CLIV

With deadly travail, in stress and pain, Count Roland sounded the mighty strain.

Forth from his mouth the bright blood sprang, And his temples burst for the very pang.

On and onward was borne the blast, Till Karl hath heard as the gorge he pa.s.sed, And Naimes and all his men of war.

"It is Roland's horn," said the Emperor, "And, save in battle, he had not blown."

"Battle," said Ganelon, "is there none.

Old are you grown--all white and h.o.a.r; Such words bespeak you a child once more.

Have you, then, forgotten Roland's pride, Which I marvel G.o.d should so long abide, How he captured Noples without your hest?

Forth from the city the heathen pressed, To your va.s.sal Roland they battle gave,-- He slew them all with the trenchant glaive, Then turned the waters upon the plain, That trace of blood might none remain.

He would sound all day for a single hare: 'Tis a jest with him and his fellows there; For who would battle against him dare?

Ride onward--wherefore this chill delay?

Your mighty land is yet far away."

CLV

On Roland's mouth is the b.l.o.o.d.y stain, Burst asunder his temple's vein; His horn he soundeth in anguish drear; King Karl and the Franks around him hear.

Said Karl, "That horn is long of breath."

Said Naimes, "'Tis Roland who travaileth.

There is battle yonder by mine avow.

He who betrayed him deceives you now.

Arm, sire; ring forth your rallying cry, And stand your n.o.ble household by; For you hear your Roland in jeopardy."

CLVI

The king commands to sound the alarm.

To the trumpet the Franks alight and arm; With casque and corselet and gilded brand, Buckler and stalwart lance in hand, Pennons of crimson and white and blue, The barons leap on their steeds anew, And onward spur the pa.s.ses through; Nor is there one but to other saith, "Could we reach but Roland before his death, Blows would we strike for him grim and great."

Ah! what availeth!--'tis all too late.

CLVII

The evening pa.s.sed into brightening dawn.

Against the sun their harness shone; From helm and hauberk glanced the rays, And their painted bucklers seemed all ablaze.

The Emperor rode in wrath apart.

The Franks were moody and sad of heart; Was none but dropped the bitter tear, For they thought of Roland with deadly fear.-- Then bade the Emperor take and bind Count Gan, and had him in scorn consigned To Besgun, chief of his kitchen train.

"Hold me this felon," he said, "in chain."

Then full a hundred round him pressed, Of the kitchen varlets the worst and best; His beard upon lip and chin they tore, Cuffs of the fist each dealt him four, Roundly they beat him with rods and staves; Then around his neck those kitchen knaves Flung a fetterlock fast and strong, As ye lead a bear in a chain along; On a beast of burthen the count they cast, Till they yield him back to Karl at last.

CLVIII

Dark, vast, and high the summits soar, The waters down through the valleys pour.

The trumpets sound in front and rear, And to Roland's horn make answer clear.

The Emperor rideth in wrathful mood, The Franks in grievous solicitude; Nor one among them can stint to weep, Beseeching G.o.d that He Roland keep, Till they stand beside him upon the field, To the death together their arms to wield.

Ah, timeless succor, and all in vain!

Too long they tarried, too late they strain.

CLIX

Onward King Karl in his anger goes; Down on his harness his white beard flows.

The barons of France spur hard behind; But on all there presseth one grief of mind-- That they stand not beside Count Roland then, As he fronts the power of the Saracen.

Were he hurt in fight, who would then survive?

Yet three score barons around him strive.

And what a sixty! Nor chief nor king Had ever such gallant following.

CLX

Roland looketh to hill and plain, He sees the lines of his warriors slain, And he weeps like a n.o.ble cavalier, "Barons of France, G.o.d hold you dear, And take you to Paradise's bowers, Where your souls may lie on the holy flowers; Braver va.s.sals on earth were none, So many kingdoms for Karl ye won; Years a-many your ranks I led, And for end like this were ye nurtured.

Land of France, thou art soothly fair; To-day thou liest bereaved and bare; It was all for me your lives you gave, And I was helpless to shield or save.

May the great G.o.d save you who cannot lie.

Olivier, brother, I stand thee by; I die of grief, if I 'scape unslain: In, brother, in to the fight again."

CLXI

Once more pressed Roland within the fight, His Durindana he grasped with might; Faldron of Pui did he cleave in two, And twenty-four of their bravest slew.

Never was man on such vengeance bound; And, as flee the roe-deer before the hound, So in face of Roland the heathen flee.

Saith Turpin, "Right well this liketh me.

Such prowess a cavalier befits, Who harness wears, and on charger sits; In battle shall he be strong and great, Or I prize him not at four deniers' rate; Let him else be monk in a cloister cell, His daily prayers for our souls to tell."

Cries Roland, "Smite them, and do not spare."

Down once more on the foe they bear, But the Christian ranks grow thinned and rare.

CLXII

Who knoweth ransom is none for him, Maketh in battle resistance grim; The Franks like wrathful lions strike, But King Marsil beareth him baron-like; He bestrideth his charger, Gaignon hight, And he p.r.i.c.keth him hard, Sir Beuve to smite, The Lord of Beaune and of Dijon town, Through shield and cuira.s.s, he struck him down: Dead past succor of man he lay.

Ivon and Ivor did Marsil slay; Gerard of Roussillon beside.

Not far was Roland, and loud he cried, "Be thou forever in G.o.d's disgrace, Who hast slain my fellows before my face, Before we part thou shalt blows essay, And learn the name of my sword to-day."

Down, at the word, came the trenchant brand, And from Marsil severed his good right hand: With another stroke, the head he won Of the fair-haired Jurfalez, Marsil's son.

"Help us, Mahound!" say the heathen train, "May our G.o.ds avenge us on Carlemaine!

Such daring felons he hither sent, Who will hold the field till their lives be spent."

"Let us flee and save us," cry one and all, Unto flight a hundred thousand fall, Nor can aught the fugitives recall.

CLXIII

But what availeth? though Marsil fly, His uncle, the Algalif, still is nigh; Lord of Carthagena is he, Of Alferna's sh.o.r.e and Garmalie, And of Ethiopia, accursed land: The black battalions at his command, With nostrils huge and flattened ears, Outnumber fifty thousand spears; And on they ride in haste and ire, Shouting their heathen war-cry dire.

"At last," said Roland, "the hour is come, Here receive we our martyrdom; Yet strike with your burnished brands--accursed Who sells not his life right dearly first; In life or death be your thought the same, That gentle France be not brought to shame.

When the Emperor hither his steps hath bent, And he sees the Saracens' chastis.e.m.e.nt, Fifteen of their dead against our one, He will breathe on our souls his benison."

DEATH OF OLIVIER