, and lightly bounds across
+  A mighty chasm full fifty feet in width.
+  The Pagans cry:--"He can defend his marche.
+  With him none 'mong the French can cross a lance;
+  Will they or not, their lives are forfeit now.
+  Yea Carle was mad who did not shun the field."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXXI.
+
+  The Emir, Baron-like, wears on his chin
+  A beard as white as summer flower, and gained
+  Among the wisest of his creed a fame;
+  In battle fierce and proud. His son Malprime
+  Of knightly soul, and from his noble race
+  Holding a valiant heart and strength of arm,
+  Addressed his father:--"Sire, to horse! to horse!
+  Against them! I much wonder whether Carle
+  We e'er shall meet."--"Yea," answered Baligant,
+  "Carle is a valorous knight; his glorious deeds
+  Are writt'n, but now his nephew is no more;
+  Against our strength no other man's can stand."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXXII.
+
+  "Fair son, Malprime," said th' Emir Baligant,
+  "Yesterday fell in death the noble knight
+  Rollánd, and Olivier the wise and brave,
+  And the twelve Peers by Carle so dearly loved,
+  With twenty thousand combatants of France;
+  Not at a glove's worth hold I all the rest.
+  Anon my Syrian messenger reports
+  The emperor's approach; ten armies Carle
+  Has called in close array; the knight who bears
+  The olifant, with clear resounding blast
+  Leads his companions, riding in the front;
+  Together with them fifteen thousand men
+  Of France, all bachelors, whom Carle is wont
+  To call his children. These as many follow
+  Who for the fiercest combat seem prepared."
+  Thus said Malprime: "The first stroke I demand!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXXIII.
+
+  "Fair son," said Baligant, "to you I grant
+  Your full request. Against the French at once
+  Engage. Let your companions be Torleu
+  The Persian King, and Dapamort who rules
+  Leutis. If you subdue the vaunting Carle,
+  A portion of my kingdom shall you have
+  In fief from the Orient to Val-Marchis."
+  Responds Malprime: "To you, O sire, all thanks!"
+  And stepping forward, he receives the boon.
+  This land had once been swayed by King Fleuri,
+  But by Malprime was neither ruled nor seen.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXXIV.
+
+  The Emir Baligant rides through the ranks
+  Of all his host, escorted by his son
+  Of giant stature, and the Kings Torleu
+  And Dapamort. In line of battle soon
+  Stand thirty legions ranked. Countless the knights,
+  And fifteen thousand strong the weakest band
+  Can number. First are those of Butentrot,
+  The next of Misnia: enormous heads
+  O'ertop the spine enrooted in their backs,
+  Their shaggy bodies bristling with coarse hair
+  Like boars; the third, of Nubles and of Blos;
+  The legion fourth of Bruns and Esclavos;
+  The fifth of Sorbres and Sorz; from the Ermines
+  And Mors is formed the sixth; from Jericho
+  The seventh, and the eighth from those of Nigre.
+  Of Gros the ninth, and from Balide-la-Fort,
+  The legion tenth, men never good for aught.
+  With strongest oaths the Emir swears aloud
+  By all Mohammed's might and body, "Carle
+  Of France rides like a madman to his doom,
+  For combat we shall have; recoils he not,
+  His brow shall never more wear golden crown."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXXV.
+
+  Ten other legions are arrayed: the first
+  Of Canelieux--ill-visaged people, come
+  Athwart, from Valfuit; Turks the next; the third
+  Persians; the fourth, Persians and Pinceneis;
+  The fifth from Soltras come and from Avers;
+  Englez and Ormaleis make up the sixth;
+  The seventh scions are of Samuel's race;
+  The eighth from Braise; Esclavers form the ninth;
+  As for the tenth, a horde perverse that came
+  From Ociant's deserted land--a race
+  Not loving God the Lord; ne'er shall you hear
+  Of viler breed: their heathen skin as hard
+  As iron, whence it is they need no helms
+  Nor hauberks mailed--in battle treach'rous fiends.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXXVI.
+
+  The Emir has himself ten legions armed.
+  To form the first the giants of Malpruse
+  Were summoned; to the second came the Huns;
+  The Hungres made the third; Baldise-la-Lungue
+  The fourth, and Val-Penuse the fifth; the sixth
+  Maruse; the seventh Leuz and Astrimonies;
+  The eighth Argoilles; Clarbone the ninth; the tenth
+  Formed of the bearded men of Val-Fondé,
+  A tribe that never would love God. The songs
+  Of Geste of France thus thirty legions count:
+  A mighty host where many a trumpet blasts.
+  Forward, like valiant knights, the Pagans ride.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXXVII.
+
+  The Emir, rich and mighty lord, commands
+  Before him to display his dragon-flag,
+  The standard of Mahum and Tervagant;
+  With it Apollo's image, evil god.
+  Ten Canelieus about him ride, and cry
+  This sermon with loud voice: "Who by our Gods
+  Craves to be saved, with the most contrite heart
+  Must pray!" And then the Pagans low incline
+  Their heads and chins, with brilliant helms bent down
+  To earth.--"Now, gluttons, comes your hour to die!"
+  Cry out the French; "Confusion be your lot.
+  This day, O God of ours, defend King Carle,
+  Turn Thou the scale of battle to his side!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXXVIII.
+
+  The Emir, great in wisdom, called his son
+  And the two kings:--"Seigneurs Barons, in front
+  Ride ye, and all my legions you shall lead;
+  Among them only three will I retain,
+  But of the best: The first shall be the Turks,
+  The second of the Ormaleis composed,
+  And third shall be the Giants of Malpruse,
+  While those of Occiant shall near me stand
+  To set them on King Carle and on his French.
+  Should then the Emperor dare measure arms
+  With me, struck from its trunk his head shall fall--
+  No right has he to other fate than this."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXXIX.
+
+  Both armies are immense; their squadrons bright.
+  Between the combatants nor height, nor hill,
+  Nor vale, nor wood that shelter could afford;
+  Foe looks on foe across the open field.--
+  Said Baligant: "My Saracens, to horse!
+  Ride forward to the fight!" The battle flag
+  Is borne on high by Amboire d'Oliferne,
+  And all shout "Precieuse!" The French exclaim:
+  "May ye confounded be this day!" Aloud
+  Rises their cry "Montjoie!" The Emperor Carle
+  His trumpets bid resound, and the olifant
+  Whose blast 'whelms all. The Pagans say: "Carle's host
+  Is fair! Fierce battle shall we have and dire."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXL.
+
+  Vast is the plain and broad the field. Behold
+  Those dazzling helms inlaid with gold and gems,
+  Those shields, those coats of mail with saffron edged,
+  Those spears and pennons rolled; hearken ye the voice
+  Of trumpets blowing clear and strong, and hark
+  The olifant's shrill blast, which sounds the charge.
+  The Emir calls his brother, Canabeu,
+  The King of Floredée, who rules the land
+  As far as Val-Sevrée, and points to Carle's
+  Ten must'ring legions: "See the pride of France
+  The praised; amid his bearded knights how proud
+  The Emperor rides! O'er their hauberks stream
+  Their beards as white as snow upon the frost.
+  Forsooth! These valiant warriors will strike hard
+  With lance and sword, and such a fight be ours
+  As never man has fought." Then Baligant,
+  Urging his courser further than a man
+  Can hurl a staff, gave reasons and their proof:
+  "Come forward, Pagans; follow where I go!"
+  Brandishing high the shaft of his own lance,
+  At Carle he levels fair its trenchant steel.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXLI.
+
+  When Carle the Emir sees, and with him borne
+  The dragon-standard, all the land o'erswarmed
+  By Arab warriors, save that space alone
+  Held by his host, he cries with loudest voice:
+  "Barons of France, in valor great, we know,
+  Upon how many fields ye battled! See
+  The Pagans! Traitors vile and cowards all;
+  Yea, all their law I count no denier worth.
+  What care ye, lords, how vast their numbers are?
+  Let those who wish to combat follow me!"
+  With pointed spurs he pricks his courser's flanks
+  And Tecendur four times leaped in the air.
+  Cry out the French:--"A valiant King is this!
+  Ride forward, Sire, not one will fail you here."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXLII.
+
+  Clear was the day and bright the sun. Both hosts
+  Resplendent, their battalions numberless;
+  The legions in the van already meet
+  In fight. Both Counts Rabel and Guineman
+  On their fleet coursers' necks have loosed the rein!
+  Sharply they spur, and all the Franks dash on
+  To deal with trenchant lance their valiant blows.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXLIII.
+
+  A daring Knight is Count Rabel. With spurs
+  Of purest gold he pricks his courser's flanks,
+  Rushing to smite Torleu the Persian King.
+  No shield, no hauberk can such blow withstand.
+  The golden spear went through the Pagan's heart
+  And mid the brambles of the road has struck
+  Him dead. The French cry out: "Aid us, O God!
+  With Carle the right; ne'er shall we fail our King!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXLIV.
+
+  Guineman 'gainst the King of Leutice tilts;
+  The Pagan's shield with painted flowers bedecked
+  Is shattered and his hauberk torn away.
+  Through his heart's core the pennon of the Knight
+  Is driven, bearing death,--or laugh or weep
+  Who may. At such a blow the French exclaim:
+  "Barons, strike ever! Strike and be not slack
+  Against the Pagan hordes; to Carle belongs
+  The right. With us the justice true of God!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXLV.
+
+  Malprime upon a steed of purest white
+  Leads 'gainst the serried legions of the Franks
+  His men. Abating not his mighty blows,
+  Corse over corse he heaps. Cries Baligant
+  In front: "Ye whom my kindness nurtured long,
+  Barons of mine, see how my son seeks Carle
+  And with so many knights he measured arms;
+  A better vassal I shall never claim;
+  Give him the succor of your trenchant spears."
+  On rush the Pagans at these words, and deal
+  Their mortal blows around. Rude is the fight!
+  The battle marvelous and stern. None such
+  Was ever seen before or since that hour.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXLVI.
+
+  The hosts are numberless, the warriors fierce--
+  The encount'ring legions fighting hand to hand
+  Noblest exploits achieved. How many a lance
+  Asunder broken; God! How many shields
+  In pieces split, how many hauberks wrenched!
+  Splinters of shivered armor you might see
+  Strew all the field, and verdant tender grass
+  Vermillioned o'er by streams of human gore!
+  The Emir to his people calls anew:
+  "Barons strike down these Christian people!"--Hard
+  And long the fight embittered by revenge
+  And rage. Ne'er seen before nor will be seen
+  Again such combat.--To the death they fight.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXLVII.
+
+  The Emir to his men:--"Strike, Pagans, ye
+  For this alone have come. Dames sweet and fair
+  Shall be your guerdon; honors, and domains
+  I promise all."--The Saracens respond:
+  "To serve you all we ought."--So hard they fight
+  That in the hot affray they lose their spears:
+  Anon a thousand flashing swords and more,
+  Are drawn, a bloody slaughter to achieve.
+  He who stood on that field, true battle saw.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXLVIII.
+
+  The King exhorts his French: "Beloved Seigneurs
+  And trusty Knights, ye many battles fought
+  For me, won many a realm, defeated Kings!
+  Full well I know, rich guerdons have ye earned;
+  My wealth, lands, blood I owe you. Now to-day
+  Your sons, your brothers and your kin avenge
+  Who fell in Ronceval but yesternight!
+  Well know ye mine the right, with them the wrong."
+  The French reply:--"Yea, sire, you speak the truth."
+  The twenty thousand knights who march with Carle
+  Pledge with one soul their fealty. Dire distress,
+  E'en death, shall cause not one of these to fail
+  The Emperor; not on lances they rely,
+  But with the sword in hand wage doughty strife.
+  Wondrous the raging battle. Stern the fight.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXLIX.
+
+  The brave Malprime has pressed his steed across
+  The field, and carried death among the French.
+  Duke Naimes glanced proudly toward him, and as knight
+  In battle fearless met him in career;
+  He strikes ... tears off his buckler's leathern top,
+  The hauberk cuts in twain, drives through the heart
+  The yellow pennon of the spear, and strikes
+  Him dead mid seven hundred other knights.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCL.
+
+  King Canabeus, the Emir's brother, spurs
+  His courser on; his crystal-hilted sword
+  Unsheathes, and deals Naimes' princely helm a blow
+  Which splits the crest in twain; the trenchant blade
+  Severs the five strong bands which to his head
+  Fast bound it; now not worth a denier was
+  The steel-mailed hood; down to the flesh the casque
+  Sheer cleft--a fragment falls upon the earth.
+  The blow was great; the Duke, astounded, reeled,
+  And would have fallen but for God's help. He clasps
+  His courser's neck, and should the Pagan deal
+  Another stroke, the noble Duke has breathed
+  His last; but to his help comes Carle of France.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLI.
+
+  In the Duke Naimes' brave heart what agony!
+  Once more the Pagan raised his arm to strike,
+  But now King Carle cries:--"Coward, wretch! This blow
+  Brings thee ill luck!"--And valiantly the King
+  Rushed on, crushed 'gainst his heart the buckler, rent
+  The hauberk's top; dead-struck the heathen King
+  Falls on the ground ... empty the saddle rests.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLII.
+
+  Deep grief the Emperor felt when there he saw
+  Duke Naimes sore-wounded and the verdant grass
+  Streamed o'er by his clear blood, and thereupon
+  This counsel spoke:--"Fair Naimes, ride close by me;
+  The wretch who brought you to this cruel fight
+  Has breathed his last, his body by my lance
+  Transfixed."--The Duke:--"In you my trust, O sire!
+  If e'er I live, with knightly service shall
+  My arm requite this deed!"--Then side by side
+  In faith and love, with twenty thousand knights
+  They march. And none of these or flinch or yield.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLIII.
+
+  The Emir rides across the field, in haste
+  To deal a blow against Count Guineman.
+  Athwart his heart he breaks the buckler white
+  And tears the hauberk's sides apart, disjoints
+  Two ribs and hurls him from his courser, dead;
+  Then takes the life of Gebain and Lorant,
+  And of Richard the old, a Norman Lord.
+  The Pagans cry: "_Precieuse_ deserves its name!
+  Barons! strike on, Precieuse will save us all!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLIV.
+
+  A noble sight, those knights of Araby,
+  Of Occiant, of Argoille and of Bascle!
+  Spears intermix, death to repel or give.
+  Nathless the French recoil not from the strife.
+  On either side they fall heaped high. Till eve
+  The storm of battle raged. Meanwhile the knights
+  Of France upon that day bore rueful loss;
+  Nor stayed the carnage till the day was done.
+
+
+  CCLV.
+
+  French and Arabian warriors emulate
+  In valor each the other. Ashen shafts
+  Break from their brazen heads. Whoso then saw
+  Those shields defaced, who heard those hauberks white
+  Resound with blows, this dinning clash of shields
+  'Gainst helmets grinding, saw those knights and men
+  Fall and with dying shrieks roll on the earth,
+  Of greatest anguish could the memory keep;
+  So fierce this battle raged. The Emir calls
+  Upon Apollo, Tervagan, upon
+  Mahum: "Till now I served you well, O Gods!
+  And I will have an image made for each,
+  Molten of purest gold [if ye but help]!"
+  Before him then his favorite Gemalfin
+  Appears. He brings ill news. "Sire Baligant
+  This day brings you mishap; Malprime, your son
+  Has fall'n! Your brother Canabeus is dead.
+  Two Franks the glory have of their defeat,
+  One, Carle the Emperor, I deem, so vast
+  His fame, his air as _Marchis_ grand, his beard
+  As white as April blossom!" At these words
+  The Emir's helm declines, his visage sinks
+  Low on his breast. Such is his grief, he thinks
+  Death nears him. Calling Jangleu d'ultremer,
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLVI.
+
+  The Emir said:--"Jangleu, step forth; most wise
+  Art thou, thy knowledge great; thy counsel e'er
+  I followed; what the chance of victory
+  For Franks or Arabs deemest thou?" Jangleu
+  Responds:--"Death, Baligant, hangs o'er your head.
+  Ne'ermore your gods can save you; Carle is proud,
+  And valiant are his men. Ne'er lived a race
+  So strong in battle; yet call up your knights
+  Of Occiant, Enfruns and Arabs, Turks
+  And Giants. Do your duty with all speed."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLVII.
+
+  The Emir spreads out to the breeze his beard
+  As hawthorn blossom white; betide what may,
+  Escape he will not seek, puts to his lips
+  A trumpet clear, whose blast the Pagans hark,
+  And fast their cohorts rally on the field.
+  They bray and neigh, the men of Occiant,
+  While those of Arguile yelp as curs, and charge
+  The Franks so rashly, they mow down and break
+  Their thickest ranks, and by this blow
+  Throw seven thousand dead upon the field.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLVIII.
+
+  To Count Ogier is dastardy unknown;
+  No better vassal buckled hauberk on.
+  When the French legions broken thus he saw,
+  He called Tierri Duke of Argonne, Geffrei
+  D'Anjou and Jozeran the Count, and spoke
+  These haughty words to Carle:--"Behold our men
+  By Pagans slaughtered! May God ne'er permit
+  Your brow to wear its crown if unrevenged
+  Your shame remains!" None dared reply a word,
+  But spurring hard their steeds, with loosened reins
+  They rush in fury 'gainst the Pagan ranks
+  And strike the foes where'er they can be met.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLIX.
+
+  Hard strikes Carlemagne the king, hard strikes Duke Naimes,
+  Ogier de Dannemark, Geffrei d'Anjou,
+  Who bears the royal pennon. But o'er all
+  Ogier de Dannemark puts forth his might;
+  He pricks his courser, drops the rein and falls
+  Upon the Pagan who the Dragon holds,
+  So fiercely, that both Dragon and the King's
+  Own flag is crushed before him on the spot.
+  When Baligant beholds his gonfalon fall
+  And Mahum's flag defenseless, in his heart
+  Springs quick the thought, wrong may be on his side
+  And right on Carle's. The Pagans [waver now].
+  The Emperor Carle around him calls his (Franks):
+  "Barons, in God's name, do you stand by me?"
+  Respond the French:--"To ask is an offense.
+  Accurst be he who deals not glorious strokes!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLX.
+
+  The day wears on and vesper draweth nigh.
+  Christians and Pagans, sword in hand, engage;
+  And valiant are their chiefs, nor mindless they
+  Of battle cries:--"Precieuse!" the Emir shouts,
+  And Carle:--"Montjoie!" the glorious sign. Each knows
+  The other by the clear sonorous voice,
+  And 'mid the field encountering, gives and takes
+  Fierce blows. Each massy shield receives the shock,
+  And each beneath the boss is cloven in twain
+  By the strong lance; each hauberk's sides are rent,
+  But the keen steel in neither reached the flesh;
+  The horse-girths burst and let the saddles fall.
+  Dropped to the earth both kings, both to their feet
+  Quick springing, dauntlessly unsheathed their swords.
+  And now the mortal combat will not cease
+  Till Carle or Baligant has fallen in death.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXI.
+
+  Carle of sweet France is brave, but the Emir feels
+  Before him neither fear nor dread. Both wield
+  Their naked swords and mighty thrusts exchange.
+  The shields, of wood and leather multifold,
+  Are rent, the nails torn out, the bosses split;
+  Each at the other's hauberk aims his blows.
+  Both combat breast to breast; the showering sparks
+  Wrap both their helms in fire: no end can be
+  Till one or other, vanquished, owns his wrong.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXII.
+
+  The Emir said: "King Carle, bethink thee yet;
+  Take better counsel with thy heart, and show
+  Remorse. Full well I know, by thee my son
+  Was slain, thou broughtest ruin through my land.
+  Become my man, I will restore [in fief]
+  This land [to thee], and to the East, but serve
+  Me well." And Carle: "Great shame were that to me!
+  To Heathens I can give no peace nor love....
+  Receive the law our God revealed; accept
+  The faith of Christ.... For e'er my love is thine,
+  If thou believe in God, the Almighty King."
+  Said Baligant: "Ill words are these of thine:
+  [Far better die by the keen edge of sword."]
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXIII.
+
+  The mighty Emir with a giant's strength
+  Smites Carle upon the helm of burnished steel,
+  Which splits in twain beneath the ponderous blow,
+  Cuts through the silky hair, shears from the scalp
+  Fully the breadth of a man's palm and more,
+  Baring the skull. Carle staggers, nearly falls,
+  But God willed not that he should die or yield.
+  Saint Gabriel, with eager flight once more
+  Descends, demanding:--"What ails thee, great King?"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXIV.
+
+  When Carle the Angel's heavenly accent hears,
+  All thought or dread of death forsakes his soul,
+  And in him springs again his former strength.
+  The Emir by the royal sword of France
+  Is struck, his helm all bright with gems is rent,
+  His cloven skull pours out the brain, his face
+  Is cleft to the very roots of his white beard:
+  Dead falls the Pagan past recovery.
+  Then shouts the King his rallying cry, "Montjoie!"
+  Hearing his shout, Duke Naimes hastes up, and brings
+  The charger Tecendur for Carle the great
+  To mount. The Pagans turn their backs--God wills
+  They should not stay. The Franks have their desires.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXV.
+
+  The Pagans fly--such is the will of God;
+  Carle leads the French in the pursuit. Thus spake
+  The King:--"Seigneurs, the time is come to give
+  Vent to just hatred, and your anguished hearts
+  Assuage. This very morn I saw your eyes
+  Streaming with tears." They cry:--"Our vengeance now!"
+  And vying with each other in exploits,
+  They deal their mighty blows. But few escape.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXVI.
+
+  Amidst the sultry heat and clouds of dust
+  The Pagans rousèd, by their foes harassed,
+  Flee far for Sarraguce. To her high tower
+  Ascends Queen Bramimunde, where, seeing thus
+  The routed Arabs fly, she calls her priests
+  And canons, subjects to false law, by God
+  Ne'er loved: their crowns no holy tonsure wear.
+  She cries aloud:--"Aid us, Mahum! Oh aid!
+  O gentle King! Already vanquished are
+  Our men, the Emir slain in shameful death!"
+  On hearing this, Marsile turned to the wall
+  His covered face, and amid bitter tears
+  His life departed. Soon the eager fiends
+  Bore off to judgment his sin-burthened soul.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXVII.
+
+  The Pagans all are slain [or put to flight];
+  Carle wins the day. The gates of Sarraguce
+  Are stormed, and well he knows, defense is vain.
+  He takes the city. All the Christian host
+  Pour in, and there repose their limbs this night.
+  The King with snow-white beard is filled with pride:
+  Queen Bramimunde gives up the citadels;
+  Ten of these forts are large, and fifty small.
+  Well helped are they whom God Almighty aids.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXVIII.
+
+  The sunny day had passed, the shades of night
+  Had fallen; bright the moonlight; all the stars
+  In heaven shone. Carle ruled in Sarraguce.
+  Unto one thousand men he gave command
+  To search throughout the city's synagogues
+  And mosques for all their idols and graved signs
+  Of gods--these to be broken up and crushed
+  By ax and iron mallet he ordains.
+  Nor sorcery nor falsehood left. King Carle
+  Believes in God and serves him faithfully.
+  Then bishops bless the fountains, leading up
+  The Heathens to the blest baptismal Font.
+  If one perchance resist the King, condemned
+  Is he to die, or hanged, or burnt, or slain.
+  More than one hundred thousand are baptized
+  True Christians; but not so Queen Bramimunde:
+  A captive shall she go unto sweet France
+  And be converted by the King through love.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXIX.
+
+  Night passes; dawn appears. Carle fortifies
+  The towers of Sarraguce. One thousand Knights
+  Of valor proved are left to guard the town
+  In the Emperor's name. With escort strong he rides,
+  Followed by Bramimunde a captive, yet
+  Commands that naught but kindness she receive.
+  In proud and joyous triumph they return;
+  Through Nerbune passes the victorious host,
+  Unto Burdele, the city great and fair.
+  There on the altar of the Baron Saint
+  Sevrin, Carle lays the olifant filled full
+  Of marks and gold, where pilgrims view it still.
+  Passing upon broad skiffs across Girunde,
+  To Blaive, he bears the bodies of Rollánd
+  And Olivier, his noble _Compagnon_,
+  With the Archbishop good and brave. Beneath
+  White monuments he hath the lords entombed
+  At Saint-Romain. Here those three Barons lie....
+  The French to God and to his saints, once more
+  Commend them. Carle anew through mounts and vales
+  Proceeds, nor will he stop until in Aix.
+  Fast rides he till he nears the marble steps
+  Of his great palace; and as soon as reached
+  Its tower, by messengers he summons up
+  Baiviers and Saisnes, Loherencs and Frisons,
+  Allemans, Burguignons, Normans, Poitevins,
+  Bretons, of France the wisest men; for now
+  Ganelon's trial shall have no delay.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  THE PUNISHMENT OF GANELON.
+
+
+  CCLXX.
+
+  From Spain at last the Emperor has returned
+  To Aix, the noblest seat of France; ascends
+  His palace, enters in the stately hall.--
+  Now comes to greet him the fair [lady] Aude,
+  And asks the King:--"Where is Rollánd the chief
+  Who pledged his faith to take me for his wife?"
+  Sore-pained, heart-broken, Carle, with weeping eyes,
+  Tears his white beard.--"Ah! sister well beloved,
+  Thou askest me of one who is no more.
+  A worthier match I give thee in exchange;
+  Loewis it is. I can not better say.
+  He is my son, and will protect my realms."
+  Aude answers:--"To my ear these words are strange.
+  May God, His saints, His angels, all forfend
+  That, if Rollánd lives not, I still should live."
+  Her color fades, she falls prone at the feet
+  Of Carlemagne--dead ... God's mercy on her soul!
+  Barons of France mourn her with pitying tears.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXI.
+
+  Such was the end of Aude the beautiful.
+  The King, in hope 'tis but a swoon, with tears
+  And pity taking both her hands, uplifts
+  Her form; the head upon the shoulders sinks.
+  As soon as Carle knows it is death indeed,
+  Four countesses he summons, bids them bear
+  In haste the Lady to a nunnery.----
+  All night they watched the body, and at morn
+  Beside a shrine gently she was entombed
+  With highest honors by the King's command.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXII.
+
+  The Emperor is once more at Aix. There stands
+  Amid the city 'fore the palace gate,
+  In iron chains, the traitor Ganelon.
+  His hands are fastened to a stake with thongs
+  Of deer-skin by the sergeants who then beat
+  His body well with staves and heavy cords.
+  Such treatment was his true desert. He waits
+  His coming doom, in agony of soul.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXIII.
+
+  Written it is in ancient Geste of France
+  That Carle then summoned men from all his lands,
+  Who met at Aix's Chapelle. A solemn feast
+  It was; some say the Baron Saint Silvestre's.
+  This day began the plea and history
+  Of Ganelon who wove the treason's plot.
+  The Emperor bade them drag him to his bar.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXIV.
+
+  "Seigneurs Barons," said to them Carle the King,
+  "Judge Ganelon according to the law.--
+  Among my host with me to Spain he came;
+  His craft lost twenty thousand of my Franks;
+  My nephew, whom ye nevermore shall see,
+  And Olivier, the brave and courteous Knight.
+  The traitor sold my brave twelve Peers for gain."
+  Then Ganelon:--"May I be cursed ere I
+  Deny. Of wealth and honors had [Rollánd]
+  Deprived me, and for this, his loss and death
+  I wrought, but treason none I will confess."
+  Respond the French:--"On this we counsel take."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXV.
+
+  In presence of the King stands Ganelon
+  With bearing hardy, florid countenance;
+  Were he but loyal, as a Baron true
+  His mien. Upon the French and judges he
+  Has cast a glance, and on his thirty kin
+  Who 'round him stand; then with firm voice exclaims:
+  "Barons! Now hear me all, for love of God!
+  I to the Emperor's host belonged, and served
+  Him ever in all faith and love. Rollánd,
+  His nephew, hatred bore to me, and fain
+  Had doomed my days to torture and to death.
+  As message-bearer I to King Marsile
+  Was sent, wisdom alone my shield and guard;
+  I gave defiance to Rollánd the bold,
+  To Olivier and to their comrades all:
+  By Carle and all his Barons this was heard.
+  Revenge this was, but treason it was none."
+  Reply the French:--"All this we well shall weigh."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXVI.
+
+  On seeing the great plea was to commence,
+  Thirty good Knights were called by Ganelon
+  Out of his kin, and one among them makes
+  A speech all others hark: 'tis Pinabel
+  Of Castel de Sorence, of greatest skill
+  In words, and apt with reason plausible;
+  Withal, a vassal brave to guard his arms.
+  Thus to him Ganelon:--"In you my trust
+  I place; my life from death, my name from shame
+  Preserve!"--Said Pinabel:--"Thou shalt be saved.
+  Dare one French Knight condemn thee to be hanged,
+  And would the Emperor make us both to meet
+  In combat, my good sword will his rash word
+  Believe."--And at his feet falls Ganelon.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXVII.
+
+  Baiviers, Saines, Poitevins, Normans and French
+  In council met;--Allemans, Tiedeis in great
+  Array. Those from Alverne most courteous prove
+  And show more kindness unto Pinabel.
+  One to the others said:--"To leave this plea
+  Right would it be, and pray Carl'magne, this once
+  To pardon Ganelon who, from this day,
+  Will serve his lord with truer faith and love.
+  Rollánd lies in his grave; nor wealth, nor gold
+  Restores him to your eyes. This cruel fight
+  Is folly."--All the Knights approve, save one,
+  Tierri, a brother of the Lord Geffrei.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXVIII.
+
+  To Carle his Barons come again, and say:
+  "We pray you, sire, acquit Count Ganelon;
+  Then will he serve you with true faith and love.
+  Grant him his life which springs from noble race.
+  Rollánd lies in his grave; ne'er shall we see
+  Him more, nor treasures e'er can bring him back."
+  Exclaimed the King: "Vile traitors are ye all!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXIX.
+
+  Now, seeing all will fail him, o'er Carle's eyes
+  And features gloom descends; by grief o'erwhelmed
+  He cries: "Unhappy that I am!" Then stood
+  [Tierri], the brother of Geffrei, the Duke
+  D'Anjou, before the King. Thin, light of frame,
+  Hair raven-black, [face] somewhat brown of hue,
+  In height nor tall nor short; with courtesy
+  He spake thus to the Emp'ror: "Fair sire King,
+  Be not cast down. That I have served you well
+  Ere this, you know. 'Tis my ancestral right
+  To sit among the judges of the plea.
+  However guilty was Rollánd against
+  Count Ganelon, his duty to the King
+  Should have restrained his hate. A treason foul
+  Ganelon wrought against Rollánd; forsworn
+  In perjury tow'rd you, he lost himself.
+  For all his crimes his death I here demand,
+  Death by the cord; his body to the dogs
+  Be thrown away--the perjurer's just doom.
+  Should any of his kin deny the words
+  I speak, this sword of mine girt to my side
+  Will make them good."--All cry: "Well have you said."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXX.
+
+  Then toward the King advances Pinabel;
+  Tall, strong and swift, and brave. Strike he but once,
+  No second blow need follow; to the King
+  He said: "Sire, unto you belongs this plea.
+  Command these clamors to be hushed. There stands
+  Tierri who now his judgment has pronounced.
+  The lie I give him and to fight defy!"
+  With this his right hand glove of deer-skin gave
+  Unto the King who said: "I must receive
+  Good pledges." Of his kin then thirty knights
+  Were given as legal sureties of his pledge.
+  "I also give my pledge," the Emperor said,
+  "And have them guarded safe till judgment pass."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXXI.
+
+  When Tierri sees that now the fight is near,
+  He gives the Emperor his right hand glove.
+  To him the sureties Carle himself provides,
+  Bids that they bring four benches to the place
+  Whereon the combatants shall sit. The terms
+  Are judged by all the others as most fair.
+  Ogier de Dannemarche was chosen to rule
+  The lists. Then for their steeds and arms both called.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXXII.
+
+  Both knights now made them ready for the fight,
+  Were shriven, assoiled, and blessed; a mass have heard,
+  Communion have received, and richest alms
+  Bequeathed to monasteries.--Before striking
+  They both appear.--Gold spurs their heels adorn;
+  They wear white hauberks light and strong; bright helms
+  Clasp on their heads, and gold hilt swords are girt
+  Upon their thighs, and to their necks are bound
+  Strong quartered shields; they wield in each right hand
+  A trenchant sword, and on fleet steeds they mount;
+  Then melt in tears one hundred thousand knights
+  Who for Rollánd's sake wish Tierri well.
+  Yea--but God knows what way the thing will end.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXXIII.
+
+  Beyond the town of Aix a plain extends:
+  And here our Barons will the combat try.
+  Most valiant knights are both; the steeds they ride
+  Are swift and stout; with spurs in flanks, and freed
+  Of rein, they dash.--The warriors all their might
+  And skill unite to strike the surest blow.
+  Bucklers beneath the shock are torn and crushed,
+  White hauberks rent in shreds, asunder bursts
+  Each courser's girth, the saddles, turning, fall.
+  One hundred thousand men look weeping on....
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXXIV.
+
+  Both knights leap on the earth, and, quick as light,
+  Stand face to face.--Strong, fiery Pinabel
+  And Tierri for each other seek. Their steeds
+  Are fled.--But their gold-hilted swords they wield;
+  And on the helms of steel they shower such blows
+  As rashed the thongs. Loudly the knights lament,
+  And Carle exclaims:--"Show thou the right, O God!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXXV.
+
+  Cried Pinabel:--"Tierri, surrender thou!
+  Thy vassal I will be in faith and love,
+  And to thy pleasure will I yield my wealth;
+  But let the King forgive Count Ganelon!"
+  Tierri replied:--"Thy offers all are vain;
+  Vile treason were it such a pact to make;
+  But God shall judge us and make plain the right."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXXVI.
+
+  Then Tierri spake:--"I hold thee, Pinabel,
+  As Baron true, great, strong, of handsome mold;
+  Thy peers acknowledge thee as valiant knight;
+  Well, let this combat cease, between the King
+  And thee a covenant I will strive to make.
+  On Ganelon such justice shall be done
+  That future ages shall record the doom."
+  They grasp again their swords and hew
+  Each other's gold-encrusted helm with rage
+  So rash that sparkling fires spurt through the air.
+  No power will now disjoint the combatants:
+  The death of one can only close the strife.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXXVII.
+
+  No braver man than Pinabel.--Such blows
+  He deals on Tierri's helmet of Provence,
+  That the sparks fly in showers, and, falling, set
+  The grass ablaze. Then aiming at his foe
+  His keen-edged brand, down to the brow cuts through
+  His helm; the blade glides down across his face,
+  And plows his right cheek with a deep red gash;
+  Unto his stomach is the haubert rent,
+  But God protects him, and averts his death.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXXVIII.
+
+  Tierri, on seeing blood gush from his brow
+  And tinge the grassy field, strikes Pinabel
+  On his steel-burnished helmet, and cuts through
+  To the nose-plate. His head is cleft in twain
+  And gushes forth the brain. This fatal blow
+  Gives Pinabel his death, and ends the fight.
+  The French exclaim:--"O wondrous work of God!
+  Full right it is that Ganelon be hanged
+  With all his kin who sureties were for him!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXXIX.
+
+  Tierri had won, and on the battle-field
+  The Emperor Carle arrived with an escort
+  Of forty Barons,--Naimes the Duke, Ogier
+  De Dannemarche, Geffrei d'Anjou, Willalmes
+  De Blaive.--In close embrace the King has pressed
+  Tierri, and with his mantle's sables wiped
+  The warrior's face; then lays his furs aside
+  And on his shoulders others are arrayed.
+  Meanwhile the knight, by friendly hands disarmed,
+  On an Arabian mule is placed, and so
+  This valorous Baron full of joy returns
+  To Aix.--Amid the place they all dismount,
+  And now the sureties must abide their doom.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXC.
+
+  Carlemagne around him calls his counts and dukes:
+  "What counsel give ye touching those I kept,
+  Unto this plea who came for Ganelon
+  Themselves sworn hostages for Pinabel?"
+  Respond the French:--"Let none of them survive!"--
+  Carle then commands a road-keeper, Basbrun:
+  "Hang them all up on yon accursed tree!
+  By this gray beard of mine, I swear, if one
+  Escape, thou diest but a villain's death!"--
+  Answered the man:--"What else but to obey?"--
+  Then by a hundred sergeants roughly seized,
+  Those thirty men are hanged.--Who man betrays
+  Destroys himself and others drags to death.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXCI.
+
+  And now have turned away Baiviers, Allemans,
+  Poitevins, Bretons and Normans; but more
+  Than all, the French advise that Ganelon
+  Should die a death of torture. Then they tie
+  With cords his hands and feet. Four sergeants bring
+  Four wild and fiery destriers, made mad
+  By a mare 'mid the field. A fearful end
+  For Ganelon; bound between them, limb from limb
+  Is rent away, each nerve and muscle stretched
+  And torn. The clear blood streams upon the green.
+  Thus perished Ganelon by a felon's death....
+  Traitors of evil deeds must never boast.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXCII.
+
+  When the Emperor Carle had wreaked his full revenge,
+  He called the bishops from the realms of France,
+  And from Baviere, and those of Alemaigne:
+  "Now in my [court] have I a captive, sprung
+  From noble race. Such sermons has she heard,
+  So good examples seen, she will believe
+  In the true God, and Christian faith embrace.
+  Baptize her so that He may save her soul;
+  God-mothers choose her of our noblest dames."
+  With a great company the Baths at Aix
+  Were thronged, and soon before the holy Fonts
+  The Queen received the name of Juliane:
+  Henceforth a Christian holding fast the Truth.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  THE END OF THE CHANSON.
+
+
+  CCXCIII.
+
+  But when the Emperor had made complete
+  His justice and his heavy wrath assuaged,
+  And brought Queen Bramimunde to Christian faith,
+  The day was over and the night had fall'n.
+  The King sought rest within his vaulted room.
+  Saint Gabriel brought him word from God and said:
+  "Carle, of thy empire summon all the hosts
+  For swiftest marching to the land of Bire;
+  So shalt thou succor King Vivien in Imphe,
+  The city compassed by the Pagan foe.
+  The Christians look to thee and cry for help."--
+  Will has he none to go, the King, but moans:--
+  "O, God," quoth he, "so troublous is my life!"--
+  Whereat he weeps, and tears his hoary beard.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Thus endeth here the Geste Turoldus sang.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Footnotes]
+
+[1] Molted. Because in that condition, better for hunting.
+
+[2] _Pallies._ A square piece of silk on which the knights used
+to sit. (From Pallium).
+
+[3] _Tables._ In the romances of the Middle Ages the game of
+tables means tric-trac, chess, checkers, etc.
+
+[4] Bezants. A Byzantine coin.
+
+[5] A sort of undergarment made of gold and silk brocade
+worn in time of war under the coat of mail, and in time of
+peace under the mantle of fur. In the latter case it was of silk.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+GLOSSARY.
+
+
+Of places and words which may present some difficulty as regards origin
+and meaning on account of their ancient orthography. For more complete
+information see Léon Gautier's seventh edition of the text.
+
+The numbers indicate stanzas in this edition.
+
+
+AIX, capital of Charlemagne's empire. 3.
+
+ALMAZOUR, Arab origin, a title. 69.
+
+ALVERNE and ALFERNE, Auvergne, French Province. 224.
+
+AMIRALZ, Admiral. 78.
+
+AMURAFLE, from Emir, admiral. 98.
+
+ARGONNE, city of France (Champagne). 227.
+
+ASPRE, defile in the Pyrenees. 88.
+
+ASTRIMUNIES, Pagan tribes. 236.
+
+BALAGUER, Spanish Arabian city. 73.
+
+BASCLE, Basque--W. Foester, 280. 254.
+
+BELFERNE, Pagan kingdom. 66.
+
+BELNE, Beaune, French city (Burgundy). 144.
+
+BEVUM, man's name--Teutonic. 144.
+
+BIRE and IMPHE, unknown. 293.
+
+BLAVE, Blaye, near Bordeaux, France. 269.
+
+BLOS, Pagan tribe. 234.
+
+BRIGAL, Saracen country. 97.
+
+BRUNS and ESCLAVOS, Teutonic etymology. 234
+
+BRUISE, Prussia. 235.
+
+{BUGRE, Bulgarian, and
+{BUGUERIE, Bulgaria. 174, 211.
+
+BURDELE, Bordeaux. 101.
+
+BUTENTROT, country supposed to be situated in Cappadocia. 234.
+  See P. Meyer in Romania, VII., p. 335.
+
+CALIFERNE, unknown Pagan country. 211.
+
+CANELIEUS, 236--said to be Chananians by P. Meyer in Romania, VI.,
+  p. 477.
+
+CICLATON, Arab silk material. 69.
+
+COMMIBLES, supposed city of Spain. 14.
+
+CLARBONE, imaginary Pagan place. 236.
+
+DANEMARCHE, Denmark. 220.--Etymology, Dania and Marcha, limit.
+
+DIGUN, Dijon, city of France. 144.
+
+ENFRUNS, unknown Eastern Pagans. 256.
+
+ENGLEZ, Sclavonic tribes. 235.
+
+ERMINES, Pagan tribes. 234.
+
+FALDSTOOL, an arm-chair. 32.
+
+FLORÉDÉE, doubtful Pagan country. 240.
+
+GARNAILLE, unknown. 145.
+
+GASCUIGNE, Gascony, Gascuin, Gascon. 65.
+
+GENNES, Genoa. 165.
+
+GLAZA, Galaza, and adj. Galazin, place, and stuff made of silk
+  and gold; from Asia. 215.
+
+GROS, Pagans unknown. 234.
+
+GUITSAND, town near Calais, 111.
+
+HALTOIE, Spanish city. 14.
+
+IMPHE, unknown. 293.
+
+LEUTIS, believed to be Poland. 244. See G. Paris in Romania, II.,
+  p. 331.
+
+LOHENRENGS, from Lorraine. 269.
+
+MAELGUT, a Pagan's name. 154.
+
+MALPRUSE and MALPREISE, Pagan region. 236.
+
+MARBRISE and MARBRUSE, unknown places. 193.
+
+MARCHIS, old, for Marquis. 50.
+
+MISMIA, unknown. 234.
+
+MONTJOIE.--Etym. Mons gaudii, name of Carle's standard;
+  the oriflamme and French war-cry. 93. See note in Gautier's
+  seventh edition, p. 278.
+
+MORS, Moors. 234.
+
+NERBUNE, Narbone, city, South of France. 269.
+
+NIGRES, perhaps _Nigri_. 234.
+
+NOPLES, supposed city of Spain. 14.
+
+NUBLES, a Pagan tribe, Nubians. 234.
+
+OCCIANT, Pagan country. (?) 235.
+
+OLIFANT, Roland's ivory horn. Etym. _Elephantus_. 85.
+
+ORMALEIS, unknown. 238. See Romania, II., and Gautier's
+  Glossary.
+
+OYEZ, of French; hear! 2.
+
+PEITEVINS for Poitevins, of Poitou. 224.
+
+PINCENEIS, Lat. _Pincinnati_; see Romania, II., p. 331-335,
+  and Gautier's Glossary.
+
+PINE, Piña, city of Spain. 14.
+
+POUILLE, Apulia. 29.
+
+PRIME, Arabian Province. 78.
+
+PUILLANIE, Poland. 174.
+
+REINS, Rheims, in Champagne. 12.
+
+ROSNE, River Rhone. 121.
+
+SAISNES, Saxons. 269.
+
+SAINT-ROMAIN, church of Blaye, near Bordeaux. 269.
+
+SAINTS (les), Les Saints of Cologne (Gautier); others say
+  Sens, a city of Western France. 111.
+
+SEBILE, Sevilla, Spain. 14.
+
+SEIGNEURS, French for Lords. 2, &c.
+
+SIZRE, now Cisa; Etym. Cæsaris, place of the defiles, near
+  Ronceval. 45.
+
+SOLTRAS and AVERS, Pagan tribes. 235.
+
+SORBRES and SORZ, Pagan tribes. 234.
+
+SORENCE, unknown. 276.
+
+TIEDEIS, Deutch, German. 277.
+
+TUELE, city in Navarra. 14.
+
+TURTELUSE, Tortosa, Spain. 75.
+
+VAL-TENEBRE, Spanish City. 54.
+
+
+
+***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LA CHANSON DE ROLAND***
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+<h1 class="pg">The Project Gutenberg eBook, La Chanson de Roland, by Léon Gautier,
+Translated by Léonce Rabillon</h1>
+<pre>
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre>
+<p>Title: La Chanson de Roland</p>
+<p>Author: Léon Gautier</p>
+<p>Release Date: December 11, 2007  [eBook #23819]</p>
+<p>Language: English</p>
+<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p>
+<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LA CHANSON DE ROLAND***</p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<h3 class="pg">E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Turgut Dincer,<br />
+    and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br />
+    (http://www.pgdp.net)</h3>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<hr class="full" />
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<h1>LA CHANSON DE ROLAND</h1>
+
+
+<h5><i>TRANSLATED FROM THE SEVENTH EDITION OF LEON<br />
+GAUTIER, PROFESSOR AT THE ECOLE DES<br />
+CHARTES, PARIS.</i></h5>
+
+
+<h3><small><small><small>BY</small></small></small><br />
+
+L&Eacute;ONCE RABILLON,<br />
+
+<small>Licenci&eacute; en droit, Paris University, French Lecturer at<br />
+Johns Hopkins University.</small></h3>
+
+<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/printers.png"
+style="margin-top: 1em;" width="100px" alt="printer's mark" />
+</div>
+
+<h5>NEW YORK<br />
+
+HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY<br />
+
+1885</h5>
+
+
+<h5>COPYRIGHT, 1885<br />
+BY<br />
+HENRY HOLT &amp; CO.<br />
+W. L. MERSHON &amp; CO.,<br />
+Printers and Electrotypers,<br />
+RAHWAY, N. J.<br /><br /></h5>
+
+
+<h5><small>TO</small><br />
+
+<big>DANIEL C. GILMAN,</big><br />
+
+<i>President of Johns Hopkins University</i>,<br />
+
+<i>THIS TRANSLATION<br />
+
+IS MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED.</i></h5>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 50%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[vii]</span></p>
+
+<h2>PREFACE.</h2>
+
+
+<p>Several years ago, the maker of this version translated into French one
+of the early works of H. W. Longfellow. This circumstance was not
+forgotten by the American poet who kindly consented to listen to this
+new attempt at rendering into English the "CHANSON DE ROLAND."</p>
+
+<p>To his encouragement is due the present publication. The writer will
+ever proudly treasure up the remembrance of his friendly welcome and
+counsel....</p>
+
+<hr class="two" />
+
+<p>The translator has followed, as literally as possible, the text of the
+Oxford MS., as revised by L&eacute;on Gautier. The parts inclosed in
+parentheses are interpolations of the learned Professor. This revised
+text should be kept in hand by the English reader for comparison with
+the original, which is nine centuries old. The translator may thus be
+more likely to obtain the indulgence of the reader for the quaint
+representation, in a modern language, of the coloring of this most
+ancient poem.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[viii]</span>The orthography of all the names, as well as their prosodic accent, has
+been preserved in their ancient form; and accordingly, an index has been
+appended to the work.</p>
+
+<p>The seventh edition of L&eacute;on Gautier's "CHANSON DE ROLAND," contains a
+vast amount of explanatory notes, grammatical and historical, to which
+the reader is referred.</p>
+
+
+<h4>HISTORY OF THE POEM.</h4>
+
+<p>On the 15th of August, 778, in a little Pyrenean Valley, still known in
+our days by the name of Ronceval, a terrible event took place.
+Charlemagne, returning from his expedition to Spain, crossed that valley
+and the Pyrenees, leaving his rear-guard in command of Roland, Prefect
+of the Marches of Brittany. His main army had passed unmolested; but at
+the moment when the rear-guard advanced into the defiles of the
+mountain, thousands of Gascons rushed from their ambush, fell upon the
+French army and slaughtered the whole guard to the last man. So perished
+Roland.</p>
+
+<p>Eginhard, the historian of Charlemagne, terminates his narrative with
+these words: "The House-intendant, (Regi&aelig; mens&aelig; pr&aelig;positus), Eggihard,
+Anselm, Count of the Palace, Roland, Prefect of the Marches of Brittany
+(Hruolandus britannici limitis pr&aelig;fectus), with many more, perished in
+<span class='pagenum'>[ix]</span>the fight. It was not possible to take revenge on the spot. The
+treacherous attempt once perpetrated, the enemy dispersed and left no
+trace." (Eginhard's Life of Charlemagne, Vol. I., p. 31; edition of the
+Soci&eacute;t&eacute; de l'histoire de France.)</p>
+
+<p>From the moment of the defeat of Ronceval, legend commenced its labor
+upon this truly epic event which, in its origin, is absolutely French,
+but has found its echoes throughout Europe, from Iceland to Eastern
+regions.</p>
+
+<p>The commentators generally agree in dating the composition of the Poem
+before the first crusade in the year 1096. The author, it is
+ascertained, was Norman, the dialect used by him being Norman
+throughout. Whether this author was really Turoldus, named in the last
+line of the Poem, is a point which L&eacute;on Gautier refuses to affirm. We
+refer the reader to the very interesting preface of <i>Genin</i>, and to the
+learned introductions of L&eacute;on Gautier, for more complete information.</p>
+
+<hr class="two" />
+
+<p>The word "<i>Aoi</i>," which is placed at the end of every stanza, and found in
+no other ancient French poems, is interpreted differently by the
+commentators. M. Francisque Michel assimilated it at first to the
+termination of an ecclesiastical chant&mdash;Preface, xxvii.&mdash;and later to
+the Saxon <i>Abeg</i>, or the English <i>Away</i>, as a sort of refrain which the
+"<i>jongleur</i>" repeated at the end of the couplets. M. <span class='pagenum'>[x]</span>G&eacute;nin explains it by
+<i>ad viam</i>, a vei, avoie, away! it is done, let us go on!</p>
+
+<p>M. Gautier, with his skeptical honesty, declares the word unexplained.
+See Note 9, p. 4, of his seventh edition.</p>
+<hr class="two" />
+
+<h4>MANUSCRIPTS.</h4>
+
+<p>The most complete and ancient is that of Oxford, in the Bodleian
+Library, marked "Digby, 23," a copy of the XIIth. century. All others
+are <i>Rifaccimenti</i>, Refashionings.</p>
+
+<p>Two in Venice, in St. Mark Library, XIIIth. century; French MSS., No. 4
+&amp; 7.</p>
+
+<p>In the National Library, Paris, No. 860, XIIIth. century.</p>
+
+<p>The Versailles MS., now deposited in the Library of Chateauroux, a copy
+of which is in Paris Nat. Library; 15, 108; XIIIth. century.</p>
+
+<p>In the Lyons Library, 964; XIVth. century.</p>
+
+<p>In Cambridge, Trinity Collage, R. 3-32; XVIth. century.</p>
+
+<p>One called the Lorrain, a fragment found near Metz.</p>
+
+<p>The Karlomagnus Saga, an Icelandic copy of the Oxford MS.; XIIIth.
+century.</p>
+
+<hr class="two" />
+
+<p>In M. Petit de Julleville's Introduction to his version can be found a
+chronological list of the <span class='pagenum'>[xi]</span>works which concern the "CHANSON DE ROLAND,"
+the translations of it, and dissertations on the subject in France and
+Germany.</p>
+
+<hr class="two" />
+
+<p>There are twenty-one translations in different languages:</p>
+
+<p>Four in German, by Th. M&uuml;ller, Hertz, Boehmer, Eug. K&ouml;lbing.</p>
+
+<p>One in Polish, by Mad. Duchinska.</p>
+
+<p>One in Danish, by Unger.</p>
+
+<p>One in Icelandish, Karlomagnus' Saga.</p>
+
+<p>Twelve in French, by Francisque Michel, Bourdillon, Del&eacute;cluze, G&eacute;nin, P.
+Paris, Vitet, J&ocirc;nain, de Saint-Albin, d'Avril, Petit de Julleville,
+Lehugeur and L&eacute;on Gautier, of whose translation seven editions were
+issued.</p>
+
+<p>Two in English, one in England by J. O'Hagan, and one in America, the
+latest and present one.</p>
+
+<p>Besides, a version from Vitet's French paraphrase, by Mrs. Marsh.</p>
+<hr class="two" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[1]</span></p>
+
+
+<h4>SARRAGOSSA.</h4>
+
+<h4>COUNCIL HELD BY KING MARSILE.</h4>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_1" id="St_1">I.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+
+<span class="i0">Carle our most noble Emperor and King,</span>
+<span class="i0">Hath tarried now full seven years in Spain,</span>
+<span class="i0">Conqu'ring the highland regions to the sea;</span>
+<span class="i0">No fortress stands before him unsubdued,</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor wall, nor city left, to be destroyed,</span>
+<span class="i0">Save Sarraguce, high on a mountain set.</span>
+<span class="i0">There rules the King Marsile who loves not God,</span>
+<span class="i0">Apollo worships and Mohammed serves;</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor can he from his evil doom escape.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_2" id="St_2">II.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The King Marsile abides in Sarraguce</span>
+<span class="i0">Where underneath an orchard's leafy shade,</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon a terrace with blue marble paved</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[2]</span><span class="i0">He rests. Around him twenty thousand men</span>
+<span class="i0">And more are ranked. His Dukes and Counts he calls:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Oyez, <i>Seigneurs</i>, what gath'ring ills are ours:</span>
+<span class="i0">Great Carle, the Emperor who rules Sweet France</span>
+<span class="i0">Comes to this land to 'whelm us with his might.</span>
+<span class="i0">To give him battle I no army have,</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor people to array against his host:</span>
+<span class="i0">Your counsel give me, Lords, as my wise men,</span>
+<span class="i0">And so defend your King from death and shame;"</span>
+<span class="i0">But answer none a single Pagan gave,</span>
+<span class="i0">Save Blancandrin <i>del Castel Val-Fond&eacute;</i>.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_3" id="St_3">III.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Blancandrin, 'midst the wisest Pagans wise,</span>
+<span class="i0">Who, in his vassalage a valiant knight,</span>
+<span class="i0">Most prudent counsels gave to help his lord,</span>
+<span class="i0">Said to the King:&mdash;"Be not by this dismayed!</span>
+<span class="i0">To Carle the proud, the fierce, send messengers</span>
+<span class="i0">With words of faith and love. Send to him gifts</span>
+<span class="i0">Of bears and lions, packs of dogs; present</span>
+<span class="i0">Seven hundred camels also, fifty score</span>
+<span class="i0">Of molted<a name="FNanchor_1" id="FNanchor_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">1</a> falcons, and four hundred mules</span>
+<span class="i0">With heavy weight of gold and silver packed;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[3]</span><span class="i0">Then fifty chariots with their burthens heaped:</span>
+<span class="i0">Well can this treasure all his soldiers pay.</span>
+<span class="i0">Within this land he long enough has camped.</span>
+<span class="i0">To France&mdash;to Aix let him at last return;</span>
+<span class="i0">There will you join him on Saint-Michael's feast,</span>
+<span class="i0">Accept the Christian law, and swear to be</span>
+<span class="i0">His man in faith and honor. Should he ask</span>
+<span class="i0">Hostages, ten or twenty grant, to lure</span>
+<span class="i0">His trust; let us send our wives' sons. Mine&mdash;although</span>
+<span class="i0">He die, I give. Far better that their heads</span>
+<span class="i0">Should fall than we lose honor and domain,</span>
+<span class="i0">Than we ourselves to beggary be brought."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_4" id="St_4">IV.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He further said:&mdash;"By this right hand of mine,</span>
+<span class="i0">And by the beard the air waves on my breast,</span>
+<span class="i0">Soon shall you see the host of Franks disperse;</span>
+<span class="i0">To France, their land, the Franks will take their way.</span>
+<span class="i0">When each has gained the shelter of his home,</span>
+<span class="i0">King Carle will in his chapel be at Aix,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[4]</span><span class="i0">To celebrate Saint Michael's solemn feast.</span>
+<span class="i0">The day will come, the term allowed will pass,</span>
+<span class="i0">And from us shall he hear nor word nor news.</span>
+<span class="i0">The King is fierce, his soul is hard; and thus</span>
+<span class="i0">Each hostage head beneath his sword shall fall.</span>
+<span class="i0">'Twere better far that these should lose their heads</span>
+<span class="i0">Than we for aye lose glorious Spain the Fair,</span>
+<span class="i0">And suffer so great ills and doleful woes."</span>
+<span class="i0">Then say the Pagans:&mdash;"This may be the truth."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_5" id="St_5">V.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Hereat the King Marsile the council closed.</span>
+<span class="i0">Then summon'd he Clarin de Balaguer,</span>
+<span class="i0">Estramarin and Eudropin his peer;</span>
+<span class="i0">With Priamon Guarlan the bearded knight,</span>
+<span class="i0">And Machiner together with Mahen</span>
+<span class="i0">His uncle, Jo&iuml;mer and Malbien born</span>
+<span class="i0">Beyond the sea, and Blancandrin, to hear</span>
+<span class="i0">His words. These ten, the fiercest, he addressed:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Seigneurs Barons, ye shall go toward Carl'magne;</span>
+<span class="i0">He to Cordr&egrave;s, the city, now lays siege.</span>
+<span class="i0">Bear in each hand a branch of olive-tree</span>
+<span class="i0">In token of humility and peace.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[5]</span>
+<span class="i0">If by your arts his favor you can gain,</span>
+<span class="i0">I give of gold and silver, lands and fiefs</span>
+<span class="i0">To each, whatever he may ask of me."</span>
+<span class="i0">The Pagans answer all:&mdash;"[Well said our lord!"]</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_6" id="St_6">VI.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Marsile his council closed:&mdash;"My Lords, ye shall</span>
+<span class="i0">Set forth;&mdash;an olive branch bear in each hand:</span>
+<span class="i0">And in my name adjure King Carlemagne</span>
+<span class="i0">That by his God he mercy have on me;</span>
+<span class="i0">And ere a month be past, he shall behold</span>
+<span class="i0">Me follow with a thousand faithful knights,</span>
+<span class="i0">There to submit myself to Christian law</span>
+<span class="i0">And be his man in love and faith; and if</span>
+<span class="i0">He hostages require, them shall he have."</span>
+<span class="i0">Quoth Blancandrin:&mdash;"Good treaty will be yours."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_7" id="St_7">VII.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Marsile then ordered forth the ten white mules</span>
+<span class="i0">The King of Sicily once sent to him;&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">Golden their bits&mdash;their saddles silver-wrought&mdash;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[6]</span><span class="i0">And on them mounted his ambassadors.</span>
+<span class="i0">Thus holding each a branch of olive-tree,</span>
+<span class="i0">They rode away and came to Carle of France.</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor can he from the treacherous snare escape.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<hr style="width: 50%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[7]</span></p>
+<h4>COUNCIL OF CHARLEMAGNE AT<br />
+CORDOBA.</h4>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_8" id="St_8">VIII.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Cheerful and blithe the Emp'ror, for Cordr&egrave;s</span>
+<span class="i0">Has been subdued, its massy walls o'erthrown,</span>
+<span class="i0">Its towers by mighty catapults destroyed;</span>
+<span class="i0">And there his knights have found abundant spoils</span>
+<span class="i0">Of gold and silver, and rich garnitures.</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor was one Pagan in the city left</span>
+<span class="i0">Alive, who did not own the Christian Faith.</span>
+<span class="i0">Now is the Emperor within a wide</span>
+<span class="i0">And spreading orchard; there around him stand</span>
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd and Olivier, Samsun the Duke,</span>
+<span class="i0">And Anse&iuml;s the bold, Gefrei d'Anjou,</span>
+<span class="i0">Gonfaloneer of Carle, and also there</span>
+<span class="i0">Gerin and Gerier. Where these were, came</span>
+<span class="i0">Of others many more. In all, from France</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[8]</span><span class="i0">Were gathered fully fifteen thousand knights.</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon white <i>pallies</i><a name="FNanchor_2" id="FNanchor_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">2</a> sit these chevaliers;</span>
+<span class="i0">They play at tables<a name="FNanchor_3" id="FNanchor_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">3</a> to divert themselves;</span>
+<span class="i0">The wiser and the elder play at chess.</span>
+<span class="i0">In mimic sword-play strive the joyous youths.</span>
+<span class="i0">Under a pine-tree, near an eglantine,</span>
+<span class="i0">Is placed a faldstool of pure gold whereon</span>
+<span class="i0">Sits he, the King&mdash;great Ruler of Sweet France.</span>
+<span class="i0">White is his beard, his head all flowering white;</span>
+<span class="i0">Graceful his form and proud his countenance;</span>
+<span class="i0">None need to point him out to those who come</span>
+<span class="i0">The Pagan messengers, dismounting, stood</span>
+<span class="i0">Before him, proffering humble faith and love.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_9" id="St_9">IX.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Blancandrin was the first to speak, and said</span>
+<span class="i0">Unto the king:&mdash;"Hail! in the name of God,</span>
+<span class="i0">The Glorious One we must adore! To you</span>
+<span class="i0">I bring this message from Marsile the brave:</span>
+<span class="i0">Well has he studied your Salvation's Law;</span>
+<span class="i0">And would upon you lavish his great wealth.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[9]</span><span class="i0">Bears&mdash;lions&mdash;packs of hounds enchained he gives,</span>
+<span class="i0">Seven hundred camels also&mdash;fifty score</span>
+<span class="i0">Of molted falcons&mdash;mules, four hundred, packed</span>
+<span class="i0">With gold and silver&mdash;fifty carts to carry</span>
+<span class="i0">These gifts, and <i>bezants</i><a name="FNanchor_4" id="FNanchor_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">4</a> of the purest gold</span>
+<span class="i0">He also sends, which will your soldiers pay.</span>
+<span class="i0">Too long within our land you have remained;</span>
+<span class="i0">To France&mdash;to Aix he wills you straight return.</span>
+<span class="i0">There will he follow you: so says my lord."</span>
+<span class="i0">To God the Emperor uplifts his hands;</span>
+<span class="i0">Bends low his head and counsel takes in thought.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_10" id="St_10">X.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The Emperor sat silent with drooped head.</span>
+<span class="i0">Ne'er rash in words, he never speaks in haste.</span>
+<span class="i0">At last he rose. Proudly he looked and spake</span>
+<span class="i0">Unto the messengers:&mdash;"Ye have well said</span>
+<span class="i0">That King Marsile e'er stood my greatest foe!</span>
+<span class="i0">On these fair-seeming words how far can I</span>
+<span class="i0">Rely?" The crafty Saracen replied:</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[10]</span><span class="i0">"Would you have hostages? you shall have ten,</span>
+<span class="i0">Fifteen, yea, twenty. Though his fate be death</span>
+<span class="i0">My son shall go, and others nobler still,</span>
+<span class="i0">I deem. When to your lordly palace, home</span>
+<span class="i0">Returned&mdash;when comes Saint Michael del Peril,</span>
+<span class="i0">His feast, my Lord will follow to those springs,</span>
+<span class="i0">He says, brought forth by God for you, and there</span>
+<span class="i0">Baptized, a faithful Christian will become!"</span>
+<span class="i0">Carl'magne makes answer:&mdash;"He may yet be saved!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_11" id="St_11">XI.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The eve was soft and fair, the sunset bright;</span>
+<span class="i0">The ten mules stabled by the King's command;</span>
+<span class="i0">In the great orchard a pavilion raised</span>
+<span class="i0">To house the messengers, his Pagan guests.</span>
+<span class="i0">Twelve sergeants to their service were assigned,</span>
+<span class="i0">And there they rested till the dawn repelled</span>
+<span class="i0">The night. With day the Emperor arose;</span>
+<span class="i0">Heard mass and matins first, then having gone</span>
+<span class="i0">Beneath a stately pine, he summons all</span>
+<span class="i0">His wisest barons, council grave to hold,</span>
+<span class="i0">Thus ever guided by the men of France.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[11]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_12" id="St_12">XII.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Beneath a pine the Monarch has repaired;</span>
+<span class="i0">His barons to the council called: the Duke</span>
+<span class="i0">Ogier&mdash;Archbishop Turpin&mdash;old Richard,</span>
+<span class="i0">Also his nephew Henri, and the brave</span>
+<span class="i0">Count Acelin of Gascu&iuml;gne&mdash;Tedbald</span>
+<span class="i0">De Reins&mdash;his cousin Milon&mdash;Gerier,</span>
+<span class="i0">Gerin, together with the Count Roll&aacute;nd,</span>
+<span class="i0">And Olivier, the brave and noble knight.</span>
+<span class="i0">One thousand Franks of France and more were met&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">Then Ganelon came, who treason wrought; and now</span>
+<span class="i0">Was opened that ill-fated council thus:</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_13" id="St_13">XIII.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Seigneurs Barons," began the Emp'ror Carle,</span>
+<span class="i0">"The King Marsile his messengers hath sent</span>
+<span class="i0">To offer me large store of his great wealth;</span>
+<span class="i0">Bears&mdash;lions&mdash;hounds in leash;&mdash;of camels he</span>
+<span class="i0">Gives seven hundred&mdash;falcons, fifty score&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">Four hundred mules packed high with Arab gold,</span>
+<span class="i0">And more than fifty chariots loaded full;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[12]</span><span class="i0">But he demands that I return to France.</span>
+<span class="i0">There will he follow: then arrived at Aix,</span>
+<span class="i0">Will in my palace take Salvation's Faith,</span>
+<span class="i0">Will Christ obey, and hold his lands from me;</span>
+<span class="i0">But what is in his heart, I do not know."</span>
+<span class="i0">The French exclaim:&mdash;"Of him we must beware!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_14" id="St_14">XIV.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The Emp'ror ended thus. But Count Roll&aacute;nd</span>
+<span class="i0">Approving not the terms, stands forth and speaks</span>
+<span class="i0">Unto the King with arguments adverse:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Trust never more Marsile. 'Tis full seven years</span>
+<span class="i0">Since we came into Spain. For you I took</span>
+<span class="i0">Both Nopl&eacute;s and Commibl&eacute;s; gained Valterne</span>
+<span class="i0">And all the land of Pine, and Balaguer,</span>
+<span class="i0">And Tuele and Sebile&mdash;yet King Marsile</span>
+<span class="i0">Still plotting treachery, sent from his horde</span>
+<span class="i0">Of Pagans, fifteen men; each bore in hand</span>
+<span class="i0">Like these, a branch of olive-tree, and spake</span>
+<span class="i0">The self-same words. On that you counsel took</span>
+<span class="i0">From your too lightly flattering French; two Counts</span>
+<span class="i0">Of yours you to the Pagan sent, the one,</span>
+<span class="i0">Bazan, Bastile the other, and their heads</span>
+<span class="i0">He struck off near Haltoie. As you began,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[13]</span><span class="i0">War on! To Sarraguce your army lead,</span>
+<span class="i0">Besiege her walls, though all your life it take,</span>
+<span class="i0">And thus avenge the knights the felon slew."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_15" id="St_15">XV.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">At this the Emperor, bending low his head,</span>
+<span class="i0">Twists his mustache and plucks his hoary beard,</span>
+<span class="i0">Answering his nephew neither yea nor nay.</span>
+<span class="i0">The Franks keep silence&mdash;all save Ganelon</span>
+<span class="i0">Who rose and stood before the King, and spake</span>
+<span class="i0">Bold words and haughty:&mdash;"Put not faith in fools,</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor me nor others; follow your own rede!</span>
+<span class="i0">Since King Marsile makes offer to become</span>
+<span class="i0">Your man, with hands joined; furthermore will hold</span>
+<span class="i0">Spain as a fief from you; yea, will receive</span>
+<span class="i0">Our law as his law, he who counsel gives</span>
+<span class="i0">Such proffer to reject, cares not a whit</span>
+<span class="i0">What death we die. No counsel take of pride;</span>
+<span class="i0">Let pass the fools and listen to the wise."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_16" id="St_16">XVI.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">And now Duke Naimes arose: his beard and hair</span>
+<span class="i0">As white as drifted snow. In all the court</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[14]</span><span class="i0">No better vassal stood; and to the King:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Have you marked well the words Count Ganelon</span>
+<span class="i0">In answer spoke but now? His plan is wise;</span>
+<span class="i0">Follow it then. This King Marsile in war</span>
+<span class="i0">Is overcome, his strongholds all pulled down;</span>
+<span class="i0">By warlike engines are his walls destroyed,</span>
+<span class="i0">His cities burned, his men subdued;&mdash;when now</span>
+<span class="i0">He for your mercy prays, foul sin it were</span>
+<span class="i0">To press him harder. Since he, furthermore</span>
+<span class="i0">Will bind his word by gift of hostages,</span>
+<span class="i0">[One of your barons also send to him.]</span>
+<span class="i0">In truth no longer this great war should rage."</span>
+<span class="i0">The French all cry:&mdash;"Duke Naimes has spoken well."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_17" id="St_17">XVII.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Seigneurs Barons, which of you shall we send</span>
+<span class="i0">To meet the King Marsile in Sarraguce?"</span>
+<span class="i0">Duke Naimes responds:&mdash;"I, with your leave will go;</span>
+<span class="i0">Give me the glove and staff."&mdash;"Nay," quoth King Carle,</span>
+<span class="i0">"A sage you are in council, well I know:</span>
+<span class="i0">By this mustache and by this beard of mine,</span>
+<span class="i0">So far away from me you shall not go.</span>
+<span class="i0">Back to your seat, since none hath summoned you."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_18" id="St_18">XVIII.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class='pagenum'>[15]</span>
+<span class="i0">"Seigneurs Barons, which of you shall we send</span>
+<span class="i0">As messengers to Sarraguce where rules</span>
+<span class="i0">Marsile?"&mdash;Roll&aacute;nd responds:&mdash;"Behold me here!"</span>
+<span class="i0">"&mdash;You shall not, by my troth!" cries Olivier,</span>
+<span class="i0">"Your pride too fierce, and courage far too hot;</span>
+<span class="i0">I fear some misadventure from your zeal.</span>
+<span class="i0">Should our King grant me but his leave, 'tis I</span>
+<span class="i0">Will go!"&mdash;The King exclaimed:&mdash;"Be silent both&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor you, nor he, shall yonder set your foot!</span>
+<span class="i0">Ay, by this hoary beard of mine, I swear,</span>
+<span class="i0">Not one of my twelve Peers shall thither go."</span>
+<span class="i0">The French are dumb&mdash;-all silenced by these words.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_19" id="St_19">XIX.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Turpin de Reins arises from the ranks</span>
+<span class="i0">And to the King he says: "Let your Franks stay,</span>
+<span class="i0">To this land seven years ago you came,</span>
+<span class="i0">And they have suffered much of toil and pain.</span>
+<span class="i0">Give me the glove and staff, and I will go</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[16]</span><span class="i0">And speak my mind to that proud Saracen."</span>
+<span class="i0">With anger great the Emperor replies:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Back to your seat on yonder <i>pallie</i> white</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor speak another word, save by command!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_20" id="St_20">XX.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then said the Emperor:&mdash;"Chevaliers of France,</span>
+<span class="i0">Choose ye for me a baron of my realm,</span>
+<span class="i0">One who can bear my words to King Marsile!"</span>
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd rejoins:&mdash;"Let my step-father go;</span>
+<span class="i0">If he remain, no wiser man is found."</span>
+<span class="i0">The French say:&mdash;-"Well can he fulfill the task:</span>
+<span class="i0">[If the King wills, 'tis right he should be sent."]</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_21" id="St_21">XXI.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thus spoke the King:&mdash;"Sire Ganelon, draw near:</span>
+<span class="i0">Receive the glove and staff&mdash;you heard the Franks</span>
+<span class="i0">Pass judgment, and on you their choice has fallen."</span>
+<span class="i0">Said Ganelon:&mdash;"All this Roll&aacute;nd has done!</span>
+<span class="i0">My life-long, never will I love him more,</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor Olivier, his comrade and his friend,</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor the twelve Peers, for that they love him well.</span>
+<span class="i0">Here in your presence, I defy them all!"</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[17]</span><span class="i0">The King replied:&mdash;"Too wroth you are. At once</span>
+<span class="i0">You shall depart.&mdash;I spoke it."&mdash;"Sire, I go,</span>
+<span class="i0">Although for me there is nor shield nor guard:</span>
+<span class="i0">Basile had none, Bazan, his brother, none!</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_22" id="St_22">XXII.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"To Sarraguce I go, and know full well</span>
+<span class="i0">Who thither goes, may ne'er return. Nay more,</span>
+<span class="i0">Your sister is my wife, and I by her</span>
+<span class="i0">Have one fair son, Baldewin, the goodliest child</span>
+<span class="i0">Who [if he live] will be a noble knight.</span>
+<span class="i0">To him I leave my fiefs and honors: guard</span>
+<span class="i0">Him well, for him these eyes no more shall see."</span>
+<span class="i0">Carle answers:&mdash;"Much too tender is your heart;</span>
+<span class="i0">Since I command, your duty 'tis to go."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_23" id="St_23">XXIII.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Count Ganelon, at this, rose full of wrath,</span>
+<span class="i0">And, casting from his neck his zibelline</span>
+<span class="i0">Of fur, stood forth, clothed in his silk <i>blialt.</i><a name="FNanchor_5" id="FNanchor_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">5</a></span>
+<span class="i0">Gray were his eyes and very fierce his face;</span>
+<span class="i0">Graceful his form&mdash;his breast, of mighty mold.</span>
+<span class="i0">So fair was he, all eyes upon him rest.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[18]</span><span class="i0">"Roll&aacute;nd," he said, "wherefore this foolish wrath?</span>
+<span class="i0">Since thy step-father, 'tis well known, I am,</span>
+<span class="i0">For this thou choosest me to seek Marsile!</span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis well. If God but grant me safe return,</span>
+<span class="i0">I such ill fortune hurl on thee, shall smite</span>
+<span class="i0">Thy life from now and ever with a curse."</span>
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd replies:&mdash;"Mad words and proud I hear.</span>
+<span class="i0">All know it well, I care for no man's threat;</span>
+<span class="i0">But since a wise man must this message bear,</span>
+<span class="i0">If the King wills it, in your place I go."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_24" id="St_24">XXIV.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Thou shalt not take my place," said Ganelon;</span>
+<span class="i0">"My vassal art thou not, nor yet am I</span>
+<span class="i0">Thy lord; and since the King hath given me</span>
+<span class="i0">Command this service I should take, I shall</span>
+<span class="i0">Go to Marsile. But once in Sarraguce</span>
+<span class="i0">Will I with fuel feed my heart's fierce ire."</span>
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd, on hearing this, began to laugh.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_25" id="St_25">XXV.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When Ganelon saw the laughter of Roll&aacute;nd,</span>
+<span class="i0">It seemed as though his breast would burst with wrath;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[19]</span>
+<span class="i0">His brain was well-nigh maddened by his rage.</span>
+<span class="i0">Unto the Count he cried:&mdash;"I love you not;</span>
+<span class="i0">This judgment have you caused on me to fall!</span>
+<span class="i0">Right Emp'ror, in your presence, lo! I stand,</span>
+<span class="i0">And I am ready to fulfill your word."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_26" id="St_26">XXVI.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The King presents to him his right hand glove;</span>
+<span class="i0">But Ganelon would well have ne'er stood there,</span>
+<span class="i0">For ere he touched the royal glove, it fell.</span>
+<span class="i0">The French exclaim:&mdash;"What bodes this omen? Shall</span>
+<span class="i0">This embassy not have a woeful end?&mdash;"</span>
+<span class="i0">"<i>Seigneurs</i>," said Ganelon, "you will hear of this!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_27" id="St_27">XXVII.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Said Ganelon:&mdash;"Give me dismissal, Sire!</span>
+<span class="i0">Since I must go, my time is precious." Then</span>
+<span class="i0">Adjured the King:&mdash;"For Jesus' sake and mine!"</span>
+<span class="i0">With his right hand he Ganelon absolved</span>
+<span class="i0">And blessed, deliv'ring up the brief and staff.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_28" id="St_28">XXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class='pagenum'>[20]</span>
+<span class="i0">Count Ganelon his own house seeks, to make</span>
+<span class="i0">Equipment and prepare his arms: his choice</span>
+<span class="i0">The best that he can find. With golden spurs</span>
+<span class="i0">He clasps his heels; belts to his side his sword,</span>
+<span class="i0">Murgleis, and mounts his courser Tachebrun.</span>
+<span class="i0">His uncle Guinemer the stirrup held;</span>
+<span class="i0">There many a chevalier you might have seen</span>
+<span class="i0">In tears, who said: "Baron, such evil fate</span>
+<span class="i0">Was yours. You, in the King's Court so long, and there</span>
+<span class="i0">Revered as liege-man high!&mdash;The man who judged</span>
+<span class="i0">That you should go, not Carle himself shall cure</span>
+<span class="i0">Or save; the Count Roll&aacute;nd bethought him not</span>
+<span class="i0">Of that high lineage whence you sprang!"&mdash;And they</span>
+<span class="i0">Entreat:&mdash;"My lord with you take us along!"</span>
+<span class="i0">But Ganelon replies:&mdash;"Lord God forbid!</span>
+<span class="i0">Better to die alone than with me fall</span>
+<span class="i0">So many brave!&mdash;Lords, to sweet France ye will go.</span>
+<span class="i0">Salute for me my wife, and Pinabel,</span>
+<span class="i0">My friend and peer, and my son Baldewin whom</span>
+<span class="i0">Ye all know&mdash;guard him&mdash;hold him for your lord."</span>
+<span class="i0">The Count departs and goes upon his way.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+<hr style="width: 50%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[21]</span></p>
+
+<h4>THE EMBASSY AND CRIME OF GANELON.</h4>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_29" id="St_29">XXIX.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The Count rides on beneath tall olive trees</span>
+<span class="i0">And joins the messengers of King Marsile.</span>
+<span class="i0">To meet him Blancandrin has checked his speed:</span>
+<span class="i0">With skillful words each to the other spake.</span>
+<span class="i0">Blancandrin said: "A wond'rous man is Carle</span>
+<span class="i0">Who conquered Pouille and overran Calabre,</span>
+<span class="i0">Crossed the salt-seas to England, and from thence</span>
+<span class="i0">Gained tribute for <i>Saint-Pierre</i>. In this our land</span>
+<span class="i0">What claims he?" "Such his might," said Ganelon,</span>
+<span class="i0">"No man shall ever match with him in arms."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_30" id="St_30">XXX.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Said Blancandrin: "The Franks are noble, but</span>
+<span class="i0">Those Dukes, those Counts harm much their lord, who give</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[22]</span><span class="i0">To him such counsels, wronging him and all."</span>
+<span class="i0">Ganelon answered: "No man, save Roll&aacute;nd,</span>
+<span class="i0">Know I, who should this blame incur; it was</span>
+<span class="i0">But yestermorn, the King sat in the shade,</span>
+<span class="i0">When Roll&aacute;nd came before him, all encased</span>
+<span class="i0">In glittering arms, fresh from the siege and sack</span>
+<span class="i0">Of Carcasonne, holding an apple red;</span>
+<span class="i0">And thus his uncle greeted: 'Sire, behold!</span>
+<span class="i0">I lay the crowns of all Kings at your feet.'</span>
+<span class="i0">Swift punishment should overtake such pride,</span>
+<span class="i0">For ev'ry day he blindly runs to death.</span>
+<span class="i0">Were he but slain, all lands might rest in peace."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_31" id="St_31">XXXI.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Blancandrin said: "Most cruel is Roll&aacute;nd</span>
+<span class="i0">Who makes all nations cry for mercy thus,</span>
+<span class="i0">And will o'er all the lands his power impose.</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon what people doth he then rely</span>
+<span class="i0">For such attempt?" Ganelon said: "The French!...</span>
+<span class="i0">They love him so, they fail him ne'er in aught.</span>
+<span class="i0">Lavish is he of gifts: Silver and gold,</span>
+<span class="i0">Mules, chargers, silken robes and garnitures,</span>
+<span class="i0">He gives the King himself all that he craves;</span>
+<span class="i0">From here to the far East, all lands must fall!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[23]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_32" id="St_32">XXXII.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Blancandrin with Count Ganelon rode on,</span>
+<span class="i0">Until together had they pledged their faith</span>
+<span class="i0">To snare Roll&aacute;nd and lead him to his death.</span>
+<span class="i0">Thus on they rode through vales and mountain-paths,</span>
+<span class="i0">Till Sarraguce was reached. Beneath a yew</span>
+<span class="i0">They lighted: a faldstool by shady pines</span>
+<span class="i0">O'erhung, was spread with Alexandrine silk.</span>
+<span class="i0">There sat the King who ruled all Spain, and stood</span>
+<span class="i0">Around him twenty thousand Saracens,</span>
+<span class="i0">Who neither spoke nor breathed, to hear the news;</span>
+<span class="i0">And lo! came Blancandrin with Ganelon.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_33" id="St_33">XXXIII.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Blancandrin stepped before the Pagan King</span>
+<span class="i0">With Ganelon the Count held by the wrist.</span>
+<span class="i0">Thus to Marsile he said: "Mohammed save</span>
+<span class="i0">The King! Apollo, too, whose holy law</span>
+<span class="i0">We keep. We bore your message to Carl'magne;</span>
+<span class="i0">Both hands he lifted, praying to his God;</span>
+<span class="i0">No other answer gave.&mdash;He sends you here</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[24]</span><span class="i0">One of his noble Barons, a rich Frank.</span>
+<span class="i0">Learn from his lips if it be peace or war."</span>
+<span class="i0">Responds Marsile: "Then let him speak. We hear!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_34" id="St_34">XXXIV.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then Ganelon, who well had weighed his thoughts,</span>
+<span class="i0">Begins to speak as one of knowledge vast,</span>
+<span class="i0">And says unto the King: "By God be saved,</span>
+<span class="i0">The Glorious God we must adore! Carl'magne</span>
+<span class="i0">The Baron, sends his message to Marsile:</span>
+<span class="i0">The holy Christian Faith if you receive,</span>
+<span class="i0">One half of Spain he grants to you in fief.</span>
+<span class="i0">These terms refuse, and your fair Sarraguce</span>
+<span class="i0">He will besiege, and drag you forth in chains</span>
+<span class="i0">To Aix, his royal city, there to meet</span>
+<span class="i0">A felon's doom."&mdash;Quivering with rage and fear,</span>
+<span class="i0">The King Marsile, who held a gold-winged dart,</span>
+<span class="i0">Aims it at him; but others stayed his hand.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_35" id="St_35">XXXV.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The King Marsile turned pale, and full of wrath,</span>
+<span class="i0">Brandished the shaft of his winged dart on high.</span>
+<span class="i0">Ganelon saw, laid hand upon his sword,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[25]</span><span class="i0">And quick unsheathed two fingers' breadth of blade,</span>
+<span class="i0">Saying: "Sword of mine you are most fair and bright;</span>
+<span class="i0">As long as by me borne in this King's court,</span>
+<span class="i0">Never shall say the Emperor of France</span>
+<span class="i0">Ganelon died alone in foreign land,</span>
+<span class="i0">Ere a high price for you the best have paid!"</span>
+<span class="i0">The Pagans cry in haste: "Check this affray."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_36" id="St_36">XXXVI.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The wisest Pagans urged the wrathful King,</span>
+<span class="i0">Till, yielding, on his throne he has resumed</span>
+<span class="i0">His seat. The Kalif said: "Great wrong you brought</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon us, menacing to strike the Frank.</span>
+<span class="i0">You should have hearkened to his words." "This wrong,"</span>
+<span class="i0">Said Ganelon, "I calmly will endure;</span>
+<span class="i0">But for the gold that God hath made all wealth</span>
+<span class="i0">Stored in this land, I would not leave untold,</span>
+<span class="i0">While I have power of speech, the message sent</span>
+<span class="i0">By Carle, the mighty Emperor, through me</span>
+<span class="i0">His messenger, to thee his mortal foe."</span>
+<span class="i0">Ganelon on the ground his mantle dropped</span>
+<span class="i0">Of Alexandrine silk, and richly lined</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[26]</span><span class="i0">With zibelline; Blancandrin took it up:</span>
+<span class="i0">But from his sword the Count would never part;</span>
+<span class="i0">And his right hand still grasps the golden hilt.</span>
+<span class="i0">The Pagans say:&mdash;"Behold a Baron true!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_37" id="St_37">XXXVII.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Then Ganelon strode nearer to the King</span>
+<span class="i0">And said:&mdash;"All idle is this wrath of yours.</span>
+<span class="i0">This is the message of King Carle of France;</span>
+<span class="i0">Hear his command:&mdash;"Receive the Christian law"&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">One half of Spain he grants to you in fief,</span>
+<span class="i0">And to Roll&aacute;nd, his nephew, he will give</span>
+<span class="i0">The other half. (A haughty partner he</span>
+<span class="i0">Will prove.) To this agreement should you not</span>
+<span class="i0">Consent, 'gainst Sarraguce his host will lay</span>
+<span class="i0">The siege; by force you will be tak'n and bound,</span>
+<span class="i0">And brought to Aix, the royal seat. Hope not</span>
+<span class="i0">To ride on palfrey, nor on steed, on mule</span>
+<span class="i0">Female or male;&mdash;on a vile beast of burden</span>
+<span class="i0">You shall be thrown, and doomed to have your head</span>
+<span class="i0">Struck off.&mdash;Behold the Brief our Emp'ror sends!"</span>
+<span class="i0">With his right hand he gives it to the King.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[27]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_38" id="St_38">XXXVIII.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">White with exceeding wrath, the King Marsile</span>
+<span class="i0">Has brok'n the seal, let fall the wax on earth,</span>
+<span class="i0">And, glancing on the Brief, has read the script:</span>
+<span class="i0">"I learn from Carle who holds France in his sway,</span>
+<span class="i0">That I should bear in mind his ire and grief:</span>
+<span class="i0">Bazan&mdash;Basile, his brother, they whose heads</span>
+<span class="i0">I took on Mount Halto&iuml;e, his anger's cause.</span>
+<span class="i0">If I my body's life would save, to him</span>
+<span class="i0">The Kalif, my good uncle, I must send,</span>
+<span class="i0">Or else can he ne'er be my friend."&mdash;Then spake</span>
+<span class="i0">To King Marsile his son:&mdash;"This Ganelon,"</span>
+<span class="i0">Said he, "speaks madly, and such wrong hath done,</span>
+<span class="i0">That he should live no more. Now give him up</span>
+<span class="i0">To me, that I to him quick justice deal!"</span>
+<span class="i0">Ganelon, hearing this, unsheathed his sword,</span>
+<span class="i0">And set his back against a branching pine.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_39" id="St_39">XXXIX.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Into his orchard King Marsile repaired,</span>
+<span class="i0">Attended only by his wisest men;</span>
+<span class="i0">Came thither too the gray-haired Blancandrin</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[28]</span><span class="i0">With Turfaleu his son and heir; with them</span>
+<span class="i0">The Kalif, brother and good friend of King</span>
+<span class="i0">Marsile.&mdash;Said Blancandrin:&mdash;"Recall the Frank;</span>
+<span class="i0">To serve us he has pledged his faith."&mdash;The King</span>
+<span class="i0">Replied:&mdash;"Go, bring him hither."&mdash;Then he took</span>
+<span class="i0">Ganelon's fingers into his right hand,</span>
+<span class="i0">And brought him to the grove before the King;</span>
+<span class="i0">And lo! was woven there the traitor's plot.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_40" id="St_40">XL.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The King Marsile said:&mdash;"Fair Sire Ganelon,</span>
+<span class="i0">Unwise and all too hasty was I, when</span>
+<span class="i0">In my great wrath I poised my lance to strike.</span>
+<span class="i0">This gift of sables take as your amends:</span>
+<span class="i0">More than five hundred marks their weight in gold.</span>
+<span class="i0">Before to-morrow-eve the boon is yours."</span>
+<span class="i0">Ganelon answers:&mdash;"I reject it not.</span>
+<span class="i0">May God, if 'tis his will, your grace reward."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_41" id="St_41">XLI.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Marsile spake thus:&mdash;"Sire Ganelon, believe,</span>
+<span class="i0">Much I desire to love you, and of Carle</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[29]</span>
+<span class="i0">I crave to hear. Is he not old, his prime</span>
+<span class="i0">Has he not passed? Men tell me he has lived</span>
+<span class="i0">More than two hundred years; his body dragged</span>
+<span class="i0">Throughout so many lands; so many blows</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon his shield!&mdash;So many mighty Kings</span>
+<span class="i0">To beggary reduced!&mdash;When will he cease</span>
+<span class="i0">To march on battle-fields?"&mdash;Then Ganelon</span>
+<span class="i0">Responded:&mdash;"Such is not King Carle; no man</span>
+<span class="i0">Alive who sees and knows him but will tell</span>
+<span class="i0">How our great Emperor is Baron true.</span>
+<span class="i0">I could not praise and honor him enough,</span>
+<span class="i0">For no man lives so valiant and so good.</span>
+<span class="i0">His valor ... who on earth could ever tell?</span>
+<span class="i0">His soul God with such virtue has illumed,</span>
+<span class="i0">I'd rather die than quit my noble lord!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_42" id="St_42">XLII.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The Pagan said:&mdash;"Amazed am I at Carle</span>
+<span class="i0">So old and so white-haired; his age, I know,</span>
+<span class="i0">Two hundred years and more. His limbs he toiled</span>
+<span class="i0">Across so many lands; so oft was struck</span>
+<span class="i0">By swords and spears; so many kings compelled</span>
+<span class="i0">To beg!&mdash;When will he cease to war?"&mdash;"Carle?&mdash;ne'er!"</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[30]</span><span class="i0">Ganelon answered, "while his nephew lives:</span>
+<span class="i0">No vassal like him 'neath the starry arch;</span>
+<span class="i0">And bold as he his comrade Olivier.</span>
+<span class="i0">The twelve Peers held by Carle so dear, behold!</span>
+<span class="i0">The vanguard form of twenty thousand knights;</span>
+<span class="i0">With them King Carle is safe, and fears no man."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_43" id="St_43">XLIII.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Again the Pagan:&mdash;"I am wonder-struck</span>
+<span class="i0">On knowing Carle so old and so white-haired!</span>
+<span class="i0">Methinks he passed two hundred years; by arms</span>
+<span class="i0">He won so many lands&mdash;so many wounds</span>
+<span class="i0">In battle he received from trenchant swords!</span>
+<span class="i0">So many powerful kings on battle-fields</span>
+<span class="i0">Conquered or slew!&mdash;When will he cease to war?"</span>
+<span class="i0">"&mdash;Never!"&mdash;said Ganelon, "while lives Roll&aacute;nd:</span>
+<span class="i0">From here to farthest east no knight his peer</span>
+<span class="i0">E'er lived: his comrade too, Count Olivier,</span>
+<span class="i0">Is brave; and the twelve Peers, so dear to Carle,</span>
+<span class="i0">The van-guard make of twenty thousand knights.</span>
+<span class="i0">Carle may have peace, and fears no living man!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_44" id="St_44">XLIV.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Fair Sire," said King Marsile to Ganelon,</span>
+<span class="i0">"Than mine no fairer people can you see:</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[31]</span><span class="i0">Four hundred thousand knights I can array</span>
+<span class="i0">In combat 'gainst King Carle and 'gainst his Franks."&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">Ganelon says:&mdash;"The time has not yet come,</span>
+<span class="i0">Yea, and great loss your people then will have.</span>
+<span class="i0">But leave this folly, and to wisdom hold;</span>
+<span class="i0">Offer the King of treasures such a store</span>
+<span class="i0">That all the French will marvel at the gift.</span>
+<span class="i0">For twenty hostages that you will send,</span>
+<span class="i0">Back to Sweet France will Carle ere long repair.</span>
+<span class="i0">His rear-guard, notice well, will rest behind:</span>
+<span class="i0">There will Roll&aacute;nd, his nephew, be, I trow,</span>
+<span class="i0">With Olivier the brave and courteous knight.</span>
+<span class="i0">Trust to my counsel and both Counts are doomed,</span>
+<span class="i0">Nay, Carle shall see his lofty pride cast down</span>
+<span class="i0">And never more shall covet war with you."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_45" id="St_45">XLV.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">[Thus King Marsile] said:&mdash;"Fair sire Ganelon,</span>
+<span class="i0">What means have I to kill the Count Roll&agrave;nd?"</span>
+<span class="i0">Ganelon answered:&mdash;"This can I well say:</span>
+<span class="i0">The King will reach the wider pass of Sizre</span>
+<span class="i0">And leave his rear behind, where great Roll&agrave;nd</span>
+<span class="i0">Eke Olivier, whom both he greatly trusts,</span>
+<span class="i0">Will be the chiefs of twenty thousand Franks.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[32]</span><span class="i0">On these your hundred thousand Pagans throw,</span>
+<span class="i0">And let them straightway make an onset fierce:</span>
+<span class="i0">Stricken and slain shall be the men of France;</span>
+<span class="i0">I say not that of yours none shall be slain,</span>
+<span class="i0">But follow up this fight with like attack,</span>
+<span class="i0">And Count Roll&aacute;nd cannot escape them both,</span>
+<span class="i0">Then will you deeds of chivalry achieve,</span>
+<span class="i0">And free your life from war for evermore."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_46" id="St_46">XLVI.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">"Who could contrive that there Roll&aacute;nd should die,</span>
+<span class="i0">Would strike off Carle's right arm. Then on the field</span>
+<span class="i0">That wond'rous host in death shall lie. No more</span>
+<span class="i0">Thereafter could King Carle such forces raise,</span>
+<span class="i0">And the Great Land at last would rest in peace."</span>
+<span class="i0">Marsile, this hearing, kissed him on the neck,</span>
+<span class="i0">And then began his treasures to display.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_47" id="St_47">XLVII.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Exclaimed Marsile:&mdash;"What further [shall I say?]</span>
+<span class="i0">No good adviser he of faith unsure.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[33]</span><span class="i0">Swear if Roll&aacute;nd be there that he shall die!"</span>
+<span class="i0">Thus answered Ganelon:&mdash;"Your will be done."</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon the relics of his sword Murgleis</span>
+<span class="i0">The treason swore; thus forfeited himself.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_48" id="St_48">XLVIII.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">An ivory-faldstool there was set. Marsile</span>
+<span class="i0">The order gives to bring a book before it,</span>
+<span class="i0">Mohammed's law and that of Tervagant,</span>
+<span class="i0">The Spanish Saracen thus took his oath:</span>
+<span class="i0">"If in the rear-guard Count Roll&aacute;nd be found,</span>
+<span class="i0">He will attack him there with all his men;</span>
+<span class="i0">And, if it may be, there Roll&aacute;nd shall die."</span>
+<span class="i0">Ganelon answers:&mdash;"May [our treaty thrive!]"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_49" id="St_49">XLIX.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Behold a Pagan, Valdabrun, who armed</span>
+<span class="i0">Marsile a Knight; with cheerful smile he said</span>
+<span class="i0">To Ganelon:&mdash;"Take this my sword; no man</span>
+<span class="i0">E'er drew its peer; the hilt alone is worth</span>
+<span class="i0">More than a thousand marks.&mdash;For love I give it,</span>
+<span class="i0">But lend us help against the Count Roll&aacute;nd,</span>
+<span class="i0">And show us how to find him in the rear."</span>
+<span class="i0">"&mdash;So shall it be," replies Count Ganelon;</span>
+<span class="i0">Whereon they kissed each other's chin and face.</span>
+</div></div>
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[34]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_50" id="St_50">L.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Another Pagan came. 'Twas Climorin</span>
+<span class="i0">Who gayly smiling, said to Ganelon:</span>
+<span class="i0">"My helmet take&mdash;None better have I seen,</span>
+<span class="i0">But help us now against <i>Marchis</i> Roll&aacute;nd</span>
+<span class="i0">That we may throw dishonor on his name."</span>
+<span class="i0">"&mdash;Well shall it be," responded Ganelon,</span>
+<span class="i0">And then they kissed each other's lips and cheek.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span>
+</div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_51" id="St_51">LI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">And now behold, comes Bramimunde the Queen;</span>
+<span class="i0">"Sire Ganelon," said she, "I love you much,</span>
+<span class="i0">You, by my sire and all our men esteemed.</span>
+<span class="i0">Two necklaces unto your wife I send,</span>
+<span class="i0">With jacinths and with amethysts and gold</span>
+<span class="i0">Adorned, worth more than all the wealth of Rome;</span>
+<span class="i0">Jewels so rich your Emp'ror never had."</span>
+<span class="i0">The Count receives and puts them in his hose.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_52" id="St_52">LII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The King calls up Malduit, his treasurer:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Hast thou prepared my gifts for Carle the King?"</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[35]</span><span class="i0">Malduit responds:&mdash;"Yea sire, the whole are there:</span>
+<span class="i0">Seven hundred camels with their loads of gold</span>
+<span class="i0">And silver; then of hostages a score,</span>
+<span class="i0">The noblest ever lived beneath the stars."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_53" id="St_53">LIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Marsile took by the shoulder Ganelon</span>
+<span class="i0">And told him:&mdash;"Thou hast wisdom and art brave.</span>
+<span class="i0">By that great law ye hold the best, beware</span>
+<span class="i0">Thy heart fails not. Rich treasures will I give</span>
+<span class="i0">To thee: ten mules laden with purest gold</span>
+<span class="i0">From Araby; each year shall bring the like.</span>
+<span class="i0">Meantime of this great city take the keys,</span>
+<span class="i0">And in my name present this wealth to Carle.</span>
+<span class="i0">But let Roll&aacute;nd be ordered to the rear.</span>
+<span class="i0">If in the pass or mount I find the knight,</span>
+<span class="i0">I swear to give him combat to the death."</span>
+<span class="i0">Says Ganelon:&mdash;"Methinks too long I stay."&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">He mounts his horse and goes upon his way.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_54" id="St_54">LIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Emperor nears his realm, and reaching now</span>
+<span class="i0">The city of Valterne sacked by Roll&agrave;nd</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[36]</span><span class="i0">And left in ruins, which thereafter lay</span>
+<span class="i0">A hundred years a desert; there he waits</span>
+<span class="i0">For news of Ganelon, and tribute due</span>
+<span class="i0">By the great land of Spain. One morning when</span>
+<span class="i0">The early dawn was brightening into day,</span>
+<span class="i0">Count Ganelon drew nigh unto the camp.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_55" id="St_55">LV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">In early morn the Emperor arose.</span>
+<span class="i0">Having attended mass and matins both,</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon the verdant grass, before his tent</span>
+<span class="i0">He stood, surrounded by the Count Roll&aacute;nd,</span>
+<span class="i0">The valorous Olivier, and the Duke Naimes,</span>
+<span class="i0">With many more besides. There also came</span>
+<span class="i0">The perjurer, the treacherous Ganelon,</span>
+<span class="i0">Who, stepping forth, with most perfidious tongue</span>
+<span class="i0">Began to speak:&mdash;"Hail! God save Carle the King!&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">I bring you here the keys of Sarraguce:</span>
+<span class="i0">Great treasures follow through my care conveyed</span>
+<span class="i0">With hostages a score. So, guard them well.</span>
+<span class="i0">The King Marsile the brave bears not the blame</span>
+<span class="i0">If I bring not the Kalif unto you.</span>
+<span class="i0">Myself three hundred thousand men in arms</span>
+<span class="i0">Beheld, with hauberks clad, and helmets clasped,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[37]</span><span class="i0">Swords by their sides, hilts bright with gold inlaid,</span>
+<span class="i0">Who with him crossed the sea, not to submit</span>
+<span class="i0">To Christ's law which they will not hold nor keep.</span>
+<span class="i0">But scarce five leagues had they sailed on the main,</span>
+<span class="i0">When wind and tempest rising, down they sank.</span>
+<span class="i0">All perished!... Never shall you see them more.</span>
+<span class="i0">Had but the Kalif lived, I would have brought</span>
+<span class="i0">Him hither. For the Pagan King, know well,</span>
+<span class="i0">Ere you shall see this first month pass away,</span>
+<span class="i0">Your vassal will he be, with join&egrave;d hands,</span>
+<span class="i0">And hold the realm of Spain a fief from you."</span>
+<span class="i0">Thus said the King:&mdash;"Thanks be to God for this!</span>
+<span class="i0">Well have you done, and great your recompense</span>
+<span class="i0">Shall be."&mdash;He bids a thousand trumpets sound...</span>
+<span class="i0">The camp is struck:&mdash;the Franks then load their mules</span>
+<span class="i0">And set forth on their journey to Sweet France.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<hr style="width: 50%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[38]</span></p>
+
+<h3>THE REAR GUARD.</h3>
+<hr class="two" />
+
+<h4>ROLL&Aacute;ND DOOMED TO DEATH.</h4>
+<hr class="two" />
+
+<h4><a name="St_56" id="St_56">LVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">King Carle the Great has made a waste of Spain,</span>
+<span class="i0">The cities violated, the castles seized.</span>
+<span class="i0">Now saith the King his war is at an end,</span>
+<span class="i0">And toward Sweet France the Emperor directs</span>
+<span class="i0">His steed.... The Count Roll&aacute;nd the pennon white</span>
+<span class="i0">Has planted on a hill, high 'gainst the sky.</span>
+<span class="i0">In all the country round the Franks their tents</span>
+<span class="i0">Are pitching, while the Pagans ride along</span>
+<span class="i0">The mighty vales. In hauberk clad&mdash;their backs</span>
+<span class="i0">In armor cased; with helmets clasped&mdash;sword girt</span>
+<span class="i0">On thigh&mdash;shields on their necks&mdash;each lance in rest,</span>
+<span class="i0">Within a thicket on the mount they halt.</span>
+<span class="i0">Four hundred thousand men there wait the dawn.</span>
+<span class="i0">The French yet know it not. Ah God! what woe!</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[39]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_57" id="St_57">LVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Passes the day; the shades of night have fallen.</span>
+<span class="i0">Carle the great Emp'ror sleeps; and in a dream</span>
+<span class="i0">He marches through the deep defiles of Sizre.</span>
+<span class="i0">In his right hand his ashen spear he holds,</span>
+<span class="i0">Which suddenly Count Ganelon has snatched</span>
+<span class="i0">From him, and shook and brandished in such wise</span>
+<span class="i0">That, breaking, high tow'rd Heav'n the splinters flew.</span>
+<span class="i0">Carle sleeps&mdash;naught from his slumber can arouse him.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_58" id="St_58">LVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Another vision followed hereupon:</span>
+<span class="i0">He is in France, in his <i>Chapelle</i>, at Aix.</span>
+<span class="i0">A bear his right arm caught with such sharp fangs</span>
+<span class="i0">[That from the bone the flesh is torn away.]</span>
+<span class="i0">From toward Ardennes he saw a leopard come,</span>
+<span class="i0">Which in his dream, made on him fierce attack;</span>
+<span class="i0">But then a greyhound dashes from the hall</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[40]</span><span class="i0">Unto Carle's rescue, swift of leap and bound;</span>
+<span class="i0">First from the treach'rous bear the hound tears off</span>
+<span class="i0">An ear, then with the leopard combat makes.</span>
+<span class="i0">"See!" cry the French, "what battle fierce is here."</span>
+<span class="i0">But they know not which of the two will win</span>
+<span class="i0">The field&mdash;Carle still asleep naught can awake.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_59" id="St_59">LIX.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Vanished the night, and the clear dawn appeared.</span>
+<span class="i0">With noble mien the Emperor mounts his steed,</span>
+<span class="i0">And 'mid the host one thousand trumpets sound:</span>
+<span class="i0">"<i>Barons</i>," said Carle:&mdash;"You see those deep defiles</span>
+<span class="i0">And narrow passes&mdash;judge who in the rear</span>
+<span class="i0">Will take command." Said Ganelon:&mdash;"Roll&aacute;nd,</span>
+<span class="i0">My step-son, whom among your valiant knights</span>
+<span class="i0">You prize the most." Carle hearing this, upon</span>
+<span class="i0">Him sternly looked:&mdash;"Thou art the devil's self,"</span>
+<span class="i0">Said he, "or else a mortal rage has stung</span>
+<span class="i0">Thy heart! Say, who before me in the van</span>
+<span class="i0">Will march? 'Twill be Ogier de Dannemarche!</span>
+<span class="i0">You have no better Baron for the post."</span>
+
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[41]</span></p>
+
+<h4><a name="St_60" id="St_60">LX.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When hears the Count Roll&aacute;nd the lot has fallen</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon himself, as loyal knight he speaks:&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">"You, sire step-father, dear and well beloved</span>
+<span class="i0">Must be, since you have named me for the rear;</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor shall Carl'magne, the King of France, lose aught,</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor palfrey, nor fleet steed, if knowledge true</span>
+<span class="i0">I have, nor male nor female mule that man</span>
+<span class="i0">Can ride, nor beast of burden, horse or ass,</span>
+<span class="i0">Unreckoned for with these good swords of ours."</span>
+<span class="i0">Said Ganelon:&mdash;"The truth you speak, I know."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_61" id="St_61">LXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">When hears Roll&aacute;nd the rear shall be his lot,</span>
+<span class="i0">To his step-father thus in wrath he speaks:&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">"Ah! traitor, evil man of race impure,</span>
+<span class="i0">Thou thought'st to see me here let fall the glove</span>
+<span class="i0">As thou erst dropped the staff before the King!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_62" id="St_62">LXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Count Roll&aacute;nd [addressing thus Carl'magne:]</span>
+<span class="i0">"Give me the bow that now your hand doth hold,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[42]</span><span class="i0">For, to my knowledge, none will e'er throw blame</span>
+<span class="i0">On me for dropping it, as fell on earth</span>
+<span class="i0">Your right hand glove, when he received the staff."</span>
+<span class="i0">With head declined the Emperor remains:</span>
+<span class="i0">Oft plucks and twists the beard on lip and cheek,</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor can his eyes restrain their falling tears.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_63" id="St_63">LXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Naimes after came&mdash;no better ever was</span>
+<span class="i0">A vassal in the court. He said to Carle:</span>
+<span class="i0">"You hear him; greatly wroth is Count Roll&aacute;nd;</span>
+<span class="i0">The rear guard is assigned to his command;</span>
+<span class="i0">No baron have you that with him would make</span>
+<span class="i0">Exchange. Give him the bow and your hand has bent,</span>
+<span class="i0">And look for those who best may lend him help."</span>
+<span class="i0">Carle gives the bow which Count Roll&aacute;nd receives.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_64" id="St_64">LXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Emperor calls to Roll&aacute;nd and says:&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">"Fair sire, my nephew, truly you must know</span>
+<span class="i0">Half of my army will I leave with you;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[43]</span><span class="i0">Keep them; in their good help your safety lies."</span>
+<span class="i0">Then said the Count:&mdash;"Of this will I do naught!</span>
+<span class="i0">May God confound me, ere my race I shame;</span>
+<span class="i0">But twenty thousand valiant knights I keep!</span>
+<span class="i0">Through the defiles you can in safety pass</span>
+<span class="i0">And fear no harm from man while yet I live."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_65" id="St_65">LXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd sits on his steed, and nigh him rides</span>
+<span class="i0">His comrade Olivier. There came Gerin,</span>
+<span class="i0">Gerier the brave, Othon and Berengier;</span>
+<span class="i0">There came Sansun, Anse&iuml;s the fierce; there came</span>
+<span class="i0">Also Gerard de Roussillon the old,</span>
+<span class="i0">Together with the <i>Gascuin</i> Engelier.</span>
+<span class="i0">The Archbishop said:&mdash;"I, by my head, will go!"</span>
+<span class="i0">"&mdash;And I with you," exclaimed the Count Gualtier;</span>
+<span class="i0">"Roll&aacute;nd's own man am I, and follow him!"</span>
+<span class="i0">From all are chosen twenty thousand knights.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_66" id="St_66">LXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Count Roll&aacute;nd calls up Gualtier de l'Hum:</span>
+<span class="i0">"One thousand Franks of France, our land, array,</span>
+<span class="i0">And with them cover heights and passes, that</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[44]</span><span class="i0">The Emperor may lose none of his host."</span>
+<span class="i0">Responds Gualtier:&mdash;"This am I bound to do</span>
+<span class="i0">For you."&mdash;Forthwith one thousand Franks of France</span>
+<span class="i0">O'errun each height and pass.&mdash;None shall descend</span>
+<span class="i0">Despite ill news, ere seven hundred swords</span>
+<span class="i0">Unsheathe. That very day King Almaris</span>
+<span class="i0">Who rules Belferne, met them with battle fierce.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_67" id="St_67">LXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">High are the mounts, the valleys murky-dark&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">The rocks are black, the gorges terrible.</span>
+<span class="i0">The French toiled through them painfully; their march</span>
+<span class="i0">Was heard for fifteen leagues; then the Great land</span>
+<span class="i0">Reaching, they viewed Gascuigne, their lord's estate,</span>
+<span class="i0">And sweet remembrance felt of honors, fiefs,</span>
+<span class="i0">Of lovely maidens and of noble wives:</span>
+<span class="i0">Not one is there but weeps from tenderness;</span>
+<span class="i0">But more than all is Carle distressed; he mourns</span>
+<span class="i0">His nephew left in the defiles of Spain....</span>
+<span class="i0">By pity moved he cannot choose but weep.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[45]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_68" id="St_68">LXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The twelve Peers staid in Spain. A thousand score</span>
+<span class="i0">Of Franks are under their command, to whom</span>
+<span class="i0">Unknown is wavering fear or dread of death.</span>
+<span class="i0">Carl'magne to France returns&mdash;within his cloak</span>
+<span class="i0">He hides his face&mdash;Naimes, riding near, inquired:</span>
+<span class="i0">"What thought, O King, weighs now upon your heart?"&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">"Who questions me doth wrong. So sad am I</span>
+<span class="i0">I can but mourn. Sweet France by Ganelon</span>
+<span class="i0">Shall be destroyed. An angel in my sleep</span>
+<span class="i0">Appeared, and, dreaming, I beheld my lance</span>
+<span class="i0">Broken up within my hand by him who named</span>
+<span class="i0">My nephew for the rear guard ... and I left</span>
+<span class="i0">Him in a foreign land;&mdash;O mighty God,</span>
+<span class="i0">Should I lose him, I ne'er should find his peer!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_69" id="St_69">LXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Carle the great King, no more restrains his tears:</span>
+<span class="i0">One hundred thousand Franks great sympathy</span>
+<span class="i0">Give him, with strangest fear for Count Roll&aacute;nd.</span>
+<span class="i0">Vile Ganelon, the wretch, this treason wrought!</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[46]</span><span class="i0">He, from the Pagan King received rich gifts</span>
+<span class="i0">Of gold and silver, silk and ciclatons,</span>
+<span class="i0">Lions and camels, horses, mules. Behold,</span>
+<span class="i0">King Marsile summons all his Counts from Spain,</span>
+<span class="i0">His Viscounts, Dukes and Almazours; with these</span>
+<span class="i0">The Emirs, and the sons of noble Counts;</span>
+<span class="i0">Four hundred thousand gathered in three days,</span>
+<span class="i0">In Sarraguce are beaten all the drums;</span>
+<span class="i0">Mohammed's image to the loftiest tower</span>
+<span class="i0">Is raised on high.&mdash;No Pagan but adores</span>
+<span class="i0">And prays before him.&mdash;They then madly ride</span>
+<span class="i0">Throughout the land, o'er mountain and o'er vale.</span>
+<span class="i0">At last they see the gonfalons of France;</span>
+<span class="i0">It is the rear-guard of the twelve compeers:</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor will they fail to give them battle now.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_70" id="St_70">LXX.</a></h4>
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Hastes to the front the nephew of Marsile,</span>
+<span class="i0">Goading the mule that bears him, with a staff.</span>
+<span class="i0">Says to his uncle, gayly laughing loud:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Fair King, till now I served you well; for you</span>
+<span class="i0">Endured hard pain and grief.&mdash;The only fee</span>
+<span class="i0">I ask is this:&mdash;To strike Roll&aacute;nd! I swear</span>
+<span class="i0">To give him death with my good trenchant sword,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[47]</span><span class="i0">And if his help Mohammed will bestow,</span>
+<span class="i0">On me, forever shall all Spain be free,</span>
+<span class="i0">From the defiles of Aspre to Durestant.</span>
+<span class="i0">Carle then will yield,&mdash;the Franks, surrender all;</span>
+<span class="i0">No more in all your life will you have war."</span>
+<span class="i0">The King Marsile bestows on him the glove.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_71" id="St_71">LXXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The nephew of Marsile holds in his grasp</span>
+<span class="i0">The glove, and to the King with haughty pride</span>
+<span class="i0">Speaks:&mdash;"Fair Sire King, your gift I dearly prize;</span>
+<span class="i0">Choose you for me eleven of your Knights,</span>
+<span class="i0">And I will go and combat the twelve Peers."</span>
+<span class="i0">The first response was that of Falsaun:</span>
+<span class="i0">He was the brother of the King Marsile.&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">"Fair nephew, we shall go, both you and I;</span>
+<span class="i0">In battle side by side, we shall engage.</span>
+<span class="i0">The rear of Carle's great host is doomed to die!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_72" id="St_72">LXXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">King Corsalis stands on the other side;</span>
+<span class="i0">He comes from Barbary; a soul of guile.</span>
+<span class="i0">Still speaks he there not unlike vassal true</span>
+<span class="i0">Who would not for the gold of heav'n be base:</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[48]</span><span class="i0">"If there I find Roll&agrave;nd, we meet in fight.</span>
+<span class="i0">I am the third; now choose ye out the fourth."</span>
+<span class="i0">See you the spurring Malprimis de Brigal,</span>
+<span class="i0">Faster on foot than runs the fastest steed?</span>
+<span class="i0">Before Marsile in a loud voice he cries:</span>
+<span class="i0">"I shall my body take to Ronceval;</span>
+<span class="i0">If there I find Roll&agrave;nd, by me he dies."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_73" id="St_73">LXXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">An Emir now is there, from Balaguer.</span>
+<span class="i0">Of handsome form, with proud and cheerful face,</span>
+<span class="i0">When on his steed he vaults, well doth he show</span>
+<span class="i0">With what great pride his armor's mail is borne.</span>
+<span class="i0">For truest vassalage he is renowned;</span>
+<span class="i0">Were he but Christian, 'twere a baron true.</span>
+<span class="i0">Before Marsile he stands and loudly cries:</span>
+<span class="i0">"My body I will take to Ronceval;</span>
+<span class="i0">If there I face Roll&agrave;nd his doom is sure,</span>
+<span class="i0">Eke Olivier and the twelve peers, all die.</span>
+<span class="i0">The Franks shall perish in despair and shame.</span>
+<span class="i0">Carl'magne is old and dotes. O'erwhelmed, at last</span>
+<span class="i0">He will give up this waging war, and Spain</span>
+<span class="i0">Forever shall be kept beneath our sway."</span>
+<span class="i0">The King Marsile on him bestows great thanks.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[49]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_74" id="St_74">LXXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Then from the Moorish land an Almazour</span>
+<span class="i0">Steps forth. All Spain can show no greater wretch.</span>
+<span class="i0">Before Marsile he makes a boastful vaunt:</span>
+<span class="i0">"To Ronceval will I my people lead&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">Full twenty thousand men with lance and shield.</span>
+<span class="i0">If I Roll&agrave;nd find there, I pledge his death;</span>
+<span class="i0">No after-day shall dawn but Carle shall weep."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_75" id="St_75">LXXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">From elsewhere comes Turgis de Turteluse.</span>
+<span class="i0">He is a count, and o'er this city wields</span>
+<span class="i0">His sway; hate unto Christians has he vowed,</span>
+<span class="i0">And stands with all the rest before Marsile.</span>
+<span class="i0">He thus addressed the king: "Ne'er be dismayed!</span>
+<span class="i0">More worth Mohammed than Saint Pierre of Rome;</span>
+<span class="i0">But serve him well, the honor of the field</span>
+<span class="i0">[Is ours]. I'll meet Roll&aacute;nd at Ronceval</span>
+<span class="i0">Where none can guard him. Mark this sword of mine;</span>
+<span class="i0">Its blade, so good and long, in desperate fight</span>
+<span class="i0">Will cross with Durendal; and you will hear</span>
+<span class="i0">Which of the two shall win the victory.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[50]</span><span class="i0">Abandoned unto us the French must die.</span>
+<span class="i0">The old King Carle will have both grief and shame,</span>
+<span class="i0">And never more on earth will wear a crown."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_76" id="St_76">LXXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Comes up besides Escremiz de Valterne,</span>
+<span class="i0">A Saracen, and of that country lord.</span>
+<span class="i0">Before Marsile among the throng he cries:</span>
+<span class="i0">"To Ronceval I go, to crush the proud;</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor shall Roll&aacute;nd, if there, bear off his head,</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor Olivier, chief of the other knights;</span>
+<span class="i0">The twelve peers, all are doomed to perish there.</span>
+<span class="i0">The French shall die, and France become a waste.</span>
+<span class="i0">Of such good vassals Carle will see the loss."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_77" id="St_77">LXXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">And came with Esturgant, Estramaris,</span>
+<span class="i0">His friend; both wretches, traitors, villains are....</span>
+<span class="i0">Thus spake Marsile: "Come forth, Seigneurs; ye both</span>
+<span class="i0">To Ronceval's defiles shall go and help</span>
+<span class="i0">Me there to lead my host." Both answer: "King,</span>
+<span class="i0">At your command, Roll&aacute;nd and Olivier</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[51]</span><span class="i0">Will we assault. No power can the twelve peers</span>
+<span class="i0">From death defend against our trenchant swords</span>
+<span class="i0">Whose blades shall redden with hot blood. The French</span>
+<span class="i0">Are doomed to death and Carle to doleful life.</span>
+<span class="i0">France, the Great Land, shall through our arms become</span>
+<span class="i0">Your realm. Come, King, to see this verified;</span>
+<span class="i0">The Emperor's self a captive we'll present."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_78" id="St_78">LXXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">There hastens Margariz de Sibilie</span>
+<span class="i0">Who holds the country toward the distant sea.</span>
+<span class="i0">His beauty such, all ladies are his friends;</span>
+<span class="i0">Not one looks on him but to smile, nor can</span>
+<span class="i0">Restrain her laughing joy. No Pagan else</span>
+<span class="i0">More glorious deeds of chivalry achieved;</span>
+<span class="i0">Pressed through the crowd, he cries above the rest</span>
+<span class="i0">Unto the king: "Be not dismayed, for I</span>
+<span class="i0">To Ronceval will go to kill Roll&aacute;nd,</span>
+<span class="i0">And Olivier shall not escape alive;</span>
+<span class="i0">To martyrdom the twelve Peers are condemned.</span>
+<span class="i0">See my good sword with gold-emboss&egrave;d hilt,</span>
+<span class="i0">Given me by the <i>Amiralz</i> of Prime;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[52]</span>
+<span class="i0">I pledge my faith it will be dyed in blood.</span>
+<span class="i0">The French shall perish, France be steeped in shame,</span>
+<span class="i0">And Carle the old, with beard all blossom-white,</span>
+<span class="i0">Shall see no day uncursed by grief and wrath.</span>
+<span class="i0">Before one year we shall have conquered France</span>
+<span class="i0">And slept beneath the roofs of Saint-Denis."</span>
+<span class="i0">At this, the Pagan king bowed low his head.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_79" id="St_79">LXXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Next you can see Chernubles de [Val-neire].</span>
+<span class="i0">His hair so long, it sweeps the earth, and he</span>
+<span class="i0">Can, for his sport, lift greater weight than bear</span>
+<span class="i0">Four hundred loaded mules.&mdash;In his [far-land]</span>
+<span class="i0">They say&mdash;the sun ne'er shines, corn cannot grow,</span>
+<span class="i0">The rain falls not, the dew wets not the soil;</span>
+<span class="i0">No stone there but is black, and it is said</span>
+<span class="i0">By some that in that land the demons dwell.</span>
+<span class="i0">Thus said Chernubles:&mdash;"My sword hangs at my belt;</span>
+<span class="i0">At Ronceval I will dye it crimson! should</span>
+<span class="i0">I find Roll&aacute;nd the brave upon my path,</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor strike him down, then trust to me no more;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[53]</span><span class="i0">This my good sword shall conquer Durendal,</span>
+<span class="i0">The French shall die, and France must be destroyed."</span>
+<span class="i0">At these words, rally King Marsile's twelve Peers,</span>
+<span class="i0">And lead one hundred thousand Saracens</span>
+<span class="i0">Who for the battle hasten and prepare,</span>
+<span class="i0">Arming themselves beneath a grove of pines.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_80" id="St_80">LXXX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Pagans put their Moorish hauberks on;</span>
+<span class="i0">The greater part are triply lined; they lace</span>
+<span class="i0">Their helms of Sarraguce, gird to their thighs</span>
+<span class="i0">Swords of Vienna steel; bright are their shields;</span>
+<span class="i0">Their lances from Valence; their banners white</span>
+<span class="i0">And blue and crimson. Mules and sumpter-beasts</span>
+<span class="i0">Are left behind. They mount their battle steeds,</span>
+<span class="i0">And forward press in closely serried lines.</span>
+<span class="i0">Clear was the day, and brilliant was the sun;</span>
+<span class="i0">No armor but reflected back the light.</span>
+<span class="i0">A thousand clarions sound their cheering blasts</span>
+<span class="i0">So loud, the French can hear&mdash;. Says Olivier:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Roll&agrave;nd, companion, hearken! Soon, methinks,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[54]</span><span class="i0">We shall have battle with the Saracens!"</span>
+<span class="i0">To which Roll&aacute;nd: "God grant it may be so.</span>
+<span class="i0">Here must we do our duty to our King;</span>
+<span class="i0">A man should for his Lord and for his cause</span>
+<span class="i0">Distress endure, and bear great heat and cold,</span>
+<span class="i0">Lose all, even to his very hair and skin!</span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis each man's part to strike with mighty blows,</span>
+<span class="i0">That evil songs of us may ne'er be sung.</span>
+<span class="i0">The wrong cause have the Pagans, we the right.</span>
+<span class="i0">No ill example e'er shall come from me."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<hr style="width: 50%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[55]</span></p>
+
+<h4>PRELUDE TO THE GREAT BATTLE.</h4>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_81" id="St_81">LXXXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Olivier from the summit of a hill</span>
+<span class="i0">On his right hand looks o'er a grassy vale,</span>
+<span class="i0">And views the Pagans' onward marching hordes;</span>
+<span class="i0">Then straight he called his faithful friend Roll&aacute;nd:</span>
+<span class="i0">"From Spain a distant rumbling noise I hear,</span>
+<span class="i0">So many hauberks white and flashing helms</span>
+<span class="i0">I see!&mdash;This will inflame our French men's hearts.</span>
+<span class="i0">The treason is the work of Ganelon</span>
+<span class="i0">Who named us for this post before the King."</span>
+<span class="i0">"Hush! Olivier!"&mdash;the Count Roll&aacute;nd replies,</span>
+<span class="i0">"'Tis my step-father, speak no other word."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_82" id="St_82">LXXXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Count Olivier is posted on a hill</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[56]</span><span class="i0">From whence Spain's Kingdom he descries, and all</span>
+<span class="i0">The swarming host of Saracens; their helms</span>
+<span class="i0">So bright bedecked with gold, and their great shields,</span>
+<span class="i0">Their 'broidered hauberks, and their waving flags,</span>
+<span class="i0">He cannot count the squadrons; in such crowds</span>
+<span class="i0">They come, his sight reached not unto their end.</span>
+<span class="i0">Then all bewildered he descends the hill,</span>
+<span class="i0">Rejoins the French, and all to them relates.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_83" id="St_83">LXXXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Said Olivier: "I have seen Pagans more</span>
+<span class="i0">Than eyes e'er saw upon the earth; at least</span>
+<span class="i0">One hundred thousand warriors armed with shields,</span>
+<span class="i0">In their white hauberks clad, with helmets laced,</span>
+<span class="i0">Lances in rest, and burnished brazen spears.</span>
+<span class="i0">Battle ye will have, such as ne'er was before.</span>
+<span class="i0">French Lords, may God inspire you with his strength!</span>
+<span class="i0">Stand firm your ground, that we may not succumb."</span>
+<span class="i0">The French say: "Cursed be those who fly the field!</span>
+<span class="i0">Ready to die, not one shall fail you here."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+<hr style="width: 50%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[57]</span></p>
+
+
+<h4>ROLAND'S PRIDE.</h4>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_84" id="St_84">LXXXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Olivier said: "So strong the Pagan host;</span>
+<span class="i0">Our French, methinks, in number are too few;</span>
+<span class="i0">Companion Roll&aacute;nd, sound your horn, that Carle</span>
+<span class="i0">May hear and send his army back to help."</span>
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd replies:&mdash;"Great folly would be mine,</span>
+<span class="i0">And all my glory in sweet France be lost.</span>
+<span class="i0">No, I shall strike great blows with Durendal;</span>
+<span class="i0">To the golden hilt the blade shall reek with blood.</span>
+<span class="i0">In evil hour the felon Pagans came</span>
+<span class="i0">Unto the Pass, for all are doomed to die!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_85" id="St_85">LXXXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">"Roll&agrave;nd, companion, sound your olifant,</span>
+<span class="i0">That Carle may hear and soon bring back the host.</span>
+<span class="i0">With all his Baronage the king will give</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[58]</span><span class="i0">Us held!"&mdash;Replied Roll&aacute;nd:&mdash;"May God fore-fend</span>
+<span class="i0">That for my cause my kindred e'er be blamed,</span>
+<span class="i0">Or that dishonor fall upon sweet France.</span>
+<span class="i0">Nay, I will deal hard blows with Durendal,</span>
+<span class="i0">This my good sword now girt unto my side</span>
+<span class="i0">Whose blade you'll see all reeking with red blood.</span>
+<span class="i0">Those felon Pagans have for their ill fate</span>
+<span class="i0">Together met&mdash;yea, death awaits them all."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_86" id="St_86">LXXXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">"Companion Roll&aacute;nd, sound your olifant!</span>
+<span class="i0">If Carle who passes through the mounts shall hear,</span>
+<span class="i0">To you I pledge my word, the French return."</span>
+<span class="i0">Answered Roll&aacute;nd:&mdash;"May God forbid!&mdash;Ne'er be</span>
+<span class="i0">It said by living man that Pagans could</span>
+<span class="i0">Cause me to blow my horn, to bring disgrace</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon my kin!&mdash;When on the battle field,</span>
+<span class="i0">I'll strike one thousand seven hundred blows,</span>
+<span class="i0">And Durendal all bleeding shall you see.</span>
+<span class="i0">[The French are brave and bravely will they strike.]</span>
+<span class="i0">Those Spanish Moors are doomed to certain death."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[59]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_87" id="St_87">LXXXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Olivier said:&mdash;"To me there seems no shame;</span>
+<span class="i0">I have beheld the Moors of Spain; they swarm</span>
+<span class="i0">O'er mountains, vales and lands, hide all the plains;</span>
+<span class="i0">Great is this stranger host; our number small."</span>
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd replies:&mdash;"The more my ardor grows.</span>
+<span class="i0">God and his [blessed] angels grant that France</span>
+<span class="i0">Lose naught of her renown through my default.</span>
+<span class="i0">Better to die than in dishonor [live.]</span>
+<span class="i0">The more we strike the more Carle's love we gain!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_88" id="St_88">LXXXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd is brave and Olivier is wise;</span>
+<span class="i0">Both knights of wond'rous courage&mdash;and in arms</span>
+<span class="i0">And mounted on their steeds, they both will die</span>
+<span class="i0">Ere they will shun the fight. Good are the Counts</span>
+<span class="i0">And proud their words.&mdash;The Pagan felons ride</span>
+<span class="i0">In fury on!&mdash;"Roll&aacute;nd," said Olivier,</span>
+<span class="i0">"One moment, look! Our foes so close, and Carle</span>
+<span class="i0">Afar from us&mdash;you have not deigned to blow</span>
+<span class="i0">Your horn! If came the king, no hurt were ours.</span>
+<span class="i0">Cast your eyes toward the great defiles of Aspre;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[60]</span><span class="i0">There see this most unhappy rear-guard. [Those</span>
+<span class="i0">Who here fight, ne'er shall fight on other fields."]</span>
+<span class="i0">Roll&agrave;nd retorts:&mdash;"Speak not such shameful words.</span>
+<span class="i0">Woe unto him who bears a coward's heart</span>
+<span class="i0">Within his breast. There firm shall we remain;</span>
+<span class="i0">The combat and the blows from us shall come."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_89" id="St_89">LXXXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Now when Roll&aacute;nd the battle sees at hand,</span>
+<span class="i0">More than a leopard's or a lion's pride</span>
+<span class="i0">He shows. He calls the French and Olivier:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Companion, friend, pray, speak of this no more.</span>
+<span class="i0">The Emperor who left his French in trust</span>
+<span class="i0">To us, has chos'n those twenty thousand men.</span>
+<span class="i0">Right well he knows none has a coward's soul.</span>
+<span class="i0">A man should suffer hurt for his good lord,</span>
+<span class="i0">Endure great cold or scorching heat, and give</span>
+<span class="i0">Even to his flesh and blood&mdash;Strike with your lance,</span>
+<span class="i0">And I with Durendal, my trusty sword,</span>
+<span class="i0">Carle's gift. If here I die, may he who wins</span>
+<span class="i0">It, say:&mdash;'Twas once the sword of a brave knight."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[61]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_90" id="St_90">XC.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Turpin the Archbishop from another side,</span>
+<span class="i0">Spurring his courser, mounts a hill and calls</span>
+<span class="i0">The French around. This sermon to them speaks:</span>
+<span class="i0">"<i>Seigneurs Barons</i>, Carle left us here: for him,</span>
+<span class="i0">Our King, our duty is to die, to aid</span>
+<span class="i0">In saving Christendom, the Faith of Christ</span>
+<span class="i0">Uphold. There, battle will ye have, for there</span>
+<span class="i0">Before your eyes behold the Saracens.</span>
+<span class="i0">Confess your sins, and for God's mercy pray!</span>
+<span class="i0">For your soul's cure I absolution give....</span>
+<span class="i0">If you should die, as holy martyrs ye</span>
+<span class="i0">Will fall, and places find in Paradise!"</span>
+<span class="i0">The French alight and fall upon their knees;</span>
+<span class="i0">The Godly Archbishop grants them benison,</span>
+<span class="i0">Giving for penance his command to strike.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_91" id="St_91">XCI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The French arise. They stand assoiled and quit</span>
+<span class="i0">Of all sins, blessed by Turpin in God's name.</span>
+<span class="i0">On swift destriers they mount, armed cap-a-pie</span>
+<span class="i0">As Knights arrayed for battle. Count Roll&aacute;nd</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[62]</span>
+<span class="i0">Calls Olivier:&mdash;"Companion, sire, full well</span>
+<span class="i0">You know, it is Count Ganelon who has</span>
+<span class="i0">Betrayed us all, and guerdon rich received</span>
+<span class="i0">In gold and silver; well the Emp'ror should</span>
+<span class="i0">Avenge us! King Marsile a bargain made</span>
+<span class="i0">Of us, but swords will make the reck'ning good."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_92" id="St_92">XCII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Through the defiles of Spain hath passed Roll&aacute;nd</span>
+<span class="i0">Mounted on Veillantif, his charger swift</span>
+<span class="i0">And strong, bearing his bright and glitt'ring arms.</span>
+<span class="i0">On goes the brave Roll&aacute;nd, his lance borne up</span>
+<span class="i0">Skyward, beneath its point a pennon bound,</span>
+<span class="i0">Snow-white, whose fringes flap his hand.</span>
+<span class="i0">Fair is his form, his visage bright with smiles.</span>
+<span class="i0">Behind him follows Olivier his friend;</span>
+<span class="i0">The French with joy, him as their champion, hail.</span>
+<span class="i0">He on the Heathens throws a haughty glance,</span>
+<span class="i0">But casts a sweet and humble look upon</span>
+<span class="i0">His French, and to them speaks with courteous tone:</span>
+<span class="i0">"<i>Seigneurs Barons</i>, march steadily and close.</span>
+<span class="i0">These Pagans hither came to find a grave;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[63]</span><span class="i0">We here shall conquer such great spoil to-day</span>
+<span class="i0">As never yet was gained by Kings of France."</span>
+<span class="i0">Even as he spoke the word, the armies met.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_93" id="St_93">XCIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Said Olivier:&mdash;"No care have I to speak,</span>
+<span class="i0">Since you deigned not to blow your olifant,</span>
+<span class="i0">All hope of help from Carle for you is lost.</span>
+<span class="i0">He knows no word of this; the fault lies not</span>
+<span class="i0">In him, nor are yon Knights to blame&mdash;ride on</span>
+<span class="i0">And gallop to the charge as best you can.</span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Seigneurs Barons</i>, recoil not from the foe,</span>
+<span class="i0">In God's name! bearing ever this in mind,</span>
+<span class="i0">Hard blows to deal and hard blows to endure</span>
+<span class="i0">Forget we not the war-cry of King Carle!"</span>
+<span class="i0">At this word all the French together shout.</span>
+<span class="i0">Who then had heard the cry, "Montjoie!" had known</span>
+<span class="i0">What courage is. Then all together rush</span>
+<span class="i0">Right onward; God! with what an onset fierce!</span>
+<span class="i0">Deeply they spur their steeds for greater speed;</span>
+<span class="i0">They burn to fight. What else can they desire?</span>
+<span class="i0">The Saracens stand firm and nothing fear....</span>
+<span class="i0">Behold the Franks and Pagans hand to hand....</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<hr style="width: 50%;" />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[64]</span></p>
+
+<h4>THE MELEE.</h4>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_94" id="St_94">XCIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The nephew of Marsile&mdash;his name A&euml;lroth,</span>
+<span class="i0">Forward the first of all spurs on his horse</span>
+<span class="i0">Against our French, hurling forth insulting words:</span>
+<span class="i0">"To-day, French villains, ye will joust with us;</span>
+<span class="i0">Who was to guard you, has betrayed you; mad</span>
+<span class="i0">Must be the King who left you in the pass.</span>
+<span class="i0">So now the honor of sweet France is lost,</span>
+<span class="i0">And Carle the great shall lose his right arm here."</span>
+<span class="i0">Roll&agrave;nd heard.&mdash;God! what pain to him! He drives</span>
+<span class="i0">His golden spurs into his courser's flanks,</span>
+<span class="i0">And rushes at full speed against A&euml;lroth;</span>
+<span class="i0">His shield he breaks, dismails the hauberk linked;</span>
+<span class="i0">Cleaving his breast, he severs all the bones,</span>
+<span class="i0">And from the spine the ribs disjoint. The lance</span>
+<span class="i0">Forth from his body thrusts the Pagan's soul;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[65]</span><span class="i0">The Heathen's corse reels from his horse, falls down</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon the earth, the neck cloven in two halves.</span>
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd still taunts him:&mdash;"Go thou, wretch, and know</span>
+<span class="i0">Carle was not mad. Ne'er did he treason love,</span>
+<span class="i0">And he did well to leave us in the pass.</span>
+<span class="i0">To-day sweet France will not her honor lose!</span>
+<span class="i0">Strike, Frenchmen, strike; the first sword-stroke is ours;</span>
+<span class="i0">We have the right, these gluttons have the wrong!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_95" id="St_95">XCV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Then comes a Duke whose name is Falsarun;</span>
+<span class="i0">He is the brother of the King Marsile.</span>
+<span class="i0">The lands of Dathan and of Abirun</span>
+<span class="i0">He holds: no viler wretch lives under Heaven.</span>
+<span class="i0">Vast is his forehead, and the space between</span>
+<span class="i0">His deeply sunken eyes is half a foot.</span>
+<span class="i0">Seeing his nephew dead, in grief he bounds</span>
+<span class="i0">Forth from the serried ranks, and shouts aloud</span>
+<span class="i0">The Pagan war-cry, furious 'gainst the French.</span>
+<span class="i0">"To-day," he cries, "at last sweet France shall lose</span>
+<span class="i0">Her fame!"&mdash;When Olivier heard this, in wrath</span>
+<span class="i0">He pricks with golden spurs his charger's flanks,</span>
+<span class="i0">And, like true baron, lifts his arm to strike,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[66]</span><span class="i0">Shivers the Pagan's shield, his hauberk tears</span>
+<span class="i0">Apart. The pennon's folds pass through his breast</span>
+<span class="i0">As with the shaft he hurls him from the selle,</span>
+<span class="i0">A mangled corpse;&mdash;here lies he on the ground.</span>
+<span class="i0">Unto the prostrate body Olivier</span>
+<span class="i0">Says proudly:&mdash;"Wretch, to me thy threats are vain!</span>
+<span class="i0">Strike boldly, Franks! The victory shall be ours!</span>
+<span class="i0">Montjoie!" he shouts, the battle-cry of Carle.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_96" id="St_96">XCVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">A king, named Corsablis, from Barbarie,</span>
+<span class="i0">A distant land, is there.&mdash;The Pagan host</span>
+<span class="i0">He calls;&mdash;"The field is ours with ease: the French</span>
+<span class="i0">So few in numbers we may well disdain,</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor Carle shall rescue one; all perish here.</span>
+<span class="i0">To-day, they all are doomed to death!" Turpin</span>
+<span class="i0">The Archbishop heard him; lived no man on earth</span>
+<span class="i0">He hated more than Corsablis; he pricks</span>
+<span class="i0">His horse with both his spurs of purest gold,</span>
+<span class="i0">And 'gainst him rushes with tremendous force.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[67]</span><span class="i0">The shield and hauberk split; and with a stroke</span>
+<span class="i0">Of the long lance into his body driven,</span>
+<span class="i0">Corsablis lifeless drops across the path;</span>
+<span class="i0">Him, though a corpse, Turpin addresses thus:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Thou, coward Pagan, thou hast lied! Great Carl</span>
+<span class="i0">My lord, was ever and will ever be</span>
+<span class="i0">Our help; and Frenchmen know not how to fly.</span>
+<span class="i0">As for thy fellows, we can keep them here;</span>
+<span class="i0">I tell you, each this day shall die.&mdash;Strike, Franks,</span>
+<span class="i0">Yourselves forget not. This first blow, thank God,</span>
+<span class="i0">Is ours! Montjoie!" cries he, to hold the field.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_97" id="St_97">XCVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Gerin attacks Malprimis de Brigal</span>
+<span class="i0">Whose good shield now was not a denier worth:</span>
+<span class="i0">The crystal boss all broken, and one half</span>
+<span class="i0">Fall'n on the ground. Down to the flesh Gerin</span>
+<span class="i0">His hauberk cleaves, and passes through his heart</span>
+<span class="i0">The brazen point of a stout lance. Then falls</span>
+<span class="i0">The Pagan chief and dies by that good blow;</span>
+<span class="i0">And Sathanas bears off the wretched soul.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[68]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_98" id="St_98">XCVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Gerier, his comrade, strikes the Amurafle,</span>
+<span class="i0">Breaks his good shield, his hauberk white unmails,</span>
+<span class="i0">Plants in his heart a spear's steel point with such</span>
+<span class="i0">Good aim, one blow has pierced the body through;</span>
+<span class="i0">And his strong lance-thrust hurls him dead to earth.&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">Said Olivier: "A noble combat ours!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_99" id="St_99">XCIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Duke Sansun rushes on the Almazour;</span>
+<span class="i0">He splits the shield with painted flowers and gold</span>
+<span class="i0">Embossed. The strong-mailed hauberk shelters not,</span>
+<span class="i0">As he is pierced through liver, heart and lungs.</span>
+<span class="i0">For him may mourn who will&mdash;death-struck he falls:</span>
+<span class="i0">"That is a Baron's stroke!" the Archbishop cries.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_100" id="St_100">C.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Anse&iuml;s gives his steed the rein, and charges</span>
+<span class="i0">Fierce on Turgis de Turteluse; beneath</span>
+<span class="i0">The golden boss asunder breaks the shield,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[69]</span><span class="i0">Rips up the hauberk double-linked; so true</span>
+<span class="i0">The thrust, that all the steel passed through his breast.</span>
+<span class="i0">With this one blow the shaft has struck him dead.</span>
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd exclaimed: "The stroke is of a Knight!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_101" id="St_101">CI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Then Engelier, the Gascuin of Burdele,</span>
+<span class="i0">Spurs deep his horse, and casting loose the rein,</span>
+<span class="i0">Rushes upon Escremiz de Valterne;</span>
+<span class="i0">Breaks down the buckler fastened to his throat</span>
+<span class="i0">And rends his gorget-mail; full in the breast</span>
+<span class="i0">The lance strikes deep and passes in between</span>
+<span class="i0">The collar bones; dead from the saddle struck</span>
+<span class="i0">He falls.&mdash;And Turpin says: "Ye all are lost!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_102" id="St_102">CII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Othon assails a Pagan, Estorgant,</span>
+<span class="i0">His thrust hits hard the leather of the shield,</span>
+<span class="i0">Effacing its bright colors red and white,</span>
+<span class="i0">Breaks in his hauberk's sides, and plunges deep</span>
+<span class="i0">Within his heart a strong and trenchant spear,</span>
+<span class="i0">From off the flying steed striking him dead.</span>
+<span class="i0">This done, he says:&mdash;"No hope for you remains!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[70]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_103" id="St_103">CIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">And Berengier smites now Estramaris,</span>
+<span class="i0">Splits down his shield, shivers his coat of mail</span>
+<span class="i0">In shreds and through his bosom drives a lance.</span>
+<span class="i0">Dead 'midst one thousand Saracens he drops.</span>
+<span class="i0">Of their twelve Peers now ten have breathed their last:</span>
+<span class="i0">Chernuble&mdash;Margariz, the Count, survive.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_104" id="St_104">CIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Most valiant Knight is Margariz. 'Mid all</span>
+<span class="i0">Beauteous, strong, slender, quick of hand. He spurs</span>
+<span class="i0">His horse and charges Olivier; beneath</span>
+<span class="i0">The boss of purest gold his shield breaks down,</span>
+<span class="i0">Then at his side a pointed lance he aims;</span>
+<span class="i0">But God protects him, for the blow ne'er reached</span>
+<span class="i0">The flesh. The point grazed only, wounding not.</span>
+<span class="i0">Then Margariz unhindered rides away</span>
+<span class="i0">And sounds his horn to rally his own men.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_105" id="St_105">CV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The battle rages fierce. All men engage.</span>
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd, the dauntless, combats with his lance</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[71]</span>
+<span class="i0">As long as holds the shaft. Fifteen good blows</span>
+<span class="i0">It dealt, then broke and fell; now his good sword,</span>
+<span class="i0">Loved Durendal, he draws, spurs on his steed</span>
+<span class="i0">'Gainst Chernubles, splits his bright helm adorned</span>
+<span class="i0">With gems; one blow cleaves through mail-cap and skull,</span>
+<span class="i0">Cutting both eyes and visage in two parts,</span>
+<span class="i0">And the white hauberk with its close-linked mail;</span>
+<span class="i0">Down to the body's fork, the saddle all</span>
+<span class="i0">Of beaten gold, still deeper goes the sword,</span>
+<span class="i0">Cuts through the courser's chine, nor seeks the joint.</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon the verdant grass fall dead both knight</span>
+<span class="i0">And steed. And then he cries: "Wretch! ill inspired</span>
+<span class="i0">To venture here! Mohammed helped thee not....</span>
+<span class="i0">Wretches like you this battle shall not win."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_106" id="St_106">CVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Count Roll&agrave;nd rides through the battle-field</span>
+<span class="i0">And makes, with Durendal's keen blade in hand,</span>
+<span class="i0">A mighty carnage of the Saracens.</span>
+<span class="i0">Ah! had you then beheld the valiant Knight</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[72]</span><span class="i0">Heap corse on corse; blood drenching all the ground;</span>
+<span class="i0">His own arms, hauberk, all besmeared with gore,</span>
+<span class="i0">And his good steed from neck to shoulder bleed!</span>
+<span class="i0">Still Olivier halts not in his career.</span>
+<span class="i0">Of the twelve Peers not one deserves reproach,</span>
+<span class="i0">And all the French strike well and massacre</span>
+<span class="i0">The foe. The Pagans dead or dying fall.</span>
+<span class="i0">Cries the Archbishop: "Well done, Knights of France!</span>
+<span class="i0">Montjoie! Montjoie! It is Carle's battle cry!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_107" id="St_107">CVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Olivier grasps the truncheon of his lance,</span>
+<span class="i0">Spurs through the storm and fury of the fight,</span>
+<span class="i0">And rushes on the Pagan Malsarun,</span>
+<span class="i0">Breaks down his shield with flowers and gold embossed,</span>
+<span class="i0">Thrusts from their orbs his eyes; his brains dashed out</span>
+<span class="i0">Are crushed and trampled 'neath the victor's feet;</span>
+<span class="i0">With seven hundred men of theirs he fell.</span>
+<span class="i0">The Count next slew Turgis and Estorgus;</span>
+<span class="i0">But now the shaft breaks short off by his hand.</span>
+<span class="i0">Then said Roll&aacute;nd: "What mean you, <i>Compagnon</i>?</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[73]</span>
+<span class="i0">In such a fight as this 'tis not a staff</span>
+<span class="i0">We need, but steel and iron, as I deem.</span>
+<span class="i0">Where now that sword called Halteclere, with hilt</span>
+<span class="i0">Of gold and crystal pommel?" "I lack time</span>
+<span class="i0">To draw it," valiant Olivier replies,</span>
+<span class="i0">"So busy is my hand in dealing blows!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_108" id="St_108">CVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Lord Olivier then his good sword unsheathed,</span>
+<span class="i0">For which Roll&aacute;nd entreated him so much,</span>
+<span class="i0">And showed it to his friend with knightly pride;</span>
+<span class="i0">Strikes down a Pagan, Justin de Val-Ferr&eacute;e,</span>
+<span class="i0">Whose head is severed by the blow; cuts through</span>
+<span class="i0">Th' embroider'd hauberk, through the body, through</span>
+<span class="i0">The saddle all with studs and gold embossed,</span>
+<span class="i0">And through the back-bone of the steed. Both man</span>
+<span class="i0">And steed fall on the grass before him, dead.</span>
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd exclaims: "Henceforth, you are indeed</span>
+<span class="i0">My brother! These, the strokes loved by King Carle!"</span>
+<span class="i0">And echoes round the cry: "Montjoie! Montjoie!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[74]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_109" id="St_109">CIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Count Gerin sits on his horse, Sorel,</span>
+<span class="i0">And his companion Gerier, on Passe-Cerf,</span>
+<span class="i0">They loose the reins, and both spur on against</span>
+<span class="i0">A Pagan, Timozel. One strikes the shield,</span>
+<span class="i0">The other strikes the hauberk;&mdash;in his heart</span>
+<span class="i0">The two spears meet and hurl him lifeless down.</span>
+<span class="i0">I never heard it said nor can I know</span>
+<span class="i0">By which of them the swifter blow was struck.&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">Esperveris, son to Borel, was next</span>
+<span class="i0">By Engelier de Burdele slain. Turpin</span>
+<span class="i0">With his own hand gave death to Siglorel</span>
+<span class="i0">Th' Enchanter who once entered hell, led there</span>
+<span class="i0">By Jupiter's craft. Turpin said:&mdash;"Forfeit paid</span>
+<span class="i0">For crime!"&mdash;"The wretch is vanquished," cried Roll&aacute;nd,</span>
+<span class="i0">"My brother Olivier, such blows I love!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_110" id="St_110">CX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The combat paused not. Franks and Pagans vie</span>
+<span class="i0">In dealing blows; attacking now, and now</span>
+<span class="i0">Defending. Splintered spears, dripping with blood</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[75]</span><span class="i0">So many; o'er the field such numbers strewn:</span>
+<span class="i0">Of banners torn and shattered gonfalons!</span>
+<span class="i0">So many valiant French mowed in their prime,</span>
+<span class="i0">Whom mothers and sweet wives will never see</span>
+<span class="i0">Again, nor those of France who in the Pass</span>
+<span class="i0">Await them! Carle for these shall weep and mourn.</span>
+<span class="i0">But what avails? Naught can he help them now.</span>
+<span class="i0">Ill service rendered Ganelon to them</span>
+<span class="i0">The day when he to Sarraguce repaired</span>
+<span class="i0">To sell his kin. Ere long for this he lost</span>
+<span class="i0">Both limb and life, judged and condemned at Aix,</span>
+<span class="i0">There to be hanged with thirty of his race</span>
+<span class="i0">Who were not spared the punishment of death.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_111" id="St_111">CXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The battle rages. Wonders all perform;</span>
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd and Olivier strike hard; Turpin</span>
+<span class="i0">Th' Archbishop, deals more than a thousand blows;</span>
+<span class="i0">The twelve Peers dally not upon the field,</span>
+<span class="i0">While all the French together fight as if</span>
+<span class="i0">One man. By hundreds and by thousands fall</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[76]</span><span class="i0">The Pagans: none scapes death, save those who fly</span>
+<span class="i0">Whether they will or no, all lose their lives.</span>
+<span class="i0">And yet the French have lost their strongest arms,</span>
+<span class="i0">Their fathers and their kin they will ne'er see</span>
+<span class="i0">Again, nor Carle who waits them in the Pass.</span>
+
+<hr class="two" />
+
+<span class="i0">Meantime in France an awful scourge prevails:</span>
+<span class="i0">Wind, storm, rain, hail and flashing lightning bolts</span>
+<span class="i0">Conflict confusedly, and naught more true,</span>
+<span class="i0">The earth shook from Saint Michiel-del-Peril</span>
+<span class="i0">As far as to the Saints, from Besan&ccedil;on</span>
+<span class="i0">Unto the [sea-port] of Guitzand; no house</span>
+<span class="i0">Whose walls unshaken stood; darkness at noon</span>
+<span class="i0">Shrouded the sky. No beam of light above</span>
+<span class="i0">Save when a flash rips up the clouds. Dismayed</span>
+<span class="i0">Beholders cry:&mdash;"The world's last day has come,</span>
+<span class="i0">The destined end of all things is at hand!"</span>
+<span class="i0">Unwitting of the truth, their speech is vain....</span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis dolour for the death of Count Roll&aacute;nd!</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_112" id="St_112">CXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The French [strike] hard; they strike with all their force.</span>
+<span class="i0">In multitudes&mdash;by thousands die their foes;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[77]</span><span class="i0">Not two out of one hundred thousand now</span>
+<span class="i0">Survive. [Turpin] says:&mdash;"Brave are all our men;&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">None braver under Heaven&mdash;In the Geste</span>
+<span class="i0">Of France 'tis writ true vassals have our Kings."</span>
+<span class="i0">Seeking their friends, they overrun the field.</span>
+<span class="i0">Their eyes are filled with tenderness and tears</span>
+<span class="i0">For their dear kindred they so fondly loved....</span>
+<span class="i0">Now King Marsile with his great host appears....</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_113" id="St_113">CXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Marsile advances 'midst a valley deep,</span>
+<span class="i0">Surrounded by the mighty host he brought,</span>
+<span class="i0">In twenty squadrons mustered and arrayed.</span>
+<span class="i0">Bright shine the helmets strewn with gold and gems,</span>
+<span class="i0">And shields and hauberks graved. They sound a charge</span>
+<span class="i0">With seven hundred clarions sending forth</span>
+<span class="i0">Loud blasts throughout the land&mdash;Thus said Roll&aacute;nd:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Companion Olivier, my brother, friend,</span>
+<span class="i0">The traitor, Ganelon, has sworn our death....</span>
+<span class="i0">His treason is too sure; the Emp'ror Carle</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[78]</span><span class="i0">For this vile crime will take a vengeance deep.</span>
+<span class="i0">A long and cruel battle we shall have,</span>
+<span class="i0">Ere this unknown to man. There, I will fight</span>
+<span class="i0">With my good Durendal; you, friend, will strike</span>
+<span class="i0">With Halteclere&mdash;Those noble swords we bore</span>
+<span class="i0">Throughout so many lands; such combats won</span>
+<span class="i0">By them, vile strains must never chant their deeds."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_114" id="St_114">CXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">When the French see the Pagan cohorts swarm</span>
+<span class="i0">The country o'er, they call on Olivier,</span>
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd and the twelve Peers to guard their lives.</span>
+<span class="i0">Unto them now the Archbishop speaks his mind:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Barons, be not unworthy of yourselves!</span>
+<span class="i0">Fly not the field, for God's sake, that brave men</span>
+<span class="i0">Sing not ill songs of you! Far better die</span>
+<span class="i0">In battle. Doomed, I know, we are to death,</span>
+<span class="i0">And ere this day has passed, our lives are o'er.</span>
+<span class="i0">But for one thing ye can believe my word:</span>
+<span class="i0">For you God's Paradise stands open wide,</span>
+<span class="i0">And seats await you 'mid the bless&egrave;d Saints."</span>
+<span class="i0">These words of comfort reassure the French;</span>
+<span class="i0">All in one voice cry out:&mdash;"Montjoie! Montjoie!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[79]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_115" id="St_115">CXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">There was a Saracen from Sarraguce</span>
+<span class="i0">Lord of one half the city&mdash;Climorin,</span>
+<span class="i0">Unlike a Baron; he received the faith</span>
+<span class="i0">Of Ganelon, and sealed the treacherous bond</span>
+<span class="i0">By pressing on his lip a kiss&mdash;Besides</span>
+<span class="i0">Unto him gave his sword and carbuncle.</span>
+<span class="i0">"I will," said he, "put your great France to shame</span>
+<span class="i0">And from the Emperor's head shake off the crown!"</span>
+<span class="i0">Mounted on Barbamouche that faster flies</span>
+<span class="i0">Than hawk or swallow on the wing, he spurs</span>
+<span class="i0">His courser hard, and dropping on its neck</span>
+<span class="i0">The rein, he strikes Engelier de Gascuigne;</span>
+<span class="i0">Hauberk nor shield is for him a defense:</span>
+<span class="i0">Deep in the core the Pagan thrusts his spear</span>
+<span class="i0">So mightily, its point comes out behind,</span>
+<span class="i0">And with the shaft o'erturns him on the field</span>
+<span class="i0">A corse;&mdash;he cries. "Fit for destruction these!</span>
+<span class="i0">Strike, Pagans, strike, and let us break their lines!"</span>
+<span class="i0">The French cry: "God! to lose so brave a Knight!"....</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_116" id="St_116">CXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Count Roll&aacute;nd calls Olivier: "You know,</span>
+<span class="i0">Companion, sire, Engelier is no more....</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[80]</span><span class="i0">No better Knight had we"&mdash;The Count replies:</span>
+<span class="i0">"God grant that I avenge him well!" He drives</span>
+<span class="i0">His golden spurs into his charger's flanks;</span>
+<span class="i0">And waving Halteclere's blood dripping blade,</span>
+<span class="i0">The Pagan he assails, and deals a blow....</span>
+<span class="i0">O'erthrown is Climorin. The fiends of hell</span>
+<span class="i0">Bear off his soul. The Knight then slays the Duke</span>
+<span class="i0">Alpha&iuml;en, beheads Escababi,</span>
+<span class="i0">Unhorses seven Arabs with such skill</span>
+<span class="i0">They rise no more to fight. Then said Roll&aacute;nd:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Wroth is my sire, and by my side achieves</span>
+<span class="i0">Renown! by such good blows Carl's love is gained.</span>
+<span class="i0">Strike, Chevaliers! strike on!"&mdash;he cries aloud.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_117" id="St_117">CXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">From otherwhere is Valdabrun who armed</span>
+<span class="i0">Marsile a Knight; lord of four hundred ships.</span>
+<span class="i0">There is no sailor but swears by his name;</span>
+<span class="i0">'Twas he by treason took Jerusalem,</span>
+<span class="i0">Who there the shrine of Solomon profaned,</span>
+<span class="i0">And slew before the Fonts the Patriarch;</span>
+<span class="i0">'Twas he, received Count Ganelon's vile oath</span>
+<span class="i0">And gave him with his sword a thousand marks;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[81]</span><span class="i0">Faster than falcon in its flight his steed</span>
+<span class="i0">Named Graminond. He sharply spurs his flanks</span>
+<span class="i0">And rushes 'gainst the mighty Duke Sansun,</span>
+<span class="i0">Breaks down his shield&mdash;the hauberk rends, and thrusts</span>
+<span class="i0">Within his breast the pennon of the flag;</span>
+<span class="i0">The shaft o'erthrows him from the saddle, dead.</span>
+<span class="i0">"Strike Pagans! strike, for we shall conquer them!"</span>
+<span class="i0">The French say:&mdash;"God! what Baron true we lose!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_118" id="St_118">CXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">When Count Roll&aacute;nd sees Sansun lifeless fall,</span>
+<span class="i0">You may well know what grief was his. He spurs</span>
+<span class="i0">His horse down on the Pagan. Durendal</span>
+<span class="i0">More worth than precious gold he lifts to strike</span>
+<span class="i0">With all his might; gold studded helm, head, trunk,</span>
+<span class="i0">Hauberk asunder cleaves; the blow, e'en through</span>
+<span class="i0">The gold boss'd saddle, strikes the courser's back,</span>
+<span class="i0">Killing both horse and man. Blame or approve</span>
+<span class="i0">Who may. The Pagans say:&mdash;"Hard is this blow!"</span>
+<span class="i0">Retorts Roll&aacute;nd:&mdash;"For yours no pity can</span>
+<span class="i0">I feel&mdash;With you the vaunting and the wrong!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[82]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_119" id="St_119">CXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">An African fresh from the desert land</span>
+<span class="i0">Was there, Malquidant, son of king Malcud;</span>
+<span class="i0">His armor highly wrought in beaten gold</span>
+<span class="i0">Outshines all others in the sun's bright rays.</span>
+<span class="i0">Mounted upon his horse named Salt-Perdut,</span>
+<span class="i0">He aims a blow at Anse&iuml;s' shield, and cuts</span>
+<span class="i0">The azure and vermillion all away.</span>
+<span class="i0">His hauberk rives asunder, side from side,</span>
+<span class="i0">And through his body pass both point and shaft.</span>
+<span class="i0">The Count is dead.&mdash;His last breath spent and flown.</span>
+<span class="i0">The French say:&mdash;"Baron, such great woe for you!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_120" id="St_120">CXX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Archbishop Turpin rides across the fields;</span>
+<span class="i0">No shaven priest sang ever mass so well</span>
+<span class="i0">As he, and showed such prowess in his deeds.</span>
+<span class="i0">He to the Pagan:&mdash;"May God send all ills</span>
+<span class="i0">To thee, who slew the knight my heart bewails!"</span>
+<span class="i0">Turpin spurs hard his good steed 'gainst the wretch;</span>
+<span class="i0">One blow strikes down his strong Toledo shield:</span>
+<span class="i0">The miscreant dead upon the green sward falls.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[83]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_121" id="St_121">CXXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Elsewhere stands Grandomie who is the son</span>
+<span class="i0">Of Capuel king of Cappadoce. He sits</span>
+<span class="i0">A steed named Marmorie, than flying bird</span>
+<span class="i0">More swift. Loosening the rein, and spurring deep,</span>
+<span class="i0">To smite Gerin with all his force he rides;</span>
+<span class="i0">Torn from the neck which bears it, shattered falls</span>
+<span class="i0">The purple shield, through the rent mail he drives</span>
+<span class="i0">The whole blue pennon in his breast. Gerin</span>
+<span class="i0">Drops lifeless by this blow, against a rock.</span>
+<span class="i0">The Pagan also slays Gerier, his friend,</span>
+<span class="i0">And Berengier, and Gui de Saint-Antoine;</span>
+<span class="i0">Assailing then the noble Duke Austoire</span>
+<span class="i0">Who holds Valence and fiefs along the Rosne,</span>
+<span class="i0">He strikes him dead. The Saracens extol</span>
+<span class="i0">Their triumph, but how many fall of ours!</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_122" id="St_122">CXXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Hearing the Frenchmen's sobs, the Count Roll&aacute;nd</span>
+<span class="i0">Grasps in his hand his sword, all reeking blood.</span>
+<span class="i0">His mighty heart nigh breaking with his grief,</span>
+<span class="i0">Cries to the foe:&mdash;"May God all evils send</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[84]</span><span class="i0">On thee! him hast thou slain for whom thou shalt</span>
+<span class="i0">Most dearly pay!&mdash;" He spurs his flying steed....</span>
+<span class="i0">Conquer who may&mdash;these two fight hand to hand.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_123" id="St_123">CXXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">A wise and valiant knight was Grandonie,</span>
+<span class="i0">Virtuous and fearless vassal. 'Mid his way</span>
+<span class="i0">Encountering Count Roll&aacute;nd, though never seen</span>
+<span class="i0">Before, at once he knew 'twas he, as well</span>
+<span class="i0">By his proud mien and noble beauty, as</span>
+<span class="i0">By his fair countenance and lofty look.</span>
+<span class="i0">Awe-struck, despite himself, he vainly tries</span>
+<span class="i0">To fly, but rooted to the spot he stays.</span>
+<span class="i0">The Count Roll&aacute;nd smites him so skillfully,</span>
+<span class="i0">He splits in two the nazal, helm, nose, mouth,</span>
+<span class="i0">And teeth, the body and mailed-armor, then</span>
+<span class="i0">Hews through the golden selle, both silver-flaps;</span>
+<span class="i0">With a still deeper stroke the courser's back</span>
+<span class="i0">Is gashed. So both are slain past remedy.</span>
+<span class="i0">The men of Spain cry out all sorrowful;</span>
+<span class="i0">But say the French:&mdash;"Well our defender strikes."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[85]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_124" id="St_124">CXXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Marv'lous the battle, and the tumult fierce;</span>
+<span class="i0">The French of strength and fury full, raise high</span>
+<span class="i0">Their swords: backs, ribs and wrists are slashed; the flesh</span>
+<span class="i0">Cut through rent garments to the quick; along</span>
+<span class="i0">The verdant soil the red blood runs in streams.</span>
+<span class="i0">The Pagans cry:&mdash;"We cannot more endure!</span>
+<span class="i0">Great land, Mohammed curse thee!&mdash;More than all</span>
+<span class="i0">This people bold."&mdash;Not one who does not cry</span>
+<span class="i0">"Marsile! ride on, O King, thy aid we need!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_125" id="St_125">CXXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">A battle fierce and wonderful!&mdash;Hard strike</span>
+<span class="i0">The French with glittering lance, and there you might</span>
+<span class="i0">Have seen what miseries man can suffer: Mowed</span>
+<span class="i0">And heaped in bloody mounds, all gasping out</span>
+<span class="i0">Their lives, some on their backs, some on their teeth&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">The Saracens give way, willing or not;</span>
+<span class="i0">By the French lances forced, they fly the field.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[86]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_126" id="St_126">CXXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Marsile his warriors massacred beholds,</span>
+<span class="i0">And, bidding all his horns and trumpets blow,</span>
+<span class="i0">Rides forward, and his whole van rides with him.</span>
+<span class="i0">In the van rode a Saracen, Abisme,</span>
+<span class="i0">The vilest wretch among his men, sunk deep</span>
+<span class="i0">In crimes and shame, who has no faith in God,</span>
+<span class="i0">Sainte Marie's son; as black as melted pitch</span>
+<span class="i0">His face; more fond of blood and treason foul</span>
+<span class="i0">Than of the gold of all Galice. None saw</span>
+<span class="i0">Him laugh or play; for courage and rash deeds</span>
+<span class="i0">He pleased the vile Marsile whose dragon flag</span>
+<span class="i0">He bears. No pity can the Archbishop feel</span>
+<span class="i0">For him, and at his sight he craves to try</span>
+<span class="i0">His arm, all softly saying to himself:</span>
+<span class="i0">"This Saracen is but a heretic;</span>
+<span class="i0">Far better die than not to give him death.</span>
+<span class="i0">Ne'er cowardice nor coward I endured!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_127" id="St_127">CXXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Archbishop gives the signal for the fight;</span>
+<span class="i0">He rides the horse he captured from Grossaille,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[87]</span><span class="i0">A King he slew among the Danes: a horse</span>
+<span class="i0">Of wondrous fleetness, light-hoofed, slender-limbed;</span>
+<span class="i0">Thigh short; with broad and mighty haunch; the flanks</span>
+<span class="i0">Are long, and very high his spine; pure white</span>
+<span class="i0">His tail, and yellow is his mane&mdash;his ears</span>
+<span class="i0">Are small&mdash;light brown his head. This paragon</span>
+<span class="i0">Of all the beasts of earth has not his peer.</span>
+<span class="i0">The Archbishop, baron-like, spurs on the horse,</span>
+<span class="i0">Full bent upon the encounter with Abisme;</span>
+<span class="i0">He gains his side and hard he strikes his shield</span>
+<span class="i0">Glittering with gems, topaz and amethyst,</span>
+<span class="i0">Crystals and carbuncles, which to him gave</span>
+<span class="i0">The Emir Galaf&eacute;s&mdash;a demon's gift</span>
+<span class="i0">To this in Val-Metas. Him Turpin smites</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor mercy shows; 'gainst such a blow avails</span>
+<span class="i0">The shield but little; sheer from side to side</span>
+<span class="i0">Passes the blade ... dead on the place he falls.</span>
+<span class="i0">At such exploit amazed, the French exclaim:</span>
+<span class="i0">"The archbishop's crosier in his hand is safe!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_128" id="St_128">CXXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Count Roll&aacute;nd calls Olivier: "With me,</span>
+<span class="i0">Companion, sire, confess that 'mong brave knights</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[88]</span><span class="i0">The archbishop upon earth or under Heav'n</span>
+<span class="i0">Has not his peer in casting spear or lance."</span>
+<span class="i0">Olivier answers:&mdash;"To his rescue on!"</span>
+<span class="i0">At this the French once more resume the fight.</span>
+<span class="i0">Hard are the blows, rough is the strife&mdash;Meantime</span>
+<span class="i0">The Christian host in greatest sorrow mourn.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_129" id="St_129">CXXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Whoever could this fight describe? Roll&aacute;nd</span>
+<span class="i0">And Olivier vie with Turpin in skill</span>
+<span class="i0">And glorious deeds&mdash;The slain can counted be;</span>
+<span class="i0">In charts and briefs their numbers are enrolled:</span>
+<span class="i0">More than four thousand fell, so says the Geste.</span>
+<span class="i0">Four times the French arms were victorious,</span>
+<span class="i0">But on the fifth, a cruel fate they met;</span>
+<span class="i0">The knights of France found there a grave, except</span>
+<span class="i0">Three more whose lives God saved; yet those brave knights,</span>
+<span class="i0">Ere falling, their last breath will dearly sell.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<hr style='width: 50%;' />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[89]</span></p>
+<h4>THE HORN.</h4>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_130" id="St_130">CXXX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Seeing so many warriors fall'n around,</span>
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd unto his comrade Olivier</span>
+<span class="i0">Spoke thus: "Companion fair and dear, for God</span>
+<span class="i0">Whose blessing rest on you, those vassals true</span>
+<span class="i0">And brave lie corses on the battle-field:</span>
+<span class="i0">Look! We must mourn for France so sweet and fair,</span>
+<span class="i0">From henceforth widowed of such valiant knights.</span>
+<span class="i0">Carle, 'would you were amongst us, King and friend!</span>
+<span class="i0">What can we do, say, brother Olivier,</span>
+<span class="i0">To bring him news of this sore strait of ours!"</span>
+<span class="i0">Olivier answers:&mdash;"I know not; but this</span>
+<span class="i0">I know; for us is better death than shame."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_131" id="St_131">CXXXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd says;&mdash;"I will blow mine olifant,</span>
+<span class="i0">And Carle will hear it from the pass. I pledge</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[90]</span><span class="i0">My word the French at once retrace their steps."</span>
+<span class="i0">Said Olivier:&mdash;"This a great shame would be,</span>
+<span class="i0">One which to all your kindred would bequeathe</span>
+<span class="i0">A lifetime's stain. When this I asked of you,</span>
+<span class="i0">You answered nay, and would do naught. Well, now</span>
+<span class="i0">With my consent you shall not;&mdash;if you blow</span>
+<span class="i0">Your horn, of valor true you show no proof.</span>
+<span class="i0">Already, both your arms are drenched with blood."</span>
+<span class="i0">Responds the Count:&mdash;"These arms have nobly struck."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_132" id="St_132">CXXXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">"The strife is rude," Roll&aacute;nd says&mdash;"I will blow</span>
+<span class="i0">My horn, that Carle may hear."&mdash;Said Olivier:&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">"This would not courage be. What I desired,</span>
+<span class="i0">Companion, you disdained. Were the king here,</span>
+<span class="i0">Safe would we be, but yon brave men are not</span>
+<span class="i0">To blame"&mdash;"By this my beard," said Olivier,</span>
+<span class="i0">"I swear, if e'er I see again sweet Aude,</span>
+<span class="i0">My sister, in her arms you ne'er shall lie."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_133" id="St_133">CXXXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd asked Olivier&mdash;"Why show to me</span>
+<span class="i0">Your anger, friend!"&mdash;"Companion, yours the fault;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[91]</span>
+<span class="i0">True courage means not folly. Better far</span>
+<span class="i0">Is prudence than your valiant rage. Our French</span>
+<span class="i0">Their lives have lost, your rashness is the cause.</span>
+<span class="i0">And now our arms can never more give Carle</span>
+<span class="i0">Their service good. Had you believed your friend,</span>
+<span class="i0">Amongst us would he be, and ours the field,</span>
+<span class="i0">The King Marsile, a captive or a corse.</span>
+<span class="i0">Roll&agrave;nd, your valor brought ill fortune, nor</span>
+<span class="i0">Shall Carle the great e'er more our help receive,</span>
+<span class="i0">A man unequaled till God's judgment-day.</span>
+<span class="i0">Here you shall die, and dying, humble France, ...</span>
+<span class="i0">This day our loyal friendship ends&mdash;ere falls</span>
+<span class="i0">The Vesper-eve, dolorously we part!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_134" id="St_134">CXXXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Archbishop heard their strife. In haste he drives</span>
+<span class="i0">Into his horse his spurs of purest gold,</span>
+<span class="i0">And quick beside them rides. Then chiding them,</span>
+<span class="i0">Says:&mdash;"Sire Roll&aacute;nd, and you, Sire Olivier,</span>
+<span class="i0">In God's name be no feud between you two;</span>
+<span class="i0">No more your horn shall save us; nathless 'twere</span>
+<span class="i0">Far better Carle should come and soon avenge</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[92]</span><span class="i0">Our deaths. So joyous then these Spanish foes</span>
+<span class="i0">Would not return. But as our Franks alight,</span>
+<span class="i0">Find us or slain or mangled on the field,</span>
+<span class="i0">They will our bodies on their chargers' backs</span>
+<span class="i0">Lift in their shrouds with grief and pity, all</span>
+<span class="i0">In tears, and bury us in holy ground:</span>
+<span class="i0">And neither wolves, nor swine, nor curs shall feed</span>
+<span class="i0">On us&mdash;" Replies Roll&aacute;nd:&mdash;"Well have you said."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_135" id="St_135">CXXXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd raised to his lips the olifant,</span>
+<span class="i0">Drew a deep breath, and blew with all his force.</span>
+<span class="i0">High are the mountains, and from peak to peak</span>
+<span class="i0">The sound re-echoes; thirty leagues away</span>
+<span class="i0">'Twas heard by Carle and all his brave compeers.</span>
+<span class="i0">Cried the king:&mdash;"Our men make battle!&mdash;" Ganelon</span>
+<span class="i0">Retorts in haste:&mdash;"If thus another dared</span>
+<span class="i0">To speak, we should denounce it as a lie."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_136" id="St_136">CXXXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Count Roll&aacute;nd in his great anguish blows</span>
+<span class="i0">His olifant so mightily, with such</span>
+<span class="i0">Despairing agony, his mouth pours forth</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[93]</span><span class="i0">The crimson blood, and his swoll'n temples burst.</span>
+<span class="i0">Yea, but so far the ringing blast resounds;</span>
+<span class="i0">Carle hears it, marching through the pass, Naimes harks,</span>
+<span class="i0">The French all listen with attentive ear.</span>
+<span class="i0">"That is Roll&aacute;nd's horn!&mdash;" Carle cried, "which ne'er yet</span>
+<span class="i0">Was, save in battle, blown!&mdash;" But Ganelon</span>
+<span class="i0">Replies:&mdash;"No fight is there!&mdash;you, sire, are old,</span>
+<span class="i0">Your hair and beard are all bestrewn with gray,</span>
+<span class="i0">And as a child your speech. Well do you know</span>
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd's great pride. 'Tis marvelous God bears</span>
+<span class="i0">With him so long. Already took he Noble</span>
+<span class="i0">Without your leave. The Pagans left their walls</span>
+<span class="i0">And fought Roll&aacute;nd, your brave Knight, in the field;</span>
+<span class="i0">With his good blade he slew them all, and then</span>
+<span class="i0">Washed all the plain with water, that no trace</span>
+<span class="i0">Of blood was left&mdash;yea, oftentimes he runs</span>
+<span class="i0">After a hare all day and blows his horn.</span>
+<span class="i0">Doubtless he takes his sport now with his peers;</span>
+<span class="i0">And who 'neath Heav'n would dare attack Roll&aacute;nd?</span>
+<span class="i0">None, as I deem. Nay, sire, ride on apace;</span>
+<span class="i0">Why do you halt? Still far is the Great Land."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[94]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_137" id="St_137">CXXXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd with bleeding mouth and temples burst,</span>
+<span class="i0">Still in his anguish, blows his olifant;</span>
+<span class="i0">Carle hears it, and his Franks. The king exclaims:</span>
+<span class="i0">"That horn has a long breath!" Duke Naimes replies:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Roll&aacute;nd it is, and in a sore distress,</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon my faith, a battle rages there!</span>
+<span class="i0">A traitor he who would deceive you now.</span>
+<span class="i0">To arms! Your war-cry shout, your kinsman save!</span>
+<span class="i0">Plainly enough you hear his call for help."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_138" id="St_138">CXXXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Carle orders all the trumpeters to sound</span>
+<span class="i0">The march. The French alight. They arm themselves</span>
+<span class="i0">With helmets, hauberks and gold hilted swords,</span>
+<span class="i0">Bright bucklers, long sharp spears, with pennons white</span>
+<span class="i0">And red and blue. The barons of the host</span>
+<span class="i0">Leap on their steeds, all spurring on; while through</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[95]</span><span class="i0">The pass they march, each to the other says:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Could we but reach Roll&aacute;nd before he dies,</span>
+<span class="i0">What deadly blows, with his, our swords would strike!"</span>
+<span class="i0">But what avails?&mdash;Too late they will arrive.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_139" id="St_139">CXXXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The ev'n is clear, the sun its radiant beams</span>
+<span class="i0">Reflects upon the marching legions. Spears,</span>
+<span class="i0">Hauberks and helms, shields painted with bright flowers,</span>
+<span class="i0">Gold pennons all ablaze with glitt'ring hues.</span>
+<span class="i0">Burning with wrath the Emperor rides on;</span>
+<span class="i0">The French with sad and angered looks. None there</span>
+<span class="i0">But weeps aloud. All tremble for Roll&aacute;nd.</span>
+
+<hr class="two" />
+
+<span class="i0">The King commands Count Ganelon be seized</span>
+<span class="i0">And given to the scullions of his house.</span>
+<span class="i0">Their chief, named B&egrave;gue, he calls and bids: "Guard well</span>
+<span class="i0">This man as one who all my kin betrayed."</span>
+<span class="i0">Him B&egrave;gue received, and set upon the Count</span>
+<span class="i0">One hundred of his kitchen comrades&mdash;best</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[96]</span><span class="i0">And worst;&mdash;they pluck his beard on lip and cheek;</span>
+<span class="i0">Each deals him with his fist four blows, and falls</span>
+<span class="i0">On him with lash and stick; they chain his neck</span>
+<span class="i0">As they would chain a bear, and he is thrown</span>
+<span class="i0">For more dishonor on a sumpter mule,</span>
+<span class="i0">There guarded so until to Carle brought back.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_140" id="St_140">CXL.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">High are the mountains, gloomy, terrible,</span>
+<span class="i0">The valleys deep, and swift the rushing streams.</span>
+<span class="i0">In van, in rear, the brazen trumpets blow,</span>
+<span class="i0">Answ'ring the olifant. With angry look</span>
+<span class="i0">Rides on the Emp'ror; filled with wrath and grief,</span>
+<span class="i0">Follow the French, each sobbing, each in tears,</span>
+<span class="i0">Praying that God may guard Roll&aacute;nd, until</span>
+<span class="i0">They reach the battle-field. With him what blows</span>
+<span class="i0">Will they not strike? Alas! what boots it now?</span>
+<span class="i0">Too late they are and can not come in time.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_141" id="St_141">CXLI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Carle in great anger rides&mdash;his snow-white beard</span>
+<span class="i0">O'erspreads his breast-plate. Hard the Barons spur,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[97]</span>
+<span class="i0">For never one but inwardly doth rage</span>
+<span class="i0">That he is far from their great chief, Roll&aacute;nd,</span>
+<span class="i0">Who combats now the Saracens of Spain:</span>
+<span class="i0">If wounded he, will one of his survive?</span>
+<span class="i0">O God! What Knights those sixty left by him!</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor King nor captain better ever had....</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<hr style='width: 50%;' />
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[98]</span></p>
+<h4>THE ROUT.</h4>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_142" id="St_142">CXLII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Count Roll&aacute;nd casts o'er the mounts and vales</span>
+<span class="i0">A glance: French corses strew the plains in heaps;</span>
+<span class="i0">He for them mourns as gentle chevalier.</span>
+<span class="i0">At such a sight the noble hero weeps:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Seigneurs, to you may God be merciful!</span>
+<span class="i0">To all your souls may He grant Paradise,</span>
+<span class="i0">And there may they on beds of heavenly flowers</span>
+<span class="i0">Repose!&mdash;No better vassals lived! so long</span>
+<span class="i0">Have ye served me! So many lands for Carle</span>
+<span class="i0">Ye won!&mdash;The Emperor for this ill fate</span>
+<span class="i0">Has nurtured you!&mdash;O land of France, most sweet</span>
+<span class="i0">Art thou, but now forsaken and a waste.</span>
+<span class="i0">Barons of France, to-day I see you die</span>
+<span class="i0">For me; nor can I save or e'en defend</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[99]</span><span class="i0">Your lives. Be God your aid, who ne'er played false!</span>
+<span class="i0">Olivier, brother, I must not fail thee!</span>
+<span class="i0">If other death comes not, of grief I die.</span>
+<span class="i0">Come, sire companion ... come to fight again!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_143" id="St_143">CXLIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Soon to the field returns the Count Roll&aacute;nd</span>
+<span class="i0">With Durendal in hand; as a true knight</span>
+<span class="i0">He fights. Faldrun del Pin he cleaves in half</span>
+<span class="i0">With twenty-four among the bravest foes.</span>
+<span class="i0">Never was man so bent upon revenge.</span>
+<span class="i0">As run wild deer before the chasing hounds,</span>
+<span class="i0">Before Roll&aacute;nd the Pagans flee.&mdash;"Well done!"</span>
+<span class="i0">The Archbishop cries, "Such valor a true Knight</span>
+<span class="i0">Should have, when mounted, armed, on his good steed!</span>
+<span class="i0">Else, not four deniers is he worth: a monk</span>
+<span class="i0">In cloister should he be, and spend his life</span>
+<span class="i0">In praying for our sins!...." "Strike," said Roll&agrave;nd,</span>
+<span class="i0">"No quarter!"&mdash;At the word the French renew</span>
+<span class="i0">The combat ... yet the Christian loss was great.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[100]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_144" id="St_144">CXLIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">When soldiers on the battle-field expect</span>
+<span class="i0">No quarter&mdash;desperate they fight; and thus</span>
+<span class="i0">The French, like lions, fiercely stand at bay.</span>
+<span class="i0">Like a true baron King Marsile rides forth</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon his steed Gaignon, and spurs him on</span>
+<span class="i0">Against Bevum, of Belne and Digun lord,</span>
+<span class="i0">His buckler cleaves, his hauberk with a blow</span>
+<span class="i0">Shatters, and lays him dead upon the field.</span>
+<span class="i0">Then fall beneath the Pagan King, Ivoire</span>
+<span class="i0">And Ivun; then Gerard de Roussillon.&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">The Count Roll&aacute;nd is nigh and cries aloud:</span>
+<span class="i0">"God give damnation unto thee who thus</span>
+<span class="i0">So foully slay'st my friends! But ere we part,</span>
+<span class="i0">Dearly shalt thou abye it, and to-day</span>
+<span class="i0">Shalt learn the name my good sword bears."&mdash;He strikes</span>
+<span class="i0">The King a true Knight's stroke, and his right hand</span>
+<span class="i0">Lops at the wrist; then Turfaleu the fair,</span>
+<span class="i0">Marsile's own son, beheads. The Pagans say:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Aid us, Mahum! Avenge us, Gods of ours,</span>
+<span class="i0">On Carle, who brought such villains to our land,</span>
+<span class="i0">As rather than depart will die."&mdash;And each</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[101]</span><span class="i0">To each cries: "Let us fly!"&mdash;Upon the word,</span>
+<span class="i0">A hundred thousand turn in sudden flight.</span>
+<span class="i0">Whoever calls them, ne'er will they return.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_145" id="St_145">CXLV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Alas, it not avails! If Marsile flies,</span>
+<span class="i0">His uncle Marganice unhurt remained.</span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis he who held Carthage, Alferne, Garnaille,</span>
+<span class="i0">And Ethiopia, a land accursed;</span>
+<span class="i0">Chief of the Blacks, a thick-nosed, large-eared race.</span>
+<span class="i0">Of these he more than fifty thousand leads,</span>
+<span class="i0">Who ride on proudly, full of wrath, and shout</span>
+<span class="i0">The Pagan war-cry.&mdash;"Here," said Count Roll&agrave;nd,</span>
+<span class="i0">"Here shall we fall as martyrs. Well I know</span>
+<span class="i0">Our end is nigh; but dastard I count him</span>
+<span class="i0">Who sells not dear his life. Barons, strike well,</span>
+<span class="i0">Strike with your burnished swords, and set such price</span>
+<span class="i0">On death and life, that naught of shame shall fall</span>
+<span class="i0">On our sweet France. When Carle, my lord, shall come</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon this field, and see such slaughter here</span>
+<span class="i0">Of Saracens, fifteen to one of ours,</span>
+<span class="i0">Then will he breathe a blessing on his Knights."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<hr style='width: 50%;' />
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[102]</span></p>
+
+<h4>OLIVIER'S DEATH.</h4>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_146" id="St_146">CXLVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">When sees Roll&aacute;nd this tribe accursed, more black</span>
+<span class="i0">Than ink, with glist'ning teeth, their only gleam</span>
+<span class="i0">Of white, he said:&mdash;"Truly I know to-day</span>
+<span class="i0">We die! Strike, Frenchmen, that is my command."</span>
+<span class="i0">And Olivier, "Woe to the laggards," cries.</span>
+<span class="i0">These words the French hearts fired to meet the fray.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_147" id="St_147">CXLVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Pagans, when they mark how few the French,</span>
+<span class="i0">Are filled with pride and comfort, and they say</span>
+<span class="i0">One to the other:&mdash;"Their King Carle is wrong!"&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon his sorrel steed sits Marganice;</span>
+<span class="i0">Urging him hard with pricking spurs of gold,</span>
+<span class="i0">Encounters Olivier&mdash;strikes him behind,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[103]</span><span class="i0">Drives his white hauberk-links into his heart,</span>
+<span class="i0">And through in front came forth the pointed lance.</span>
+<span class="i0">The Kalif cries:&mdash;"That blow struck home! Carlmagne,</span>
+<span class="i0">For thy mishap, left you to guard the Pass!</span>
+<span class="i0">That he has wronged us, little may he boast.</span>
+<span class="i0">Your death alone for us a vengeance full!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_148" id="St_148">CXLVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Olivier knows his death-wound. In his hand</span>
+<span class="i0">He grasps Halteclere's bright steel, and strikes a blow</span>
+<span class="i0">Well aimed upon the Kalif's pointed helm;</span>
+<span class="i0">He scatters golden flow'rs and gems in dust.</span>
+<span class="i0">His head the trenchant blade cleaves to the teeth,</span>
+<span class="i0">And dead the Kalif falls.&mdash;"Pagan accursed,"</span>
+<span class="i0">He cries, "not here shalt thou say Carle lost aught;</span>
+<span class="i0">To wife nor lady shalt thou ever boast</span>
+<span class="i0">In thine own land, that thou hast reft from Carle</span>
+<span class="i0">One denier's worth, or me or others harmed!"</span>
+<span class="i0">And then he called Roll&agrave;nd unto his aid.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[104]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_149" id="St_149">CXLIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Olivier feels that he is hurt to death.</span>
+<span class="i0">No vengeance can suffice him; Baron-like</span>
+<span class="i0">He strikes amid the press, cuts shields embossed</span>
+<span class="i0">And ashen shafts, and spears, feet, shoulders, wrists</span>
+<span class="i0">And breasts of horsemen. He who saw him thus</span>
+<span class="i0">Dismember Saracens, corse over corse</span>
+<span class="i0">Heap on the ground, would of a vassal true</span>
+<span class="i0">Remembrance keep. Nor does he now forget</span>
+<span class="i0">The rallying cry of Carle:&mdash;"Montjoie!" he cries</span>
+<span class="i0">Loudly and clear; then calls Roll&aacute;nd, his friend</span>
+<span class="i0">And compeer:&mdash;"Sire companion, stand by me!</span>
+<span class="i0">This day our breaking hearts forever part!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_150" id="St_150">CL.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd looks Olivier full in the face;</span>
+<span class="i0">Pale, livid, colorless; pure crimson blood</span>
+<span class="i0">Drips from his body, and streams on the earth.</span>
+<span class="i0">"God!" cried Roll&aacute;nd, "I know not what to do,</span>
+<span class="i0">Companion, friend, thy courage was betrayed</span>
+<span class="i0">To-day; nor will such courage e'er be seen</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[105]</span>
+<span class="i0">In human heart. Sweet France, oh! how shalt thou,</span>
+<span class="i0">As widow, wail thy vassals true and brave,</span>
+<span class="i0">Humbled and wrecked! The great heart of King Carle</span>
+<span class="i0">Will break!" He spake and on his saddle swooned.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_151" id="St_151">CLI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Behold Roll&aacute;nd, there, fainting on his steed,</span>
+<span class="i0">While Olivier stands wounded to the death.</span>
+<span class="i0">So great the loss of blood, his troubled eyes</span>
+<span class="i0">See naught afar or near, nor mortal man</span>
+<span class="i0">Can recognize. Encount'ring there Roll&aacute;nd,</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon his golden-studded helm he struck</span>
+<span class="i0">A dreadful blow, which to the nose-plate cleft,</span>
+<span class="i0">And split the crest in twain, but left the head</span>
+<span class="i0">Untouched. Roll&aacute;nd at this, upon him looks,</span>
+<span class="i0">And softly, sweetly asks:&mdash;"Sire <i>compagnon</i>!</span>
+<span class="i0">Was that blow meant for me? I am Roll&aacute;nd</span>
+<span class="i0">By whom you are beloved so well; to me</span>
+<span class="i0">Could you by any chance, defiance give?"</span>
+<span class="i0">Said Olivier:&mdash;"I hear your speech, but see</span>
+<span class="i0">You now no more. May God behold you, friend!</span>
+<span class="i0">I struck the blow; beseech you, pardon me."</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[106]</span><span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd responds:&mdash;"I am not wounded&mdash;here</span>
+<span class="i0">And before God I pardon you." At this,</span>
+<span class="i0">Each to the other bends in courtesy.</span>
+<span class="i0">With such great tenderness and love they part.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_152" id="St_152">CLII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Olivier feels the agony of death;</span>
+<span class="i0">His vacant eyes roll wildly in his head,</span>
+<span class="i0">And all his hearing and his sight are lost.</span>
+<span class="i0">Dismounting, on the ground he lies, and smites</span>
+<span class="i0">His breast, aloud confessing all his sins;</span>
+<span class="i0">With joined hands tow'rd Heaven lifted up</span>
+<span class="i0">He prays to God to give him Paradise,</span>
+<span class="i0">To bless Carl'magne, sweet France, and far beyond</span>
+<span class="i0">All other men, Roll&aacute;nd, his <i>compagnon</i>.</span>
+<span class="i0">His heart fails&mdash;forward droops his helmet&mdash;prone</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon the earth he lies&mdash;'tis over now....</span>
+<span class="i0">The Count is dead. Roll&aacute;nd, the Baron, mourns</span>
+<span class="i0">And weeps as never mortal mourned before.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_153" id="St_153">CLIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">When sees the Count Roll&aacute;nd the breath of life</span>
+<span class="i0">Gone from his friend, his body stretched on earth,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[107]</span><span class="i0">His face low in the dust, his tears gush out</span>
+<span class="i0">With heavy sobs. Then tenderly he speaks:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Alas! for all thy valor, comrade dear!</span>
+<span class="i0">Year after year, day after day, a life</span>
+<span class="i0">Of love we led; ne'er didst thou wrong to me,</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor I to thee. If death takes thee away,</span>
+<span class="i0">My life is but a pain." While speaking thus,</span>
+<span class="i0">The <i>Marchis</i> faints on Veillantif, his steed.</span>
+<span class="i0">But still firm in his stirrups of pure gold:</span>
+<span class="i0">Where'er Roll&aacute;nd may ride, he cannot fall.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_154" id="St_154">CLIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Scarce hath the Count recovered from his swoon,</span>
+<span class="i0">When all the great disaster meets his sight;</span>
+<span class="i0">The French lie on the field; all lost to him</span>
+<span class="i0">Save the Archbishop and Gualtier de l'Hum,</span>
+<span class="i0">Who had descended from the mountain height</span>
+<span class="i0">Where he the men of Spain all day withstood</span>
+<span class="i0">Till all his own fell 'neath the Pagan swords.</span>
+<span class="i0">Willed he or not, he fled into the vale,</span>
+<span class="i0">And now upon Roll&aacute;nd he calls for aid;</span>
+<span class="i0">"Most gentle Count, most valiant, where art thou?</span>
+<span class="i0">Ne'er had I fear where'er thou wert!&mdash;'tis I,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[108]</span><span class="i0">Gualtier, who conquered Ma&euml;lgut, who am</span>
+<span class="i0">Old gray-haired Dro&uuml;n's nephew; till this day</span>
+<span class="i0">My courage won thy love. So well I fought</span>
+<span class="i0">Against the Saracens, my spear was broke,</span>
+<span class="i0">My shield was pierced, my hauberk torn and wrung,</span>
+<span class="i0">And in my body eight steel darts I bear.</span>
+<span class="i0">Done are my days, but dear the last I sold!"</span>
+<span class="i0">The words of that brave knight Roll&aacute;nd has heard,</span>
+<span class="i0">Spurs on his steed and gallops to his help.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_155" id="St_155">CLV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">With grief and rage Roll&aacute;nd's great heart is full;</span>
+<span class="i0">Amidst the thick ranks of a swarming foe</span>
+<span class="i0">He rides. He fights&mdash;and twenty Pagans fall</span>
+<span class="i0">Slain by his hand; by Gualtier's six, and five</span>
+<span class="i0">By the Archbishop's. Loud the Pagans cry:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Vile wretches these! Let none escape alive!</span>
+<span class="i0">Eternal shame to them who dare not make</span>
+<span class="i0">Attack; foul recreants those who let their flight</span>
+<span class="i0">Avail."&mdash;Renewing then their hues and cries,</span>
+<span class="i0">The Pagans rush from all parts 'gainst the knights.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<hr style='width: 50%;' />
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[109]</span></p>
+<h4>CHARLEMAGNE APPROACHES.</h4>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_156" id="St_156">CLVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Count Roll&aacute;nd was ever great in war;</span>
+<span class="i0">Most valiant is Gualtier de l'Hum; Turpin</span>
+<span class="i0">The Archbishop, of a valor proved: each leaves</span>
+<span class="i0">The other naught to do, and 'mid the throng</span>
+<span class="i0">Strikes Pagans down, who though one thousand foot</span>
+<span class="i0">And forty thousand horsemen mustering, yet</span>
+<span class="i0">Dare not approach, forsooth; but from afar</span>
+<span class="i0">Against them hurl their jav'lins, spears and darts,</span>
+<span class="i0">Their lances and winged arrows. First of all</span>
+<span class="i0">Is slain Gualtier; Turpin de Reins' good shield</span>
+<span class="i0">Is pierced, his helmet broken, and his head</span>
+<span class="i0">Wounded, his hauberk shattered and dislinked;</span>
+<span class="i0">Four spears have pierced his body; his good steed</span>
+<span class="i0">Dies under him. Alas! the Archbishop falls.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[110]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_157" id="St_157">CLVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Hardly had Turpin fallen on the earth,</span>
+<span class="i0">By four spear-shafts transfixed, when the brave knight</span>
+<span class="i0">Sprang quickly to his feet once more. His look</span>
+<span class="i0">Sought for Roll&aacute;nd to whom he ran in haste.</span>
+<span class="i0">One word he said:&mdash;"Unconquered yet am I!</span>
+<span class="i0">While life doth last, a true knight yields it not!"</span>
+<span class="i0">He draws Almace, his sword of burnished steel,</span>
+<span class="i0">And rushing 'mid the throng, one thousand blows</span>
+<span class="i0">And more he deals.&mdash;Carle said in after days,</span>
+<span class="i0">Turpin spared none, as dead upon the field</span>
+<span class="i0">He saw four hundred men, some cut in twain,</span>
+<span class="i0">Some with lopped heads: so says the Geste of France,</span>
+<span class="i0">And one who saw the field, the brave Saint-Gille</span>
+<span class="i0">For whom God showed his might; who in the cloister</span>
+<span class="i0">Of Lo&uuml;m wrote the record of these deeds.</span>
+<span class="i0">Who knows not this, he knows not any thing.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_158" id="St_158">CLVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">As hero fights the Count Roll&aacute;nd; but all</span>
+<span class="i0">His body burns with heat and drips with sweat;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[111]</span><span class="i0">His head is torn by pain; his temple burst</span>
+<span class="i0">By that strong blast he gave the olifant.</span>
+<span class="i0">Still would he know if Carle returns; once more</span>
+<span class="i0">He blows his horn&mdash;Alas, with feeble blast.</span>
+<span class="i0">Carle caught the distant sound, and, list'ning, waits:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Seigneurs," cried he, "great evils fall apace;</span>
+<span class="i0">I hear his dying blast upon his horn.</span>
+<span class="i0">If we would find him yet alive, we need</span>
+<span class="i0">Urge on our steeds. Let all our trumpets blow!"</span>
+<span class="i0">Then sixty thousand trumps rang forth their peals;</span>
+<span class="i0">The hills re&euml;cho, and the vales respond.</span>
+<span class="i0">The Pagans hear&mdash;and stay their gabbling mirth.</span>
+<span class="i0">One to the other says:&mdash;"'Tis Carle who comes!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_159" id="St_159">CLIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Pagans say:&mdash;"The Emperor returns;</span>
+<span class="i0">These are the clarions of the French we hear.</span>
+<span class="i0">If Carle should come, 'twill be our doom; if lives</span>
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd, the war begins anew, and Spain</span>
+<span class="i0">Our land is lost to us for evermore."</span>
+<span class="i0">Four hundred warriors well armed cap-a-pie,</span>
+<span class="i0">The bravest of the host, then closed their ranks</span>
+<span class="i0">And dashed in fierce attack against Roll&aacute;nd.</span>
+<span class="i0">Mighty the deeds the Count must now achieve!</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[112]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_160" id="St_160">CLX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">As they draw near, Roll&aacute;nd calls up his pride</span>
+<span class="i0">And summons all his strength to meet the charge.</span>
+<span class="i0">No foot of ground he yields while life remains.</span>
+<span class="i0">Firm on his courser Veillantif he sits</span>
+<span class="i0">And gores his flanks with spurs of purest gold.</span>
+<span class="i0">Into the thickest ranks he and Turpin</span>
+<span class="i0">The Archbishop rush. And now the Pagans all</span>
+<span class="i0">Unto each other cry: "Hence, friends, away!</span>
+<span class="i0">The horns of those of France we now have heard,</span>
+<span class="i0">Carlemagne the mighty Emperor returns!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_161" id="St_161">CLXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Ne'er could the Count Roll&aacute;nd a coward love,</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor proud, nor wicked men, nor faithless knights.</span>
+<span class="i0">He calls to the Archbishop: "You, on foot,</span>
+<span class="i0">And I on horseback, sire! For love of you</span>
+<span class="i0">I by your side will stand; together we</span>
+<span class="i0">Will share or good or ill; I leave you not</span>
+<span class="i0">For aught of human mold. This day we shall</span>
+<span class="i0">Hurl back the Pagan charge, and Durendal</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[113]</span><span class="i0">Shall deal his mightiest blows!"&mdash;To this replies</span>
+<span class="i0">The Archbishop: "Traitor he who strikes not well!</span>
+<span class="i0">King Carle returns&mdash;Great shall his vengeance be!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_162" id="St_162">CLXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Pagans say: "For such ill were we born!</span>
+<span class="i0">What fatal morn this day for us has ris'n!</span>
+<span class="i0">Dead lie our lords and Peers! With his great host</span>
+<span class="i0">King Carle returns, the mighty Baron&mdash;Hark!</span>
+<span class="i0">His clarions sound, and loud the cry 'Montjoie;'</span>
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd has so great pride, no man of flesh</span>
+<span class="i0">Can make him yield, or vanquished fall. 'Twere best</span>
+<span class="i0">We pierced him from afar, and left him lying</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon the field!"&mdash;&mdash;'Twas done: darts, lances, spears,</span>
+<span class="i0">Javelins, winged arrows flew so thick,</span>
+<span class="i0">That his good shield was pierced, his hauberk rent</span>
+<span class="i0">And torn apart&mdash;his body yet unharmed.</span>
+<span class="i0">Veillantif, pierced with thirty wounds, falls dead</span>
+<span class="i0">Beneath the Count.&mdash;The affrighted Pagans fly.</span>
+<span class="i0">The Count Roll&aacute;nd stands on the field, alone.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<hr style='width: 50%;' />
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[114]</span></p>
+<h4>THE LAST BENEDICTION OF THE ARCHBISHOP.</h4>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_163" id="St_163">CLXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Raging in wrath the Pagans fly, and toward</span>
+<span class="i0">The land of Spain they haste. The Count Roll&aacute;nd</span>
+<span class="i0">Pursues them not, for Veillantif lies dead.</span>
+<span class="i0">On foot he stands whether he will or not.</span>
+<span class="i0">To help Turpin, the Archbishop, fast he ran,</span>
+<span class="i0">His helm unclasped, removed the hauberk white</span>
+<span class="i0">And light, then ripped the sides of his <i>blialt</i></span>
+<span class="i0">To find his gaping wounds; then tenderly</span>
+<span class="i0">Pressing him in his arms, on the green sward</span>
+<span class="i0">He laid him gently down, and fondly prayed:</span>
+<span class="i0">"O noble man, grant me your leave in this;</span>
+<span class="i0">Our brave compeers, so dear to us, have breathed</span>
+<span class="i0">Their last&mdash;we should not leave them on the field;</span>
+<span class="i0">I will their bodies seek and gather here,</span>
+<span class="i0">To lay them out before you."&mdash;"Go, and soon</span>
+<span class="i0">Return," the Archbishop said; "the field is yours</span>
+<span class="i0">And also mine, thanks to Almighty God!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[115]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_164" id="St_164">CLXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Alone the Count Roll&aacute;nd retraced his steps</span>
+<span class="i0">Throughout the field. Vales, mounts, he searched, and found</span>
+<span class="i0">Gerin and his companion Gerier, then</span>
+<span class="i0">Berengier and Otun; here Anse&iuml;s,</span>
+<span class="i0">There Sansun, then beyond, Gerard the old</span>
+<span class="i0">De Roussillon he found&mdash;one after one</span>
+<span class="i0">He bore each knight within his arms, and placed</span>
+<span class="i0">Them gently, side by side, before the knees</span>
+<span class="i0">Of Turpin who cannot restrain his tears;</span>
+<span class="i0">With lifted hands he blesses them and says:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Most hapless Knights!&mdash;May God the Glorious</span>
+<span class="i0">Receive your souls, and in his Paradise</span>
+<span class="i0">'Mid holy flowers place them!&mdash;In this hour</span>
+<span class="i0">Of death, my deepest grief is that no more</span>
+<span class="i0">The mighty Emperor I shall behold!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_165" id="St_165">CLXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd turns back, and searching through the field,</span>
+<span class="i0">Has found, alas! his comrade Olivier....</span>
+<span class="i0">He pressed him 'gainst his bosom tenderly,</span>
+<span class="i0">And, as he could, returning to Turpin,</span>
+<span class="i0">Stretched on a shield he lays him down among</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[116]</span><span class="i0">The other knights. The Archbishop then assoils</span>
+<span class="i0">And signs him with the holy cross. The grief</span>
+<span class="i0">And pity were more sore than heart can bear....</span>
+<span class="i0">Then said Roll&aacute;nd:&mdash;"Fair comrade Olivier,</span>
+<span class="i0">Son of the good Count Renier, he who held</span>
+<span class="i0">The marches to the distant shores of Gennes;</span>
+<span class="i0">To break a lance, to pierce a shield, the brave</span>
+<span class="i0">To counsel, traitors to dismay and foil,</span>
+<span class="i0">No land e'er saw a better <i>chevalier</i>."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_166" id="St_166">CLXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">When Count Roll&aacute;nd beheld his Peers lie dead,</span>
+<span class="i0">And Olivier, that friend so tenderly</span>
+<span class="i0">Beloved, his soul by pity was o'erflowed;</span>
+<span class="i0">Tears from his eyes gush out, his countenance</span>
+<span class="i0">Turns pale; distressed, he can no longer stand.</span>
+<span class="i0">Would he or not, he swooned and fell to earth.</span>
+<span class="i0">The Archbishop said: "Baron, what woe is yours!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_167" id="St_167">CLXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Archbishop, when he saw Count Roll&aacute;nd swoon,</span>
+<span class="i0">Felt keener grief than e'er he felt before;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[117]</span><span class="i0">Stretched forth his hand, and took the olifant.&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">Ronceval there is a running stream;</span>
+<span class="i0">Thence will he water bring to Count Roll&aacute;nd.</span>
+<span class="i0">Staggering, with feeble steps, thither he goes,</span>
+<span class="i0">But loss of blood has made him all too weak:</span>
+<span class="i0">Ere he has gone an acre's length, his heart</span>
+<span class="i0">Fails, and he sinks in mortal agony.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_168" id="St_168">CLXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Meantime the Count Roll&aacute;nd revives.&mdash;Erect</span>
+<span class="i0">He stands, but with great pain; then downward looks</span>
+<span class="i0">And upward. Then he sees the noble lord</span>
+<span class="i0">The Archbishop, holy minister of God,</span>
+<span class="i0">Beyond his comrades lying on the sward</span>
+<span class="i0">Stretched out.&mdash;He lifts his eyes to Heav'n, recalls</span>
+<span class="i0">His sins, and raising both his join&egrave;d hands,</span>
+<span class="i0">He prays Our God to grant him paradise.&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">Turpin, Carle's Knight, is dead, who all his life,</span>
+<span class="i0">With doughty blows and sermons erudite,</span>
+<span class="i0">Ne'er ceased to fight the Pagans. May the Lord</span>
+<span class="i0">Grant him His holy blessing evermore!</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[118]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_169" id="St_169">CLXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Count Roll&aacute;nd sees lifeless on the field</span>
+<span class="i0">The Archbishop lie; gush from the gaping wounds</span>
+<span class="i0">His entrails in the dust, and through his skull</span>
+<span class="i0">The oozing brain pours o'er his brow.&mdash;In form</span>
+<span class="i0">Of holy Cross upon his breast Roll&aacute;nd</span>
+<span class="i0">Disposes both his hands so fair and white,</span>
+<span class="i0">And mourned him in the fashion of his land:</span>
+<span class="i0">"O noble man! O knight of lineage pure!</span>
+<span class="i0">To the Glorious One of Heav'n I thee commend;</span>
+<span class="i0">For ne'er was man who Him more truly served,</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor since the Apostles' days, such prophet, strong,</span>
+<span class="i0">To keep God's law and draw the hearts of men.</span>
+<span class="i0">From ev'ry pain your soul be freed, and wide</span>
+<span class="i0">Before it ope the Gates of Paradise!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<hr style='width: 50%;' />
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[119]</span></p>
+
+<h4>ROLAND'S DEATH.</h4>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_170" id="St_170">CLXX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd now feels his death is drawing nigh:</span>
+<span class="i0">From both his ears the brain is oozing fast.</span>
+<span class="i0">For all his peers he prays that God may call</span>
+<span class="i0">Their souls to Him; to the Angel Gabriel</span>
+<span class="i0">He recommends his spirit. In one hand</span>
+<span class="i0">He takes the olifant, that no reproach</span>
+<span class="i0">May rest upon him; in the other grasps</span>
+<span class="i0">Durendal, his good sword. Forward he goes,</span>
+<span class="i0">Far as an arblast sends a shaft, across</span>
+<span class="i0">A new-tilled ground and toward the land of Spain.</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon a hill, beneath two lofty trees,</span>
+<span class="i0">Four terraces of marble spread:&mdash;he falls</span>
+<span class="i0">Prone fainting on the green, for death draws near.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_171" id="St_171">CLXXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">High are the mounts, and lofty are the trees.</span>
+<span class="i0">Four terraces are there, of marble bright:</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[120]</span><span class="i0">There Count Roll&aacute;nd lies senseless on the grass.</span>
+<span class="i0">Him at this moment spies a Saracen</span>
+<span class="i0">Who lies among the corpses, feigning death,</span>
+<span class="i0">His face and body all besmeared with blood.</span>
+<span class="i0">Sudden he rises to his feet, and bounds</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon the Baron.&mdash;Handsome, brave and strong</span>
+<span class="i0">He was, but from his pride sprang mortal rage.</span>
+<span class="i0">He seized the body of Roll&aacute;nd, and grasped</span>
+<span class="i0">His arms, exclaiming thus:&mdash;"Here vanquished Carle's</span>
+<span class="i0">Great nephew lies!"&mdash;"This sword to Araby</span>
+<span class="i0">I'll bear."&mdash;He drew it;&mdash;this aroused the Count.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_172" id="St_172">CLXXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd perceived an alien hand would rob</span>
+<span class="i0">Him of his sword; his eyes he oped; one word</span>
+<span class="i0">He spoke:&mdash;"I trow, not one of us art thou!"</span>
+<span class="i0">Then with his olifant from which he parts</span>
+<span class="i0">Never, he smites the golden studded helm,</span>
+<span class="i0">Crushing the steel, the head, the bones; both eyes</span>
+<span class="i0">Are from their sockets beaten out&mdash;o'erthrown</span>
+<span class="i0">Dead at the Baron's feet he falls:&mdash;"O wretch,"</span>
+<span class="i0">He cries, "how durst thou, or for good or ill,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[121]</span>
+<span class="i0">Lay hands upon Roll&aacute;nd? Who hears of this</span>
+<span class="i0">Will call thee fool. Mine olifant is cleft,</span>
+<span class="i0">Its gems and gold all scattered by the blow."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_173" id="St_173">CLXXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Now feels Roll&aacute;nd that death is near at hand</span>
+<span class="i0">And struggles up with all his force; his face</span>
+<span class="i0">Grows livid;&mdash;[Durendal, his naked sword]</span>
+<span class="i0">He holds;&mdash;beside him rises a gray rock</span>
+<span class="i0">On which he strikes ten mighty blows through grief</span>
+<span class="i0">And rage&mdash;The steel but grinds; it breaks not, nor</span>
+<span class="i0">Is notched; then cries the Count:&mdash;"Saint Mary, help!</span>
+<span class="i0">O Durendal! Good sword! ill starred art thou!</span>
+<span class="i0">Though we two part, I care not less for thee.</span>
+<span class="i0">What victories together thou and I,</span>
+<span class="i0">Have gained, what kingdoms conquered, which now holds</span>
+<span class="i0">White-bearded Carle! No coward's hand shall grasp</span>
+<span class="i0">Thy hilt: a valiant knight has borne thee long,</span>
+<span class="i0">Such as none shall e'er bear in France the Free!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[122]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_174" id="St_174">CLXXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd smites hard the rock of Sardonix;</span>
+<span class="i0">The steel but grinds, it breaks not, nor grows blunt;</span>
+<span class="i0">Then seeing that he can not break his sword,</span>
+<span class="i0">Thus to himself he mourns for Durendal:</span>
+<span class="i0">"O good my sword, how bright and pure! Against</span>
+<span class="i0">The sun what flashing light thy blade reflects!</span>
+<span class="i0">When Carle passed through the valley of Moriane,</span>
+<span class="i0">The God of Heaven by his Angel sent</span>
+<span class="i0">Command that he should give thee to a Count,</span>
+<span class="i0">A valiant captain; it was then the great</span>
+<span class="i0">And gentle King did gird thee to my side.&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">With thee I won for him Anjou&mdash;Bretaigne;</span>
+<span class="i0">For him with thee I won Poitou, le Maine</span>
+<span class="i0">And Normandie the free; I won Provence</span>
+<span class="i0">And Aquitaine, and Lumbardie, and all</span>
+<span class="i0">The Romanie; I won for him Bavi&egrave;re,</span>
+<span class="i0">All Flandre&mdash;Buguerie&mdash;all Puillanie,</span>
+<span class="i0">Costentinnoble which allegiance paid,</span>
+<span class="i0">And Saxonie submitted to his power;</span>
+<span class="i0">For him I won Escoce and Galle, Irlande</span>
+<span class="i0">And Engleterre he made his royal seat;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[123]</span><span class="i0">With thee I conquered all the lands and realms</span>
+<span class="i0">Which Carle, the hoary-bearded monarch, rules.</span>
+<span class="i0">Now for this sword I mourn.... Far better die</span>
+<span class="i0">Than in the hands of Pagans let it fall!</span>
+<span class="i0">May God, Our Father, save sweet France this shame!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_175" id="St_175">CLXXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Upon the grey rock mightily he smites,</span>
+<span class="i0">Shattering it more than I can tell; the sword</span>
+<span class="i0">But grinds.&mdash;It breaks not&mdash;nor receives a notch,</span>
+<span class="i0">And upwards springs more dazzling in the air.</span>
+<span class="i0">When sees the Count Roll&aacute;nd his sword can never break,</span>
+<span class="i0">Softly within himself its fate he mourns:</span>
+<span class="i0">"O Durendal, how fair and holy thou!</span>
+<span class="i0">In thy gold-hilt are relics rare; a tooth</span>
+<span class="i0">Of great saint Pierre&mdash;some blood of Saint Basile,</span>
+<span class="i0">A lock of hair of Monseigneur Saint Denis,</span>
+<span class="i0">A fragment of the robe of Sainte-Marie.</span>
+<span class="i0">It is not right that Pagans should own thee;</span>
+<span class="i0">By Christian hand alone be held. Vast realms</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[124]</span>
+<span class="i0">I shall have conquered once that now are ruled</span>
+<span class="i0">By Carle, the King with beard all blossom-white,</span>
+<span class="i0">And by them made great emperor and Lord.</span>
+<span class="i0">May thou ne'er fall into a cowardly hand."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_176" id="St_176">CLXXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Count Roll&aacute;nd feels through his limbs the grasp</span>
+<span class="i0">Of death, and from his head ev'n to his heart</span>
+<span class="i0">A mortal chill descends. Unto a pine</span>
+<span class="i0">He hastens, and falls stretched upon the grass.</span>
+<span class="i0">Beneath him lie his sword and olifant,</span>
+<span class="i0">And toward the Heathen land he turns his head,</span>
+<span class="i0">That Carle and all his knightly host may say:</span>
+<span class="i0">"The gentle Count a conqueror has died...."</span>
+<span class="i0">Then asking pardon for his sins, or great</span>
+<span class="i0">Or small, he offers up his glove to God.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_177" id="St_177">CLXXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Count Roll&aacute;nd feels now his end approach.</span>
+<span class="i0">Against a pointed rock, and facing Spain,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[125]</span><span class="i0">He lies. Three times he beats his breast, and says:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Mea culpa! Oh, my God, may through thy grace,</span>
+<span class="i0">Be pardoned all my sins, or great or small,</span>
+<span class="i0">Until this hour committed since my birth!"</span>
+<span class="i0">Then his right glove he offers up to God,</span>
+<span class="i0">And toward him angels from high Heav'n descend.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_178" id="St_178">CLXXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Beneath a pine Roll&aacute;nd doth lie, and looks</span>
+<span class="i0">Toward Spain&mdash;He broods on many things of yore:</span>
+<span class="i0">On all the lands he conquered, on sweet France,</span>
+<span class="i0">On all his kinsmen, on great Carle his lord</span>
+<span class="i0">Who nurtured him;&mdash;he sighs&mdash;nor can restrain</span>
+<span class="i0">His tears, but can not yet himself forget;</span>
+<span class="i0">Recalls his sins, and for the grace of God</span>
+<span class="i0">He prays:&mdash;"Our Father, never yet untrue,</span>
+<span class="i0">Who Saint-Lazare raised from the dead, and saved</span>
+<span class="i0">Thy Daniel from the lions' claws&mdash;Oh, free</span>
+<span class="i0">My soul from peril, from my whole life's sins!"</span>
+<span class="i0">His right hand glove he offered up to God;</span>
+<span class="i0">Saint Gabriel took the glove.&mdash;With head reclined</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[126]</span><span class="i0">Upon his arm, with hands devoutly joined</span>
+<span class="i0">He breathed his last. God sent his Cherubim,</span>
+<span class="i0">Saint-Rapha&euml;l, <i>Saint Michiel del Peril</i>.</span>
+<span class="i0">Together with them Gabriel came.&mdash;All bring</span>
+<span class="i0">The soul of Count Roll&aacute;nd to Paradise....</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<hr style='width: 50%;' />
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[127]</span></p>
+
+<h4>THE CHASTISEMENT OF THE SARACENS.</h4>
+
+<hr class="two" />
+<h4><a name="St_179" id="St_179">CLXXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd is dead: God has his soul in heaven.</span>
+<span class="i0">To Ronceval the Emperor has come.</span>
+<span class="i0">There, neither road nor any path is seen,</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor vacant space, nor ell, nor foot of land</span>
+<span class="i0">That mounds of mangled bodies cover not,</span>
+<span class="i0">Pagans or French.&mdash;The Emperor exclaims:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Fair nephew, where art thou? The Archbishop, where?</span>
+<span class="i0">And Olivier, alas, where are they all?</span>
+<span class="i0">Gerin, Gerier, the two companions, where</span>
+<span class="i0">Are they? And where is Otes and Berengier,</span>
+<span class="i0">Ives and Ivoire both to my heart so dear?</span>
+<span class="i0">The Gascuin Engelier, Sansun the Duke,</span>
+<span class="i0">Anse&iuml;s the rash, Gerard de Roussillon</span>
+<span class="i0">The old, and my twelve Peers I left behind,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[128]</span><span class="i0">What fate is theirs?"&mdash;What boots it? None replies."&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">"&mdash;God,"cries the King, "what grief is mine to think</span>
+<span class="i0">"I stood not here the battle to begin."</span>
+<span class="i0">He tears his beard with anger; all his knights</span>
+<span class="i0">And barons weep great tears; dizzy with woe</span>
+<span class="i0">And swooning, twenty thousand fall to earth.</span>
+<span class="i0">Duke Naimes feels pity overflow his heart.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_180" id="St_180">CLXXX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">No baron is there now, no chevalier</span>
+<span class="i0">Who, in his pity, sheds not tears for sons,</span>
+<span class="i0">For brothers&mdash;nephews&mdash;friends&mdash;and for liege-lords.</span>
+<span class="i0">Many have fallen swooning on the earth,</span>
+<span class="i0">But Duke Naimes bore himself as valorous knight:</span>
+<span class="i0">He foremost said to Carle:&mdash;"Behold two leagues</span>
+<span class="i0">Away!&mdash;The roads are dark with clouds of dust.</span>
+<span class="i0">There swarm the Pagan tribes.... Ride on them now,</span>
+<span class="i0">Avenge this bitter woe."&mdash;"O God," said Carle,</span>
+<span class="i0">"Are they already flown so far?&mdash;our rights</span>
+<span class="i0">And honor shield! Those Pagans took from me</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[129]</span><span class="i0">The flower of my Sweet France!"&mdash;The King commands</span>
+<span class="i0">Gebuin, Otun, Tedbalt de Reins and Count</span>
+<span class="i0">Milun:&mdash;"Watch ye the field, the vales, the mounts;</span>
+<span class="i0">The slain, leave to their rest; see that no beast</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor lion, squire nor page approach. I charge</span>
+<span class="i0">You, let no man upon them lay his hand</span>
+<span class="i0">Until, with God's assistance, we return."</span>
+<span class="i0">They lovingly and with sweet tone reply:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Thus shall we do, just Emperor, dear sire!"</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon the field they keep one thousand knights.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_181" id="St_181">CLXXXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Now bids the Emperor his trumpets blow,</span>
+<span class="i0">Then forward at the head of his great host</span>
+<span class="i0">He rides, that Baron true. Of those of Spain</span>
+<span class="i0">He finds the tracks, points out the road; in quick</span>
+<span class="i0">Pursuit all follow Carle.... When sees the King</span>
+<span class="i0">The eve decline, he on the verdant grass</span>
+<span class="i0">Dismounts, and prostrate prays to God our Lord</span>
+<span class="i0">The sun to stay, the shades of night hold back</span>
+<span class="i0">And longer make the day. To him appears</span>
+<span class="i0">A Counselor-Angel with the swift command;</span>
+<span class="i0">"Ride on, O King, nor fear that night shall fall!</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[130]</span><span class="i0">God knows that thou hast lost the flower of France;</span>
+<span class="i0">But vengeance canst have now upon that horde</span>
+<span class="i0">Of unbelievers." Thus the Angel spake.</span>
+<span class="i0">The Emp'ror rises and remounts his steed.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_182" id="St_182">CLXXXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">To Carlemagne Our Lord now showed his might;</span>
+<span class="i0">The sun stays in its course. The Pagans fly,</span>
+<span class="i0">And fast the French pursuing, overtake</span>
+<span class="i0">Them in the Val-Tenebre. They drive them on</span>
+<span class="i0">Toward Sarraguce, while close behind them fall</span>
+<span class="i0">The upraised swords, and strew the ground with dead.</span>
+<span class="i0">No issue, no escape, by road or pass!</span>
+<span class="i0">In front deep Ebro rolls its mighty waves:</span>
+<span class="i0">No boat, no barge, no raft. They call for help</span>
+<span class="i0">On Tervagant, then plunge into the flood.</span>
+<span class="i0">Vain was their trust: some, weighted with their arms,</span>
+<span class="i0">Sink in a moment; others are swept down,</span>
+<span class="i0">And those most favored swallow monstrous draughts.</span>
+<span class="i0">All drown most cruelly. The French cry out:</span>
+<span class="i0">"For your own woe wished ye to see Roll&aacute;nd!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[131]</span></p>
+
+<h4><a name="St_183" id="St_183">CLXXXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">When Carle sees all the Pagans dead&mdash;some slain,</span>
+<span class="i0">The others drowned, his chevaliers enriched</span>
+<span class="i0">With spoils, the noble King dismounts, on earth</span>
+<span class="i0">Prostrates himself and offers thanks to God.</span>
+<span class="i0">When he arose, the sun had set. "'Tis time,"</span>
+<span class="i0">He said, "to think of camping now. Too late</span>
+<span class="i0">It is for our advance to Ronceval.</span>
+<span class="i0">Our horses are all weary and foredone:</span>
+<span class="i0">Unsaddle them and take the bridles off;</span>
+<span class="i0">And let them roam at large about these meads."</span>
+<span class="i0">The French reply: "Sire, you have spoken well."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_184" id="St_184">CLXXXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Emperor makes here his harborage.</span>
+<span class="i0">The French dismount, take off the golden curbs</span>
+<span class="i0">And saddles from their steeds, and turn them loose</span>
+<span class="i0">In the green mead, amid the plenteous grass:</span>
+<span class="i0">No other care they need. Upon the ground</span>
+<span class="i0">The over-wearied cast themselves and sleep.</span>
+<span class="i0">No watch was set in all the host that night.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[132]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_185" id="St_185">CLXXXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Emperor reposes on the field,</span>
+<span class="i0">His mighty lance hard by his pillow planted,</span>
+<span class="i0">For he, on such a night will not disarm.</span>
+<span class="i0">His hauberk white, with orfreyed-marge he wears,</span>
+<span class="i0">His helmet, rich with gold and gems is laced,</span>
+<span class="i0">Girded Joyeuse, the sword without a peer,</span>
+<span class="i0">Who thirty times a day can change his hue.</span>
+<span class="i0">Many a time you all heard of the lance</span>
+<span class="i0">Wherewith Our Lord was pierced upon the cross,</span>
+<span class="i0">The steel whereof Carle has, thanks be to God,</span>
+<span class="i0">Closed in the golden pommel of his sword.</span>
+<span class="i0">For this great glory and exceeding worth</span>
+<span class="i0">The brand was called <i>Joyeuse</i>. This all French Knights</span>
+<span class="i0">Should bear in mind, for it was hence they took</span>
+<span class="i0">Their war-cry of <i>Montjoie</i>, and for this cause</span>
+<span class="i0">No other people can resist their arms.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_186" id="St_186">CLXXXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Clear is the night, bright shines the moon; at rest</span>
+<span class="i0">Lies Carle; but grief is with him for Roll&aacute;nd,</span>
+<span class="i0">And Olivier is heavy on his heart;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[133]</span><span class="i0">The twelve Peers, too, and all the men of France,</span>
+<span class="i0">Left stark and bloody there at Ronceval.</span>
+<span class="i0">He cannot help but weep, and sob, and pray</span>
+<span class="i0">That mighty God be keeper of their souls.</span>
+<span class="i0">Tired is the King, his toils being very great;</span>
+<span class="i0">Deeply asleep he falls, and can no more.</span>
+<span class="i0">Through all the fields the scattered French sleep sound,</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor there a horse has strength enough to stand;</span>
+<span class="i0">If one need grass, he bites it as he lies.</span>
+<span class="i0">Right wise is he that's wise in lore of woe.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_187" id="St_187">CLXXXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Carle sleeps as man by toil outdone. God sends</span>
+<span class="i0">Saint Gabriel down, the Emperor to guard.</span>
+<span class="i0">All night beside his head the Angel stands,</span>
+<span class="i0">And in a dream forebodes that 'gainst the French</span>
+<span class="i0">A battle is prepared, and its portent</span>
+<span class="i0">Explains; then glancing up tow'rd Heav'n, King Carle</span>
+<span class="i0">Sees thunder-clouds and winds, hail, raging storms</span>
+<span class="i0">And wond'rous tempests&mdash;smould'ring fire and flames</span>
+<span class="i0">Ready to burst forth. Suddenly on all</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[134]</span><span class="i0">His people falls the blast. Their spears with shafts</span>
+<span class="i0">Of apple-tree or ash&mdash;those shields ablaze</span>
+<span class="i0">Unto their golden rings&mdash;shafts from their points</span>
+<span class="i0">Break off&mdash;Steel helms and hauberks clash and clang.</span>
+<span class="i0">He sees his Knights in dire distress. Meantime</span>
+<span class="i0">Devouring pards and bears rush on them; snakes</span>
+<span class="i0">And vipers&mdash;dragons, fiends&mdash;and with them more</span>
+<span class="i0">Than thirty thousand griffons. 'Mong the French</span>
+<span class="i0">None can escape this hideous horde.&mdash;"Carlemagne,</span>
+<span class="i0">Come to our help!" they cry. With pity seized,</span>
+<span class="i0">Fain would he thither, but his steps are stayed:</span>
+<span class="i0">Deep from a wood a lion huge comes on.</span>
+<span class="i0">The beast is haughty, fierce and terrible,</span>
+<span class="i0">And, springing, seeks his very body out.</span>
+<span class="i0">Each wrestles with the other in his arms;</span>
+<span class="i0">But which shall fall, which stand, this no man knows.</span>
+<span class="i0">Never a jot the Emperor awakes.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_188" id="St_188">CLXXXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Another vision follows this: in France</span>
+<span class="i0">At Aix he is:&mdash;Upon a marble step</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[135]</span><span class="i0">He stands, and holds in two-fold chains a bear.</span>
+<span class="i0">From towards Ardennes he sees rush forth a pack</span>
+<span class="i0">Of thirty other bears which speak as men.</span>
+<span class="i0">They say:&mdash;"To us restore him, Sire! Not right</span>
+<span class="i0">It were that you should keep him longer; help</span>
+<span class="i0">Our kin we must."&mdash;Then from his palace runs</span>
+<span class="i0">A greyhound fair which on the verdant grass</span>
+<span class="i0">Assails the fiercer of the other beasts</span>
+<span class="i0">Before them all. The King a wond'rous fight</span>
+<span class="i0">Beholds: but who shall win or lose, none knows.</span>
+<span class="i0">This is a dream God's Angel showed to Carle,</span>
+<span class="i0">Who sleeps until the morrow's morn appeared.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_189" id="St_189">CLXXXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">By rapid flight Marsile reached Sarraguce.&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">Dismounting 'neath a shady olive-tree,</span>
+<span class="i0">He strips himself of breast-plate, helmet, sword,</span>
+<span class="i0">And sinks upon the sward with ghastly look.</span>
+<span class="i0">His right hand severed from the wrist whence blood</span>
+<span class="i0">Is gushing forth, has made him swoon with pain.</span>
+<span class="i0">Before Marsile, his spouse, Queen Bramimunde,</span>
+<span class="i0">Bursts into tears, and cries, and woeful moans.</span>
+<span class="i0">Around stand more than twenty thousand men</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[136]</span><span class="i0">Who with one voice accuse Sweet France and Carle;</span>
+<span class="i0">Apollo's grotto seek they, and with taunts,</span>
+<span class="i0">Profane, insulting words, their God revile:</span>
+<span class="i0">"What ails thee, evil God, to shame us thus,</span>
+<span class="i0">And to confusion bring our Lord the King?</span>
+<span class="i0">Who serves thee well vile guerdon gains from thee!"</span>
+<span class="i0">Despoiled of crown and scepter, by the hands</span>
+<span class="i0">They hang him on a column&mdash;neath their feet</span>
+<span class="i0">They roll him down.&mdash;They with great clubs deface</span>
+<span class="i0">And beat him; then from Tervagant they snatch</span>
+<span class="i0">His carbuncle; Mohamed in a ditch</span>
+<span class="i0">Throw down&mdash;there bitt'n, trampled on, by swine and dogs.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_190" id="St_190">CXC.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Recov'ring from his swoon, the King Marsile</span>
+<span class="i0">Commands they lead him to his vaulted room</span>
+<span class="i0">All bright with color and inscribed with verse.</span>
+<span class="i0">There weeping bitterly, Queen Bramimunde</span>
+<span class="i0">Tearing her hair, aloud proclaims her grief:</span>
+<span class="i0">"O hapless Sarraguce, thou art bereft</span>
+<span class="i0">Of the most gentle King that was thy Lord!</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[137]</span><span class="i0">Our gods betrayed our trust, they who this morn</span>
+<span class="i0">In battle failed us;&mdash;the Emir coward were</span>
+<span class="i0">Would he not fight these people bold who are</span>
+<span class="i0">So proud they care not for their lives. Carl'magne,</span>
+<span class="i0">The Emperor, whose beard is strewn with gray,</span>
+<span class="i0">Among his men has dauntless Knights; if e'er</span>
+<span class="i0">He fight, no step he yields. Great woe it is</span>
+<span class="i0">That there is no man who can give him death."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_191" id="St_191">CXCI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">By his great power the Emperor in Spain</span>
+<span class="i0">Full seven years remained; he castles took</span>
+<span class="i0">And many cities, bringing sore distress</span>
+<span class="i0">To King Marsile. The year had scarce begun</span>
+<span class="i0">Before his word went forth to seal the briefs</span>
+<span class="i0">Which summoned Baligant from Babylone,</span>
+<span class="i0">(The aged Emir, he whose life outlived</span>
+<span class="i0">Homer and Virgil). Now the King Marsile</span>
+<span class="i0">Had begged the Baron's help for Sarraguce.</span>
+<span class="i0">Should he not come, gods, idols, once adored</span>
+<span class="i0">He will renounce, the holy Faith of Christ</span>
+<span class="i0">Embrace, and join in friendship with King Carle.</span>
+<span class="i0">Afar was Baligant, and tarried long;</span>
+<span class="i0">From forty realms his people had he called</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[138]</span><span class="i0">And ordered to prepare his <i>dromonds</i> vast,</span>
+<span class="i0">Barks, galleys, ev'ry vessel. In the port</span>
+<span class="i0">Of Alexandria the fleet had met;</span>
+<span class="i0">In May it was, the first of summer-days,</span>
+<span class="i0">A mighty host he launched upon the deep.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_192" id="St_192">CXCII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Great are the forces of their hostile horde;</span>
+<span class="i0">They swiftly skim the waves, and steer, and sail;</span>
+<span class="i0">Their masts and yards so blazing with the light</span>
+<span class="i0">Of carbuncles and lanterns, night gives up</span>
+<span class="i0">Its darkness and still fairer shows the sea.</span>
+<span class="i0">As they approached the shores of Spain, the land</span>
+<span class="i0">Was all aglow, and tidings reached Marsile.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_193" id="St_193">CXCIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Pagans halt no moment; soon they leave</span>
+<span class="i0">The deep, and in fresh water steer; Marbreise</span>
+<span class="i0">And then Marbruse is passed; along the shores</span>
+<span class="i0">Of winding Ebro glides the armament,</span>
+<span class="i0">Setting the night aflame with carbuncles</span>
+<span class="i0">And lights: the same day reached they Sarraguce.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[139]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_194" id="St_194">CXCIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Clear is the day and bright the sun; descends</span>
+<span class="i0">The Emir from his ship. Espaneliz</span>
+<span class="i0">Walks forth upon his right; a train of Kings</span>
+<span class="i0">In number seventeen, with Dukes and Counts</span>
+<span class="i0">Innumerable, follow. 'Mid the plain</span>
+<span class="i0">Grows a great laurel, and beneath its shade</span>
+<span class="i0">They spread a <i>pallie</i> of white silk upon</span>
+<span class="i0">The verdant grass, and place a faldstool there</span>
+<span class="i0">Of ivory. In this sits Baligant</span>
+<span class="i0">The Pagan. All the others stand. First spake</span>
+<span class="i0">The chief:&mdash;"Oyez, all ye, most valiant Knights!</span>
+<span class="i0">King Carle, the Emperor, who leads the Franks,</span>
+<span class="i0">Shall eat not, save by my command. Throughout</span>
+<span class="i0">All Spain, 'gainst me a cruel war he waged:</span>
+<span class="i0">Now I will seek him in sweet France, nor, while</span>
+<span class="i0">My life lasts, cease until he dies the death,</span>
+<span class="i0">Or, living, yields, and mercy begs." He spake</span>
+<span class="i0">And struck his right-hand glove upon his knee.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_195" id="St_195">CXCV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">His word once spoken was to him a law:</span>
+<span class="i0">Though it cost all the gold beneath the sky,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[140]</span><span class="i0">Yet would he march to Aix, where Carle was wont</span>
+<span class="i0">To hold his court. Some praise him, even give</span>
+<span class="i0">Him counsel. Two from out his host of Knights</span>
+<span class="i0">He summons, Clarien, and Clarifan:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Ye are the sons of King Maltra&iuml;en,</span>
+<span class="i0">A willing message bearer: 'tis my will</span>
+<span class="i0">Ye go to Sarraguce; there in my name</span>
+<span class="i0">Give ye this message to the King Marsile:</span>
+<span class="i0">I have come to succor him against the French,</span>
+<span class="i0">And if I find them, great the fight will be.</span>
+<span class="i0">Give him this gold-embroidered glove, and place it</span>
+<span class="i0">On his right hand; give him this staff of gold;</span>
+<span class="i0">And when he comes to pay me homage, as</span>
+<span class="i0">A vassal to his lord, I then will lead</span>
+<span class="i0">My force to France to fight with Carlemagne.</span>
+<span class="i0">If he fall not before my feet to pray</span>
+<span class="i0">For mercy, and abjure the Christian law,</span>
+<span class="i0">I from his head will tear away the crown."</span>
+<span class="i0">The Pagans answer all:&mdash;"Well spoken, Sire."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_196" id="St_196">CXCVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">"Barons! to horse!" said Baligant. "Bear thou</span>
+<span class="i0">The glove, and thou the staff." The two reply:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Dear Sire, thus shall we do." So fast they rode</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[141]</span><span class="i0">They soon reached Sarraguce. Beneath ten gates</span>
+<span class="i0">They pass, four bridges cross, ride through the streets</span>
+<span class="i0">Where stand the burghers. But on drawing near</span>
+<span class="i0">The lofty citadel, they heard great noise</span>
+<span class="i0">About the palace, where were thronging crowds</span>
+<span class="i0">Of Pagans with loud wails and shrieks of woe,</span>
+<span class="i0">Crying out against their gods, on Tervagan,</span>
+<span class="i0">Mahum, Apollo, who avail them naught.</span>
+<span class="i0">Each says to each, "Ah, caitiffs, what shall now</span>
+<span class="i0">Befall us, miserable? for we have lost</span>
+<span class="i0">The King Marsile whose hand Roll&aacute;nd struck off;</span>
+<span class="i0">For aye we are bereft of Turfaleu</span>
+<span class="i0">The Fair, his son. This day the land of Spain</span>
+<span class="i0">Into the Christian hands will fall enslaved!"</span>
+<span class="i0">The message-bearers reach the royal gates.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_197" id="St_197">CXCVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Beneath an olive tree they halt, and soon</span>
+<span class="i0">Two Pagans take their curbed steeds in charge.</span>
+<span class="i0">The messengers, each holding by the cloak</span>
+<span class="i0">The other, hasten to the highest tower.</span>
+<span class="i0">Entering the vaulted hall where lay Marsile,</span>
+<span class="i0">An evil greeting offer with good will:</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[142]</span><span class="i0">"May Tervagan, Apollo, he who holds</span>
+<span class="i0">Us in his service, and our Sire Mahum,</span>
+<span class="i0">Preserve our king and guard the queen!"</span>
+<span class="i0">Whereat cried Bramimunde:&mdash;"What folly this!</span>
+<span class="i0">Our gods are false; too well in Ronceval</span>
+<span class="i0">They showed their evil power, and let our knights</span>
+<span class="i0">Be slain&mdash;amid the battle-field forsook</span>
+<span class="i0">My lord the king with his right hand struck off</span>
+<span class="i0">By mighty Count Roll&aacute;nd. The realm of Spain</span>
+<span class="i0">Will fall enslaved beneath the sway of Carle.</span>
+<span class="i0">What shall become of me, most miserable?</span>
+<span class="i0">Alas! is there no man to give me death!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_198" id="St_198">CXCVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Said Clarien:&mdash;"Lady, speak not thus&mdash;Behold,</span>
+<span class="i0">Messengers we, from Baligant, who swears</span>
+<span class="i0">To free Marsile, and to him sends his glove</span>
+<span class="i0">And staff as tokens&mdash;on the Ebro float</span>
+<span class="i0">Four thousand galleys, skiffs and swiftest boats;</span>
+<span class="i0">More sails than can be numbered! Rich and great</span>
+<span class="i0">The Emir.&mdash;Carle, pursued to France, shall be</span>
+<span class="i0">Per force, or still, or dead, or penitent."</span>
+<span class="i0">Said Bramimunde:&mdash;"Yea, greater ills will come.</span>
+<span class="i0">To meet the Franks you need not go so far;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[143]</span>
+<span class="i0">Carle seven years in Spain has tarried. Brave</span>
+<span class="i0">Is he in battle, and a Baron true;</span>
+<span class="i0">Ready to die ere he will quit the field;</span>
+<span class="i0">No king on earth but is to him a child.</span>
+<span class="i0">Carle's spirit yields before no living man."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_199" id="St_199">CXCIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">"Let all that be!" cried to the messengers</span>
+<span class="i0">The King Marsile&mdash;"Seigneurs, speak but to me,</span>
+<span class="i0">You see me now crushed unto death. No son</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor daughter have I left, nor other heir;</span>
+<span class="i0">One son I had, who yestereve was slain.</span>
+<span class="i0">Say to my Lord his coming I beseech.</span>
+<span class="i0">Some rights to Spain the Emir has; to him</span>
+<span class="i0">I grant the realm in full, if he accept.</span>
+<span class="i0">Let him defend this land against the French,</span>
+<span class="i0">To meet Carlemagne good counsel I will give,</span>
+<span class="i0">And victor he will be before this day</span>
+<span class="i0">A month. Bear him the keys of Sarraguce;</span>
+<span class="i0">Thence, if he trust my words, he ne'er will be</span>
+<span class="i0">Expelled." They answer:&mdash;"Sire, you speak the truth."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[144]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_200" id="St_200">CC.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">"The Emperor Carle," said King Marsile, "has slain</span>
+<span class="i0">My men, ravaged my land, shattered and stormed</span>
+<span class="i0">My cities; now on Ebro's banks he camps,</span>
+<span class="i0">But seven counted leagues away. Bid ye</span>
+<span class="i0">The Emir march up all his force. Bear him</span>
+<span class="i0">My order for the fight." With this he gives</span>
+<span class="i0">Into their hands the keys of Sarraguce.</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon these words the messengers bent low</span>
+<span class="i0">In last salute, took leave, and went their way.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_201" id="St_201">CCI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The messengers upon their horses mount</span>
+<span class="i0">And gallop from the city in hot haste.</span>
+<span class="i0">With terror struck, both to the Emir come,</span>
+<span class="i0">Deliv'ring up the keys of Sarraguce.</span>
+<span class="i0">Said Baligant:&mdash;"What found ye there? Where is</span>
+<span class="i0">The King Marsile whom I commanded forth?"</span>
+<span class="i0">Clarien makes answer:&mdash;"He is hurt to death;</span>
+<span class="i0">The Emp'ror yesterday marched through the pass</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon his homeward way into sweet France.</span>
+<span class="i0">For greater honor, in the rear, Roll&aacute;nd,</span>
+<span class="i0">His nephew, had a post with Olivier,</span>
+<span class="i0">All the twelve Peers and twenty thousand knights.</span>
+<span class="i0">The King Marsile, the valiant Baron, fought</span>
+<span class="i0">And fierce encounter had with Count Roll&aacute;nd,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[145]</span><span class="i0">Who dealt with Durendal so dire a blow,</span>
+<span class="i0">The king's right hand was severed from his arm.</span>
+<span class="i0">Slain was the son he loved so tenderly,</span>
+<span class="i0">With all the Barons he had brought with him;</span>
+<span class="i0">Unable to resist, he took to flight,</span>
+<span class="i0">And Carle, the Emperor, followed close behind.</span>
+<span class="i0">Now give your help to King Marsile, who craves</span>
+<span class="i0">Your aid, and as your guerdon all the realm</span>
+<span class="i0">Of Spain receive." But Baligant remains</span>
+<span class="i0">Deep sunk in thought, nigh maddened by his grief.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_202" id="St_202">CCII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">"Sire Emir," Clarien said, "on yesterday</span>
+<span class="i0">A battle raged in Ronceval; Roll&aacute;nd</span>
+<span class="i0">And Olivier are dead, and the twelve Peers</span>
+<span class="i0">To Carle so dear, with twenty thousand Franks</span>
+<span class="i0">Have perished; King Marsile lost his right hand,</span>
+<span class="i0">And fled in hottest speed pursued by Carle.</span>
+<span class="i0">In all the land no Knight remains but slain</span>
+<span class="i0">Or in the waters of the Ebro drowned.</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon its banks the French encamp&mdash;So nigh&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">Had you the will, unsafe would be their flight."</span>
+<span class="i0">Then Baligant looks at him full of pride;</span>
+<span class="i0">And his heart swells with courage and fierce joy.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[146]</span><span class="i0">Sudden from his footstool he springs, and loud</span>
+<span class="i0">He cries:&mdash;"Delay not&mdash;disembark! To horse!</span>
+<span class="i0">And forward! Now, unless Carlemagne the old</span>
+<span class="i0">By flight escape, the King Marsile shall be</span>
+<span class="i0">Avenged. For his right hand Carle's head shall pay."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_203" id="St_203">CCIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Out of their skiffs the Arab Pagans spring,</span>
+<span class="i0">And mounting mules and horses, march; what else</span>
+<span class="i0">But this for them to do? When forward moves</span>
+<span class="i0">The host in serried lines, the Emir calls</span>
+<span class="i0">On Genalfin, his chosen friend: "To thee</span>
+<span class="i0">Command of all my armies I confide."&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">He said&mdash;and straight on his bay destrier mounts;</span>
+<span class="i0">Four Dukes rode with him, and so fast he sped,</span>
+<span class="i0">Ere long they entered into Sarraguce.</span>
+<span class="i0">Before a marble terrace he dismounts,</span>
+<span class="i0">Four Counts his stirrup held, and by the steps</span>
+<span class="i0">Which led up to the palace he ascends.</span>
+<span class="i0">To him runs Bramimunde:&mdash;"What cruel dole</span>
+<span class="i0">Is mine, oh, woe! How shamefully," she cried,</span>
+<span class="i0">"Have I now lost my lord!"&mdash;And at his feet</span>
+<span class="i0">Prostrate she fell. The Emir raised her up,</span>
+<span class="i0">And, grieving, both into the chamber went.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[147]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_204" id="St_204">CCIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The King Marsile, on seeing Baligant,</span>
+<span class="i0">Summoned two Spanish Saracens, and bade</span>
+<span class="i0">His body to be raised that he might sit.</span>
+<span class="i0">With his left hand he took a glove, and thus</span>
+<span class="i0">He spoke:&mdash;"Sir King and Emir, all my lands</span>
+<span class="i0">And kingdoms, Sarraguce, domains and fiefs</span>
+<span class="i0">But wreck and ruin&mdash;Subjects, wealth&mdash;all lost."</span>
+<span class="i0">Answered the Emir:&mdash;"I, so much the more,</span>
+<span class="i0">Grieve for thy sorrow; but for longer speech</span>
+<span class="i0">I can not stay; for Carle, I know, will not</span>
+<span class="i0">Be still. But, nathless, I receive the glove."</span>
+<span class="i0">O'erwhelmed with sorrow, weeping he departs;</span>
+<span class="i0">The palace steps descending, mounts his horse</span>
+<span class="i0">And spurs him towards the waiting hosts so fast,</span>
+<span class="i0">That of the foremost ranks he takes the lead;</span>
+<span class="i0">And cries aloud, going from man to man:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Haste, Pagans! On!&mdash;Already flee the Franks."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_205" id="St_205">CCV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">At earliest morn, just as the dawn appeared,</span>
+<span class="i0">From sleep awakes the Emp'ror Carlemagne;</span>
+<span class="i0">Saint-Gabriel, his guardian, sent by God,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[148]</span><span class="i0">With hands uplifted signed him with the cross.</span>
+<span class="i0">The King arises, takes his armor off,</span>
+<span class="i0">And all the host disarm.&mdash;The mounted knights</span>
+<span class="i0">Then ran at speed back o'er the trampled ways,</span>
+<span class="i0">The weary roads, to view the woeful loss</span>
+<span class="i0">Once more, on Ronceval's bloody battle-field.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_206" id="St_206">CCVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Arrived upon the field of Ronceval,</span>
+<span class="i0">Where lay so many slain, Carle wept, and said</span>
+<span class="i0">Unto the French:&mdash;"Seigneurs, move slowly here;</span>
+<span class="i0">For I alone, will forward go in search</span>
+<span class="i0">Of my fair nephew lost among the dead.</span>
+<span class="i0">Erst when at Aix on Christmas' solemn feast,</span>
+<span class="i0">My valiant bachelors, in warlike deeds</span>
+<span class="i0">Their exploits vaunting, I could hear Roll&aacute;nd</span>
+<span class="i0">Say, should he ever die on foreign soil,</span>
+<span class="i0">Before his peers and men he should be found</span>
+<span class="i0">Facing the foe, true Baron, conqu'ror still."</span>
+<span class="i0">A few steps further than a staff's throw, Carle</span>
+<span class="i0">Far in advance of all, ascends a hill.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_207" id="St_207">CCVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">When sought the Emperor his nephew there,</span>
+<span class="i0">Amid the field, and found so many plants</span>
+<span class="i0">With blossoms crimsoned by our Barons' blood,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[149]</span><span class="i0">By pity moved he can not choose but weep.</span>
+<span class="i0">Mounting the hill, beneath two trees, he knew</span>
+<span class="i0">The blow upon the three rocks Roll&aacute;nd struck,</span>
+<span class="i0">And saw his nephew lying on the sward,</span>
+<span class="i0">A mangled corse&mdash;No wonder Carle is wroth;</span>
+<span class="i0">Alights in haste and lifting in his arms</span>
+<span class="i0">The Count, broken by grief upon him faints.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_208" id="St_208">CCVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">From his deep swoon the Emperor revives.</span>
+<span class="i0">Duke Naimes, Count Acelin, Geffrei d'Anjou</span>
+<span class="i0">His brother Tierri raise the King, and place</span>
+<span class="i0">Him resting 'gainst a pine. There on the earth</span>
+<span class="i0">He sees his nephew lying dead, and mourns</span>
+<span class="i0">O'er him with gentle words and tender looks,</span>
+<span class="i0">"Sweet friend, Roll&aacute;nd, God's mercy unto thee!</span>
+<span class="i0">Such peerless knight none ever yet has seen,</span>
+<span class="i0">For noble combats ordered and achieved!</span>
+<span class="i0">Mine honor turns to its decline!&mdash;" Once more</span>
+<span class="i0">Carle's will and strength succumb.... He faints away.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_209" id="St_209">CCIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Again King Carle recovers from his swoon....</span>
+<span class="i0">Four of his Barons, with their hands support</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[150]</span><span class="i0">His form. His downcast looks see stretched on earth</span>
+<span class="i0">His nephew's corpse. Discolored was the brow,</span>
+<span class="i0">Yet proud the look; the dimmed and sightless eyes</span>
+<span class="i0">Turned up.... In faith and love King Carle laments.</span>
+<span class="i0">"Sweet friend Roll&aacute;nd, may God enshrine thy soul</span>
+<span class="i0">Among the Glorified, amidst the flowers</span>
+<span class="i0">Of Paradise! For thy mishap, Seigneur,</span>
+<span class="i0">Camest thou to Spain.... No future day shall dawn</span>
+<span class="i0">For me, on which I mourn thee not.... Now fall'n</span>
+<span class="i0">My strength and power! Who now will e'er support</span>
+<span class="i0">My royal fiefs? Thou wast for me 'neath Heav'n</span>
+<span class="i0">The one true friend! though other kindred mine,</span>
+<span class="i0">Was none so brave and wise."&mdash;He tore his hair</span>
+<span class="i0">In handfuls from his brow. So great the grief</span>
+<span class="i0">Of those one hundred thousand Franks, that none</span>
+<span class="i0">There was, of all, who wept not bitter tears.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_210" id="St_210">CCX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">"Beloved Roll&aacute;nd, to France I now return.</span>
+<span class="i0">When in my chamber I shall be at Lo&uuml;n,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[151]</span><span class="i0">And foreign men come from afar to ask</span>
+<span class="i0">Where lives Roll&aacute;nd the Captain, I shall say</span>
+<span class="i0">'He lieth dead in Spain;' and I henceforth</span>
+<span class="i0">Shall hold my realm in bitter pain. No day</span>
+<span class="i0">Shall dawn for me unmarked by tears and moans."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_211" id="St_211">CCXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">"Sweet friend Roll&aacute;nd, brave Knight and beauteous youth,</span>
+<span class="i0">When I return to Aix, in my Chapelle,</span>
+<span class="i0">And men shall come to hear me speak of thee,</span>
+<span class="i0">What strange and cruel news I then shall have</span>
+<span class="i0">To greet them with! 'My nephew who for me</span>
+<span class="i0">Such conquests made ... is dead.' And Saxons now</span>
+<span class="i0">Will rise against my power, and Hungres, and Bugres</span>
+<span class="i0">With other foes&mdash;the men of Rome, of Pouille,</span>
+<span class="i0">And all those of Palerne; and those who hold</span>
+<span class="i0">Affrike and Califerne. Day after day</span>
+<span class="i0">My pain will grow&mdash;Who then shall lead my host</span>
+<span class="i0">With such an arm of might, since he is dead,</span>
+<span class="i0">Who was our chief and head so long. Alas!</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[152]</span><span class="i0">Sweet France, bereft art thou! So great my grief</span>
+<span class="i0">I would not live!"&mdash;he plucks out his white beard</span>
+<span class="i0">And tears his hair with both hands from his head.</span>
+<span class="i0">Swoon on the earth one hundred thousand Franks&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_212" id="St_212">CCXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">"Sweet friend," he cried, "Roll&aacute;nd, thou art no more:</span>
+<span class="i0">Oh! may thy soul have place in Paradise!</span>
+<span class="i0">Who gave thee death brought grievous shame to France.</span>
+<span class="i0">Such is my grief, I would not longer live.</span>
+<span class="i0">My kinsmen died for me! I pray Our Lord,</span>
+<span class="i0">The Blessed Mary's son, before I reach</span>
+<span class="i0">Cizra's defiles, from mortal life to take</span>
+<span class="i0">My soul away, and let it rest with theirs.</span>
+<span class="i0">I would my body lay beside their own!"</span>
+<span class="i0">And, weeping sore, he tears his hoary beard....</span>
+<span class="i0">Then said Duke Naimes:&mdash;"What cruel pain is Carle's!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_213" id="St_213">CCXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">"Sire Emperor," spoke forth Geffrei d'Anjou,</span>
+<span class="i0">"Yield not so much to sorrow&mdash;Orders give</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[153]</span><span class="i0">To seek our men throughout the battle-field,</span>
+<span class="i0">In combat killed by those of Spain, and lay</span>
+<span class="i0">Them in one grave"&mdash;Carle said: "Then sound your horn."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_214" id="St_214">CCXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Geffrei d'Anjou obeyed and blew his horn;</span>
+<span class="i0">The French dismount, such was the king's command,</span>
+<span class="i0">And all their friends found slain upon the field</span>
+<span class="i0">Together in one charnel wide inter:</span>
+<span class="i0">A crowd of bishops, abbots, canons, monks</span>
+<span class="i0">And tonsured priests there gathered, in the name</span>
+<span class="i0">Of God assoil and bless; incense and myrrh</span>
+<span class="i0">Are burned in reverence and love before</span>
+<span class="i0">The dead who, buried there with honors great,</span>
+<span class="i0">Are left alone&mdash;what more was there to do?</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_215" id="St_215">CCXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Emp'ror Carle gives order that a watch</span>
+<span class="i0">Be kept around Roll&aacute;nd, Count Olivier</span>
+<span class="i0">And the Archbishop Turpin; bade their breasts</span>
+<span class="i0">Be oped before him, and their hearts enwrapped</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[154]</span>
+<span class="i0">In silken cloths&mdash;in tombs of marble white</span>
+<span class="i0">Inurned; the bodies of the Barons then</span>
+<span class="i0">Perfumed with wine and fragrant herbs; the three</span>
+<span class="i0">Seigneurs in wrappings of stag's hide were cased;</span>
+<span class="i0">By Carle's decree Tedbald and Gebuin,</span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Marchis</i> Othon and Count Milon escort</span>
+<span class="i0">Them on their way, upon three chariots borne,</span>
+<span class="i0">And covered well with palls of glaz&egrave;d silk.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_216" id="St_216">CCXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">King Carle about to start, sees suddenly</span>
+<span class="i0">Emerge the Pagan van. From Baligant,</span>
+<span class="i0">The battle to declare, two messengers</span>
+<span class="i0">Advance:&mdash;"Proud king, from here thou must not go;</span>
+<span class="i0">Behold, the Emir to thine encounter comes</span>
+<span class="i0">And brings a mighty host from Araby.</span>
+<span class="i0">This day will prove if truly valiant knight</span>
+<span class="i0">Thou art." Carl'magne, the king, plucks his gray beard;</span>
+<span class="i0">So cruel is the memory of all</span>
+<span class="i0">His grief and wrong, proudly he casts a look</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon his knightly host, and with loud voice</span>
+<span class="i0">Exclaims:&mdash;"Seigneurs Barons! To horse! To arms!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[155]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_217" id="St_217">CCXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">First of them all the Emperor is armed.</span>
+<span class="i0">Quick donned his hauberk,&mdash;laced his helm&mdash;Joyeuse,</span>
+<span class="i0">Whose brightness vies with the sun's dazzling rays,</span>
+<span class="i0">Is girded on&mdash;a shield of Girunde hangs</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon his neck,&mdash;his lance, forged in Blandune</span>
+<span class="i0">He wields, and mounts his good steed Tencendur</span>
+<span class="i0">Which nigh the ford below Marsune he won,</span>
+<span class="i0">When he struck dead Malpalin de Nerbune.</span>
+<span class="i0">Quick to a gallop spurred, rein loosed, the steed</span>
+<span class="i0">Sped on, before one hundred thousand men.</span>
+<span class="i0">Carle calls on Rome's Apostle and on God.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_218" id="St_218">CCXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Spread o'er the field the men of France dismount.</span>
+<span class="i0">More than one hundred thousand arm themselves</span>
+<span class="i0">Together&mdash;Brilliant their array! Their steeds</span>
+<span class="i0">Are fleet, arms gleaming; bright the pennons float</span>
+<span class="i0">Above their helms: The foe once found, they give</span>
+<span class="i0">Them certain battle. Mounted thus, how brave</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[156]</span><span class="i0">Their show! When Carle beholds their faces bright,</span>
+<span class="i0">Joseran de Provence he calls, the brave</span>
+<span class="i0">Duke Naimes, also Anselme de Maience:</span>
+<span class="i0">"In knights so good behooves men to have faith,</span>
+<span class="i0">And mad indeed who doubts of the event.</span>
+<span class="i0">Should not the Arabs their approach repent,</span>
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd's death I to them will dearly sell."</span>
+<span class="i0">Responds Duke Naimes:&mdash;"May God vouchsafe your prayer."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_219" id="St_219">CCXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Carl calls Rabel and Guineman:&mdash;"Seigneurs,</span>
+<span class="i0">I will that ye should take the place of Counts</span>
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd and Olivier&mdash;One bear the sword;</span>
+<span class="i0">The olifant, the other&mdash;Be the chiefs</span>
+<span class="i0">Of fifteen thousand bachelors of France,</span>
+<span class="i0">In youth and valor famous among all&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">As many more will follow after these,</span>
+<span class="i0">Conducted by Gebuin and by Laurant."</span>
+<span class="i0">Duke Naimes and Joseran the Count with speed</span>
+<span class="i0">And care these hosts in full array dispose.</span>
+<span class="i0">Let them encounter, great will be the fight.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_220" id="St_220">CCXX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">These first two cohorts were from out the French</span>
+<span class="i0">Composed; and after those a third was formed:</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[157]</span><span class="i0">The vassals of Baviere&mdash;Their numbers mount</span>
+<span class="i0">To thirty thousand knights who ne'er would blench</span>
+<span class="i0">Before the foe. Beneath the sky live not</span>
+<span class="i0">A people dearer to the heart of Carle,</span>
+<span class="i0">Save those of France, the conquerors of realms.</span>
+<span class="i0">The Count Ogier de Danemarche, the brave,</span>
+<span class="i0">Will lead&mdash;What beauty sits upon their brows!</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_221" id="St_221">CCXXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Now has the Emp'ror Carle three squadrons; Naimes</span>
+<span class="i0">The Duke, then forms the fourth with truly brave</span>
+<span class="i0">Barons from Allemagne, who left La Marche.</span>
+<span class="i0">These, twenty thousand count, so all report;</span>
+<span class="i0">Well furnished with good steeds and arms; for dread</span>
+<span class="i0">Of death in battle they will never yield.</span>
+<span class="i0">Herman the Duke of Thrace, their chief, will die</span>
+<span class="i0">Before he guilty proves of cowardice.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_222" id="St_222">CCXXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Duke Naimes and Joseran the Count, have formed</span>
+<span class="i0">The fifth of Normans, twenty thousand men,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[158]</span><span class="i0">Say all the Franks. Their arms are bright, and fleet</span>
+<span class="i0">Their steeds. These welcome death ere they succumb.</span>
+<span class="i0">None under Heav'n more valiant in the fight.</span>
+<span class="i0">Richard the old will lead them on the field,&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">And with his trenchant lance will bravely strike.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_223" id="St_223">CCXXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Composed of Bretons the sixth squadron was:</span>
+<span class="i0">Full forty thousand chevaliers are they;</span>
+<span class="i0">Barons in mien when mounted thus, each lance</span>
+<span class="i0">In rest, its pennon rolled. Their lord is named</span>
+<span class="i0">Oedun: These led by Nevelon the Count,</span>
+<span class="i0">Tedbald de Reins and the Marchis Othon&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">"My people guide," said Carle; "in ye my trust."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_224" id="St_224">CCXXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">King Carle has now six squadrons on the field.</span>
+<span class="i0">Barons d'Alverne and Peitevins Duke Naimes</span>
+<span class="i0">Has mustered in the seventh. They may count</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[159]</span><span class="i0">Full forty thousand knights. How good their steeds,</span>
+<span class="i0">How finely wrought their arms! They stand aloof</span>
+<span class="i0">Within a shady vale. With his right hand</span>
+<span class="i0">He gives to these his blessing. Joseran</span>
+<span class="i0">And Godselmes their appointed leaders are.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_225" id="St_225">CCXXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Barons of Frise and Flamengs Naimes enrolled</span>
+<span class="i0">For the eighth legion. Knights in number more</span>
+<span class="i0">Than fifty thousand, men who never yield</span>
+<span class="i0">In battle. Thus the king: "My service these</span>
+<span class="i0">Will do, Rembalt and Hamon de Galice</span>
+<span class="i0">Shall lead them forward in all chivalry."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_226" id="St_226">CCXXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Duke Naimes and Joseran the Count equip</span>
+<span class="i0">The ninth battalion,&mdash;brave among the brave.</span>
+<span class="i0">Those warriors from Lorraine and Burgundy:</span>
+<span class="i0">In number fifty thousand knights; close helmed,</span>
+<span class="i0">In hauberk mailed&mdash;a stout short-handled lance</span>
+<span class="i0">Each wields. Should Arabs not from combat shrink,</span>
+<span class="i0">Lorrains and Bourguignons will deal hard blows;</span>
+<span class="i0">Tierri Duke of Argonne will be their chief.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[160]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_227" id="St_227">CCXXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Barons of France make up the tenth. They are</span>
+<span class="i0">One hundred thousand captains 'mong the best;</span>
+<span class="i0">Hardy and stout, of features proud, hair flecked</span>
+<span class="i0">With gray, and beard all white; in hauberk clad</span>
+<span class="i0">And lin&egrave;d coat of mails, girt with their swords</span>
+<span class="i0">Of Spain and France; for shelter, brilliant shields</span>
+<span class="i0">With various blazons decked, among them known.</span>
+<span class="i0">They mount their steeds and clamor for the fight:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Montjoie!" they cry.&mdash;Comes now Carlemagne the king!</span>
+<span class="i0">Geffrei d'Anjou bears up the oriflamme</span>
+<span class="i0">Called Roman once, but since the day Saint Pierre</span>
+<span class="i0">Made it a standard, it is named Montjoie.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_228" id="St_228">CCXXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Emperor Carle dismounts, prostrates himself</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon the verdant grass, invoking God</span>
+<span class="i0">With eyes uplifted toward the rising sun:</span>
+<span class="i0">"O father true, this day be my defense!</span>
+<span class="i0">Thy hand it was saved Jonas from the whale</span>
+<span class="i0">Within whose body he was swallowed up;</span>
+<span class="i0">Thou sparedst too the king of Niniva;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[161]</span><span class="i0">And Daniel didst thou save from cruel pain</span>
+<span class="i0">When thrown among the lions. By thy might</span>
+<span class="i0">Stood the three children safe in burning flames,</span>
+<span class="i0">This day grant also unto me thy love,</span>
+<span class="i0">Merciful God! List to my prayer; vouchsafe</span>
+<span class="i0">That I avenge my nephew, dear Roll&aacute;nd!"</span>
+<span class="i0">Thus having prayed, he stands erect and marks</span>
+<span class="i0">His forehead with the sign of might: Then mounts</span>
+<span class="i0">A fleet-hoofed courser. Naimes and Joseran</span>
+<span class="i0">Carle's stirrup hold&mdash;With buckler on his arm</span>
+<span class="i0">And trenchant lance in rest; strength, beauty, grace</span>
+<span class="i0">Sat on his countenance and visage fair.</span>
+<span class="i0">Then firmly seated on his horse he rides....</span>
+<span class="i0">Clarions in rear and front re&euml;cho 'round....</span>
+<span class="i0">But above all rings out the olifant.</span>
+<span class="i0">Meantime the French weep ... mourning for Roll&aacute;nd.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_229" id="St_229">CCXXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Most nobly on the Emp'ror Carle proceeds.</span>
+<span class="i0">His long beard flowing o'er his coat of mail,</span>
+<span class="i0">And so, for love of him, the knights, whereby,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[162]</span><span class="i0">Are surely known the hundred thousand Franks;</span>
+<span class="i0">They march through mountains and o'ertopping peaks,</span>
+<span class="i0">Deep vales, defiles of frightful look. At last</span>
+<span class="i0">Leaving the narrow pass and wasted land,</span>
+<span class="i0">They reach the Spanish bourne and make a halt</span>
+<span class="i0">Amid a plain. Meanwhile to Baligant</span>
+<span class="i0">Return his vanguard scouts; a Syrian spy</span>
+<span class="i0">Heralds the news,&mdash;"We saw the proud King Carle.</span>
+<span class="i0">His warriors fierce will never fail their King.</span>
+<span class="i0">To arms&mdash;Within a moment look for fight!"</span>
+<span class="i0">Baligant cried:&mdash;"Good news for our brave hearts!</span>
+<span class="i0">Sound all your trumps and let my Pagans know!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_230" id="St_230">CCXXX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Throughout the camp the drums sonorous beat,</span>
+<span class="i0">With bellowing horns and blasts of trumpet clear.</span>
+<span class="i0">The Pagans arm themselves, and least of all</span>
+<span class="i0">The Emir would th' advance delay&mdash;He wears</span>
+<span class="i0">A hauberk saffron&mdash;'broidered round the sides,</span>
+<span class="i0">And clasps his helm with gold and gems inlaid.</span>
+<span class="i0">On his left side a sword whereto, in pride,</span>
+<span class="i0">He gave a name, as Carle had named his sword,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[163]</span><span class="i0">And called the blade his Precieuse. This name</span>
+<span class="i0">Shall be the battle-cry his warriors shout&mdash;&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">Hangs from his neck a large and spreading shield</span>
+<span class="i0">Whose golden boss shines with a crystal ring;</span>
+<span class="i0">The strap of silk with rosy 'broidery;</span>
+<span class="i0">The lance he bears is named Mallet, the shaft</span>
+<span class="i0">Of which so huge, more than a beam it looks,</span>
+<span class="i0">And steel so strong, beneath its weight a mule</span>
+<span class="i0">Would groan. Upon his steed mounts Baligant;</span>
+<span class="i0">His stirrup held by Marcule d'Ultremer.</span>
+<span class="i0">Mighty the Emir's stride across the selle;</span>
+<span class="i0">Thin-loined, wide-flanked, deep-chested, all his form</span>
+<span class="i0">Well molded; broad his shoulders; clear his eye,</span>
+<span class="i0">His visage haughty, curls around his brow.</span>
+<span class="i0">White as a summer blossom he appears;</span>
+<span class="i0">His valor proved by many feats of war.</span>
+<span class="i0">God! what a Baron, had he Christian faith!</span>
+<span class="i0">He spurs his horse until the crimson blood</span>
+<span class="i0">Reddens its flanks, and lightly bounds across</span>
+<span class="i0">A mighty chasm full fifty feet in width.</span>
+<span class="i0">The Pagans cry:&mdash;"He can defend his marche.</span>
+<span class="i0">With him none 'mong the French can cross a lance;</span>
+<span class="i0">Will they or not, their lives are forfeit now.</span>
+<span class="i0">Yea Carle was mad who did not shun the field."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[164]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_231" id="St_231">CCXXXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Emir, Baron-like, wears on his chin</span>
+<span class="i0">A beard as white as summer flower, and gained</span>
+<span class="i0">Among the wisest of his creed a fame;</span>
+<span class="i0">In battle fierce and proud. His son Malprime</span>
+<span class="i0">Of knightly soul, and from his noble race</span>
+<span class="i0">Holding a valiant heart and strength of arm,</span>
+<span class="i0">Addressed his father:&mdash;"Sire, to horse! to horse!</span>
+<span class="i0">Against them! I much wonder whether Carle</span>
+<span class="i0">We e'er shall meet."&mdash;"Yea," answered Baligant,</span>
+<span class="i0">"Carle is a valorous knight; his glorious deeds</span>
+<span class="i0">Are writt'n, but now his nephew is no more;</span>
+<span class="i0">Against our strength no other man's can stand."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_232" id="St_232">CCXXXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">"Fair son, Malprime," said th' Emir Baligant,</span>
+<span class="i0">"Yesterday fell in death the noble knight</span>
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd, and Olivier the wise and brave,</span>
+<span class="i0">And the twelve Peers by Carle so dearly loved,</span>
+<span class="i0">With twenty thousand combatants of France;</span>
+<span class="i0">Not at a glove's worth hold I all the rest.</span>
+<span class="i0">Anon my Syrian messenger reports</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[165]</span><span class="i0">The emperor's approach; ten armies Carle</span>
+<span class="i0">Has called in close array; the knight who bears</span>
+<span class="i0">The olifant, with clear resounding blast</span>
+<span class="i0">Leads his companions, riding in the front;</span>
+<span class="i0">Together with them fifteen thousand men</span>
+<span class="i0">Of France, all bachelors, whom Carle is wont</span>
+<span class="i0">To call his children. These as many follow</span>
+<span class="i0">Who for the fiercest combat seem prepared."</span>
+<span class="i0">Thus said Malprime: "The first stroke I demand!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_233" id="St_233">CCXXXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">"Fair son," said Baligant, "to you I grant</span>
+<span class="i0">Your full request. Against the French at once</span>
+<span class="i0">Engage. Let your companions be Torleu</span>
+<span class="i0">The Persian King, and Dapamort who rules</span>
+<span class="i0">Leutis. If you subdue the vaunting Carle,</span>
+<span class="i0">A portion of my kingdom shall you have</span>
+<span class="i0">In fief from the Orient to Val-Marchis."</span>
+<span class="i0">Responds Malprime: "To you, O sire, all thanks!"</span>
+<span class="i0">And stepping forward, he receives the boon.</span>
+<span class="i0">This land had once been swayed by King Fleuri,</span>
+<span class="i0">But by Malprime was neither ruled nor seen.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_234" id="St_234">CCXXXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Emir Baligant rides through the ranks</span>
+<span class="i0">Of all his host, escorted by his son</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[166]</span><span class="i0">Of giant stature, and the Kings Torleu</span>
+<span class="i0">And Dapamort. In line of battle soon</span>
+<span class="i0">Stand thirty legions ranked. Countless the knights,</span>
+<span class="i0">And fifteen thousand strong the weakest band</span>
+<span class="i0">Can number. First are those of Butentrot,</span>
+<span class="i0">The next of Misnia: enormous heads</span>
+<span class="i0">O'ertop the spine enrooted in their backs,</span>
+<span class="i0">Their shaggy bodies bristling with coarse hair</span>
+<span class="i0">Like boars; the third, of Nubles and of Blos;</span>
+<span class="i0">The legion fourth of Bruns and Esclavos;</span>
+<span class="i0">The fifth of Sorbres and Sorz; from the Ermines</span>
+<span class="i0">And Mors is formed the sixth; from Jericho</span>
+<span class="i0">The seventh, and the eighth from those of Nigre.</span>
+<span class="i0">Of Gros the ninth, and from Balide-la-Fort,</span>
+<span class="i0">The legion tenth, men never good for aught.</span>
+<span class="i0">With strongest oaths the Emir swears aloud</span>
+<span class="i0">By all Mohammed's might and body, "Carle</span>
+<span class="i0">Of France rides like a madman to his doom,</span>
+<span class="i0">For combat we shall have; recoils he not,</span>
+<span class="i0">His brow shall never more wear golden crown."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_235" id="St_235">CCXXXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Ten other legions are arrayed: the first</span>
+<span class="i0">Of Canelieux&mdash;ill-visaged people, come</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[167]</span><span class="i0">Athwart, from Valfuit; Turks the next; the third</span>
+<span class="i0">Persians; the fourth, Persians and Pinceneis;</span>
+<span class="i0">The fifth from Soltras come and from Avers;</span>
+<span class="i0">Englez and Ormaleis make up the sixth;</span>
+<span class="i0">The seventh scions are of Samuel's race;</span>
+<span class="i0">The eighth from Braise; Esclavers form the ninth;</span>
+<span class="i0">As for the tenth, a horde perverse that came</span>
+<span class="i0">From Ociant's deserted land&mdash;a race</span>
+<span class="i0">Not loving God the Lord; ne'er shall you hear</span>
+<span class="i0">Of viler breed: their heathen skin as hard</span>
+<span class="i0">As iron, whence it is they need no helms</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor hauberks mailed&mdash;in battle treach'rous fiends.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_236" id="St_236">CCXXXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Emir has himself ten legions armed.</span>
+<span class="i0">To form the first the giants of Malpruse</span>
+<span class="i0">Were summoned; to the second came the Huns;</span>
+<span class="i0">The Hungres made the third; Baldise-la-Lungue</span>
+<span class="i0">The fourth, and Val-Penuse the fifth; the sixth</span>
+<span class="i0">Maruse; the seventh Leuz and Astrimonies;</span>
+<span class="i0">The eighth Argoilles; Clarbone the ninth; the tenth</span>
+<span class="i0">Formed of the bearded men of Val-Fond&eacute;,</span>
+<span class="i0">A tribe that never would love God. The songs</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[168]</span><span class="i0">Of Geste of France thus thirty legions count:</span>
+<span class="i0">A mighty host where many a trumpet blasts.</span>
+<span class="i0">Forward, like valiant knights, the Pagans ride.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_237" id="St_237">CCXXXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Emir, rich and mighty lord, commands</span>
+<span class="i0">Before him to display his dragon-flag,</span>
+<span class="i0">The standard of Mahum and Tervagant;</span>
+<span class="i0">With it Apollo's image, evil god.</span>
+<span class="i0">Ten Canelieus about him ride, and cry</span>
+<span class="i0">This sermon with loud voice: "Who by our Gods</span>
+<span class="i0">Craves to be saved, with the most contrite heart</span>
+<span class="i0">Must pray!" And then the Pagans low incline</span>
+<span class="i0">Their heads and chins, with brilliant helms bent down</span>
+<span class="i0">To earth.&mdash;"Now, gluttons, comes your hour to die!"</span>
+<span class="i0">Cry out the French; "Confusion be your lot.</span>
+<span class="i0">This day, O God of ours, defend King Carle,</span>
+<span class="i0">Turn Thou the scale of battle to his side!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_238" id="St_238">CCXXXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Emir, great in wisdom, called his son</span>
+<span class="i0">And the two kings:&mdash;"Seigneurs Barons, in front</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[169]</span><span class="i0">Ride ye, and all my legions you shall lead;</span>
+<span class="i0">Among them only three will I retain,</span>
+<span class="i0">But of the best: The first shall be the Turks,</span>
+<span class="i0">The second of the Ormaleis composed,</span>
+<span class="i0">And third shall be the Giants of Malpruse,</span>
+<span class="i0">While those of Occiant shall near me stand</span>
+<span class="i0">To set them on King Carle and on his French.</span>
+<span class="i0">Should then the Emperor dare measure arms</span>
+<span class="i0">With me, struck from its trunk his head shall fall&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">No right has he to other fate than this."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_239" id="St_239">CCXXXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Both armies are immense; their squadrons bright.</span>
+<span class="i0">Between the combatants nor height, nor hill,</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor vale, nor wood that shelter could afford;</span>
+<span class="i0">Foe looks on foe across the open field.&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">Said Baligant: "My Saracens, to horse!</span>
+<span class="i0">Ride forward to the fight!" The battle flag</span>
+<span class="i0">Is borne on high by Amboire d'Oliferne,</span>
+<span class="i0">And all shout "Precieuse!" The French exclaim:</span>
+<span class="i0">"May ye confounded be this day!" Aloud</span>
+<span class="i0">Rises their cry "Montjoie!" The Emperor Carle</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[170]</span><span class="i0">His trumpets bid resound, and the olifant</span>
+<span class="i0">Whose blast 'whelms all. The Pagans say: "Carle's host</span>
+<span class="i0">Is fair! Fierce battle shall we have and dire."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_240" id="St_240">CCXL.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Vast is the plain and broad the field. Behold</span>
+<span class="i0">Those dazzling helms inlaid with gold and gems,</span>
+<span class="i0">Those shields, those coats of mail with saffron edged,</span>
+<span class="i0">Those spears and pennons rolled; hearken ye the voice</span>
+<span class="i0">Of trumpets blowing clear and strong, and hark</span>
+<span class="i0">The olifant's shrill blast, which sounds the charge.</span>
+<span class="i0">The Emir calls his brother, Canabeu,</span>
+<span class="i0">The King of Flored&eacute;e, who rules the land</span>
+<span class="i0">As far as Val-Sevr&eacute;e, and points to Carle's</span>
+<span class="i0">Ten must'ring legions: "See the pride of France</span>
+<span class="i0">The praised; amid his bearded knights how proud</span>
+<span class="i0">The Emperor rides! O'er their hauberks stream</span>
+<span class="i0">Their beards as white as snow upon the frost.</span>
+<span class="i0">Forsooth! These valiant warriors will strike hard</span>
+<span class="i0">With lance and sword, and such a fight be ours</span>
+<span class="i0">As never man has fought." Then Baligant,</span>
+<span class="i0">Urging his courser further than a man</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[171]</span>
+<span class="i0">Can hurl a staff, gave reasons and their proof:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Come forward, Pagans; follow where I go!"</span>
+<span class="i0">Brandishing high the shaft of his own lance,</span>
+<span class="i0">At Carle he levels fair its trenchant steel.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_241" id="St_241">CCXLI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">When Carle the Emir sees, and with him borne</span>
+<span class="i0">The dragon-standard, all the land o'erswarmed</span>
+<span class="i0">By Arab warriors, save that space alone</span>
+<span class="i0">Held by his host, he cries with loudest voice:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Barons of France, in valor great, we know,</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon how many fields ye battled! See</span>
+<span class="i0">The Pagans! Traitors vile and cowards all;</span>
+<span class="i0">Yea, all their law I count no denier worth.</span>
+<span class="i0">What care ye, lords, how vast their numbers are?</span>
+<span class="i0">Let those who wish to combat follow me!"</span>
+<span class="i0">With pointed spurs he pricks his courser's flanks</span>
+<span class="i0">And Tecendur four times leaped in the air.</span>
+<span class="i0">Cry out the French:&mdash;"A valiant King is this!</span>
+<span class="i0">Ride forward, Sire, not one will fail you here."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_242" id="St_242">CCXLII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Clear was the day and bright the sun. Both hosts</span>
+<span class="i0">Resplendent, their battalions numberless;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[172]</span><span class="i0">The legions in the van already meet</span>
+<span class="i0">In fight. Both Counts Rabel and Guineman</span>
+<span class="i0">On their fleet coursers' necks have loosed the rein!</span>
+<span class="i0">Sharply they spur, and all the Franks dash on</span>
+<span class="i0">To deal with trenchant lance their valiant blows.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_243" id="St_243">CCXLIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">A daring Knight is Count Rabel. With spurs</span>
+<span class="i0">Of purest gold he pricks his courser's flanks,</span>
+<span class="i0">Rushing to smite Torleu the Persian King.</span>
+<span class="i0">No shield, no hauberk can such blow withstand.</span>
+<span class="i0">The golden spear went through the Pagan's heart</span>
+<span class="i0">And mid the brambles of the road has struck</span>
+<span class="i0">Him dead. The French cry out: "Aid us, O God!</span>
+<span class="i0">With Carle the right; ne'er shall we fail our King!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_244" id="St_244">CCXLIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Guineman 'gainst the King of Leutice tilts;</span>
+<span class="i0">The Pagan's shield with painted flowers bedecked</span>
+<span class="i0">Is shattered and his hauberk torn away.</span>
+<span class="i0">Through his heart's core the pennon of the Knight</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[173]</span>
+<span class="i0">Is driven, bearing death,&mdash;or laugh or weep</span>
+<span class="i0">Who may. At such a blow the French exclaim:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Barons, strike ever! Strike and be not slack</span>
+<span class="i0">Against the Pagan hordes; to Carle belongs</span>
+<span class="i0">The right. With us the justice true of God!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_245" id="St_245">CCXLV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Malprime upon a steed of purest white</span>
+<span class="i0">Leads 'gainst the serried legions of the Franks</span>
+<span class="i0">His men. Abating not his mighty blows,</span>
+<span class="i0">Corse over corse he heaps. Cries Baligant</span>
+<span class="i0">In front: "Ye whom my kindness nurtured long,</span>
+<span class="i0">Barons of mine, see how my son seeks Carle</span>
+<span class="i0">And with so many knights he measured arms;</span>
+<span class="i0">A better vassal I shall never claim;</span>
+<span class="i0">Give him the succor of your trenchant spears."</span>
+<span class="i0">On rush the Pagans at these words, and deal</span>
+<span class="i0">Their mortal blows around. Rude is the fight!</span>
+<span class="i0">The battle marvelous and stern. None such</span>
+<span class="i0">Was ever seen before or since that hour.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_246" id="St_246">CCXLVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The hosts are numberless, the warriors fierce&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">The encount'ring legions fighting hand to hand</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[174]</span><span class="i0">Noblest exploits achieved. How many a lance</span>
+<span class="i0">Asunder broken; God! How many shields</span>
+<span class="i0">In pieces split, how many hauberks wrenched!</span>
+<span class="i0">Splinters of shivered armor you might see</span>
+<span class="i0">Strew all the field, and verdant tender grass</span>
+<span class="i0">Vermillioned o'er by streams of human gore!</span>
+<span class="i0">The Emir to his people calls anew:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Barons strike down these Christian people!"&mdash;Hard</span>
+<span class="i0">And long the fight embittered by revenge</span>
+<span class="i0">And rage. Ne'er seen before nor will be seen</span>
+<span class="i0">Again such combat.&mdash;To the death they fight.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_247" id="St_247">CCXLVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Emir to his men:&mdash;"Strike, Pagans, ye</span>
+<span class="i0">For this alone have come. Dames sweet and fair</span>
+<span class="i0">Shall be your guerdon; honors, and domains</span>
+<span class="i0">I promise all."&mdash;The Saracens respond:</span>
+<span class="i0">"To serve you all we ought."&mdash;So hard they fight</span>
+<span class="i0">That in the hot affray they lose their spears:</span>
+<span class="i0">Anon a thousand flashing swords and more,</span>
+<span class="i0">Are drawn, a bloody slaughter to achieve.</span>
+<span class="i0">He who stood on that field, true battle saw.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[175]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_248" id="St_248">CCXLVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The King exhorts his French: "Beloved Seigneurs</span>
+<span class="i0">And trusty Knights, ye many battles fought</span>
+<span class="i0">For me, won many a realm, defeated Kings!</span>
+<span class="i0">Full well I know, rich guerdons have ye earned;</span>
+<span class="i0">My wealth, lands, blood I owe you. Now to-day</span>
+<span class="i0">Your sons, your brothers and your kin avenge</span>
+<span class="i0">Who fell in Ronceval but yesternight!</span>
+<span class="i0">Well know ye mine the right, with them the wrong."</span>
+<span class="i0">The French reply:&mdash;"Yea, sire, you speak the truth."</span>
+<span class="i0">The twenty thousand knights who march with Carle</span>
+<span class="i0">Pledge with one soul their fealty. Dire distress,</span>
+<span class="i0">E'en death, shall cause not one of these to fail</span>
+<span class="i0">The Emperor; not on lances they rely,</span>
+<span class="i0">But with the sword in hand wage doughty strife.</span>
+<span class="i0">Wondrous the raging battle. Stern the fight.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_249" id="St_249">CCXLIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The brave Malprime has pressed his steed across</span>
+<span class="i0">The field, and carried death among the French.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[176]</span><span class="i0">Duke Naimes glanced proudly toward him, and as knight</span>
+<span class="i0">In battle fearless met him in career;</span>
+<span class="i0">He strikes ... tears off his buckler's leathern top,</span>
+<span class="i0">The hauberk cuts in twain, drives through the heart</span>
+<span class="i0">The yellow pennon of the spear, and strikes</span>
+<span class="i0">Him dead mid seven hundred other knights.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_250" id="St_250">CCL.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">King Canabeus, the Emir's brother, spurs</span>
+<span class="i0">His courser on; his crystal-hilted sword</span>
+<span class="i0">Unsheathes, and deals Naimes' princely helm a blow</span>
+<span class="i0">Which splits the crest in twain; the trenchant blade</span>
+<span class="i0">Severs the five strong bands which to his head</span>
+<span class="i0">Fast bound it; now not worth a denier was</span>
+<span class="i0">The steel-mailed hood; down to the flesh the casque</span>
+<span class="i0">Sheer cleft&mdash;a fragment falls upon the earth.</span>
+<span class="i0">The blow was great; the Duke, astounded, reeled,</span>
+<span class="i0">And would have fallen but for God's help. He clasps</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[177]</span><span class="i0">His courser's neck, and should the Pagan deal</span>
+<span class="i0">Another stroke, the noble Duke has breathed</span>
+<span class="i0">His last; but to his help comes Carle of France.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_251" id="St_251">CCLI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">In the Duke Naimes' brave heart what agony!</span>
+<span class="i0">Once more the Pagan raised his arm to strike,</span>
+<span class="i0">But now King Carle cries:&mdash;"Coward, wretch! This blow</span>
+<span class="i0">Brings thee ill luck!"&mdash;And valiantly the King</span>
+<span class="i0">Rushed on, crushed 'gainst his heart the buckler, rent</span>
+<span class="i0">The hauberk's top; dead-struck the heathen King</span>
+<span class="i0">Falls on the ground ... empty the saddle rests.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_252" id="St_252">CCLII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Deep grief the Emperor felt when there he saw</span>
+<span class="i0">Duke Naimes sore-wounded and the verdant grass</span>
+<span class="i0">Streamed o'er by his clear blood, and thereupon</span>
+<span class="i0">This counsel spoke:&mdash;"Fair Naimes, ride close by me;</span>
+<span class="i0">The wretch who brought you to this cruel fight</span>
+<span class="i0">Has breathed his last, his body by my lance</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[178]</span><span class="i0">Transfixed."&mdash;The Duke:&mdash;"In you my trust, O sire!</span>
+<span class="i0">If e'er I live, with knightly service shall</span>
+<span class="i0">My arm requite this deed!"&mdash;Then side by side</span>
+<span class="i0">In faith and love, with twenty thousand knights</span>
+<span class="i0">They march. And none of these or flinch or yield.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_253" id="St_253">CCLIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Emir rides across the field, in haste</span>
+<span class="i0">To deal a blow against Count Guineman.</span>
+<span class="i0">Athwart his heart he breaks the buckler white</span>
+<span class="i0">And tears the hauberk's sides apart, disjoints</span>
+<span class="i0">Two ribs and hurls him from his courser, dead;</span>
+<span class="i0">Then takes the life of Gebain and Lorant,</span>
+<span class="i0">And of Richard the old, a Norman Lord.</span>
+<span class="i0">The Pagans cry: "<i>Precieuse</i> deserves its name!</span>
+<span class="i0">Barons! strike on, Precieuse will save us all!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_254" id="St_254">CCLIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">A noble sight, those knights of Araby,</span>
+<span class="i0">Of Occiant, of Argoille and of Bascle!</span>
+<span class="i0">Spears intermix, death to repel or give.</span>
+<span class="i0">Nathless the French recoil not from the strife.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[179]</span><span class="i0">On either side they fall heaped high. Till eve</span>
+<span class="i0">The storm of battle raged. Meanwhile the knights</span>
+<span class="i0">Of France upon that day bore rueful loss;</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor stayed the carnage till the day was done.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<h4><a name="St_255" id="St_255">CCLV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">French and Arabian warriors emulate</span>
+<span class="i0">In valor each the other. Ashen shafts</span>
+<span class="i0">Break from their brazen heads. Whoso then saw</span>
+<span class="i0">Those shields defaced, who heard those hauberks white</span>
+<span class="i0">Resound with blows, this dinning clash of shields</span>
+<span class="i0">'Gainst helmets grinding, saw those knights and men</span>
+<span class="i0">Fall and with dying shrieks roll on the earth,</span>
+<span class="i0">Of greatest anguish could the memory keep;</span>
+<span class="i0">So fierce this battle raged. The Emir calls</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon Apollo, Tervagan, upon</span>
+<span class="i0">Mahum: "Till now I served you well, O Gods!</span>
+<span class="i0">And I will have an image made for each,</span>
+<span class="i0">Molten of purest gold [if ye but help]!"</span>
+<span class="i0">Before him then his favorite Gemalfin</span>
+<span class="i0">Appears. He brings ill news. "Sire Baligant</span>
+<span class="i0">This day brings you mishap; Malprime, your son</span>
+<span class="i0">Has fall'n! Your brother Canabeus is dead.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[180]</span><span class="i0">Two Franks the glory have of their defeat,</span>
+<span class="i0">One, Carle the Emperor, I deem, so vast</span>
+<span class="i0">His fame, his air as <i>Marchis</i> grand, his beard</span>
+<span class="i0">As white as April blossom!" At these words</span>
+<span class="i0">The Emir's helm declines, his visage sinks</span>
+<span class="i0">Low on his breast. Such is his grief, he thinks</span>
+<span class="i0">Death nears him. Calling Jangleu d'ultremer,</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_256" id="St_256">CCLVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Emir said:&mdash;"Jangleu, step forth; most wise</span>
+<span class="i0">Art thou, thy knowledge great; thy counsel e'er</span>
+<span class="i0">I followed; what the chance of victory</span>
+<span class="i0">For Franks or Arabs deemest thou?" Jangleu</span>
+<span class="i0">Responds:&mdash;"Death, Baligant, hangs o'er your head.</span>
+<span class="i0">Ne'ermore your gods can save you; Carle is proud,</span>
+<span class="i0">And valiant are his men. Ne'er lived a race</span>
+<span class="i0">So strong in battle; yet call up your knights</span>
+<span class="i0">Of Occiant, Enfruns and Arabs, Turks</span>
+<span class="i0">And Giants. Do your duty with all speed."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_257" id="St_257">CCLVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Emir spreads out to the breeze his beard</span>
+<span class="i0">As hawthorn blossom white; betide what may,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[181]</span><span class="i0">Escape he will not seek, puts to his lips</span>
+<span class="i0">A trumpet clear, whose blast the Pagans hark,</span>
+<span class="i0">And fast their cohorts rally on the field.</span>
+<span class="i0">They bray and neigh, the men of Occiant,</span>
+<span class="i0">While those of Arguile yelp as curs, and charge</span>
+<span class="i0">The Franks so rashly, they mow down and break</span>
+<span class="i0">Their thickest ranks, and by this blow</span>
+<span class="i0">Throw seven thousand dead upon the field.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_258" id="St_258">CCLVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">To Count Ogier is dastardy unknown;</span>
+<span class="i0">No better vassal buckled hauberk on.</span>
+<span class="i0">When the French legions broken thus he saw,</span>
+<span class="i0">He called Tierri Duke of Argonne, Geffrei</span>
+<span class="i0">D'Anjou and Jozeran the Count, and spoke</span>
+<span class="i0">These haughty words to Carle:&mdash;"Behold our men</span>
+<span class="i0">By Pagans slaughtered! May God ne'er permit</span>
+<span class="i0">Your brow to wear its crown if unrevenged</span>
+<span class="i0">Your shame remains!" None dared reply a word,</span>
+<span class="i0">But spurring hard their steeds, with loosened reins</span>
+<span class="i0">They rush in fury 'gainst the Pagan ranks</span>
+<span class="i0">And strike the foes where'er they can be met.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[182]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_259" id="St_259">CCLIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Hard strikes Carlemagne the king, hard strikes Duke Naimes,</span>
+<span class="i0">Ogier de Dannemark, Geffrei d'Anjou,</span>
+<span class="i0">Who bears the royal pennon. But o'er all</span>
+<span class="i0">Ogier de Dannemark puts forth his might;</span>
+<span class="i0">He pricks his courser, drops the rein and falls</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon the Pagan who the Dragon holds,</span>
+<span class="i0">So fiercely, that both Dragon and the King's</span>
+<span class="i0">Own flag is crushed before him on the spot.</span>
+<span class="i0">When Baligant beholds his gonfalon fall</span>
+<span class="i0">And Mahum's flag defenseless, in his heart</span>
+<span class="i0">Springs quick the thought, wrong may be on his side</span>
+<span class="i0">And right on Carle's. The Pagans [waver now].</span>
+<span class="i0">The Emperor Carle around him calls his (Franks):</span>
+<span class="i0">"Barons, in God's name, do you stand by me?"</span>
+<span class="i0">Respond the French:&mdash;"To ask is an offense.</span>
+<span class="i0">Accurst be he who deals not glorious strokes!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_260" id="St_260">CCLX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The day wears on and vesper draweth nigh.</span>
+<span class="i0">Christians and Pagans, sword in hand, engage;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[183]</span><span class="i0">And valiant are their chiefs, nor mindless they</span>
+<span class="i0">Of battle cries:&mdash;"Precieuse!" the Emir shouts,</span>
+<span class="i0">And Carle:&mdash;"Montjoie!" the glorious sign. Each knows</span>
+<span class="i0">The other by the clear sonorous voice,</span>
+<span class="i0">And 'mid the field encountering, gives and takes</span>
+<span class="i0">Fierce blows. Each massy shield receives the shock,</span>
+<span class="i0">And each beneath the boss is cloven in twain</span>
+<span class="i0">By the strong lance; each hauberk's sides are rent,</span>
+<span class="i0">But the keen steel in neither reached the flesh;</span>
+<span class="i0">The horse-girths burst and let the saddles fall.</span>
+<span class="i0">Dropped to the earth both kings, both to their feet</span>
+<span class="i0">Quick springing, dauntlessly unsheathed their swords.</span>
+<span class="i0">And now the mortal combat will not cease</span>
+<span class="i0">Till Carle or Baligant has fallen in death.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_261" id="St_261">CCLXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Carle of sweet France is brave, but the Emir feels</span>
+<span class="i0">Before him neither fear nor dread. Both wield</span>
+<span class="i0">Their naked swords and mighty thrusts exchange.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[184]</span><span class="i0">The shields, of wood and leather multifold,</span>
+<span class="i0">Are rent, the nails torn out, the bosses split;</span>
+<span class="i0">Each at the other's hauberk aims his blows.</span>
+<span class="i0">Both combat breast to breast; the showering sparks</span>
+<span class="i0">Wrap both their helms in fire: no end can be</span>
+<span class="i0">Till one or other, vanquished, owns his wrong.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_262" id="St_262">CCLXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Emir said: "King Carle, bethink thee yet;</span>
+<span class="i0">Take better counsel with thy heart, and show</span>
+<span class="i0">Remorse. Full well I know, by thee my son</span>
+<span class="i0">Was slain, thou broughtest ruin through my land.</span>
+<span class="i0">Become my man, I will restore [in fief]</span>
+<span class="i0">This land [to thee], and to the East, but serve</span>
+<span class="i0">Me well." And Carle: "Great shame were that to me!</span>
+<span class="i0">To Heathens I can give no peace nor love....</span>
+<span class="i0">Receive the law our God revealed; accept</span>
+<span class="i0">The faith of Christ.... For e'er my love is thine,</span>
+<span class="i0">If thou believe in God, the Almighty King."</span>
+<span class="i0">Said Baligant: "Ill words are these of thine:</span>
+<span class="i0">[Far better die by the keen edge of sword."]</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[185]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_263" id="St_263">CCLXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The mighty Emir with a giant's strength</span>
+<span class="i0">Smites Carle upon the helm of burnished steel,</span>
+<span class="i0">Which splits in twain beneath the ponderous blow,</span>
+<span class="i0">Cuts through the silky hair, shears from the scalp</span>
+<span class="i0">Fully the breadth of a man's palm and more,</span>
+<span class="i0">Baring the skull. Carle staggers, nearly falls,</span>
+<span class="i0">But God willed not that he should die or yield.</span>
+<span class="i0">Saint Gabriel, with eager flight once more</span>
+<span class="i0">Descends, demanding:&mdash;"What ails thee, great King?"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_264" id="St_264">CCLXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">When Carle the Angel's heavenly accent hears,</span>
+<span class="i0">All thought or dread of death forsakes his soul,</span>
+<span class="i0">And in him springs again his former strength.</span>
+<span class="i0">The Emir by the royal sword of France</span>
+<span class="i0">Is struck, his helm all bright with gems is rent,</span>
+<span class="i0">His cloven skull pours out the brain, his face</span>
+<span class="i0">Is cleft to the very roots of his white beard:</span>
+<span class="i0">Dead falls the Pagan past recovery.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[186]</span><span class="i0">Then shouts the King his rallying cry, "Montjoie!"</span>
+<span class="i0">Hearing his shout, Duke Naimes hastes up, and brings</span>
+<span class="i0">The charger Tecendur for Carle the great</span>
+<span class="i0">To mount. The Pagans turn their backs&mdash;God wills</span>
+<span class="i0">They should not stay. The Franks have their desires.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_265" id="St_265">CCLXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Pagans fly&mdash;such is the will of God;</span>
+<span class="i0">Carle leads the French in the pursuit. Thus spake</span>
+<span class="i0">The King:&mdash;"Seigneurs, the time is come to give</span>
+<span class="i0">Vent to just hatred, and your anguished hearts</span>
+<span class="i0">Assuage. This very morn I saw your eyes</span>
+<span class="i0">Streaming with tears." They cry:&mdash;"Our vengeance now!"</span>
+<span class="i0">And vying with each other in exploits,</span>
+<span class="i0">They deal their mighty blows. But few escape.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_266" id="St_266">CCLXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Amidst the sultry heat and clouds of dust</span>
+<span class="i0">The Pagans rous&egrave;d, by their foes harassed,</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[187]</span><span class="i0">Flee far for Sarraguce. To her high tower</span>
+<span class="i0">Ascends Queen Bramimunde, where, seeing thus</span>
+<span class="i0">The routed Arabs fly, she calls her priests</span>
+<span class="i0">And canons, subjects to false law, by God</span>
+<span class="i0">Ne'er loved: their crowns no holy tonsure wear.</span>
+<span class="i0">She cries aloud:&mdash;"Aid us, Mahum! Oh aid!</span>
+<span class="i0">O gentle King! Already vanquished are</span>
+<span class="i0">Our men, the Emir slain in shameful death!"</span>
+<span class="i0">On hearing this, Marsile turned to the wall</span>
+<span class="i0">His covered face, and amid bitter tears</span>
+<span class="i0">His life departed. Soon the eager fiends</span>
+<span class="i0">Bore off to judgment his sin-burthened soul.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_267" id="St_267">CCLXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Pagans all are slain [or put to flight];</span>
+<span class="i0">Carle wins the day. The gates of Sarraguce</span>
+<span class="i0">Are stormed, and well he knows, defense is vain.</span>
+<span class="i0">He takes the city. All the Christian host</span>
+<span class="i0">Pour in, and there repose their limbs this night.</span>
+<span class="i0">The King with snow-white beard is filled with pride:</span>
+<span class="i0">Queen Bramimunde gives up the citadels;</span>
+<span class="i0">Ten of these forts are large, and fifty small.</span>
+<span class="i0">Well helped are they whom God Almighty aids.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[188]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_268" id="St_268">CCLXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The sunny day had passed, the shades of night</span>
+<span class="i0">Had fallen; bright the moonlight; all the stars</span>
+<span class="i0">In heaven shone. Carle ruled in Sarraguce.</span>
+<span class="i0">Unto one thousand men he gave command</span>
+<span class="i0">To search throughout the city's synagogues</span>
+<span class="i0">And mosques for all their idols and graved signs</span>
+<span class="i0">Of gods&mdash;these to be broken up and crushed</span>
+<span class="i0">By ax and iron mallet he ordains.</span>
+<span class="i0">Nor sorcery nor falsehood left. King Carle</span>
+<span class="i0">Believes in God and serves him faithfully.</span>
+<span class="i0">Then bishops bless the fountains, leading up</span>
+<span class="i0">The Heathens to the blest baptismal Font.</span>
+<span class="i0">If one perchance resist the King, condemned</span>
+<span class="i0">Is he to die, or hanged, or burnt, or slain.</span>
+<span class="i0">More than one hundred thousand are baptized</span>
+<span class="i0">True Christians; but not so Queen Bramimunde:</span>
+<span class="i0">A captive shall she go unto sweet France</span>
+<span class="i0">And be converted by the King through love.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_269" id="St_269">CCLXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Night passes; dawn appears. Carle fortifies</span>
+<span class="i0">The towers of Sarraguce. One thousand Knights</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[189]</span><span class="i0">Of valor proved are left to guard the town</span>
+<span class="i0">In the Emperor's name. With escort strong he rides,</span>
+<span class="i0">Followed by Bramimunde a captive, yet</span>
+<span class="i0">Commands that naught but kindness she receive.</span>
+<span class="i0">In proud and joyous triumph they return;</span>
+<span class="i0">Through Nerbune passes the victorious host,</span>
+<span class="i0">Unto Burdele, the city great and fair.</span>
+<span class="i0">There on the altar of the Baron Saint</span>
+<span class="i0">Sevrin, Carle lays the olifant filled full</span>
+<span class="i0">Of marks and gold, where pilgrims view it still.</span>
+<span class="i0">Passing upon broad skiffs across Girunde,</span>
+<span class="i0">To Blaive, he bears the bodies of Roll&aacute;nd</span>
+<span class="i0">And Olivier, his noble <i>Compagnon</i>,</span>
+<span class="i0">With the Archbishop good and brave. Beneath</span>
+<span class="i0">White monuments he hath the lords entombed</span>
+<span class="i0">At Saint-Romain. Here those three Barons lie....</span>
+<span class="i0">The French to God and to his saints, once more</span>
+<span class="i0">Commend them. Carle anew through mounts and vales</span>
+<span class="i0">Proceeds, nor will he stop until in Aix.</span>
+<span class="i0">Fast rides he till he nears the marble steps</span>
+<span class="i0">Of his great palace; and as soon as reached</span>
+<span class="i0">Its tower, by messengers he summons up</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[190]</span><span class="i0">Baiviers and Saisnes, Loherencs and Frisons,</span>
+<span class="i0">Allemans, Burguignons, Normans, Poitevins,</span>
+<span class="i0">Bretons, of France the wisest men; for now</span>
+<span class="i0">Ganelon's trial shall have no delay.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<hr style='width: 50%;' />
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[191]</span></p>
+
+<h4>THE PUNISHMENT OF GANELON.</h4>
+<hr class="two" />
+
+<h4><a name="St_270" id="St_270">CCLXX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">From Spain at last the Emperor has returned</span>
+<span class="i0">To Aix, the noblest seat of France; ascends</span>
+<span class="i0">His palace, enters in the stately hall.&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">Now comes to greet him the fair [lady] Aude,</span>
+<span class="i0">And asks the King:&mdash;"Where is Roll&aacute;nd the chief</span>
+<span class="i0">Who pledged his faith to take me for his wife?"</span>
+<span class="i0">Sore-pained, heart-broken, Carle, with weeping eyes,</span>
+<span class="i0">Tears his white beard.&mdash;"Ah! sister well beloved,</span>
+<span class="i0">Thou askest me of one who is no more.</span>
+<span class="i0">A worthier match I give thee in exchange;</span>
+<span class="i0">Loewis it is. I can not better say.</span>
+<span class="i0">He is my son, and will protect my realms."</span>
+<span class="i0">Aude answers:&mdash;"To my ear these words are strange.</span>
+<span class="i0">May God, His saints, His angels, all forfend</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[192]</span><span class="i0">That, if Roll&aacute;nd lives not, I still should live."</span>
+<span class="i0">Her color fades, she falls prone at the feet</span>
+<span class="i0">Of Carlemagne&mdash;dead ... God's mercy on her soul!</span>
+<span class="i0">Barons of France mourn her with pitying tears.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_271" id="St_271">CCLXXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Such was the end of Aude the beautiful.</span>
+<span class="i0">The King, in hope 'tis but a swoon, with tears</span>
+<span class="i0">And pity taking both her hands, uplifts</span>
+<span class="i0">Her form; the head upon the shoulders sinks.</span>
+<span class="i0">As soon as Carle knows it is death indeed,</span>
+<span class="i0">Four countesses he summons, bids them bear</span>
+<span class="i0">In haste the Lady to a nunnery.&mdash;&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">All night they watched the body, and at morn</span>
+<span class="i0">Beside a shrine gently she was entombed</span>
+<span class="i0">With highest honors by the King's command.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_272" id="St_272">CCLXXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">The Emperor is once more at Aix. There stands</span>
+<span class="i0">Amid the city 'fore the palace gate,</span>
+<span class="i0">In iron chains, the traitor Ganelon.</span>
+<span class="i0">His hands are fastened to a stake with thongs</span>
+<span class="i0">Of deer-skin by the sergeants who then beat</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[193]</span><span class="i0">His body well with staves and heavy cords.</span>
+<span class="i0">Such treatment was his true desert. He waits</span>
+<span class="i0">His coming doom, in agony of soul.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_273" id="St_273">CCLXXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Written it is in ancient Geste of France</span>
+<span class="i0">That Carle then summoned men from all his lands,</span>
+<span class="i0">Who met at Aix's Chapelle. A solemn feast</span>
+<span class="i0">It was; some say the Baron Saint Silvestre's.</span>
+<span class="i0">This day began the plea and history</span>
+<span class="i0">Of Ganelon who wove the treason's plot.</span>
+<span class="i0">The Emperor bade them drag him to his bar.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_274" id="St_274">CCLXXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">"Seigneurs Barons," said to them Carle the King,</span>
+<span class="i0">"Judge Ganelon according to the law.&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">Among my host with me to Spain he came;</span>
+<span class="i0">His craft lost twenty thousand of my Franks;</span>
+<span class="i0">My nephew, whom ye nevermore shall see,</span>
+<span class="i0">And Olivier, the brave and courteous Knight.</span>
+<span class="i0">The traitor sold my brave twelve Peers for gain."</span>
+<span class="i0">Then Ganelon:&mdash;"May I be cursed ere I</span>
+<span class="i0">Deny. Of wealth and honors had [Roll&aacute;nd]</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[194]</span><span class="i0">Deprived me, and for this, his loss and death</span>
+<span class="i0">I wrought, but treason none I will confess."</span>
+<span class="i0">Respond the French:&mdash;"On this we counsel take."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_275" id="St_275">CCLXXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">In presence of the King stands Ganelon</span>
+<span class="i0">With bearing hardy, florid countenance;</span>
+<span class="i0">Were he but loyal, as a Baron true</span>
+<span class="i0">His mien. Upon the French and judges he</span>
+<span class="i0">Has cast a glance, and on his thirty kin</span>
+<span class="i0">Who 'round him stand; then with firm voice exclaims:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Barons! Now hear me all, for love of God!</span>
+<span class="i0">I to the Emperor's host belonged, and served</span>
+<span class="i0">Him ever in all faith and love. Roll&aacute;nd,</span>
+<span class="i0">His nephew, hatred bore to me, and fain</span>
+<span class="i0">Had doomed my days to torture and to death.</span>
+<span class="i0">As message-bearer I to King Marsile</span>
+<span class="i0">Was sent, wisdom alone my shield and guard;</span>
+<span class="i0">I gave defiance to Roll&aacute;nd the bold,</span>
+<span class="i0">To Olivier and to their comrades all:</span>
+<span class="i0">By Carle and all his Barons this was heard.</span>
+<span class="i0">Revenge this was, but treason it was none."</span>
+<span class="i0">Reply the French:&mdash;"All this we well shall weigh."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[195]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_276" id="St_276">CCLXXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">On seeing the great plea was to commence,</span>
+<span class="i0">Thirty good Knights were called by Ganelon</span>
+<span class="i0">Out of his kin, and one among them makes</span>
+<span class="i0">A speech all others hark: 'tis Pinabel</span>
+<span class="i0">Of Castel de Sorence, of greatest skill</span>
+<span class="i0">In words, and apt with reason plausible;</span>
+<span class="i0">Withal, a vassal brave to guard his arms.</span>
+<span class="i0">Thus to him Ganelon:&mdash;"In you my trust</span>
+<span class="i0">I place; my life from death, my name from shame</span>
+<span class="i0">Preserve!"&mdash;Said Pinabel:&mdash;"Thou shalt be saved.</span>
+<span class="i0">Dare one French Knight condemn thee to be hanged,</span>
+<span class="i0">And would the Emperor make us both to meet</span>
+<span class="i0">In combat, my good sword will his rash word</span>
+<span class="i0">Believe."&mdash;And at his feet falls Ganelon.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_277" id="St_277">CCLXXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Baiviers, Saines, Poitevins, Normans and French</span>
+<span class="i0">In council met;&mdash;Allemans, Tiedeis in great</span>
+<span class="i0">Array. Those from Alverne most courteous prove</span>
+<span class="i0">And show more kindness unto Pinabel.</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[196]</span><span class="i0">One to the others said:&mdash;"To leave this plea</span>
+<span class="i0">Right would it be, and pray Carl'magne, this once</span>
+<span class="i0">To pardon Ganelon who, from this day,</span>
+<span class="i0">Will serve his lord with truer faith and love.</span>
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd lies in his grave; nor wealth, nor gold</span>
+<span class="i0">Restores him to your eyes. This cruel fight</span>
+<span class="i0">Is folly."&mdash;All the Knights approve, save one,</span>
+<span class="i0">Tierri, a brother of the Lord Geffrei.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_278" id="St_278">CCLXXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">To Carle his Barons come again, and say:</span>
+<span class="i0">"We pray you, sire, acquit Count Ganelon;</span>
+<span class="i0">Then will he serve you with true faith and love.</span>
+<span class="i0">Grant him his life which springs from noble race.</span>
+<span class="i0">Roll&aacute;nd lies in his grave; ne'er shall we see</span>
+<span class="i0">Him more, nor treasures e'er can bring him back."</span>
+<span class="i0">Exclaimed the King: "Vile traitors are ye all!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_279" id="St_279">CLXXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Now, seeing all will fail him, o'er Carle's eyes</span>
+<span class="i0">And features gloom descends; by grief o'erwhelmed</span>
+<span class="i0">He cries: "Unhappy that I am!" Then stood</span>
+<span class="i0">[Tierri], the brother of Geffrei, the Duke</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[197]</span><span class="i0">D'Anjou, before the King. Thin, light of frame,</span>
+<span class="i0">Hair raven-black, [face] somewhat brown of hue,</span>
+<span class="i0">In height nor tall nor short; with courtesy</span>
+<span class="i0">He spake thus to the Emp'ror: "Fair sire King,</span>
+<span class="i0">Be not cast down. That I have served you well</span>
+<span class="i0">Ere this, you know. 'Tis my ancestral right</span>
+<span class="i0">To sit among the judges of the plea.</span>
+<span class="i0">However guilty was Roll&aacute;nd against</span>
+<span class="i0">Count Ganelon, his duty to the King</span>
+<span class="i0">Should have restrained his hate. A treason foul</span>
+<span class="i0">Ganelon wrought against Roll&aacute;nd; forsworn</span>
+<span class="i0">In perjury tow'rd you, he lost himself.</span>
+<span class="i0">For all his crimes his death I here demand,</span>
+<span class="i0">Death by the cord; his body to the dogs</span>
+<span class="i0">Be thrown away&mdash;the perjurer's just doom.</span>
+<span class="i0">Should any of his kin deny the words</span>
+<span class="i0">I speak, this sword of mine girt to my side</span>
+<span class="i0">Will make them good."&mdash;All cry: "Well have you said."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_280" id="St_280">CCLXXX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Then toward the King advances Pinabel;</span>
+<span class="i0">Tall, strong and swift, and brave. Strike he but once,</span>
+<span class="i0">No second blow need follow; to the King</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[198]</span><span class="i0">He said: "Sire, unto you belongs this plea.</span>
+<span class="i0">Command these clamors to be hushed. There stands</span>
+<span class="i0">Tierri who now his judgment has pronounced.</span>
+<span class="i0">The lie I give him and to fight defy!"</span>
+<span class="i0">With this his right hand glove of deer-skin gave</span>
+<span class="i0">Unto the King who said: "I must receive</span>
+<span class="i0">Good pledges." Of his kin then thirty knights</span>
+<span class="i0">Were given as legal sureties of his pledge.</span>
+<span class="i0">"I also give my pledge," the Emperor said,</span>
+<span class="i0">"And have them guarded safe till judgment pass."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_281" id="St_281">CCLXXXI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">When Tierri sees that now the fight is near,</span>
+<span class="i0">He gives the Emperor his right hand glove.</span>
+<span class="i0">To him the sureties Carle himself provides,</span>
+<span class="i0">Bids that they bring four benches to the place</span>
+<span class="i0">Whereon the combatants shall sit. The terms</span>
+<span class="i0">Are judged by all the others as most fair.</span>
+<span class="i0">Ogier de Dannemarche was chosen to rule</span>
+<span class="i0">The lists. Then for their steeds and arms both called.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[199]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_282" id="St_282">CCLXXXII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Both knights now made them ready for the fight,</span>
+<span class="i0">Were shriven, assoiled, and blessed; a mass have heard,</span>
+<span class="i0">Communion have received, and richest alms</span>
+<span class="i0">Bequeathed to monasteries.&mdash;Before striking</span>
+<span class="i0">They both appear.&mdash;Gold spurs their heels adorn;</span>
+<span class="i0">They wear white hauberks light and strong; bright helms</span>
+<span class="i0">Clasp on their heads, and gold hilt swords are girt</span>
+<span class="i0">Upon their thighs, and to their necks are bound</span>
+<span class="i0">Strong quartered shields; they wield in each right hand</span>
+<span class="i0">A trenchant sword, and on fleet steeds they mount;</span>
+<span class="i0">Then melt in tears one hundred thousand knights</span>
+<span class="i0">Who for Roll&aacute;nd's sake wish Tierri well.</span>
+<span class="i0">Yea&mdash;but God knows what way the thing will end.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_283" id="St_283">CCLXXXIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Beyond the town of Aix a plain extends:</span>
+<span class="i0">And here our Barons will the combat try.</span>
+<span class="i0">Most valiant knights are both; the steeds they ride</span>
+<span class="i0">Are swift and stout; with spurs in flanks, and freed</span>
+<span class="i0">Of rein, they dash.&mdash;The warriors all their might</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[200]</span><span class="i0">And skill unite to strike the surest blow.</span>
+<span class="i0">Bucklers beneath the shock are torn and crushed,</span>
+<span class="i0">White hauberks rent in shreds, asunder bursts</span>
+<span class="i0">Each courser's girth, the saddles, turning, fall.</span>
+<span class="i0">One hundred thousand men look weeping on....</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_284" id="St_284">CCLXXXIV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Both knights leap on the earth, and, quick as light,</span>
+<span class="i0">Stand face to face.&mdash;Strong, fiery Pinabel</span>
+<span class="i0">And Tierri for each other seek. Their steeds</span>
+<span class="i0">Are fled.&mdash;But their gold-hilted swords they wield;</span>
+<span class="i0">And on the helms of steel they shower such blows</span>
+<span class="i0">As rashed the thongs. Loudly the knights lament,</span>
+<span class="i0">And Carle exclaims:&mdash;"Show thou the right, O God!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_285" id="St_285">CCLXXXV.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Cried Pinabel:&mdash;"Tierri, surrender thou!</span>
+<span class="i0">Thy vassal I will be in faith and love,</span>
+<span class="i0">And to thy pleasure will I yield my wealth;</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[201]</span><span class="i0">But let the King forgive Count Ganelon!"</span>
+<span class="i0">Tierri replied:&mdash;"Thy offers all are vain;</span>
+<span class="i0">Vile treason were it such a pact to make;</span>
+<span class="i0">But God shall judge us and make plain the right."</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_286" id="St_286">CCLXXXVI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Then Tierri spake:&mdash;"I hold thee, Pinabel,</span>
+<span class="i0">As Baron true, great, strong, of handsome mold;</span>
+<span class="i0">Thy peers acknowledge thee as valiant knight;</span>
+<span class="i0">Well, let this combat cease, between the King</span>
+<span class="i0">And thee a covenant I will strive to make.</span>
+<span class="i0">On Ganelon such justice shall be done</span>
+<span class="i0">That future ages shall record the doom."</span>
+<span class="i0">They grasp again their swords and hew</span>
+<span class="i0">Each other's gold-encrusted helm with rage</span>
+<span class="i0">So rash that sparkling fires spurt through the air.</span>
+<span class="i0">No power will now disjoint the combatants:</span>
+<span class="i0">The death of one can only close the strife.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_287" id="St_287">CCLXXXVII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">No braver man than Pinabel.&mdash;Such blows</span>
+<span class="i0">He deals on Tierri's helmet of Provence,</span>
+<span class="i0">That the sparks fly in showers, and, falling, set</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[202]</span><span class="i0">The grass ablaze. Then aiming at his foe</span>
+<span class="i0">His keen-edged brand, down to the brow cuts through</span>
+<span class="i0">His helm; the blade glides down across his face,</span>
+<span class="i0">And plows his right cheek with a deep red gash;</span>
+<span class="i0">Unto his stomach is the haubert rent,</span>
+<span class="i0">But God protects him, and averts his death.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_288" id="St_288">CCLXXXVIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Tierri, on seeing blood gush from his brow</span>
+<span class="i0">And tinge the grassy field, strikes Pinabel</span>
+<span class="i0">On his steel-burnished helmet, and cuts through</span>
+<span class="i0">To the nose-plate. His head is cleft in twain</span>
+<span class="i0">And gushes forth the brain. This fatal blow</span>
+<span class="i0">Gives Pinabel his death, and ends the fight.</span>
+<span class="i0">The French exclaim:&mdash;"O wondrous work of God!</span>
+<span class="i0">Full right it is that Ganelon be hanged</span>
+<span class="i0">With all his kin who sureties were for him!"</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_289" id="St_289">CCLXXXIX.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Tierri had won, and on the battle-field</span>
+<span class="i0">The Emperor Carle arrived with an escort</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[203]</span><span class="i0">Of forty Barons,&mdash;Naimes the Duke, Ogier</span>
+<span class="i0">De Dannemarche, Geffrei d'Anjou, Willalmes</span>
+<span class="i0">De Blaive.&mdash;In close embrace the King has pressed</span>
+<span class="i0">Tierri, and with his mantle's sables wiped</span>
+<span class="i0">The warrior's face; then lays his furs aside</span>
+<span class="i0">And on his shoulders others are arrayed.</span>
+<span class="i0">Meanwhile the knight, by friendly hands disarmed,</span>
+<span class="i0">On an Arabian mule is placed, and so</span>
+<span class="i0">This valorous Baron full of joy returns</span>
+<span class="i0">To Aix.&mdash;Amid the place they all dismount,</span>
+<span class="i0">And now the sureties must abide their doom.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_290" id="St_290">CCXC.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Carlemagne around him calls his counts and dukes:</span>
+<span class="i0">"What counsel give ye touching those I kept,</span>
+<span class="i0">Unto this plea who came for Ganelon</span>
+<span class="i0">Themselves sworn hostages for Pinabel?"</span>
+<span class="i0">Respond the French:&mdash;"Let none of them survive!"&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">Carle then commands a road-keeper, Basbrun:</span>
+<span class='pagenum'>[204]</span><span class="i0">"Hang them all up on yon accursed tree!</span>
+<span class="i0">By this gray beard of mine, I swear, if one</span>
+<span class="i0">Escape, thou diest but a villain's death!"&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">Answered the man:&mdash;"What else but to obey?"&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">Then by a hundred sergeants roughly seized,</span>
+<span class="i0">Those thirty men are hanged.&mdash;Who man betrays</span>
+<span class="i0">Destroys himself and others drags to death.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_291" id="St_291">CCXCI.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">And now have turned away Baiviers, Allemans,</span>
+<span class="i0">Poitevins, Bretons and Normans; but more</span>
+<span class="i0">Than all, the French advise that Ganelon</span>
+<span class="i0">Should die a death of torture. Then they tie</span>
+<span class="i0">With cords his hands and feet. Four sergeants bring</span>
+<span class="i0">Four wild and fiery destriers, made mad</span>
+<span class="i0">By a mare 'mid the field. A fearful end</span>
+<span class="i0">For Ganelon; bound between them, limb from limb</span>
+<span class="i0">Is rent away, each nerve and muscle stretched</span>
+<span class="i0">And torn. The clear blood streams upon the green.</span>
+<span class="i0">Thus perished Ganelon by a felon's death....</span>
+<span class="i0">Traitors of evil deeds must never boast.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[205]</span></p>
+<h4><a name="St_292" id="St_292">CCXCII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">When the Emperor Carle had wreaked his full revenge,</span>
+<span class="i0">He called the bishops from the realms of France,</span>
+<span class="i0">And from Baviere, and those of Alemaigne:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Now in my [court] have I a captive, sprung</span>
+<span class="i0">From noble race. Such sermons has she heard,</span>
+<span class="i0">So good examples seen, she will believe</span>
+<span class="i0">In the true God, and Christian faith embrace.</span>
+<span class="i0">Baptize her so that He may save her soul;</span>
+<span class="i0">God-mothers choose her of our noblest dames."</span>
+<span class="i0">With a great company the Baths at Aix</span>
+<span class="i0">Were thronged, and soon before the holy Fonts</span>
+<span class="i0">The Queen received the name of Juliane:</span>
+<span class="i0">Henceforth a Christian holding fast the Truth.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<hr style='width: 50%;' />
+<p><span class='pagenum'>[206]</span></p>
+
+<h4>THE END OF THE CHANSON.</h4>
+
+
+<h4><a name="St_293" id="St_293">CCXCIII.</a></h4><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">But when the Emperor had made complete</span>
+<span class="i0">His justice and his heavy wrath assuaged,</span>
+<span class="i0">And brought Queen Bramimunde to Christian faith,</span>
+<span class="i0">The day was over and the night had fall'n.</span>
+<span class="i0">The King sought rest within his vaulted room.</span>
+<span class="i0">Saint Gabriel brought him word from God and said:</span>
+<span class="i0">"Carle, of thy empire summon all the hosts</span>
+<span class="i0">For swiftest marching to the land of Bire;</span>
+<span class="i0">So shalt thou succor King Vivien in Imphe,</span>
+<span class="i0">The city compassed by the Pagan foe.</span>
+<span class="i0">The Christians look to thee and cry for help."&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">Will has he none to go, the King, but moans:&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">"O, God," quoth he, "so troublous is my life!"&mdash;</span>
+<span class="i0">Whereat he weeps, and tears his hoary beard.</span>
+<span class="i13">Aoi.</span></div></div>
+
+<hr style='width: 50%;' />
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">Thus endeth here the Geste Turoldus sang.</span>
+</div></div>
+<hr style='width: 50%;' />
+<h4>FOOTNOTES</h4>
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1" id="Footnote_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1"><span class="label">1</span></a> Molted. Because in that condition, better for hunting.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2" id="Footnote_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2"><span class="label">2</span></a> Pallies. A square piece of silk on which the knights used
+to sit. (From Pallium).</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3" id="Footnote_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3"><span class="label">3</span></a> Tables. In the romances of the Middle Ages the game of
+tables means tric-trac, chess, checkers, etc.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_4" id="Footnote_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4"><span class="label">4</span></a> Bezants. A Byzantine coin.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5" id="Footnote_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5"><span class="label">5</span></a> A sort of undergarment made of gold and silk brocade
+worn in time of war under the coat of mail, and in time of
+peace under the mantle of fur. In the latter case it was of silk.</p></div>
+
+<hr style='width: 50%;' />
+<p><span class='pagenum'>{209]</span></p>
+
+<h3>GLOSSARY.</h3>
+
+<p>Of places and words which may present some difficulty as regards origin
+and meaning on account of their ancient orthography. For more complete
+information see Léon Gautier's seventh edition of the text.</p>
+
+<p>The numbers indicate stanzas in this edition.</p>
+
+<ul class="IX">
+<li>
+AIX, capital of Charlemagne's empire.  <a href="#St_3">3</a>.
+</li><li>
+ALMAZOUR, Arab origin, a title. <a href="#St_69">69</a>.
+</li><li>
+ALVERNE and ALFERNE, Auvergne, French Province. <a href="#St_224">224</a>..
+</li><li>
+AMIRALZ, Admiral. <a href="#St_78">78</a>.
+</li><li>
+AMURAFLE, from Emir, admiral. <a href="#St_98">98</a>.
+</li><li>
+ARGONNE, city of France (Champagne). <a href="#St_227">227</a>.
+</li><li>
+ASPRE, defile in the Pyrenees. <a href="#St_88">88</a>.
+</li><li>
+ASTRIMUNIES, Pagan tribes. <a href="#St_236">236</a>.
+</li><li>
+BALAGUER, Spanish Arabian city. <a href="#St_73">73</a>.
+</li><li>
+BASCLE, Basque--W. Foester, 280. <a href="#St_254">254</a>.
+</li><li>
+BELFERNE, Pagan kingdom. <a href="#St_66">66</a>.
+</li><li>
+BELNE, Beaune, French city (Burgundy). <a href="#St_144">144</a>.
+</li><li>
+BEVUM, man's name--Teutonic. <a href="#St_144">144</a>.
+</li><li>
+BIRE and IMPHE, unknown. <a href="#St_293">293</a>.
+</li><li>
+BLAVE, Blaye, near Bordeaux, France. <a href="#St_269">269</a>.
+</li><li>
+BLOS, Pagan tribe. <a href="#St_234">234</a>.
+</li><li>
+BRIGAL, Saracen country. <a href="#St_97">97</a>.
+</li><li>
+BRUNS and ESCLAVOS, Teutonic etymology. <a href="#St_234">234</a>
+</li><li>
+BRUISE, Prussia. <a href="#St_235">235</a>.
+</li><li>
+BUGRE, Bulgarian, and<br />
+BUGUERIE, Bulgaria. <a href="#St_174">174</a>, <a href="#St_211">211</a>.
+</li><li>
+<span class='pagenum'>{210]</span>BURDELE, Bordeaux. <a href="#St_101">101</a>.
+</li><li>
+BUTENTROT, country supposed to be situated in Cappadocia. <a href="#St_234">234</a>.
+<ul><li>
+  See P. Meyer in Romania, VII., p. 335.
+</li></ul>
+</li><li>
+CALIFERNE, unknown Pagan country. <a href="#St_211">211</a>.
+</li><li>
+CANELIEUS, <a href="#St_236">236</a>--said to be Chananians by P. Meyer in Romania, VI., p. 477.
+</li><li>
+CICLATON, Arab silk material. <a href="#St_69">69</a>.
+</li><li>
+COMMIBLES, supposed city of Spain. <a href="#St_14">14</a>.
+</li><li>
+CLARBONE, imaginary Pagan place. <a href="#St_236">236</a>.
+</li><li>
+DANEMARCHE, Denmark. <a href="#St_220">220</a>.--Etymology, Dania and Marcha, limit.
+</li><li>
+DIGUN, Dijon, city of France. <a href="#St_144">144</a>.
+</li><li>
+ENFRUNS, unknown Eastern Pagans. <a href="#St_256">256</a>.
+</li><li>
+ENGLEZ, Sclavonic tribes. <a href="#St_235">235</a>.
+</li><li>
+ERMINES, Pagan tribes. <a href="#St_234">234</a>.
+</li><li>
+FALDSTOOL, an arm-chair. <a href="#St_32">32</a>.
+</li><li>
+FLORÉDÉE, doubtful Pagan country. <a href="#St_240">240</a>.
+</li><li>
+GARNAILLE, unknown. <a href="#St_145">145</a>.
+</li><li>
+GASCUIGNE, Gascony, Gascuin, Gascon. <a href="#St_65">65</a>.
+</li><li>
+GENNES, Genoa. <a href="#St_165">165</a>.
+</li><li>
+GLAZA, Galaza, and adj. Galazin, place, and stuff made of silk
+ and gold; from Asia. <a href="#St_215">215</a>.
+</li><li>
+GROS, Pagans unknown. <a href="#St_234">234</a>.
+</li><li>
+GUITSAND, town near Calais, <a href="#St_111">111</a>.
+</li><li>
+HALTOIE, Spanish city. <a href="#St_14">14</a>.
+</li><li>
+IMPHE, unknown. <a href="#St_293">293</a>.
+</li><li>
+LEUTIS, believed to be Poland. <a href="#St_244">244</a>. See G. Paris in Romania, II.,
+  p. 331.
+</li><li>
+LOHENRENGS, from Lorraine. <a href="#St_269">269</a>.
+</li><li>
+MAELGUT, a Pagan's name. <a href="#St_154">154</a>.
+</li><li>
+MALPRUSE and MALPREISE, Pagan region. <a href="#St_236">236</a>.
+</li><li>
+MARBRISE and MARBRUSE, unknown places. <a href="#St_193">193</a>.
+</li><li>
+MARCHIS, old, for Marquis. <a href="#St_50">50</a>.
+</li><li>
+MISMIA, unknown. <a href="#St_234">234</a>.
+</li><li>
+MONTJOIE.--Etym. Mons gaudii, name of Carle's standard;
+<ul><li>
+<span class='pagenum'>{211]</span>  the oriflamme and French war-cry. <a href="#St_93">93</a>. See note in Gautier's
+  seventh edition, p. 278.
+</li></ul>
+</li><li>
+MORS, Moors. <a href="#St_234">234</a>.
+</li><li>
+NERBUNE, Narbone, city, South of France. <a href="#St_269">269</a>.
+</li><li>
+NIGRES, perhaps _Nigri_. <a href="#St_234">234</a>.
+</li><li>
+NOPLES, supposed city of Spain. <a href="#St_14">14</a>.
+</li><li>
+NUBLES, a Pagan tribe, Nubians. <a href="#St_234">234</a>.
+</li><li>
+OCCIANT, Pagan country. (?) <a href="#St_235">235</a>.
+</li><li>
+OLIFANT, Roland's ivory horn. Etym. _Elephantus_. <a href="#St_85">85</a>.
+</li><li>
+ORMALEIS, unknown. <a href="#St_238">238</a>. See Romania, II., and Gautier's
+Glossary.
+</li><li>
+OYEZ, of French; hear! <a href="#St_2">2</a>.
+</li><li>
+PEITEVINS for Poitevins, of Poitou. <a href="#St_224">224</a>.
+</li><li>
+PINCENEIS, Lat. _Pincinnati_; see Romania, II., p. 331-335,
+  and Gautier's Glossary.
+</li><li>
+PINE, Piña, city of Spain. <a href="#St_14">14</a>.
+</li><li>
+POUILLE, Apulia. <a href="#St_29">29</a>.
+</li><li>
+PRIME, Arabian Province. <a href="#St_78">78</a>.
+</li><li>
+PUILLANIE, Poland. <a href="#St_174">174</a>.
+</li><li>
+REINS, Rheims, in Champagne. <a href="#St_12">12</a>.
+</li><li>
+ROSNE, River Rhone. <a href="#St_121">121</a>.
+</li><li>
+SAISNES, Saxons. <a href="#St_269">269</a>.
+</li><li>
+SAINT-ROMAIN, church of Blaye, near Bordeaux. <a href="#St_269">269</a>.
+</li><li>
+SAINTS (les), Les Saints of Cologne (Gautier); others say
+  Sens, a city of Western France. <a href="#St_111">111</a>.
+</li><li>
+SEBILE, Sevilla, Spain. <a href="#St_14">14</a>.
+</li><li>
+SEIGNEURS, French for Lords. <a href="#St_2">2</a>, &amp;c.
+</li><li>
+SIZRE, now Cisa; Etym. Cæsaris, place of the defiles, near
+  Ronceval. <a href="#St_45">45</a>.
+</li><li>
+SOLTRAS and AVERS, Pagan tribes. <a href="#St_235">235</a>.
+</li><li>
+SORBRES and SORZ, Pagan tribes. <a href="#St_234">234</a>.
+</li><li>
+SORENCE, unknown. <a href="#St_276">276</a>.
+</li><li>
+TIEDEIS, Deutch, German. <a href="#St_277">277</a>.
+</li><li>
+TUELE, city in Navarra. <a href="#St_14">14</a>.
+</li><li>
+TURTELUSE, Tortosa, Spain. <a href="#St_75">75</a>.
+</li><li>
+VAL-TENEBRE, Spanish City. <a href="#St_54">54</a>.
+</li></ul>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<hr class="full" />
+<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LA CHANSON DE ROLAND***</p>
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+The Project Gutenberg eBook, La Chanson de Roland, by Léon Gautier,
+Translated by Léonce Rabillon
+
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+
+
+
+Title: La Chanson de Roland
+
+
+Author: Léon Gautier
+
+
+
+Release Date: December 11, 2007  [eBook #23819]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
+
+
+***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LA CHANSON DE ROLAND***
+
+
+E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Turgut Dincer, and the Project
+Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
+
+
+
+LA CHANSON DE ROLAND
+
+Translated from the Seventh Edition of Leon Gautier,
+Professor at the Ecole des Chartes, Paris.
+
+by
+
+LEONCE RABILLON,
+
+Licencie en droit, Paris University, French Lecturer at
+Johns Hopkins University.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+New York
+Henry Holt and Company
+1885
+
+Copyright, 1885
+by
+Henry Holt & Co.
+W. L. Mershon & Co.,
+Printers and Electrotypers,
+Rahway, N. J.
+
+
+
+
+                        TO
+
+                 DANIEL C. GILMAN,
+
+      _President of Johns Hopkins University_,
+
+                _THIS TRANSLATION_
+
+         _IS MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED._
+
+
+
+
+                     PREFACE.
+
+
+Several years ago, the maker of this version translated into French one
+of the early works of H. W. Longfellow. This circumstance was not
+forgotten by the American poet who kindly consented to listen to this
+new attempt at rendering into English the "CHANSON DE ROLAND."
+
+To his encouragement is due the present publication. The writer will
+ever proudly treasure up the remembrance of his friendly welcome and
+counsel....
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The translator has followed, as literally as possible, the text of the
+Oxford MS., as revised by Leon Gautier. The parts inclosed in
+parentheses are interpolations of the learned Professor. This revised
+text should be kept in hand by the English reader for comparison with
+the original, which is nine centuries old. The translator may thus be
+more likely to obtain the indulgence of the reader for the quaint
+representation, in a modern language, of the coloring of this most
+ancient poem.
+
+The orthography of all the names, as well as their prosodic accent, has
+been preserved in their ancient form; and accordingly, an index has been
+appended to the work.
+
+The seventh edition of Leon Gautier's "CHANSON DE ROLAND," contains a
+vast amount of explanatory notes, grammatical and historical, to which
+the reader is referred.
+
+
+HISTORY OF THE POEM.
+
+On the 15th of August, 778, in a little Pyrenean Valley, still known in
+our days by the name of Ronceval, a terrible event took place.
+Charlemagne, returning from his expedition to Spain, crossed that valley
+and the Pyrenees, leaving his rear-guard in command of Roland, Prefect
+of the Marches of Brittany. His main army had passed unmolested; but at
+the moment when the rear-guard advanced into the defiles of the
+mountain, thousands of Gascons rushed from their ambush, fell upon the
+French army and slaughtered the whole guard to the last man. So perished
+Roland.
+
+Eginhard, the historian of Charlemagne, terminates his narrative with
+these words: "The House-intendant, (Regiae mensae praepositus), Eggihard,
+Anselm, Count of the Palace, Roland, Prefect of the Marches of Brittany
+(Hruolandus britannici limitis praefectus), with many more, perished in
+the fight. It was not possible to take revenge on the spot. The
+treacherous attempt once perpetrated, the enemy dispersed and left no
+trace." (Eginhard's Life of Charlemagne, Vol. I., p. 31; edition of the
+Societe de l'histoire de France.)
+
+From the moment of the defeat of Ronceval, legend commenced its labor
+upon this truly epic event which, in its origin, is absolutely French,
+but has found its echoes throughout Europe, from Iceland to Eastern
+regions.
+
+The commentators generally agree in dating the composition of the Poem
+before the first crusade in the year 1096. The author, it is
+ascertained, was Norman, the dialect used by him being Norman
+throughout. Whether this author was really Turoldus, named in the last
+line of the Poem, is a point which Leon Gautier refuses to affirm. We
+refer the reader to the very interesting preface of _Genin_, and to the
+learned introductions of Leon Gautier, for more complete information.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The word "_Aoi_," which is placed at the end of every stanza, and found in
+no other ancient French poems, is interpreted differently by the
+commentators. M. Francisque Michel assimilated it at first to the
+termination of an ecclesiastical chant--Preface, xxvii.--and later to
+the Saxon _Abeg_, or the English _Away_, as a sort of refrain which the
+"_jongleur_" repeated at the end of the couplets. M. Genin explains it by
+_ad viam_, a vei, avoie, away! it is done, let us go on!
+
+M. Gautier, with his skeptical honesty, declares the word unexplained.
+See Note 9, p. 4, of his seventh edition.
+
+
+MANUSCRIPTS.
+
+The most complete and ancient is that of Oxford, in the Bodleian
+Library, marked "Digby, 23," a copy of the XIIth. century. All others
+are _Rifaccimenti_, Refashionings.
+
+Two in Venice, in St. Mark Library, XIIIth. century; French MSS., No. 4
+& 7.
+
+In the National Library, Paris, No. 860, XIIIth. century.
+
+The Versailles MS., now deposited in the Library of Chateauroux, a copy
+of which is in Paris Nat. Library; 15, 108; XIIIth. century.
+
+In the Lyons Library, 964; XIVth. century.
+
+In Cambridge, Trinity Collage, R. 3-32; XVIth. century.
+
+One called the Lorrain, a fragment found near Metz.
+
+The Karlomagnus Saga, an Icelandic copy of the Oxford MS.; XIIIth.
+century.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In M. Petit de Julleville's Introduction to his version can be found a
+chronological list of the works which concern the "CHANSON DE ROLAND,"
+the translations of it, and dissertations on the subject in France and
+Germany.
+
+      *       *       *       *       *
+
+There are twenty-one translations in different languages:
+
+Four in German, by Th. Mueller, Hertz, Boehmer, Eug. Koelbing.
+
+One in Polish, by Mad. Duchinska.
+
+One in Danish, by Unger.
+
+One in Icelandish, Karlomagnus' Saga.
+
+Twelve in French, by Francisque Michel, Bourdillon, Delecluze, Genin, P.
+Paris, Vitet, Jonain, de Saint-Albin, d'Avril, Petit de Julleville,
+Lehugeur and Leon Gautier, of whose translation seven editions were
+issued.
+
+Two in English, one in England by J. O'Hagan, and one in America, the
+latest and present one.
+
+Besides, a version from Vitet's French paraphrase, by Mrs. Marsh.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+  SARRAGOSSA.
+
+  COUNCIL HELD BY KING MARSILE.
+
+
+  I.
+
+  Carle our most noble Emperor and King,
+  Hath tarried now full seven years in Spain,
+  Conqu'ring the highland regions to the sea;
+  No fortress stands before him unsubdued,
+  Nor wall, nor city left, to be destroyed,
+  Save Sarraguce, high on a mountain set.
+  There rules the King Marsile who loves not God,
+  Apollo worships and Mohammed serves;
+  Nor can he from his evil doom escape.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  II.
+
+  The King Marsile abides in Sarraguce
+  Where underneath an orchard's leafy shade,
+  Upon a terrace with blue marble paved
+  He rests. Around him twenty thousand men
+  And more are ranked. His Dukes and Counts he calls:
+  "Oyez, _Seigneurs_, what gath'ring ills are ours:
+  Great Carle, the Emperor who rules Sweet France
+  Comes to this land to 'whelm us with his might.
+  To give him battle I no army have,
+  Nor people to array against his host:
+  Your counsel give me, Lords, as my wise men,
+  And so defend your King from death and shame;"
+  But answer none a single Pagan gave,
+  Save Blancandrin _del Castel Val-Fonde_.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  III.
+
+  Blancandrin, 'midst the wisest Pagans wise,
+  Who, in his vassalage a valiant knight,
+  Most prudent counsels gave to help his lord,
+  Said to the King:--"Be not by this dismayed!
+  To Carle the proud, the fierce, send messengers
+  With words of faith and love. Send to him gifts
+  Of bears and lions, packs of dogs; present
+  Seven hundred camels also, fifty score
+  Of molted[1] falcons, and four hundred mules
+  With heavy weight of gold and silver packed;
+  Then fifty chariots with their burthens heaped:
+  Well can this treasure all his soldiers pay.
+  Within this land he long enough has camped.
+  To France--to Aix let him at last return;
+  There will you join him on Saint-Michael's feast,
+  Accept the Christian law, and swear to be
+  His man in faith and honor. Should he ask
+  Hostages, ten or twenty grant, to lure
+  His trust; let us send our wives' sons. Mine--although
+  He die, I give. Far better that their heads
+  Should fall than we lose honor and domain,
+  Than we ourselves to beggary be brought."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  IV.
+
+  He further said:--"By this right hand of mine,
+  And by the beard the air waves on my breast,
+  Soon shall you see the host of Franks disperse;
+  To France, their land, the Franks will take their way.
+  When each has gained the shelter of his home,
+  King Carle will in his chapel be at Aix,
+  To celebrate Saint Michael's solemn feast.
+  The day will come, the term allowed will pass,
+  And from us shall he hear nor word nor news.
+  The King is fierce, his soul is hard; and thus
+  Each hostage head beneath his sword shall fall.
+  'Twere better far that these should lose their heads
+  Than we for aye lose glorious Spain the Fair,
+  And suffer so great ills and doleful woes."
+  Then say the Pagans:--"This may be the truth."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  V.
+
+  Hereat the King Marsile the council closed.
+  Then summon'd he Clarin de Balaguer,
+  Estramarin and Eudropin his peer;
+  With Priamon Guarlan the bearded knight,
+  And Machiner together with Mahen
+  His uncle, Joimer and Malbien born
+  Beyond the sea, and Blancandrin, to hear
+  His words. These ten, the fiercest, he addressed:
+  "Seigneurs Barons, ye shall go toward Carl'magne;
+  He to Cordres, the city, now lays siege.
+  Bear in each hand a branch of olive-tree
+  In token of humility and peace.
+  If by your arts his favor you can gain,
+  I give of gold and silver, lands and fiefs
+  To each, whatever he may ask of me."
+  The Pagans answer all:--["Well said our lord!"]
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  VI.
+
+  Marsile his council closed:--"My Lords, ye shall
+  Set forth;--an olive branch bear in each hand:
+  And in my name adjure King Carlemagne
+  That by his God he mercy have on me;
+  And ere a month be past, he shall behold
+  Me follow with a thousand faithful knights,
+  There to submit myself to Christian law
+  And be his man in love and faith; and if
+  He hostages require, them shall he have."
+  Quoth Blancandrin:--"Good treaty will be yours."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  VII.
+
+  Marsile then ordered forth the ten white mules
+  The King of Sicily once sent to him;--
+  Golden their bits--their saddles silver-wrought--
+  And on them mounted his ambassadors.
+  Thus holding each a branch of olive-tree,
+  They rode away and came to Carle of France.
+  Nor can he from the treacherous snare escape.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  COUNCIL OF CHARLEMAGNE AT
+  CORDOBA.
+
+
+  VIII.
+
+  Cheerful and blithe the Emp'ror, for Cordres
+  Has been subdued, its massy walls o'erthrown,
+  Its towers by mighty catapults destroyed;
+  And there his knights have found abundant spoils
+  Of gold and silver, and rich garnitures.
+  Nor was one Pagan in the city left
+  Alive, who did not own the Christian Faith.
+  Now is the Emperor within a wide
+  And spreading orchard; there around him stand
+  Rolland and Olivier, Samsun the Duke,
+  And Anseis the bold, Gefrei d'Anjou,
+  Gonfaloneer of Carle, and also there
+  Gerin and Gerier. Where these were, came
+  Of others many more. In all, from France
+  Were gathered fully fifteen thousand knights.
+  Upon white _pallies_[2] sit these chevaliers;
+  They play at tables[3] to divert themselves;
+  The wiser and the elder play at chess.
+  In mimic sword-play strive the joyous youths.
+  Under a pine-tree, near an eglantine,
+  Is placed a faldstool of pure gold whereon
+  Sits he, the King--great Ruler of Sweet France.
+  White is his beard, his head all flowering white;
+  Graceful his form and proud his countenance;
+  None need to point him out to those who come
+  The Pagan messengers, dismounting, stood
+  Before him, proffering humble faith and love.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  IX.
+
+  Blancandrin was the first to speak, and said
+  Unto the king:--"Hail! in the name of God,
+  The Glorious One we must adore! To you
+  I bring this message from Marsile the brave:
+  Well has he studied your Salvation's Law;
+  And would upon you lavish his great wealth.
+  Bears--lions--packs of hounds enchained he gives,
+  Seven hundred camels also--fifty score
+  Of molted falcons--mules, four hundred, packed
+  With gold and silver--fifty carts to carry
+  These gifts, and _bezants_[4] of the purest gold
+  He also sends, which will your soldiers pay.
+  Too long within our land you have remained;
+  To France--to Aix he wills you straight return.
+  There will he follow you: so says my lord."
+  To God the Emperor uplifts his hands;
+  Bends low his head and counsel takes in thought.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  X.
+
+  The Emperor sat silent with drooped head.
+  Ne'er rash in words, he never speaks in haste.
+  At last he rose. Proudly he looked and spake
+  Unto the messengers:--"Ye have well said
+  That King Marsile e'er stood my greatest foe!
+  On these fair-seeming words how far can I
+  Rely?" The crafty Saracen replied:
+  "Would you have hostages? you shall have ten,
+  Fifteen, yea, twenty. Though his fate be death
+  My son shall go, and others nobler still,
+  I deem. When to your lordly palace, home
+  Returned--when comes Saint Michael del Peril,
+  His feast, my Lord will follow to those springs,
+  He says, brought forth by God for you, and there
+  Baptized, a faithful Christian will become!"
+  Carl'magne makes answer:--"He may yet be saved!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XI.
+
+  The eve was soft and fair, the sunset bright;
+  The ten mules stabled by the King's command;
+  In the great orchard a pavilion raised
+  To house the messengers, his Pagan guests.
+  Twelve sergeants to their service were assigned,
+  And there they rested till the dawn repelled
+  The night. With day the Emperor arose;
+  Heard mass and matins first, then having gone
+  Beneath a stately pine, he summons all
+  His wisest barons, council grave to hold,
+  Thus ever guided by the men of France.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XII.
+
+  Beneath a pine the Monarch has repaired;
+  His barons to the council called: the Duke
+  Ogier--Archbishop Turpin--old Richard,
+  Also his nephew Henri, and the brave
+  Count Acelin of Gascuigne--Tedbald
+  De Reins--his cousin Milon--Gerier,
+  Gerin, together with the Count Rolland,
+  And Olivier, the brave and noble knight.
+  One thousand Franks of France and more were met--
+  Then Ganelon came, who treason wrought; and now
+  Was opened that ill-fated council thus:
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XIII.
+
+  "Seigneurs Barons," began the Emp'ror Carle,
+  "The King Marsile his messengers hath sent
+  To offer me large store of his great wealth;
+  Bears--lions--hounds in leash;--of camels he
+  Gives seven hundred--falcons, fifty score--
+  Four hundred mules packed high with Arab gold,
+  And more than fifty chariots loaded full;
+  But he demands that I return to France.
+  There will he follow: then arrived at Aix,
+  Will in my palace take Salvation's Faith,
+  Will Christ obey, and hold his lands from me;
+  But what is in his heart, I do not know."
+  The French exclaim:--"Of him we must beware!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XIV.
+
+  The Emp'ror ended thus. But Count Rolland
+  Approving not the terms, stands forth and speaks
+  Unto the King with arguments adverse:
+  "Trust never more Marsile. 'Tis full seven years
+  Since we came into Spain. For you I took
+  Both Noples and Commibles; gained Valterne
+  And all the land of Pine, and Balaguer,
+  And Tuele and Sebile--yet King Marsile
+  Still plotting treachery, sent from his horde
+  Of Pagans, fifteen men; each bore in hand
+  Like these, a branch of olive-tree, and spake
+  The self-same words. On that you counsel took
+  From your too lightly flattering French; two Counts
+  Of yours you to the Pagan sent, the one,
+  Bazan, Bastile the other, and their heads
+  He struck off near Haltoie. As you began,
+  War on! To Sarraguce your army lead,
+  Besiege her walls, though all your life it take,
+  And thus avenge the knights the felon slew."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XV.
+
+  At this the Emperor, bending low his head,
+  Twists his mustache and plucks his hoary beard,
+  Answering his nephew neither yea nor nay.
+  The Franks keep silence--all save Ganelon
+  Who rose and stood before the King, and spake
+  Bold words and haughty:--"Put not faith in fools,
+  Nor me nor others; follow your own rede!
+  Since King Marsile makes offer to become
+  Your man, with hands joined; furthermore will hold
+  Spain as a fief from you; yea, will receive
+  Our law as his law, he who counsel gives
+  Such proffer to reject, cares not a whit
+  What death we die. No counsel take of pride;
+  Let pass the fools and listen to the wise."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XVI.
+
+  And now Duke Naimes arose: his beard and hair
+  As white as drifted snow. In all the court
+  No better vassal stood; and to the King:
+  "Have you marked well the words Count Ganelon
+  In answer spoke but now? His plan is wise;
+  Follow it then. This King Marsile in war
+  Is overcome, his strongholds all pulled down;
+  By warlike engines are his walls destroyed,
+  His cities burned, his men subdued;--when now
+  He for your mercy prays, foul sin it were
+  To press him harder. Since he, furthermore
+  Will bind his word by gift of hostages,
+  [One of your barons also send to him.]
+  In truth no longer this great war should rage."
+  The French all cry:--"Duke Naimes has spoken well."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XVII.
+
+  "Seigneurs Barons, which of you shall we send
+  To meet the King Marsile in Sarraguce?"
+  Duke Naimes responds:--"I, with your leave will go;
+  Give me the glove and staff."--"Nay," quoth King Carle,
+  "A sage you are in council, well I know:
+  By this mustache and by this beard of mine,
+  So far away from me you shall not go.
+  Back to your seat, since none hath summoned you."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XVIII.
+
+  "Seigneurs Barons, which of you shall we send
+  As messengers to Sarraguce where rules
+  Marsile?"--Rolland responds:--"Behold me here!"
+  "--You shall not, by my troth!" cries Olivier,
+  "Your pride too fierce, and courage far too hot;
+  I fear some misadventure from your zeal.
+  Should our King grant me but his leave, 'tis I
+  Will go!"--The King exclaimed:--"Be silent both--
+  Nor you, nor he, shall yonder set your foot!
+  Ay, by this hoary beard of mine, I swear,
+  Not one of my twelve Peers shall thither go."
+  The French are dumb---all silenced by these words.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XIX.
+
+  Turpin de Reins arises from the ranks
+  And to the King he says: "Let your Franks stay,
+  To this land seven years ago you came,
+  And they have suffered much of toil and pain.
+  Give me the glove and staff, and I will go
+  And speak my mind to that proud Saracen."
+  With anger great the Emperor replies:
+  "Back to your seat on yonder _pallie_ white
+  Nor speak another word, save by command!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XX.
+
+  Then said the Emperor:--"Chevaliers of France,
+  Choose ye for me a baron of my realm,
+  One who can bear my words to King Marsile!"
+  Rolland rejoins:--"Let my step-father go;
+  If he remain, no wiser man is found."
+  The French say:---"Well can he fulfill the task:
+  [If the King wills, 'tis right he should be sent."]
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXI.
+
+  Thus spoke the King:--"Sire Ganelon, draw near:
+  Receive the glove and staff--you heard the Franks
+  Pass judgment, and on you their choice has fallen."
+  Said Ganelon:--"All this Rolland has done!
+  My life-long, never will I love him more,
+  Nor Olivier, his comrade and his friend,
+  Nor the twelve Peers, for that they love him well.
+  Here in your presence, I defy them all!"
+  The King replied:--"Too wroth you are. At once
+  You shall depart.--I spoke it."--"Sire, I go,
+  Although for me there is nor shield nor guard:
+  Basile had none, Bazan, his brother, none!
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXII.
+
+  "To Sarraguce I go, and know full well
+  Who thither goes, may ne'er return. Nay more,
+  Your sister is my wife, and I by her
+  Have one fair son, Baldewin, the goodliest child
+  Who [if he live] will be a noble knight.
+  To him I leave my fiefs and honors: guard
+  Him well, for him these eyes no more shall see."
+  Carle answers:--"Much too tender is your heart;
+  Since I command, your duty 'tis to go."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXIII.
+
+  Count Ganelon, at this, rose full of wrath,
+  And, casting from his neck his zibelline
+  Of fur, stood forth, clothed in his silk _blialt._[5]
+  Gray were his eyes and very fierce his face;
+  Graceful his form--his breast, of mighty mold.
+  So fair was he, all eyes upon him rest.
+  "Rolland," he said, "wherefore this foolish wrath?
+  Since thy step-father, 'tis well known, I am,
+  For this thou choosest me to seek Marsile!
+  'Tis well. If God but grant me safe return,
+  I such ill fortune hurl on thee, shall smite
+  Thy life from now and ever with a curse."
+  Rolland replies:--"Mad words and proud I hear.
+  All know it well, I care for no man's threat;
+  But since a wise man must this message bear,
+  If the King wills it, in your place I go."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXIV.
+
+  "Thou shalt not take my place," said Ganelon;
+  "My vassal art thou not, nor yet am I
+  Thy lord; and since the King hath given me
+  Command this service I should take, I shall
+  Go to Marsile. But once in Sarraguce
+  Will I with fuel feed my heart's fierce ire."
+  Rolland, on hearing this, began to laugh.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXV.
+
+  When Ganelon saw the laughter of Rolland,
+  It seemed as though his breast would burst with wrath;
+  His brain was well-nigh maddened by his rage.
+  Unto the Count he cried:--"I love you not;
+  This judgment have you caused on me to fall!
+  Right Emp'ror, in your presence, lo! I stand,
+  And I am ready to fulfill your word."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXVI.
+
+  The King presents to him his right hand glove;
+  But Ganelon would well have ne'er stood there,
+  For ere he touched the royal glove, it fell.
+  The French exclaim:--"What bodes this omen? Shall
+  This embassy not have a woeful end?--"
+  "_Seigneurs_," said Ganelon, "you will hear of this!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXVII.
+
+  Said Ganelon:--"Give me dismissal, Sire!
+  Since I must go, my time is precious." Then
+  Adjured the King:--"For Jesus' sake and mine!"
+  With his right hand he Ganelon absolved
+  And blessed, deliv'ring up the brief and staff.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXVIII.
+
+  Count Ganelon his own house seeks, to make
+  Equipment and prepare his arms: his choice
+  The best that he can find. With golden spurs
+  He clasps his heels; belts to his side his sword,
+  Murgleis, and mounts his courser Tachebrun.
+  His uncle Guinemer the stirrup held;
+  There many a chevalier you might have seen
+  In tears, who said: "Baron, such evil fate
+  Was yours. You, in the King's Court so long, and there
+  Revered as liege-man high!--The man who judged
+  That you should go, not Carle himself shall cure
+  Or save; the Count Rolland bethought him not
+  Of that high lineage whence you sprang!"--And they
+  Entreat:--"My lord with you take us along!"
+  But Ganelon replies:--"Lord God forbid!
+  Better to die alone than with me fall
+  So many brave!--Lords, to sweet France ye will go.
+  Salute for me my wife, and Pinabel,
+  My friend and peer, and my son Baldewin whom
+  Ye all know--guard him--hold him for your lord."
+  The Count departs and goes upon his way.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  THE EMBASSY AND CRIME OF GANELON.
+
+
+  XXIX.
+
+  The Count rides on beneath tall olive trees
+  And joins the messengers of King Marsile.
+  To meet him Blancandrin has checked his speed:
+  With skillful words each to the other spake.
+  Blancandrin said: "A wond'rous man is Carle
+  Who conquered Pouille and overran Calabre,
+  Crossed the salt-seas to England, and from thence
+  Gained tribute for _Saint-Pierre_. In this our land
+  What claims he?" "Such his might," said Ganelon,
+  "No man shall ever match with him in arms."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXX.
+
+  Said Blancandrin: "The Franks are noble, but
+  Those Dukes, those Counts harm much their lord, who give
+  To him such counsels, wronging him and all."
+  Ganelon answered: "No man, save Rolland,
+  Know I, who should this blame incur; it was
+  But yestermorn, the King sat in the shade,
+  When Rolland came before him, all encased
+  In glittering arms, fresh from the siege and sack
+  Of Carcasonne, holding an apple red;
+  And thus his uncle greeted: 'Sire, behold!
+  I lay the crowns of all Kings at your feet.'
+  Swift punishment should overtake such pride,
+  For ev'ry day he blindly runs to death.
+  Were he but slain, all lands might rest in peace."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXXI.
+
+  Blancandrin said: "Most cruel is Rolland
+  Who makes all nations cry for mercy thus,
+  And will o'er all the lands his power impose.
+  Upon what people doth he then rely
+  For such attempt?" Ganelon said: "The French!...
+  They love him so, they fail him ne'er in aught.
+  Lavish is he of gifts: Silver and gold,
+  Mules, chargers, silken robes and garnitures,
+  He gives the King himself all that he craves;
+  From here to the far East, all lands must fall!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXXII.
+
+  Blancandrin with Count Ganelon rode on,
+  Until together had they pledged their faith
+  To snare Rolland and lead him to his death.
+  Thus on they rode through vales and mountain-paths,
+  Till Sarraguce was reached. Beneath a yew
+  They lighted: a faldstool by shady pines
+  O'erhung, was spread with Alexandrine silk.
+  There sat the King who ruled all Spain, and stood
+  Around him twenty thousand Saracens,
+  Who neither spoke nor breathed, to hear the news;
+  And lo! came Blancandrin with Ganelon.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXXIII.
+
+  Blancandrin stepped before the Pagan King
+  With Ganelon the Count held by the wrist.
+  Thus to Marsile he said: "Mohammed save
+  The King! Apollo, too, whose holy law
+  We keep. We bore your message to Carl'magne;
+  Both hands he lifted, praying to his God;
+  No other answer gave.--He sends you here
+  One of his noble Barons, a rich Frank.
+  Learn from his lips if it be peace or war."
+  Responds Marsile: "Then let him speak. We hear!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXXIV.
+
+  Then Ganelon, who well had weighed his thoughts,
+  Begins to speak as one of knowledge vast,
+  And says unto the King: "By God be saved,
+  The Glorious God we must adore! Carl'magne
+  The Baron, sends his message to Marsile:
+  The holy Christian Faith if you receive,
+  One half of Spain he grants to you in fief.
+  These terms refuse, and your fair Sarraguce
+  He will besiege, and drag you forth in chains
+  To Aix, his royal city, there to meet
+  A felon's doom."--Quivering with rage and fear,
+  The King Marsile, who held a gold-winged dart,
+  Aims it at him; but others stayed his hand.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXXV.
+
+  The King Marsile turned pale, and full of wrath,
+  Brandished the shaft of his winged dart on high.
+  Ganelon saw, laid hand upon his sword,
+  And quick unsheathed two fingers' breadth of blade,
+  Saying: "Sword of mine you are most fair and bright;
+  As long as by me borne in this King's court,
+  Never shall say the Emperor of France
+  Ganelon died alone in foreign land,
+  Ere a high price for you the best have paid!"
+  The Pagans cry in haste: "Check this affray."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXXVI.
+
+  The wisest Pagans urged the wrathful King,
+  Till, yielding, on his throne he has resumed
+  His seat. The Kalif said: "Great wrong you brought
+  Upon us, menacing to strike the Frank.
+  You should have hearkened to his words." "This wrong,"
+  Said Ganelon, "I calmly will endure;
+  But for the gold that God hath made all wealth
+  Stored in this land, I would not leave untold,
+  While I have power of speech, the message sent
+  By Carle, the mighty Emperor, through me
+  His messenger, to thee his mortal foe."
+  Ganelon on the ground his mantle dropped
+  Of Alexandrine silk, and richly lined
+  With zibelline; Blancandrin took it up:
+  But from his sword the Count would never part;
+  And his right hand still grasps the golden hilt.
+  The Pagans say:--"Behold a Baron true!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXXVII.
+
+  Then Ganelon strode nearer to the King
+  And said:--"All idle is this wrath of yours.
+  This is the message of King Carle of France;
+  Hear his command:--"Receive the Christian law"--
+  One half of Spain he grants to you in fief,
+  And to Rolland, his nephew, he will give
+  The other half. (A haughty partner he
+  Will prove.) To this agreement should you not
+  Consent, 'gainst Sarraguce his host will lay
+  The siege; by force you will be tak'n and bound,
+  And brought to Aix, the royal seat. Hope not
+  To ride on palfrey, nor on steed, on mule
+  Female or male;--on a vile beast of burden
+  You shall be thrown, and doomed to have your head
+  Struck off.--Behold the Brief our Emp'ror sends!"
+  With his right hand he gives it to the King.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXXVIII.
+
+  White with exceeding wrath, the King Marsile
+  Has brok'n the seal, let fall the wax on earth,
+  And, glancing on the Brief, has read the script:
+  "I learn from Carle who holds France in his sway,
+  That I should bear in mind his ire and grief:
+  Bazan--Basile, his brother, they whose heads
+  I took on Mount Haltoie, his anger's cause.
+  If I my body's life would save, to him
+  The Kalif, my good uncle, I must send,
+  Or else can he ne'er be my friend."--Then spake
+  To King Marsile his son:--"This Ganelon,"
+  Said he, "speaks madly, and such wrong hath done,
+  That he should live no more. Now give him up
+  To me, that I to him quick justice deal!"
+  Ganelon, hearing this, unsheathed his sword,
+  And set his back against a branching pine.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XXXIX.
+
+  Into his orchard King Marsile repaired,
+  Attended only by his wisest men;
+  Came thither too the gray-haired Blancandrin
+  With Turfaleu his son and heir; with them
+  The Kalif, brother and good friend of King
+  Marsile.--Said Blancandrin:--"Recall the Frank;
+  To serve us he has pledged his faith."--The King
+  Replied:--"Go, bring him hither."--Then he took
+  Ganelon's fingers into his right hand,
+  And brought him to the grove before the King;
+  And lo! was woven there the traitor's plot.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XL.
+
+  The King Marsile said:--"Fair Sire Ganelon,
+  Unwise and all too hasty was I, when
+  In my great wrath I poised my lance to strike.
+  This gift of sables take as your amends:
+  More than five hundred marks their weight in gold.
+  Before to-morrow-eve the boon is yours."
+  Ganelon answers:--"I reject it not.
+  May God, if 'tis his will, your grace reward."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XLI.
+
+  Marsile spake thus:--"Sire Ganelon, believe,
+  Much I desire to love you, and of Carle
+  I crave to hear. Is he not old, his prime
+  Has he not passed? Men tell me he has lived
+  More than two hundred years; his body dragged
+  Throughout so many lands; so many blows
+  Upon his shield!--So many mighty Kings
+  To beggary reduced!--When will he cease
+  To march on battle-fields?"--Then Ganelon
+  Responded:--"Such is not King Carle; no man
+  Alive who sees and knows him but will tell
+  How our great Emperor is Baron true.
+  I could not praise and honor him enough,
+  For no man lives so valiant and so good.
+  His valor ... who on earth could ever tell?
+  His soul God with such virtue has illumed,
+  I'd rather die than quit my noble lord!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XLII.
+
+  The Pagan said:--"Amazed am I at Carle
+  So old and so white-haired; his age, I know,
+  Two hundred years and more. His limbs he toiled
+  Across so many lands; so oft was struck
+  By swords and spears; so many kings compelled
+  To beg!--When will he cease to war?"--"Carle?--ne'er!"
+  Ganelon answered, "while his nephew lives:
+  No vassal like him 'neath the starry arch;
+  And bold as he his comrade Olivier.
+  The twelve Peers held by Carle so dear, behold!
+  The vanguard form of twenty thousand knights;
+  With them King Carle is safe, and fears no man."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XLIII.
+
+  Again the Pagan:--"I am wonder-struck
+  On knowing Carle so old and so white-haired!
+  Methinks he passed two hundred years; by arms
+  He won so many lands--so many wounds
+  In battle he received from trenchant swords!
+  So many powerful kings on battle-fields
+  Conquered or slew!--When will he cease to war?"
+  "--Never!"--said Ganelon, "while lives Rolland:
+  From here to farthest east no knight his peer
+  E'er lived: his comrade too, Count Olivier,
+  Is brave; and the twelve Peers, so dear to Carle,
+  The van-guard make of twenty thousand knights.
+  Carle may have peace, and fears no living man!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XLIV.
+
+  "Fair Sire," said King Marsile to Ganelon,
+  "Than mine no fairer people can you see:
+  Four hundred thousand knights I can array
+  In combat 'gainst King Carle and 'gainst his Franks."--
+  Ganelon says:--"The time has not yet come,
+  Yea, and great loss your people then will have.
+  But leave this folly, and to wisdom hold;
+  Offer the King of treasures such a store
+  That all the French will marvel at the gift.
+  For twenty hostages that you will send,
+  Back to Sweet France will Carle ere long repair.
+  His rear-guard, notice well, will rest behind:
+  There will Rolland, his nephew, be, I trow,
+  With Olivier the brave and courteous knight.
+  Trust to my counsel and both Counts are doomed,
+  Nay, Carle shall see his lofty pride cast down
+  And never more shall covet war with you."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XLV.
+
+  [Thus King Marsile] said:--"Fair sire Ganelon,
+  What means have I to kill the Count Rolland?"
+  Ganelon answered:--"This can I well say:
+  The King will reach the wider pass of Sizre
+  And leave his rear behind, where great Rolland
+  Eke Olivier, whom both he greatly trusts,
+  Will be the chiefs of twenty thousand Franks.
+  On these your hundred thousand Pagans throw,
+  And let them straightway make an onset fierce:
+  Stricken and slain shall be the men of France;
+  I say not that of yours none shall be slain,
+  But follow up this fight with like attack,
+  And Count Rolland cannot escape them both,
+  Then will you deeds of chivalry achieve,
+  And free your life from war for evermore."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XLVI.
+
+  "Who could contrive that there Rolland should die,
+  Would strike off Carle's right arm. Then on the field
+  That wond'rous host in death shall lie. No more
+  Thereafter could King Carle such forces raise,
+  And the Great Land at last would rest in peace."
+  Marsile, this hearing, kissed him on the neck,
+  And then began his treasures to display.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XLVII.
+
+  Exclaimed Marsile:--"What further [shall I say?]
+  No good adviser he of faith unsure.
+  Swear if Rolland be there that he shall die!"
+  Thus answered Ganelon:--"Your will be done."
+  Upon the relics of his sword Murgleis
+  The treason swore; thus forfeited himself.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XLVIII.
+
+  An ivory-faldstool there was set. Marsile
+  The order gives to bring a book before it,
+  Mohammed's law and that of Tervagant,
+  The Spanish Saracen thus took his oath:
+  "If in the rear-guard Count Rolland be found,
+  He will attack him there with all his men;
+  And, if it may be, there Rolland shall die."
+  Ganelon answers:--"May [our treaty thrive!]"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XLIX.
+
+  Behold a Pagan, Valdabrun, who armed
+  Marsile a Knight; with cheerful smile he said
+  To Ganelon:--"Take this my sword; no man
+  E'er drew its peer; the hilt alone is worth
+  More than a thousand marks.--For love I give it,
+  But lend us help against the Count Rolland,
+  And show us how to find him in the rear."
+  "--So shall it be," replies Count Ganelon;
+  Whereon they kissed each other's chin and face.
+
+
+  L.
+
+  Another Pagan came. 'Twas Climorin
+  Who gayly smiling, said to Ganelon:
+  "My helmet take--None better have I seen,
+  But help us now against _Marchis_ Rolland
+  That we may throw dishonor on his name."
+  "--Well shall it be," responded Ganelon,
+  And then they kissed each other's lips and cheek.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LI.
+
+  And now behold, comes Bramimunde the Queen;
+  "Sire Ganelon," said she, "I love you much,
+  You, by my sire and all our men esteemed.
+  Two necklaces unto your wife I send,
+  With jacinths and with amethysts and gold
+  Adorned, worth more than all the wealth of Rome;
+  Jewels so rich your Emp'ror never had."
+  The Count receives and puts them in his hose.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LII.
+
+  The King calls up Malduit, his treasurer:
+  "Hast thou prepared my gifts for Carle the King?"
+  Malduit responds:--"Yea sire, the whole are there:
+  Seven hundred camels with their loads of gold
+  And silver; then of hostages a score,
+  The noblest ever lived beneath the stars."
+                                        Aoi
+
+
+  LIII.
+
+  Marsile took by the shoulder Ganelon
+  And told him:--"Thou hast wisdom and art brave.
+  By that great law ye hold the best, beware
+  Thy heart fails not. Rich treasures will I give
+  To thee: ten mules laden with purest gold
+  From Araby; each year shall bring the like.
+  Meantime of this great city take the keys,
+  And in my name present this wealth to Carle.
+  But let Rolland be ordered to the rear.
+  If in the pass or mount I find the knight,
+  I swear to give him combat to the death."
+  Says Ganelon:--"Methinks too long I stay."--
+  He mounts his horse and goes upon his way.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LIV.
+
+  The Emperor nears his realm, and reaching now
+  The city of Valterne sacked by Rolland
+  And left in ruins, which thereafter lay
+  A hundred years a desert; there he waits
+  For news of Ganelon, and tribute due
+  By the great land of Spain. One morning when
+  The early dawn was brightening into day,
+  Count Ganelon drew nigh unto the camp.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LV.
+
+  In early morn the Emperor arose.
+  Having attended mass and matins both,
+  Upon the verdant grass, before his tent
+  He stood, surrounded by the Count Rolland,
+  The valorous Olivier, and the Duke Naimes,
+  With many more besides. There also came
+  The perjurer, the treacherous Ganelon,
+  Who, stepping forth, with most perfidious tongue
+  Began to speak:--"Hail! God save Carle the King!--
+  I bring you here the keys of Sarraguce:
+  Great treasures follow through my care conveyed
+  With hostages a score. So, guard them well.
+  The King Marsile the brave bears not the blame
+  If I bring not the Kalif unto you.
+  Myself three hundred thousand men in arms
+  Beheld, with hauberks clad, and helmets clasped,
+  Swords by their sides, hilts bright with gold inlaid,
+  Who with him crossed the sea, not to submit
+  To Christ's law which they will not hold nor keep.
+  But scarce five leagues had they sailed on the main,
+  When wind and tempest rising, down they sank.
+  All perished!... Never shall you see them more.
+  Had but the Kalif lived, I would have brought
+  Him hither. For the Pagan King, know well,
+  Ere you shall see this first month pass away,
+  Your vassal will he be, with joined hands,
+  And hold the realm of Spain a fief from you."
+  Thus said the King:--"Thanks be to God for this!
+  Well have you done, and great your recompense
+  Shall be."--He bids a thousand trumpets sound...
+  The camp is struck:--the Franks then load their mules
+  And set forth on their journey to Sweet France.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  THE REAR GUARD.
+
+
+  ROLLAND DOOMED TO DEATH.
+
+
+  LVI.
+
+  King Carle the Great has made a waste of Spain,
+  The cities violated, the castles seized.
+  Now saith the King his war is at an end,
+  And toward Sweet France the Emperor directs
+  His steed.... The Count Rolland the pennon white
+  Has planted on a hill, high 'gainst the sky.
+  In all the country round the Franks their tents
+  Are pitching, while the Pagans ride along
+  The mighty vales. In hauberk clad--their backs
+  In armor cased; with helmets clasped--sword girt
+  On thigh--shields on their necks--each lance in rest,
+  Within a thicket on the mount they halt.
+  Four hundred thousand men there wait the dawn.
+  The French yet know it not. Ah God! what woe!
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LVII.
+
+  Passes the day; the shades of night have fallen.
+  Carle the great Emp'ror sleeps; and in a dream
+  He marches through the deep defiles of Sizre.
+  In his right hand his ashen spear he holds,
+  Which suddenly Count Ganelon has snatched
+  From him, and shook and brandished in such wise
+  That, breaking, high tow'rd Heav'n the splinters flew.
+  Carle sleeps--naught from his slumber can arouse him.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LVIII.
+
+  Another vision followed hereupon:
+  He is in France, in his _Chapelle_, at Aix.
+  A bear his right arm caught with such sharp fangs
+  [That from the bone the flesh is torn away.]
+  From toward Ardennes he saw a leopard come,
+  Which in his dream, made on him fierce attack;
+  But then a greyhound dashes from the hall
+  Unto Carle's rescue, swift of leap and bound;
+  First from the treach'rous bear the hound tears off
+  An ear, then with the leopard combat makes.
+  "See!" cry the French, "what battle fierce is here."
+  But they know not which of the two will win
+  The field--Carle still asleep naught can awake.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LIX.
+
+  Vanished the night, and the clear dawn appeared.
+  With noble mien the Emperor mounts his steed,
+  And 'mid the host one thousand trumpets sound:
+  "_Barons_," said Carle:--"You see those deep defiles
+  And narrow passes--judge who in the rear
+  Will take command." Said Ganelon:--"Rolland,
+  My step-son, whom among your valiant knights
+  You prize the most." Carle hearing this, upon
+  Him sternly looked:--"Thou art the devil's self,"
+  Said he, "or else a mortal rage has stung
+  Thy heart! Say, who before me in the van
+  Will march? 'Twill be Ogier de Dannemarche!
+  You have no better Baron for the post."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LX.
+
+  When hears the Count Rolland the lot has fallen
+  Upon himself, as loyal knight he speaks:--
+  "You, sire step-father, dear and well beloved
+  Must be, since you have named me for the rear;
+  Nor shall Carl'magne, the King of France, lose aught,
+  Nor palfrey, nor fleet steed, if knowledge true
+  I have, nor male nor female mule that man
+  Can ride, nor beast of burden, horse or ass,
+  Unreckoned for with these good swords of ours."
+  Said Ganelon:--"The truth you speak, I know."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXI.
+
+  When hears Rolland the rear shall be his lot,
+  To his step-father thus in wrath he speaks:--
+  "Ah! traitor, evil man of race impure,
+  Thou thought'st to see me here let fall the glove
+  As thou erst dropped the staff before the King!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXII.
+
+  The Count Rolland [addressing thus Carl'magne:]
+  "Give me the bow that now your hand doth hold,
+  For, to my knowledge, none will e'er throw blame
+  On me for dropping it, as fell on earth
+  Your right hand glove, when he received the staff."
+  With head declined the Emperor remains:
+  Oft plucks and twists the beard on lip and cheek,
+  Nor can his eyes restrain their falling tears.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXIII.
+
+  Naimes after came--no better ever was
+  A vassal in the court. He said to Carle:
+  "You hear him; greatly wroth is Count Rolland;
+  The rear guard is assigned to his command;
+  No baron have you that with him would make
+  Exchange. Give him the bow and your hand has bent,
+  And look for those who best may lend him help."
+  Carle gives the bow which Count Rolland receives.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXIV.
+
+  The Emperor calls to Rolland and says:--
+  "Fair sire, my nephew, truly you must know
+  Half of my army will I leave with you;
+  Keep them; in their good help your safety lies."
+  Then said the Count:--"Of this will I do naught!
+  May God confound me, ere my race I shame;
+  But twenty thousand valiant knights I keep!
+  Through the defiles you can in safety pass
+  And fear no harm from man while yet I live."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXV.
+
+  Rolland sits on his steed, and nigh him rides
+  His comrade Olivier. There came Gerin,
+  Gerier the brave, Othon and Berengier;
+  There came Sansun, Anseis the fierce; there came
+  Also Gerard de Roussillon the old,
+  Together with the _Gascuin_ Engelier.
+  The Archbishop said:--"I, by my head, will go!"
+  "--And I with you," exclaimed the Count Gualtier;
+  "Rolland's own man am I, and follow him!"
+  From all are chosen twenty thousand knights.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXVI.
+
+  The Count Rolland calls up Gualtier de l'Hum:
+  "One thousand Franks of France, our land, array,
+  And with them cover heights and passes, that
+  The Emperor may lose none of his host."
+  Responds Gualtier:--"This am I bound to do
+  For you."--Forthwith one thousand Franks of France
+  O'errun each height and pass.--None shall descend
+  Despite ill news, ere seven hundred swords
+  Unsheathe. That very day King Almaris
+  Who rules Belferne, met them with battle fierce.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXVII.
+
+  High are the mounts, the valleys murky-dark--
+  The rocks are black, the gorges terrible.
+  The French toiled through them painfully; their march
+  Was heard for fifteen leagues; then the Great land
+  Reaching, they viewed Gascuigne, their lord's estate,
+  And sweet remembrance felt of honors, fiefs,
+  Of lovely maidens and of noble wives:
+  Not one is there but weeps from tenderness;
+  But more than all is Carle distressed; he mourns
+  His nephew left in the defiles of Spain....
+  By pity moved he cannot choose but weep.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXVIII.
+
+  The twelve Peers staid in Spain. A thousand score
+  Of Franks are under their command, to whom
+  Unknown is wavering fear or dread of death.
+  Carl'magne to France returns--within his cloak
+  He hides his face--Naimes, riding near, inquired:
+  "What thought, O King, weighs now upon your heart?"--
+  "Who questions me doth wrong. So sad am I
+  I can but mourn. Sweet France by Ganelon
+  Shall be destroyed. An angel in my sleep
+  Appeared, and, dreaming, I beheld my lance
+  Broken up within my hand by him who named
+  My nephew for the rear guard ... and I left
+  Him in a foreign land;--O mighty God,
+  Should I lose him, I ne'er should find his peer!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXIX.
+
+  Carle the great King, no more restrains his tears:
+  One hundred thousand Franks great sympathy
+  Give him, with strangest fear for Count Rolland.
+  Vile Ganelon, the wretch, this treason wrought!
+  He, from the Pagan King received rich gifts
+  Of gold and silver, silk and ciclatons,
+  Lions and camels, horses, mules. Behold,
+  King Marsile summons all his Counts from Spain,
+  His Viscounts, Dukes and Almazours; with these
+  The Emirs, and the sons of noble Counts;
+  Four hundred thousand gathered in three days,
+  In Sarraguce are beaten all the drums;
+  Mohammed's image to the loftiest tower
+  Is raised on high.--No Pagan but adores
+  And prays before him.--They then madly ride
+  Throughout the land, o'er mountain and o'er vale.
+  At last they see the gonfalons of France;
+  It is the rear-guard of the twelve compeers:
+  Nor will they fail to give them battle now.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXX.
+
+  Hastes to the front the nephew of Marsile,
+  Goading the mule that bears him, with a staff.
+  Says to his uncle, gayly laughing loud:
+  "Fair King, till now I served you well; for you
+  Endured hard pain and grief.--The only fee
+  I ask is this:--To strike Rolland! I swear
+  To give him death with my good trenchant sword,
+  And if his help Mohammed will bestow,
+  On me, forever shall all Spain be free,
+  From the defiles of Aspre to Durestant.
+  Carle then will yield,--the Franks, surrender all;
+  No more in all your life will you have war."
+  The King Marsile bestows on him the glove.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXI.
+
+  The nephew of Marsile holds in his grasp
+  The glove, and to the King with haughty pride
+  Speaks:--"Fair Sire King, your gift I dearly prize;
+  Choose you for me eleven of your Knights,
+  And I will go and combat the twelve Peers."
+  The first response was that of Falsaun:
+  He was the brother of the King Marsile.--
+  "Fair nephew, we shall go, both you and I;
+  In battle side by side, we shall engage.
+  The rear of Carle's great host is doomed to die!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+  LXXII.
+
+  King Corsalis stands on the other side;
+  He comes from Barbary; a soul of guile.
+  Still speaks he there not unlike vassal true
+  Who would not for the gold of heav'n be base:
+  "If there I find Rolland, we meet in fight.
+  I am the third; now choose ye out the fourth."
+  See you the spurring Malprimis de Brigal,
+  Faster on foot than runs the fastest steed?
+  Before Marsile in a loud voice he cries:
+  "I shall my body take to Ronceval;
+  If there I find Rolland, by me he dies."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXIII.
+
+  An Emir now is there, from Balaguer.
+  Of handsome form, with proud and cheerful face,
+  When on his steed he vaults, well doth he show
+  With what great pride his armor's mail is borne.
+  For truest vassalage he is renowned;
+  Were he but Christian, 'twere a baron true.
+  Before Marsile he stands and loudly cries:
+  "My body I will take to Ronceval;
+  If there I face Rolland his doom is sure,
+  Eke Olivier and the twelve peers, all die.
+  The Franks shall perish in despair and shame.
+  Carl'magne is old and dotes. O'erwhelmed, at last
+  He will give up this waging war, and Spain
+  Forever shall be kept beneath our sway."
+  The King Marsile on him bestows great thanks.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXIV.
+
+  Then from the Moorish land an Almazour
+  Steps forth. All Spain can show no greater wretch.
+  Before Marsile he makes a boastful vaunt:
+  "To Ronceval will I my people lead--
+  Full twenty thousand men with lance and shield.
+  If I Rolland find there, I pledge his death;
+  No after-day shall dawn but Carle shall weep."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXV.
+
+  From elsewhere comes Turgis de Turteluse.
+  He is a count, and o'er this city wields
+  His sway; hate unto Christians has he vowed,
+  And stands with all the rest before Marsile.
+  He thus addressed the king: "Ne'er be dismayed!
+  More worth Mohammed than Saint Pierre of Rome;
+  But serve him well, the honor of the field
+  [Is ours]. I'll meet Rolland at Ronceval
+  Where none can guard him. Mark this sword of mine;
+  Its blade, so good and long, in desperate fight
+  Will cross with Durendal; and you will hear
+  Which of the two shall win the victory.
+  Abandoned unto us the French must die.
+  The old King Carle will have both grief and shame,
+  And never more on earth will wear a crown."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXVI.
+
+  Comes up besides Escremiz de Valterne,
+  A Saracen, and of that country lord.
+  Before Marsile among the throng he cries:
+  "To Ronceval I go, to crush the proud;
+  Nor shall Rolland, if there, bear off his head,
+  Nor Olivier, chief of the other knights;
+  The twelve peers, all are doomed to perish there.
+  The French shall die, and France become a waste.
+  Of such good vassals Carle will see the loss."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXVII.
+
+  And came with Esturgant, Estramaris,
+  His friend; both wretches, traitors, villains are....
+  Thus spake Marsile: "Come forth, Seigneurs; ye both
+  To Ronceval's defiles shall go and help
+  Me there to lead my host." Both answer: "King,
+  At your command, Rolland and Olivier
+  Will we assault. No power can the twelve peers
+  From death defend against our trenchant swords
+  Whose blades shall redden with hot blood. The French
+  Are doomed to death and Carle to doleful life.
+  France, the Great Land, shall through our arms become
+  Your realm. Come, King, to see this verified;
+  The Emperor's self a captive we'll present."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXVIII.
+
+  There hastens Margariz de Sibilie
+  Who holds the country toward the distant sea.
+  His beauty such, all ladies are his friends;
+  Not one looks on him but to smile, nor can
+  Restrain her laughing joy. No Pagan else
+  More glorious deeds of chivalry achieved;
+  Pressed through the crowd, he cries above the rest
+  Unto the king: "Be not dismayed, for I
+  To Ronceval will go to kill Rolland,
+  And Olivier shall not escape alive;
+  To martyrdom the twelve Peers are condemned.
+  See my good sword with gold-embossed hilt,
+  Given me by the _Amiralz_ of Prime;
+  I pledge my faith it will be dyed in blood.
+  The French shall perish, France be steeped in shame,
+  And Carle the old, with beard all blossom-white,
+  Shall see no day uncursed by grief and wrath.
+  Before one year we shall have conquered France
+  And slept beneath the roofs of Saint-Denis."
+  At this, the Pagan king bowed low his head.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXIX.
+
+  Next you can see Chernubles de [Val-neire].
+  His hair so long, it sweeps the earth, and he
+  Can, for his sport, lift greater weight than bear
+  Four hundred loaded mules.--In his [far-land]
+  They say--the sun ne'er shines, corn cannot grow,
+  The rain falls not, the dew wets not the soil;
+  No stone there but is black, and it is said
+  By some that in that land the demons dwell.
+  Thus said Chernubles:--"My sword hangs at my belt;
+  At Ronceval I will dye it crimson! should
+  I find Rolland the brave upon my path,
+  Nor strike him down, then trust to me no more;
+  This my good sword shall conquer Durendal,
+  The French shall die, and France must be destroyed."
+  At these words, rally King Marsile's twelve Peers,
+  And lead one hundred thousand Saracens
+  Who for the battle hasten and prepare,
+  Arming themselves beneath a grove of pines.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXX.
+
+  The Pagans put their Moorish hauberks on;
+  The greater part are triply lined; they lace
+  Their helms of Sarraguce, gird to their thighs
+  Swords of Vienna steel; bright are their shields;
+  Their lances from Valence; their banners white
+  And blue and crimson. Mules and sumpter-beasts
+  Are left behind. They mount their battle steeds,
+  And forward press in closely serried lines.
+  Clear was the day, and brilliant was the sun;
+  No armor but reflected back the light.
+  A thousand clarions sound their cheering blasts
+  So loud, the French can hear--. Says Olivier:
+  "Rolland, companion, hearken! Soon, methinks,
+  We shall have battle with the Saracens!"
+  To which Rolland: "God grant it may be so.
+  Here must we do our duty to our King;
+  A man should for his Lord and for his cause
+  Distress endure, and bear great heat and cold,
+  Lose all, even to his very hair and skin!
+  'Tis each man's part to strike with mighty blows,
+  That evil songs of us may ne'er be sung.
+  The wrong cause have the Pagans, we the right.
+  No ill example e'er shall come from me."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  PRELUDE TO THE GREAT BATTLE.
+
+
+  LXXXI.
+
+  Olivier from the summit of a hill
+  On his right hand looks o'er a grassy vale,
+  And views the Pagans' onward marching hordes;
+  Then straight he called his faithful friend Rolland:
+  "From Spain a distant rumbling noise I hear,
+  So many hauberks white and flashing helms
+  I see!--This will inflame our French men's hearts.
+  The treason is the work of Ganelon
+  Who named us for this post before the King."
+  "Hush! Olivier!"--the Count Rolland replies,
+  "'Tis my step-father, speak no other word."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXXII.
+
+  Count Olivier is posted on a hill
+  From whence Spain's Kingdom he descries, and all
+  The swarming host of Saracens; their helms
+  So bright bedecked with gold, and their great shields,
+  Their 'broidered hauberks, and their waving flags,
+  He cannot count the squadrons; in such crowds
+  They come, his sight reached not unto their end.
+  Then all bewildered he descends the hill,
+  Rejoins the French, and all to them relates.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXXIII.
+
+  Said Olivier: "I have seen Pagans more
+  Than eyes e'er saw upon the earth; at least
+  One hundred thousand warriors armed with shields,
+  In their white hauberks clad, with helmets laced,
+  Lances in rest, and burnished brazen spears.
+  Battle ye will have, such as ne'er was before.
+  French Lords, may God inspire you with his strength!
+  Stand firm your ground, that we may not succumb."
+  The French say: "Cursed be those who fly the field!
+  Ready to die, not one shall fail you here."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  ROLAND'S PRIDE.
+
+
+  LXXXIV.
+
+  Olivier said: "So strong the Pagan host;
+  Our French, methinks, in number are too few;
+  Companion Rolland, sound your horn, that Carle
+  May hear and send his army back to help."
+  Rolland replies:--"Great folly would be mine,
+  And all my glory in sweet France be lost.
+  No, I shall strike great blows with Durendal;
+  To the golden hilt the blade shall reek with blood.
+  In evil hour the felon Pagans came
+  Unto the Pass, for all are doomed to die!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXXV.
+
+  "Rolland, companion, sound your olifant,
+  That Carle may hear and soon bring back the host.
+  With all his Baronage the king will give
+  Us held!"--Replied Rolland:--"May God fore-fend
+  That for my cause my kindred e'er be blamed,
+  Or that dishonor fall upon sweet France.
+  Nay, I will deal hard blows with Durendal,
+  This my good sword now girt unto my side
+  Whose blade you'll see all reeking with red blood.
+  Those felon Pagans have for their ill fate
+  Together met--yea, death awaits them all."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXXVI.
+
+  "Companion Rolland, sound your olifant!
+  If Carle who passes through the mounts shall hear,
+  To you I pledge my word, the French return."
+  Answered Rolland:--"May God forbid!--Ne'er be
+  It said by living man that Pagans could
+  Cause me to blow my horn, to bring disgrace
+  Upon my kin!--When on the battle field,
+  I'll strike one thousand seven hundred blows,
+  And Durendal all bleeding shall you see.
+  [The French are brave and bravely will they strike.]
+  Those Spanish Moors are doomed to certain death."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXXVII.
+
+  Olivier said:--"To me there seems no shame;
+  I have beheld the Moors of Spain; they swarm
+  O'er mountains, vales and lands, hide all the plains;
+  Great is this stranger host; our number small."
+  Rolland replies:--"The more my ardor grows.
+  God and his [blessed] angels grant that France
+  Lose naught of her renown through my default.
+  Better to die than in dishonor [live.]
+  The more we strike the more Carle's love we gain!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXXVIII.
+
+  Rolland is brave and Olivier is wise;
+  Both knights of wond'rous courage--and in arms
+  And mounted on their steeds, they both will die
+  Ere they will shun the fight. Good are the Counts
+  And proud their words.--The Pagan felons ride
+  In fury on!--"Rolland," said Olivier,
+  "One moment, look! Our foes so close, and Carle
+  Afar from us--you have not deigned to blow
+  Your horn! If came the king, no hurt were ours.
+  Cast your eyes toward the great defiles of Aspre;
+  There see this most unhappy rear-guard. [Those
+  Who here fight, ne'er shall fight on other fields."]
+  Rolland retorts:--"Speak not such shameful words.
+  Woe unto him who bears a coward's heart
+  Within his breast. There firm shall we remain;
+  The combat and the blows from us shall come."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  LXXXIX.
+
+  Now when Rolland the battle sees at hand,
+  More than a leopard's or a lion's pride
+  He shows. He calls the French and Olivier:
+  "Companion, friend, pray, speak of this no more.
+  The Emperor who left his French in trust
+  To us, has chos'n those twenty thousand men.
+  Right well he knows none has a coward's soul.
+  A man should suffer hurt for his good lord,
+  Endure great cold or scorching heat, and give
+  Even to his flesh and blood--Strike with your lance,
+  And I with Durendal, my trusty sword,
+  Carle's gift. If here I die, may he who wins
+  It, say:--'Twas once the sword of a brave knight."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+  XC.
+
+  Turpin the Archbishop from another side,
+  Spurring his courser, mounts a hill and calls
+  The French around. This sermon to them speaks:
+  "_Seigneurs Barons_, Carle left us here: for him,
+  Our King, our duty is to die, to aid
+  In saving Christendom, the Faith of Christ
+  Uphold. There, battle will ye have, for there
+  Before your eyes behold the Saracens.
+  Confess your sins, and for God's mercy pray!
+  For your soul's cure I absolution give....
+  If you should die, as holy martyrs ye
+  Will fall, and places find in Paradise!"
+  The French alight and fall upon their knees;
+  The Godly Archbishop grants them benison,
+  Giving for penance his command to strike.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XCI.
+
+  The French arise. They stand assoiled and quit
+  Of all sins, blessed by Turpin in God's name.
+  On swift destriers they mount, armed cap-a-pie
+  As Knights arrayed for battle. Count Rolland
+  Calls Olivier:--"Companion, sire, full well
+  You know, it is Count Ganelon who has
+  Betrayed us all, and guerdon rich received
+  In gold and silver; well the Emp'ror should
+  Avenge us! King Marsile a bargain made
+  Of us, but swords will make the reck'ning good."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XCII.
+
+  Through the defiles of Spain hath passed Rolland
+  Mounted on Veillantif, his charger swift
+  And strong, bearing his bright and glitt'ring arms.
+  On goes the brave Rolland, his lance borne up
+  Skyward, beneath its point a pennon bound,
+  Snow-white, whose fringes flap his hand.
+  Fair is his form, his visage bright with smiles.
+  Behind him follows Olivier his friend;
+  The French with joy, him as their champion, hail.
+  He on the Heathens throws a haughty glance,
+  But casts a sweet and humble look upon
+  His French, and to them speaks with courteous tone:
+  "_Seigneurs Barons_, march steadily and close.
+  These Pagans hither came to find a grave;
+  We here shall conquer such great spoil to-day
+  As never yet was gained by Kings of France."
+  Even as he spoke the word, the armies met.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XCIII.
+
+  Said Olivier:--"No care have I to speak,
+  Since you deigned not to blow your olifant,
+  All hope of help from Carle for you is lost.
+  He knows no word of this; the fault lies not
+  In him, nor are yon Knights to blame--ride on
+  And gallop to the charge as best you can.
+  _Seigneurs Barons_, recoil not from the foe,
+  In God's name! bearing ever this in mind,
+  Hard blows to deal and hard blows to endure
+  Forget we not the war-cry of King Carle!"
+  At this word all the French together shout.
+  Who then had heard the cry, "Montjoie!" had known
+  What courage is. Then all together rush
+  Right onward; God! with what an onset fierce!
+  Deeply they spur their steeds for greater speed;
+  They burn to fight. What else can they desire?
+  The Saracens stand firm and nothing fear....
+  Behold the Franks and Pagans hand to hand....
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  THE MELEE.
+
+
+  XCIV.
+
+  The nephew of Marsile--his name Aelroth,
+  Forward the first of all spurs on his horse
+  Against our French, hurling forth insulting words:
+  "To-day, French villains, ye will joust with us;
+  Who was to guard you, has betrayed you; mad
+  Must be the King who left you in the pass.
+  So now the honor of sweet France is lost,
+  And Carle the great shall lose his right arm here."
+  Rolland heard.--God! what pain to him! He drives
+  His golden spurs into his courser's flanks,
+  And rushes at full speed against Aelroth;
+  His shield he breaks, dismails the hauberk linked;
+  Cleaving his breast, he severs all the bones,
+  And from the spine the ribs disjoint. The lance
+  Forth from his body thrusts the Pagan's soul;
+  The Heathen's corse reels from his horse, falls down
+  Upon the earth, the neck cloven in two halves.
+  Rolland still taunts him:--"Go thou, wretch, and know
+  Carle was not mad. Ne'er did he treason love,
+  And he did well to leave us in the pass.
+  To-day sweet France will not her honor lose!
+  Strike, Frenchmen, strike; the first sword-stroke is ours;
+  We have the right, these gluttons have the wrong!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XCV.
+
+  Then comes a Duke whose name is Falsarun;
+  He is the brother of the King Marsile.
+  The lands of Dathan and of Abirun
+  He holds: no viler wretch lives under Heaven.
+  Vast is his forehead, and the space between
+  His deeply sunken eyes is half a foot.
+  Seeing his nephew dead, in grief he bounds
+  Forth from the serried ranks, and shouts aloud
+  The Pagan war-cry, furious 'gainst the French.
+  "To-day," he cries, "at last sweet France shall lose
+  Her fame!"--When Olivier heard this, in wrath
+  He pricks with golden spurs his charger's flanks,
+  And, like true baron, lifts his arm to strike,
+  Shivers the Pagan's shield, his hauberk tears
+  Apart. The pennon's folds pass through his breast
+  As with the shaft he hurls him from the selle,
+  A mangled corpse;--here lies he on the ground.
+  Unto the prostrate body Olivier
+  Says proudly:--"Wretch, to me thy threats are vain!
+  Strike boldly, Franks! The victory shall be ours!
+  Montjoie!" he shouts, the battle-cry of Carle.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XCVI.
+
+  A king, named Corsablis, from Barbarie,
+  A distant land, is there.--The Pagan host
+  He calls;--"The field is ours with ease: the French
+  So few in numbers we may well disdain,
+  Nor Carle shall rescue one; all perish here.
+  To-day, they all are doomed to death!" Turpin
+  The Archbishop heard him; lived no man on earth
+  He hated more than Corsablis; he pricks
+  His horse with both his spurs of purest gold,
+  And 'gainst him rushes with tremendous force.
+  The shield and hauberk split; and with a stroke
+  Of the long lance into his body driven,
+  Corsablis lifeless drops across the path;
+  Him, though a corpse, Turpin addresses thus:
+  "Thou, coward Pagan, thou hast lied! Great Carl
+  My lord, was ever and will ever be
+  Our help; and Frenchmen know not how to fly.
+  As for thy fellows, we can keep them here;
+  I tell you, each this day shall die.--Strike, Franks,
+  Yourselves forget not. This first blow, thank God,
+  Is ours! Montjoie!" cries he, to hold the field.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XCVII.
+
+  Gerin attacks Malprimis de Brigal
+  Whose good shield now was not a denier worth:
+  The crystal boss all broken, and one half
+  Fall'n on the ground. Down to the flesh Gerin
+  His hauberk cleaves, and passes through his heart
+  The brazen point of a stout lance. Then falls
+  The Pagan chief and dies by that good blow;
+  And Sathanas bears off the wretched soul.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XCVIII.
+
+  Gerier, his comrade, strikes the Amurafle,
+  Breaks his good shield, his hauberk white unmails,
+  Plants in his heart a spear's steel point with such
+  Good aim, one blow has pierced the body through;
+  And his strong lance-thrust hurls him dead to earth.--
+  Said Olivier: "A noble combat ours!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  XCIX.
+
+  Duke Sansun rushes on the Almazour;
+  He splits the shield with painted flowers and gold
+  Embossed. The strong-mailed hauberk shelters not,
+  As he is pierced through liver, heart and lungs.
+  For him may mourn who will--death-struck he falls:
+  "That is a Baron's stroke!" the Archbishop cries.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  C.
+
+  Anseis gives his steed the rein, and charges
+  Fierce on Turgis de Turteluse; beneath
+  The golden boss asunder breaks the shield,
+  Rips up the hauberk double-linked; so true
+  The thrust, that all the steel passed through his breast.
+  With this one blow the shaft has struck him dead.
+  Rolland exclaimed: "The stroke is of a Knight!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CI.
+
+  Then Engelier, the Gascuin of Burdele,
+  Spurs deep his horse, and casting loose the rein,
+  Rushes upon Escremiz de Valterne;
+  Breaks down the buckler fastened to his throat
+  And rends his gorget-mail; full in the breast
+  The lance strikes deep and passes in between
+  The collar bones; dead from the saddle struck
+  He falls.--And Turpin says: "Ye all are lost!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CII.
+
+  Othon assails a Pagan, Estorgant,
+  His thrust hits hard the leather of the shield,
+  Effacing its bright colors red and white,
+  Breaks in his hauberk's sides, and plunges deep
+  Within his heart a strong and trenchant spear,
+  From off the flying steed striking him dead.
+  This done, he says:--"No hope for you remains!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CIII.
+
+  And Berengier smites now Estramaris,
+  Splits down his shield, shivers his coat of mail
+  In shreds and through his bosom drives a lance.
+  Dead 'midst one thousand Saracens he drops.
+  Of their twelve Peers now ten have breathed their last:
+  Chernuble--Margariz, the Count, survive.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CIV.
+
+  Most valiant Knight is Margariz. 'Mid all
+  Beauteous, strong, slender, quick of hand. He spurs
+  His horse and charges Olivier; beneath
+  The boss of purest gold his shield breaks down,
+  Then at his side a pointed lance he aims;
+  But God protects him, for the blow ne'er reached
+  The flesh. The point grazed only, wounding not.
+  Then Margariz unhindered rides away
+  And sounds his horn to rally his own men.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CV.
+
+  The battle rages fierce. All men engage.
+  Rolland, the dauntless, combats with his lance
+  As long as holds the shaft. Fifteen good blows
+  It dealt, then broke and fell; now his good sword,
+  Loved Durendal, he draws, spurs on his steed
+  'Gainst Chernubles, splits his bright helm adorned
+  With gems; one blow cleaves through mail-cap and skull,
+  Cutting both eyes and visage in two parts,
+  And the white hauberk with its close-linked mail;
+  Down to the body's fork, the saddle all
+  Of beaten gold, still deeper goes the sword,
+  Cuts through the courser's chine, nor seeks the joint.
+  Upon the verdant grass fall dead both knight
+  And steed. And then he cries: "Wretch! ill inspired
+  To venture here! Mohammed helped thee not....
+  Wretches like you this battle shall not win."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CVI.
+
+  The Count Rolland rides through the battle-field
+  And makes, with Durendal's keen blade in hand,
+  A mighty carnage of the Saracens.
+  Ah! had you then beheld the valiant Knight
+  Heap corse on corse; blood drenching all the ground;
+  His own arms, hauberk, all besmeared with gore,
+  And his good steed from neck to shoulder bleed!
+  Still Olivier halts not in his career.
+  Of the twelve Peers not one deserves reproach,
+  And all the French strike well and massacre
+  The foe. The Pagans dead or dying fall.
+  Cries the Archbishop: "Well done, Knights of France!
+  Montjoie! Montjoie! It is Carle's battle cry!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CVII.
+
+  Olivier grasps the truncheon of his lance,
+  Spurs through the storm and fury of the fight,
+  And rushes on the Pagan Malsarun,
+  Breaks down his shield with flowers and gold embossed,
+  Thrusts from their orbs his eyes; his brains dashed out
+  Are crushed and trampled 'neath the victor's feet;
+  With seven hundred men of theirs he fell.
+  The Count next slew Turgis and Estorgus;
+  But now the shaft breaks short off by his hand.
+  Then said Rolland: "What mean you, _Compagnon_?
+  In such a fight as this 'tis not a staff
+  We need, but steel and iron, as I deem.
+  Where now that sword called Halteclere, with hilt
+  Of gold and crystal pommel?" "I lack time
+  To draw it," valiant Olivier replies,
+  "So busy is my hand in dealing blows!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CVIII.
+
+  Lord Olivier then his good sword unsheathed,
+  For which Rolland entreated him so much,
+  And showed it to his friend with knightly pride;
+  Strikes down a Pagan, Justin de Val-Ferree,
+  Whose head is severed by the blow; cuts through
+  Th' embroider'd hauberk, through the body, through
+  The saddle all with studs and gold embossed,
+  And through the back-bone of the steed. Both man
+  And steed fall on the grass before him, dead.
+  Rolland exclaims: "Henceforth, you are indeed
+  My brother! These, the strokes loved by King Carle!"
+  And echoes round the cry: "Montjoie! Montjoie!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CIX.
+
+  The Count Gerin sits on his horse, Sorel,
+  And his companion Gerier, on Passe-Cerf,
+  They loose the reins, and both spur on against
+  A Pagan, Timozel. One strikes the shield,
+  The other strikes the hauberk;--in his heart
+  The two spears meet and hurl him lifeless down.
+  I never heard it said nor can I know
+  By which of them the swifter blow was struck.--
+  Esperveris, son to Borel, was next
+  By Engelier de Burdele slain. Turpin
+  With his own hand gave death to Siglorel
+  Th' Enchanter who once entered hell, led there
+  By Jupiter's craft. Turpin said:--"Forfeit paid
+  For crime!"--"The wretch is vanquished," cried Rolland,
+  "My brother Olivier, such blows I love!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CX.
+
+  The combat paused not. Franks and Pagans vie
+  In dealing blows; attacking now, and now
+  Defending. Splintered spears, dripping with blood
+  So many; o'er the field such numbers strewn:
+  Of banners torn and shattered gonfalons!
+  So many valiant French mowed in their prime,
+  Whom mothers and sweet wives will never see
+  Again, nor those of France who in the Pass
+  Await them! Carle for these shall weep and mourn.
+  But what avails? Naught can he help them now.
+  Ill service rendered Ganelon to them
+  The day when he to Sarraguce repaired
+  To sell his kin. Ere long for this he lost
+  Both limb and life, judged and condemned at Aix,
+  There to be hanged with thirty of his race
+  Who were not spared the punishment of death.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXI.
+
+  The battle rages. Wonders all perform;
+  Rolland and Olivier strike hard; Turpin
+  Th' Archbishop, deals more than a thousand blows;
+  The twelve Peers dally not upon the field,
+  While all the French together fight as if
+  One man. By hundreds and by thousands fall
+  The Pagans: none scapes death, save those who fly
+  Whether they will or no, all lose their lives.
+  And yet the French have lost their strongest arms,
+  Their fathers and their kin they will ne'er see
+  Again, nor Carle who waits them in the Pass.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Meantime in France an awful scourge prevails:
+  Wind, storm, rain, hail and flashing lightning bolts
+  Conflict confusedly, and naught more true,
+  The earth shook from Saint Michiel-del-Peril
+  As far as to the Saints, from Besancon
+  Unto the [sea-port] of Guitzand; no house
+  Whose walls unshaken stood; darkness at noon
+  Shrouded the sky. No beam of light above
+  Save when a flash rips up the clouds. Dismayed
+  Beholders cry:--"The world's last day has come,
+  The destined end of all things is at hand!"
+  Unwitting of the truth, their speech is vain....
+  'Tis dolour for the death of Count Rolland!
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXII.
+
+  The French [strike] hard; they strike with all their force.
+  In multitudes--by thousands die their foes;
+  Not two out of one hundred thousand now
+  Survive. [Turpin] says:--"Brave are all our men;--
+  None braver under Heaven--In the Geste
+  Of France 'tis writ true vassals have our Kings."
+  Seeking their friends, they overrun the field.
+  Their eyes are filled with tenderness and tears
+  For their dear kindred they so fondly loved....
+  Now King Marsile with his great host appears....
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXIII.
+
+  Marsile advances 'midst a valley deep,
+  Surrounded by the mighty host he brought,
+  In twenty squadrons mustered and arrayed.
+  Bright shine the helmets strewn with gold and gems,
+  And shields and hauberks graved. They sound a charge
+  With seven hundred clarions sending forth
+  Loud blasts throughout the land--Thus said Rolland:
+  "Companion Olivier, my brother, friend,
+  The traitor, Ganelon, has sworn our death....
+  His treason is too sure; the Emp'ror Carle
+  For this vile crime will take a vengeance deep.
+  A long and cruel battle we shall have,
+  Ere this unknown to man. There, I will fight
+  With my good Durendal; you, friend, will strike
+  With Halteclere--Those noble swords we bore
+  Throughout so many lands; such combats won
+  By them, vile strains must never chant their deeds."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXIV.
+
+  When the French see the Pagan cohorts swarm
+  The country o'er, they call on Olivier,
+  Rolland and the twelve Peers to guard their lives.
+  Unto them now the Archbishop speaks his mind:
+  "Barons, be not unworthy of yourselves!
+  Fly not the field, for God's sake, that brave men
+  Sing not ill songs of you! Far better die
+  In battle. Doomed, I know, we are to death,
+  And ere this day has passed, our lives are o'er.
+  But for one thing ye can believe my word:
+  For you God's Paradise stands open wide,
+  And seats await you 'mid the blessed Saints."
+  These words of comfort reassure the French;
+  All in one voice cry out:--"Montjoie! Montjoie!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXV.
+
+  There was a Saracen from Sarraguce
+  Lord of one half the city--Climorin,
+  Unlike a Baron; he received the faith
+  Of Ganelon, and sealed the treacherous bond
+  By pressing on his lip a kiss--Besides
+  Unto him gave his sword and carbuncle.
+  "I will," said he, "put your great France to shame
+  And from the Emperor's head shake off the crown!"
+  Mounted on Barbamouche that faster flies
+  Than hawk or swallow on the wing, he spurs
+  His courser hard, and dropping on its neck
+  The rein, he strikes Engelier de Gascuigne;
+  Hauberk nor shield is for him a defense:
+  Deep in the core the Pagan thrusts his spear
+  So mightily, its point comes out behind,
+  And with the shaft o'erturns him on the field
+  A corse;--he cries. "Fit for destruction these!
+  Strike, Pagans, strike, and let us break their lines!"
+  The French cry: "God! to lose so brave a Knight!"....
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXVI.
+
+  The Count Rolland calls Olivier: "You know,
+  Companion, sire, Engelier is no more....
+  No better Knight had we"--The Count replies:
+  "God grant that I avenge him well!" He drives
+  His golden spurs into his charger's flanks;
+  And waving Halteclere's blood dripping blade,
+  The Pagan he assails, and deals a blow....
+  O'erthrown is Climorin. The fiends of hell
+  Bear off his soul. The Knight then slays the Duke
+  Alphaien, beheads Escababi,
+  Unhorses seven Arabs with such skill
+  They rise no more to fight. Then said Rolland:
+  "Wroth is my sire, and by my side achieves
+  Renown! by such good blows Carl's love is gained.
+  Strike, Chevaliers! strike on!"--he cries aloud.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXVII.
+
+  From otherwhere is Valdabrun who armed
+  Marsile a Knight; lord of four hundred ships.
+  There is no sailor but swears by his name;
+  'Twas he by treason took Jerusalem,
+  Who there the shrine of Solomon profaned,
+  And slew before the Fonts the Patriarch;
+  'Twas he, received Count Ganelon's vile oath
+  And gave him with his sword a thousand marks;
+  Faster than falcon in its flight his steed
+  Named Graminond. He sharply spurs his flanks
+  And rushes 'gainst the mighty Duke Sansun,
+  Breaks down his shield--the hauberk rends, and thrusts
+  Within his breast the pennon of the flag;
+  The shaft o'erthrows him from the saddle, dead.
+  "Strike Pagans! strike, for we shall conquer them!"
+  The French say:--"God! what Baron true we lose!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXVIII.
+
+  When Count Rolland sees Sansun lifeless fall,
+  You may well know what grief was his. He spurs
+  His horse down on the Pagan. Durendal
+  More worth than precious gold he lifts to strike
+  With all his might; gold studded helm, head, trunk,
+  Hauberk asunder cleaves; the blow, e'en through
+  The gold boss'd saddle, strikes the courser's back,
+  Killing both horse and man. Blame or approve
+  Who may. The Pagans say:--"Hard is this blow!"
+  Retorts Rolland:--"For yours no pity can
+  I feel--With you the vaunting and the wrong!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXIX.
+
+  An African fresh from the desert land
+  Was there, Malquidant, son of king Malcud;
+  His armor highly wrought in beaten gold
+  Outshines all others in the sun's bright rays.
+  Mounted upon his horse named Salt-Perdut,
+  He aims a blow at Anseis' shield, and cuts
+  The azure and vermillion all away.
+  His hauberk rives asunder, side from side,
+  And through his body pass both point and shaft.
+  The Count is dead.--His last breath spent and flown.
+  The French say:--"Baron, such great woe for you!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXX.
+
+  The Archbishop Turpin rides across the fields;
+  No shaven priest sang ever mass so well
+  As he, and showed such prowess in his deeds.
+  He to the Pagan:--"May God send all ills
+  To thee, who slew the knight my heart bewails!"
+  Turpin spurs hard his good steed 'gainst the wretch;
+  One blow strikes down his strong Toledo shield:
+  The miscreant dead upon the green sward falls.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXI.
+
+  Elsewhere stands Grandomie who is the son
+  Of Capuel king of Cappadoce. He sits
+  A steed named Marmorie, than flying bird
+  More swift. Loosening the rein, and spurring deep,
+  To smite Gerin with all his force he rides;
+  Torn from the neck which bears it, shattered falls
+  The purple shield, through the rent mail he drives
+  The whole blue pennon in his breast. Gerin
+  Drops lifeless by this blow, against a rock.
+  The Pagan also slays Gerier, his friend,
+  And Berengier, and Gui de Saint-Antoine;
+  Assailing then the noble Duke Austoire
+  Who holds Valence and fiefs along the Rosne,
+  He strikes him dead. The Saracens extol
+  Their triumph, but how many fall of ours!
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXII.
+
+  Hearing the Frenchmen's sobs, the Count Rolland
+  Grasps in his hand his sword, all reeking blood.
+  His mighty heart nigh breaking with his grief,
+  Cries to the foe:--"May God all evils send
+  On thee! him hast thou slain for whom thou shalt
+  Most dearly pay!--" He spurs his flying steed....
+  Conquer who may--these two fight hand to hand.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXIII.
+
+  A wise and valiant knight was Grandonie,
+  Virtuous and fearless vassal. 'Mid his way
+  Encountering Count Rolland, though never seen
+  Before, at once he knew 'twas he, as well
+  By his proud mien and noble beauty, as
+  By his fair countenance and lofty look.
+  Awe-struck, despite himself, he vainly tries
+  To fly, but rooted to the spot he stays.
+  The Count Rolland smites him so skillfully,
+  He splits in two the nazal, helm, nose, mouth,
+  And teeth, the body and mailed-armor, then
+  Hews through the golden selle, both silver-flaps;
+  With a still deeper stroke the courser's back
+  Is gashed. So both are slain past remedy.
+  The men of Spain cry out all sorrowful;
+  But say the French:--"Well our defender strikes."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXIV.
+
+  Marv'lous the battle, and the tumult fierce;
+  The French of strength and fury full, raise high
+  Their swords: backs, ribs and wrists are slashed; the flesh
+  Cut through rent garments to the quick; along
+  The verdant soil the red blood runs in streams.
+  The Pagans cry:--"We cannot more endure!
+  Great land, Mohammed curse thee!--More than all
+  This people bold."--Not one who does not cry
+  "Marsile! ride on, O King, thy aid we need!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXV.
+
+  A battle fierce and wonderful!--Hard strike
+  The French with glittering lance, and there you might
+  Have seen what miseries man can suffer: Mowed
+  And heaped in bloody mounds, all gasping out
+  Their lives, some on their backs, some on their teeth--
+  The Saracens give way, willing or not;
+  By the French lances forced, they fly the field.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXVI.
+
+  Marsile his warriors massacred beholds,
+  And, bidding all his horns and trumpets blow,
+  Rides forward, and his whole van rides with him.
+  In the van rode a Saracen, Abisme,
+  The vilest wretch among his men, sunk deep
+  In crimes and shame, who has no faith in God,
+  Sainte Marie's son; as black as melted pitch
+  His face; more fond of blood and treason foul
+  Than of the gold of all Galice. None saw
+  Him laugh or play; for courage and rash deeds
+  He pleased the vile Marsile whose dragon flag
+  He bears. No pity can the Archbishop feel
+  For him, and at his sight he craves to try
+  His arm, all softly saying to himself:
+  "This Saracen is but a heretic;
+  Far better die than not to give him death.
+  Ne'er cowardice nor coward I endured!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXVII.
+
+  The Archbishop gives the signal for the fight;
+  He rides the horse he captured from Grossaille,
+  A King he slew among the Danes: a horse
+  Of wondrous fleetness, light-hoofed, slender-limbed;
+  Thigh short; with broad and mighty haunch; the flanks
+  Are long, and very high his spine; pure white
+  His tail, and yellow is his mane--his ears
+  Are small--light brown his head. This paragon
+  Of all the beasts of earth has not his peer.
+  The Archbishop, baron-like, spurs on the horse,
+  Full bent upon the encounter with Abisme;
+  He gains his side and hard he strikes his shield
+  Glittering with gems, topaz and amethyst,
+  Crystals and carbuncles, which to him gave
+  The Emir Galafes--a demon's gift
+  To this in Val-Metas. Him Turpin smites
+  Nor mercy shows; 'gainst such a blow avails
+  The shield but little; sheer from side to side
+  Passes the blade ... dead on the place he falls.
+  At such exploit amazed, the French exclaim:
+  "The archbishop's crosier in his hand is safe!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXVIII.
+
+  The Count Rolland calls Olivier: "With me,
+  Companion, sire, confess that 'mong brave knights
+  The archbishop upon earth or under Heav'n
+  Has not his peer in casting spear or lance."
+  Olivier answers:--"To his rescue on!"
+  At this the French once more resume the fight.
+  Hard are the blows, rough is the strife--Meantime
+  The Christian host in greatest sorrow mourn.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXIX.
+
+  Whoever could this fight describe? Rolland
+  And Olivier vie with Turpin in skill
+  And glorious deeds--The slain can counted be;
+  In charts and briefs their numbers are enrolled:
+  More than four thousand fell, so says the Geste.
+  Four times the French arms were victorious,
+  But on the fifth, a cruel fate they met;
+  The knights of France found there a grave, except
+  Three more whose lives God saved; yet those brave knights,
+  Ere falling, their last breath will dearly sell.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  THE HORN.
+
+
+  CXXX.
+
+  Seeing so many warriors fall'n around,
+  Rolland unto his comrade Olivier
+  Spoke thus: "Companion fair and dear, for God
+  Whose blessing rest on you, those vassals true
+  And brave lie corses on the battle-field:
+  Look! We must mourn for France so sweet and fair,
+  From henceforth widowed of such valiant knights.
+  Carle, 'would you were amongst us, King and friend!
+  What can we do, say, brother Olivier,
+  To bring him news of this sore strait of ours!"
+  Olivier answers:--"I know not; but this
+  I know; for us is better death than shame."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXXI.
+
+  Rolland says;--"I will blow mine olifant,
+  And Carle will hear it from the pass. I pledge
+  My word the French at once retrace their steps."
+  Said Olivier:--"This a great shame would be,
+  One which to all your kindred would bequeathe
+  A lifetime's stain. When this I asked of you,
+  You answered nay, and would do naught. Well, now
+  With my consent you shall not;--if you blow
+  Your horn, of valor true you show no proof.
+  Already, both your arms are drenched with blood."
+  Responds the Count:--"These arms have nobly struck."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXXII.
+
+  "The strife is rude," Rolland says--"I will blow
+  My horn, that Carle may hear."--Said Olivier:--
+  "This would not courage be. What I desired,
+  Companion, you disdained. Were the king here,
+  Safe would we be, but yon brave men are not
+  To blame"--"By this my beard," said Olivier,
+  "I swear, if e'er I see again sweet Aude,
+  My sister, in her arms you ne'er shall lie."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXXIII.
+
+  Rolland asked Olivier--"Why show to me
+  Your anger, friend!"--"Companion, yours the fault;
+  True courage means not folly. Better far
+  Is prudence than your valiant rage. Our French
+  Their lives have lost, your rashness is the cause.
+  And now our arms can never more give Carle
+  Their service good. Had you believed your friend,
+  Amongst us would he be, and ours the field,
+  The King Marsile, a captive or a corse.
+  Rolland, your valor brought ill fortune, nor
+  Shall Carle the great e'er more our help receive,
+  A man unequaled till God's judgment-day.
+  Here you shall die, and dying, humble France, ...
+  This day our loyal friendship ends--ere falls
+  The Vesper-eve, dolorously we part!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXXIV.
+
+  The Archbishop heard their strife. In haste he drives
+  Into his horse his spurs of purest gold,
+  And quick beside them rides. Then chiding them,
+  Says:--"Sire Rolland, and you, Sire Olivier,
+  In God's name be no feud between you two;
+  No more your horn shall save us; nathless 'twere
+  Far better Carle should come and soon avenge
+  Our deaths. So joyous then these Spanish foes
+  Would not return. But as our Franks alight,
+  Find us or slain or mangled on the field,
+  They will our bodies on their chargers' backs
+  Lift in their shrouds with grief and pity, all
+  In tears, and bury us in holy ground:
+  And neither wolves, nor swine, nor curs shall feed
+  On us--" Replies Rolland:--"Well have you said."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXXV.
+
+  Rolland raised to his lips the olifant,
+  Drew a deep breath, and blew with all his force.
+  High are the mountains, and from peak to peak
+  The sound re-echoes; thirty leagues away
+  'Twas heard by Carle and all his brave compeers.
+  Cried the king:--"Our men make battle!--" Ganelon
+  Retorts in haste:--"If thus another dared
+  To speak, we should denounce it as a lie."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXXVI.
+
+  The Count Rolland in his great anguish blows
+  His olifant so mightily, with such
+  Despairing agony, his mouth pours forth
+  The crimson blood, and his swoll'n temples burst.
+  Yea, but so far the ringing blast resounds;
+  Carle hears it, marching through the pass, Naimes harks,
+  The French all listen with attentive ear.
+  "That is Rolland's horn!--" Carle cried, "which ne'er yet
+  Was, save in battle, blown!--" But Ganelon
+  Replies:--"No fight is there!--you, sire, are old,
+  Your hair and beard are all bestrewn with gray,
+  And as a child your speech. Well do you know
+  Rolland's great pride. 'Tis marvelous God bears
+  With him so long. Already took he Noble
+  Without your leave. The Pagans left their walls
+  And fought Rolland, your brave Knight, in the field;
+  With his good blade he slew them all, and then
+  Washed all the plain with water, that no trace
+  Of blood was left--yea, oftentimes he runs
+  After a hare all day and blows his horn.
+  Doubtless he takes his sport now with his peers;
+  And who 'neath Heav'n would dare attack Rolland?
+  None, as I deem. Nay, sire, ride on apace;
+  Why do you halt? Still far is the Great Land."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXXVII.
+
+  Rolland with bleeding mouth and temples burst,
+  Still in his anguish, blows his olifant;
+  Carle hears it, and his Franks. The king exclaims:
+  "That horn has a long breath!" Duke Naimes replies:
+  "Rolland it is, and in a sore distress,
+  Upon my faith, a battle rages there!
+  A traitor he who would deceive you now.
+  To arms! Your war-cry shout, your kinsman save!
+  Plainly enough you hear his call for help."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXXVIII.
+
+  Carle orders all the trumpeters to sound
+  The march. The French alight. They arm themselves
+  With helmets, hauberks and gold hilted swords,
+  Bright bucklers, long sharp spears, with pennons white
+  And red and blue. The barons of the host
+  Leap on their steeds, all spurring on; while through
+  The pass they march, each to the other says:
+  "Could we but reach Rolland before he dies,
+  What deadly blows, with his, our swords would strike!"
+  But what avails?--Too late they will arrive.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXXXIX.
+
+  The ev'n is clear, the sun its radiant beams
+  Reflects upon the marching legions. Spears,
+  Hauberks and helms, shields painted with bright flowers,
+  Gold pennons all ablaze with glitt'ring hues.
+  Burning with wrath the Emperor rides on;
+  The French with sad and angered looks. None there
+  But weeps aloud. All tremble for Rolland.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  The King commands Count Ganelon be seized
+  And given to the scullions of his house.
+  Their chief, named Begue, he calls and bids: "Guard well
+  This man as one who all my kin betrayed."
+  Him Begue received, and set upon the Count
+  One hundred of his kitchen comrades--best
+  And worst;--they pluck his beard on lip and cheek;
+  Each deals him with his fist four blows, and falls
+  On him with lash and stick; they chain his neck
+  As they would chain a bear, and he is thrown
+  For more dishonor on a sumpter mule,
+  There guarded so until to Carle brought back.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXL.
+
+  High are the mountains, gloomy, terrible,
+  The valleys deep, and swift the rushing streams.
+  In van, in rear, the brazen trumpets blow,
+  Answ'ring the olifant. With angry look
+  Rides on the Emp'ror; filled with wrath and grief,
+  Follow the French, each sobbing, each in tears,
+  Praying that God may guard Rolland, until
+  They reach the battle-field. With him what blows
+  Will they not strike? Alas! what boots it now?
+  Too late they are and can not come in time.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXLI.
+
+  Carle in great anger rides--his snow-white beard
+  O'erspreads his breast-plate. Hard the Barons spur,
+  For never one but inwardly doth rage
+  That he is far from their great chief, Rolland,
+  Who combats now the Saracens of Spain:
+  If wounded he, will one of his survive?
+  O God! What Knights those sixty left by him!
+  Nor King nor captain better ever had....
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  THE ROUT.
+
+
+  CXLII.
+
+  The Count Rolland casts o'er the mounts and vales
+  A glance: French corses strew the plains in heaps;
+  He for them mourns as gentle chevalier.
+  At such a sight the noble hero weeps:
+  "Seigneurs, to you may God be merciful!
+  To all your souls may He grant Paradise,
+  And there may they on beds of heavenly flowers
+  Repose!--No better vassals lived! so long
+  Have ye served me! So many lands for Carle
+  Ye won!--The Emperor for this ill fate
+  Has nurtured you!--O land of France, most sweet
+  Art thou, but now forsaken and a waste.
+  Barons of France, to-day I see you die
+  For me; nor can I save or e'en defend
+  Your lives. Be God your aid, who ne'er played false!
+  Olivier, brother, I must not fail thee!
+  If other death comes not, of grief I die.
+  Come, sire companion ... come to fight again!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXLIII.
+
+  Soon to the field returns the Count Rolland
+  With Durendal in hand; as a true knight
+  He fights. Faldrun del Pin he cleaves in half
+  With twenty-four among the bravest foes.
+  Never was man so bent upon revenge.
+  As run wild deer before the chasing hounds,
+  Before Rolland the Pagans flee.--"Well done!"
+  The Archbishop cries, "Such valor a true Knight
+  Should have, when mounted, armed, on his good steed!
+  Else, not four deniers is he worth: a monk
+  In cloister should he be, and spend his life
+  In praying for our sins!...." "Strike," said Rolland,
+  "No quarter!"--At the word the French renew
+  The combat ... yet the Christian loss was great.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+  CXLIV.
+
+  When soldiers on the battle-field expect
+  No quarter--desperate they fight; and thus
+  The French, like lions, fiercely stand at bay.
+  Like a true baron King Marsile rides forth
+  Upon his steed Gaignon, and spurs him on
+  Against Bevum, of Belne and Digun lord,
+  His buckler cleaves, his hauberk with a blow
+  Shatters, and lays him dead upon the field.
+  Then fall beneath the Pagan King, Ivoire
+  And Ivun; then Gerard de Roussillon.--
+  The Count Rolland is nigh and cries aloud:
+  "God give damnation unto thee who thus
+  So foully slay'st my friends! But ere we part,
+  Dearly shalt thou abye it, and to-day
+  Shalt learn the name my good sword bears."--He strikes
+  The King a true Knight's stroke, and his right hand
+  Lops at the wrist; then Turfaleu the fair,
+  Marsile's own son, beheads. The Pagans say:
+  "Aid us, Mahum! Avenge us, Gods of ours,
+  On Carle, who brought such villains to our land,
+  As rather than depart will die."--And each
+  To each cries: "Let us fly!"--Upon the word,
+  A hundred thousand turn in sudden flight.
+  Whoever calls them, ne'er will they return.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXLV.
+
+  Alas, it not avails! If Marsile flies,
+  His uncle Marganice unhurt remained.
+  'Tis he who held Carthage, Alferne, Garnaille,
+  And Ethiopia, a land accursed;
+  Chief of the Blacks, a thick-nosed, large-eared race.
+  Of these he more than fifty thousand leads,
+  Who ride on proudly, full of wrath, and shout
+  The Pagan war-cry.--"Here," said Count Rolland,
+  "Here shall we fall as martyrs. Well I know
+  Our end is nigh; but dastard I count him
+  Who sells not dear his life. Barons, strike well,
+  Strike with your burnished swords, and set such price
+  On death and life, that naught of shame shall fall
+  On our sweet France. When Carle, my lord, shall come
+  Upon this field, and see such slaughter here
+  Of Saracens, fifteen to one of ours,
+  Then will he breathe a blessing on his Knights."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  OLIVIER'S DEATH.
+
+
+  CXLVI.
+
+  When sees Rolland this tribe accursed, more black
+  Than ink, with glist'ning teeth, their only gleam
+  Of white, he said:--"Truly I know to-day
+  We die! Strike, Frenchmen, that is my command."
+  And Olivier, "Woe to the laggards," cries.
+  These words the French hearts fired to meet the fray.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXLVII.
+
+  The Pagans, when they mark how few the French,
+  Are filled with pride and comfort, and they say
+  One to the other:--"Their King Carle is wrong!"--
+  Upon his sorrel steed sits Marganice;
+  Urging him hard with pricking spurs of gold,
+  Encounters Olivier--strikes him behind,
+  Drives his white hauberk-links into his heart,
+  And through in front came forth the pointed lance.
+  The Kalif cries:--"That blow struck home! Carlmagne,
+  For thy mishap, left you to guard the Pass!
+  That he has wronged us, little may he boast.
+  Your death alone for us a vengeance full!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXLVIII.
+
+  Olivier knows his death-wound. In his hand
+  He grasps Halteclere's bright steel, and strikes a blow
+  Well aimed upon the Kalif's pointed helm;
+  He scatters golden flow'rs and gems in dust.
+  His head the trenchant blade cleaves to the teeth,
+  And dead the Kalif falls.--"Pagan accursed,"
+  He cries, "not here shalt thou say Carle lost aught;
+  To wife nor lady shalt thou ever boast
+  In thine own land, that thou hast reft from Carle
+  One denier's worth, or me or others harmed!"
+  And then he called Rolland unto his aid.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXLIX.
+
+  Olivier feels that he is hurt to death.
+  No vengeance can suffice him; Baron-like
+  He strikes amid the press, cuts shields embossed
+  And ashen shafts, and spears, feet, shoulders, wrists
+  And breasts of horsemen. He who saw him thus
+  Dismember Saracens, corse over corse
+  Heap on the ground, would of a vassal true
+  Remembrance keep. Nor does he now forget
+  The rallying cry of Carle:--"Montjoie!" he cries
+  Loudly and clear; then calls Rolland, his friend
+  And compeer:--"Sire companion, stand by me!
+  This day our breaking hearts forever part!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CL.
+
+  Rolland looks Olivier full in the face;
+  Pale, livid, colorless; pure crimson blood
+  Drips from his body, and streams on the earth.
+  "God!" cried Rolland, "I know not what to do,
+  Companion, friend, thy courage was betrayed
+  To-day; nor will such courage e'er be seen
+  In human heart. Sweet France, oh! how shalt thou,
+  As widow, wail thy vassals true and brave,
+  Humbled and wrecked! The great heart of King Carle
+  Will break!" He spake and on his saddle swooned.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLI.
+
+  Behold Rolland, there, fainting on his steed,
+  While Olivier stands wounded to the death.
+  So great the loss of blood, his troubled eyes
+  See naught afar or near, nor mortal man
+  Can recognize. Encount'ring there Rolland,
+  Upon his golden-studded helm he struck
+  A dreadful blow, which to the nose-plate cleft,
+  And split the crest in twain, but left the head
+  Untouched. Rolland at this, upon him looks,
+  And softly, sweetly asks:--"Sire _compagnon_!
+  Was that blow meant for me? I am Rolland
+  By whom you are beloved so well; to me
+  Could you by any chance, defiance give?"
+  Said Olivier:--"I hear your speech, but see
+  You now no more. May God behold you, friend!
+  I struck the blow; beseech you, pardon me."
+  Rolland responds:--"I am not wounded--here
+  And before God I pardon you." At this,
+  Each to the other bends in courtesy.
+  With such great tenderness and love they part.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLII.
+
+  Olivier feels the agony of death;
+  His vacant eyes roll wildly in his head,
+  And all his hearing and his sight are lost.
+  Dismounting, on the ground he lies, and smites
+  His breast, aloud confessing all his sins;
+  With joined hands tow'rd Heaven lifted up
+  He prays to God to give him Paradise,
+  To bless Carl'magne, sweet France, and far beyond
+  All other men, Rolland, his _compagnon_.
+  His heart fails--forward droops his helmet--prone
+  Upon the earth he lies--'tis over now....
+  The Count is dead. Rolland, the Baron, mourns
+  And weeps as never mortal mourned before.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLIII.
+
+  When sees the Count Rolland the breath of life
+  Gone from his friend, his body stretched on earth,
+  His face low in the dust, his tears gush out
+  With heavy sobs. Then tenderly he speaks:
+  "Alas! for all thy valor, comrade dear!
+  Year after year, day after day, a life
+  Of love we led; ne'er didst thou wrong to me,
+  Nor I to thee. If death takes thee away,
+  My life is but a pain." While speaking thus,
+  The _Marchis_ faints on Veillantif, his steed.
+  But still firm in his stirrups of pure gold:
+  Where'er Rolland may ride, he cannot fall.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLIV.
+
+  Scarce hath the Count recovered from his swoon,
+  When all the great disaster meets his sight;
+  The French lie on the field; all lost to him
+  Save the Archbishop and Gualtier de l'Hum,
+  Who had descended from the mountain height
+  Where he the men of Spain all day withstood
+  Till all his own fell 'neath the Pagan swords.
+  Willed he or not, he fled into the vale,
+  And now upon Rolland he calls for aid;
+  "Most gentle Count, most valiant, where art thou?
+  Ne'er had I fear where'er thou wert!--'tis I,
+  Gualtier, who conquered Maelgut, who am
+  Old gray-haired Drouen's nephew; till this day
+  My courage won thy love. So well I fought
+  Against the Saracens, my spear was broke,
+  My shield was pierced, my hauberk torn and wrung,
+  And in my body eight steel darts I bear.
+  Done are my days, but dear the last I sold!"
+  The words of that brave knight Rolland has heard,
+  Spurs on his steed and gallops to his help.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLV.
+
+  With grief and rage Rolland's great heart is full;
+  Amidst the thick ranks of a swarming foe
+  He rides. He fights--and twenty Pagans fall
+  Slain by his hand; by Gualtier's six, and five
+  By the Archbishop's. Loud the Pagans cry:
+  "Vile wretches these! Let none escape alive!
+  Eternal shame to them who dare not make
+  Attack; foul recreants those who let their flight
+  Avail."--Renewing then their hues and cries,
+  The Pagans rush from all parts 'gainst the knights.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  CHARLEMAGNE APPROACHES.
+
+
+  CLVI.
+
+  The Count Rolland was ever great in war;
+  Most valiant is Gualtier de l'Hum; Turpin
+  The Archbishop, of a valor proved: each leaves
+  The other naught to do, and 'mid the throng
+  Strikes Pagans down, who though one thousand foot
+  And forty thousand horsemen mustering, yet
+  Dare not approach, forsooth; but from afar
+  Against them hurl their jav'lins, spears and darts,
+  Their lances and winged arrows. First of all
+  Is slain Gualtier; Turpin de Reins' good shield
+  Is pierced, his helmet broken, and his head
+  Wounded, his hauberk shattered and dislinked;
+  Four spears have pierced his body; his good steed
+  Dies under him. Alas! the Archbishop falls.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLVII.
+
+  Hardly had Turpin fallen on the earth,
+  By four spear-shafts transfixed, when the brave knight
+  Sprang quickly to his feet once more. His look
+  Sought for Rolland to whom he ran in haste.
+  One word he said:--"Unconquered yet am I!
+  While life doth last, a true knight yields it not!"
+  He draws Almace, his sword of burnished steel,
+  And rushing 'mid the throng, one thousand blows
+  And more he deals.--Carle said in after days,
+  Turpin spared none, as dead upon the field
+  He saw four hundred men, some cut in twain,
+  Some with lopped heads: so says the Geste of France,
+  And one who saw the field, the brave Saint-Gille
+  For whom God showed his might; who in the cloister
+  Of Louem wrote the record of these deeds.
+  Who knows not this, he knows not any thing.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLVIII.
+
+  As hero fights the Count Rolland; but all
+  His body burns with heat and drips with sweat;
+  His head is torn by pain; his temple burst
+  By that strong blast he gave the olifant.
+  Still would he know if Carle returns; once more
+  He blows his horn--Alas, with feeble blast.
+  Carle caught the distant sound, and, list'ning, waits:
+  "Seigneurs," cried he, "great evils fall apace;
+  I hear his dying blast upon his horn.
+  If we would find him yet alive, we need
+  Urge on our steeds. Let all our trumpets blow!"
+  Then sixty thousand trumps rang forth their peals;
+  The hills reecho, and the vales respond.
+  The Pagans hear--and stay their gabbling mirth.
+  One to the other says:--"'Tis Carle who comes!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLIX.
+
+  The Pagans say:--"The Emperor returns;
+  These are the clarions of the French we hear.
+  If Carle should come, 'twill be our doom; if lives
+  Rolland, the war begins anew, and Spain
+  Our land is lost to us for evermore."
+  Four hundred warriors well armed cap-a-pie,
+  The bravest of the host, then closed their ranks
+  And dashed in fierce attack against Rolland.
+  Mighty the deeds the Count must now achieve!
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLX.
+
+  As they draw near, Rolland calls up his pride
+  And summons all his strength to meet the charge.
+  No foot of ground he yields while life remains.
+  Firm on his courser Veillantif he sits
+  And gores his flanks with spurs of purest gold.
+  Into the thickest ranks he and Turpin
+  The Archbishop rush. And now the Pagans all
+  Unto each other cry: "Hence, friends, away!
+  The horns of those of France we now have heard,
+  Carlemagne the mighty Emperor returns!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXI.
+
+  Ne'er could the Count Rolland a coward love,
+  Nor proud, nor wicked men, nor faithless knights.
+  He calls to the Archbishop: "You, on foot,
+  And I on horseback, sire! For love of you
+  I by your side will stand; together we
+  Will share or good or ill; I leave you not
+  For aught of human mold. This day we shall
+  Hurl back the Pagan charge, and Durendal
+  Shall deal his mightiest blows!"--To this replies
+  The Archbishop: "Traitor he who strikes not well!
+  King Carle returns--Great shall his vengeance be!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXII.
+
+  The Pagans say: "For such ill were we born!
+  What fatal morn this day for us has ris'n!
+  Dead lie our lords and Peers! With his great host
+  King Carle returns, the mighty Baron--Hark!
+  His clarions sound, and loud the cry 'Montjoie;'
+  Rolland has so great pride, no man of flesh
+  Can make him yield, or vanquished fall. 'Twere best
+  We pierced him from afar, and left him lying
+  Upon the field!"----'Twas done: darts, lances, spears,
+  Javelins, winged arrows flew so thick,
+  That his good shield was pierced, his hauberk rent
+  And torn apart--his body yet unharmed.
+  Veillantif, pierced with thirty wounds, falls dead
+  Beneath the Count.--The affrighted Pagans fly.
+  The Count Rolland stands on the field, alone.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  THE LAST BENEDICTION OF THE ARCHBISHOP.
+
+
+  CLXIII.
+
+  Raging in wrath the Pagans fly, and toward
+  The land of Spain they haste. The Count Rolland
+  Pursues them not, for Veillantif lies dead.
+  On foot he stands whether he will or not.
+  To help Turpin, the Archbishop, fast he ran,
+  His helm unclasped, removed the hauberk white
+  And light, then ripped the sides of his _blialt_
+  To find his gaping wounds; then tenderly
+  Pressing him in his arms, on the green sward
+  He laid him gently down, and fondly prayed:
+  "O noble man, grant me your leave in this;
+  Our brave compeers, so dear to us, have breathed
+  Their last--we should not leave them on the field;
+  I will their bodies seek and gather here,
+  To lay them out before you."--"Go, and soon
+  Return," the Archbishop said; "the field is yours
+  And also mine, thanks to Almighty God!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXIV.
+
+  Alone the Count Rolland retraced his steps
+  Throughout the field. Vales, mounts, he searched, and found
+  Gerin and his companion Gerier, then
+  Berengier and Otun; here Anseis,
+  There Sansun, then beyond, Gerard the old
+  De Roussillon he found--one after one
+  He bore each knight within his arms, and placed
+  Them gently, side by side, before the knees
+  Of Turpin who cannot restrain his tears;
+  With lifted hands he blesses them and says:
+  "Most hapless Knights!--May God the Glorious
+  Receive your souls, and in his Paradise
+  'Mid holy flowers place them!--In this hour
+  Of death, my deepest grief is that no more
+  The mighty Emperor I shall behold!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXV.
+
+  Rolland turns back, and searching through the field,
+  Has found, alas! his comrade Olivier....
+  He pressed him 'gainst his bosom tenderly,
+  And, as he could, returning to Turpin,
+  Stretched on a shield he lays him down among
+  The other knights. The Archbishop then assoils
+  And signs him with the holy cross. The grief
+  And pity were more sore than heart can bear....
+  Then said Rolland:--"Fair comrade Olivier,
+  Son of the good Count Renier, he who held
+  The marches to the distant shores of Gennes;
+  To break a lance, to pierce a shield, the brave
+  To counsel, traitors to dismay and foil,
+  No land e'er saw a better _chevalier_."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXVI.
+
+  When Count Rolland beheld his Peers lie dead,
+  And Olivier, that friend so tenderly
+  Beloved, his soul by pity was o'erflowed;
+  Tears from his eyes gush out, his countenance
+  Turns pale; distressed, he can no longer stand.
+  Would he or not, he swooned and fell to earth.
+  The Archbishop said: "Baron, what woe is yours!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXVII.
+
+  The Archbishop, when he saw Count Rolland swoon,
+  Felt keener grief than e'er he felt before;
+  Stretched forth his hand, and took the olifant.--
+  Ronceval there is a running stream;
+  Thence will he water bring to Count Rolland.
+  Staggering, with feeble steps, thither he goes,
+  But loss of blood has made him all too weak:
+  Ere he has gone an acre's length, his heart
+  Fails, and he sinks in mortal agony.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXVIII.
+
+  Meantime the Count Rolland revives.--Erect
+  He stands, but with great pain; then downward looks
+  And upward. Then he sees the noble lord
+  The Archbishop, holy minister of God,
+  Beyond his comrades lying on the sward
+  Stretched out.--He lifts his eyes to Heav'n, recalls
+  His sins, and raising both his joined hands,
+  He prays Our God to grant him paradise.--
+  Turpin, Carle's Knight, is dead, who all his life,
+  With doughty blows and sermons erudite,
+  Ne'er ceased to fight the Pagans. May the Lord
+  Grant him His holy blessing evermore!
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXIX.
+
+  The Count Rolland sees lifeless on the field
+  The Archbishop lie; gush from the gaping wounds
+  His entrails in the dust, and through his skull
+  The oozing brain pours o'er his brow.--In form
+  Of holy Cross upon his breast Rolland
+  Disposes both his hands so fair and white,
+  And mourned him in the fashion of his land:
+  "O noble man! O knight of lineage pure!
+  To the Glorious One of Heav'n I thee commend;
+  For ne'er was man who Him more truly served,
+  Nor since the Apostles' days, such prophet, strong,
+  To keep God's law and draw the hearts of men.
+  From ev'ry pain your soul be freed, and wide
+  Before it ope the Gates of Paradise!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  ROLAND'S DEATH.
+
+
+  CLXX.
+
+  Rolland now feels his death is drawing nigh:
+  From both his ears the brain is oozing fast.
+  For all his peers he prays that God may call
+  Their souls to Him; to the Angel Gabriel
+  He recommends his spirit. In one hand
+  He takes the olifant, that no reproach
+  May rest upon him; in the other grasps
+  Durendal, his good sword. Forward he goes,
+  Far as an arblast sends a shaft, across
+  A new-tilled ground and toward the land of Spain.
+  Upon a hill, beneath two lofty trees,
+  Four terraces of marble spread:--he falls
+  Prone fainting on the green, for death draws near.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXI.
+
+  High are the mounts, and lofty are the trees.
+  Four terraces are there, of marble bright:
+  There Count Rolland lies senseless on the grass.
+  Him at this moment spies a Saracen
+  Who lies among the corpses, feigning death,
+  His face and body all besmeared with blood.
+  Sudden he rises to his feet, and bounds
+  Upon the Baron.--Handsome, brave and strong
+  He was, but from his pride sprang mortal rage.
+  He seized the body of Rolland, and grasped
+  His arms, exclaiming thus:--"Here vanquished Carle's
+  Great nephew lies!"--"This sword to Araby
+  I'll bear."--He drew it;--this aroused the Count.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXII.
+
+  Rolland perceived an alien hand would rob
+  Him of his sword; his eyes he oped; one word
+  He spoke:--"I trow, not one of us art thou!"
+  Then with his olifant from which he parts
+  Never, he smites the golden studded helm,
+  Crushing the steel, the head, the bones; both eyes
+  Are from their sockets beaten out--o'erthrown
+  Dead at the Baron's feet he falls:--"O wretch,"
+  He cries, "how durst thou, or for good or ill,
+  Lay hands upon Rolland? Who hears of this
+  Will call thee fool. Mine olifant is cleft,
+  Its gems and gold all scattered by the blow."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXIII.
+
+  Now feels Rolland that death is near at hand
+  And struggles up with all his force; his face
+  Grows livid;--[Durendal, his naked sword]
+  He holds;--beside him rises a gray rock
+  On which he strikes ten mighty blows through grief
+  And rage--The steel but grinds; it breaks not, nor
+  Is notched; then cries the Count:--"Saint Mary, help!
+  O Durendal! Good sword! ill starred art thou!
+  Though we two part, I care not less for thee.
+  What victories together thou and I,
+  Have gained, what kingdoms conquered, which now holds
+  White-bearded Carle! No coward's hand shall grasp
+  Thy hilt: a valiant knight has borne thee long,
+  Such as none shall e'er bear in France the Free!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXIV.
+
+  Rolland smites hard the rock of Sardonix;
+  The steel but grinds, it breaks not, nor grows blunt;
+  Then seeing that he can not break his sword,
+  Thus to himself he mourns for Durendal:
+  "O good my sword, how bright and pure! Against
+  The sun what flashing light thy blade reflects!
+  When Carle passed through the valley of Moriane,
+  The God of Heaven by his Angel sent
+  Command that he should give thee to a Count,
+  A valiant captain; it was then the great
+  And gentle King did gird thee to my side.--
+  With thee I won for him Anjou--Bretaigne;
+  For him with thee I won Poitou, le Maine
+  And Normandie the free; I won Provence
+  And Aquitaine, and Lumbardie, and all
+  The Romanie; I won for him Baviere,
+  All Flandre--Buguerie--all Puillanie,
+  Costentinnoble which allegiance paid,
+  And Saxonie submitted to his power;
+  For him I won Escoce and Galle, Irlande
+  And Engleterre he made his royal seat;
+  With thee I conquered all the lands and realms
+  Which Carle, the hoary-bearded monarch, rules.
+  Now for this sword I mourn.... Far better die
+  Than in the hands of Pagans let it fall!
+  May God, Our Father, save sweet France this shame!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXV.
+
+  Upon the grey rock mightily he smites,
+  Shattering it more than I can tell; the sword
+  But grinds.--It breaks not--nor receives a notch,
+  And upwards springs more dazzling in the air.
+  When sees the Count Rolland his sword can never break,
+  Softly within himself its fate he mourns:
+  "O Durendal, how fair and holy thou!
+  In thy gold-hilt are relics rare; a tooth
+  Of great saint Pierre--some blood of Saint Basile,
+  A lock of hair of Monseigneur Saint Denis,
+  A fragment of the robe of Sainte-Marie.
+  It is not right that Pagans should own thee;
+  By Christian hand alone be held. Vast realms
+  I shall have conquered once that now are ruled
+  By Carle, the King with beard all blossom-white,
+  And by them made great emperor and Lord.
+  May thou ne'er fall into a cowardly hand."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXVI.
+
+  The Count Rolland feels through his limbs the grasp
+  Of death, and from his head ev'n to his heart
+  A mortal chill descends. Unto a pine
+  He hastens, and falls stretched upon the grass.
+  Beneath him lie his sword and olifant,
+  And toward the Heathen land he turns his head,
+  That Carle and all his knightly host may say:
+  "The gentle Count a conqueror has died...."
+  Then asking pardon for his sins, or great
+  Or small, he offers up his glove to God.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXVII.
+
+  The Count Rolland feels now his end approach.
+  Against a pointed rock, and facing Spain,
+  He lies. Three times he beats his breast, and says:
+  "Mea culpa! Oh, my God, may through thy grace,
+  Be pardoned all my sins, or great or small,
+  Until this hour committed since my birth!"
+  Then his right glove he offers up to God,
+  And toward him angels from high Heav'n descend.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXVIII.
+
+  Beneath a pine Rolland doth lie, and looks
+  Toward Spain--He broods on many things of yore:
+  On all the lands he conquered, on sweet France,
+  On all his kinsmen, on great Carle his lord
+  Who nurtured him;--he sighs--nor can restrain
+  His tears, but can not yet himself forget;
+  Recalls his sins, and for the grace of God
+  He prays:--"Our Father, never yet untrue,
+  Who Saint-Lazare raised from the dead, and saved
+  Thy Daniel from the lions' claws--Oh, free
+  My soul from peril, from my whole life's sins!"
+  His right hand glove he offered up to God;
+  Saint Gabriel took the glove.--With head reclined
+  Upon his arm, with hands devoutly joined
+  He breathed his last. God sent his Cherubim,
+  Saint-Raphael, _Saint Michiel del Peril_.
+  Together with them Gabriel came.--All bring
+  The soul of Count Rolland to Paradise....
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  THE CHASTISEMENT OF THE SARACENS.
+
+
+  CLXXIX.
+
+  Rolland is dead: God has his soul in heaven.
+  To Ronceval the Emperor has come.
+  There, neither road nor any path is seen,
+  Nor vacant space, nor ell, nor foot of land
+  That mounds of mangled bodies cover not,
+  Pagans or French.--The Emperor exclaims:
+  "Fair nephew, where art thou? The Archbishop, where?
+  And Olivier, alas, where are they all?
+  Gerin, Gerier, the two companions, where
+  Are they? And where is Otes and Berengier,
+  Ives and Ivoire both to my heart so dear?
+  The Gascuin Engelier, Sansun the Duke,
+  Anseis the rash, Gerard de Roussillon
+  The old, and my twelve Peers I left behind,
+  What fate is theirs?"--What boots it? None replies.--
+  "God," cries the King, "what grief is mine to think
+  I stood not here the battle to begin."
+  He tears his beard with anger; all his knights
+  And barons weep great tears; dizzy with woe
+  And swooning, twenty thousand fall to earth.
+  Duke Naimes feels pity overflow his heart.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXX.
+
+  No baron is there now, no chevalier
+  Who, in his pity, sheds not tears for sons,
+  For brothers--nephews--friends--and for liege-lords.
+  Many have fallen swooning on the earth,
+  But Duke Naimes bore himself as valorous knight:
+  He foremost said to Carle:--"Behold two leagues
+  Away!--The roads are dark with clouds of dust.
+  There swarm the Pagan tribes.... Ride on them now,
+  Avenge this bitter woe."--"O God," said Carle,
+  "Are they already flown so far?--our rights
+  And honor shield! Those Pagans took from me
+  The flower of my Sweet France!"--The King commands
+  Gebuin, Otun, Tedbalt de Reins and Count
+  Milun:--"Watch ye the field, the vales, the mounts;
+  The slain, leave to their rest; see that no beast
+  Nor lion, squire nor page approach. I charge
+  You, let no man upon them lay his hand
+  Until, with God's assistance, we return."
+  They lovingly and with sweet tone reply:
+  "Thus shall we do, just Emperor, dear sire!"
+  Upon the field they keep one thousand knights.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXXI.
+
+  Now bids the Emperor his trumpets blow,
+  Then forward at the head of his great host
+  He rides, that Baron true. Of those of Spain
+  He finds the tracks, points out the road; in quick
+  Pursuit all follow Carle.... When sees the King
+  The eve decline, he on the verdant grass
+  Dismounts, and prostrate prays to God our Lord
+  The sun to stay, the shades of night hold back
+  And longer make the day. To him appears
+  A Counselor-Angel with the swift command;
+  "Ride on, O King, nor fear that night shall fall!
+  God knows that thou hast lost the flower of France;
+  But vengeance canst have now upon that horde
+  Of unbelievers." Thus the Angel spake.
+  The Emp'ror rises and remounts his steed.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXXII.
+
+  To Carlemagne Our Lord now showed his might;
+  The sun stays in its course. The Pagans fly,
+  And fast the French pursuing, overtake
+  Them in the Val-Tenebre. They drive them on
+  Toward Sarraguce, while close behind them fall
+  The upraised swords, and strew the ground with dead.
+  No issue, no escape, by road or pass!
+  In front deep Ebro rolls its mighty waves:
+  No boat, no barge, no raft. They call for help
+  On Tervagant, then plunge into the flood.
+  Vain was their trust: some, weighted with their arms,
+  Sink in a moment; others are swept down,
+  And those most favored swallow monstrous draughts.
+  All drown most cruelly. The French cry out:
+  "For your own woe wished ye to see Rolland!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXXIII.
+
+  When Carle sees all the Pagans dead--some slain,
+  The others drowned, his chevaliers enriched
+  With spoils, the noble King dismounts, on earth
+  Prostrates himself and offers thanks to God.
+  When he arose, the sun had set. "'Tis time,"
+  He said, "to think of camping now. Too late
+  It is for our advance to Ronceval.
+  Our horses are all weary and foredone:
+  Unsaddle them and take the bridles off;
+  And let them roam at large about these meads."
+  The French reply: "Sire, you have spoken well."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXXIV.
+
+  The Emperor makes here his harborage.
+  The French dismount, take off the golden curbs
+  And saddles from their steeds, and turn them loose
+  In the green mead, amid the plenteous grass:
+  No other care they need. Upon the ground
+  The over-wearied cast themselves and sleep.
+  No watch was set in all the host that night.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXXV.
+
+  The Emperor reposes on the field,
+  His mighty lance hard by his pillow planted,
+  For he, on such a night will not disarm.
+  His hauberk white, with orfreyed-marge he wears,
+  His helmet, rich with gold and gems is laced,
+  Girded Joyeuse, the sword without a peer,
+  Who thirty times a day can change his hue.
+  Many a time you all heard of the lance
+  Wherewith Our Lord was pierced upon the cross,
+  The steel whereof Carle has, thanks be to God,
+  Closed in the golden pommel of his sword.
+  For this great glory and exceeding worth
+  The brand was called _Joyeuse_. This all French Knights
+  Should bear in mind, for it was hence they took
+  Their war-cry of _Montjoie_, and for this cause
+  No other people can resist their arms.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXXVI.
+
+  Clear is the night, bright shines the moon; at rest
+  Lies Carle; but grief is with him for Rolland,
+  And Olivier is heavy on his heart;
+  The twelve Peers, too, and all the men of France,
+  Left stark and bloody there at Ronceval.
+  He cannot help but weep, and sob, and pray
+  That mighty God be keeper of their souls.
+  Tired is the King, his toils being very great;
+  Deeply asleep he falls, and can no more.
+  Through all the fields the scattered French sleep sound,
+  Nor there a horse has strength enough to stand;
+  If one need grass, he bites it as he lies.
+  Right wise is he that's wise in lore of woe.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXXVII.
+
+  Carle sleeps as man by toil outdone. God sends
+  Saint Gabriel down, the Emperor to guard.
+  All night beside his head the Angel stands,
+  And in a dream forebodes that 'gainst the French
+  A battle is prepared, and its portent
+  Explains; then glancing up tow'rd Heav'n, King Carle
+  Sees thunder-clouds and winds, hail, raging storms
+  And wond'rous tempests--smould'ring fire and flames
+  Ready to burst forth. Suddenly on all
+  His people falls the blast. Their spears with shafts
+  Of apple-tree or ash--those shields ablaze
+  Unto their golden rings--shafts from their points
+  Break off--Steel helms and hauberks clash and clang.
+  He sees his Knights in dire distress. Meantime
+  Devouring pards and bears rush on them; snakes
+  And vipers--dragons, fiends--and with them more
+  Than thirty thousand griffons. 'Mong the French
+  None can escape this hideous horde.--"Carlemagne,
+  Come to our help!" they cry. With pity seized,
+  Fain would he thither, but his steps are stayed:
+  Deep from a wood a lion huge comes on.
+  The beast is haughty, fierce and terrible,
+  And, springing, seeks his very body out.
+  Each wrestles with the other in his arms;
+  But which shall fall, which stand, this no man knows.
+  Never a jot the Emperor awakes.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXXVIII.
+
+  Another vision follows this: in France
+  At Aix he is:--Upon a marble step
+  He stands, and holds in two-fold chains a bear.
+  From towards Ardennes he sees rush forth a pack
+  Of thirty other bears which speak as men.
+  They say:--"To us restore him, Sire! Not right
+  It were that you should keep him longer; help
+  Our kin we must."--Then from his palace runs
+  A greyhound fair which on the verdant grass
+  Assails the fiercer of the other beasts
+  Before them all. The King a wond'rous fight
+  Beholds: but who shall win or lose, none knows.
+  This is a dream God's Angel showed to Carle,
+  Who sleeps until the morrow's morn appeared.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXXIX.
+
+  By rapid flight Marsile reached Sarraguce.--
+  Dismounting 'neath a shady olive-tree,
+  He strips himself of breast-plate, helmet, sword,
+  And sinks upon the sward with ghastly look.
+  His right hand severed from the wrist whence blood
+  Is gushing forth, has made him swoon with pain.
+  Before Marsile, his spouse, Queen Bramimunde,
+  Bursts into tears, and cries, and woeful moans.
+  Around stand more than twenty thousand men
+  Who with one voice accuse Sweet France and Carle;
+  Apollo's grotto seek they, and with taunts,
+  Profane, insulting words, their God revile:
+  "What ails thee, evil God, to shame us thus,
+  And to confusion bring our Lord the King?
+  Who serves thee well vile guerdon gains from thee!"
+  Despoiled of crown and scepter, by the hands
+  They hang him on a column--neath their feet
+  They roll him down.--They with great clubs deface
+  And beat him; then from Tervagant they snatch
+  His carbuncle; Mohamed in a ditch
+  Throw down--there bitt'n, trampled on, by swine and dogs.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXC.
+
+  Recov'ring from his swoon, the King Marsile
+  Commands they lead him to his vaulted room
+  All bright with color and inscribed with verse.
+  There weeping bitterly, Queen Bramimunde
+  Tearing her hair, aloud proclaims her grief:
+  "O hapless Sarraguce, thou art bereft
+  Of the most gentle King that was thy Lord!
+  Our gods betrayed our trust, they who this morn
+  In battle failed us;--the Emir coward were
+  Would he not fight these people bold who are
+  So proud they care not for their lives. Carl'magne,
+  The Emperor, whose beard is strewn with gray,
+  Among his men has dauntless Knights; if e'er
+  He fight, no step he yields. Great woe it is
+  That there is no man who can give him death."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXCI.
+
+  By his great power the Emperor in Spain
+  Full seven years remained; he castles took
+  And many cities, bringing sore distress
+  To King Marsile. The year had scarce begun
+  Before his word went forth to seal the briefs
+  Which summoned Baligant from Babylone,
+  (The aged Emir, he whose life outlived
+  Homer and Virgil). Now the King Marsile
+  Had begged the Baron's help for Sarraguce.
+  Should he not come, gods, idols, once adored
+  He will renounce, the holy Faith of Christ
+  Embrace, and join in friendship with King Carle.
+  Afar was Baligant, and tarried long;
+  From forty realms his people had he called
+  And ordered to prepare his _dromonds_ vast,
+  Barks, galleys, ev'ry vessel. In the port
+  Of Alexandria the fleet had met;
+  In May it was, the first of summer-days,
+  A mighty host he launched upon the deep.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXCII.
+
+  Great are the forces of their hostile horde;
+  They swiftly skim the waves, and steer, and sail;
+  Their masts and yards so blazing with the light
+  Of carbuncles and lanterns, night gives up
+  Its darkness and still fairer shows the sea.
+  As they approached the shores of Spain, the land
+  Was all aglow, and tidings reached Marsile.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXCIII.
+
+  The Pagans halt no moment; soon they leave
+  The deep, and in fresh water steer; Marbreise
+  And then Marbruse is passed; along the shores
+  Of winding Ebro glides the armament,
+  Setting the night aflame with carbuncles
+  And lights: the same day reached they Sarraguce.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXCIV.
+
+  Clear is the day and bright the sun; descends
+  The Emir from his ship. Espaneliz
+  Walks forth upon his right; a train of Kings
+  In number seventeen, with Dukes and Counts
+  Innumerable, follow. 'Mid the plain
+  Grows a great laurel, and beneath its shade
+  They spread a _pallie_ of white silk upon
+  The verdant grass, and place a faldstool there
+  Of ivory. In this sits Baligant
+  The Pagan. All the others stand. First spake
+  The chief:--"Oyez, all ye, most valiant Knights!
+  King Carle, the Emperor, who leads the Franks,
+  Shall eat not, save by my command. Throughout
+  All Spain, 'gainst me a cruel war he waged:
+  Now I will seek him in sweet France, nor, while
+  My life lasts, cease until he dies the death,
+  Or, living, yields, and mercy begs." He spake
+  And struck his right-hand glove upon his knee.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXCV.
+
+  His word once spoken was to him a law:
+  Though it cost all the gold beneath the sky,
+  Yet would he march to Aix, where Carle was wont
+  To hold his court. Some praise him, even give
+  Him counsel. Two from out his host of Knights
+  He summons, Clarien, and Clarifan:
+  "Ye are the sons of King Maltraien,
+  A willing message bearer: 'tis my will
+  Ye go to Sarraguce; there in my name
+  Give ye this message to the King Marsile:
+  I have come to succor him against the French,
+  And if I find them, great the fight will be.
+  Give him this gold-embroidered glove, and place it
+  On his right hand; give him this staff of gold;
+  And when he comes to pay me homage, as
+  A vassal to his lord, I then will lead
+  My force to France to fight with Carlemagne.
+  If he fall not before my feet to pray
+  For mercy, and abjure the Christian law,
+  I from his head will tear away the crown."
+  The Pagans answer all:--"Well spoken, Sire."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXCVI.
+
+  "Barons! to horse!" said Baligant. "Bear thou
+  The glove, and thou the staff." The two reply:
+  "Dear Sire, thus shall we do." So fast they rode
+  They soon reached Sarraguce. Beneath ten gates
+  They pass, four bridges cross, ride through the streets
+  Where stand the burghers. But on drawing near
+  The lofty citadel, they heard great noise
+  About the palace, where were thronging crowds
+  Of Pagans with loud wails and shrieks of woe,
+  Crying out against their gods, on Tervagan,
+  Mahum, Apollo, who avail them naught.
+  Each says to each, "Ah, caitiffs, what shall now
+  Befall us, miserable? for we have lost
+  The King Marsile whose hand Rolland struck off;
+  For aye we are bereft of Turfaleu
+  The Fair, his son. This day the land of Spain
+  Into the Christian hands will fall enslaved!"
+  The message-bearers reach the royal gates.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXCVII.
+
+  Beneath an olive tree they halt, and soon
+  Two Pagans take their curbed steeds in charge.
+  The messengers, each holding by the cloak
+  The other, hasten to the highest tower.
+  Entering the vaulted hall where lay Marsile,
+  An evil greeting offer with good will:
+  "May Tervagan, Apollo, he who holds
+  Us in his service, and our Sire Mahum,
+  Preserve our king and guard the queen!"
+  Whereat cried Bramimunde:--"What folly this!
+  Our gods are false; too well in Ronceval
+  They showed their evil power, and let our knights
+  Be slain--amid the battle-field forsook
+  My lord the king with his right hand struck off
+  By mighty Count Rolland. The realm of Spain
+  Will fall enslaved beneath the sway of Carle.
+  What shall become of me, most miserable?
+  Alas! is there no man to give me death!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXCVIII.
+
+  Said Clarien:--"Lady, speak not thus--Behold,
+  Messengers we, from Baligant, who swears
+  To free Marsile, and to him sends his glove
+  And staff as tokens--on the Ebro float
+  Four thousand galleys, skiffs and swiftest boats;
+  More sails than can be numbered! Rich and great
+  The Emir.--Carle, pursued to France, shall be
+  Per force, or still, or dead, or penitent."
+  Said Bramimunde:--"Yea, greater ills will come.
+  To meet the Franks you need not go so far;
+  Carle seven years in Spain has tarried. Brave
+  Is he in battle, and a Baron true;
+  Ready to die ere he will quit the field;
+  No king on earth but is to him a child.
+  Carle's spirit yields before no living man."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CXCIX.
+
+  "Let all that be!" cried to the messengers
+  The King Marsile--"Seigneurs, speak but to me,
+  You see me now crushed unto death. No son
+  Nor daughter have I left, nor other heir;
+  One son I had, who yestereve was slain.
+  Say to my Lord his coming I beseech.
+  Some rights to Spain the Emir has; to him
+  I grant the realm in full, if he accept.
+  Let him defend this land against the French,
+  To meet Carlemagne good counsel I will give,
+  And victor he will be before this day
+  A month. Bear him the keys of Sarraguce;
+  Thence, if he trust my words, he ne'er will be
+  Expelled." They answer:--"Sire, you speak the truth."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CC.
+
+  "The Emperor Carle," said King Marsile, "has slain
+  My men, ravaged my land, shattered and stormed
+  My cities; now on Ebro's banks he camps,
+  But seven counted leagues away. Bid ye
+  The Emir march up all his force. Bear him
+  My order for the fight." With this he gives
+  Into their hands the keys of Sarraguce.
+  Upon these words the messengers bent low
+  In last salute, took leave, and went their way.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCI.
+
+  The messengers upon their horses mount
+  And gallop from the city in hot haste.
+  With terror struck, both to the Emir come,
+  Deliv'ring up the keys of Sarraguce.
+  Said Baligant:--"What found ye there? Where is
+  The King Marsile whom I commanded forth?"
+  Clarien makes answer:--"He is hurt to death;
+  The Emp'ror yesterday marched through the pass
+  Upon his homeward way into sweet France.
+  For greater honor, in the rear, Rolland,
+  His nephew, had a post with Olivier,
+  All the twelve Peers and twenty thousand knights.
+  The King Marsile, the valiant Baron, fought
+  And fierce encounter had with Count Rolland,
+  Who dealt with Durendal so dire a blow,
+  The king's right hand was severed from his arm.
+  Slain was the son he loved so tenderly,
+  With all the Barons he had brought with him;
+  Unable to resist, he took to flight,
+  And Carle, the Emperor, followed close behind.
+  Now give your help to King Marsile, who craves
+  Your aid, and as your guerdon all the realm
+  Of Spain receive." But Baligant remains
+  Deep sunk in thought, nigh maddened by his grief.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCII.
+
+  "Sire Emir," Clarien said, "on yesterday
+  A battle raged in Ronceval; Rolland
+  And Olivier are dead, and the twelve Peers
+  To Carle so dear, with twenty thousand Franks
+  Have perished; King Marsile lost his right hand,
+  And fled in hottest speed pursued by Carle.
+  In all the land no Knight remains but slain
+  Or in the waters of the Ebro drowned.
+  Upon its banks the French encamp--So nigh--
+  Had you the will, unsafe would be their flight."
+  Then Baligant looks at him full of pride;
+  And his heart swells with courage and fierce joy.
+  Sudden from his footstool he springs, and loud
+  He cries:--"Delay not--disembark! To horse!
+  And forward! Now, unless Carlemagne the old
+  By flight escape, the King Marsile shall be
+  Avenged. For his right hand Carle's head shall pay."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCIII.
+
+  Out of their skiffs the Arab Pagans spring,
+  And mounting mules and horses, march; what else
+  But this for them to do? When forward moves
+  The host in serried lines, the Emir calls
+  On Genalfin, his chosen friend: "To thee
+  Command of all my armies I confide."--
+  He said--and straight on his bay destrier mounts;
+  Four Dukes rode with him, and so fast he sped,
+  Ere long they entered into Sarraguce.
+  Before a marble terrace he dismounts,
+  Four Counts his stirrup held, and by the steps
+  Which led up to the palace he ascends.
+  To him runs Bramimunde:--"What cruel dole
+  Is mine, oh, woe! How shamefully," she cried,
+  "Have I now lost my lord!"--And at his feet
+  Prostrate she fell. The Emir raised her up,
+  And, grieving, both into the chamber went.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCIV.
+
+  The King Marsile, on seeing Baligant,
+  Summoned two Spanish Saracens, and bade
+  His body to be raised that he might sit.
+  With his left hand he took a glove, and thus
+  He spoke:--"Sir King and Emir, all my lands
+  And kingdoms, Sarraguce, domains and fiefs
+  But wreck and ruin--Subjects, wealth--all lost."
+  Answered the Emir:--"I, so much the more,
+  Grieve for thy sorrow; but for longer speech
+  I can not stay; for Carle, I know, will not
+  Be still. But, nathless, I receive the glove."
+  O'erwhelmed with sorrow, weeping he departs;
+  The palace steps descending, mounts his horse
+  And spurs him towards the waiting hosts so fast,
+  That of the foremost ranks he takes the lead;
+  And cries aloud, going from man to man:
+  "Haste, Pagans! On!--Already flee the Franks."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCV.
+
+  At earliest morn, just as the dawn appeared,
+  From sleep awakes the Emp'ror Carlemagne;
+  Saint-Gabriel, his guardian, sent by God,
+  With hands uplifted signed him with the cross.
+  The King arises, takes his armor off,
+  And all the host disarm.--The mounted knights
+  Then ran at speed back o'er the trampled ways,
+  The weary roads, to view the woeful loss
+  Once more, on Ronceval's bloody battle-field.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCVI.
+
+  Arrived upon the field of Ronceval,
+  Where lay so many slain, Carle wept, and said
+  Unto the French:--"Seigneurs, move slowly here;
+  For I alone, will forward go in search
+  Of my fair nephew lost among the dead.
+  Erst when at Aix on Christmas' solemn feast,
+  My valiant bachelors, in warlike deeds
+  Their exploits vaunting, I could hear Rolland
+  Say, should he ever die on foreign soil,
+  Before his peers and men he should be found
+  Facing the foe, true Baron, conqu'ror still."
+  A few steps further than a staff's throw, Carle
+  Far in advance of all, ascends a hill.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCVII.
+
+  When sought the Emperor his nephew there,
+  Amid the field, and found so many plants
+  With blossoms crimsoned by our Barons' blood,
+  By pity moved he can not choose but weep.
+  Mounting the hill, beneath two trees, he knew
+  The blow upon the three rocks Rolland struck,
+  And saw his nephew lying on the sward,
+  A mangled corse--No wonder Carle is wroth;
+  Alights in haste and lifting in his arms
+  The Count, broken by grief upon him faints.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCVIII.
+
+  From his deep swoon the Emperor revives.
+  Duke Naimes, Count Acelin, Geffrei d'Anjou
+  His brother Tierri raise the King, and place
+  Him resting 'gainst a pine. There on the earth
+  He sees his nephew lying dead, and mourns
+  O'er him with gentle words and tender looks,
+  "Sweet friend, Rolland, God's mercy unto thee!
+  Such peerless knight none ever yet has seen,
+  For noble combats ordered and achieved!
+  Mine honor turns to its decline!--" Once more
+  Carle's will and strength succumb.... He faints away.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCIX.
+
+  Again King Carle recovers from his swoon....
+  Four of his Barons, with their hands support
+  His form. His downcast looks see stretched on earth
+  His nephew's corpse. Discolored was the brow,
+  Yet proud the look; the dimmed and sightless eyes
+  Turned up.... In faith and love King Carle laments.
+  "Sweet friend Rolland, may God enshrine thy soul
+  Among the Glorified, amidst the flowers
+  Of Paradise! For thy mishap, Seigneur,
+  Camest thou to Spain.... No future day shall dawn
+  For me, on which I mourn thee not.... Now fall'n
+  My strength and power! Who now will e'er support
+  My royal fiefs? Thou wast for me 'neath Heav'n
+  The one true friend! though other kindred mine,
+  Was none so brave and wise."--He tore his hair
+  In handfuls from his brow. So great the grief
+  Of those one hundred thousand Franks, that none
+  There was, of all, who wept not bitter tears.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCX.
+
+  "Beloved Rolland, to France I now return.
+  When in my chamber I shall be at Louen,
+  And foreign men come from afar to ask
+  Where lives Rolland the Captain, I shall say
+  'He lieth dead in Spain;' and I henceforth
+  Shall hold my realm in bitter pain. No day
+  Shall dawn for me unmarked by tears and moans."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXI.
+
+  "Sweet friend Rolland, brave Knight and beauteous youth,
+  When I return to Aix, in my Chapelle,
+  And men shall come to hear me speak of thee,
+  What strange and cruel news I then shall have
+  To greet them with! 'My nephew who for me
+  Such conquests made ... is dead.' And Saxons now
+  Will rise against my power, and Hungres, and Bugres
+  With other foes--the men of Rome, of Pouille,
+  And all those of Palerne; and those who hold
+  Affrike and Califerne. Day after day
+  My pain will grow--Who then shall lead my host
+  With such an arm of might, since he is dead,
+  Who was our chief and head so long. Alas!
+  Sweet France, bereft art thou! So great my grief
+  I would not live!"--he plucks out his white beard
+  And tears his hair with both hands from his head.
+  Swoon on the earth one hundred thousand Franks--
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXII.
+
+  "Sweet friend," he cried, "Rolland, thou art no more:
+  Oh! may thy soul have place in Paradise!
+  Who gave thee death brought grievous shame to France.
+  Such is my grief, I would not longer live.
+  My kinsmen died for me! I pray Our Lord,
+  The Blessed Mary's son, before I reach
+  Cizra's defiles, from mortal life to take
+  My soul away, and let it rest with theirs.
+  I would my body lay beside their own!"
+  And, weeping sore, he tears his hoary beard....
+  Then said Duke Naimes:--"What cruel pain is Carle's!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXIII.
+
+  "Sire Emperor," spoke forth Geffrei d'Anjou,
+  "Yield not so much to sorrow--Orders give
+  To seek our men throughout the battle-field,
+  In combat killed by those of Spain, and lay
+  Them in one grave"--Carle said: "Then sound your horn."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXIV.
+
+  Geffrei d'Anjou obeyed and blew his horn;
+  The French dismount, such was the king's command,
+  And all their friends found slain upon the field
+  Together in one charnel wide inter:
+  A crowd of bishops, abbots, canons, monks
+  And tonsured priests there gathered, in the name
+  Of God assoil and bless; incense and myrrh
+  Are burned in reverence and love before
+  The dead who, buried there with honors great,
+  Are left alone--what more was there to do?
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXV.
+
+  The Emp'ror Carle gives order that a watch
+  Be kept around Rolland, Count Olivier
+  And the Archbishop Turpin; bade their breasts
+  Be oped before him, and their hearts enwrapped
+  In silken cloths--in tombs of marble white
+  Inurned; the bodies of the Barons then
+  Perfumed with wine and fragrant herbs; the three
+  Seigneurs in wrappings of stag's hide were cased;
+  By Carle's decree Tedbald and Gebuin,
+  _Marchis_ Othon and Count Milon escort
+  Them on their way, upon three chariots borne,
+  And covered well with palls of glazed silk.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXVI.
+
+  King Carle about to start, sees suddenly
+  Emerge the Pagan van. From Baligant,
+  The battle to declare, two messengers
+  Advance:--"Proud king, from here thou must not go;
+  Behold, the Emir to thine encounter comes
+  And brings a mighty host from Araby.
+  This day will prove if truly valiant knight
+  Thou art." Carl'magne, the king, plucks his gray beard;
+  So cruel is the memory of all
+  His grief and wrong, proudly he casts a look
+  Upon his knightly host, and with loud voice
+  Exclaims:--"Seigneurs Barons! To horse! To arms!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXVII.
+
+  First of them all the Emperor is armed.
+  Quick donned his hauberk,--laced his helm--Joyeuse,
+  Whose brightness vies with the sun's dazzling rays,
+  Is girded on--a shield of Girunde hangs
+  Upon his neck,--his lance, forged in Blandune
+  He wields, and mounts his good steed Tencendur
+  Which nigh the ford below Marsune he won,
+  When he struck dead Malpalin de Nerbune.
+  Quick to a gallop spurred, rein loosed, the steed
+  Sped on, before one hundred thousand men.
+  Carle calls on Rome's Apostle and on God.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXVIII.
+
+  Spread o'er the field the men of France dismount.
+  More than one hundred thousand arm themselves
+  Together--Brilliant their array! Their steeds
+  Are fleet, arms gleaming; bright the pennons float
+  Above their helms: The foe once found, they give
+  Them certain battle. Mounted thus, how brave
+  Their show! When Carle beholds their faces bright,
+  Joseran de Provence he calls, the brave
+  Duke Naimes, also Anselme de Maience:
+  "In knights so good behooves men to have faith,
+  And mad indeed who doubts of the event.
+  Should not the Arabs their approach repent,
+  Rolland's death I to them will dearly sell."
+  Responds Duke Naimes:--"May God vouchsafe your prayer."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXIX.
+
+  Carl calls Rabel and Guineman:--"Seigneurs,
+  I will that ye should take the place of Counts
+  Rolland and Olivier--One bear the sword;
+  The olifant, the other--Be the chiefs
+  Of fifteen thousand bachelors of France,
+  In youth and valor famous among all--
+  As many more will follow after these,
+  Conducted by Gebuin and by Laurant."
+  Duke Naimes and Joseran the Count with speed
+  And care these hosts in full array dispose.
+  Let them encounter, great will be the fight.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXX.
+
+  These first two cohorts were from out the French
+  Composed; and after those a third was formed:
+  The vassals of Baviere--Their numbers mount
+  To thirty thousand knights who ne'er would blench
+  Before the foe. Beneath the sky live not
+  A people dearer to the heart of Carle,
+  Save those of France, the conquerors of realms.
+  The Count Ogier de Danemarche, the brave,
+  Will lead--What beauty sits upon their brows!
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXI.
+
+  Now has the Emp'ror Carle three squadrons; Naimes
+  The Duke, then forms the fourth with truly brave
+  Barons from Allemagne, who left La Marche.
+  These, twenty thousand count, so all report;
+  Well furnished with good steeds and arms; for dread
+  Of death in battle they will never yield.
+  Herman the Duke of Thrace, their chief, will die
+  Before he guilty proves of cowardice.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXII.
+
+  Duke Naimes and Joseran the Count, have formed
+  The fifth of Normans, twenty thousand men,
+  Say all the Franks. Their arms are bright, and fleet
+  Their steeds. These welcome death ere they succumb.
+  None under Heav'n more valiant in the fight.
+  Richard the old will lead them on the field,--
+  And with his trenchant lance will bravely strike.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXIII.
+
+  Composed of Bretons the sixth squadron was:
+  Full forty thousand chevaliers are they;
+  Barons in mien when mounted thus, each lance
+  In rest, its pennon rolled. Their lord is named
+  Oedun: These led by Nevelon the Count,
+  Tedbald de Reins and the Marchis Othon--
+  "My people guide," said Carle; "in ye my trust."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXIV.
+
+  King Carle has now six squadrons on the field.
+  Barons d'Alverne and Peitevins Duke Naimes
+  Has mustered in the seventh. They may count
+  Full forty thousand knights. How good their steeds,
+  How finely wrought their arms! They stand aloof
+  Within a shady vale. With his right hand
+  He gives to these his blessing. Joseran
+  And Godselmes their appointed leaders are.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXV.
+
+  Barons of Frise and Flamengs Naimes enrolled
+  For the eighth legion. Knights in number more
+  Than fifty thousand, men who never yield
+  In battle. Thus the king: "My service these
+  Will do, Rembalt and Hamon de Galice
+  Shall lead them forward in all chivalry."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXVI.
+
+  Duke Naimes and Joseran the Count equip
+  The ninth battalion,--brave among the brave.
+  Those warriors from Lorraine and Burgundy:
+  In number fifty thousand knights; close helmed,
+  In hauberk mailed--a stout short-handled lance
+  Each wields. Should Arabs not from combat shrink,
+  Lorrains and Bourguignons will deal hard blows;
+  Tierri Duke of Argonne will be their chief.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXVII.
+
+  Barons of France make up the tenth. They are
+  One hundred thousand captains 'mong the best;
+  Hardy and stout, of features proud, hair flecked
+  With gray, and beard all white; in hauberk clad
+  And lined coat of mails, girt with their swords
+  Of Spain and France; for shelter, brilliant shields
+  With various blazons decked, among them known.
+  They mount their steeds and clamor for the fight:
+  "Montjoie!" they cry.--Comes now Carlemagne the king!
+  Geffrei d'Anjou bears up the oriflamme
+  Called Roman once, but since the day Saint Pierre
+  Made it a standard, it is named Montjoie.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXVIII.
+
+  The Emperor Carle dismounts, prostrates himself
+  Upon the verdant grass, invoking God
+  With eyes uplifted toward the rising sun:
+  "O father true, this day be my defense!
+  Thy hand it was saved Jonas from the whale
+  Within whose body he was swallowed up;
+  Thou sparedst too the king of Niniva;
+  And Daniel didst thou save from cruel pain
+  When thrown among the lions. By thy might
+  Stood the three children safe in burning flames,
+  This day grant also unto me thy love,
+  Merciful God! List to my prayer; vouchsafe
+  That I avenge my nephew, dear Rolland!"
+  Thus having prayed, he stands erect and marks
+  His forehead with the sign of might: Then mounts
+  A fleet-hoofed courser. Naimes and Joseran
+  Carle's stirrup hold--With buckler on his arm
+  And trenchant lance in rest; strength, beauty, grace
+  Sat on his countenance and visage fair.
+  Then firmly seated on his horse he rides....
+  Clarions in rear and front reecho 'round....
+  But above all rings out the olifant.
+  Meantime the French weep ... mourning for Rolland.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXIX.
+
+  Most nobly on the Emp'ror Carle proceeds.
+  His long beard flowing o'er his coat of mail,
+  And so, for love of him, the knights, whereby,
+  Are surely known the hundred thousand Franks;
+  They march through mountains and o'ertopping peaks,
+  Deep vales, defiles of frightful look. At last
+  Leaving the narrow pass and wasted land,
+  They reach the Spanish bourne and make a halt
+  Amid a plain. Meanwhile to Baligant
+  Return his vanguard scouts; a Syrian spy
+  Heralds the news,--"We saw the proud King Carle.
+  His warriors fierce will never fail their King.
+  To arms--Within a moment look for fight!"
+  Baligant cried:--"Good news for our brave hearts!
+  Sound all your trumps and let my Pagans know!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXX.
+
+  Throughout the camp the drums sonorous beat,
+  With bellowing horns and blasts of trumpet clear.
+  The Pagans arm themselves, and least of all
+  The Emir would th' advance delay--He wears
+  A hauberk saffron--'broidered round the sides,
+  And clasps his helm with gold and gems inlaid.
+  On his left side a sword whereto, in pride,
+  He gave a name, as Carle had named his sword,
+  And called the blade his Precieuse. This name
+  Shall be the battle-cry his warriors shout----
+  Hangs from his neck a large and spreading shield
+  Whose golden boss shines with a crystal ring;
+  The strap of silk with rosy 'broidery;
+  The lance he bears is named Mallet, the shaft
+  Of which so huge, more than a beam it looks,
+  And steel so strong, beneath its weight a mule
+  Would groan. Upon his steed mounts Baligant;
+  His stirrup held by Marcule d'Ultremer.
+  Mighty the Emir's stride across the selle;
+  Thin-loined, wide-flanked, deep-chested, all his form
+  Well molded; broad his shoulders; clear his eye,
+  His visage haughty, curls around his brow.
+  White as a summer blossom he appears;
+  His valor proved by many feats of war.
+  God! what a Baron, had he Christian faith!
+  He spurs his horse until the crimson blood
+  Reddens its flanks, and lightly bounds across
+  A mighty chasm full fifty feet in width.
+  The Pagans cry:--"He can defend his marche.
+  With him none 'mong the French can cross a lance;
+  Will they or not, their lives are forfeit now.
+  Yea Carle was mad who did not shun the field."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXXI.
+
+  The Emir, Baron-like, wears on his chin
+  A beard as white as summer flower, and gained
+  Among the wisest of his creed a fame;
+  In battle fierce and proud. His son Malprime
+  Of knightly soul, and from his noble race
+  Holding a valiant heart and strength of arm,
+  Addressed his father:--"Sire, to horse! to horse!
+  Against them! I much wonder whether Carle
+  We e'er shall meet."--"Yea," answered Baligant,
+  "Carle is a valorous knight; his glorious deeds
+  Are writt'n, but now his nephew is no more;
+  Against our strength no other man's can stand."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXXII.
+
+  "Fair son, Malprime," said th' Emir Baligant,
+  "Yesterday fell in death the noble knight
+  Rolland, and Olivier the wise and brave,
+  And the twelve Peers by Carle so dearly loved,
+  With twenty thousand combatants of France;
+  Not at a glove's worth hold I all the rest.
+  Anon my Syrian messenger reports
+  The emperor's approach; ten armies Carle
+  Has called in close array; the knight who bears
+  The olifant, with clear resounding blast
+  Leads his companions, riding in the front;
+  Together with them fifteen thousand men
+  Of France, all bachelors, whom Carle is wont
+  To call his children. These as many follow
+  Who for the fiercest combat seem prepared."
+  Thus said Malprime: "The first stroke I demand!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXXIII.
+
+  "Fair son," said Baligant, "to you I grant
+  Your full request. Against the French at once
+  Engage. Let your companions be Torleu
+  The Persian King, and Dapamort who rules
+  Leutis. If you subdue the vaunting Carle,
+  A portion of my kingdom shall you have
+  In fief from the Orient to Val-Marchis."
+  Responds Malprime: "To you, O sire, all thanks!"
+  And stepping forward, he receives the boon.
+  This land had once been swayed by King Fleuri,
+  But by Malprime was neither ruled nor seen.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXXIV.
+
+  The Emir Baligant rides through the ranks
+  Of all his host, escorted by his son
+  Of giant stature, and the Kings Torleu
+  And Dapamort. In line of battle soon
+  Stand thirty legions ranked. Countless the knights,
+  And fifteen thousand strong the weakest band
+  Can number. First are those of Butentrot,
+  The next of Misnia: enormous heads
+  O'ertop the spine enrooted in their backs,
+  Their shaggy bodies bristling with coarse hair
+  Like boars; the third, of Nubles and of Blos;
+  The legion fourth of Bruns and Esclavos;
+  The fifth of Sorbres and Sorz; from the Ermines
+  And Mors is formed the sixth; from Jericho
+  The seventh, and the eighth from those of Nigre.
+  Of Gros the ninth, and from Balide-la-Fort,
+  The legion tenth, men never good for aught.
+  With strongest oaths the Emir swears aloud
+  By all Mohammed's might and body, "Carle
+  Of France rides like a madman to his doom,
+  For combat we shall have; recoils he not,
+  His brow shall never more wear golden crown."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXXV.
+
+  Ten other legions are arrayed: the first
+  Of Canelieux--ill-visaged people, come
+  Athwart, from Valfuit; Turks the next; the third
+  Persians; the fourth, Persians and Pinceneis;
+  The fifth from Soltras come and from Avers;
+  Englez and Ormaleis make up the sixth;
+  The seventh scions are of Samuel's race;
+  The eighth from Braise; Esclavers form the ninth;
+  As for the tenth, a horde perverse that came
+  From Ociant's deserted land--a race
+  Not loving God the Lord; ne'er shall you hear
+  Of viler breed: their heathen skin as hard
+  As iron, whence it is they need no helms
+  Nor hauberks mailed--in battle treach'rous fiends.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXXVI.
+
+  The Emir has himself ten legions armed.
+  To form the first the giants of Malpruse
+  Were summoned; to the second came the Huns;
+  The Hungres made the third; Baldise-la-Lungue
+  The fourth, and Val-Penuse the fifth; the sixth
+  Maruse; the seventh Leuz and Astrimonies;
+  The eighth Argoilles; Clarbone the ninth; the tenth
+  Formed of the bearded men of Val-Fonde,
+  A tribe that never would love God. The songs
+  Of Geste of France thus thirty legions count:
+  A mighty host where many a trumpet blasts.
+  Forward, like valiant knights, the Pagans ride.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXXVII.
+
+  The Emir, rich and mighty lord, commands
+  Before him to display his dragon-flag,
+  The standard of Mahum and Tervagant;
+  With it Apollo's image, evil god.
+  Ten Canelieus about him ride, and cry
+  This sermon with loud voice: "Who by our Gods
+  Craves to be saved, with the most contrite heart
+  Must pray!" And then the Pagans low incline
+  Their heads and chins, with brilliant helms bent down
+  To earth.--"Now, gluttons, comes your hour to die!"
+  Cry out the French; "Confusion be your lot.
+  This day, O God of ours, defend King Carle,
+  Turn Thou the scale of battle to his side!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXXVIII.
+
+  The Emir, great in wisdom, called his son
+  And the two kings:--"Seigneurs Barons, in front
+  Ride ye, and all my legions you shall lead;
+  Among them only three will I retain,
+  But of the best: The first shall be the Turks,
+  The second of the Ormaleis composed,
+  And third shall be the Giants of Malpruse,
+  While those of Occiant shall near me stand
+  To set them on King Carle and on his French.
+  Should then the Emperor dare measure arms
+  With me, struck from its trunk his head shall fall--
+  No right has he to other fate than this."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXXXIX.
+
+  Both armies are immense; their squadrons bright.
+  Between the combatants nor height, nor hill,
+  Nor vale, nor wood that shelter could afford;
+  Foe looks on foe across the open field.--
+  Said Baligant: "My Saracens, to horse!
+  Ride forward to the fight!" The battle flag
+  Is borne on high by Amboire d'Oliferne,
+  And all shout "Precieuse!" The French exclaim:
+  "May ye confounded be this day!" Aloud
+  Rises their cry "Montjoie!" The Emperor Carle
+  His trumpets bid resound, and the olifant
+  Whose blast 'whelms all. The Pagans say: "Carle's host
+  Is fair! Fierce battle shall we have and dire."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXL.
+
+  Vast is the plain and broad the field. Behold
+  Those dazzling helms inlaid with gold and gems,
+  Those shields, those coats of mail with saffron edged,
+  Those spears and pennons rolled; hearken ye the voice
+  Of trumpets blowing clear and strong, and hark
+  The olifant's shrill blast, which sounds the charge.
+  The Emir calls his brother, Canabeu,
+  The King of Floredee, who rules the land
+  As far as Val-Sevree, and points to Carle's
+  Ten must'ring legions: "See the pride of France
+  The praised; amid his bearded knights how proud
+  The Emperor rides! O'er their hauberks stream
+  Their beards as white as snow upon the frost.
+  Forsooth! These valiant warriors will strike hard
+  With lance and sword, and such a fight be ours
+  As never man has fought." Then Baligant,
+  Urging his courser further than a man
+  Can hurl a staff, gave reasons and their proof:
+  "Come forward, Pagans; follow where I go!"
+  Brandishing high the shaft of his own lance,
+  At Carle he levels fair its trenchant steel.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXLI.
+
+  When Carle the Emir sees, and with him borne
+  The dragon-standard, all the land o'erswarmed
+  By Arab warriors, save that space alone
+  Held by his host, he cries with loudest voice:
+  "Barons of France, in valor great, we know,
+  Upon how many fields ye battled! See
+  The Pagans! Traitors vile and cowards all;
+  Yea, all their law I count no denier worth.
+  What care ye, lords, how vast their numbers are?
+  Let those who wish to combat follow me!"
+  With pointed spurs he pricks his courser's flanks
+  And Tecendur four times leaped in the air.
+  Cry out the French:--"A valiant King is this!
+  Ride forward, Sire, not one will fail you here."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXLII.
+
+  Clear was the day and bright the sun. Both hosts
+  Resplendent, their battalions numberless;
+  The legions in the van already meet
+  In fight. Both Counts Rabel and Guineman
+  On their fleet coursers' necks have loosed the rein!
+  Sharply they spur, and all the Franks dash on
+  To deal with trenchant lance their valiant blows.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXLIII.
+
+  A daring Knight is Count Rabel. With spurs
+  Of purest gold he pricks his courser's flanks,
+  Rushing to smite Torleu the Persian King.
+  No shield, no hauberk can such blow withstand.
+  The golden spear went through the Pagan's heart
+  And mid the brambles of the road has struck
+  Him dead. The French cry out: "Aid us, O God!
+  With Carle the right; ne'er shall we fail our King!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXLIV.
+
+  Guineman 'gainst the King of Leutice tilts;
+  The Pagan's shield with painted flowers bedecked
+  Is shattered and his hauberk torn away.
+  Through his heart's core the pennon of the Knight
+  Is driven, bearing death,--or laugh or weep
+  Who may. At such a blow the French exclaim:
+  "Barons, strike ever! Strike and be not slack
+  Against the Pagan hordes; to Carle belongs
+  The right. With us the justice true of God!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXLV.
+
+  Malprime upon a steed of purest white
+  Leads 'gainst the serried legions of the Franks
+  His men. Abating not his mighty blows,
+  Corse over corse he heaps. Cries Baligant
+  In front: "Ye whom my kindness nurtured long,
+  Barons of mine, see how my son seeks Carle
+  And with so many knights he measured arms;
+  A better vassal I shall never claim;
+  Give him the succor of your trenchant spears."
+  On rush the Pagans at these words, and deal
+  Their mortal blows around. Rude is the fight!
+  The battle marvelous and stern. None such
+  Was ever seen before or since that hour.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXLVI.
+
+  The hosts are numberless, the warriors fierce--
+  The encount'ring legions fighting hand to hand
+  Noblest exploits achieved. How many a lance
+  Asunder broken; God! How many shields
+  In pieces split, how many hauberks wrenched!
+  Splinters of shivered armor you might see
+  Strew all the field, and verdant tender grass
+  Vermillioned o'er by streams of human gore!
+  The Emir to his people calls anew:
+  "Barons strike down these Christian people!"--Hard
+  And long the fight embittered by revenge
+  And rage. Ne'er seen before nor will be seen
+  Again such combat.--To the death they fight.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXLVII.
+
+  The Emir to his men:--"Strike, Pagans, ye
+  For this alone have come. Dames sweet and fair
+  Shall be your guerdon; honors, and domains
+  I promise all."--The Saracens respond:
+  "To serve you all we ought."--So hard they fight
+  That in the hot affray they lose their spears:
+  Anon a thousand flashing swords and more,
+  Are drawn, a bloody slaughter to achieve.
+  He who stood on that field, true battle saw.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXLVIII.
+
+  The King exhorts his French: "Beloved Seigneurs
+  And trusty Knights, ye many battles fought
+  For me, won many a realm, defeated Kings!
+  Full well I know, rich guerdons have ye earned;
+  My wealth, lands, blood I owe you. Now to-day
+  Your sons, your brothers and your kin avenge
+  Who fell in Ronceval but yesternight!
+  Well know ye mine the right, with them the wrong."
+  The French reply:--"Yea, sire, you speak the truth."
+  The twenty thousand knights who march with Carle
+  Pledge with one soul their fealty. Dire distress,
+  E'en death, shall cause not one of these to fail
+  The Emperor; not on lances they rely,
+  But with the sword in hand wage doughty strife.
+  Wondrous the raging battle. Stern the fight.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXLIX.
+
+  The brave Malprime has pressed his steed across
+  The field, and carried death among the French.
+  Duke Naimes glanced proudly toward him, and as knight
+  In battle fearless met him in career;
+  He strikes ... tears off his buckler's leathern top,
+  The hauberk cuts in twain, drives through the heart
+  The yellow pennon of the spear, and strikes
+  Him dead mid seven hundred other knights.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCL.
+
+  King Canabeus, the Emir's brother, spurs
+  His courser on; his crystal-hilted sword
+  Unsheathes, and deals Naimes' princely helm a blow
+  Which splits the crest in twain; the trenchant blade
+  Severs the five strong bands which to his head
+  Fast bound it; now not worth a denier was
+  The steel-mailed hood; down to the flesh the casque
+  Sheer cleft--a fragment falls upon the earth.
+  The blow was great; the Duke, astounded, reeled,
+  And would have fallen but for God's help. He clasps
+  His courser's neck, and should the Pagan deal
+  Another stroke, the noble Duke has breathed
+  His last; but to his help comes Carle of France.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLI.
+
+  In the Duke Naimes' brave heart what agony!
+  Once more the Pagan raised his arm to strike,
+  But now King Carle cries:--"Coward, wretch! This blow
+  Brings thee ill luck!"--And valiantly the King
+  Rushed on, crushed 'gainst his heart the buckler, rent
+  The hauberk's top; dead-struck the heathen King
+  Falls on the ground ... empty the saddle rests.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLII.
+
+  Deep grief the Emperor felt when there he saw
+  Duke Naimes sore-wounded and the verdant grass
+  Streamed o'er by his clear blood, and thereupon
+  This counsel spoke:--"Fair Naimes, ride close by me;
+  The wretch who brought you to this cruel fight
+  Has breathed his last, his body by my lance
+  Transfixed."--The Duke:--"In you my trust, O sire!
+  If e'er I live, with knightly service shall
+  My arm requite this deed!"--Then side by side
+  In faith and love, with twenty thousand knights
+  They march. And none of these or flinch or yield.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLIII.
+
+  The Emir rides across the field, in haste
+  To deal a blow against Count Guineman.
+  Athwart his heart he breaks the buckler white
+  And tears the hauberk's sides apart, disjoints
+  Two ribs and hurls him from his courser, dead;
+  Then takes the life of Gebain and Lorant,
+  And of Richard the old, a Norman Lord.
+  The Pagans cry: "_Precieuse_ deserves its name!
+  Barons! strike on, Precieuse will save us all!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLIV.
+
+  A noble sight, those knights of Araby,
+  Of Occiant, of Argoille and of Bascle!
+  Spears intermix, death to repel or give.
+  Nathless the French recoil not from the strife.
+  On either side they fall heaped high. Till eve
+  The storm of battle raged. Meanwhile the knights
+  Of France upon that day bore rueful loss;
+  Nor stayed the carnage till the day was done.
+
+
+  CCLV.
+
+  French and Arabian warriors emulate
+  In valor each the other. Ashen shafts
+  Break from their brazen heads. Whoso then saw
+  Those shields defaced, who heard those hauberks white
+  Resound with blows, this dinning clash of shields
+  'Gainst helmets grinding, saw those knights and men
+  Fall and with dying shrieks roll on the earth,
+  Of greatest anguish could the memory keep;
+  So fierce this battle raged. The Emir calls
+  Upon Apollo, Tervagan, upon
+  Mahum: "Till now I served you well, O Gods!
+  And I will have an image made for each,
+  Molten of purest gold [if ye but help]!"
+  Before him then his favorite Gemalfin
+  Appears. He brings ill news. "Sire Baligant
+  This day brings you mishap; Malprime, your son
+  Has fall'n! Your brother Canabeus is dead.
+  Two Franks the glory have of their defeat,
+  One, Carle the Emperor, I deem, so vast
+  His fame, his air as _Marchis_ grand, his beard
+  As white as April blossom!" At these words
+  The Emir's helm declines, his visage sinks
+  Low on his breast. Such is his grief, he thinks
+  Death nears him. Calling Jangleu d'ultremer,
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLVI.
+
+  The Emir said:--"Jangleu, step forth; most wise
+  Art thou, thy knowledge great; thy counsel e'er
+  I followed; what the chance of victory
+  For Franks or Arabs deemest thou?" Jangleu
+  Responds:--"Death, Baligant, hangs o'er your head.
+  Ne'ermore your gods can save you; Carle is proud,
+  And valiant are his men. Ne'er lived a race
+  So strong in battle; yet call up your knights
+  Of Occiant, Enfruns and Arabs, Turks
+  And Giants. Do your duty with all speed."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLVII.
+
+  The Emir spreads out to the breeze his beard
+  As hawthorn blossom white; betide what may,
+  Escape he will not seek, puts to his lips
+  A trumpet clear, whose blast the Pagans hark,
+  And fast their cohorts rally on the field.
+  They bray and neigh, the men of Occiant,
+  While those of Arguile yelp as curs, and charge
+  The Franks so rashly, they mow down and break
+  Their thickest ranks, and by this blow
+  Throw seven thousand dead upon the field.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLVIII.
+
+  To Count Ogier is dastardy unknown;
+  No better vassal buckled hauberk on.
+  When the French legions broken thus he saw,
+  He called Tierri Duke of Argonne, Geffrei
+  D'Anjou and Jozeran the Count, and spoke
+  These haughty words to Carle:--"Behold our men
+  By Pagans slaughtered! May God ne'er permit
+  Your brow to wear its crown if unrevenged
+  Your shame remains!" None dared reply a word,
+  But spurring hard their steeds, with loosened reins
+  They rush in fury 'gainst the Pagan ranks
+  And strike the foes where'er they can be met.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLIX.
+
+  Hard strikes Carlemagne the king, hard strikes Duke Naimes,
+  Ogier de Dannemark, Geffrei d'Anjou,
+  Who bears the royal pennon. But o'er all
+  Ogier de Dannemark puts forth his might;
+  He pricks his courser, drops the rein and falls
+  Upon the Pagan who the Dragon holds,
+  So fiercely, that both Dragon and the King's
+  Own flag is crushed before him on the spot.
+  When Baligant beholds his gonfalon fall
+  And Mahum's flag defenseless, in his heart
+  Springs quick the thought, wrong may be on his side
+  And right on Carle's. The Pagans [waver now].
+  The Emperor Carle around him calls his (Franks):
+  "Barons, in God's name, do you stand by me?"
+  Respond the French:--"To ask is an offense.
+  Accurst be he who deals not glorious strokes!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLX.
+
+  The day wears on and vesper draweth nigh.
+  Christians and Pagans, sword in hand, engage;
+  And valiant are their chiefs, nor mindless they
+  Of battle cries:--"Precieuse!" the Emir shouts,
+  And Carle:--"Montjoie!" the glorious sign. Each knows
+  The other by the clear sonorous voice,
+  And 'mid the field encountering, gives and takes
+  Fierce blows. Each massy shield receives the shock,
+  And each beneath the boss is cloven in twain
+  By the strong lance; each hauberk's sides are rent,
+  But the keen steel in neither reached the flesh;
+  The horse-girths burst and let the saddles fall.
+  Dropped to the earth both kings, both to their feet
+  Quick springing, dauntlessly unsheathed their swords.
+  And now the mortal combat will not cease
+  Till Carle or Baligant has fallen in death.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXI.
+
+  Carle of sweet France is brave, but the Emir feels
+  Before him neither fear nor dread. Both wield
+  Their naked swords and mighty thrusts exchange.
+  The shields, of wood and leather multifold,
+  Are rent, the nails torn out, the bosses split;
+  Each at the other's hauberk aims his blows.
+  Both combat breast to breast; the showering sparks
+  Wrap both their helms in fire: no end can be
+  Till one or other, vanquished, owns his wrong.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXII.
+
+  The Emir said: "King Carle, bethink thee yet;
+  Take better counsel with thy heart, and show
+  Remorse. Full well I know, by thee my son
+  Was slain, thou broughtest ruin through my land.
+  Become my man, I will restore [in fief]
+  This land [to thee], and to the East, but serve
+  Me well." And Carle: "Great shame were that to me!
+  To Heathens I can give no peace nor love....
+  Receive the law our God revealed; accept
+  The faith of Christ.... For e'er my love is thine,
+  If thou believe in God, the Almighty King."
+  Said Baligant: "Ill words are these of thine:
+  [Far better die by the keen edge of sword."]
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXIII.
+
+  The mighty Emir with a giant's strength
+  Smites Carle upon the helm of burnished steel,
+  Which splits in twain beneath the ponderous blow,
+  Cuts through the silky hair, shears from the scalp
+  Fully the breadth of a man's palm and more,
+  Baring the skull. Carle staggers, nearly falls,
+  But God willed not that he should die or yield.
+  Saint Gabriel, with eager flight once more
+  Descends, demanding:--"What ails thee, great King?"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXIV.
+
+  When Carle the Angel's heavenly accent hears,
+  All thought or dread of death forsakes his soul,
+  And in him springs again his former strength.
+  The Emir by the royal sword of France
+  Is struck, his helm all bright with gems is rent,
+  His cloven skull pours out the brain, his face
+  Is cleft to the very roots of his white beard:
+  Dead falls the Pagan past recovery.
+  Then shouts the King his rallying cry, "Montjoie!"
+  Hearing his shout, Duke Naimes hastes up, and brings
+  The charger Tecendur for Carle the great
+  To mount. The Pagans turn their backs--God wills
+  They should not stay. The Franks have their desires.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXV.
+
+  The Pagans fly--such is the will of God;
+  Carle leads the French in the pursuit. Thus spake
+  The King:--"Seigneurs, the time is come to give
+  Vent to just hatred, and your anguished hearts
+  Assuage. This very morn I saw your eyes
+  Streaming with tears." They cry:--"Our vengeance now!"
+  And vying with each other in exploits,
+  They deal their mighty blows. But few escape.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXVI.
+
+  Amidst the sultry heat and clouds of dust
+  The Pagans roused, by their foes harassed,
+  Flee far for Sarraguce. To her high tower
+  Ascends Queen Bramimunde, where, seeing thus
+  The routed Arabs fly, she calls her priests
+  And canons, subjects to false law, by God
+  Ne'er loved: their crowns no holy tonsure wear.
+  She cries aloud:--"Aid us, Mahum! Oh aid!
+  O gentle King! Already vanquished are
+  Our men, the Emir slain in shameful death!"
+  On hearing this, Marsile turned to the wall
+  His covered face, and amid bitter tears
+  His life departed. Soon the eager fiends
+  Bore off to judgment his sin-burthened soul.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXVII.
+
+  The Pagans all are slain [or put to flight];
+  Carle wins the day. The gates of Sarraguce
+  Are stormed, and well he knows, defense is vain.
+  He takes the city. All the Christian host
+  Pour in, and there repose their limbs this night.
+  The King with snow-white beard is filled with pride:
+  Queen Bramimunde gives up the citadels;
+  Ten of these forts are large, and fifty small.
+  Well helped are they whom God Almighty aids.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXVIII.
+
+  The sunny day had passed, the shades of night
+  Had fallen; bright the moonlight; all the stars
+  In heaven shone. Carle ruled in Sarraguce.
+  Unto one thousand men he gave command
+  To search throughout the city's synagogues
+  And mosques for all their idols and graved signs
+  Of gods--these to be broken up and crushed
+  By ax and iron mallet he ordains.
+  Nor sorcery nor falsehood left. King Carle
+  Believes in God and serves him faithfully.
+  Then bishops bless the fountains, leading up
+  The Heathens to the blest baptismal Font.
+  If one perchance resist the King, condemned
+  Is he to die, or hanged, or burnt, or slain.
+  More than one hundred thousand are baptized
+  True Christians; but not so Queen Bramimunde:
+  A captive shall she go unto sweet France
+  And be converted by the King through love.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXIX.
+
+  Night passes; dawn appears. Carle fortifies
+  The towers of Sarraguce. One thousand Knights
+  Of valor proved are left to guard the town
+  In the Emperor's name. With escort strong he rides,
+  Followed by Bramimunde a captive, yet
+  Commands that naught but kindness she receive.
+  In proud and joyous triumph they return;
+  Through Nerbune passes the victorious host,
+  Unto Burdele, the city great and fair.
+  There on the altar of the Baron Saint
+  Sevrin, Carle lays the olifant filled full
+  Of marks and gold, where pilgrims view it still.
+  Passing upon broad skiffs across Girunde,
+  To Blaive, he bears the bodies of Rolland
+  And Olivier, his noble _Compagnon_,
+  With the Archbishop good and brave. Beneath
+  White monuments he hath the lords entombed
+  At Saint-Romain. Here those three Barons lie....
+  The French to God and to his saints, once more
+  Commend them. Carle anew through mounts and vales
+  Proceeds, nor will he stop until in Aix.
+  Fast rides he till he nears the marble steps
+  Of his great palace; and as soon as reached
+  Its tower, by messengers he summons up
+  Baiviers and Saisnes, Loherencs and Frisons,
+  Allemans, Burguignons, Normans, Poitevins,
+  Bretons, of France the wisest men; for now
+  Ganelon's trial shall have no delay.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  THE PUNISHMENT OF GANELON.
+
+
+  CCLXX.
+
+  From Spain at last the Emperor has returned
+  To Aix, the noblest seat of France; ascends
+  His palace, enters in the stately hall.--
+  Now comes to greet him the fair [lady] Aude,
+  And asks the King:--"Where is Rolland the chief
+  Who pledged his faith to take me for his wife?"
+  Sore-pained, heart-broken, Carle, with weeping eyes,
+  Tears his white beard.--"Ah! sister well beloved,
+  Thou askest me of one who is no more.
+  A worthier match I give thee in exchange;
+  Loewis it is. I can not better say.
+  He is my son, and will protect my realms."
+  Aude answers:--"To my ear these words are strange.
+  May God, His saints, His angels, all forfend
+  That, if Rolland lives not, I still should live."
+  Her color fades, she falls prone at the feet
+  Of Carlemagne--dead ... God's mercy on her soul!
+  Barons of France mourn her with pitying tears.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXI.
+
+  Such was the end of Aude the beautiful.
+  The King, in hope 'tis but a swoon, with tears
+  And pity taking both her hands, uplifts
+  Her form; the head upon the shoulders sinks.
+  As soon as Carle knows it is death indeed,
+  Four countesses he summons, bids them bear
+  In haste the Lady to a nunnery.----
+  All night they watched the body, and at morn
+  Beside a shrine gently she was entombed
+  With highest honors by the King's command.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXII.
+
+  The Emperor is once more at Aix. There stands
+  Amid the city 'fore the palace gate,
+  In iron chains, the traitor Ganelon.
+  His hands are fastened to a stake with thongs
+  Of deer-skin by the sergeants who then beat
+  His body well with staves and heavy cords.
+  Such treatment was his true desert. He waits
+  His coming doom, in agony of soul.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXIII.
+
+  Written it is in ancient Geste of France
+  That Carle then summoned men from all his lands,
+  Who met at Aix's Chapelle. A solemn feast
+  It was; some say the Baron Saint Silvestre's.
+  This day began the plea and history
+  Of Ganelon who wove the treason's plot.
+  The Emperor bade them drag him to his bar.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXIV.
+
+  "Seigneurs Barons," said to them Carle the King,
+  "Judge Ganelon according to the law.--
+  Among my host with me to Spain he came;
+  His craft lost twenty thousand of my Franks;
+  My nephew, whom ye nevermore shall see,
+  And Olivier, the brave and courteous Knight.
+  The traitor sold my brave twelve Peers for gain."
+  Then Ganelon:--"May I be cursed ere I
+  Deny. Of wealth and honors had [Rolland]
+  Deprived me, and for this, his loss and death
+  I wrought, but treason none I will confess."
+  Respond the French:--"On this we counsel take."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXV.
+
+  In presence of the King stands Ganelon
+  With bearing hardy, florid countenance;
+  Were he but loyal, as a Baron true
+  His mien. Upon the French and judges he
+  Has cast a glance, and on his thirty kin
+  Who 'round him stand; then with firm voice exclaims:
+  "Barons! Now hear me all, for love of God!
+  I to the Emperor's host belonged, and served
+  Him ever in all faith and love. Rolland,
+  His nephew, hatred bore to me, and fain
+  Had doomed my days to torture and to death.
+  As message-bearer I to King Marsile
+  Was sent, wisdom alone my shield and guard;
+  I gave defiance to Rolland the bold,
+  To Olivier and to their comrades all:
+  By Carle and all his Barons this was heard.
+  Revenge this was, but treason it was none."
+  Reply the French:--"All this we well shall weigh."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXVI.
+
+  On seeing the great plea was to commence,
+  Thirty good Knights were called by Ganelon
+  Out of his kin, and one among them makes
+  A speech all others hark: 'tis Pinabel
+  Of Castel de Sorence, of greatest skill
+  In words, and apt with reason plausible;
+  Withal, a vassal brave to guard his arms.
+  Thus to him Ganelon:--"In you my trust
+  I place; my life from death, my name from shame
+  Preserve!"--Said Pinabel:--"Thou shalt be saved.
+  Dare one French Knight condemn thee to be hanged,
+  And would the Emperor make us both to meet
+  In combat, my good sword will his rash word
+  Believe."--And at his feet falls Ganelon.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXVII.
+
+  Baiviers, Saines, Poitevins, Normans and French
+  In council met;--Allemans, Tiedeis in great
+  Array. Those from Alverne most courteous prove
+  And show more kindness unto Pinabel.
+  One to the others said:--"To leave this plea
+  Right would it be, and pray Carl'magne, this once
+  To pardon Ganelon who, from this day,
+  Will serve his lord with truer faith and love.
+  Rolland lies in his grave; nor wealth, nor gold
+  Restores him to your eyes. This cruel fight
+  Is folly."--All the Knights approve, save one,
+  Tierri, a brother of the Lord Geffrei.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXVIII.
+
+  To Carle his Barons come again, and say:
+  "We pray you, sire, acquit Count Ganelon;
+  Then will he serve you with true faith and love.
+  Grant him his life which springs from noble race.
+  Rolland lies in his grave; ne'er shall we see
+  Him more, nor treasures e'er can bring him back."
+  Exclaimed the King: "Vile traitors are ye all!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CLXXIX.
+
+  Now, seeing all will fail him, o'er Carle's eyes
+  And features gloom descends; by grief o'erwhelmed
+  He cries: "Unhappy that I am!" Then stood
+  [Tierri], the brother of Geffrei, the Duke
+  D'Anjou, before the King. Thin, light of frame,
+  Hair raven-black, [face] somewhat brown of hue,
+  In height nor tall nor short; with courtesy
+  He spake thus to the Emp'ror: "Fair sire King,
+  Be not cast down. That I have served you well
+  Ere this, you know. 'Tis my ancestral right
+  To sit among the judges of the plea.
+  However guilty was Rolland against
+  Count Ganelon, his duty to the King
+  Should have restrained his hate. A treason foul
+  Ganelon wrought against Rolland; forsworn
+  In perjury tow'rd you, he lost himself.
+  For all his crimes his death I here demand,
+  Death by the cord; his body to the dogs
+  Be thrown away--the perjurer's just doom.
+  Should any of his kin deny the words
+  I speak, this sword of mine girt to my side
+  Will make them good."--All cry: "Well have you said."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXX.
+
+  Then toward the King advances Pinabel;
+  Tall, strong and swift, and brave. Strike he but once,
+  No second blow need follow; to the King
+  He said: "Sire, unto you belongs this plea.
+  Command these clamors to be hushed. There stands
+  Tierri who now his judgment has pronounced.
+  The lie I give him and to fight defy!"
+  With this his right hand glove of deer-skin gave
+  Unto the King who said: "I must receive
+  Good pledges." Of his kin then thirty knights
+  Were given as legal sureties of his pledge.
+  "I also give my pledge," the Emperor said,
+  "And have them guarded safe till judgment pass."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXXI.
+
+  When Tierri sees that now the fight is near,
+  He gives the Emperor his right hand glove.
+  To him the sureties Carle himself provides,
+  Bids that they bring four benches to the place
+  Whereon the combatants shall sit. The terms
+  Are judged by all the others as most fair.
+  Ogier de Dannemarche was chosen to rule
+  The lists. Then for their steeds and arms both called.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXXII.
+
+  Both knights now made them ready for the fight,
+  Were shriven, assoiled, and blessed; a mass have heard,
+  Communion have received, and richest alms
+  Bequeathed to monasteries.--Before striking
+  They both appear.--Gold spurs their heels adorn;
+  They wear white hauberks light and strong; bright helms
+  Clasp on their heads, and gold hilt swords are girt
+  Upon their thighs, and to their necks are bound
+  Strong quartered shields; they wield in each right hand
+  A trenchant sword, and on fleet steeds they mount;
+  Then melt in tears one hundred thousand knights
+  Who for Rolland's sake wish Tierri well.
+  Yea--but God knows what way the thing will end.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXXIII.
+
+  Beyond the town of Aix a plain extends:
+  And here our Barons will the combat try.
+  Most valiant knights are both; the steeds they ride
+  Are swift and stout; with spurs in flanks, and freed
+  Of rein, they dash.--The warriors all their might
+  And skill unite to strike the surest blow.
+  Bucklers beneath the shock are torn and crushed,
+  White hauberks rent in shreds, asunder bursts
+  Each courser's girth, the saddles, turning, fall.
+  One hundred thousand men look weeping on....
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXXIV.
+
+  Both knights leap on the earth, and, quick as light,
+  Stand face to face.--Strong, fiery Pinabel
+  And Tierri for each other seek. Their steeds
+  Are fled.--But their gold-hilted swords they wield;
+  And on the helms of steel they shower such blows
+  As rashed the thongs. Loudly the knights lament,
+  And Carle exclaims:--"Show thou the right, O God!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXXV.
+
+  Cried Pinabel:--"Tierri, surrender thou!
+  Thy vassal I will be in faith and love,
+  And to thy pleasure will I yield my wealth;
+  But let the King forgive Count Ganelon!"
+  Tierri replied:--"Thy offers all are vain;
+  Vile treason were it such a pact to make;
+  But God shall judge us and make plain the right."
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXXVI.
+
+  Then Tierri spake:--"I hold thee, Pinabel,
+  As Baron true, great, strong, of handsome mold;
+  Thy peers acknowledge thee as valiant knight;
+  Well, let this combat cease, between the King
+  And thee a covenant I will strive to make.
+  On Ganelon such justice shall be done
+  That future ages shall record the doom."
+  They grasp again their swords and hew
+  Each other's gold-encrusted helm with rage
+  So rash that sparkling fires spurt through the air.
+  No power will now disjoint the combatants:
+  The death of one can only close the strife.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXXVII.
+
+  No braver man than Pinabel.--Such blows
+  He deals on Tierri's helmet of Provence,
+  That the sparks fly in showers, and, falling, set
+  The grass ablaze. Then aiming at his foe
+  His keen-edged brand, down to the brow cuts through
+  His helm; the blade glides down across his face,
+  And plows his right cheek with a deep red gash;
+  Unto his stomach is the haubert rent,
+  But God protects him, and averts his death.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXXVIII.
+
+  Tierri, on seeing blood gush from his brow
+  And tinge the grassy field, strikes Pinabel
+  On his steel-burnished helmet, and cuts through
+  To the nose-plate. His head is cleft in twain
+  And gushes forth the brain. This fatal blow
+  Gives Pinabel his death, and ends the fight.
+  The French exclaim:--"O wondrous work of God!
+  Full right it is that Ganelon be hanged
+  With all his kin who sureties were for him!"
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCLXXXIX.
+
+  Tierri had won, and on the battle-field
+  The Emperor Carle arrived with an escort
+  Of forty Barons,--Naimes the Duke, Ogier
+  De Dannemarche, Geffrei d'Anjou, Willalmes
+  De Blaive.--In close embrace the King has pressed
+  Tierri, and with his mantle's sables wiped
+  The warrior's face; then lays his furs aside
+  And on his shoulders others are arrayed.
+  Meanwhile the knight, by friendly hands disarmed,
+  On an Arabian mule is placed, and so
+  This valorous Baron full of joy returns
+  To Aix.--Amid the place they all dismount,
+  And now the sureties must abide their doom.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXC.
+
+  Carlemagne around him calls his counts and dukes:
+  "What counsel give ye touching those I kept,
+  Unto this plea who came for Ganelon
+  Themselves sworn hostages for Pinabel?"
+  Respond the French:--"Let none of them survive!"--
+  Carle then commands a road-keeper, Basbrun:
+  "Hang them all up on yon accursed tree!
+  By this gray beard of mine, I swear, if one
+  Escape, thou diest but a villain's death!"--
+  Answered the man:--"What else but to obey?"--
+  Then by a hundred sergeants roughly seized,
+  Those thirty men are hanged.--Who man betrays
+  Destroys himself and others drags to death.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXCI.
+
+  And now have turned away Baiviers, Allemans,
+  Poitevins, Bretons and Normans; but more
+  Than all, the French advise that Ganelon
+  Should die a death of torture. Then they tie
+  With cords his hands and feet. Four sergeants bring
+  Four wild and fiery destriers, made mad
+  By a mare 'mid the field. A fearful end
+  For Ganelon; bound between them, limb from limb
+  Is rent away, each nerve and muscle stretched
+  And torn. The clear blood streams upon the green.
+  Thus perished Ganelon by a felon's death....
+  Traitors of evil deeds must never boast.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+  CCXCII.
+
+  When the Emperor Carle had wreaked his full revenge,
+  He called the bishops from the realms of France,
+  And from Baviere, and those of Alemaigne:
+  "Now in my [court] have I a captive, sprung
+  From noble race. Such sermons has she heard,
+  So good examples seen, she will believe
+  In the true God, and Christian faith embrace.
+  Baptize her so that He may save her soul;
+  God-mothers choose her of our noblest dames."
+  With a great company the Baths at Aix
+  Were thronged, and soon before the holy Fonts
+  The Queen received the name of Juliane:
+  Henceforth a Christian holding fast the Truth.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+
+
+
+  THE END OF THE CHANSON.
+
+
+  CCXCIII.
+
+  But when the Emperor had made complete
+  His justice and his heavy wrath assuaged,
+  And brought Queen Bramimunde to Christian faith,
+  The day was over and the night had fall'n.
+  The King sought rest within his vaulted room.
+  Saint Gabriel brought him word from God and said:
+  "Carle, of thy empire summon all the hosts
+  For swiftest marching to the land of Bire;
+  So shalt thou succor King Vivien in Imphe,
+  The city compassed by the Pagan foe.
+  The Christians look to thee and cry for help."--
+  Will has he none to go, the King, but moans:--
+  "O, God," quoth he, "so troublous is my life!"--
+  Whereat he weeps, and tears his hoary beard.
+                                        Aoi.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Thus endeth here the Geste Turoldus sang.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Footnotes]
+
+[1] Molted. Because in that condition, better for hunting.
+
+[2] _Pallies._ A square piece of silk on which the knights used
+to sit. (From Pallium).
+
+[3] _Tables._ In the romances of the Middle Ages the game of
+tables means tric-trac, chess, checkers, etc.
+
+[4] Bezants. A Byzantine coin.
+
+[5] A sort of undergarment made of gold and silk brocade
+worn in time of war under the coat of mail, and in time of
+peace under the mantle of fur. In the latter case it was of silk.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+GLOSSARY.
+
+
+Of places and words which may present some difficulty as regards origin
+and meaning on account of their ancient orthography. For more complete
+information see Leon Gautier's seventh edition of the text.
+
+The numbers indicate stanzas in this edition.
+
+
+AIX, capital of Charlemagne's empire. 3.
+
+ALMAZOUR, Arab origin, a title. 69.
+
+ALVERNE and ALFERNE, Auvergne, French Province. 224.
+
+AMIRALZ, Admiral. 78.
+
+AMURAFLE, from Emir, admiral. 98.
+
+ARGONNE, city of France (Champagne). 227.
+
+ASPRE, defile in the Pyrenees. 88.
+
+ASTRIMUNIES, Pagan tribes. 236.
+
+BALAGUER, Spanish Arabian city. 73.
+
+BASCLE, Basque--W. Foester, 280. 254.
+
+BELFERNE, Pagan kingdom. 66.
+
+BELNE, Beaune, French city (Burgundy). 144.
+
+BEVUM, man's name--Teutonic. 144.
+
+BIRE and IMPHE, unknown. 293.
+
+BLAVE, Blaye, near Bordeaux, France. 269.
+
+BLOS, Pagan tribe. 234.
+
+BRIGAL, Saracen country. 97.
+
+BRUNS and ESCLAVOS, Teutonic etymology. 234
+
+BRUISE, Prussia. 235.
+
+{BUGRE, Bulgarian, and
+{BUGUERIE, Bulgaria. 174, 211.
+
+BURDELE, Bordeaux. 101.
+
+BUTENTROT, country supposed to be situated in Cappadocia. 234.
+  See P. Meyer in Romania, VII., p. 335.
+
+CALIFERNE, unknown Pagan country. 211.
+
+CANELIEUS, 236--said to be Chananians by P. Meyer in Romania, VI.,
+  p. 477.
+
+CICLATON, Arab silk material. 69.
+
+COMMIBLES, supposed city of Spain. 14.
+
+CLARBONE, imaginary Pagan place. 236.
+
+DANEMARCHE, Denmark. 220.--Etymology, Dania and Marcha, limit.
+
+DIGUN, Dijon, city of France. 144.
+
+ENFRUNS, unknown Eastern Pagans. 256.
+
+ENGLEZ, Sclavonic tribes. 235.
+
+ERMINES, Pagan tribes. 234.
+
+FALDSTOOL, an arm-chair. 32.
+
+FLOREDEE, doubtful Pagan country. 240.
+
+GARNAILLE, unknown. 145.
+
+GASCUIGNE, Gascony, Gascuin, Gascon. 65.
+
+GENNES, Genoa. 165.
+
+GLAZA, Galaza, and adj. Galazin, place, and stuff made of silk
+  and gold; from Asia. 215.
+
+GROS, Pagans unknown. 234.
+
+GUITSAND, town near Calais, 111.
+
+HALTOIE, Spanish city. 14.
+
+IMPHE, unknown. 293.
+
+LEUTIS, believed to be Poland. 244. See G. Paris in Romania, II.,
+  p. 331.
+
+LOHENRENGS, from Lorraine. 269.
+
+MAELGUT, a Pagan's name. 154.
+
+MALPRUSE and MALPREISE, Pagan region. 236.
+
+MARBRISE and MARBRUSE, unknown places. 193.
+
+MARCHIS, old, for Marquis. 50.
+
+MISMIA, unknown. 234.
+
+MONTJOIE.--Etym. Mons gaudii, name of Carle's standard;
+  the oriflamme and French war-cry. 93. See note in Gautier's
+  seventh edition, p. 278.
+
+MORS, Moors. 234.
+
+NERBUNE, Narbone, city, South of France. 269.
+
+NIGRES, perhaps _Nigri_. 234.
+
+NOPLES, supposed city of Spain. 14.
+
+NUBLES, a Pagan tribe, Nubians. 234.
+
+OCCIANT, Pagan country. (?) 235.
+
+OLIFANT, Roland's ivory horn. Etym. _Elephantus_. 85.
+
+ORMALEIS, unknown. 238. See Romania, II., and Gautier's
+  Glossary.
+
+OYEZ, of French; hear! 2.
+
+PEITEVINS for Poitevins, of Poitou. 224.
+
+PINCENEIS, Lat. _Pincinnati_; see Romania, II., p. 331-335,
+  and Gautier's Glossary.
+
+PINE, Pina, city of Spain. 14.
+
+POUILLE, Apulia. 29.
+
+PRIME, Arabian Province. 78.
+
+PUILLANIE, Poland. 174.
+
+REINS, Rheims, in Champagne. 12.
+
+ROSNE, River Rhone. 121.
+
+SAISNES, Saxons. 269.
+
+SAINT-ROMAIN, church of Blaye, near Bordeaux. 269.
+
+SAINTS (les), Les Saints of Cologne (Gautier); others say
+  Sens, a city of Western France. 111.
+
+SEBILE, Sevilla, Spain. 14.
+
+SEIGNEURS, French for Lords. 2, &c.
+
+SIZRE, now Cisa; Etym. Caesaris, place of the defiles, near
+  Ronceval. 45.
+
+SOLTRAS and AVERS, Pagan tribes. 235.
+
+SORBRES and SORZ, Pagan tribes. 234.
+
+SORENCE, unknown. 276.
+
+TIEDEIS, Deutch, German. 277.
+
+TUELE, city in Navarra. 14.
+
+TURTELUSE, Tortosa, Spain. 75.
+
+VAL-TENEBRE, Spanish City. 54.
+
+
+
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