Song of Roland

Laisses 88-138


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."


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.


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."



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.



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.


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."



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.



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.


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.



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."


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."


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."


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."



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."


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.


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.


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."


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.



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."



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.



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."


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.



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.


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.



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."



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.



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!"



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!"



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!"



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."



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!"


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.


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."


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.


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."


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!"


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.



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."



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."


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.



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."



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."



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."



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."



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."



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."



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."



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."


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.


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.



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.