CXXII

Distraught was Roland with wrath and pain; Distraught were the twelve of Carlemaine-- With deadly strokes the Franks have striven, And the Saracen horde to the slaughter given; Of a hundred thousand escaped but one-- King Margaris fled from the field alone; But no disgrace in his flight he bore-- Wounded was he by lances four.

To the side of Spain did he take his way, To tell King Marsil what chanced that day.

CXXIII

Alone King Margaris left the field, With broken spear and pierced shield, Scarce half a foot from the k.n.o.b remained, And his brand of steel with blood was stained; On his body were four lance wounds to see: Were he Christian, what a baron he!

He sped to Marsil his tale to tell; Swift at the feet of the king he fell: "Ride, sire, on to the field forthright, You will find the Franks in an evil plight; Full half and more of their host lies slain, And sore enfeebled who yet remain; Nor arms have they in their utmost need: To crush them now were an easy deed,"

Marsil listened with heart aflame.

Onward in search of the Franks he came.

CXXIV

King Marsil on through the valley sped, With the mighty host he has marshalled.

Twice ten battalions the king arrayed: Helmets shone, with their gems displayed, Bucklers and braided hauberks bound, Seven thousand trumpets the onset sound; Dread was the clangor afar to hear.

Said Roland, "My brother, my Olivier, Gan the traitor our death hath sworn, Nor may his treason be now forborne.

To our Emperor vengeance may well belong,-- To us the battle fierce and strong; Never hath mortal beheld the like.

With my Durindana I trust to strike; And thou, my comrade, with thy Hauteclere: We have borne them gallantly otherwhere.

So many fields 'twas ours to gain, They shall sing against us no scornful strain."

CXXV

As the Franks the heathen power descried, Filling the champaign from side to side, Loud unto Roland they made their call, And to Olivier and their captains all, Spake the archbishop as him became: "O barons, think not one thought of shame; Fly not, for sake of our G.o.d I pray.

That on you be chaunted no evil lay.

Better by far on the field to die; For in sooth I deem that our end is nigh.

But in holy Paradise ye shall meet, And with the innocents be your seat."

The Franks exult his words to hear, And the cry "_Montjoie!_" resoundeth clear.

CXXVI

King Marsil on the hill-top bides, While Grandonie with his legion rides.

He nails his flag with three nails of gold: "Ride ye onwards, my barons bold."

Then loud a thousand clarions rang.

And the Franks exclaimed as they heard the clang-- "O G.o.d, our Father, what cometh on!

Woe that we ever saw Ganelon: Foully, by treason, he us betrayed."

Gallantly then the archbishop said, "Soldiers and lieges of G.o.d are ye, And in Paradise shall your guerdon be.

To lie on its holy flowerets fair, Dastard never shall enter there."

Say the Franks, "We will win it every one."

The archbishop bestoweth his benison.

Proudly mounted they at his word, And, like lions chafed, at the heathen spurred.

CXXVII

Thus doth King Marsil divide his men: He keeps around him battalions ten.

As the Franks the other ten descry, "What dark disaster," they said, "is nigh?

What doom shall now our peers betide?"

Archbishop Turpin full well replied.

"My cavaliers, of G.o.d the friends, Your crown of glory to-day He sends, To rest on the flowers of Paradise, That never were won by cowardice."

The Franks made answer, "No cravens we, Nor shall we gainsay G.o.d's decree; Against the enemy yet we hold,-- Few may we be, but staunch and bold."

Their spurs against the foe they set, Frank and paynim--once more they met.

CXXVIII

A heathen of Saragossa came.

Full half the city was his to claim.

It was Climorin: hollow of heart was he, He had plighted with Gan in perfidy, What time each other on mouth they kissed, And he gave him his helm and amethyst.

He would bring fair France from her glory down And from the Emperor wrest his crown.

He sate upon Barbamouche, his steed, Than hawk or swallow more swift in speed.

p.r.i.c.ked with the spur, and the rein let flow, To strike at the Gascon of Bordeaux, Whom shield nor cuira.s.s availed to save.

Within his harness the point he drave, The sharp steel on through his body pa.s.sed, Dead on the field was the Gascon cast.

Said Climorin, "Easy to lay them low: Strike in, my pagans, give blow for blow."

For their champion slain, the Franks cry woe.

CXXIX

Sir Roland called unto Olivier, "Sir Comrade, dead lieth Engelier; Braver knight had we none than he."

"G.o.d grant," he answered, "revenge to me."

His spurs of gold to his horse he laid, Grasping Hauteclere with his b.l.o.o.d.y blade.

Climorin smote he, with stroke so fell, Slain at the blow was the infidel.

Whose soul the Enemy bore away.

Then turned he, Alphaien, the duke, to slay; From Escababi the head he sh.o.r.e, And Arabs seven to the earth he bore.

Saith Roland, "My comrade is much in wrath; Won great laud by my side he hath; Us such prowess to Karl endears.

Fight on, fight ever, my cavaliers."

Cx.x.x

Then came the Saracen Valdabrun, Of whom King Marsil was foster-son.

Four hundred galleys he owned at sea, And of all the mariners lord was he.

Jerusalem erst he had falsely won, Profaned the temple of Solomon, Slaying the patriarch at the fount.

'Twas he who in plight unto Gan the count, His sword with a thousand coins bestowed.

Gramimond named he the steed he rode, Swifter than ever was falcon's flight; Well did he p.r.i.c.k with the sharp spurs bright, To strike Duke Samson, the fearless knight.

Buckler and cuira.s.s at once he rent, And his pennon's flaps through his body sent; Dead he cast him, with levelled spear.

"Strike, ye heathens; their doom is near."

The Franks cry woe for their cavalier.

Cx.x.xI

When Roland was ware of Samson slain, Well may you weet of his bitter pain.

With b.l.o.o.d.y spur he his steed impelled, While Durindana aloft he held, The sword more costly than purest gold; And he smote, with pa.s.sion uncontrolled, On the heathen's helm, with its jewelled crown,-- Through head, and cuira.s.s, and body down, And the saddle embossed with gold, till sank The griding steel in the charger's flank; Blame or praise him, the twain he slew.

"A fearful stroke!" said the heathen crew.