"I shall never love you," Count Roland cried, "With you are falsehood and evil pride."

Cx.x.xII

From Afric's sh.o.r.e, of Afric's brood, Malquiant, son of King Malcus stood; Wrought of the beaten gold, his vest Flamed to the sun over all the rest.

Saut-perdu hath he named his horse, Fleeter than ever was steed in course; He smote Anseis upon the shield, Cleft its vermeil and azure field, Severed the joints of his hauberk good, In his body planted both steel and wood.

Dead he lieth, his day is o'er, And the Franks the loss of their peer deplore.

Cx.x.xIII

Turpin rideth the press among; Never such priest the Ma.s.s had sung, Nor who hath such feats of his body done.

"G.o.d send thee," he said, "His malison!

For the knight thou slewest my heart is sore."

He sets the spur to his steed once more, Smites the shield in Toledo made, And the heathen low on the sward is laid.

Cx.x.xIV

Forth came the Saracen Grandonie, Bestriding his charger Marmorie; He was son unto Cappadocia's king, And his steed was fleeter than bird on wing.

He let the rein on his neck decline, And spurred him hard against Count Gerein, Shattered the vermeil shield he bore, And his armor of proof all open tore; In went the pennon, so fierce the shock, And he cast him, dead, on a lofty rock; Then he slew his comrade in arms, Gerier, Guy of Saint Anton and Berengier.

Next lay the great Duke Astor p.r.o.ne.

The Lord of Valence upon the Rhone.

Among the heathen great joy he cast.

Say the Franks, lamenting, "We perish fast."

Cx.x.xV

Count Roland graspeth his b.l.o.o.d.y sword: Well hath he heard how the Franks deplored; His heart is burning within his breast.

"G.o.d's malediction upon thee rest!

Right dearly shalt thou this blood repay."

His war-horse springs to the spur straightway, And they come together--go down who may.

Cx.x.xVI

A gallant captain was Grandonie, Great in arms and in chivalry.

Never, till then, had he Roland seen, But well he knew him by form and mien, By the stately bearing and glance of pride, And a fear was on him he might not hide.

Fain would he fly, but it skills not here; Roland smote him with stroke so sheer, That it cleft the nasal his helm beneath, Slitting nostril and mouth and teeth, Cleft his body and mail of plate, And the gilded saddle whereon he sate, Deep the back of the charger through: Beyond all succor the twain he slew.

From the Spanish ranks a wail arose, And the Franks exult in their champion's blows.

Cx.x.xVII

The battle is wondrous yet, and dire, And the Franks are cleaving in deadly ire; Wrists and ribs and chines afresh, And vestures, in to the living flesh; On the green gra.s.s streaming the bright blood ran, "O mighty country, Mahound thee ban!

For thy sons are strong over might of man."

And one and all unto Marsil cried, "Hither, O king, to our succor ride."

Cx.x.xVIII

Marvellous yet is the fight around, The Franks are thrusting with spears embrowned; And great the carnage there to ken, Slain and wounded and bleeding men, Flung, each by other, on back or face.

Hold no more can the heathen race.

They turn and fly from the field apace; The Franks as hotly pursue in chase.

Cx.x.xIX

Knightly the deeds by Roland done, Respite or rest for his Franks is none; Hard they ride on the heathen rear, At trot or gallop in full career.

With crimson blood are their bodies stained, And their brands of steel are snapped or strained; And when the weapons their hands forsake, Then unto trumpet and horn they take.

Serried they charge, in power and pride; And the Saracens cry--"May ill betide The hour we came on this fatal track!"

So on our host do they turn the back, The Christians cleaving them as they fled, Till to Marsil stretcheth the line of dead.

CXL

King Marsil looks on his legions strown, He bids the clarion blast be blown, With all his host he onward speeds: Abime the heathen his vanguard leads.

No felon worse in the host than he, Black of hue as a shrivelled pea; He believes not in Holy Mary's Son; Full many an evil deed hath done.

Treason and murder he prizeth more Than all the gold of Galicia's sh.o.r.e; Men never knew him to laugh nor jest, But brave and daring among the best-- Endeared to the felon king therefor; And the dragon flag of his race he bore.

The archbishop loathed him--full well he might,-- And as he saw him he yearned to smite, To himself he speaketh, low and quick, "This heathen seems much a heretic; I go to slay him, or else to die, For I love not dastards or dastardy."

CXLI

The archbishop began the fight once more; He rode the steed he had won of yore, When in Denmark Grossaille the king he slew.

Fleet the charger, and fair to view: His feet were small and fashioned fine, Long the flank, and high the chine, Chest and croup full amply spread, With taper ear and tawny head, And snow-white tail and yellow mane: To seek his peer on earth were vain.

The archbishop spurred him in fiery haste, And, on the moment Abime he faced, Came down on the wondrous shield the blow, The shield with amethysts all aglow, Carbuncle and topaz, each priceless stone; 'Twas once the Emir Galafir's own; A demon gave it in Metas vale; But when Turpin smote it might nought avail-- From side to side did his weapon trace, And he flung him dead in an open s.p.a.ce.

Say the Franks, "Such deeds beseem the brave.

Well the archbishop his cross can save."

CXLII

Count Roland Olivier bespake: "Sir comrade, dost thou my thought partake?

A braver breathes not this day on earth Than our archbishop in knightly worth.

How n.o.bly smites he with lance and blade!"

Saith Olivier, "Yea, let us yield him aid;"

And the Franks once more the fight essayed.

Stern and deadly resound the blows.

For the Christians, alas, 'tis a tale of woes!

CXLIII

The Franks of France of their arms are reft, Three hundred blades alone are left.

The glittering helms they smite and shred, And cleave asunder full many a head; Through riven helm and hauberk rent, Maim head and foot and lineament.

"Disfigured are we," the heathens cry.

"Who guards him not hath but choice to die."