Through the storm of battle rides Olivier, His weapon, the b.u.t.t of his broken spear, Down upon Malseron's shield he beat, Where flowers and gold emblazoned meet, Dashing his eyes from forth his head: Low at his feet were the brains bespread, And the heathen lies with seven hundred dead!

Estorgus and Turgin next he slew, Till the shaft he wielded in splinters flew.

"Comrade!" said Roland, "what makest thou?

Is it time to fight with a truncheon now?

Steel and iron such strife may claim; Where is thy sword, Hauteclere by name, With its crystal pommel and golden guard?"

"Of time to draw it I stood debarred, Such stress was on me of smiting hard."

CX

Then drew Sir Olivier forth his blade, As had his comrade Roland prayed.

He proved it in knightly wise straightway, On the heathen Justin of Val Ferree.

At a stroke he severed his head in two, Cleft him body and harness through; Down through the gold-incrusted selle, To the horse's chine, the falchion fell: Dead on the sward lay man and steed.

Said Roland, "My brother, henceforth, indeed!

The Emperor loves us for such brave blows!"

Around them the cry of "_Montjoie!_" arose.

CXI

Gerein his Sorel rides; Gerier Is mounted on his own Pa.s.s-deer: The reins they slacken, and p.r.i.c.k full well Against the Saracen Timozel.

One smites his cuira.s.s, and one his shield, Break in his body the spears they wield; They cast him dead on the fallow mould.

I know not, nor yet to mine ear was told.

Which of the twain was more swift and bold.

Then Espreveris, Borel's son, By Engelier unto death was done.

Archbishop Turpin slew Siglorel, The wizard, who erst had been in h.e.l.l, By Jupiter thither in magic led.

"Well have we 'scaped," the archbishop said: "Crushed is the caitiff," Count Roland replies, "Olivier, brother, such strokes I prize!"

CXII

Furious waxeth the fight, and strange; Frank and heathen their blows exchange; While these defend, and those a.s.sail, And their lances broken and b.l.o.o.d.y fail.

Ensign and pennon are rent and cleft, And the Franks of their fairest youth bereft, Who will look on mother or spouse no more, Or the host that waiteth the gorge before.

Karl the Mighty may weep and wail; What skilleth sorrow, if succour fail?

An evil service was Gan's that day, When to Saragossa he bent his way, His faith and kindred to betray.

But a doom thereafter awaited him-- Amerced in Aix, of life and limb, With thirty of his kin beside, To whom was hope of grace denied.

CXIII

King Almaris with his band, the while, Wound through a marvellous strait defile, Where doth Count Walter the heights maintain And the pa.s.ses that lie at the gates of Spain.

"Gan, the traitor, hath made of us,"

Said Walter, "a bargain full dolorous."

CXIV

King Almaris to the mount hath clomb, With sixty thousand of heathendom.

In deadly wrath on the Franks they fall, And with furious onset smite them all: Routed, scattered, or slain they lie.

Then rose the wrath of Count Walter high; His sword he drew, his helm he laced, Slowly in front of the line he paced, And with evil greeting his foeman faced.

CXV

Right on his foemen doth Walter ride, And the heathen a.s.sail him on every side; Broken down was his shield of might, Bruised and pierced was his hauberk white; Four lances at once did his body wound: No longer bore he--four times he swooned; He turned perforce from the field aside, Slowly adown the mount he hied, And aloud to Roland for succour cried.

CXVI

Wild and fierce is the battle still: Roland and Olivier fight their fill; The Archbishop dealeth a thousand blows Nor knoweth one of the peers repose; The Franks are fighting commingled all, And the foe in hundreds and thousands fall; Choice have they none but to flee or die, Leaving their lives despighteously.

Yet the Franks are reft of their chivalry, Who will see nor parent nor kindred fond, Nor Karl who waits them the pa.s.s beyond.

CXVII

Now a wondrous storm o'er France hath pa.s.sed, With thunder-stroke and whirlwind's blast; Rain unmeasured, and hail, there came, Sharp and sudden the lightning's flame; And an earthquake ran--the sooth I say, From Besancon city to Wissant Bay; From Saint Michael's Mount to thy shrine, Cologne, House unrifted was there none.

And a darkness spread in the noontide high-- No light, save gleams from the cloven sky.

On all who saw came a mighty fear.

They said, "The end of the world is near."

Alas, they spake but with idle breath,-- 'Tis the great lament for Roland's death.

CXVIII

Dread are the omens and fierce the storm, Over France the signs and wonders swarm: From noonday on to the vesper hour, Night and darkness alone have power; Nor sun nor moon one ray doth shed, Who sees it ranks him among the dead.

Well may they suffer such pain and woe, When Roland, captain of all, lies low.

Never on earth hath his fellow been, To slay the heathen or realms to win.

CXIX

Stern and stubborn is the fight; Staunch are the Franks with the sword to smite; Nor is there one but whose blade is red, "_Montjoie!_" is ever their war-cry dread.

Through the land they ride in hot pursuit, And the heathens feel 'tis a fierce dispute.

CXX

In wrath and anguish, the heathen race Turn in flight from the field their face; The Franks as hotly behind them strain.

Then might ye look on a c.u.mbered plain: Saracens stretched on the green gra.s.s bare, Helms and hauberks that shone full fair, Standards riven and arms undone: So by the Franks was the battle won.

The foremost battle that then befell-- O G.o.d, what sorrow remains to tell!

CXXI

With heart and prowess the Franks have stood; Slain was the heathen mult.i.tude; Of a hundred thousand survive not two: The archbishop crieth, "O staunch and true!

Written it is in the Frankish geste, That our Emperor's va.s.sals shall bear them best."

To seek their dead through the field they press, And their eyes drop tears of tenderness: Their hearts are turned to their kindred dear.

Marsil the while with his host is near.