Part 13 (1/2)

Right unto Marsil their way they take.

”Help, O king, for your people's sake!”

King Marsil heard their cry at hand, ”Mahound destroy thee, O mighty land; Thy race came hither to crush mine own.

What cities wasted and overthrown, Doth Karl of the h.o.a.ry head possess!

Rome and Apulia his power confess, Constantinople and Saxony; Yet better die by the Franks than flee.

On, Saracens! recreant heart be none; If Roland live, we are all foredone.”

CXLIV

Then with the lance did the heathens smite On s.h.i.+eld and gleaming helmet bright; Of steel and iron arose the clang, Towards heaven the flames and sparkles sprang; Brains and blood on the champaign flowed; But on Roland's heart is a dreary load, To see his va.s.sals lie cold in death; His gentle France he remembereth, And his uncle, the good King Carlemaine; And the spirit within him groans for pain.

CXLV

Count Roland entered within the prease, And smote full deadly without surcease; While Durindana aloft he held, Hauberk and helm he pierced and quelled, Intrenching body and hand and head.

The Saracens lie by the hundred dead, And the heathen host is discomfited.

CXLVI

Valiantly Olivier, otherwhere, Brandished on high his sword Hauteclere-- Save Durindana, of swords the best.

To the battle proudly he him addressed.

His arms with the crimson blood were dyed.

”G.o.d, what a va.s.sal!” Count Roland cried.

”O gentle baron, so true and leal, This day shall set on our love the seal!

The Emperor cometh to find us dead, For ever parted and severed.

France never looked on such woful day; Nor breathes a Frank but for us will pray,-- From the cloister cells shall the orisons rise, And our souls find rest in Paradise.”

Olivier heard him, amid the throng, Spurred his steed to his side along.

Saith each to other, ”Be near me still; We will die together, if G.o.d so will.”

CXLVII

Roland and Olivier then are seen To lash and hew with their falchions keen; With his lance the archbishop thrusts and slays, And the numbers slain we may well appraise; In charter and writ is the tale expressed-- Beyond four thousand, saith the geste.

In four encounters they sped them well: Dire and grievous the fifth befell.

The cavaliers of the Franks are slain All but sixty, who yet remain; G.o.d preserved them, that ere they die, They may sell their lives full hardily.

THE HORN

CXLVIII

As Roland gazed on his slaughtered men, He bespake his gentle compeer agen: ”Ah, dear companion, may G.o.d thee s.h.i.+eld!

Behold, our bravest lie dead on field!

Well may we weep for France the fair, Of her n.o.ble barons despoiled and bare.

Had he been with us, our king and friend!

Speak, my brother, thy counsel lend,-- How unto Karl shall we tidings send?”