The Song of Roland

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The Song of Roland

Anony­mous

Trans­lat­ed by C. K. [Charles Ken­neth] Mon­creiff

Jan­uary, 1996 [Etext #390]

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The Song of Roland

Trans­lat­ed by C. K. [Charles Ken­neth] Mon­creiff

Anony­mous Old French epic, dat­ing per­haps as ear­ly as the mid­dle 11th cen­tu­ry.

This elec­tron­ic edi­tion was pro­duced, edit­ed, and pre­pared by Dou­glas B. Killings (De­Troyes@AOL.COM), Au­gust 1995. Proof­read­ing by R.J. Ma­ley and Dou­glas B. Killings. Doc­ument scan­ning pro­vid­ed by R.J. Ma­ley.

*****************************************************************

I

Charles the King, our Lord and Sovereign, Full sev­en years hath so­journed in Spain, Con­quered the land, and won the west­ern main, Now no fortress against him doth re­main, No city walls are left for him to gain, Save Sar­raguce, that sits on high moun­tain. Mar­sile its King, who feareth not God’s name, Mahumet’s man, he in­vokes Apollin’s aid, Nor wards off ills that shall to him at­tain. AOI.

II

King Mar­silies he lay at Sar­raguce, Went he his way in­to an or­chard cool; There on a throne he sate, of mar­ble blue, Round him his men, full twen­ty thou­sand, stood. Called he forth then his counts, al­so his dukes: “My Lords, give ear to our im­pend­ing doom: That Em­per­our, Charles of France the Douce, In­to this land is come, us to con­fuse. I have no host in bat­tle him to prove, Nor have I strength his forces to un­do. Coun­sel me then, ye that are wise and true; Can ye ward off this present death and dule?” What word to say no pa­gan of them knew, Save Blan­can­drin, of th’ Cas­tle of Val Funde.

III

Blan­can­drins was a pa­gan very wise, In vas­salage he was a gal­lant knight, First in prowess, he stood his lord be­side. And thus he spoke: “Do not your­self af­fright! Yield to Car­lun, that is so big with pride, Faith­ful ser­vice, his friend and his al­ly; Li­ons and bears and hounds for him pro­vide, Thou­sand mewed hawks, sev’n hun­dred camel­ry; Sil­ver and gold, four hun­dred mules load high; Fifty wag­ons his wrights will need sup­ply, Till with that wealth he pays his sol­diery. War hath he waged in Spain too long a time, To Aix, in France, home­ward he will him hie. Fol­low him there be­fore Saint Michael’s tide, You shall re­ceive and hold the Chris­tian rite; Stand hon­our bound, and do him feal­ty. Send hostages, should he de­mand sure­ty, Ten or a score, our loy­al oath to bind; Send him our sons, the first-​born of our wives; — An he be slain, I’ll sure­ly fur­nish mine. Bet­ter by far they go, though doomed to die, Than that we lose hon­our and dig­ni­ty, And be our­selves brought down to beg­gary.” AOI.

IV

Says Blan­can­drins: “By my right hand, I say, And by this beard, that in the wind doth sway, The Frank­ish host you’ll see them all away; Franks will re­tire to France their own ter­rain. When they are gone, to each his fair do­main, In his Chapelle at Aix will Charles stay, High fes­ti­val will hold for Saint Michael. Time will go by, and pass the ap­point­ed day; Tid­ings of us no Frank will hear or say. Proud is that King, and cru­el his courage; From th’ hostage he’ll slice their heads away. Bet­ter by far their heads be shorn away, Than that our­selves lose this clear land of Spain, Than that our­selves do suf­fer grief and pain.” “That is well said. So be it.” the pa­gans say.

V

The coun­cil ends, and that King Mar­silie Cal­leth aside Clarun of Bal­aguee, Es­tra­marin and Eu­dropin his peer, And Pri­amun and Guar­lan of the beard, And Ma­chin­er and his un­cle Ma­hee, With Jouner, Mal­bi­en from over sea, And Blan­can­drin, good rea­son to de­cree: Ten hath he called, were first in felony. “Gen­tle Barons, to Charle­magne go ye; He is in siege of Cor­dres the city. In your right hands bear olive-​branch­es green Which sig­ni­fy Peace and Hu­mil­ity. If you by craft con­trive to set me free, Sil­ver and gold, you’ll have your fill of me, Manors and fiefs, I’ll give you all your need.” “We have enough,” the pa­gans straight agree. AOI.

VI

King Mar­silies, his coun­cil fin­ish­ing, Says to his men : “Go now, my lords, to him, Olive-​branch­es in your right hands bear­ing; Bid ye for me that Charle­magne, the King, In his God’s name to shew me his mer­cy; Ere this new moon wanes, I shall be with him; One thou­sand men shall be my fol­low­ing; I will re­ceive the rite of chris­ten­ing, Will be his man, my love and faith swear­ing; Hostages too, he’ll have, if so he will.” Says Blan­can­drins: “Much good will come of this.” AOI.

VII

Ten snow-​white mules then or­dered Mar­silie, Gifts of a King, the King of Su­atilie. Bri­dled with gold, sad­dled in sil­ver clear; Mount­ed them those that should the mes­sage speak, In their right hands were olive-​branch­es green. Came they to Charle, that holds all France in fee, Yet can­not guard him­self from treach­ery. AOI.

VI­II

Mer­ry and bold is now that Em­per­our, Cor­dres he holds, the walls are tum­bled down, His cat­apults have bat­tered town and tow’r. Great good trea­sure his knights have placed in pound, Sil­ver and gold and many a jew­elled gown. In that city there is no pa­gan now But he been slain, or takes the Chris­tian vow. The Em­per­our is in a great or­chard ground Where Oliv­er and Rol­lant stand around, San­sun the Duke and An­seis the proud, Gefreid d’An­jou, that bears his gon­faloun; There too Gerin and Geriers are found. Where they are found, is seen a mighty crowd, Fif­teen thou­sand, come out of France the Douce. On white car­pets those knights have sate them down, At the game-​boards to pass an idle hour; — Che­quers the old, for wis­dom most renowned, While fence the young and lusty bach­elours. Be­neath a pine, in eglan­tine em­bow’red, l Stands a fald-​stool, fash­ioned of gold through­out; There sits the King, that holds Douce France in pow’r; White is his beard, and blos­som­ing-​white his crown, Shape­ly his limbs, his coun­te­nance is proud. Should any seek, no need to point him out. The mes­sen­gers, on foot they get them down, And in salute full cour­te­ous­ly they lout.

IX

The fore­most word of all Blan­can­drin spake, And to the King: “May God pre­serve you safe, The All Glo­ri­ous, to Whom ye’re bound to pray! Proud Mar­silies this mes­sage bids me say: Much hath he sought to find sal­va­tion’s way; Out of his wealth meet presents would he make, Li­ons and bears, and grey­hounds leashed on chain, Thou­sand mewed hawks, sev’n hun­dred drome­drays, Four hun­dred mules his sil­ver shall con­vey, Fifty wag­ons you’ll need to bear away Gold­en be­sants, such store of proved as­say, Where­with full tale your sol­diers you can pay. Now in this land you’ve been too long a day Hie you to France, re­turn again to Aix; Thus saith my Lord, he’ll fol­low too that way.” That Em­per­our t’wards God his arms he raised Low­ered his head, be­gan to med­itate. AOI.

X

That Em­per­our in­clined his head full low; Hasty in speech he nev­er was, but slow: His cus­tom was, at his leisure he spoke. When he looks up, his face is very bold, He says to them: “Good tid­ings have you told. King Mar­silies hath ev­er been my foe. These very words you have be­fore me told, In what mea­sure of faith am I to hold?” That Sar­razin says, “Hostages he’ll show; Ten shall you take, or fif­teen or a score. Though he be slain, a son of mine shall go, Any there be you’ll have more nobly born. To your palace seigneuri­al when you go, At Michael’s Feast, called in per­icu­lo; My Lord hath said, thith­er will he fol­low Ev’n to your baths, that God for you hath wrought; There is he fain the Chris­tian faith to know.” An­swers him Charles: “Still may he heal his soul.” AOI.

XI

Clear shone the sun in a fair even-​tide; Those ten men’s mules in stall he bade them tie. Al­so a tent in the or­chard raise on high, Those mes­sen­gers had lodg­ing for the night; Dozen ser­jeants served af­ter them aright. Dark­ling they lie till comes the clear day­light. That Em­per­our does with the morn­ing rise; Matins and Mass are said then in his sight. Forth goes that King, and stays be­neath a pine; Barons he calls, good coun­sel to de­fine, For with his Franks he’s ev­er of a mind. AOI.

XII

That Em­per­our, be­neath a pine he sits, Calls his barons, his coun­cil to be­gin: Oger the Duke, that Arch­bish­op Turpin, Richard the old, and his nephew Hen­ry, From Gas­cony the proof Count Acol­in, Ted­bald of Reims and Milun his cousin: With him there were Ger­ers, al­so Gerin, And among them the Count Rol­lant came in, And Oliv­er, so proof and so gen­til. Franks out of France, a thou­sand chival­ry; Guenes came there, that wrought the treach­ery. The Coun­cil then be­gan, which end­ed ill. AOI.

XI­II

“My Lords Barons,” says the Em­per­our then, Charles, “King Mar­silies hath sent me his mes­sages; Out of his wealth he’ll give me weighty mass­es. Grey­hounds on leash and bears and li­ons al­so, Thou­sand mewed hawks and sev­en hun­dred camels, Four hun­dred mules with gold Ara­bi­an charged, Fifty wag­ons, yea more than fifty draw­ing. But in­to France de­mands he my de­par­ture; He’ll fol­low me to Aix, where is my Cas­tle; There he’ll re­ceive the law of our Sal­va­tion: Chris­tian he’ll be, and hold from me his march­es. But I know not what pur­pose in his heart is.” Then say the Franks: “Be­seems us act with cau­tion!” AOI.

XIV

That Em­per­our hath end­ed now his speech. The Count Rol­lanz, he nev­er will agree, Quick to re­ply, he springs up­on his feet; And to the King, “Be­lieve not Mar­silie. Sev­en years since, when in­to Spain came we, I con­quer’d you No­ples al­so Com­mi­bles, And took Val­terne, and all the land of Pine, And Bal­aguet, and Tuele, and Sezilie. Traitor in all his ways was Mar­silies; Of his pa­gans he sent you then fif­teen, Bear­ing in hand their olive-​branch­es green: Who, ev’n as now, these very words did speak. You of your Franks a Coun­cil did de­cree, Praised they your words that fool­ish were in deed. Two of your Counts did to the pa­gan speed, Basan was one, and the oth­er Basilie: Their heads he took on th’ hill by Haltilie. War have you waged, so on to war pro­ceed, To Sar­raguce lead forth your great army. All your life long, if need be, lie in siege, Vengeance for those the felon slew to wreak.” AOI.

XV

That Em­per­our he sits with low­er­ing front, He clasps his chin, his beard his fin­gers tug, Good word nor bad, his nephew not one. Franks hold their peace, but on­ly Guenelun Springs to his feet, and comes be­fore Car­lun; Right haugh­ti­ly his rea­son he’s be­gun, And to the King: “Be­lieve not any one, My word nor theirs, save whence your good shall come. Since he sends word, that King Mar­sil­iun, Homage he’ll do, by fin­ger and by thumb; Through­out all Spain your writ alone shall run Next he’ll re­ceive our rule of Chris­ten­dom Who shall ad­vise, this bid­ding be not done, De­serves not death, since all to death must come. Coun­sel of pride is wrong: we’ve fought enough. Leave we the fools, and with the wise be one.” AOI.

XVI

And af­ter him came Neimes out, the third, Bet­ter vas­sal there was not in the world; And to the King: “Now right­ly have you heard Guenes the Count, what an­swer he re­turned. Wis­dom was there, but let it well be heard. King Mar­silies in war is over­turned, His cas­tles all in ru­in have you hurled, With cat­apults his ram­parts have you burst, Van­quished his men, and all his cities burned; Him who en­treats your pity do not spurn, Sin­ners were they that would to war re­turn; With hostages his faith he would se­cure; Let this great war no longer now en­dure.” “Well said the Duke.” Franks ut­ter in their turn. AOI.

XVII

“My lords barons, say whom shall we send up To Sar­raguce, to King Mar­sil­iun?” An­swers Duke Neimes: “I’ll go there for your love; Give me there­fore the wand, al­so the glove.” An­swers the King: “Old man of wis­dom pruff; By this white beard, and as these cheeks are rough, You’ll not this year so far from me re­move; Go sit you down, for none hath called you up.”

XVI­II

“My lords barons, say whom now can we send To th’ Sar­razin that Sar­raguce de­fends?” An­swers Rol­lanz: “I might go very well.” “Certes, you’ll not,” says Oliv­er his friend, “For your courage is fierce un­to the end, I am afraid you would mis­ap­pre­hend. If the King wills it I might go there well.” An­swers the King: “Be silent both on bench; Your feet nor his, I say, shall that way wend. Nay, by this beard, that you have seen grow blench, The dozen peers by that would stand con­demned. Franks hold their peace; you’d seen them all silent.

XIX

Turpins of Reins is risen from his rank, Says to the King: “In peace now leave your Franks. For sev­en years you’ve lin­gered in this land They have en­dured much pain and suf­fer­ance. Give, Sire, to me the clove, al­so the wand, I will seek out the Span­ish Sarazand, For I be­lieve his thoughts I un­der­stand.” That Em­per­our an­swers in­tol­er­ant: “Go, sit you down on yon­der silken mat; And speak no more, un­til that I com­mand.” AOI.

XX

“Franks, cheva­liers,” says the Em­per­our then, Charles, “Choose ye me out a baron from my march­es, To Mar­silie shall car­ry back my an­swer.” Then says Rol­lanz: “There’s Guenes, my good­fa­ther.” An­swer the Franks: “For he can wise­ly man­age; So let him go, there’s none you should send rather.” And that count Guenes is very full of an­guish; Off from his neck he flings the pelts of marten, And on his feet stands clear in silken gar­ment. Proud face he had, his eyes with colour, sparkled; Fine limbs he had, his ribs were broad­ly arched So fair he seemed that all the court re­gard­ed. Says to Rol­lant: “Fool, where­fore art so wrath­ful? All men know well that I am thy good­fa­ther; Thou hast de­creed, to Mar­sil­iun I trav­el. Then if God grant that I re­turn here­after, I’ll fol­low thee with such a force of pas­sion That will en­dure so long as life may last thee.” An­swers Rol­lanz: “Thou’rt full of pride and mad­ness. All men know well, I take no thought for slan­der; But some wise man, sure­ly, should bear the an­swer; If the King will, I’m ready to go rather.” AOI.

XXI

An­swers him Guene: “Thou shalt not go for me. Thou’rt not my man, nor am I lord of thee. Charles comm­nds that I do his de­cree, To Sar­raguce go­ing to Mar­silie; There I will work a lit­tle trick­ery, This mighty wrath of mine I’ll thus let free.” When Rol­lanz heard, be­gan to laugh for glee. AOI.

XXII

When Guenes sees that Rol­lant laughs at it, Such grief he has, for rage he’s like to split, A lit­tle more, and he has lost his wit: Says to that count: “I love you not a bit; A false judge­ment you bore me when you chid. Right Em­per­our, you see me where you sit, I will your word ac­com­plish, as you bid. AOI.

XXI­II

“To Sar­raguce I must re­pair, ’tis plain; Whence who goes there re­turns no more again. Your sis­ter’s hand in mar­riage have I ta’en; And I’ve a son, there is no pret­ti­er swain: Bald­win, men say he shews the knight­ly strain. To him I leave my hon­ours and do­main. Care well for him; he’ll look for me in vain.” An­swers him Charles: “Your heart is too hu­mane. When I com­mand, time is to start amain.” AOI.

XXIV

Then says the King: “Guenes, be­fore me stand; And take from me the glove, al­so the wand. For you have heard, you’re cho­sen by the Franks,” “Sire,” an­swers Guenes, ” all this is from Rol­lanz; I’ll not love him, so long as I’m a man, Nor Oliv­er, who goes at his right hand; The dozen peers, for they are of his band, All I de­fy, as in your sight I stand.” Then says the King: “Over in­tol­er­ant. Now cer­tain­ly you go when I com­mand.” “And go I can; yet have I no war­rant Basile had none nor his broth­er Bas­ant.”

XXV

His right hand glove that Em­per­our holds out; But the count Guenes else­where would fain be found ; When he should take, it falls up­on the ground. Mur­mur the Franks: “God! What may that mean now? By this mes­sage great loss shall come about.” “Lord­ings,” says Guene, “You’ll soon have news enow.”

XXVI

“Now,” Guenes said, “give me your or­ders, Sire; Since I must go, why need I linger, I?” Then said the King “In Je­su’s Name and mine!” With his right hand he has ab­solved and signed, Then to his care the wand and brief con­fides.

XXVII

Guenes the count goes to his hostel­ry, Finds for the road his gar­ments and his gear, All of the best he takes that may ap­pear: Spurs of fine gold he fas­tens on his feet, And to his side Mur­gles his sword of steel. On Tache­brun, his charg­er, next he leaps, His un­cle holds the stir­rup, Guine­mere. Then you had seen so many knights to weep, Who all ex­claim: “Un­lucky lord, in­deed! In the King’s court these many years you’ve been, No­ble vas­sal, they say that have you seen. He that for you this jour­ney has de­creed King Charle­magne will nev­er hold him dear. The Count Rol­lant, he should not so have deemed, Know­ing you were born of very no­ble breed.” Af­ter they say: “Us too, Sire, shall he lead.” Then an­swers Guenes: “Not so, the Lord be pleased! Far bet­ter one than many knights should bleed. To France the Douce, my lords, you soon shall speed, On my be­half my gen­tle wife you’ll greet, And Pin­abel, who is my friend and peer, And Baldewin, my son, whom you have seen; His rights ac­cord and help him in his need.” — Rides down the road, and on his way goes he. AOI.

XXVI­II

Guenes can­ters on, and halts be­neath a tree; Where Sar­razins as­sem­bled he may see, With Blan­can­drins, who abides his com­pa­ny. Cun­ning and keen they speak then, each to each, Says Blan­can­drins: “Charles, what a man is he, Who con­quered Puille and th’whole of Cal­abrie; In­to Eng­land he crossed the bit­ter sea, To th’ Holy Pope re­stored again his fee. What seeks he now of us in our coun­try?” Then an­swers Guene “So great courage hath he; Nev­er was man against him might suc­ceed.” AOI.

XXIX

Says Blan­can­drins “Gen­tle the Franks are found; Yet a great wrong these dukes do and these counts Un­to their lord, be­ing in coun­sel proud; Him and them­selves they har­ry and con­found.” Guenes replies: “There is none such, with­out On­ly Rol­lanz, whom shame will yet find out. Once in the shade the King had sate him down; His nephew came, in sark of iron brown, Spoils he had won, be­yond by Car­ca­soune, Held in his hand an ap­ple red and round. “Be­hold, fair Sire,” said Rol­lanz as he bowed, “Of all earth’s kings I bring you here the crowns.” His cru­el pride must short­ly him con­found, Each day t’wards death he goes a lit­tle down, When he be slain, shall peace once more abound.” AOI.

XXX

Says Blan­can­drins: “A cru­el man, Rol­lant, That would bring down to bondage ev­ery man, And chal­lenges the peace of ev­ery land. With what peo­ple takes he this task in hand?” And an­swers Guene: “The peo­ple of the Franks; They love him so, for men he’ll nev­er want. Sil­ver and gold he show’rs up­on his band, Charg­ers and mules, gar­ments and silken mats. The King him­self holds all by his com­mand; From hence to the East he’ll con­quer sea and land.” AOI.

XXXI

Can­tered so far then Blan­can­drins and Guene Till each by each a covenant had made And sought a plan, how Rol­lant might be slain. Can­tered so far by val­ley and by plain To Sar­raguce be­neath a cliff they came. There a fald-​stool stood in a pine-​tree’s shade, En­veloped all in Alexan­drin veils; There was the King that held the whole of Es­pain, Twen­ty thou­sand of Sar­razins his train; Nor was there one but did his speech con­tain, Ea­ger for news, till they might hear the tale. Haste in­to sight then Blan­can­drins and Guene.

XXXII

Blan­can­drin comes be­fore Mar­sil­iun, Hold­ing the hand of coun­ty Guenelun; Says to the King “Lord save you, Sire, Mahum And Apollin, whose holy laws here run! Your mes­sage we de­liv­ered to Char­lun, Both his two hands he raised against the sun, Prais­ing his God, but an­swer made he none. He sends you here his no­blest born barun, Great­est in wealth, that out of France is come; From him you’ll hear if peace shall be, or none.” “Speak,” said Mar­sile: “We’ll hear him, ev­ery one.” AOI.

XXXI­II

But the count Guenes did deeply med­itate; Cun­ning and keen be­gan at length, and spake Even as one that knoweth well the way; And to the King: “May God pre­serve you safe, The All Glo­ri­ous, to whom we’re bound to pray Proud Charle­magne this mes­sage bids me say: You must re­ceive the holy Chris­tian Faith, And yield in fee one half the lands of Spain. If to ac­cord this trib­ute you dis­dain, Tak­en by force and bound in iron chain You will be brought be­fore his throne at Aix; Judged and con­demned you’ll be, and short­ly slain, Yes, you will die in mis­ery and shame.” King Mar­silies was very sore afraid, Snatch­ing a dart, with gold­en feath­ers gay, He made to strike: they turned aside his aim. AOI.

XXXIV

King Mar­silies is turn’ed white with rage, His feath­ered dart he bran­dish­es and shakes. Guenes be­holds: his sword in hand he takes, Two fin­gers’ width from scab­bard bares the blade; And says to it: “O clear and fair and brave; Be­fore this King in court we’ll so be­have, That the Em­per­our of France shall nev­er say In a strange land I’d thrown my life away Be­fore these chiefs thy tem­per had es­sayed.” “Let us pre­vent this fight:” the pa­gans say.

XXXV

Then Sar­razins im­plored him so, the chiefs, On the fald­stoel Mar­sil­lies took his seat. “Great­ly you harm our cause,” says the al­caliph: “When on this Frank your vengeance you would wreak; Rather you should lis­ten to hear him speak.” “Sire,” Guenes says, “to suf­fer I am meek. I will not fail, for all the gold God keeps, Nay, should this land its trea­sure pile in heaps, But I will tell, so long as I be free, What Charle­magne, that Roy­al Majesty, Bids me in­form his mor­tal en­emy.” Guenes had on a cloke of sable skin, And over it a veil Alexan­drin; These he throws down, they’re held by Blan­can­drin; But not his sword, he’ll not leave hold of it, In his right hand he grasps the gold­en hilt. The pa­gans say. “A no­ble baron, this.” AOI.

XXXVI

Be­fore the King’s face Guenes draw­ing near Says to him “Sire, where­fore this rage and fear? See­ing you are, by Charles, of Franks the chief, Bid­den to hold the Chris­tians’ right be­lief. One half of Spain he’ll ren­der as your fief The rest Rol­lanz, his nephew, shall re­ceive, Proud parcener in him you’ll have in­deed. If you will not to Charles this trib­ute cede, To you he’ll come, and Sar­raguce be­siege; Take you by force, and bind you hands and feet, Bear you out­right ev’n un­to Aix his seat. You will not then on pal­frey nor on steed, Jen­net nor mule, come can­ter­ing in your speed; Flung you will be on a vile sumpter-​beast; Tried there and judged, your head you will not keep. Our Em­per­our has sent you here this brief.” He’s giv­en it in­to the pa­gan’s nief.

XXXVII

Now Mar­silies, is turn’ed white with ire, He breaks the seal and casts the wax aside, Looks in the brief, sees what the King did write: “Charles com­mands, who holds all France by might, I bear in mind his bit­ter grief and ire; ‘Tis of Basan and ’s broth­er Basi­lye, Whose heads I took on th’ hill by Halti­lye. If I would save my body now alive, I must despatch my un­cle the al­ca­lyph, Charles will not love me ev­er oth­er­wise.” Af­ter, there speaks his son to Marsi­lye, Says to the King: “In mad­ness spoke this wight. So wrong he was, to spare him were not right; Leave him to me, I will that wrong re­quite.” When Guenes hears, he draws his sword out­right, Against the trunk he stands, be­neath that pine.

XXXVI­II

The King is gone in­to that or­chard then; With him he takes the best among his men; And Blan­can­drins there shews his snowy hair, And Jur­salet, was the King’s son and heir, And the al­caliph, his un­cle and his friend. Says Blan­can­drins: “Sum­mon the Frank again, In our ser­vice his faith to me he’s pledged.” Then says the King: “So let him now be fetched.” He’s tak­en Guenes by his right fin­ger-​ends, And through the or­chard straight to the King they wend. Of trea­son there make law­less par­lia­ment. AOI.

XXXIX

“Fair Mas­ter Guenes,” says then King Mar­silie, “I did you now a lit­tle trick­ery, Mak­ing to strike, I shewed my great fury. These sable skins take as amends from me, Five hun­dred pounds would not their worth re­deem. To-​mor­row night the gift shall ready be.” Guene an­swers him: “I’ll not refuse it, me. May God be pleased to shew you His mer­cy.” AOI.

XL

Then says Mar­sile “Guenes, the truth to ken, Mind­ed I am to love you very well. Of Charle­magne I wish to hear you tell, He’s very old, his time is near­ly spent, Two hun­dred years he’s lived now, as ’tis said. Through many lands his armies he has led, So many blows his buck­led shield has shed, And so rich kings he’s brought to beg their bread; What time from war will he draw back in­stead?” And an­swers Guenes: “Not so was Charles bred. There is no man that sees and knows him well But will pro­claim the Em­per­our’s hardi­head. Praise him as best I may, when all is said, Re­main un­told, hon­our and good­ness yet. His great val­our how can it be count­ed? Him with such grace hath God il­lu­mined, Bet­ter to die than leave his ban­neret.”

XLI

The pa­gan says: “You make me mar­vel sore At Charle­magne, who is so old and hoar; Two hun­dred years, they say, he’s lived and more. So many lands he’s led his armies o’er, So many blows from spears and lances borne, And so rich kings brought down to beg and sorn, When will time come that he draws back from war?” “Nev­er,” says Guenes, “so long as lives his nephew; No such vas­sal goes neath the dome of heav­en; And proof al­so is Oliv­er his hench­man; The dozen peers, whom Charl’es holds so pre­cious, These are his guards, with oth­er thou­sands twen­ty. Charles is se­cure, he holds no man in ter­ror.” AOI.

XLII

Says Sar­razin: “My won­der yet is grand At Charle­magne, who hoary is and blanched. Two hun­dred years and more, I un­der­stand, He has gone forth and con­quered many a land, Such blows hath borne from many a tren­chant lance, Van­quished and slain of kings so rich a band, When will time come that he from war draws back?” “Nev­er,” says Guene, “so long as lives Rol­lanz, From hence to the East there is no such vas­sal; And proof al­so, Oliv­er his com­rade; The dozen peers he cher­ish­es at hand, These are his guard, with twen­ty thou­sand Franks. Charles is se­cure, he fears no liv­ing man.” AOI.

XLI­II

“Fair Mas­ter Guenes,” says Mar­silies the King, “Such men are mine, fair­er than tongue can sing, Of knights I can four hun­dred thou­sand bring So I may fight with Franks and with their King.” An­swers him Guenes: “Not on this jour­ney­ing Save of pa­gans a great loss suf­fer­ing. Leave you the fools, wise coun­sel fol­low­ing; To the Em­per­our such wealth of trea­sure give That ev­ery Frank at once is mar­vel­ling. For twen­ty men that you shall now send in To France the Douce he will re­pair, that King; In the rere­ward will fol­low af­ter him Both his nephew, count Rol­lant, as I think, And Oliv­er, that cour­te­ous pal­adin; Dead are the counts, be­lieve me if you will. Charles will be­hold his great pride per­ish­ing, For bat­tle then he’ll have no more the skill. AOI.

XLIV

Fair Mas­ter Guene,” says then King Mar­silie, “Shew the de­vice, how Rol­lant slain may be.” An­swers him Guenes: “That will I soon make clear The King will cross by the good pass of Size, A guard he’ll set be­hind him, in the rear; His nephew there, count Rol­lant, that rich peer, And Oliv­er, in whom he well be­lieves; Twen­ty thou­sand Franks in their com­pa­ny Five score thou­sand pa­gans up­on them lead, Franks un­awares in bat­tle you shall meet, Bruised and bled white the race of Franks shall be; I do not say, but yours shall al­so bleed. Bat­tle again de­liv­er, and with speed. So, first or last, from Rol­lant you’ll be freed. You will have wrought a high chival­rous deed, Nor all your life know war again, but peace. AOI.

XLV

“Could one achieve that Rol­lant’s life was lost, Charle’s right arm were from his body torn; Though there re­mained his mar­vel­lous great host, He’ld not again as­sem­ble in such force; Ter­ra Ma­jor would lan­guish in re­pose.” Mar­sile has heard, he’s kissed him on the throat; Next he be­gins to un­do his trea­sure-​store. AOI.

XLVI

Said Mar­silie — but now what more said they? — “No faith in words by oath un­bound I lay; Swear me the death of Rol­lant on that day.” Then an­swered Guene: “So be it, as you say.” On the relics, are in his sword Mur­gles, Trea­son he’s sworn, for­sworn his faith away. AOI.

XLVII

Was a fald-​stool there, made of olifant. A book there­on Mar­silies bade them plant, In it their laws, Mahum’s and Ter­va­gant’s. He’s sworn there­by, the Span­ish Sarazand, In the rere­ward if he shall find Rol­lant, Bat­tle to him­self and all his band, And ver­ily he’ll slay him if he can. And an­swered Guenes: “So be it, as you com­mand!” AOI.

XLVI­II

In haste there came a pa­gan Valdabrun, War­den had been to King Mar­sil­iun, Smil­ing and clear, he’s said to Guenelun, “Take now this sword, and bet­ter sword has none; In­to the hilt a thou­sand coins are run. To you, fair sir, I of­fer it in love; Give us your aid from Rol­lant the barun, That in rere­ward against him we may come.” Guenes the count an­swers: “It shall-​be done.” Then, cheek and chin, kissed each the oth­er one.

XLIX

Af­ter there came a pa­gan, Climorins, Smil­ing and clear to Guenelun be­gins: “Take now my helm, bet­ter is none than this; But give us aid, on Rol­lant the mar­quis, By what de­vice we may dis­hon­our bring.” “It shall be done.” Count Guenes an­swered him; On mouth and cheek then each the oth­er kissed. AOI.

L

In haste there came the Queen forth, Brami­mound; “I love you well, sir,” said she to the count, “For prize you dear my lord and all around; Here for your wife I have two brooches found, Amethysts and ja­cynths in gold­en mount; More worth are they than all the wealth of Roum; Your Em­per­our has none such, I’ll be bound.” He’s tak­en them, and in his ho­sen pouched. AOI.

LI

The King now calls Mal­duiz, that guards his trea­sure. “Trib­ute for Charles, say, is it now made ready?” He an­swers him: “Ay, Sire, for here is plen­ty Sil­ver and gold on hun­dred camels sev­en, And twen­ty men, the gen­tlest un­der heav­en.” AOI.

LII

Mar­silie’s arm Guene’s shoul­der doth en­fold; He’s said to him: “You are both wise and bold. Now, by the law that you most sa­cred hold, Let not your heart in our be­half grow cold! Out of my store I’ll give you wealth un­told, Charg­ing ten mules with fine Ara­bi­an gold; I’ll do the same for you, new year and old. Take then the keys of this city so large, This great trib­ute present you first to Charles, Then get me placed Rol­lanz in the rere­ward. If him I find in val­ley or in pass, Bat­tle I’ll give him that shall be the last.” An­swers him Guenes: “My time is near­ly past.” His charg­er mounts, and on his jour­ney starts. AOI.

LI­II

That Em­per­our draws near to his do­main, He is come down un­to the city Gailne. The Count Rol­lanz had bro­ken it and ta’en, An hun­dred years its ru­ins shall re­main. Of Guenelun the King for news is fain, And for trib­ute from the great land of Spain. At dawn of day, just as the light grows plain, In­to their camp is come the coun­ty Guene. AOI.

LIV

In morn­ing time is risen the Em­perere, Mat­tins and Mass he’s heard, and made his prayer; On the green grass be­fore the tent his chair, Where Rol­lant stood and that bold Oliv­er, Neimes the Duke, and many oth­ers there. Guenes ar­rived, the felon per­jur­er, Be­gins to speak, with very cun­ning air, Says to the King: “God keep you, Sire, I swear! Of Sar­raguce the keys to you I bear, Trib­ute I bring you, very great and rare, And twen­ty men; look af­ter them with care. Proud Mar­silies bade me this word de­clare That al­caliph, his un­cle, you must spare. My own eyes saw four hun­dred thou­sand there, In hauberks dressed, closed helms that gleamed in the air, And gold­en hilts up­on their swords they bare. They fol­lowed him, right to the sea they’ll fare; Mar­sile they left, that would their faith for­swear, For Chris­ten­dom they’ve nei­ther wish nor care. But the fourth league they had not com­passed, ere Brake from the North tem­pest and storm in the air; Then were they drowned, they will no more ap­pear. Were he alive, I should have brought him here. The pa­gan king, in truth, Sire, bids you hear, Ere you have seen one month pass of this year He’ll fol­low you to France, to your Em­pire, He will ac­cept the laws you hold and fear; Join­ing his hands, will do you homage there, King­dom of Spain will hold as you de­clare.” Then says the King: “Now God be praised, I swear! Well have you wrought, and rich re­ward shall wear.” Bids through the host a thou­sand trum­pets blare. Franks leave their lines; the sumpter-​beasts are yare T’wards France the Douce all on their way re­pair. AOI.

LV

Charles the Great that land of Spain had wast­ed, Her cas­tles ta’en, her cities vi­olat­ed. Then said the King, his war was now abat­ed. To­wards Douce France that Em­per­our has hast­ed. Up­on a lance Rol­lant his en­sign raised, High on a cliff against the sky ’twas placed; The Franks in camp through all that coun­try bait­ed. Can­tered pa­gans, through those wide val­leys raced, Hauberks they wore and sarks with iron plat­ed, Swords to their sides were girt, their helms were laced, Lances made sharp, es­cutcheons new­ly paint­ed: There in the mists be­yond the peaks re­mained The day of doom four hun­dred thou­sand wait­ed. God! what a grief. Franks know not what is fat­ed. AOI.

LVI

Pass­es the day, the dark­ness is grown deep. That Em­per­our, rich Charles, lies asleep; Dreams that he stands in the great pass of Size, In his two hands his ashen spear he sees; Guenes the count that spear from him doth seize, Bran­dish­es it and twists it with such ease, That flown in­to the sky the flinders seem. Charles sleeps on nor wak­ens from his dream.

LVII

And af­ter this an­oth­er vi­sion saw, In France, at Aix, in his Chapelle once more, That his right arm an evil bear did gnaw; Out of Ar­dennes he saw a leop­ard stalk, His body dear did sav­age­ly as­sault; But then there dashed a har­ri­er from the hall, Leap­ing in the air he sped to Charles call, First the right ear of that grim bear he caught, And fu­ri­ous­ly the leop­ard next he fought. Of bat­tle great the Franks then seemed to talk, Yet which might win they knew not, in his thought. Charles sleeps on, nor wak­ens he for aught. AOI.

LVI­II

Pass­es the night and opens the clear day; That Em­per­our can­ters in brave ar­ray, Looks through the host of­ten and ev­ery­way; “My lords barons,” at length doth Charles say, “Ye see the pass along these val­leys strait, Judge for me now, who shall in rere­ward wait.” “There’s my good-​son, Rol­lanz,” then an­swers Guenes, “You’ve no baron whose val­our is as great.” When the King hears, he looks up­on him straight, And says to him: “You dev­il in­car­nate; In­to your heart is come a mor­tal hate. And who shall go be­fore me in the gate?” “Oger is here, of Den­mark;” an­swers Guenes, “You’ve no baron were bet­ter in that place.” AOI.

LIX

The count Rol­lanz hath heard him­self de­creed; Speaks then to Guenes by rule of cour­tesy: “Good-​fa­ther, Sir, I ought to hold you dear, Since the rere­ward you have for me de­creed. Charles the King will nev­er lose by me, As I know well, nor charg­er nor pal­frey, Jen­net nor mule that can­ter can with speed, Nor sumpter-​horse will lose, nor any steed; But my sword’s point shall first ex­act their meed.” An­swers him Guenes: “I know; ’tis true in-​deed.” AOI.

LX

When Rol­lant heard that he should be rere­war­den Fu­ri­ous­ly he spoke to his good-​fa­ther: “Aha! cul­vert; be­got­ten of a bas­tard. Think­est the glove will slip from me here­after, As then from thee the wand fell be­fore Charles?” AOI.

LXI

“Right Em­per­our,” says the baron Rol­lanz, “Give me the bow you car­ry in your hand; Neer in re­proach, I know, will any man Say that it fell and lay up­on the land, As Guenes let fall, when he re­ceived the wand.” That Em­per­our with low­ered front doth stand, He tugs his beard, his chin is in his hand Tears fill his eyes, he can­not them com­mand.

LXII

And af­ter that is come duke Neimes furth, (Bet­ter vas­sal there was not up­on earth) Says to the King: “Right well now have you heard The count Rol­lanz to bit­ter wrath is stirred, For that on him the rere­ward is con­ferred; No baron else have you, would do that work. Give him the bow your hands have bent, at first; Then find him men, his com­pa­ny are worth.” Gives it, the King, and Rol­lant bears it furth.

LXI­II

That Em­per­our, Rol­lanz then cal­leth he: “Fair nephew mine, know this in ver­ity; Half of my host I leave you present­ly; Re­tain you them; your safe­guard this shall be.” Then says the count: “I will not have them, me I Con­found me God, if I fail in the deed! Good valiant Franks, a thou­sand score I’ll keep. Go through the pass in all se­cu­ri­ty, While I’m alive there’s no man you need fear.” AOI.

LX­IV

The count Rol­lanz has mount­ed his charg­er. Be­side him came his com­rade Oliv­er, Al­so Gerins and the proud count Geriers, And Otes came, and al­so Berengiers, Old An­seis, and San­sun too came there; Ger­art al­so of Rossil­lon the fierce, And there is come the Gas­con En­ge­liers. “Now by my head I’ll go!” the Arch­bish­op swears. “And I’m with you,” says then the count Gualtiers, “I’m Rol­lant’s man, I may not leave him there.” A thou­sand score they choose of cheva­liers. AOI.

LXV

Gual­ter del Hum he calls, that Count Rol­lanz; “A thou­sand Franks take, out of France our land; Dis­pose them so, among ravines and crags, That the Em­per­our lose not a sin­gle man.” Gual­ter replies: “I’ll do as you com­mand.” A thou­sand Franks, come out of France their land, At Gual­ter’s word they scour ravines and crags; They’ll not come down, howe’er the news be bad, Ere from their sheaths swords sev­en hun­dred flash. King Al­maris, Belserne for king­dom had, On the evil day he met them in com­bat. AOI.

LXVI

High are the peaks, the val­leys shad­ow­ful, Swarthy the rocks, the nar­rows won­der­ful. Franks passed that day all very sor­row­ful, Fif­teen leagues round the ru­mour of them grew. When they were come, and Ter­ra Ma­jor knew, Saw Gas­cony their land and their seigneur’s, Re­mem­ber­ing their fiefs and their hon­ours, Their lit­tle maids, their gen­tle wives and true; There was not one that shed not tears for rue. Be­yond the rest Charles was of an­guish full, In Span­ish Pass he’d left his dear nephew; Pity him seized; he could but weep for rue. AOI.

LXVII

The dozen peers are left be­hind in Spain, Franks in their band a thou­sand score re­main, No fear have these, death hold they in dis­dain. That Em­per­our goes in­to France apace; Un­der his cloke he fain would hide his face. Up to his side comes can­ter­ing Duke Neimes, Says to the King: “What grief up­on you weighs?” Charles an­swers him: “He’s wrong that ques­tion makes. So great my grief I can­not but com­plain. France is de­stroyed, by the de­vice of Guene: This night I saw, by an an­gel’s vi­sion plain, Be­tween my hands he brake my spear in twain; Great fear I have, since Rol­lant must re­main: I’ve left him there, up­on a bor­der strange. God! If he’s lost, I’ll not out­live that shame.” AOI.

LXVI­II

Charles the great, he can­not but de­plore. And with him Franks an hun­dred thou­sand mourn, Who for Rol­lanz have mar­vel­lous re­morse. The felon Guenes had treach­er­ous­ly wrought; From pa­gan kin has had his rich re­ward, Sil­ver and gold, and veils and silken cloths, Camels, li­ons, with many a mule and horse. Barons from Spain King Mar­silies hath called, Counts and vis­counts and dukes and al­ma­cours, And the ad­mi­rals, and cadets nobly born; With­in three days come hun­dreds thou­sands four. In Sar­raguce they sound the drums of war; Mahum they raise up­on their high­est tow’r, Pa­gan is none, that does not him adore. They can­ter then with great con­tention Through Certeine land, val­leys and moun­tains, on, Till of the Franks they see the gon­falons, Be­ing in rere­ward those dozen com­pan­ions; They will not fail bat­tle to do anon.

LX­IX

Mar­sile’s nephew is come be­fore the band, Rid­ing a mule, he goads it with a wand, Smil­ing and clear, his un­cle’s ear de­mands: “Fair Lord and King, since, in your ser­vice, glad, I have en­dured sor­row and suf­fer­ance, Have fought in field, and vic­to­ries have had. Give me a fee: the right to smite Rol­lanz! I’ll slay him clean with my good tren­chant lance, If Mahumet will be my sure war­rant; Spain I’ll set free, de­liv­er all her land From Pass of As­pre even un­to Durestant. Charles will grow faint, and recre­ant the Franks; There’ll be no war while you’re a liv­ing man.” Mar­silie gives the glove in­to his hand. AOI.

LXX

Mar­sile’s nephew, hold­ing in hand the glove, His un­cle calls, with rea­son proud enough: “Fair Lord and King, great gift from you I’ve won. Choose now for me eleven more baruns, So I may fight those dozen com­pan­ions.” First be­fore all there an­swers Fal­farun; — Broth­er he was to King Mar­sil­iun — “Fair sir nephew, go you and I at once Then ver­ily this bat­tle shall be done; The rere­ward of the great host of Car­lun, It is de­creed we deal them now their doom.” AOI.

LXXI

King Corsab­lis is come from the oth­er part, Bar­bar­ian, and steeped in evil art. He’s spo­ken then as fits a good vas­sal, For all God’s gold he would not seem cow­ard. Hastes in­to view Mal­prim­is of Bri­gal, Faster than a horse, up­on his feet can dart, Be­fore Mar­sile he cries with all his heart: “My body I will shew at Rences­vals; Find I Rol­lanz, I’ll slay him with­out fault.”

LXXII

An ad­mi­ral is there of Bal­aguet; Clear face and proud, and body nobly bred; Since first he was up­on his horse mount­ed, His arms to bear has shewn great lusti­head; In vas­salage he is well fa­moused; Chris­tian were he, he’d shewn good baron­head. Be­fore Mar­sile aloud has he shout­ed: “To Rences­vals my body shall be led; Find I Rol­lanz, then is he sure­ly dead, And Oliv­er, and all the oth­er twelve; Franks shall be slain in grief and wretched­ness. Charles the great is old now and dot­ed, Weary will be and make no war again; Spain shall be ours, in peace and quiet­ness.” King Mar­silies has heard and thanks him well. AOI.

LXXI­II

An al­ma­cour is there of Mo­ri­ane, More felon none in all the land of Spain. Be­fore Mar­sile his vaunt­ing boast hath made: “To Rences­vals my com­pa­ny I’ll take, A thou­sand score, with shields and lances brave. Find I Rol­lanz, with death I’ll him ac­quaint; Day shall not dawn but Charles will make his plaint.” AOI.

LXXIV

From the oth­er part, Tur­gis of Turtelose, He was a count, that city was his own; Chris­tians he would them mas­sacre, ev­ery one. Be­fore Mar­sile among the rest is gone, Says to the King: “Let not dis­may be shewn! Mahum’s more worth than Saint Pe­ter of Rome; Serve we him well, then fame in field we’ll own. To Rences­vals, to meet Rol­lanz I’ll go, From death he’ll find his war­ran­ty in none. See here my sword, that is both good and long With Duren­dal I’ll lay it well across; Ye’ll hear be­times to which the prize is gone. Franks shall be slain, whom we de­scend up­on, Charles the old will suf­fer grief and wrong, No more on earth his crown will he put on.”

LXXV

From the oth­er part, Es­crem­iz of Val­trenne, A Sar­razin, that land was his as well. Be­fore Mar­sile he cries amid the press: “To Rences­vals I go, pride to make less; Find I Rol­lanz, he’ll not bear thence his head, Nor Oliv­er that hath the oth­ers led, The dozen peers con­demned are to death; Franks shall be slain, and France lie de­sert­ed. Of good vas­sals will Charles be rich­ly bled.” AOI.

LXXVI

From the oth­er part, a pa­gan Es­tur­ganz; Es­tra­ma­riz al­so, was his com­rade; Felons were these, and traitors mis­cre­ant. Then said Mar­sile: “My Lords, be­fore me stand! In­to the pass ye’ll go to Rences­vals, Give me your aid, and thith­er lead my band.” They an­swer him: “Sire, even as you com­mand. We will as­sault Olivi­er and Rol­lant, The dozen peers from death have no war­rant, For these our swords are trusty and tren­chant, In scald­ing blood we’ll dye their blades scar­lat. Franks shall be slain, and Chares be right sad. Ter­ra Ma­jor we’ll give in­to your hand; Come there, Sir King, tru­ly you’ll see all that Yea, the Em­per­our we’ll give in­to your hand.”

LXXVII

Run­ning there came Mar­gariz of Sibile, Who holds the land by Cadiz, to the sea. For his beau­ty the ladies hold him dear; Who looks on him, with him her heart is pleased, When she be­holds, she can but smile for glee. Was no pa­gan of such high chival­ry. Comes through the press, above them all cries he, “Be not at all dis­mayed, King Mar­silie! To Rences­vals I go, and Rol­lanz, he Nor Oliv­er may scape alive from me; The dozen peers are doomed to mar­tyry. See here the sword, whose hilt is gold in­deed, I got in gift from the ad­mi­ral of Primes; In scar­lat blood I pledge it shall be steeped. Franks shall be slain, and France abased be. To Charles the old, with his great blos­som­ing beard, Day shall not dawn but brings him rage and grief, Ere a year pass, all France we shall have seized, Till we can lie in th’ burgh of Saint Denise.” The pa­gan king has bowed his head down deep. AOI.

LXXVI­II From the oth­er part, Chemubles of Munei­gre. Right to the ground his hair swept ei­ther way; He for a jest would bear a heav­ier weight Than four yoked mules, be­neath their load that strain. That land he had, God’s curse on it was plain. No sun shone there, nor grew there any grain, No dew fell there, nor any show­er of rain, The very stones were black up­on that plain; And many say that dev­ils there re­main. Says Chemubles “My sword is in its place, At Rences­vals scar­lat I will it stain; Find I Rol­lanz the proud up­on my way, I’ll fall on him, or trust me not again, And Duren­dal I’ll con­quer with this blade, Franks shall be slain, and France a desert made.” The dozen peers are, at this word, away, Five score thou­sand of Sar­razins they take; Who keen­ly press, and on to bat­tle haste; In a fir-​wood their gear they ready make.

LXXIX

Ready they make hauberks Sar­razi­nese, That fold­ed are, the greater part, in three; And they lace on good helms Sar­ragucese; Gird on their swords of tried steel Vi­en­nese; Fine shields they have, and spears Valen­ti­nese, And white, blue, red, their en­signs take the breeze, They’ve left their mules be­hind, and their pal­freys, Their charg­ers mount, and can­ter knee by knee. Fair shines the sun, the day is bright and clear, Light bums again from all their pol­ished gear. A thou­sand horns they sound, more proud to seem; Great is the noise, the Franks its echo hear. Says Oliv­er: “Com­pan­ion, I be­lieve, Sar­razins now in bat­tle must we meet.” An­swers Rol­lanz :”God grant us then the fee! For our King’s sake well must we quit us here; Man for his lord should suf­fer great dis­ease, Most bit­ter cold en­dure, and burn­ing heat, His hair and skin should of­fer up at need. Now must we each lay on most hardi­ly, So evil songs neer sung of us shall be. Pa­gans are wrong: Chris­tians are right in­deed. Evil ex­am­ple will nev­er come of me.” AOI.

LXXX

Oliv­er mounts up­on a lofty peak, Looks to his right along the val­ley green, The pa­gan tribes ap­proach­ing there ap­pear; He calls Rol­lanz, his com­pan­ion, to see: “What sound is this, come out of Spain, we hear, What hauberks bright, what hel­mets these that gleam? They’ll smite our Franks with fury past be­lief, He knew it, Guenes, the traitor and the thief, Who chose us out be­fore the King our chief.” An­swers the count Rol­lanz: “Olivi­er, cease. That man is my good-​fa­ther; hold thy peace.”

LXXXI

Up­on a peak is Oliv­er mount­ed, King­dom of Spain he sees be­fore him spread, And Sar­razins, so many gath­ered. Their hel­mets gleam, with gold are jew­elled, Al­so their shields, their hauberks or­freyed, Al­so their swords, en­signs on spears fixed. Rank be­yond rank could not be num­bered, So many there, no mea­sure could he set. In his own heart he’s sore as­ton­ished, Fast as he could, down from the peak hath sped Comes to the Franks, to them his tale hath said.

LXXXII

Says Oliv­er: “Pa­gans from there I saw; Nev­er on earth did any man see more. Gainst us their shields an hun­dred thou­sand bore, That laced helms and shin­ing hauberks wore; And, bolt up­right, their bright brown spear­heads shone. Bat­tle we’ll have as nev­er was be­fore. Lords of the Franks, God keep you in val­our! So hold your ground, we be not over­borne!” Then say the Franks “Shame take him that goes off: If we must die, then per­ish one and all.” AOI.

LXXXI­II

Says Oliv­er: “Pa­gans in force abound, While of us Franks but very few I count; Com­rade Rol­lanz, your horn I pray you sound! If Charles hear, he’ll turn his armies round.” An­swers Rol­lanz: “A fool I should be found; In France the Douce would per­ish my renown. With Duren­dal I’ll lay on thick and stout, In blood the blade, to its gold­en hilt, I’ll drown. Felon pa­gans to th’ pass shall not come down; I pledge you now, to death they all are bound. AOI.

LXXXIV

“Com­rade Rol­lanz, sound the olifant, I pray; If Charles hear, the host he’ll turn again; Will suc­cour us our King and baron­age.” An­swers Rol­lanz: “Nev­er, by God, I say, For my mis­deed shall kins­men hear the blame, Nor France the Douce fall in­to evil fame! Rather stout blows with Duren­dal I’ll lay, With my good sword that by my side doth sway; Till blood­ied o’er you shall be­hold the blade. Felon pa­gans are gath­ered to their shame; I pledge you now, to death they’re doomed to-​day.”

LXXXV

“Com­rade Rol­lanz, once sound your olifant! If Charles hear, where in the pass he stands, I pledge you now, they’ll turn again, the Franks.” “Nev­er, by God,” then an­swers him Rol­lanz, “Shall it be said by any liv­ing man, That for pa­gans I took my horn in hand! Nev­er by me shall men re­proach my clan. When I am come in­to the bat­tle grand, And blows lay on, by hun­dred, by thou­sand, Of Duren­dal blood­ied you’ll see the brand. Franks are good men; like vas­sals brave they’ll stand; Nay, Span­ish men from death have no war­rant.”

LXXXVI

Says Oliv­er: “In this I see no blame; I have be­held the Sar­razins of Spain; Cov­ered with them, the moun­tains and the vales, The wastes I saw, and all the far­thest plains. A muster great they’ve made, this peo­ple strange; We have of men a very lit­tle tale.” An­swers Rol­lanz: “My anger is in­flamed. Nev­er, please God His An­gels and His Saints, Nev­er by me shall Frank­ish val­our fail! Rather I’ll die than shame shall me at­tain. There­fore strike on, the Em­per­our’s love to gain.”

LXXXVII

Pride hath Rol­lanz, wis­dom Olivi­er hath; And both of them shew mar­vel­lous courage; Once they are horsed, once they have donned their arms, Rather they’d die than from the bat­tle pass. Good are the counts, and lofty their lan­guage. Felon pa­gans come can­ter­ing in their wrath. Says Oliv­er: “Be­hold and see, Rol­lanz, These are right near, but Charles is very far. On the olifant deign now to sound a blast; Were the King here, we should not fear dam­age. On­ly look up to­wards the Pass of As­pre, In sor­row there you’ll see the whole rere­ward. Who does this deed, does no more af­ter­ward.” An­swers Rol­lanz: “Ut­ter not such out­rage! Evil his heart that is in thought cow­ard! We shall re­main firm in our place in­stalled; From us the blows shall come, from us the as­sault.” AOI.

LXXXVI­II

When Rol­lant sees that now must be com­bat, More fierce he’s found than li­on or leop­ard; The Franks he calls, and Oliv­er com­mands: “Now say no more, my friends, nor thou, com­rade. That Em­per­our, who left us Franks on guard, A thou­sand score stout men he set apart, And well he knows, not one will prove cow­ard. Man for his lord should suf­fer with good heart, Of bit­ter cold and great heat bear the smart, His blood let drain, and all his flesh be scarred. Strike with thy lance, and I with Duren­dal, With my good sword that was the King’s re­ward. So, if I die, who has it af­ter­ward No­ble vas­sal’s he well may say it was.”

LXXXIX

From the oth­er part is the Arch­bish­op Turpin, He pricks his horse and mounts up­on a hill; Call­ing the Franks, ser­mon to them be­gins: “My lords barons, Charles left us here for this; He is our King, well may we die for him: To Chris­ten­dom good ser­vice of­fer­ing. Bat­tle you’ll have, you all are bound to it, For with your eyes you see the Sar­razins. Pray for God’s grace, con­fess­ing Him your sins! For your souls’ health, I’ll ab­so­lu­tion give So, though you die, blest mar­tyrs shall you live, Thrones you shall win in the great Par­adis.” The Franks dis­mount, up­on the ground are lit. That Arch­bish­op God’s Bene­dic­tion gives, For their penance, good blows to strike he bids.

XC

The Franks arise, and stand up­on their feet, They’re well ab­solved, and from their sins made clean, And the Arch­bish­op has signed them with God’s seal; And next they mount up­on their charg­ers keen; By rule of knights they have put on their gear, For bat­tle all ap­par­elled as is meet. The count Rol­lant calls Oliv­er, and speaks “Com­rade and friend, now clear­ly have you seen That Guenelun hath got us by de­ceit; Gold hath he ta’en; much wealth is his to keep; That Em­per­our vengeance for us must wreak. King Mar­silies hath bar­gained for us cheap; At the sword’s point he yet shall pay our meed.” AOI.

XCI

To Span­ish pass is Rol­lanz now go­ing On Veil­lan­tif, his good steed, gal­lop­ing; He is well armed, pride is in his bear­ing, He goes, so brave, his spear in hand hold­ing, He goes, its point against the sky turn­ing; A gon­falon all white there­on he’s pinned, Down to his hand flut­ters the gold­en fringe: No­ble his limbs, his face clear and smil­ing. His com­pan­ion goes af­ter, fol­low­ing, The men of France their war­rant find in him. Proud­ly he looks to­wards the Sar­razins, And to the Franks sweet­ly, him­self hum­bling; And cour­te­ous­ly has said to them this thing: “My lords barons, go now your pace hold­ing! Pa­gans are come great mar­tyr­dom seek­ing; No­ble and fair re­ward this day shall bring, Was nev­er won by any Frank­ish King.” Up­on these words the hosts are come touch­ing. AOI.

XCII

Speaks Oliv­er: “No more now will I say. Your olifant, to sound it do not deign, Since from Car­lun you’ll nev­er more have aid. He has not heard; no fault of his, so brave. Those with him there are nev­er to be blamed. So can­ter on, with what prowess you may! Lords and barons, firm­ly your ground main­tain! Be mind­ed well, I pray you in God’s Name, Stout blows to strike, to give as you shall take. For­get the cry of Charles we nev­er may.” Up­on this word the Franks cry out amain. Who then had heard them all “Mon­joie!” ac­claim Of vas­salage might well re­call the tale. They can­ter forth, God! with what proud pa­rade, Prick­ing their spurs, the bet­ter speed to gain; They go to strike,– what oth­er thing could they? — But Sar­razins are not at all afraid. Pa­gans and Franks, you’ld see them now en­gaged.

XCI­II

Mar­sile’s nephew, his name is Ael­roth, First of them all can­ters be­fore the host, Says of our Franks these ill words as he goes: “Felons of France, so here on us you close! Be­trayed you has he that to guard you ought; Mad is the King who left you in this post. So shall the fame of France the Douce be lost, And the right arm from Charles body torn.” When Rol­lant hears, what rage he has, by God! His steed he spurs, gal­lops with great ef­fort; He goes, that count, to strike with all his force, The shield he breaks, the hauberk’s seam un­sews, Slices the heart, and shat­ters up the bones, All of the spine he sev­ers with that blow, And with his spear the soul from body throws So well he’s pinned, he shakes in the air that corse, On his spear’s hilt he’s flung it from the horse: So in two halves Aeroth’s neck he broke, Nor left him yet, they say, but rather spoke: “Avaunt, cul­vert! A mad­man Charles is not, No treach­ery was ev­er in his thought. Proud­ly he did, who left us in this post; The fame of France the Douce shall not be lost. Strike on, the Franks! Ours are the fore­most blows. For we are right, but these glut­tons are wrong.” AOI.

XCIV

A duke there was, his name was Fal­farun, Broth­er was he to King Mar­sil­iun, He held their land, Dathan’s and Abirun’s; Be­neath the sky no more en­crimed felun; Be­tween his eyes so broad was he in front A great half-​foot you’ld mea­sure there in full. His nephew dead he’s seen with grief enough, Comes through the press and wild­ly forth he runs, Aloud he shouts their cry the pa­gans use; And to the Franks is right con­trar­ious: “Hon­our of France the Douce shall fall to us!” Hears Oliv­er, he’s very fu­ri­ous, His horse he pricks with both his gold­en spurs, And goes to strike, ev’n as a baron doth; The shield he breaks and through the hauberk cuts, His en­sign’s fringe in­to the car­cass thrusts, On his spear’s hilt he’s flung it dead in dust. Looks on the ground, sees glut­ton ly­ing thus, And says to him, with rea­son proud enough: “From threat­en­ing, cul­vert, your mouth I’ve shut. Strike on, the Franks! Right well we’ll over­come.” “Mon­joie,” he shouts, ’twas the en­sign of Car­lun. AOI.

XCV

A king there was, his name was Corsablix, Bar­bar­ian, and of a strange coun­try, He’s called aloud to the oth­er Sar­razins: “Well may we join bat­tle up­on this field, For of the Franks but very few are here; And those are here, we should ac­count them cheap, From Charles not one has any war­ran­ty. This is the day when they their death shall meet.” Has heard him well that Arch­bish­op Turpin, No man he’ld hate so much the sky be­neath; Spurs of fine gold he pricks in­to his steed, To strike that king by virtue great goes he, The hauberk all un­fas­tens, breaks the shield, Thrusts his great spear in through the car­cass clean, Pins it so well he shakes it in its seat, Dead in the road he’s flung it from his spear. Looks on the ground, that glut­ton ly­ing sees, Nor leaves him yet, they say, but rather speaks: “Cul­vert pa­gan, you lied now in your teeth, Charles my lord our war­rant is in­deed; None of our Franks hath any mind to flee. Your com­pan­ions all on this spot we’ll keep, I tell you news; death shall ye suf­fer here. Strike on, the Franks! Fail none of you at need! Ours the first blow, to God the glo­ry be!” “Mon­joie!” he cries, for all the camp to hear.

XCVI

And Gerins strikes Mal­prim­is of Bri­gal So his good shield is noth­ing worth at all, Shat­ters the boss, was fash­ioned of crys­tal, One half of it down­ward to earth flies off; Right to the flesh has through his hauberk torn, On his good spear he has the car­cass caught. And with one blow that pa­gan down­ward falls; The soul of him Sa­tan away hath borne. AOI.

XCVII

And his com­rade Ger­ers strikes the ad­mi­ral, The shield he breaks, the hauberk un­metals, And his good spear drives in­to his vi­tals, So well he’s pinned him, clean through the car­cass, Dead on the field he’s flung him from his hand. Says Oliv­er: “Now is our bat­tle grand.”

XCVI­II

San­sun the Duke goes strike that al­ma­cour, The shield he breaks, with gold­en flow­ers tooled, That good hauberk for him is noth­ing proof, He’s sliced the heart, the lungs and liv­er through, And flung him dead, as well or ill may prove. Says the Arch­bish­op: “A baron’s stroke, in truth.”

XCIX

And An­seis has let his charg­er run; He goes to strike Tur­gis of Turtelus, The shield he breaks, its gold­en boss above, The hauberk too, its dou­bled mail un­does, His good spear’s point in­to the car­cass runs, So well he’s thrust, clean through the whole steel comes, And from the hilt he’s thrown him dead in dust. Then says Rol­lant: “Great prowess in that thrust.”

C

And En­gel­ers the Gas­coin of Bur­dele Spurs on his horse, lets fall the reins as well, He goes to strike Es­crem­iz of Val­trene, The shield he breaks and shat­ters on his neck, The hauberk too, he has its chin­guard rent, Be­tween the arm-​pits has pierced him through the breast, On his spear’s hilt from sad­dle throws him dead; Af­ter he says “So are you turned to hell.” AOI.

CI

And Otes strikes a pa­gan Es­tor­gant Up­on the shield, be­fore its leath­ern band, Slices it through, the white with the scar­lat; The hauberk too, has torn its folds apart, And his good spear thrusts clean through the car­cass, And flings it dead, ev’n as the horse goes past; He says: “You have no war­rant af­ter­ward.”

CII

And Berenger, he strikes Es­tra­ma­riz, The shield he breaks, the hauberk tears and splits, Thrusts his stout spear through’s mid­dle, and him flings Down dead among a thou­sand Sar­razins. Of their dozen peers ten have now been killed, No more than two re­main alive and quick, Be­ing Cher­nu­ble, and the count Mar­gariz.

CI­II

Mar­gariz is a very gal­lant knight, Both fair and strong, and swift he is and light; He spurs his horse, goes Oliv­er to strike, And breaks his shield, by th’gold­en buck­le bright; Along his ribs the pa­gan’s spear doth glide; God’s his war­rant, his body has respite, The shaft breaks off, Oliv­er stays up­right; That oth­er goes, naught stays him in his flight, His trum­pet sounds, ral­lies his tribe to fight.

CIV

Com­mon the fight is now and mar­vel­lous. The count Rol­lanz no way him­self se­cures, Strikes with his spear, long as the shaft en­dures, By fif­teen blows it is clean bro­ken through Then Duren­dal he bares, his sabre good Spurs on his horse, is gone to strike Chemu­ble, The hel­met breaks, where bright car­bun­cles grew, Slices the cap and shears the locks in two, Slices al­so the eyes and the fea­tures, The hauberk white, whose mail was close of woof, Down to the groin cuts all his body through To the sad­dle; with beat­en gold ’twas tooled. Up­on the horse that sword a mo­ment stood, Then sliced its spine, no join there any knew, Dead in the field among thick grass them threw. Af­ter he said “Cul­vert, false step you moved, From Mahumet your help will not come soon. No vic­to­ry for glut­tons such as you.”

CV

The count Rol­lanz, he can­ters through the field, Holds Duren­dal, he well can thrust and wield, Right great dam­age he’s done the Sar­razines You’d seen them, one on oth­er, dead in heaps, Through all that place their blood was flow­ing clear! In blood his arms were and his hauberk steeped, And blood­ied o’er, shoul­ders and neck, his steed. And Oliv­er goes on to strike with speed; No blame that way de­serve the dozen peers, For all the Franks they strike and slay with heat, Pa­gans are slain, some swoon there in their seats, Says the Arch­bish­op: “Good baron­age in­deed!” “Mon­joie” he cries, the call of Charles re­peats. AOI.

CVI

And Oliv­er has can­tered through the crush; Bro­ken his spear, the trun­cheon still he thrusts; Go­ing to strike a pa­gan Mal­sarun; Flow­ers and gold, are on the shield, he cuts, Out of the head both the two eyes have burst, And all the brains are fall­en in the dust; He flings him dead, sev’n hun­dred else amongst. Then has he slain Tur­gin and Es­tur­gus; Right to the hilt, his spear in flinders flew. Then says Rol­lant: “Com­pan­ion, what do you? In such a fight, there’s lit­tle strength in wood, Iron and steel should here their val­our prove. Where is your sword, that Hal­te­clere I knew? Gold­en its hilt, where­on a crys­tal grew.” Says Oliv­er: “I had not, if I drew, Time left to strike enough good blows and true.” AOI.

CVII

Then Oliv­er has drawn his mighty sword As his com­rade had bid­den and im­plored, In knight­ly wise the blade to him has shewed; Justin he strikes, that Iron Val­ley’s lord, All of his head has down the mid­dle shorn, The car­cass sliced, the broi­dered sark has torn, The good sad­dle that was with old adorned, And through the spine has sliced that pa­gan’s horse; Dead in the field be­fore his feet they fall. Says Rol­lant: “Now my broth­er I you call; He’ll love us for such blows, our Em­per­or.” On ev­ery side “Mon­joie” you’ld hear them roar. AOI.

CVI­II

That count Gerins sate on his horse Sorel, On Passe-​Cerf was Ger­ers there, his friend; They’ve loosed their reins, to­geth­er spurred and sped, And go to strike a pa­gan Tim­ozel; One on the shield, on hauberk the oth­er fell; And their two spears went through the car­cass well, A fal­low field amidst they’ve thrown him dead. I do not know, I nev­er heard it said Which of the two was nim­bler as they went. Es­per­veris was there, son of Borel, And him there slew En­gel­ers of Bur­del. And the Arch­bish­op, he slew them Siglo­rel, The en­chanter, who be­fore had been in hell, Where Jupiter bore him by a mag­ic spell. Then Turpin says “To us he’s for­feit­ed.” An­swers Rol­lanz: “The cul­vert is best­ed. Such blows, broth­er Olivi­er, I like well.”

CIX

The bat­tle grows more hard and hard­er yet, Franks and pa­gans, with mar­vel­lous on­set, Each oth­er strike and each him­self de­fends. So many shafts blood­stained and shat­tered, So many flags and en­signs tat­tered; So many Franks lose their young lusti­head, Who’ll see no more their moth­ers nor their friends, Nor hosts of France, that in the pass at­tend. Charles the Great weeps there­for with re­gret. What prof­its that? No suc­cour shall they get. Evil ser­vice, that day, Guenes ren­dered them, To Sar­raguce go­ing, his own to sell. Af­ter he lost his mem­bers and his head, In court, at Aix, to gal­lows-​tree con­demned; And thir­ty more with him, of his kin­dred, Were hanged, a thing they nev­er did ex­pect. AOI.

CX

Now mar­vel­lous and weighty the com­bat, Right well they strike, Olivi­er and Rol­lant, A thou­sand blows come from the Arch­bish­op’s hand, The dozen peers are noth­ing short of that, With one ac­cord join bat­tle all the Franks. Pa­gans are slain by hun­dred, by thou­sand, Who flies not then, from death has no war­rant, Will he or nill, fore­goes the al­lot­ted span. The Franks have lost the fore­most of their band, They’ll see no more their fa­thers nor their clans, Nor Charle­magne, where in the pass he stands. Tor­ment arose, right mar­vel­lous, in France, Tem­pest there was, of wind and thun­der black, With rain and hail, so much could not be spanned; Fell thun­der­bolts of­ten on ev­ery hand, And ver­ily the earth quaked in an­swer back From Saint Michael of Per­il un­to Sanz, From Bes­en­cun to the har­bour of Gui­tsand; No house stood there but straight its walls must crack: In full mid-​day the dark­ness was so grand, Save the sky split, no light was in the land. Be­held these things with ter­ror ev­ery man, And many said: “We in the Judge­ment stand; The end of time is present­ly at hand.” They spake no truth; they did not un­der­stand; ‘Twas the great day of mourn­ing for Rol­lant.

CXI

The Franks strike on; their hearts are good and stout. Pa­gans are slain, a thou­sand­fold, in crowds, Left of five score are not two thou­sands now. Says the Arch­bish­op: “Our men are very proud, No man on earth has more nor bet­ter found. In Chron­icles of Franks is writ­ten down, What vas­salage he had, our Em­per­our.” Then through the field they go, their friends seek out, And their eyes weep with grief and pain pro­found For kins­men dear, by hearty friend­ship bound. King Mar­silies and his great host draw round. AOI.

CXII

King Mar­silies along a val­ley led The mighty host that he had gath­ered. Twen­ty columns that king had num­bered. With gleam­inag gold their helms were jew­elled. Shone too their shields and sarks em­broi­dered. Sound­ed the charge sev­en thou­sand trum­pets, Great was the noise through all that coun­try went. Then said Rol­lanz: “Olivi­er, broth­er, friend, That felon Guenes hath sworn to achieve our death; For his trea­son no longer is se­cret. Right great vengeance our Em­per­our will get. Bat­tle we’ll have, both long and keen­ly set, Nev­er has man be­held such armies met. With Duren­dal my sword I’ll strike again, And, com­rade, you shall strike with Hal­te­clere. These swords in lands so many have we held, Bat­tles with them so many brought to end, No evil song shall e’er be sung or said.” AOI.

CXI­II

When the Franks see so many there, pa­gans, On ev­ery side cov­er­ing all the land, Of­ten they call Olivi­er and Rol­lant, The dozen peers, to be their safe war­rant. And the Arch­bish­op speaks to them, as he can: “My lords barons, go think­ing noth­ing bad! For God I pray you fly not hence but stand, Lest evil songs of our val­our men chant! Far bet­ter t’were to per­ish in the van. Cer­tain it is, our end is near at hand, Be­yond this day shall no more live one man; But of one thing I give you good war­rant: Blest Par­adise to you now open stands, By the In­no­cents your thrones you there shall have.” Up­on these words grow bold again the Franks; There is not one but he “Mon­joie” de­mands. AOI.

CX­IV

A Sar­razin was there, of Sar­raguce, Of that city one half was his by use, ‘Twas Clim­borins, a man was noth­ing proof; By Guenelun the count an oath he took, And kissed his mouth in ami­ty and truth, Gave him his sword and his car­bun­cle too. Ter­ra Ma­jor, he said, to shame he’ld put, From the Em­per­our his crown he would re­move. He sate his horse, which he called Bar­ba­musche, Nev­er so swift spar­row nor swal­low flew, He spurred him well, and down the reins he threw, Go­ing to strike En­ge­li­er of Gas­cune; Nor shield nor sark him any war­rant proved, The pa­gan spear’s point did his body wound, He pinned him well, and all the steel sent through, From the hilt flung him dead be­neath his foot. Af­ter he said: “Good are they to con­fuse. Pa­gans, strike on, and so this press set loose!” “God!” say the Franks, “Grief, such a man to lose!” AOI.

CXV

The count Rol­lanz called up­on Oliv­er: “Sir com­pan­ion, dead now is En­gel­er; Than whom we’d no more valiant cheva­lier.” An­swered that count: “God, let me him avenge!” Spurs of fine gold in­to his horse drove then, Held Hal­te­clere, with blood its steel was red, By virtue great to strike that pa­gan went, Bran­dished his blade, the Sar­razin up­set; The Ad­ver­saries of God his soul bare thence. Next he has slain the duke Al­phaien, And sliced away Es­cababi his head, And has un­horsed some sev­en Arabs else; No good for those to go to war again. Then said Rol­lanz: “My com­rade shews anger, So in my sight he makes me prize him well; More dear by Charles for such blows are we held.” Aloud he’s cried: “Strike on, the cheva­liers!” AOI.

CXVI

From the oth­er part a pa­gan Valdabron. War­den he’d been to king Mar­sil­ion, And lord, by sea, of four hun­dred dromonds; No sailor was but called his name up­on; Jerusalem he’d tak­en by trea­son, Vi­olat­ed the Tem­ple of Sa­lomon, The Par­tiarch had slain be­fore the fonts. He’d pledged his oath by coun­ty Guenelon, Gave him his sword, a thou­sand coins there­on. He sate his horse, which he called Grami­mond, Nev­er so swift flew in the air fal­con; He’s pricked him well, with sharp spurs he had on, Go­ing to strike e’en that rich Duke, San­son; His shield has split, his hauberk has un­done, The en­sign’s folds have through his body gone, Dead from the hilt out of his seat he’s dropt: “Pa­gans, strike on, for well we’ll over­come!” “God!” say the Franks, “Grief for a brave baron!” AOI.

CXVII

The count Rol­lanz, when San­sun dead he saw, You may be­lieve, great grief he had there­for. His horse he spurs, gal­lops with great ef­fort, Wields Duren­dal, was worth fine gold and more, Goes as he may to strike that baron bold Above the helm, that was em­bossed with gold, Slices the head, the sark, and all the corse, The good sad­dle, that was em­bossed with gold, And cuts deep through the back­bone of his horse; He’s slain them both, blame him for that or laud. The pa­gans say: “‘Twas hard on us, that blow.” An­swers Rol­lanz: “Nay, love you I can not, For on your side is ar­ro­gance and wrong.” AOI.

CXVI­II

Out of Af­frike an Af­frican was come, ‘Twas Malquiant, the son of king Mal­cud; With beat­en gold was all his ar­mour done, Fore all men’s else it shone be­neath the sun. He sate his horse, which he called Salt-​Per­dut, Nev­er so swift was any beast could run. And An­seis up­on the shield he struck, The scar­lat with the blue he sliced it up, Of his hauberk he’s torn the folds and cut, The steel and stock has through his body thrust. Dead is that count, he’s no more time to run. Then say the Franks: “Baron, an evil luck!”

CX­IX

Swift through the field Turpin the Arch­bish­op passed; Such shaven-​crown has nev­er else sung Mass Who with his limbs such prowess might com­pass; To th’pa­gan said “God send thee all that’s bad! One thou hast slain for whom my heart is sad.” So his good horse forth at his bid­ding ran, He’s struck him then on his shield Toledan, Un­til he flings him dead on the green grass.

CXX

From the oth­er part was a pa­gan Grandones, Son of Ca­puel, the king of Ca­padoce. He sate his horse, the which he called Mar­more, Nev­er so swift was any bird in course; He’s loosed the reins, and spurring on that horse He’s gone to strike Gerin with all his force; The scar­lat shield from’s neck he’s bro­ken off, And all his sark there­after has he torn, The en­sign blue clean through his body’s gone, Un­til he flings him dead, on a high rock; His com­pan­ion Ger­er he’s slain al­so, And Berenger, and Guiun of San­tone; Next a rich duke he’s gone to strike, Au­store, That held Va­lence and the Hon­our of the Rhone; He’s flung him dead; great joy the pa­gans shew. Then say the Franks: “Of ours how many fall.”

CXXI

The count Rol­lanz, his sword with blood is stained, Well has he heard what way the Franks com­plained; Such grief he has, his heart would split in twain: To the pa­gan says: “God send thee ev­ery shame! One hast thou slain that dear­ly thou’lt re­pay.” He spurs his horse, that on with speed doth strain; Which should for­feit, they both to­geth­er came.

CXXII

Grandonie was both proof and valiant, And vir­tu­ous, a vas­sal com­bat­ant. Up­on the way there, he has met Rol­lant; He’d nev­er seen, yet knew him at a glance, By the proud face and those fine limbs he had, By his re­gard, and by his con­te­nance; He could not help but he grew faint there­at, He would es­cape, noth­ing avail he can. Struck him the count, with so great virtue, that To the nose-​plate he’s all the hel­met cracked, Sliced through the nose and mouth and teeth he has, Hauberk close-​mailed, and all the whole car­cass, Sad­dle of gold, with plates of sil­ver flanked, And of his horse has deeply scarred the back; He’s slain them both, they’ll make no more at­tack: The Span­ish men in sor­row cry, “Alack!” Then say the Franks: “He strikes well, our war­rant.”

CXXI­II

Mar­vel­lous is the bat­tle in its speed, The Franks there strike with vigour and with heat, Cut­ting through wrists and ribs and chines in-​deed, Through gar­ments to the live­ly flesh be­neath; On the green grass the clear blood runs in streams. The pa­gans say: “No more we’ll suf­fer, we. Ter­ra Ma­jor, Mahum­met’s curse on thee! Be­yond all men thy peo­ple are hardy!” There was not one but cried then: “Mar­silie, Can­ter, O king, thy suc­cour now we need!”

CXXIV

Mar­vel­lous is the bat­tle now and grand, The Franks there strike, their good brown spears in hand. Then had you seen such sor­row­ing of clans, So many a slain, shat­tered and bleed­ing man! Bit­ing the earth, or piled there on their backs! The Sar­razins can­not such loss with­stand. Will they or nill, from off the field draw back; By live­ly force chase them away the Franks. AOI.

CXXV

Their mar­tyr­dom, his men’s, Mar­sile has seen, So he bids sound his horns and his buc­cines; Then can­ters forth with all his great army. Can­ters be­fore a Sar­razin, Abisme, More felon none was in that com­pa­ny; Cankered with guile and ev­ery felony, He fears not God, the Son of Saint Mary; Black is that man as molten pitch that seethes; Bet­ter he loves mur­der and treach­ery Than to have all the gold of Gali­cie; Nev­er has man be­held him sport for glee; Yet vas­salage he’s shown, and great fol­ly, So is he dear to th’ felon king Mar­sile; Drag­on he bears, to which his tribe ral­ly. That Arch­bish­op could nev­er love him, he; See­ing him there, to strike he’s very keen, With­in him­self he says all qui­et­ly: “This Sar­razin great heretick meseems, Rather I’ld die, than not slay him clean, Neer did I love cow­ard nor cow­ardice.” AOI.

CXXVI

That Arch­bish­op be­gins the fight again, Sit­ting the horse which he took from Gros­saille — That was a king he had in Den­mark slain; — That charg­er is swift and of no­ble race; Fine are his hooves, his legs are smooth and straight, Short are his thighs, broad crup­per he dis­plays, Long are his ribs, aloft his spine is raised, White is his tail and yel­low is his mane, Lit­tle his ears, and tawny all his face; No beast is there, can match him in a race. That Arch­bish­op spurs on by vas­salage, He will not pause ere Abisme he as­sail; So strikes that shield, is won­der­ful­ly ar­rayed, Where­on are stones, amethyst and topaze, Es­ter­mi­nals and car­bun­cles that blaze; A dev­il’s gift it was, in Val Metase, Who hand­ed it to the ad­mi­ral Galafes; So Turpin strikes, spares him not any­way; Af­ter that blow, he’s worth no pen­ny wage; The car­cass he’s sliced, rib from rib away, So flings him down dead in an emp­ty place. Then say the Franks: “He has great vas­salage, With the Arch­bish­op, sure­ly the Cross is safe.”

CXXVII

The count Rol­lanz calls up­on Oliv­er: “Sir com­pan­ion, wit­ness you’ll freely bear, The Arch­bish­op is a right good cheva­lier, None bet­ter is neath Heav­en any­where; Well can he strike with lance and well with spear.” An­swers that count: “Sup­port to him we’ll bear!” Up­on that word the Franks again make yare; Hard are the blows, slaugh­ter and suf­fer­ing there, For Chris­tians too, most bit­ter grief and care. Who could had seen Rol­lanz and Oliv­er With their good swords to strike and to slaugh­ter! And the Arch­bish­op lays on there with his spear. Those that are dead, men well may hold them dear. In char­ters and in briefs is writ­ten clear, Four thou­sand fell, and more, the tales de­clare. Gainst four as­saults eas­ily did they fare, But then the fifth brought heavy griefs to bear. They all are slain, those Frank­ish cheva­liers; On­ly three-​score, whom God was pleased to spare, Be­fore these die, they’ll sell them very dear. AOI.

CXXVI­II

The count Rol­lant great loss of his men sees, His com­pan­ion Olivi­er calls, and speaks: “Sir and com­rade, in God’s Name, That you keeps, Such good vas­sals you see lie here in heaps; For France the Douce, fair coun­try, may we weep, Of such barons long des­olate she’ll be. Ah! King and friend, where­fore are you not here? How, Oliv­er, broth­er, can we achieve? And by what means our news to him re­peat?” Says Oliv­er: “I know not how to seek; Rather I’ld die than shame come of this feat.” AOI.

CXXIX

Then says Rol­lanz: “I’ll wind this olifant, If Charles hear, where in the pass he stands, I pledge you now they will re­turn, the Franks.” Says Oliv­er: “Great shame would come of that And a re­proach on ev­ery one, your clan, That shall en­dure while each lives in the land, When I im­plored, you would not do this act; Do­ing it now, no raise from me you’ll have: So wind your horn but not by courage rash, See­ing that both your arms with blood are splashed.” An­swers that count: “Fine blows I’ve struck them back.” AOI.

CXXX

Then says Rol­lant: “Strong it is now, our bat­tle; I’ll wind my horn, so the King hears it, Charles.” Says Oliv­er: “That act were not a vas­sal’s. When I im­plored you, com­rade, you were wrath­ful. Were the King here, we had not borne such dam­age. Nor should we blame those with him there, his army.” Says Oliv­er: “Now by my beard, here­after If I may see my gen­tle sis­ter Alde, She in her arms, I swear, shall nev­er clasp you.” AOI.

CXXXI

Then says Rol­lanz: “Where­fore so wroth with me?” He an­swers him: “Com­rade, it was your deed: Vas­salage comes by sense, and not fol­ly; Pru­dence more worth is than stu­pid­ity. Here are Franks dead, all for your trick­ery; No more ser­vice to Car­lun may we yield. My lord were here now, had you trust­ed me, And fought and won this bat­tle then had we, Tak­en or slain were the king Mar­silie. In your prowess, Rol­lanz, no good we’ve seen! Charles the great in vain your aid will seek — None such as he till God His Judge­ment speak; — Here must you die, and France in shame be steeped; Here per­ish­es our loy­al com­pa­ny, Be­fore this night great sev­er­ance and grief.” AOI.

CXXXII

That Arch­bish­op has heard them, how they spoke, His horse he pricks with his fine spurs of gold, Com­ing to them he takes up his re­proach: “Sir Oliv­er, and you, Sir Rol­lant, both, For God I pray, do not each oth­er scold! No help it were to us, the horn to blow, But, none the less, it may be bet­ter so; The King will come, with vengeance that he owes; These Span­ish men nev­er away shall go. Our Franks here, each de­scend­ing from his horse, Will find us dead, and limb from body torn; They’ll take us hence, on biers and lit­ters borne; With pity and with grief for us they’ll mourn; They’ll bury each in some old min­ster-​close; No wolf nor swine nor dog shall gnaw our bones.” An­swers Rol­lant: “Sir, very well you spoke.” AOI.

CXXXI­II

Rol­lant hath set the olifant to his mouth, He grasps it well, and with great virtue sounds. High are those peaks, afar it rings and loud, Thir­ty great leagues they hear its echoes mount. So Charles heard, and all his com­rades round; Then said that King: “Bat­tle they do, our counts!” And Guenelun an­swered, con­trar­ious: “That were a lie, in any oth­er mouth.” AOI.

CXXIV

The Count Rol­lanz, with sor­row and with pangs, And with great pain sound­ed his olifant: Out of his mouth the clear blood leaped and ran, About his brain the very tem­ples cracked. Loud is its voice, that horn he holds in hand; Charles hath heard, where in the pass he stands, And Neimes hears, and lis­ten all the Franks. Then says the King: “I hear his horn, Rol­lant’s; He’ld nev­er sound, but he were in com­bat.” An­swers him Guenes “It is no bat­tle, that. Now are you old, blos­som­ing white and blanched, Yet by such words you still ap­pear in­fant. You know full well the great pride of Rol­lant Mar­vel it is, God stays so tol­er­ant. No­ples he took, not wait­ing your com­mand; Thence is­sued forth the Sar­razins, a band With vas­salage had fought against Rol­lant; A He slew them first, with Duren­dal his brand, Then washed their blood with wa­ter from the land; So what he’d done might not be seen of man. He for a hare goes all day, horn in hand; Be­fore his peers in fool­ish jest he brags. No race neath heav’n in field him dare at­tack. So can­ter on! Nay, where­fore hold we back? Ter­ra Ma­jor is far away, our land.” AOI.

CXXXV

The count Rol­lanz, though blood his mouth doth stain, And burst are both the tem­ples of his brain, His olifant he sounds with grief and pain; Charles hath heard, lis­ten the Franks again. “That horn,” the King says, “hath a mighty strain!” An­swers Duke Neimes: “A baron blows with pain! Bat­tle is there, in­deed I see it plain, He is be­trayed, by one that still doth feign. Equip you, sir, cry out your old re­frain, That no­ble band, go suc­cour them amain! Enough you’ve heard how Rol­lant doth com­plain.”

CXXVI

That Em­per­our hath bid them sound their horns. The Franks dis­mount, and dress them­selves for war, Put hauberks on, hel­mets and gold­en swords; Fine shields they have, and spears of length and force Scar­lat and blue and white their en­signs float. His charg­er mounts each baron of the host; They spur with haste as through the pass they go. Nor was there one but thus to ’s neigh­bour spoke: “Now, ere he die, may we see Rol­lant, so Ranged by his side we’ll give some good­ly blows.” But what avail? They’ve stayed too long be­low.

CCXXXVII

That even-​tide is light as was the day; Their ar­mour shines be­neath the sun’s clear ray, Hauberks and helms throw off a daz­zling flame, And bla­zoned shields, flow­ered in bright ar­ray, Al­so their spears, with gold­en en­signs gay. That Em­per­our, he can­ters on with rage, And all the Franks with won­der and dis­may; There is not one can bit­ter tears re­strain, And for Rol­lant they’re very sore afraid. The King has bid them seize that coun­ty Guene, And charged with him the scul­lions of his train; The mas­ter-​cook he’s called, Besgun by name: “Guard me him well, his felony is plain, Who in my house vile treach­ery has made.” He holds him, and a hun­dred oth­ers takes From the kitchen, both good and evil knaves; Then Guenes beard and both his cheeks they shaved, And four blows each with their closed fists they gave, They trounced him well with cud­gels and with staves, And on his neck they clasped an iron chain; So like a bear en­chained they held him safe, On a pack-​mule they set him in his shame: Kept him till Charles should call for him again. AOI.

CXXXVI­II

High were the peaks and shad­owy and grand, The val­leys deep, the rivers swift­ly ran. Trum­pets they blew in rear and in the van, Till all again an­swered that olifant. That Em­per­our can­ters with fury mad, And all the Franks dis­may and won­der have; There is not one but weeps and wax­es sad And all pray God that He will guard Rol­lant Till in the field to­geth­er they may stand; There by his side they’ll strike as well they can. But what avail? No good there is in that; They’re not in time; too long have they held back. AOI.

CXXXIX

In his great rage on can­ters Charle­magne; Over his sark his beard is flow­ing plain. Barons of France, in haste they spur and strain; There is not one that can his wrath con­tain That they are not with Rol­lant the Cap­tain, Where­as he fights the Sar­razins of Spain. If he be struck, will not one soul re­main. — God! Six­ty men are all now in his train! Nev­er a king had bet­ter Cap­itains. AOI.

CXL

Rol­lant re­gards the bar­ren moun­tain-​sides; Dead men of France, he sees so many lie, And weeps for them as fits a gen­tle knight: “Lords and barons, may God to you be kind! And all your souls re­deem for Par­adise! And let you there mid holy flow­ers lie! Bet­ter vas­sals than you saw nev­er I. Ev­er you’ve served me, and so long a time, By you Car­lon hath con­quered king­doms wide; That Em­per­our reared you for evil plight! Douce land of France, o very pre­cious clime, Laid des­olate by such a sour ex­ile! Barons of France, for me I’ve seen you die, And no sup­port, no war­rant could I find; God be your aid, Who nev­er yet hath lied! I must not fail now, broth­er, by your side; Save I be slain, for sor­row shall I die. Sir com­pan­ion, let us again go strike!”

CXLI

The count Rol­lanz, back to the field then hieing Holds Duren­dal, and like a vas­sal strik­ing Fal­drun of Pui has through the mid­dle sliced, With twen­ty-​four of all they rat­ed high­est; Was nev­er man, for vengeance shewed such lik­ing. Even as a stag be­fore the hounds goes fly­ing, Be­fore Rol­lanz the pa­gans scat­ter, fright­ened. Says the Arch­bish­op: “You deal now very wise­ly! Such val­our should he shew that is bred knight­ly, And beareth arms, and a good charg­er rideth; In bat­tle should be strong and proud and spright­ly; Or oth­er­wise he is not worth a shilling, Should be a monk in one of those old min­sters, Where, day, by day, he’ld pray for us poor sin­ners.” An­swers Rol­lant: “Strike on; no quar­ter give them!” Up­on these words Franks are again be­gin­ning; Very great loss they suf­fer then, the Chris­tians.

CXLII

The man who knows, for him there’s no prison, In such a fight with keen de­fence lays on; Where­fore the Franks are fiercer than li­ons. Mar­sile you’d seen go as a brave baron, Sit­ting his horse, the which he calls Gaignon; He spurs it well, go­ing to strike Bevon, That was the lord of Beaune and of Di­jon, His shield he breaks, his hauberk has un­done, So flings him dead, with­out con­di­tion; Next he hath slain Yvo­erie and Ivon, Al­so with them Ger­ard of Rus­sil­lon. The count Rol­lanz, be­ing not far him from, To th’pa­gan says: “Con­found thee our Lord God! So wrong­ful­ly you’ve slain my com­pan­ions, A blow you’ll take, ere we apart be gone, And of my sword the name I’ll bid you con.” He goes to strike him, as a brave baron, And his right hand the count clean slices off; Then takes the head of Jur­saleu the blond; That was the son of king Mar­sil­ion. Pa­gans cry out “As­sist us now, Ma­hom! God of our race, avenge us on Car­lon! In­to this land he’s sent us such felons That will not leave the fight be­fore they drop.” Says each to each: “Nay let us fly!” Up­on That word, they’re fled, an hun­dred thou­sand gone; Call them who may, they’ll nev­er more come on. AOI.

CXLI­II

But what avail? Though fled be Mar­silies, He’s left be­hind his un­cle, the al­caliph Who holds Alferne, Karta­gene, Gar­malie, And Ethiope, a cursed land in­deed; The black­amoors from there are in his keep, Broad in the nose they are and flat in the ear, Fifty thou­sand and more in com­pa­ny. These can­ter forth with ar­ro­gance and heat, Then they cry out the pa­gans’ ral­ly­ing-​cheer; And Rol­lant says: “Mar­tyr­dom we’ll re­ceive; Not long to live, I know it well, have we; Felon he’s named that sells his body cheap! Strike on, my lords, with bur­nished swords and keen; Con­test each inch your life and death be­tween, That neer by us Douce France in shame be steeped. When Charles my lord shall come in­to this field, Such dis­ci­pline of Sar­razins he’ll see, For one of ours he’ll find them dead fif­teen; He will not fail, but bless us all in peace.” AOI.

CXLIV

When Rol­lant sees those mis­be­got­ten men, Who are more black than ink is on the pen With no part white, on­ly their teeth ex­cept, Then says that count: “I know now very well That here to die we’re bound, as I can tell. Strike on, the Franks! For so I rec­om­mend.” Says Oliv­er: “Who holds back, is con­demned!” Up­on those words, the Franks to strike again.

CXLV

Franks are but few; which, when the pa­gans know, Among them­selves com­fort and pride they shew; Says each to each: “Wrong was that Em­per­or.” Their al­caliph up­on a sor­rel rode, And pricked it well with both his spurs of gold; Struck Oliv­er, be­hind, on the back-​bone, His hauberk white in­to his body broke, Clean through his breast the thrust­ing spear he drove; Af­ter he said: “You’ve borne a mighty blow. Charles the great should not have left you so; He’s done us wrong, small thanks to him we owe; I’ve well avenged all ours on you alone.”

CXLVI

Oliv­er feels that he to die is bound, Holds Hal­te­clere, whose steel is rough and brown, Strikes the al­caliph on his helm’s gold­en mount; Flow­ers and stones fall clat­ter­ing to the ground, Slices his head, to th’small teeth in his mouth; So bran­dish­es his blade and flings him down; Af­ter he says: “Pa­gan, ac­curst be thou! Thou’lt nev­er say that Charles for­sakes me now; Nor to thy wife, nor any dame thou’st found, Thou’lt nev­er boast, in lands where thou wast crowned, One pen­ny­worth from me thou’st tak­en out, Nor dam­age wrought on me nor any around.” Af­ter, for aid, “Rol­lant!” he cries aloud. AOI.

CXLVII

Oliv­er feels that death is draw­ing nigh; To avenge him­self he hath no longer time; Through the great press most gal­lant­ly he strikes, He breaks their spears, their buck­led shields doth slice, Their feet, their fists, their shoul­ders and their sides, Dis­mem­bers them: whoso had seen that sigh, Dead in the field one on an­oth­er piled, Re­mem­ber well a vas­sal brave he might. Charles en­sign he’ll not for­get it quite; Aloud and clear “Mon­joie” again he cries. To call Rol­lanz, his friend and peer, he tries: “My com­pan­ion, come hith­er to my side. With bit­ter grief we must us now di­vide.” AOI.

CXLVI­II

Then Rol­lant looked up­on Olivi­er’s face; Which was all wan and colour­less and pale, While the clear blood, out of his body sprayed, Up­on the ground gushed forth and ran away. “God!” said that count, “What shall I do or say? My com­pan­ion, gal­lant for such ill fate! Neer shall man be, against thee could pre­vail. Ah! France the Douce, hence­forth art thou made waste Of vas­sals brave, con­found­ed and dis­graced! Our Em­per­our shall suf­fer dam­age great.” And with these words up­on his horse he faints. AOI.

CXLIX

You’d seen Rol­lant as­woon there in his seat, And Oliv­er, who un­to death doth bleed, So much he’s bled, his eyes are dim and weak; Nor clear enough his vi­sion, far or near, To recog­nise what­ev­er man he sees; His com­pan­ion, when each the oth­er meets, Above the helm jew­elled with gold he beats, Slic­ing it down from there to the nose-​piece, But not his head; he’s touched not brow nor cheek. At such a blow Rol­lant re­gards him keen, And asks of him, in gen­tle tones and sweet: “To do this thing, my com­rade, did you mean? This is Rol­lanz, who ev­er held you dear; And no mis­trust was ev­er us be­tween.” Says Oliv­er: “Now can I hear you speak; I see you not: may the Lord God you keep! I struck you now: and for your par­don plead.” An­swers Rol­lanz: “I am not hurt, in­deed; I par­don you, be­fore God’s Throne and here.” Up­on these words, each to the oth­er leans; And in such love you had their part­ing seen.

CL

Oliv­er feels death’s an­guish on him now; And in his head his two eyes swim­ming round; Noth­ing he sees; he hears not any sound; Dis­mount­ing then, he kneels up­on the ground, Pro­claims his sins both firm­ly and aloud, Clasps his two hands, heav­en­wards holds them out, Prays God him­self in Par­adise to al­low; Bless­ings on Charles, and on Douce France he vows, And his com­rade, Rol­lanz, to whom he’s bound. Then his heart fails; his hel­met nods and bows; Up­on the earth he lays his whole length out: And he is dead, may stay no more, that count. Rol­lanz the brave mourns him with grief pro­found; Nowhere on earth so sad a man you’d found.

CLI

So Rol­lant’s friend is dead whom when he sees Face to the ground, and bit­ing it with’s teeth, Be­gins to mourn in lan­guage very sweet: “Un­lucky, friend, your courage was in­deed! To­geth­er we have spent such days and years; No harm­ful thing twixt thee and me has been. Now thou art dead, and all my life a grief.” And with these words again he swoons, that chief, Up­on his horse, which he calls Veil­lan­tif; Stir­rups of gold sup­port him un­der­neath; He can­not fall, whichev­er way he lean.

CLII

Soon as Rol­lant his sens­es won and knew, Re­cov­er­ing and turn­ing from that swoon. Bit­ter great loss ap­peared there in his view: Dead are the Franks; he’d all of them to lose, Save the Arch­bish­op, and save Gual­ter del Hum; He is come down out of the moun­tains, who Gainst Span­ish men made there a great ado; Dead are his men, for those the pa­gans slew; Will he or nill, along the vales he flew, And called Rol­lant, to bring him suc­cour soon: “Ah! Gen­tle count, brave sol­dier, where are you? For By thy side no fear I ev­er knew. Gual­ter it is, who con­quered Maelgut, And nephew was to hoary old Drouin; My vas­salage thou ev­er thought­est good. Bro­ken my spear, and split my shield in two; Gone is the mail that on my hauberk grew; This body of mine eight lances have gone through; I’m dy­ing. Yet full price for life I took.” Rol­lant has heard these words and un­der­stood, Has spurred his horse, and on to­wards him drew. AOI.

CLI­II

Grief gives Rol­lanz in­tol­er­ance and pride; Through the great press he goes again to strike; To slay a score of Spaniards he con­trives, Gual­ter has six, the Arch­bish­op oth­er five. The pa­gans say: “Men, these, of felon kind! Lord­ings, take care they go not hence alive! Felon he’s named that does not break their line, Recre­ant, who lets them any safe­ty find!” And so once more be­gin the hue and cry, From ev­ery part they come to break the line. AOI.

CLI

Count Rol­lant is a no­ble and brave sol­dier, Gual­ter del Hum’s a right good cheva­lier, That Arch­bish­op hath shewn good prowess there; None of them falls be­hind the oth­er pair; Through the great press, pa­gans they strike again. Come on afoot a thou­sand Sar­razens, And on horse­back some forty thou­sand men. But well I know, to ap­proach they nev­er dare; Lances and spears they poise to hurl at them, Ar­rows, barbs, darts and javelins in the air. With the first flight they’ve slain our Gualti­er; Turpin of Reims has all his shield bro­ken, And cracked his helm; he’s wound­ed in the head, From his hauberk the wo­ven mail they tear, In his body four spear-​wounds doth he bear; Be­neath him too his charg­er’s fall­en dead. Great grief it was, when that Arch­bish­op fell. AOI.

CLV

Turpin of Reims hath felt him­self un­done, Since that four spears have through his body come; Nim­ble and bold up­on his feet he jumps; Looks for Rol­lant, and then to­wards him runs, Say­ing this word: “I am not over­come. While life re­mains, no good vas­sal gives up.” He’s drawn Al­mace, whose steel was brown and rough, Through the great press a thou­sand blows he’s struck: As Charles said, quar­ter he gave to none; He found him there, four hun­dred else among, Wound­ed the most, speared through the mid­dle some, Al­so there were from whom the heads he’d cut: So tells the tale, he that was there says thus, The brave Saint Giles, whom God made mar­vel­lous, Who char­ters wrote for th’ Min­ster at Loum; Noth­ing he’s heard that does not know this much.

CLVI

The count Rol­lanz has nobly fought and well, But he is hot, and all his body sweats; Great pain he has, and trou­ble in his head, His tem­ples burst when he the horn sound­ed; But he would know if Charles will come to them, Takes the olifant, and fee­bly sounds again. That Em­per­our stood still and lis­tened then: “My lords,” said he, “Right evil­ly we fare! This day Rol­lanz, my nephew shall be dead: I hear his horn, with scarce­ly any breath. Nim­bly can­ter, who­ev­er would be there! Your trum­pets sound, as many as ye bear!” Six­ty thou­sand so loud to­geth­er blare, The moun­tains ring, the val­leys an­swer them. The pa­gans hear, they think it not a jest; Says each to each: “Car­lum doth us bestead.” AOI.

CLVII

The pa­gans say: “That Em­per­our’s at hand, We hear their sound, the trum­pets of the Franks; If Charles come, great loss we then shall stand, And wars re­newed, un­less we slay Rol­lant; All Spain we’ll lose, our own clear fa­ther-​land.” Four hun­dred men of them in hel­mets stand; The best of them that might be in their ranks Make on Rol­lanz a grim and fierce at­tack; Gainst these the count had well enough in hand. AOI.

CLVI­II

The count Rol­lanz, when their ap­proach he sees Is grown so bold and man­ifest and fierce So long as he’s alive he will not yield. He sits his horse, which men call Veil­lan­tif, Prick­ing him well with gold­en spurs be­neath, Through the great press he goes, their line to meet, And by his side is the Arch­bish­op Turpin. “Now, friend, be­gone!” say pa­gans, each to each; “These Frank­ish men, their horns we plain­ly hear Charle is at hand, that King in Majesty.”

CLIX

The count Rol­lanz has nev­er loved cow­ards, Nor ar­ro­gant, nor men of evil heart, Nor cheva­lier that was not good vas­sal. That Arch­bish­op, Turpins, he calls apart: “Sir, you’re afoot, and I my charg­er have; For love of you, here will I take my stand, To­geth­er we’ll en­dure things good and bad; I’ll leave you not, for no in­car­nate man: We’ll give again these pa­gans their at­tack; The bet­ter blows are those from Duren­dal.” Says the Arch­bish­op: “Shame on him that holds back! Charle is at hand, full vengeance he’ll ex­act.”

CLX

The pa­gans say: “Un­lucky were we born! An evil day for us did this day dawn! For we have lost our peers and all our lords. Charles his great host once more up­on us draws, Of Frank­ish men we plain­ly hear the horns, “Mon­joie ” they cry, and great is their up­roar. The count Rol­lant is of such pride and force He’ll nev­er yield to man of wom­an born; Let’s aim at him, then leave him on the spot!” And aim they did: with ar­rows long and short, Lances and spears and feath­ered javelots; Count Rol­lant’s shield they’ve bro­ken through and bored, The wo­ven mail have from his hauberk torn, But not him­self, they’ve nev­er touched his corse; Veil­lan­tif is in thir­ty places gored, Be­neath the count he’s fall­en dead, that horse. Pa­gans are fled, and leave him on the spot; The count Rol­lant stands on his feet once more. AOI.

CLXI

Pa­gans are fled, enan­gered and en­raged, Home in­to Spain with speed they make their way; The count Rol­lanz, he has not giv­en chase, For Veil­lan­tif, his charg­er, they have slain; Will he or nill, on foot he must re­main. To the Arch­bish­op, Turpins, he goes with aid; I He’s from his head the gold­en helm un­laced, Tak­en from him his white hauberk away, And cut the gown in strips, was round his waist; On his great wounds the pieces of it placed, Then to his heart has caught him and em­braced; On the green grass he has him soft­ly laid, Most sweet­ly then to him has Rol­lant prayed: “Ah! Gen­tle sir, give me your leave, I say; Our com­pan­ions, whom we so dear ap­praised, Are now all dead; we can­not let them stay; I will go seek and bring them to this place, Ar­range them here in ranks, be­fore your face.” Said the Arch­bish­op: “Go, and re­turn again. This field is yours and mine now; God be praised!”

CLXII

So Rol­lanz turns; through the field, all alone, Search­ing the vales and moun­tains, he is gone; He finds Gerin, Ger­ers his com­pan­ion, Al­so he finds Berenger and Ot­ton, There too he finds An­seis and San­son, And finds Ger­ard the old, of Rossil­lon; By one and one he’s tak­en those barons, To the Arch­bish­op with each of them he comes, Be­fore his knees ar­ranges ev­ery one. That Arch­bish­op, he can­not help but sob, He lifts his hand, gives bene­dic­tion; Af­ter he’s said: “Un­lucky, Lords, your lot! But all your souls He’ll lay, our Glo­ri­ous God, In Par­adise, His holy flow­ers up­on! For my own death such an­guish now I’ve got; I shall not see him, our rich Em­per­or.”

CLXI­II

So Rol­lant turns, goes through the field in quest; His com­pan­ion Olivi­er finds at length; He has em­braced him close against his breast, To the Arch­bish­op re­turns as he can best; Up­on a shield he’s laid him, by the rest; And the Arch­bish­op has them ab­solved and blest: Where­on his grief and pity grow afresh. Then says Rol­lanz: “Fair com­rade Olivi­er, You were the son of the good count Reinier, Who held the march by th’ Vale of Runier; To shat­ter spears, through buck­led shields to bear, And from hauberks the mail to break and tear, Proof men to lead, and pru­dent coun­sel share, Glut­tons in field to fright­en and con­quer, No land has known a bet­ter cheva­lier.”

CLX­IV

The count Rol­lanz, when dead he saw his peers, And Oliv­er, he held so very dear, Grew ten­der, and be­gan to shed a tear; Out of his face the colour dis­ap­peared; No longer could he stand, for so much grief, Will he or nill, he swooned up­on the field. Said the Arch­bish­op: “Un­lucky lord, in­deed!”

CLXV

When the Arch­bish­op be­held him swoon, Rol­lant, Nev­er be­fore such bit­ter grief he’d had; Stretch­ing his hand, he took that olifant. Through Rences­vals a lit­tle riv­er ran; He would go there, fetch wa­ter for Rol­lant. Went step by step, to stum­ble soon be­gan, So fee­ble he is, no fur­ther fare he can, For too much blood he’s lost, and no strength has; Ere he has crossed an acre of the land, His heart grows faint, he falls down for­wards and Death comes to him with very cru­el pangs.

CLXVI

The count Rol­lanz wakes from his swoon once more, Climbs to his feet; his pains are very sore; Looks down the vale, looks to the hills above; On the green grass, be­yond his com­pan­ions, He sees him lie, that no­ble old baron; ‘Tis the Arch­bish­op, whom in His name wrought God; There he pro­claims his sins, and looks above; Joins his two hands, to Heav­en holds them forth, And Par­adise prays God to him to ac­cord. Dead is Turpin, the war­rior of Char­lon. In bat­tles great and very rare ser­mons Against pa­gans ev­er a cham­pi­on. God grant him now His Bene­dic­tion! AOI.

CLXVII

The count Rol­lant sees the Arch­bish­op lie dead, Sees the bow­els out of his body shed, And sees the brains that surge from his fore­head; Be­tween his two arm-​pits, up­on his breast, Cross­ways he folds those hands so white and fair. Then mourns aloud, as was the cus­tom there: “Thee, gen­tle sir, cheva­lier nobly bred, To the Glo­ri­ous Ce­les­tial I com­mend; Neer shall man be, that will Him serve so well; Since the Apos­tles was nev­er such prophet, To hold the laws and draw the hearts of men. Now may your soul no pain nor sor­row ken, Find­ing the gates of Par­adise open!”

CLXVI­II

Then Rol­lanz feels that death to him draws near, For all his brain is is­sued from his ears; He prays to God that He will call the peers, Bids Gabriel, the an­gel, t’ him­self ap­pear. Takes the olifant, that no re­proach shall hear, And Duren­dal in the oth­er hand he wields; Fur­ther than might a cross-​bow’s ar­row speed Goes to­wards Spain in­to a fal­low-​field; Climbs on a cliff; where, un­der two fair trees, Four ter­races, of mar­ble wrought, he sees. There he falls down, and lies up­on the green; He swoons again, for death is very near.

CLX­IX

High are the peaks, the trees are very high. Four ter­races of pol­ished mar­ble shine; On the green grass count Rol­lant swoons there­by. A Sar­razin him all the time es­pies, Who feign­ing death among the oth­ers hides; Blood hath his face and all his body dyed; He gets afoot, run­ning to­wards him hies; Fair was he, strong and of a courage high; A mor­tal hate he’s kin­dled in his pride. He’s seized Rol­lant, and the arms, were at his side, “Charles nephew,” he’s said, “here con­quered lies. To Ara­by I’ll bear this sword as prize.” As he drew it, some­thing the count de­scried.

CLXX

So Rol­lant felt his sword was tak­en forth, Opened his eyes, and this word to him spoke “Thou’rt nev­er one of ours, full well I know.” Took the olifant, that he would not let go, Struck him on th’ helm, that jew­elled was with gold, And broke its steel, his skull and all his bones, Out of his head both the two eyes he drove; Dead at his feet he has the pa­gan thrown: Af­ter he’s said: “Cul­vert, thou wert too bold, Or right or wrong, of my sword seiz­ing hold! They’ll dub thee fool, to whom the tale is told. But my great one, my olifant I broke; Fall­en from it the crys­tal and the gold.”

CLXXI

Then Rol­lanz feels that he has lost his sight, Climbs to his feet, us­es what strength he might; In all his face the colour is grown white. In front of him a great brown boul­der lies; Where­on ten blows with grief and rage he strikes; The steel cries out, but does not break out­right; And the count says: “Saint Mary, be my guide Good Duren­dal, un­lucky is your plight! I’ve need of you no more; spent is my pride! We in the field have won so many fights, Com­bat­ing through so many re­gions wide That Charles holds, whose beard is hoary white! Be you not his that turns from any in flight! A good vas­sal has held you this long time; Nev­er shall France the Free be­hold his like.”

CLXXII

Rol­lant hath struck the sar­donyx ter­race; The steel cries out, but bro­ken is no ways. So when he sees he nev­er can it break, With­in him­self be­gins he to com­plain: “Ah! Duren­dal, white art thou, clear of stain! Be­neath the sun re­flect­ing back his rays! In Mo­ri­ane was Charles, in the vale, When from heav­en God by His an­gel bade Him give thee to a count and cap­itain; Girt thee on me that no­ble King and great. I won for him with thee An­jou, Bre­taigne, And won for him with thee Peitou, the Maine, And Nor­mandy the free for him I gained, Al­so with thee Provence and Eq­ui­taigne, And Lum­bardie and all the whole Ro­maigne, I won Bai­vere, all Flan­ders in the plain, Al­so Bur­guigne and all the whole Puil­lane, Cos­tentinno­ple, that homage to him pays; In Saisonie all is as he or­dains; With thee I won him Scot­land, Ire­land, Wales, Eng­land al­so, where he his cham­ber makes; Won I with thee so many coun­tries strange That Charles holds, whose beard is white with age! For this sword’s sake sor­row up­on me weighs, Rather I’ld die, than it mid pa­gans stay. Lord God Fa­ther, nev­er let France be shamed!”

CLXXI­II

Rol­lant his stroke on a dark stone re­peats, And more of it breaks off than I can speak. The sword cries out, yet breaks not in the least, Back from the blow in­to the air it leaps. De­stroy it can he not; which when he sees, With­in him­self he makes a plaint most sweet. “Ah! Duren­dal, most holy, fair in­deed! Relics enough thy gold­en hilt con­ceals: Saint Pe­ter’s Tooth, the Blood of Saint Basile, Some of the Hairs of my Lord, Saint Denise, Some of the Robe, was worn by Saint Mary. It is not right that pa­gans should thee seize, For Chris­tian men your use shall ev­er be. Nor any man’s that wor­keth cow­ardice! Many broad lands with you have I re­trieved Which Charles holds, who hath the great white beard; Where­fore that King so proud and rich is he.”

CLXXIV

But Rol­lant felt that death had made a way Down from his head till on his heart it lay; Be­neath a pine run­ning in haste he came, On the green grass he lay there on his face; His olifant and sword be­neath him placed, Turn­ing his head to­wards the pa­gan race, Now this he did, in truth, that Charles might say (As he de­sired) and all the Franks his race; — ‘Ah, gen­tle count; con­quer­ing he was slain!’ — He owned his faults of­ten and ev­ery way, And for his sins his glove to God up­raised. AOI.

CLXXV

But Rol­lant feels he’s no more time to seek; Look­ing to Spain, he lies on a sharp peak, And with one hand up­on his breast he beats: “Mea Cul­pa! God, by Thy Virtues clean Me from my sins, the mor­tal and the mean, Which from the hour that I was born have been Un­til this day, when life is end­ed here!” Holds out his glove to­wards God, as he speaks An­gels de­scend from heav­en on that scene. AOI.

CLXXVI

The count Rol­lanz, be­neath a pine he sits,; Turn­ing his eyes to­wards Spain, he be­gins Re­mem­ber­ing so many divers things: So many lands where he went con­quer­ing, And France the Douce, the heroes of his kin, And Charle­magne, his lord who nour­ished him. Nor can he help but weep and sigh at this. But his own self, he’s not for­got­ten him, He owns his faults, and God’s for­give­ness bids: “Very Fa­ther, in Whom no false­hood is, Saint Lazaron from death Thou didst re­mit, And Daniel save from the li­ons’ pit; My soul in me pre­serve from all per­ils And from the sins I did in life com­mit!” His right-​hand glove, to God he of­fers it Saint Gabriel from’s hand hath tak­en it. Over his arm his head bows down and slips, He joins his hands: and so is life fin­ish’d. God sent him down His an­gel cheru­bin, And Saint Michael, we wor­ship in per­il; And by their side Saint Gabriel alit; So the count’s soul they bare to Par­adis.

CLXXVII

Rol­lant is dead; his soul to heav’n God bare. That Em­per­our to Rences­vals doth fare. There was no path nor pas­sage any­where Nor of waste ground no ell nor foot to spare With­out a Frank or pa­gan ly­ing there. Charles cries aloud: “Where are you, nephew fair? Where’s the Arch­bish­op and that count Oliviers? Where is Gerins and his com­rade Ger­ers? Otes the Duke, and the count Berengiers And Ivorie, and Ive, so dear they were? What is be­come of Gas­con En­ge­li­er, San­sun the Duke and An­seis the fierce? Where’s old Ger­ard of Rus­sil­lun; oh, where The dozen peers I left be­hind me here?” But what avail, since none can an­swer bear? “God!” says the King, “Now well may I de­spair, I was not here the first as­sault to share!” Seem­ing en­raged, his beard the King doth tear. Weep from their eyes barons and cheva­liers, A thou­sand score, they swoon up­on the earth; Duke Neimes for them was moved with pity rare.

CLXXVI­II

No cheva­lier nor baron is there, who Piti­ful­ly weeps not for grief and dule; They mourn their sons, their broth­ers, their nephews, And their liege lords, and trusty friends and true; Up­on the ground a many of them swoon. There­on Duke Neimes doth act with wis­dom proof, First be­fore all he’s said to the Em­per­our: “See be­fore­hand, a league from us or two, From the high­ways dust ris­ing in our view; Pa­gans are there, and many them, too. Can­ter there­fore! Vengeance up­on them do!” “Ah, God!” says Charles, “so far are they re-​moved! Do right by me, my hon­our still re­new! They’ve torn from me the flow­er of France the Douce.” The King com­mands Gebuin and Otun, Ted­balt of Reims, al­so the count Milun: “Guard me this field, these hills and val­leys too, Let the dead lie, all as they are, un­moved, Let not ap­proach li­on, nor any brute, Let not ap­proach es­quire, nor any groom; For I for­bid that any come there­to, Un­til God will that we re­turn anew.” These an­swer him sweet­ly, their love to prove: “Right Em­per­our, dear Sire, so will we do.” A thou­sand knights they keep in ret­inue. AOI.

CLXXIX

That Em­per­our bids trum­pets sound again, Then can­ters forth with his great host so brave. Of Span­ish men, whose backs are turned their way, Franks one and all con­tin­ue in their chase. When the King sees the light at even fade, On the green grass dis­mount­ing as he may, He kneels aground, to God the Lord doth pray That the sun’s course He will for him de­lay, Put off the night, and still pro­long the day. An an­gel then, with him should rea­son make, Nim­bly enough ap­peared to him and spake: “Charles, can­ter on! Light needst not thou await. The flow­er of France, as God knows well, is slain; Thou canst be avenged up­on that crime­ful race.” Up­on that word mounts the Em­per­our again. AOI.

CLXXX

For Charle­magne a great mar­vel God planned: Mak­ing the sun still in his course to stand. So pa­gans fled, and chased them well the Franks Through the Val­ley of Shad­ows, close in hand; To­wards Sar­raguce by force they chased them back, And as they went with killing blows at­tacked: Barred their high­ways and ev­ery path they had. The Riv­er Se­bre be­fore them reared its bank, ‘Twas very deep, mar­vel­lous cur­rent ran; No barge there­on nor dromond nor ca­land. A god of theirs in­voked they, Ter­va­gant. And then leaped in, but there no war­rant had. The armed men more weighty were for that, Many of them down to the bot­tom sank, Down­stream the rest float­ed as they might hap; So much wa­ter the luck­iest of them drank, That all were drowned, with mar­vel­lous keen pangs. “An evil day,” cry Franks, “ye saw Rol­lant!”

CLXXXI

When Charles sees that pa­gans all are dead, Some of them slain, the greater part drowned; (Where­by great spoils his cheva­liers col­lect) That gen­tle King up­on his feet de­scends, Kneels on the ground, his thanks to God presents. When he once more rise, the sun is set. Says the Em­per­our “Time is to pitch our tents; To Rences­vals too late to go again. Our hors­es are worn out and foundered: Un­sad­dle them, take bri­dles from their heads, And through these meads let them re­fresh­ment get.” An­swer the Franks: “Sire, you have spo­ken well.” AOI.

CLXXXII

That Em­per­our hath cho­sen his bivouac; The Franks dis­mount in those de­sert­ed tracts, Their sad­dles take from off their hors­es’ backs, Bri­dles of gold from off their heads un­strap, Let them go free; there is enough fresh grass — No ser­vice can they ren­der them, save that. Who is most tired sleeps on the ground stretched flat. Up­on this night no sen­tinels keep watch.

CLXXXI­II

That Em­per­our is ly­ing in a mead; By’s head, so brave, he’s placed his mighty spear; On such a night un­armed he will not be. He’s donned his white hauberk, with broi­dery, Has laced his helm, jew­elled with gold­en beads, Girt on Joiuse, there nev­er was its peer, Where­on each day thir­ty fresh hues ap­pear. All of us know that lance, and well may speak Where­by Our Lord was wound­ed on the Tree: Charles, by God’s grace, pos­sessed its point of steel! His gold­en hilt he en­shrined it un­der­neath. By that hon­our and by that sanc­ti­ty The name Joiuse was for that sword de­creed. Barons of France may not for­get­ful be Whence comes the en­sign “Mon­joie,” they cry at need; Where­fore no race against them can suc­ceed.

CLXXXIV

Clear was the night, the moon shone ra­di­ant. Charles laid him down, but sor­row for Rol­lant And Oliv­er, most heavy on him he had, For’s dozen peers, for all the Frank­ish band He had left dead in bloody Rences­vals; He could not help, but wept and waxed mad, And prayed to God to be their souls’ War­rant. Weary that King, or grief he’s very sad; He falls on sleep, he can no more with­stand. Through all those meads they slum­ber then, the Franks; Is not a horse can any longer stand, Who would eat grass, he takes it ly­ing flat. He has learned much, can un­der­stand their pangs.

CLXXXV

Charles, like a man worn out with labour, slept. Saint Gabriel the Lord to him hath sent, Whom as a guard o’er the Em­per­our he set; Stood all night long that an­gel by his head. In a vi­sion an­nounced he to him then A bat­tle, should be fought against him yet, Sig­nif­icance of griefs demon­strat­ed. Charles looked up to­wards the sky, and there Thun­ders and winds and blow­ing gales be­held, And hur­ri­canes and mar­vel­lous tem­pests; Light­nings and flames he saw in readi­ness, That speed­ily on all his peo­ple fell; Ap­ple and ash, their spear-​shafts all burned, Al­so their shields, e’en the gold­en boss­es, Crum­bled the shafts of their tren­chant lances, Crushed their hauberks and all their steel hel­mets. His cheva­liers he saw in great dis­tress. Bears and leop­ards would feed up­on them next; Ad­ver­saries, drag­ons, wyverns, ser­pents, Griffins were there, thir­ty thou­sand, no less, Nor was there one but on some Frank it set. And the Franks cried: “Ah! Charle­magne, give help!” Where­fore the King much grief and pity felt, He’ld go to them but was in duress kept: Out of a wood came a great li­on then, ‘Twas very proud and fierce and ter­ri­ble; His body dear sought out, and on him leapt, Each in his arms, wrestling, the oth­er held; But he knew not which con­quered, nor which fell. That Em­per­our woke not at all, but slept.

CLXXXVI

And, af­ter that, an­oth­er vi­sion came: Him­seemed in France, at Aix, on a ter­race, And that he held a bru­in by two chains; Out of Ar­denne saw thir­ty bears that came, And each of them words, as a man might, spake Said to him: “Sire, give him to us again! It is not right that he with you re­main, He’s of our kin, and we must lend him aid.” A har­ri­er fair ran out of his palace, Among them all the great­est bear as­sailed On the green grass, be­yond his friends some way. There saw the King mar­vel­lous give and take; But he knew not which fell, nor which o’er­came. The an­gel of God so much to him made plain. Charles slept on till the clear dawn of day.

CLXXXVII

King Mar­silies, flee­ing to Sar­raguce, Dis­mount­ed there be­neath an olive cool; His sword and sark and helm aside he put, On the green grass lay down in shame and gloom; For his right hand he’d lost, ’twas clean cut through; Such blood he’d shed, in an­guish keen he swooned. Be­fore his face his la­dy Bramimunde Be­wailed and cried, with very bit­ter rue; Twen­ty thou­sand and more around him stood, All of them cursed Car­lun and France the Douce. Then Apollin in’s grot­to they sur­round, And threat­en him, and ug­ly words pro­nounce: “Such shame on us, vile god!, why bringest thou? This is our king; where­fore dost him con­found? Who served thee oft, ill rec­om­pense hath found.” Then they take off his scep­tre and his crown, With their hands hang him from a col­umn down, Among their feet tram­ple him on the ground, With great cud­gels they bat­ter him and trounce. From Ter­va­gant his car­bun­cle they im­pound, And Mahumet in­to a ditch fling out, Where swine and dogs de­file him and de­vour.

CLXXXVI­II

Out of his swoon awak­ens Mar­silies, And has him borne his vault­ed roof be­neath; Many colours were paint­ed there to see, And Bramimunde laments for him, the queen, Tear­ing her hair; caitiff her­self she clepes; Al­so these words cries very loud and clear: “Ah! Sar­raguce, hence­forth for­lorn thou’lt be Of the fair king that had thee in his keep! All those our gods have wrought great felony, Who in bat­tle this morn­ing failed at need. That ad­mi­ral will shew his cow­ardice, Un­less he fight against that race hardy, Who are so fierce, for life they take no heed. That Em­per­our, with his blos­som­ing beard, Hath vas­salage, and very high fol­ly; Bat­tle to fight, he will not ev­er flee. Great grief it is, no man may slay him clean.”

CLXXXIX

That Em­per­our, by his great Majesty, I Full sev­en years in Spain now has he been, And cas­tles there, and many cities seized. King Mar­silies was there­fore sore dis­pleased; In the first year he sealed and sent his brief To Bali­gant, in­to Ba­bilonie: (’Twas the ad­mi­ral, old in an­tiq­ui­ty, That clean out­lived Omer and Vir­gilie,) To Sar­raguce, with suc­cour bade him speed, For, if he failed, Mar­sile his gods would leave, All his idols he wor­shipped for­mer­ly; He would re­ceive blest Chris­tian­ity And rec­on­ciled to Charle­magne would be. Long time that one came not, far off was he. Through forty realms he did his tribes ral­ly; His great dromonds, he made them all ready, Barges and skiffs and ships and gal­leries; Neath Alexan­dre, a haven next the sea, In readi­ness he gat his whole navy. That was in May, first sum­mer of the year, All of his hosts he launched up­on the sea.

CXC

Great are the hosts of that op­posed race; With speed they sail, they steer and nav­igate. High on their yards, at their mast-​heads they place Lanterns enough, and car­bun­cles so great Thence, from above, such light they dis­si­pate The sea’s more clear at mid­night than by day. And when they come in­to the land of Spain All that coun­try light­ens and shines again: Of their com­ing Mar­sile has heard the tale. AOI.

CX­CI

The pa­gan race would nev­er rest, but come Out of the sea, where the sweet wa­ters run; They leave Mar­bris, they leave be­hind Mar­brus, Up­stream by Se­bre doth all their navy turn. Lanterns they have, and car­bun­cles enough, That all night long and very clear­ly burn. Up­on that day they come to Sar­ra­gus. AOI.

CXCII

Clear is that day, and the sun ra­di­ant. Out of his barge is­sues their ad­mi­ral, Es­pan­el­iz goes forth at his right hand, Sev­en­teen kings fol­low him in a band, Counts too, and dukes; I can­not tell of that. Where in a field, mid­way, a lau­rel stands, On the green grass they spread a white silk mat, Set a fald-​stool there, made of olifant; Sits him there­on the pa­gan Bali­gant, And all the rest in rows about him stand. The lord of them speaks be­fore any man: “Lis­ten to me, free knights and valiant! Charles the King, the Em­per­our of the Franks, Shall not eat bread, save when that I com­mand. Through­out all Spain great war with me he’s had; I will go seek him now, in­to Douce France, I will not cease, while I’m a liv­ing man, Till be slain, or fall be­tween my hands.” Up­on his knee his right-​hand glove he slaps.

CXCI­II

He is fast bound by all that he has said. He will not fail, for all the gold neath heav’n, But go to Aix, where Charles court is held: His men ap­plaud, for so they coun­selled. Af­ter he called two of his cheva­liers, One Clar­ifan, and the oth­er Clar­ien: “You are the sons of king Mal­traien, Freely was, wont my mes­sages to bear. You I com­mand to Sar­raguce to fare. Mar­sil­iun on my part you shall tell Against the Franks I’m come to give him help, Find I their host, great bat­tle shall be there; Give him this glove, that’s stitched with gold­en thread, On his right hand let it be worn and held; This lit­tle wand of fine gold take as well, Bid him come here, his homage to de­clare. To France I’ll go, and war with Charles again; Save at my feet he kneel, and mer­cy beg, Save all the laws of Chris­tians he for­get, I’ll take away the crown from off his head.” An­swer pa­gans: “Sire, you say very well.”

CX­CIV

Said Bali­gant: “But can­ter now, barons, Take one the wand, and the oth­er one the glove!” These an­swer him: “Dear lord, it shall be done.” Can­ter so far, to Sar­raguce they come, Pass through ten gates, across four bridges run, Through all the streets, where­in the burghers crowd. When they draw nigh the citadel above, From the palace they hear a mighty sound; About that place are seen pa­gans enough, Who weep and cry, with grief are wax­en wood, And curse their gods, Ter­va­gan and Mahum And Apolin, from whom no help is come. Says each to each: “Caitiffs! What shall be done? For up­on us con­fu­sion vile is come, Now have we lost our king Mar­sil­iun, For yes­ter­day his hand count Rol­lanz cut; We’ll have no more Fair Jur­saleu, his son; The whole of Spain hence­for­ward is un­done.” Both mes­sen­gers on the ter­race dis­mount.

CX­CV

Hors­es they leave un­der an olive tree, Which by the reins two Sar­razins do lead; Those mes­sen­gers have wrapped them in their weeds, To the palace they climb the top­most steep. When they’re come in, the vault­ed roof be­neath, Mar­sil­ium with cour­tesy they greet: “May Mahumet, who all of us doth keep, And Ter­va­gan, and our lord Apo­line Pre­serve the, king and guard from harm the queen!” Says Bramimunde “Great fool­ish­ness I hear: Those gods of ours in cow­ardice are steeped; In Rences­vals they wrought an evil deed, Our cheva­liers they let be slain in heaps; My lord they failed in bat­tle, in his need, Nev­er again will he his right hand see; For that rich count, Rol­lanz, hath made him bleed. All our whole Spain shall be for Charles to keep. Mis­er­able! What shall be­come of me? Alas! That I’ve no man to slay me clean!” AOI.

CX­CVI

Says Clar­ien: “My la­dy, say not that! We’re mes­sen­gers from pa­gan Bali­gant; To Mar­silies, he says, he’ll be war­rant, So sends him here his glove, al­so this wand. Ves­sels we have, are moored by Se­bres bank, Barges and skiffs and gal­lies four thou­sand, Dromonds are there — I can­not speak of that. Our ad­mi­ral is wealthy and puis­sant. And Charle­magne he will go seek through France And quit­tance give him, dead or recre­ant.” Says Bramimunde: “Un­lucky jour­ney, that! Far near­er here you’ll light up­on the Franks; For sev­en years he’s stayed now in this land. That Em­per­our is bold and com­bat­ant, Rather he’ld die than from the field draw back; No king neath heav’n above a child he ranks. Charles hath no fear for any liv­ing man.

CX­CVII

Says Mar­silies the king: “Now let that be.” To th’mes­sen­gers: “Sirs, pray you, speak to me. I am held fast by death, as ye may see. No son have I nor daugh­ter to suc­ceed; That one I had, they slew him yester-​eve. Bid you my lord, he come to see me here. Rights over Spain that ad­mi­ral hath he, My claim to him, if he will take’t, I yield; But from the Franks he then must set her free. Gainst Charle­magne I’ll shew him strat­egy. With­in a month from now he’ll con­quered be. Of Sar­raguce ye’ll car­ry him the keys, He’ll go not hence, say, if he trusts in me.” They an­swer him: “Sir, ’tis the truth you speak.” AOI.

CX­CVI­II

Then says Mar­sile: “The Em­per­our, Charles the Great Hath slain my men and all my land laid waste, My cities are bro­ken and vi­olate; He lay this night up­on the riv­er Se­bre; I’ve count­ed well, ’tis sev­en leagues away. Bid the ad­mi­ral, lead­ing his host this way, Do bat­tle here; this word to him con­vey.” Gives them the keys of Sar­raguce her gates; Both mes­sen­gers their leave of him do take, Up­on that word bow down, and turn away.

CX­CIX

Both mes­sen­gers did on their hors­es mount; From that city nim­bly they is­sued out. Then, sore afraid, their ad­mi­ral they sought, To whom the keys of Sar­raguce they brought. Says Bali­gant: “Speak now; what have ye found? Where’s Mar­silies, to come to me was bound?” Says Clar­ien : “To death he’s strick­en down. That Em­per­our was in the pass but now; To France the Douce he would be home­ward-​bound, Rere­ward he set, to save his great hon­our: His nephew there in­stalled, Rol­lanz the count, And Oliv­er; the dozen peers around; A thou­sand score of Franks in ar­mour found. Mar­sile the king fought with them there, so proud; He and Rol­lanz up­on that field did joust. With Duren­dal he dealt him such a clout From his body he cut the right hand down. His son is dead, in whom his heart was bound, And the barons that ser­vice to him vowed; Flee­ing he came, he could no more hold out. That Em­per­our has chased him well enow. The king im­plores, you’ll has­ten with suc­cour, Yields to you Spain, his king­dom and his crown.” And Bali­gant be­gins to think, and frowns; Such grief he has, doth near­ly him con­found. AOI.

CC

“Sir ad­mi­ral,” said to him Clar­iens, “In Rences­vals was yes­ter­day bat­tle. Dead is Rol­lanz and that count Oliv­er, The dozen peers whom Charle so cher­ished, And of their Franks are twen­ty thou­sand dead. King Mar­silie’s of his right hand bereft, And the Em­per­our chased him enow from thence. Through­out this land no cheva­lier is left, But he be slain, or drowned in Se­bres bed. By riv­er side the Franks have pitched their tents, In­to this land so near to us they’ve crept; But, if you will, grief shall go with them hence.” And Bali­gant looked on him proud­ly then, In his courage grew joy­ous and con­tent; From the fald-​stool up­on his feet he leapt, Then cried aloud: “Barons, too long ye’ve slept; Forth from your ships is­sue, mount, can­ter well! If he flee not, that Charle­magne the eld, King Mar­silies shall some­how be avenged; For his right hand I’ll pay him back an head.”

CCI

Pa­gan Arabs out of their ships is­sue, Then mount up­on their hors­es and their mules, And can­ter forth, (nay, what more might they do?) Their ad­mi­ral, by whom they all were ruled, Called up to him Gemalfin, whom he knew: “I give com­mand of all my hosts to you.” On a brown horse mount­ed, as he was used, And in his train he took with him four dukes. Can­tered so far, he came to Sar­raguce. Dis­mount­ed on a floor of mar­ble blue, Where four counts were, who by his stir­rup stood; Up by the steps, the palace came in­to; To meet him there came run­ning Bramimunde, Who said to him: “Ac­cursed from the womb, That in such shame my sovran lord I lose! Fell at his feet, that ad­mi­ral her took. In grief they came up in­to Mar­sile’s room. AOI.

CCII

King Mar­silies, when he sees Bali­gant, Calls to him then two Span­ish Sarazands: “Take me by the arms, and so lift up my back.” One of his gloves he takes in his left hand; Then says Mar­sile: “Sire, king and ad­mi­ral, Quit­tance I give you here of all my land, With Sar­raguce, and the hon­our there­to hangs. My­self I’ve lost; my army, ev­ery man.” He an­swers him: “There­fore the more I’m sad. No long dis­course to­geth­er may we have; Full well I know, Charles waits not our at­tack, I take the glove from you, in spite of that.” He turned away in tears, such grief he had. Down by the steps, out of the palace ran, Mount­ed his horse, to’s peo­ple gal­lopped back. Can­tered so far, he came be­fore his band; From hour to hour then, as he went, he sang: “Pa­gans, come on: al­ready flee the Franks!” AOI.

CCI­II

In morn­ing time, when the dawn breaks at last, Awak­ened is that Em­per­our Charles. Saint Gabriel, who on God’s part him guards, Rais­es his hand, the Sign up­on him marks. Ris­es the King, his arms aside he’s cast, The oth­ers then, through all the host, dis­arm. Af­ter they mount, by virtue can­ter fast Through those long ways, and through those roads so large; They go to see the mar­vel­lous dam­age In Rences­vals, there where the bat­tle was. AOI.

CCIV

In Rences­vals is Charles en­tered, Be­gins to weep for those he finds there dead; Says to the Franks: “My lords, re­strain your steps, Since I my­self alone should go ahead, For my nephew, whom I would find again. At Aix I was, up­on the feast Noel, Vaunt­ed them there my valiant cheva­liers, Of bat­tles great and very hot con­tests; With rea­son thus I heard Rol­lant speak then: He would not die in any for­eign realm Ere he’d sur­passed his peers and all his men. To the foes’ land he would have turned his head, Con­quer­ing­ly his gal­lant life he’ld end.” Fur­ther than one a lit­tle wand could send, Be­fore the rest he’s on a peak mount­ed.

CCV

When the Em­per­our went seek­ing his nephew, He found the grass, and ev­ery flow­er that bloomed, Turned scar­lat, with our barons’ blood im­brued; Pity he felt, he could but weep for rue. Be­neath two trees he climbed the hill and looked, And Rol­lant’s strokes on three ter­races knew, On the green grass saw ly­ing his nephew; `Tis noth­ing strange that Charles anger grew. Dis­mount­ed then, and went — his heart was full, In his two hands the count’s body he took; With an­guish keen he fell on him and swooned.

CCVI

That Em­per­our is from his swoon re­vived. Naimes the Duke, and the count Ace­line, Gefrei d’An­jou and his broth­er Tier­ry, Take up the King, bear him be­neath a pine. There on the ground he sees his nephew lie. Most sweet­ly then be­gins he to re­pine: “Rol­lant, my friend, may God to thee be kind! Nev­er be­held any man such a knight So to en­gage and so to end a fight. Now my hon­our is turned in­to de­cline!” Charle swoons again, he can­not stand up­right. AOI.

CCVII

Charles the King re­turned out of his swoon. Him in their hands four of his barons took, He looked to the earth, saw ly­ing his nephew; All colour­less his lusty body grew, He turned his eyes, were very shad­ow­ful. Charles com­plained in ami­ty and truth: “Rol­lant, my friend, God lay thee mid the blooms Of Par­adise, among the glo­ri­ous! Thou cam’st to Spain in evil tide, seigneur! Day shall not dawn, for thee I’ve no dolour. How per­ish­es my strength and my val­our! None shall I have now to sus­tain my hon­our; I think I’ve not one friend neath heav­en’s roof, Kins­men I have, but none of them’s so proof.” He tore his locks, till both his hands were full. Five score thou­sand Franks had such great dolour There was not one but sore­ly wept for rue. AOI.

CCVI­II

“Rol­lant, my friend, to France I will away; When at Loum, I’m in my hall again, Strange men will come from many far do­mains, Who’ll ask me, where’s that count, the Cap­itain; I’ll say to them that he is dead in Spain. In bit­ter grief hence­for­ward shall I reign, Day shall not dawn, I weep not nor com­plain.

CCIX

“Rol­lant, my friend, fair youth that bar’st the bell, When I ar­rive at Aix, in my Chapelle, Men com­ing there will ask what news I tell; I’ll say to them: `Mar­vel­lous news and fell. My nephew’s dead, who won for me such realms!’ Against me then the Sax­on will rebel, Hun­gar, Bul­gar, and many hos­tile men, Ro­main, Puil­lain, all those are in Palerne, And in Af­frike, and those in Cal­if­erne; Afresh then will my pain and suf­france swell. For who will lead my armies with such strength, When he is slain, that all our days us led? Ah! France the Douce, now art thou de­sert­ed! Such grief I have that I would fain be dead.” All his white beard he hath be­gun to rend, Tore with both hands the hair out of his head. Five score thou­sand Franks swooned on the earth and fell.

CCX

“Rol­lant, my friend, God shew thee His mer­cy! In Par­adise re­pose the soul of thee! Who hath thee slain, ex­ile for France de­creed. I’ld live no more, so bit­ter is my grief For my house­hold, who have been slain for me. God grant me this, the Son of Saint Mary, Ere I am come to th’ mas­ter-​pass of Size, From my body my soul at length go free! Among their souls let mine in glo­ry be, And let my flesh up­on their flesh be heaped.” Still his white beard he tears, and his eyes weep. Duke Naimes says: “His wrath is great in­deed.” AOI.

CCXI

“Sire, Em­per­our,” Gefrei d’An­jou im­plored, “Let not your grief to such ex­cess be wrought; Bid that our men through all this field be sought, Whom those of Spain have in the bat­tle caught; In a char­nel com­mand that they be borne.” An­swered the King: “Sound then up­on your horn.” AOI.

CCXII

Gefreid d’An­jou up­on his trum­pet sounds; As Charles bade them, all the Franks dis­mount. All of their friends, whose bod­ies they have found To a char­nel speed­ily the bring down. Bish­ops there are, and ab­bots there enow, Canons and monks, vi­cars with shaven crowns; Ab­so­lu­tion in God’s name they’ve pro­nounced; In­cense and myrrh with pre­cious gums they’ve ground, And lusti­ly they’ve swung the censers round; With hon­our great they’ve laid them in the ground. They’ve left them there; what else might they do now? AOI.

CCXI­II

That Em­per­our sets Rol­lant on one side And Oliv­er, and the Arch­bish­op Turpine; Their bod­ies bids open be­fore his eyes. And all their hearts in silken veils to wind, And set them in cof­fers of mar­ble white; Af­ter, they take the bod­ies of those knights, Each of the three is wrapped in a deer’s hide; They’re washen well in all­spice and in wine. The King com­mands Ted­balt and Gebuin, Mar­quis Otun, Milun the count be­sides: Along the road in three wag­ons to drive. They’re cov­ered well with car­pets Galazine. AOI.

CCX­IV

Now to be off would that Em­per­our Charles, When pa­gans, lo! comes surg­ing the van­guard; Two mes­sen­gers come from their ranks for­ward, From the ad­mi­ral bring chal­lenge to com­bat: “‘Tis not yet time, proud King, that thou de-​part. Lo, Bali­gant comes can­ter­ing af­ter­ward, Great are the hosts he leads from Arab parts; This day we’ll see if thou hast vas­salage.” Charles the King his snowy beard has clasped, Re­mem­ber­ing his sor­row and dam­age, Haugh­ti­ly then his peo­ple all re­gards, In a loud voice he cries with all his heart: “Barons and Franks, to horse, I say, to arms!” AOI.

CCXC

First be­fore all was armed that Em­per­our, Nim­bly enough his iron sark in­dued, Laced up his helm, girt on his sword Joiuse, Out­shone the sun that daz­zling light it threw, Hung from his neck a shield, was of Girunde, And took his spear, was fash­ioned at Blan­dune. On his good horse then mount­ed, Ten­cen­dur, Which he had won at th’ford be­low Mar­sune When he flung dead Mal­palin of Ner­bune, Let go the reins, spurred him with ei­ther foot; Five score thou­sand be­hind him as he flew, Call­ing on God and the Apos­tle of Roum. AOI.

CCXVI

Through all the field dis­mount the Frank­ish men, Five-​score thou­sand and more, they arm them­selves; The gear they have en­hances much their strength, Their hors­es swift, their arms are fash­ioned well; Mount­ed they are, and fight with great sci­ence. Find they that host, bat­tle they’ll ren­der them. Their gon­falons flut­ter above their helms. When Charles sees the fair as­pect of them, He calls to him Joz­er­an of Provence, Nai­mon the Duke, with An­telme of Maience: “In such vas­sals should man have con­fi­dence, Whom not to trust were sure­ly want of sense; Un­less the Arabs of com­ing here re­pent, Then Rol­lant’s life, I think, we’ll dear­ly sell.” An­swers Duke Neimes: “God grant us his con­sent!” AOI.

CCXVII

Charles hath called Ra­bel and Guine­man; Thus said the King: “My lords, you I com­mand To take their place, Olivi­er and Rol­lant, One bear the sword and the oth­er the olifant; So can­ter forth ahead, be­fore the van, And in your train take fif­teen thou­sand Franks, Young bach­elors, that are most valiant. As many more shall af­ter them ad­vance, Whom Gebuins shall lead, al­so Lo­rains.” Naimes the Duke and the count Joz­er­ans Go to ad­just these columns in their ranks. Find they that host, they’ll make a grand at­tack. AOI.

CCXVI­II

Of Franks the first columns made ready there, Af­ter those two a third they next pre­pare; In it are set the vas­sals of Baiviere, Some thou­sand score high-​prized cheva­liers; Nev­er was lost the bat­tle, where they were: Charles for no race neath heav­en hath more care, Save those of France, who realms for him con­quered. The Dan­ish chief, the war­rior count Oger, Shall lead that troop, for haughty is their air. AOI.

CCX­IX

Three columns now, he has, the Em­per­our Charles. Naimes the Duke a fourth next sets apart Of good barons, en­dowed with vas­salage; Ger­mans they are, come from the Ger­man March, A thou­sand score, as all said af­ter­ward; They’re well equipped with hors­es and with arms, Rather they’ll die than from the bat­tle pass; They shall be led by Her­mans, Duke of Trace, Who’ll die be­fore he’s any way cow­ard. AOI.

CCXX

Naimes the Duke and the count Joz­er­ans The fifth col­umn have mus­tered, of Nor­mans, A thou­sand score, or so say all the Franks; Well armed are they, their hors­es charge and prance; Rather they’ld die, than eer be recre­ant; No race neath heav’n can more in th’field com­pass. Richard the old, lead them in th’field he shall, He’ll strike hard there with his good tren­chant lance. AOI.

CCXXI

The sixth col­umn is mus­tered of Bre­tons; Thir­ty thou­sand cheva­liers there­in come; These can­ter in the man­ner of barons, Up­right their spears, their en­signs fas­tened on. The over­lord of them is named Oe­don, Who doth com­mand the coun­ty Nevel­on, Ted­bald of Reims and the mar­quis Oton: “Lead ye my men, by my com­mis­sion.” AOI.

CCXXII

That Em­per­our hath now six columns yare Naimes the Duke the sev­enth next pre­pares Of Peit­evins and barons from Alverne; Forty thou­sand cheva­liers might be there; Their hors­es good, their arms are all most fair. They’re neath a cliff, in a vale by them­selves; With his right hand King Charles hath them blessed, Them Joz­er­ans shall lead, al­so God­selmes. AOI.

CCXXI­II

And the eighth col­umn hath Naimes made ready; Tis of Fla­mengs, and barons out of Frise; Forty thou­sand and more good knights are these, Nor lost by them has any bat­tle been. And the King says: “These shall do my ser­vice.” Be­tween Rem­balt and Ha­mon of Gal­ice Shall they be led, for all their chival­ry. AOI.

CCXXIV

Be­tween Nai­mon and Joz­er­an the count Are pru­dent men for the ninth col­umn found, Of Lotherengs and those out of Bor­goune; Fifty thou­sand good knights they are, by count; In hel­mets laced and sarks of iron brown, Strong are their spears, short are the shafts cut down; If the Arra­bits de­mur not, but come out And trust them­selves to these, they’ll strike them down. Tier­ris the Duke shall lead them, of Ar­goune. AOI.

CCXXV

The tenth col­umn is of barons of France, Five score thou­sand of our best cap­itans; Lusty of limb, and proud of coun­te­nance, Snowy their heads are, and their beards are blanched, In dou­bled sarks, and in hauberks they’re clad, Girt on their sides Frank­ish and Span­ish brands And no­ble shields of divers cog­ni­sance. Soon as they mount, the bat­tle they de­mand, “Mon­joie” they cry. With them goes Charle­magne. Gefreid d’An­jou car­ries that ori­flamme; Saint Pe­ter’s twas, and bare the name Ro­man, But on that day Mon­joie, by change, it gat. AOI.

CCXXVI

That Em­per­our down from his horse de­scends; To the green grass, kneel­ing, his face he bends. Then turns his eyes to­wards the Ori­ent, Calls up­on God with hearti­est in­tent: “Very Fa­ther, this day do me de­fend, Who to Jonas suc­cour didst tru­ly send Out of the whale’s bel­ly, where he was pent; And who didst spare the king of Niniv­en, And Daniel from mar­vel­lous tor­ment When he was caged with­in the li­ons’ den; And three chil­dren, all in a fire ar­dent: Thy gra­cious Love to me be here present. In Thy Mer­cy, if it please Thee, con­sent That my nephew Rol­lant I may avenge. When he had prayed, up­on his feet he stepped, With the strong mark of virtue signed his head; Up­on his swift charg­er the King mount­ed While Joz­er­ans and Neimes his stir­rup held; He took his shield, his tren­chant spear he kept; Fine limbs he had, both gal­lant and well set; Clear was his face and filled with good in­tent. Vig­or­ous­ly he can­tered on­ward thence. In front, in rear, they sound­ed their trum­pets, Above them all boomed the olifant again. Then all the Franks for pity of Rol­lant wept.

CCXXVII

That Em­per­our can­ters in no­ble ar­ray, Over his sark all of his beard dis­plays; For love of him, all oth­ers do the same, Five score thou­sand Franks are there­by made plain. They pass those peaks, those rocks and those moun­tains, Those ter­ri­ble nar­rows, and those deep vales, Then is­sue from the pass­es and the wastes Till they are come in­to the March of Spain; A halt they’ve made, in th’mid­dle of a plain. To Bali­gant his van­guard comes again A Su­lian hath told him his mes­sage: “We have seen Charles, that haughty sovereign; Fierce are his men, they have no mind to fail. Arm your­self then: Bat­tle you’ll have to-​day.” Says Bali­gant: “Mine is great vas­salage; Let horns this news to my pa­gans pro­claim.”

CCXXVI­II

Through all the host they have their drums sound­ed, And their bu­gles, and, very clear trum­pets. Pa­gans dis­mount, that they may arm them­selves. Their ad­mi­ral will stay no longer then; Puts on a sark, em­broi­dered in the hems, Laces his helm, that is with gold begemmed; Af­ter, his sword on his left side he’s set, Out of his pride a name for it he’s spelt Like to Car­lun’s, as he has heard it said, So Pre­ciuse he bad his own be clept; Twas their en­sign when they to bat­tle went, His cheva­liers’; he gave that cry to them. His own broad shield he hangs up­on his neck, (Round its gold boss a band of crys­tal went, The strap of it was a good silken web;) He grasps his spear, the which he calls Mal­tet; — So great its shaft as is a stout cud­gel, Be­neath its steel alone, a mule had bent; On his charg­er is Bali­gant mount­ed, Mar­cules, from over seas, his stir­rup held. That war­rior, with a great stride he stepped, Small were his thighs, his ribs of wide ex­tent, Great was his breast, and fine­ly fash­ioned, With shoul­ders broad and very clear as­pect; Proud was his face, his hair was ringlet­ed, White as a flow’r in sum­mer was his head. His vas­salage had of­ten been proved. God! what a knight, were he a Chris­tian yet! His horse he’s spurred, the clear blood is­sued; He’s gal­lopped on, over a ditch he’s leapt, Full fifty feet a man might mark its breadth. Pa­gans cry out: “Our March­es shall be held; There is no Frank, may once with him con­test, Will he or nill, his life he’ll soon have spent. Charles is mad, that he de­parts not hence.” AOI.

CCXXIX

That ad­mi­ral to a baron’s like enough, White is his beard as flow­ers by sum­mer burnt; In his own laws, of wis­dom hath he much; And in bat­tle he’s proud and ar­du­ous. His son Mal­primes is very chival­rous, He’s great and strong; — his an­ces­tors were thus. Says to his sire: “To can­ter then let us! I mar­vel much that soon we’ll see Car­lun.” Says Bali­gant: ” Yea, for he’s very pruff; In many tales hon­our to him is done; He hath no more Rol­lant, his sis­ter’s son, He’ll have no strength to stay in fight with us.” AOI.

CCXXX

“Fair son Mal­primes,” then says t’him Bali­gant, “Was slain yestreen the good vas­sal Rol­lanz, And Oliv­er, the proof and valiant, The dozen peers, whom Charles so cher­ished, and Twen­ty thou­sand more Frank­ish com­bat­ants. For all the rest I’ld not un­glove my hand. But the Em­per­our is ver­ily come back, — So tells me now my man, that Su­lian — Ten great columns he’s set them in their ranks; He’s a proof man who sounds that olifant, With a clear call he ral­lies his com­rades; These at the head come can­ter­ing in ad­vance, Al­so with them are fif­teen thou­sand Franks, Young bach­elors, whom Charles calls In­fants; As many again come fol­low­ing that band, Who will lay on with ut­most ar­ro­gance.” Then says Mal­primes: “The first blow I de­mand.” AOI.

CCXXXI

“Fair son Mal­primes,” says Bali­gant to him, “I grant it you, as you have asked me this; Against the Franks go now, and smite them quick. And take with you Tor­leu, the Per­sian king And Da­pamort, an­oth­er king Leutish. Their ar­ro­gance if you can hum­ble it, Of my do­mains a slice to you I’ll give From Cheri­ant un­to the Vale Mar­quis.” “I thank you, Sire!” Mal­primes an­swers him; Go­ing be­fore, he takes de­liv­ery; ‘Tis of that land, was held by king Flu­rit. Af­ter that hour he nev­er looked on it, In­vesti­ture gat nev­er, nor seizin.

CCXXXII

That ad­mi­ral can­ters among his hosts; Af­ter, his son with’s great body fol­lows, Tor­leus the king, and the king Da­pamort; Thir­ty columns most speed­ily they form. They’ve cheva­liers in mar­vel­lous great force; Fifty thou­sand the small­est col­umn holds. The first is raised of men from Buten­rot, The next, af­ter, Micenes, whose heads are gross; Along their backs, above their spinal bones, As they were hogs, great bris­tles on them grow. The third is raised from Nubles and from Blos; The fourth is raised from Bruns and Es­clavoz; The fifth is raised from Sor­bres and from Sorz; The sixth is raised from Er­mines and from Mors; The sev­enth is the men of Jeri­cho; Ne­groes are the eighth; the ninth are men of Gros; The tenth is raised from Balide the stronghold, That is a tribe no good­will ev­er shews. That ad­mi­ral hath sworn, the way he knows, By Mahumet, his virtues and his bones: “Charles of France is mad to can­ter so; Bat­tle he’ll have, un­less he take him home; No more he’ll wear on’s head that crown of gold.”

CCXXXI­II

Ten great columns they mar­shal there­after; Of Cane­lious, right ug­ly, is the first, Who from Val-​Fuit came across coun­try there; The next’s of Turks; of Per­sians is the third; The fourth is raised of des­per­ate Pinceners, The fifth is raised from Soltras and Avers; The sixth is from Or­maleus and Eu­gez; The sev­enth is the tribe of Samuel; The eighth is from Bruise; the ninth from Es­clavers; The tenth is from Oc­ciant, the desert, That is a tribe, do not the Lord God serve, Of such felons you nev­er else have heard; Hard is their hide, as though it iron were, Where­fore of helm or hauberk they’ve no care; In the bat­tle they’re felon mur­der­ers. AOI.

CCXXXIV

That ad­mi­ral ten columns more re­views; The first is raised of Gi­ants from Mal­pruse; The next of Huns; the third a Hun­gar crew; And from Bald­ise the Long the fourth have trooped; The fifth is raised of men from Val-​Penuse; The sixth is raised of tribes­men from Maruse; The sev­enth is from Leus and Astrimunes; The eighth from Ar­goilles; the ninth is from Clar­bune; The tenth is raised of beards­men from Val-​Frunde, That is a tribe, no love of God e’er knew. Ges­ta Fran­cor’ these thir­ty columns prove. Great are the hosts, their horns come sound­ing through. Pa­gans can­ter as men of val­our should. AOI.

CCXXXV

That ad­mi­ral hath great pos­ses­sions; He makes them bear be­fore him his drag­on, And their stan­dard, Ter­va­gan’s and Ma­hom’s, And his im­age, Apollin the felon. Ten Cane­lious can­ter in the en­vi­rons, And very loud the cry out this ser­mon: “Let who would from our gods have gar­ri­son, Serve them and pray with great af­flic­tion.” Pa­gans awhile their heads and faces on Their breasts abase, their pol­ished hel­mets doff. And the Franks say: “Now shall you die, glut­tons; This day shall bring you vile con­fu­sion! Give war­ran­ty, our God, un­to Car­lon! And in his name this vic­to­ry be won!” AOI.

CCXXXVI

That ad­mi­ral hath wis­dom great in­deed; His son to him and those two kings calls he: My lords barons, be­fore­hand can­ter ye, All my columns to­geth­er shall you lead; But of the best I’ll keep be­side me three: One is of Turks; the next of Or­maleis; And the third is the Gi­ants of Mal­preis. And Oc­ciant’s, they’ll al­so stay with me, Un­til with Charles and with the Franks they meet. That Em­per­our, if he com­bat with me, Must lose his head, cut from his shoul­ders clean; He may be sure naught else for him’s de­creed. AOI.

CCXXXVII

Great are the hosts, and all the columns fair, No peak nor vale nor cliff be­tween them there, Thick­et nor wood, nor am­bush any­where; Across the plain they see each oth­er well. Says Bali­gant: “My pa­gan tribes ad­verse, Bat­tle to seek, can­ter ye now ahead!” Car­ries the en­sign Am­boires of Oluferne; Pa­gans cry out, by Pre­ciuse they swear. And the Franks say: “Great hurt this day you’ll get!” And very loud “Mon­joie!” they cry again. That Em­per­our has bid them sound trum­pets; And the olifant sounds over all its knell. The pa­gans say: “Car­lun’s peo­ple are fair. Bat­tle we’ll have, bit­ter and keen­ly set.” AOI.

CCXXXVI­II

Great is that plain, and wide is that coun­try; Their hel­mets shine with gold­en jew­ellery, Al­so their sarks em­broi­dered and their shields, And the en­signs fixed on all their bur­nished spears. The trum­pets sound, their voice is very clear, And the olifant its echo­ing mu­sic speaks. Then the ad­mi­ral, his broth­er cal­leth he, ‘Tis Can­abeus, the king of Flo­redee, Who holds the land un­to the Vale Sevree; He’s shewn to him Car­lun’s ten com­pa­nies: “The pride of France, renowned land, you see. That Em­per­our can­ters right haugh­ti­ly, His beard­ed men are with him in the rear; Over their sarks they have thrown out their beards Which are as white as driv­en snows that freeze. Strike us they will with lances and with spears: Bat­tle with them we’ll have, pro­longed and keen; Nev­er has man be­held such armies meet.” Fur­ther than one might cast a rod that’s peeled Goes Bali­gant be­fore his com­pa­nies. His rea­son then he’s shewn to them, and speaks: “Pa­gans, come on; for now I take the field.” His spear in hand he bran­dish­es and wields, To­wards Car­lun has turned the point of steel. AOI.

CCXXXIX

Charles the Great, when he sees the ad­mi­ral And the drag­on, his en­sign and stan­dard; — (In such great strength are mus­tered those Arabs Of that coun­try they’ve cov­ered ev­ery part Save on­ly that where­on the Em­per­our was.) The King of France in a loud voice has called: “Barons and Franks, good vas­sals are ye all, Ye in the field have fought so great com­bats; See the pa­gans; they’re felons and cow­ards, No pen­ny­worth is there in all their laws. Though they’ve great hosts, my lords, what mat­ters that? Let him go hence, who’ld fail me in the at­tack.” Next with both spurs he’s gored his horse’s flanks, And Ten­cen­dor has made four bounds there­at. Then say the Franks: “This King’s a good vas­sal. Can­ter, brave lord, for none of us holds back.”

CCXL

Clear is the day, and the sun ra­di­ant; The hosts are fair, the com­pa­nies are grand. The first columns are come now hand to hand. The count Ra­bel and the count Guine­mans Let fall the reins on their swift hors­es’ backs, Spurring in haste; then on rush all the Franks, And go to strike, each with his tren­chant lance. AOI.

CCXLI

That count Ra­bel, he was a hardy knight, He pricked his horse with spurs of gold so fine, The Per­sian king, Tor­leu, he went to strike. Nor shield nor sark could such a blow abide; The gold­en spear his car­cass passed in­side; Flung down up­on a lit­tle bush, he died. Then say the Franks: “Lord God, be Thou our Guide! Charles we must not fail; his cause is right.” AOI.

CCXLII

And Guine­man tilts with the king Leu­tice; Has bro­ken all the flow­ers on his shield, Next of his sark he has un­done the seam, All his en­sign thrust through the car­cass clean, So flings him dead, let any laugh or weep. Up­on that blow, the Franks cry out with heat: “Strike on, baron, nor slack­en in your speed! Charle’s in the right against the pa­gan breed; God sent us here his jus­tice to com­plete.” AOI.

CCXLI­II

Pure white the horse where­on Mal­primes sate; Guid­ed his corse amid the press of Franks, Hour in, hour out, great blows he struck them back, And, ev­er, dead one up­on oth­ers packed. Be­fore them all has cried out Bali­gant: “Barons, long time I’ve fed you at my hand. Ye see my son, who goes on Car­lun’s track, And with his arms so many lords at­tacks; Bet­ter vas­sal than him I’ll not de­mand. Go, suc­cour him, each with his tren­chant lance!” Up­on that word the pa­gans all ad­vance; Grim blows they strike, the slaugh­ter’s very grand. And mar­vel­lous and weighty the com­bat: Be­fore nor since was nev­er such at­tack. AOI.

CCXLIV

Great are the hosts; the com­pa­nies in pride Come touch­ing, all the breadth of ei­ther side; And the pa­gans do mar­vel­lous­ly strike. So many shafts, by God! in pieces lie And crum­pled shields, and sarks with mail un­twined! So spat­tered all the earth there would you find That through the field the grass so green and fine With men’s life-​blood is all ver­mil­ion dyed. That ad­mi­ral ral­lies once more his tribe: “Barons, strike on, shat­ter the Chris­tian line.” Now very keen and last­ing is the fight, As nev­er was, be­fore or since that time; The fin­ish none shall reach, un­less he die. AOI.

CCXLV

That ad­mi­ral to all his race ap­peals: “Pa­gans, strike on; came you not there­fore here? I promise you no­ble wom­en and dear, I promise you hon­ours and lands and fiefs.” An­swer pa­gans: “We must do well in­deed.” With mighty blows they shat­ter all their spears; Five score thou­sand swords from their scab­bards leap, Slaugh­ter then, grim and sor­row­ful, you’d seen. Bat­tle he saw, that stood those hosts be­tween. AOI.

CCXLVI

That Em­per­our calls on his Franks and speaks: “I love you, lords, in whom I well be­lieve; So many great bat­tles you’ve fought for me, Kings over­thrown, and king­doms have re­deemed! Guer­don I owe, I know it well in­deed; My lands, my wealth, my body are yours to keep. For sons, for heirs, for broth­ers wreak Who in Rences­vals were slaugh­tered yester-​eve! Mine is the right, ye know, gainst pa­gan breeds.” An­swer the Franks: “Sire, ’tis the truth you speak.” Twen­ty thou­sand be­side him Charles leads, Who with one voice have sworn him feal­ty; In straits of death they nev­er will him leave. There is not one thence­forth em­ploys his spear, But with their swords they strike in com­pa­ny. The bat­tle is strait­ened mar­vel­lous­ly. AOI.

CCXLVII

Across that field the bold Mal­primes can­ters; Who of the Franks hath wrought there much great dam­age. Naimes the Duke right haugh­ti­ly re­gards him, And goes to strike him, like a man of val­our, And of his shield breaks all the up­per mar­gin, Tears both the sides of his em­broi­dered ha’berk, Through the car­cass thrusts all his yel­low ban­ner; So dead among sev’n hun­dred else he casts him.

CCXLVI­II

King Can­abeus, broth­er of the ad­mi­ral, Has pricked his horse with spurs in ei­ther flank; He’s drawn his sword, whose hilt is of crys­tal, And strikes Naimun on’s hel­met prin­ci­pal; Away from it he’s bro­ken off one half, Five of the links his brand of steel hath knapped; No pen­ny­worth the hood is af­ter that; Right to the flesh he slices through the cap; One piece of it he’s flung up­on the land. Great was the blow; the Duke, amazed there­at, Had fall­en ev’n, but aid from God he had; His charg­er’s neck he clasped with both his hands. Had the pa­gan but once re­newed the at­tack, Then was he slain, that no­ble old vas­sal. Came there to him, with suc­cour, Charles of France. AOI.

CCXLIX

Keen an­guish then he suf­fers, that Duke Naimes, And the pa­gan, to strike him, hot­ly has­tens. “Cul­vert,” says Charles, “You’ll get now as you gave him!” With vas­salage he goes to strike that pa­gan, Shat­ters his shield, against his heart he breaks it, Tears the chin-​guard above his hauberk mailed; So flings him dead: his sad­dle shall be wast­ed.

CCL

Bit­ter great grief has Charle­magne the King, Who Duke Naimun be­fore him sees ly­ing, On the green grass all his clear blood shed­ding. Then the Em­per­our to him this coun­sel gives: “Fair mas­ter Naimes, can­ter with me to win! The glut­ton’s dead, that had you strait­ly pinned; Through his car­cass my spear I thrust once in.” An­swers the Duke: “Sire, I be­lieve it, this. Great proof you’ll have of val­our, if I live.” They ‘ngage them then, true love and faith swear­ing; A thou­sand score of Franks sur­round them still. Nor is there one, but slaugh­ters, strikes and kills. AOI.

CCLI

Then through the field can­tered that ad­mi­ral, Go­ing to strike the coun­ty Guine­man; Against his heart his ar­gent shield he cracked, The folds of his hauberk apart he slashed, Two of his ribs out of his side he hacked, So flung him dead, while still his charg­er ran. Af­ter, he slew Gebuin and Lo­rain, Richard the old, the lord of those Nor­mans. “Pre­ciuse,” cry pa­gans, “is valiant! Baron, strike on; here have we our war­rant!” AOI.

CCLII

Who then had seen those Arra­bit cheva­liers, From Oc­ciant, from Ar­goille and from Bas­cle! And well they strike and slaugh­ter with their lances; But Franks, to es­cape they think it no great mat­ter; On ei­ther side dead men to the earth fall crash­ing. Till even-​tide ’tis very strong, that bat­tle; Barons of France do suf­fer much great dam­age, Grief shall be there ere the two hosts be scat­tered. AOI.

CCLI­II

Right well they strike, both Franks and Arra­bies, Break­ing the shafts of all their bur­nished spears. Whoso had seen that shat­ter­ing of shields, Whoso had heard those shin­ing hauberks creak, And heard those shields on iron hel­mets beat, Whoso had seen fall down those cheva­liers, And heard men groan, dy­ing up­on that field, Some mem­ory of bit­ter pains might keep. That bat­tle is most hard to en­dure, in­deed. And the ad­mi­ral calls up­on Apollin And Ter­va­gan and Mahum, prays and speaks: “My lords and gods, I’ve done you much ser­vice; Your im­ages, in gold I’ll fash­ion each; Against Car­lun give me your war­ran­ty!” Comes be­fore him his dear friend Gemalfin, Evil the news he brings to him and speaks: “Sir Bali­ganz, this day in shame you’re steeped; For you have lost your son, even Mal­prime; And Can­abeus, your broth­er, slain is he. Fair­ly two Franks have got the vic­to­ry; That Em­per­our was one, as I have seen; Great limbs he has, he’s ev­ery way Mar­quis, White is his beard as flow­ers in April.” That ad­mi­ral has bent his head down deep, And there­after low­ers his face and weeps, Fain would he die at once, so great his grief; He calls to him Jan­gleu from over sea. AOI.

CCLIV

Says the ad­mi­ral, “Jan­gleu, be­side me stand! For you are proof, and great­ly un­der­stand, Coun­sel from you I’ve ev­er sought to have. How seems it you, of Arra­bits and Franks, Shall we from hence vic­to­ri­ous go back?” He an­swers him: “Slain are you, Bali­gant! For from your gods you’ll nev­er have war­rant. So proud is Charles, his men so valiant, Nev­er saw I a race so com­bat­ant. But call up­on barons of Oc­ciant, Turks and En­fruns, Arra­bits and Gi­ants. No more de­lay: what must be, take in hand.”

CCLV

That ad­mi­ral has shak­en out his beard That ev’n so white as thorn in blos­som seems; He’ll no way hide, wha­teer his fate may be, Then to his mouth he sets a trum­pet clear, And clear­ly sounds, so all the pa­gans hear. Through­out the field ral­ly his com­pa­nies. From Oc­ciant, those men who bray and bleat, And from Ar­goille, who, like dogs bark­ing, speak; Seek out the Franks with such a high fol­ly, Break through their line, the thick­est press they meet Dead from that shock they’ve sev­en thou­sand heaped.

CCLVI

The count Oger no cow­ardice e’er knew, Bet­ter vas­sal hath not his sark in­dued. He sees the Franks, their columns bro­ken through, So calls to him Duke Tier­ris, of Ar­gune, Count Joz­er­an, and Gefreid, of An­jou; And to Car­lun most proud his rea­son proves: “Be­hold pa­gans, and how your men they slew! Now from your head please God the crown re­move Un­less you strike, and vengeance on them do!” And not one word to an­swer him he knew; They spurred in haste, their hors­es let run loose, And, where­soeer they met the pa­gans, strook. AOI.

CCLVII

Now very well strikes the King Charle­magne, Naimes the Duke, al­so Oger the Dane, Geifreid d’An­jou, who that en­sign dis­plays. Ex­ceed­ing proof is Don Oger, the Dane; He spurs his horse, and lets him run in haste, So strikes that man who the drag­on dis­plays. Both in the field be­fore his feet he breaks That king’s en­sign and drag­on, both abased. Bali­gant sees his gon­falon dis­graced, And Mahumet’s stan­dard thrown from its place; That ad­mi­ral at once per­ceives it plain, That he is wrong, and right is Charlemain. Pa­gan Arabs coy­ly them­selves con­tain; That Em­per­our calls on his Franks again: “Say, barons, come, sup­port me, in God’s Name!” An­swer the Franks, “Ques­tion you make in vain; All felon he that dares not ex­ploits brave!” AOI.

CCLVI­II

Pass­es that day, turns in­to ves­per-​tide. Franks and pa­gans still with their swords do strike. Brave vas­sals they, who brought those hosts to fight, Nev­er have they for­got­ten their en­signs; That ad­mi­ral still “Pre­ciuse” doth cry, Charles “Mon­joie,” renowned word of pride. Each the oth­er knows by his clear voice and high; Amid the field they’re both come in­to sight, Then, as they go, great blows on ei­ther side They with their spears on their round targes strike; And shat­ter them, be­neath their buck­les wide; And all the folds of their hauberks di­vide; But bod­ies, no; wound them they nev­er might. Bro­ken their girths, down­wards their sad­dles slide; Both those Kings fall, them­selves aground do find; Nim­bly enough up­on their feet they rise; Most vas­sal-​like they draw their swords out­right. From this bat­tle they’ll ne’er be turned aside Nor make an end, with­out that one man die. AOI.

CCLIX

A great vas­sal was Charles, of France the Douce; That ad­mi­ral no fear nor cau­tion knew. Those swords they had, bare from their sheaths they drew; Many great blows on ’s shield each gave and took; The leather pierced, and dou­bled core of wood; Down fell the nails, the buck­les brake in two; Still they struck on, bare in their sarks they stood. From their bright helms the light shone forth anew. Fin­ish nor fail that bat­tle nev­er could But one of them must in the wrong be proved. AOI.

CCLX

Says the ad­mi­ral: “Nay, Charles, think, I beg, And coun­sel take that t’wards me thou re­pent! Thou’st slain my son, I know that very well; Most wrong­ful­ly my land thou chal­lengest; Be­come my man, a fief from me thou’lt get; Come, serv­ing me, from here to the Ori­ent!” Charle an­swers him: “That were most vile of­fence; No peace nor love may I to pa­gan lend. Re­ceive the Law that God to us presents, Chris­tian­ity, and then I’ll love thee well; Serve and be­lieve the King Om­nipo­tent!” Says Bali­gant: “Evil ser­mon thou saist.” They go to strike­with th’swords, are on their belts. AOI.

CCLXI

In the ad­mi­ral is much great virtue found; He strikes Car­lun on his steel helm so brown, Has bro­ken it and rent, above his brow, Through his thick hair the sword goes glanc­ing round, A great palm’s breadth and more of flesh cuts out, So that all bare the bone is, in that wound. Charles tot­tereth, falls near­ly to the ground; God wills not he be slain or over­pow’red. Saint Gabriel once more to him comes down, And ques­tions him “Great King, what doest thou?”

CCLXII

Charles, hear­ing how that holy An­gel spake, Had fear of death no longer, nor dis­may; Re­mem­brance and a fresh vigour he’s gained. So the ad­mi­ral he strikes with France’s blade, His hel­met breaks, where­on the jew­els blaze, Slices his head, to scat­ter all his brains, And, down un­to the white beard, all his face; So he falls dead, re­cov­ers not again. “Mon­joie,” cries Charles, that all may know the tale. Up­on that word is come to him Duke Naimes, Holds Ten­cen­dur, bids mount that King so Great. Pa­gans turn back, God wills not they re­main. And Franks have all their wish, be that what may.

CCLXI­II

Pa­gans are fled, ev’n as the Lord God wills; Chase them the Franks, and the Em­per­our there­with. Says the King then: “My Lords, avenge your ills, Un­to your hearts’ con­tent, do what you will!. For tears, this morn, I saw your eyes did spill.” An­swer the Franks: “Sir, even so we will.” Then such great blows, as each may strike, he gives That few es­cape, of those re­main there still.

CCLX­IV

Great was the heat, the dust arose and blew; Still pa­gans fled, and hot­ly Franks pur­sued. The chase en­dured from there to Sar­raguce. On her tow­er, high up clomb Bramimunde, Around her there the clerks and canons stood Of the false law, whom God ne’er loved nor knew; Or­ders they’d none, nor were their heads ton­sured. And when she saw those Arra­bits con­fused Aloud she cried: “Give us your aid, Mahume! Ah! No­ble king, con­quered are all our troops, And the ad­mi­ral to shame­ful slaugh­ter put!” When Mar­sile heard, to­wards the wall he looked, Wept from his eyes, and all his body stooped, So died of grief. With sins he’s so cor­rupt; The soul of him to Hell live dev­ils took.

CCLXV

Pa­gans are slain; the rest are put to rout Whom Charles hath in bat­tle over­pow­ered. Of Sar­raguce the gates he’s bat­tered down, For well he knows there’s no de­fence there now; In come his men, he oc­cu­pies that town; And all that night they lie there in their pow’r. Fierce is that King, with ’s hoary beard, and proud, And Bramimunde hath yield­ed up her tow­ers; But ten ere great, and less­er fifty around. Great ex­ploits his whom the Lord God en­dows!

CCLXVI

Pass­es the day, the dark­ness is grown deep, But all the stars burn, and the moon shines clear. And Sar­raguce is in the Em­per­our’s keep. A thou­sand Franks he bids seek through the streets, The syn­agogues and the mahumeries; With iron malls and ax­es which they wield They break the idols and all the im­ageries; So there re­main no fraud nor fal­si­ty. That King fears God, and would do His ser­vice, On wa­ter then Bish­ops their bless­ing speak, And pa­gans bring in­to the bap­tistry. If any Charles with con­tra­dic­tion meet Then hanged or burned or slaugh­tered shall he be. Five score thou­sand and more are thus re­deemed, Very Chris­tians; save that alone the queen To France the Douce goes in cap­tiv­ity; By love the King will her con­ver­sion seek.

CCLXVII

Pass­es the night, the clear day opens now. Of Sar­raguce Charles gar­risons the tow’rs; A thou­sand knights he’s left there, fight­ers stout; Who guard that town as bids their Em­per­our. Af­ter, the King and all his army mount, And Bramimunde a pris­on­er is bound, No harm to her, but on­ly good he’s vowed. So are they come, with joy and glad­ness out, They pass Ner­bone by force and by vigour, Come to Bur­dele, that city of high val­our. Above the al­tar, to Saint Sevrin en­dowed, Stands the olifant, with gold­en pieces bound; All the pil­grims may see it, who thith­er crowd. Pass­ing Girunde in great ships, there abound, Ev’n un­to Blaive he’s brought his nephew down And Oliv­er, his no­ble com­pan­ioun, And the Arch­bish­op, who was so wise and proud. In white cof­fers he bids them lay those counts At Saint Ro­main: So rest they in that ground. Franks them to God and to His An­gels vow. Charles can­ters on, by val­leys and by mounts, Not be­fore Aix will he not make so­journ; Can­ters so far, on th’ter­race he dis­mounts. When he is come in­to his lofty house, By mes­sen­gers he seeks his judges out; Sax­ons, Baivers, Lotherencs and Frisouns, Ger­mans he calls, and al­so calls Bor­gounds; From Nor­mandy, from Brit­tany and Poitou, And those in France that are the sagest found. There­on be­gins the cause of Gueneloun.

CCLXVI­II

That Em­per­our, re­turn­ing out of Spain, Ar­rived in France, in his chief seat, at Aix, Clomb to th’ Palace, in­to the hall he came. Was come to him there Alde, that fair dame; Said to the King: “Where’s Rol­lanz the Cap­tain, Who sware to me, he’ld have me for his mate?” Then up­on Charles a heavy sor­row weighed, And his eyes wept, he tore his beard again: “Sis­ter, dear friend, of a dead man you spake. I’ll give you one far bet­ter in ex­change, That is Loewis, what fur­ther can I say; He is my son, and shall my march­es take.” Alde an­swered him: “That word to me is strange. Nev­er, please God, His An­gels and His Saints, When Rol­lant’s dead shall I alive re­main!” Her colour fails, at th’ feet of Charlemain, She falls; she’s dead. Her soul God’s Mer­cy awaits! Barons of France weep there­fore and com­plain.

CCLX­IX

Alde the fair is gone now to her rest. Yet the King thought she was but swoon­ing then, Pity he had, our Em­per­our, and wept, Took her in’s hands, raised her from th’earth again; On her shoul­ders her head still drooped and leant. When Charles saw that she was tru­ly dead Four countess­es at once he sum­moned; To a monast’ry of nuns they bare her thence, All night their watch un­til the dawn they held; Be­fore the al­tar her tomb was fash­ioned well; Her mem­ory the King with hon­our kept. AOI.

CCLXX

That Em­per­our is now re­turned to Aix. The felon Guene, all in his iron chains Is in that town, be­fore the King’s Palace; Those serfs have bound him, fast up­on his stake, In deer-​hide thongs his hands they’ve help­less made, With clubs and whips they trounce him well and baste: He has de­served not any bet­ter fate; In bit­ter grief his tri­al there he awaits.

CCLXXI

Writ­ten it is, and in an an­cient geste How Charles called from many lands his men, As­sem­bled them at Aix, in his Chapelle. Holy that day, for some chief feast was held, Saint Sil­vester’s that baron’s, many tell. There­on be­gan the tri­al and de­fence Of Guenelun, who had the trea­son spelt. Be­fore him­self the Em­per­our has him led. AOI.

CCLXXII

“Lords and barons,” Charles the King doth speak, “Of Guenelun judge what the right may be! He was in th’host, even in Spain with me; There of my Franks a thou­sand score did steal, And my nephew, whom nev­er more you’ll see, And Oliv­er, in ’s pride and cour­tesy, And, wealth to gain, be­trayed the dozen peers.” “Felon be I,” said Guenes, “aught to con­ceal! He did from me much gold and wealth for­feit, Whence to de­stroy and slay him did I seek; But trea­son, no; I vow there’s not the least.” An­swer the Franks: “Take coun­sel now must we.”

CCLXXI­II

So Guenelun, be­fore the King there, stood; Lusty his limbs, his face of gen­tle hue; Were he loy­al, right baron-​like he’d looked. He saw those Franks, and all who’ld judge his doom, And by his side his thir­ty kins­men knew. Af­ter, he cried aloud; his voice was full: “For th’ Love of God, lis­ten to me, baruns! I was in th’ host, be­side our Em­per­our, Ser­vice I did him there in faith and truth. Ha­tred of me had Rol­lant, his nephew; So he de­creed death for me and dolour. Mes­sage I bare to king Mar­sil­iun; By my cun­ning I held my­self se­cure. To that fight­er Rol­lant my chal­lenge threw, To Oliv­er, and all their com­rades too; Charles heard that, and his no­ble baruns. Vengeance I gat, but there’s no trea­son proved.” An­swered the Franks: “Now go we to the moot.

CCLXXIV

When Guenes sees, his great cause is be­gin­ning, Thir­ty he has around him of his kins­men, There’s one of them to whom the oth­ers lis­ten, ‘Tis Pin­abel, who in Sorence cas­tle liveth; Well can he speak, sound­ly his rea­sons giv­ing, A good vas­sal, whose arm to fight is stiff­ened. Says to him Guenes: “In you my faith is fixed. Save me this day from death, al­so from prison.” Says Pin­abel: “Straight­way you’ll be de­liv­ered. Is there one Frank, that you to hang com­mit­teth? Let the Em­per­our but once to­geth­er bring us, With my steel brand he shall be smart­ly chid­den.” Guenes the count kneels at his feet to kiss them.

CCLXXV

To th’ coun­sel go those of Bavier and Saxe, Nor­mans al­so, with Poitevins and Franks; Enough there are of Tudese and Ger­mans. Those of Alverne the great­est court’sy have, From Pin­abel most qui­et­ly draw back. Says each to each: “‘Twere well to let it stand. Leave we this cause, and of the King de­mand That he cry quits with Guenes for this act; With love and faith he’ll serve him af­ter that. Since he is dead, no more ye’ll see Rol­lanz, Nor any wealth nor gold may win him back. Most fool­ish then is he, would do com­bat.” There is but one agrees not to their plan; Tier­ri, broth­er to Don Geifre­it, ’s that man. AOI.

CCLXXVI

Then his barons, re­turn­ing to Car­lun, Say to their King: “Sire, we be­seech of you That you cry quits with coun­ty Guenelun, So he may serve you still in love and truth; Nay let him live, so no­ble a man ’s he proved. Rol­lant is dead, no longer in our view, Nor for no wealth may we his life re­new.” Then says the King: “You’re felons all of you!” AOI.

CCLXXVII

When Charles saw that all of them did fail, Deep down he bowed his head and all his face For th’ grief he had, caitiff him­self pro­claimed. One of his knights, Tier­ris, be­fore him came, Gefrei’s broth­er, that Duke of An­jou famed; Lean were his limbs, and lengthy and del­icate, Black was his hair and some­what brown his face; Was not too small, and yet was hard­ly great; And cour­te­ous­ly to the Em­per­our he spake: “Fair’ Lord and King, do not your­self dis­may! You know that I have served you many ways: By my an­ces­tors should I this cause main­tain. And if Rol­lant was for­feit­ed to Guenes Still your ser­vice to him full war­rant gave. Felon is Guene, since th’ hour that he be­trayed, And, to­wards you, is per­jured and ashamed: Where­fore I judge that he be hanged and slain, His car­cass flung to th’ dogs be­side the way, As a felon who felony did make. But, has he a friend that would dis­pute my claim With this my sword which I have girt in place My judge­ment will I war­rant ev­ery way.” An­swer the Franks: “Now very well you spake.”

CCLXXVI­II

Be­fore the King is come now Pin­abel; Great is he, strong, vas­sa­lous and nim­ble; Who bears his blow has no more time to dwell: Says to him: “Sire, on you this cause de­pends; Com­mand there­fore this noise be made an end. See Tier­ri here, who hath his judg­ment dealt; I cry him false, and will the cause con­test.” His deer-​hide glove in the King’s hand he’s left. Says the Em­per­our: “Good pledges must I get.” Thir­ty kins­men of­fer their loy­al pledge. “I’ll do the same for you,” the King has said; Un­til the right be shewn, bids guard them well. AOI.

CCLXXIX

When Tier­ri sees that bat­tle shall come af­ter, His right hand glove he of­fer­eth to Chares. That Em­per­our by way of hostage guards it; Four bench­es then up­on the place he mar­shals Where sit them down cham­pi­ons of ei­ther par­ty. They’re chos’n aright, as the oth­ers’ judge­ment cast them; Oger the Dane be­tween them made the par­ley. Next they de­mand their hors­es and their ar­mour. AOI.

CCLXXX

For bat­tle, now, ready you might them see, They’re well con­fessed, ab­solved, from sin set free; Mass­es they’ve heard, Com­mu­nion re­ceived, Rich of­fer­ings to those min­sters they leave. Be­fore Car­lun now both the two ap­pear: They have their spurs, are fas­tened on their feet, And, light and strong, their hauberks bright­ly gleam; Up­on their heads they’ve laced their hel­mets clear, And girt on swords, with pure gold hilt­ed each; And from their necks hang down their quar­tered shields; In their right hands they grasp their tren­chant spears. At last they mount on their swift cours­ing steeds. Five score thou­sand cheva­liers there­for weep, For Rol­lant’s sake pity for Tier­ri feel. God knows full well which way the end shall be.

CCLXXXI

Down un­der Aix there is a pas­ture large Which for the fight of th’ two barons is marked. Proof men are these, and of great vas­salage, And their hors­es, un­wea­ried, gal­lop fast; They spur them well, the reins aside they cast, With virtue great, to strike each oth­er, dart; All of their shields shat­ter and rend apart. Their hauberks tear; the girths asun­der start, The sad­dles slip, and fall up­on the grass. Five score thou­sand weep, who that sight re­gard. AOI.

CCLXXXII

Up­on the ground are fall­en both the knights; Nim­bly enough up­on their feet they rise. Nim­ble and strong is Pin­abels, and light. Each the oth­er seeks; hors­es are out of mind, But with those swords whose hilts with gold are lined Up­on those helms of steel they beat and strike: Great are the blows, those hel­mets to di­vide. The cheva­liers of France do much re­pine. “O God!” says Charles, “Make plain to us the right!”

CCLXXXI­II

Says Pin­abel “Tier­ri, I pray thee, yield: I’ll be thy man, in love and feal­ty; For the plea­sure my wealth I’ll give to thee; But make the King with Guenelun agree.” An­swers Tier­ri: “Such coun­sel’s not for me. Pure felon I, if e’er I that con­cede! God shall this day the right shew, us be­tween!” AOI.

CCLXXXIV

Then said Tier­ri “Bold art thou, Pin­abel, Thou’rt great and strong, with body fine­ly bred; For vas­salage thy peers es­teem thee well: Of this bat­tle let us now make an end! With Charle­magne I soon will have thee friends; To Guenelun such jus­tice shall be dealt Day shall not dawn but men of it will tell.” “Please the Lord God, not so!” said Pin­abel. “I would sus­tain the cause of my kin­dred No mor­tal man is there from whom I’ve fled; Rather I’ld die than hear re­proach­es said.” Then with their swords be­gan to strike again Up­on those helms that were with gold begemmed In­to the sky the bright sparks rained and fell. It can­not be that they be sun­dered, Nor make an end, with­out one man be dead. AOI.

CCLXXXV

He’s very proof, Pin­abel of Sorence, Tier­ri he strikes, on ’s hel­met of Provence, Leaps such a spark, the grass is kin­dled thence; Of his steel brand the point he then presents, On Tier­ri’s brow the hel­met has he wrenched So down his face its bro­ken halves de­scend; And his right cheek in flow­ing blood is drenched; And his hauberk, over his bel­ly, rent. God’s his war­rant, Who death from him pre­vents. AOI.

CCLXXXVI

Sees Tier­ris then ‘that in the face he’s struck, On grassy field runs clear his flow­ing blood; Strikes Pin­abel on ’s hel­met brown and rough, To the nose-​piece he’s bro­ken it and cut, And from his head scat­ters his brains in th’ dust; Bran­dish­es him on th’ sword, till dead he’s flung. Up­on that blow is all the bat­tle won. Franks cry aloud: “God hath great virtue done. It is proved right that Guenelun be hung. And those his kin, that in his cause are come.” AOI.

CCLXXXVII

Now that Tier­ris the bat­tle fair­ly wins, That Em­per­our Charles is come to him; Forty barons are in his fol­low­ing. Naimes the Duke, Oger that Dan­ish Prince, Geifrei d’An­jou, Willalme of Blaive there­with. Tier­ri, the King takes in his arms to kiss; And wipes his face with his great marten-​skins; He lays them down, and oth­ers then they bring; The cheva­liers most sweet­ly dis­arm him; An Arab mule they’ve brought, where­on he sits. With baron­age and joy they bring him in. They come to Aix, halt and dis­mount there­in. The pun­ish­ment of the oth­ers then be­gins.

CCLXXXVI­II

His counts and Dukes then calls to him Car­lun: “With these I guard, ad­vise what shall be done. Hith­er they came be­cause of Guenelun; For Pin­abel, as pledges gave them up.” An­swer the Franks: “Shall not of them live one.” The King com­mands his provost then, Bas­brun: “Go hang them all on th’ tree of cursed wood! Nay, by this beard, whose hairs are white enough, If one es­cape, to death and shame thou’rt struck!” He an­swers him: “How could I act, save thus?” With an hun­dred ser­jeants by force they come; Thir­ty of them there are, that straight are hung. Who be­trays man, him­self and ’s friends un­does. AOI.

CCLXXXIX

Then turned away the Baivers and Ger­mans And Poitevins and Bre­tons and Nor­mans. Fore all the rest, ’twas vot­ed by the Franks That Guenes die with mar­vel­lous great pangs; So to lead forth four stal­lions they bade; Af­ter, they bound his feet and both his hands; Those steeds were swift, and of a tem­per mad; Which, by their heads, led for­ward four se­jeants To­wards a stream that flowed amid that land. Sones fell Gue in­to perdi­tion black; All his sinews were strained un­til they snapped, And all the limbs were from his body dragged. On the green grass his clear blood gushed and ran. Guenes is dead, a felon recre­ant. Who be­trays man, need make no boast of that.

CCXC

When the Em­per­our had made his whole vengeance, He called to him the Bish­ops out of France, Those of Baviere and al­so the Ger­mans: “A dame free-​born lies cap­tive in my hands, So oft she’s heard ser­mons and rep­ri­mands, She would fear God, and chris­ten­ing de­mands. Bap­tise her then, so God her soul may have.” They an­swer him: “Spon­sors the rite de­mands, Dames of es­tate and long in­her­itance.” The baths at Aix great com­pa­nies at­tract; There they bap­tised the Queen of Sarazands, And found for her the name of Ju­liane. Chris­tian is she by very cog­ni­sance.

CCX­CI

When the Em­per­our his jus­tice hath achieved, His mighty wrath’s abat­ed from its heat, And Bramimunde has chris­ten­ing re­ceived; Pass­es the day, the dark­ness is grown deep, And now that King in ’s vault­ed cham­ber sleeps. Saint Gabriel is come from God, and speaks: “Sum­mon the hosts, Charles, of thine Em­pire, Go thou by force in­to the land of Bire, King Vivien thou’lt suc­cour there, at Im­phe, In the city which pa­gans have be­sieged. The Chris­tians there im­plore thee and be­seech.” Right loth to go, that Em­per­our was he: “God!” said the King: “My life is hard in­deed!” Tears filled his eyes, he tore his snowy beard.

SO ENDS THE TALE WHICH TUR­OLD HATH CON­CEIVED.

End of The Project Guten­berg Etext of The Song of Roland