Chapter 3

Olivier said: "So strong the Pagan host;Our French, methinks, in number are too few;Companion Rollánd, sound your horn, that CarleMay hear and send his army back to help."Rollánd replies:—"Great folly would be mine,And all my glory in sweet France be lost.No, I shall strike great blows with Durendal;To the golden hilt the blade shall reek with blood.In evil hour the felon Pagans cameUnto the Pass, for all are doomed to die!"Aoi.

"Rollànd, companion, sound your olifant,That Carle may hear and soon bring back the host.With all his Baronage the king will giveUs held!"—Replied Rollánd:—"May God fore-fendThat for my cause my kindred e'er be blamed,Or that dishonor fall upon sweet France.Nay, I will deal hard blows with Durendal,This my good sword now girt unto my sideWhose blade you'll see all reeking with red blood.Those felon Pagans have for their ill fateTogether met—yea, death awaits them all."Aoi.

"Companion Rollánd, sound your olifant!If Carle who passes through the mounts shall hear,To you I pledge my word, the French return."Answered Rollánd:—"May God forbid!—Ne'er beIt said by living man that Pagans couldCause me to blow my horn, to bring disgraceUpon my kin!—When on the battle field,I'll strike one thousand seven hundred blows,And Durendal all bleeding shall you see.[The French are brave and bravely will they strike.]Those Spanish Moors are doomed to certain death."Aoi.

Olivier said:—"To me there seems no shame;I have beheld the Moors of Spain; they swarmO'er mountains, vales and lands, hide all the plains;Great is this stranger host; our number small."Rollánd replies:—"The more my ardor grows.God and his [blessed] angels grant that FranceLose naught of her renown through my default.Better to die than in dishonor [live.]The more we strike the more Carle's love we gain!"Aoi.

Rollánd is brave and Olivier is wise;Both knights of wond'rous courage—and in armsAnd mounted on their steeds, they both will dieEre they will shun the fight. Good are the CountsAnd proud their words.—The Pagan felons rideIn fury on!—"Rollánd," said Olivier,"One moment, look! Our foes so close, and CarleAfar from us—you have not deigned to blowYour horn! If came the king, no hurt were ours.Cast your eyes toward the great defiles of Aspre;There see this most unhappy rear-guard. [ThoseWho here fight, ne'er shall fight on other fields."]Rollànd retorts:—"Speak not such shameful words.Woe unto him who bears a coward's heartWithin his breast. There firm shall we remain;The combat and the blows from us shall come."Aoi.

Now when Rollánd the battle sees at hand,More than a leopard's or a lion's prideHe shows. He calls the French and Olivier:"Companion, friend, pray, speak of this no more.The Emperor who left his French in trustTo us, has chos'n those twenty thousand men.Right well he knows none has a coward's soul.A man should suffer hurt for his good lord,Endure great cold or scorching heat, and giveEven to his flesh and blood—Strike with your lance,And I with Durendal, my trusty sword,Carle's gift. If here I die, may he who winsIt, say:—'Twas once the sword of a brave knight."Aoi.

Turpin the Archbishop from another side,Spurring his courser, mounts a hill and callsThe French around. This sermon to them speaks:"Seigneurs Barons, Carle left us here: for him,Our King, our duty is to die, to aidIn saving Christendom, the Faith of ChristUphold. There, battle will ye have, for thereBefore your eyes behold the Saracens.Confess your sins, and for God's mercy pray!For your soul's cure I absolution give....If you should die, as holy martyrs yeWill fall, and places find in Paradise!"The French alight and fall upon their knees;The Godly Archbishop grants them benison,Giving for penance his command to strike.Aoi.

The French arise. They stand assoiled and quitOf all sins, blessed by Turpin in God's name.On swift destriers they mount, armed cap-a-pieAs Knights arrayed for battle. Count RollándCalls Olivier:—"Companion, sire, full wellYou know, it is Count Ganelon who hasBetrayed us all, and guerdon rich receivedIn gold and silver; well the Emp'ror shouldAvenge us! King Marsile a bargain madeOf us, but swords will make the reck'ning good."Aoi.

Through the defiles of Spain hath passed RollándMounted on Veillantif, his charger swiftAnd strong, bearing his bright and glitt'ring arms.On goes the brave Rollánd, his lance borne upSkyward, beneath its point a pennon bound,Snow-white, whose fringes flap his hand.Fair is his form, his visage bright with smiles.Behind him follows Olivier his friend;The French with joy, him as their champion, hail.He on the Heathens throws a haughty glance,But casts a sweet and humble look uponHis French, and to them speaks with courteous tone:"Seigneurs Barons, march steadily and close.These Pagans hither came to find a grave;We here shall conquer such great spoil to-dayAs never yet was gained by Kings of France."Even as he spoke the word, the armies met.Aoi.

Said Olivier:—"No care have I to speak,Since you deigned not to blow your olifant,All hope of help from Carle for you is lost.He knows no word of this; the fault lies notIn him, nor are yon Knights to blame—ride onAnd gallop to the charge as best you can.Seigneurs Barons, recoil not from the foe,In God's name! bearing ever this in mind,Hard blows to deal and hard blows to endureForget we not the war-cry of King Carle!"At this word all the French together shout.Who then had heard the cry, "Montjoie!" had knownWhat courage is. Then all together rushRight onward; God! with what an onset fierce!Deeply they spur their steeds for greater speed;They burn to fight. What else can they desire?The Saracens stand firm and nothing fear....Behold the Franks and Pagans hand to hand....Aoi.

The nephew of Marsile—his name Aëlroth,Forward the first of all spurs on his horseAgainst our French, hurling forth insulting words:"To-day, French villains, ye will joust with us;Who was to guard you, has betrayed you; madMust be the King who left you in the pass.So now the honor of sweet France is lost,And Carle the great shall lose his right arm here."Rollànd heard.—God! what pain to him! He drivesHis golden spurs into his courser's flanks,And rushes at full speed against Aëlroth;His shield he breaks, dismails the hauberk linked;Cleaving his breast, he severs all the bones,And from the spine the ribs disjoint. The lanceForth from his body thrusts the Pagan's soul;The Heathen's corse reels from his horse, falls downUpon the earth, the neck cloven in two halves.Rollánd still taunts him:—"Go thou, wretch, and knowCarle was not mad. Ne'er did he treason love,And he did well to leave us in the pass.To-day sweet France will not her honor lose!Strike, Frenchmen, strike; the first sword-stroke is ours;We have the right, these gluttons have the wrong!"Aoi.

Then comes a Duke whose name is Falsarun;He is the brother of the King Marsile.The lands of Dathan and of AbirunHe holds: no viler wretch lives under Heaven.Vast is his forehead, and the space betweenHis deeply sunken eyes is half a foot.Seeing his nephew dead, in grief he boundsForth from the serried ranks, and shouts aloudThe Pagan war-cry, furious 'gainst the French."To-day," he cries, "at last sweet France shall loseHer fame!"—When Olivier heard this, in wrathHe pricks with golden spurs his charger's flanks,And, like true baron, lifts his arm to strike,Shivers the Pagan's shield, his hauberk tearsApart. The pennon's folds pass through his breastAs with the shaft he hurls him from the selle,A mangled corpse;—here lies he on the ground.Unto the prostrate body OlivierSays proudly:—"Wretch, to me thy threats are vain!Strike boldly, Franks! The victory shall be ours!Montjoie!" he shouts, the battle-cry of Carle.Aoi.

A king, named Corsablis, from Barbarie,A distant land, is there.—The Pagan hostHe calls;—"The field is ours with ease: the FrenchSo few in numbers we may well disdain,Nor Carle shall rescue one; all perish here.To-day, they all are doomed to death!" TurpinThe Archbishop heard him; lived no man on earthHe hated more than Corsablis; he pricksHis horse with both his spurs of purest gold,And 'gainst him rushes with tremendous force.The shield and hauberk split; and with a strokeOf the long lance into his body driven,Corsablis lifeless drops across the path;Him, though a corpse, Turpin addresses thus:"Thou, coward Pagan, thou hast lied! Great CarlMy lord, was ever and will ever beOur help; and Frenchmen know not how to fly.As for thy fellows, we can keep them here;I tell you, each this day shall die.—Strike, Franks,Yourselves forget not. This first blow, thank God,Is ours! Montjoie!" cries he, to hold the field.Aoi.

Gerin attacks Malprimis de BrigalWhose good shield now was not a denier worth:The crystal boss all broken, and one halfFall'n on the ground. Down to the flesh GerinHis hauberk cleaves, and passes through his heartThe brazen point of a stout lance. Then fallsThe Pagan chief and dies by that good blow;And Sathanas bears off the wretched soul.Aoi.

Gerier, his comrade, strikes the Amurafle,Breaks his good shield, his hauberk white unmails,Plants in his heart a spear's steel point with suchGood aim, one blow has pierced the body through;And his strong lance-thrust hurls him dead to earth.—Said Olivier: "A noble combat ours!"Aoi.

Duke Sansun rushes on the Almazour;He splits the shield with painted flowers and goldEmbossed. The strong-mailed hauberk shelters not,As he is pierced through liver, heart and lungs.For him may mourn who will—death-struck he falls:"That is a Baron's stroke!" the Archbishop cries.Aoi.

Anseïs gives his steed the rein, and chargesFierce on Turgis de Turteluse; beneathThe golden boss asunder breaks the shield,Rips up the hauberk double-linked; so trueThe thrust, that all the steel passed through his breast.With this one blow the shaft has struck him dead.Rollánd exclaimed: "The stroke is of a Knight!"Aoi.

Then Engelier, the Gascuin of Burdele,Spurs deep his horse, and casting loose the rein,Rushes upon Escremiz de Valterne;Breaks down the buckler fastened to his throatAnd rends his gorget-mail; full in the breastThe lance strikes deep and passes in betweenThe collar bones; dead from the saddle struckHe falls.—And Turpin says: "Ye all are lost!"Aoi.

Othon assails a Pagan, Estorgant,His thrust hits hard the leather of the shield,Effacing its bright colors red and white,Breaks in his hauberk's sides, and plunges deepWithin his heart a strong and trenchant spear,From off the flying steed striking him dead.This done, he says:—"No hope for you remains!"Aoi.

And Berengier smites now Estramaris,Splits down his shield, shivers his coat of mailIn shreds and through his bosom drives a lance.Dead 'midst one thousand Saracens he drops.Of their twelve Peers now ten have breathed their last:Chernuble—Margariz, the Count, survive.Aoi.

Most valiant Knight is Margariz. 'Mid allBeauteous, strong, slender, quick of hand. He spursHis horse and charges Olivier; beneathThe boss of purest gold his shield breaks down,Then at his side a pointed lance he aims;But God protects him, for the blow ne'er reachedThe flesh. The point grazed only, wounding not.Then Margariz unhindered rides awayAnd sounds his horn to rally his own men.Aoi.

The battle rages fierce. All men engage.Rollánd, the dauntless, combats with his lanceAs long as holds the shaft. Fifteen good blowsIt dealt, then broke and fell; now his good sword,Loved Durendal, he draws, spurs on his steed'Gainst Chernubles, splits his bright helm adornedWith gems; one blow cleaves through mail-cap and skull,Cutting both eyes and visage in two parts,And the white hauberk with its close-linked mail;Down to the body's fork, the saddle allOf beaten gold, still deeper goes the sword,Cuts through the courser's chine, nor seeks the joint.Upon the verdant grass fall dead both knightAnd steed. And then he cries: "Wretch! ill inspiredTo venture here! Mohammed helped thee not....Wretches like you this battle shall not win."Aoi.

The Count Rollànd rides through the battle-fieldAnd makes, with Durendal's keen blade in hand,A mighty carnage of the Saracens.Ah! had you then beheld the valiant KnightHeap corse on corse; blood drenching all the ground;His own arms, hauberk, all besmeared with gore,And his good steed from neck to shoulder bleed!Still Olivier halts not in his career.Of the twelve Peers not one deserves reproach,And all the French strike well and massacreThe foe. The Pagans dead or dying fall.Cries the Archbishop: "Well done, Knights of France!Montjoie! Montjoie! It is Carle's battle cry!"Aoi.

Olivier grasps the truncheon of his lance,Spurs through the storm and fury of the fight,And rushes on the Pagan Malsarun,Breaks down his shield with flowers and gold embossed,Thrusts from their orbs his eyes; his brains dashed outAre crushed and trampled 'neath the victor's feet;With seven hundred men of theirs he fell.The Count next slew Turgis and Estorgus;But now the shaft breaks short off by his hand.Then said Rollánd: "What mean you,Compagnon?In such a fight as this 'tis not a staffWe need, but steel and iron, as I deem.Where now that sword called Halteclere, with hiltOf gold and crystal pommel?" "I lack timeTo draw it," valiant Olivier replies,"So busy is my hand in dealing blows!"Aoi.

Lord Olivier then his good sword unsheathed,For which Rollánd entreated him so much,And showed it to his friend with knightly pride;Strikes down a Pagan, Justin de Val-Ferrée,Whose head is severed by the blow; cuts throughTh' embroider'd hauberk, through the body, throughThe saddle all with studs and gold embossed,And through the back-bone of the steed. Both manAnd steed fall on the grass before him, dead.Rollánd exclaims: "Henceforth, you are indeedMy brother! These, the strokes loved by King Carle!"And echoes round the cry: "Montjoie! Montjoie!"Aoi.

The Count Gerin sits on his horse, Sorel,And his companion Gerier, on Passe-Cerf,They loose the reins, and both spur on againstA Pagan, Timozel. One strikes the shield,The other strikes the hauberk;—in his heartThe two spears meet and hurl him lifeless down.I never heard it said nor can I knowBy which of them the swifter blow was struck.—Esperveris, son to Borel, was nextBy Engelier de Burdele slain. TurpinWith his own hand gave death to SiglorelTh' Enchanter who once entered hell, led thereBy Jupiter's craft. Turpin said:—"Forfeit paidFor crime!"—"The wretch is vanquished," cried Rollánd,"My brother Olivier, such blows I love!"Aoi.

The combat paused not. Franks and Pagans vieIn dealing blows; attacking now, and nowDefending. Splintered spears, dripping with bloodSo many; o'er the field such numbers strewn:Of banners torn and shattered gonfalons!So many valiant French mowed in their prime,Whom mothers and sweet wives will never seeAgain, nor those of France who in the PassAwait them! Carle for these shall weep and mourn.But what avails? Naught can he help them now.Ill service rendered Ganelon to themThe day when he to Sarraguce repairedTo sell his kin. Ere long for this he lostBoth limb and life, judged and condemned at Aix,There to be hanged with thirty of his raceWho were not spared the punishment of death.Aoi.

The battle rages. Wonders all perform;Rollánd and Olivier strike hard; TurpinTh' Archbishop, deals more than a thousand blows;The twelve Peers dally not upon the field,While all the French together fight as ifOne man. By hundreds and by thousands fallThe Pagans: none scapes death, save those who flyWhether they will or no, all lose their lives.And yet the French have lost their strongest arms,Their fathers and their kin they will ne'er seeAgain, nor Carle who waits them in the Pass.Meantime in France an awful scourge prevails:Wind, storm, rain, hail and flashing lightning boltsConflict confusedly, and naught more true,The earth shook from Saint Michiel-del-PerilAs far as to the Saints, from BesançonUnto the [sea-port] of Guitzand; no houseWhose walls unshaken stood; darkness at noonShrouded the sky. No beam of light aboveSave when a flash rips up the clouds. DismayedBeholders cry:—"The world's last day has come,The destined end of all things is at hand!"Unwitting of the truth, their speech is vain....'Tis dolour for the death of Count Rollánd!Aoi.

The French [strike] hard; they strike with all their force.In multitudes—by thousands die their foes;Not two out of one hundred thousand nowSurvive. [Turpin] says:—"Brave are all our men;—None braver under Heaven—In the GesteOf France 'tis writ true vassals have our Kings."Seeking their friends, they overrun the field.Their eyes are filled with tenderness and tearsFor their dear kindred they so fondly loved....Now King Marsile with his great host appears....Aoi.

Marsile advances 'midst a valley deep,Surrounded by the mighty host he brought,In twenty squadrons mustered and arrayed.Bright shine the helmets strewn with gold and gems,And shields and hauberks graved. They sound a chargeWith seven hundred clarions sending forthLoud blasts throughout the land—Thus said Rollánd:"Companion Olivier, my brother, friend,The traitor, Ganelon, has sworn our death....His treason is too sure; the Emp'ror CarleFor this vile crime will take a vengeance deep.A long and cruel battle we shall have,Ere this unknown to man. There, I will fightWith my good Durendal; you, friend, will strikeWith Halteclere—Those noble swords we boreThroughout so many lands; such combats wonBy them, vile strains must never chant their deeds."Aoi.

When the French see the Pagan cohorts swarmThe country o'er, they call on Olivier,Rollánd and the twelve Peers to guard their lives.Unto them now the Archbishop speaks his mind:"Barons, be not unworthy of yourselves!Fly not the field, for God's sake, that brave menSing not ill songs of you! Far better dieIn battle. Doomed, I know, we are to death,And ere this day has passed, our lives are o'er.But for one thing ye can believe my word:For you God's Paradise stands open wide,And seats await you 'mid the blessèd Saints."These words of comfort reassure the French;All in one voice cry out:—"Montjoie! Montjoie!"Aoi.

There was a Saracen from SarraguceLord of one half the city—Climorin,Unlike a Baron; he received the faithOf Ganelon, and sealed the treacherous bondBy pressing on his lip a kiss—BesidesUnto him gave his sword and carbuncle."I will," said he, "put your great France to shameAnd from the Emperor's head shake off the crown!"Mounted on Barbamouche that faster fliesThan hawk or swallow on the wing, he spursHis courser hard, and dropping on its neckThe rein, he strikes Engelier de Gascuigne;Hauberk nor shield is for him a defense:Deep in the core the Pagan thrusts his spearSo mightily, its point comes out behind,And with the shaft o'erturns him on the fieldA corse;—he cries. "Fit for destruction these!Strike, Pagans, strike, and let us break their lines!"The French cry: "God! to lose so brave a Knight!"....Aoi.

The Count Rollánd calls Olivier: "You know,Companion, sire, Engelier is no more....No better Knight had we"—The Count replies:"God grant that I avenge him well!" He drivesHis golden spurs into his charger's flanks;And waving Halteclere's blood dripping blade,The Pagan he assails, and deals a blow....O'erthrown is Climorin. The fiends of hellBear off his soul. The Knight then slays the DukeAlphaïen, beheads Escababi,Unhorses seven Arabs with such skillThey rise no more to fight. Then said Rollánd:"Wroth is my sire, and by my side achievesRenown! by such good blows Carl's love is gained.Strike, Chevaliers! strike on!"—he cries aloud.Aoi.

From otherwhere is Valdabrun who armedMarsile a Knight; lord of four hundred ships.There is no sailor but swears by his name;'Twas he by treason took Jerusalem,Who there the shrine of Solomon profaned,And slew before the Fonts the Patriarch;'Twas he, received Count Ganelon's vile oathAnd gave him with his sword a thousand marks;Faster than falcon in its flight his steedNamed Graminond. He sharply spurs his flanksAnd rushes 'gainst the mighty Duke Sansun,Breaks down his shield—the hauberk rends, and thrustsWithin his breast the pennon of the flag;The shaft o'erthrows him from the saddle, dead."Strike Pagans! strike, for we shall conquer them!"The French say:—"God! what Baron true we lose!"Aoi.

When Count Rollánd sees Sansun lifeless fall,You may well know what grief was his. He spursHis horse down on the Pagan. DurendalMore worth than precious gold he lifts to strikeWith all his might; gold studded helm, head, trunk,Hauberk asunder cleaves; the blow, e'en throughThe gold boss'd saddle, strikes the courser's back,Killing both horse and man. Blame or approveWho may. The Pagans say:—"Hard is this blow!"Retorts Rollánd:—"For yours no pity canI feel—With you the vaunting and the wrong!"Aoi.

An African fresh from the desert landWas there, Malquidant, son of king Malcud;His armor highly wrought in beaten goldOutshines all others in the sun's bright rays.Mounted upon his horse named Salt-Perdut,He aims a blow at Anseïs' shield, and cutsThe azure and vermillion all away.His hauberk rives asunder, side from side,And through his body pass both point and shaft.The Count is dead.—His last breath spent and flown.The French say:—"Baron, such great woe for you!"Aoi.

The Archbishop Turpin rides across the fields;No shaven priest sang ever mass so wellAs he, and showed such prowess in his deeds.He to the Pagan:—"May God send all illsTo thee, who slew the knight my heart bewails!"Turpin spurs hard his good steed 'gainst the wretch;One blow strikes down his strong Toledo shield:The miscreant dead upon the green sward falls.Aoi.

Elsewhere stands Grandomie who is the sonOf Capuel king of Cappadoce. He sitsA steed named Marmorie, than flying birdMore swift. Loosening the rein, and spurring deep,To smite Gerin with all his force he rides;Torn from the neck which bears it, shattered fallsThe purple shield, through the rent mail he drivesThe whole blue pennon in his breast. GerinDrops lifeless by this blow, against a rock.The Pagan also slays Gerier, his friend,And Berengier, and Gui de Saint-Antoine;Assailing then the noble Duke AustoireWho holds Valence and fiefs along the Rosne,He strikes him dead. The Saracens extolTheir triumph, but how many fall of ours!Aoi.

Hearing the Frenchmen's sobs, the Count RollándGrasps in his hand his sword, all reeking blood.His mighty heart nigh breaking with his grief,Cries to the foe:—"May God all evils sendOn thee! him hast thou slain for whom thou shaltMost dearly pay!—" He spurs his flying steed....Conquer who may—these two fight hand to hand.Aoi.

A wise and valiant knight was Grandonie,Virtuous and fearless vassal. 'Mid his wayEncountering Count Rollánd, though never seenBefore, at once he knew 'twas he, as wellBy his proud mien and noble beauty, asBy his fair countenance and lofty look.Awe-struck, despite himself, he vainly triesTo fly, but rooted to the spot he stays.The Count Rollánd smites him so skillfully,He splits in two the nazal, helm, nose, mouth,And teeth, the body and mailed-armor, thenHews through the golden selle, both silver-flaps;With a still deeper stroke the courser's backIs gashed. So both are slain past remedy.The men of Spain cry out all sorrowful;But say the French:—"Well our defender strikes."Aoi.

Marv'lous the battle, and the tumult fierce;The French of strength and fury full, raise highTheir swords: backs, ribs and wrists are slashed; the fleshCut through rent garments to the quick; alongThe verdant soil the red blood runs in streams.The Pagans cry:—"We cannot more endure!Great land, Mohammed curse thee!—More than allThis people bold."—Not one who does not cry"Marsile! ride on, O King, thy aid we need!"Aoi.

A battle fierce and wonderful!—Hard strikeThe French with glittering lance, and there you mightHave seen what miseries man can suffer: MowedAnd heaped in bloody mounds, all gasping outTheir lives, some on their backs, some on their teeth—The Saracens give way, willing or not;By the French lances forced, they fly the field.Aoi.

Marsile his warriors massacred beholds,And, bidding all his horns and trumpets blow,Rides forward, and his whole van rides with him.In the van rode a Saracen, Abisme,The vilest wretch among his men, sunk deepIn crimes and shame, who has no faith in God,Sainte Marie's son; as black as melted pitchHis face; more fond of blood and treason foulThan of the gold of all Galice. None sawHim laugh or play; for courage and rash deedsHe pleased the vile Marsile whose dragon flagHe bears. No pity can the Archbishop feelFor him, and at his sight he craves to tryHis arm, all softly saying to himself:"This Saracen is but a heretic;Far better die than not to give him death.Ne'er cowardice nor coward I endured!"Aoi.

The Archbishop gives the signal for the fight;He rides the horse he captured from Grossaille,A King he slew among the Danes: a horseOf wondrous fleetness, light-hoofed, slender-limbed;Thigh short; with broad and mighty haunch; the flanksAre long, and very high his spine; pure whiteHis tail, and yellow is his mane—his earsAre small—light brown his head. This paragonOf all the beasts of earth has not his peer.The Archbishop, baron-like, spurs on the horse,Full bent upon the encounter with Abisme;He gains his side and hard he strikes his shieldGlittering with gems, topaz and amethyst,Crystals and carbuncles, which to him gaveThe Emir Galafés—a demon's giftTo this in Val-Metas. Him Turpin smitesNor mercy shows; 'gainst such a blow availsThe shield but little; sheer from side to sidePasses the blade ... dead on the place he falls.At such exploit amazed, the French exclaim:"The archbishop's crosier in his hand is safe!"Aoi.

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