Rollanz respunt: "Jo n'ai nient de mel.

Jol vus parduins ici e devant deu."

A icel mot l'uns al altre ad clinet.

Par tel amur as les vus desevrez!

There Roland sits unconscious on his horse, And Oliver who wounded is to death, So much has bled, his eyes grow dark to him, Nor far nor near can see so clear As to recognize any mortal man.

His friend, when he has encountered him, He strikes upon the helmet of gemmed gold, splits it from the crown to the nose-piece, But to the head he has not reached at all.

At this blow Roland looks at him, Asks him gently and softly: "Sir Friend, do you it in earnest?

You know 't is Roland who has so loved you.

In no way have you sent to me defiance."

Says Oliver: "Indeed I hear you speak, I do not see you. May G.o.d see and save you!

Strike you I did. I pray you pardon me."

Roland replies: "I have no harm at all.

I pardon you here and before G.o.d!"

At this word, one to the other bends himself.

With such affection, there they separate.

No one should try to render this into English--or, indeed, into modern French--verse, but any one who will take the trouble to catch the metre and will remember that each verse in the "leash" ends in the same sound,--aimer, parler, cler, mortel, d.a.m.nede, mel, deu, suef, nasel,--however the terminal syllables may be spelled, can follow the feeling of the poetry as well as though it were Greek hexameter. He will feel the simple force of the words and action, as he feels Homer. It is the grand style,--the eleventh century:--

Ferut vus ai! Kar le me pardunez!

Not a syllable is lost, and always the strongest syllable is chosen.

Even the sentiment is monosyllabic and curt:--

Ja est co Rollanz ki tant vus soelt amer!

Taillefer had, in such a libretto, the means of producing dramatic effects that the French comedy or the grand opera never approached, and such as made Bayreuth seem thin and feeble. Duke William's barons must have clung to his voice and action as though they were in the very melee, striking at the helmets of gemmed gold. They had all been there, and were to be there again. As the climax approached, they saw the scene itself; probably they had seen it every year, more or less, since they could swing a sword. Taillefer chanted the death of Oliver and of Archbishop Turpin and all the other barons of the rear guard, except Roland, who was left for dead by the Saracens when they fled on hearing the horns of Charlemagne's returning host. Roland came back to consciousness on feeling a Saracen marauder tugging at his sword Durendal. With a blow of his ivory horn--oliphant--he killed the pagan; then feeling death near, he prepared for it. His first thought was for Durendal, his sword, which he could not leave to infidels. In the singular triple repet.i.tion which gives more of the same solidity and architectural weight to the verse, he made three attempts to break the sword, with a lament--a plaint--for each. Three times he struck with all his force against the rock; each time the sword rebounded without breaking. The third time--

Rollanz ferit en une pierre bise Plus en abat que jo ne vus sai dire.

L'espee cruist ne fruisset ne ne briset c.u.n.tre le ciel amunt est resortie.

Quant veit li quens que ne la fraindrat mie Mult dulcement la plainst a sei meisme.

"E! Durendal c.u.m ies bele e saintisme!

En l'oret punt asez i ad reliques.

La dent saint Pierre e del sanc seint Basilie E des chevels mun seignur seint Denisie Del vestment i ad seinte Marie.

Il nen est dreiz que paien te baillisent.

De chrestiens devez estre servie.

Ne vus ait hum ki facet cuardie!

Mult larges terres de vus averai cunquises Que Carles tient ki la barbe ad flurie.

E li emperere en est e ber e riches."

Roland strikes on a grey stone, More of it cuts off than I can tell you.

The sword grinds, but shatters not nor breaks, Upward against the sky it rebounds.

When the Count sees that he can never break it, Very gently he mourns it to himself: "Ah, Durendal, how fair you are and sacred!

In your golden guard are many relics, The tooth of Saint Peter and blood of Saint Basil, And hair of my seigneur Saint-Denis, Of the garment too of Saint Mary.

It is not right that pagans should own you.

By Christians you should be served, Nor should man have you who does cowardice.

Many wide lands by you I have conquered That Charles holds, who has the white beard, And emperor of them is n.o.ble and rich."

This "laisse" is even more eleventh-century than the other, but it appealed no longer to the warriors; it spoke rather to the monks. To the warriors, the sword itself was the religion, and the relics were details of ornament or strength. To the priest, the list of relics was more eloquent than the Regent diamond on the hilt and the Kohinoor on the scabbard. Even to us it is interesting if it is understood. Roland had gone on pilgrimage to the Holy Land. He had stopped at Rome and won the friendship of Saint Peter, as the tooth proved; he had pa.s.sed through Constantinople and secured the help of Saint Basil; he had reached Jerusalem and gained the affection of the Virgin; he had come home to France and secured the support of his "seigneur" Saint Denis; for Roland, like Hugh Capet, was a liege-man of Saint Denis and French to the heart. France, to him, was Saint Denis, and at most the Ile de France, but not Anjou or even Maine. These were countries he had conquered with Durendal:--

Jo l'en cunquis e Anjou e Bretaigne Si l'en cunquis e Peitou e le Maine Jo l'en cunquis Normendie la franche Si l'en cunquis Provence e Equitaigne.

He had conquered these for his emperor Charlemagne with the help of his immediate spiritual lord or seigneur Saint Denis, but the monks knew that he could never have done these feats without the help of Saint Peter, Saint Basil, and Saint Mary the Blessed Virgin, whose relics, in the hilt of his sword, were worth more than any king's ransom. To this day a tunic of the Virgin is the most precious property of the cathedral at Chartres. Either one of Roland's relics would have made the glory of any shrine in Europe, and every monk knew their enormous value and power better than he knew the value of Roland's conquests.

Yet even the religion is martial, as though it were meant for the fighting Archangel and Odo of Bayeux. The relics serve the sword; the sword is not in service of the relics. As the death-scene approaches, the song becomes even more military:--

Co sent Rollanz que la mort le tresprent Devers la teste sur le quer li descent.

Desuz un pin i est alez curanz Sur l'erbe verte si est culchiez adenz Desuz lui met s'espee e l'olifant Turnat sa teste vers la paiene gent.

Pur co l'ad fait que il voelt veirement Que Carles diet et trestute sa gent Li gentils quens quil fut morz cunqueranz.

Then Roland feels that death is taking him; Down from the head upon the heart it falls.

Beneath a pine he hastens running; On the green gra.s.s he throws himself down; Beneath him puts his sword and oliphant, Turns his face toward the pagan army.

For this he does it, that he wishes greatly That Charles should say and all his men, The gentle Count has died a conqueror.

Thus far, not a thought or a word strays from the field of war. With a childlike intensity, every syllable bends toward the single idea--

Li gentils quens quil fut morz cunqueranz.

Only then the singer allowed the Church to a.s.sert some of its rights:-

Co sent Rollanz de sun tens ni ad plus Devers Espaigne gist en un pui agut A l'une main si ad sun piz batut.

"Deus meie culpe vers les tues vertuz De mes pecchiez des granz e des menuz Que jo ai fait des l'ure que nez fui Tresqu'a cest jur que ci sui consouz."

Sun destre guant en ad vers deu tendut Angle del ciel i descendent a lui. Aoi.

Then Roland feels that his last hour has come Facing toward Spain he lies on a steep hill, While with one hand he beats upon his breast: "Mea culpa, G.o.d! through force of thy miracles Pardon my sins, the great as well as small, That I have done from the hour I was born Down to this day that I have now attained."

His right glove toward G.o.d he lifted up.

Angels from heaven descend on him. Aoi.

Li quens Rollanz se jut desuz un pin Envers Espaigne en ad turnet sun vis De plusurs choses a remembrer li prist De tantes terres c.u.me li bers cunquist De dulce France des humes de sun lign De Carlemagne sun seignur kil nurrit Ne poet muer men plurt e ne suspirt Mais lui meisme ne voelt metre en ubli Claimet sa culpe si priet deu mercit.

"Veire paterne ki unkes ne mentis Seint Lazarun de mort resurrexis E Daniel des liuns guaresis Guaris de mei l'anme de tuz perils Pur les pecchiez que en ma vie fis."

Sun destre guant a deu en puroffrit E de sa main seinz Gabriel lad pris Desur sun braz teneit le chief enclin Juintes ses mains est alez a sa fin.

Deus li tramist sun angle cherubin E Seint Michiel de la mer del peril Ensemble od els Seinz Gabriels i vint L' anme del c.u.n.te portent en pareis.

Count Roland throws himself beneath a pine And toward Spain has turned his face away.

Of many things he called the memory back, Of many lands that he, the brave, had conquered, Of gentle France, the men of his lineage, Of Charlemagne his lord, who nurtured him; He cannot help but weep and sigh for these, But for himself will not forget to care; He cries his Culpe, he prays to G.o.d for grace.

"O G.o.d the Father who has never lied, Who raised up Saint Lazarus from death, And Daniel from the lions saved, Save my soul from all the perils For the sins that in my life I did!"