Chapter 4

The Count Rollánd calls Olivier: "With me,Companion, sire, confess that 'mong brave knightsThe archbishop upon earth or under Heav'nHas not his peer in casting spear or lance."Olivier answers:—"To his rescue on!"At this the French once more resume the fight.Hard are the blows, rough is the strife—MeantimeThe Christian host in greatest sorrow mourn.Aoi.

Whoever could this fight describe? RollándAnd Olivier vie with Turpin in skillAnd glorious deeds—The slain can counted be;In charts and briefs their numbers are enrolled:More than four thousand fell, so says the Geste.Four times the French arms were victorious,But on the fifth, a cruel fate they met;The knights of France found there a grave, exceptThree more whose lives God saved; yet those brave knights,Ere falling, their last breath will dearly sell.Aoi.

Seeing so many warriors fall'n around,Rollánd unto his comrade OlivierSpoke thus: "Companion fair and dear, for GodWhose blessing rest on you, those vassals trueAnd brave lie corses on the battle-field:Look! We must mourn for France so sweet and fair,From henceforth widowed of such valiant knights.Carle, 'would you were amongst us, King and friend!What can we do, say, brother Olivier,To bring him news of this sore strait of ours!"Olivier answers:—"I know not; but thisI know; for us is better death than shame."Aoi.

Rollánd says;—"I will blow mine olifant,And Carle will hear it from the pass. I pledgeMy word the French at once retrace their steps."Said Olivier:—"This a great shame would be,One which to all your kindred would bequeatheA lifetime's stain. When this I asked of you,You answered nay, and would do naught. Well, nowWith my consent you shall not;—if you blowYour horn, of valor true you show no proof.Already, both your arms are drenched with blood."Responds the Count:—"These arms have nobly struck."Aoi.

"The strife is rude," Rollánd says—"I will blowMy horn, that Carle may hear."—Said Olivier:—"This would not courage be. What I desired,Companion, you disdained. Were the king here,Safe would we be, but yon brave men are notTo blame"—"By this my beard," said Olivier,"I swear, if e'er I see again sweet Aude,My sister, in her arms you ne'er shall lie."Aoi.

Rollánd asked Olivier—"Why show to meYour anger, friend!"—"Companion, yours the fault;True courage means not folly. Better farIs prudence than your valiant rage. Our FrenchTheir lives have lost, your rashness is the cause.And now our arms can never more give CarleTheir service good. Had you believed your friend,Amongst us would he be, and ours the field,The King Marsile, a captive or a corse.Rollànd, your valor brought ill fortune, norShall Carle the great e'er more our help receive,A man unequaled till God's judgment-day.Here you shall die, and dying, humble France, ...This day our loyal friendship ends—ere fallsThe Vesper-eve, dolorously we part!"Aoi.

The Archbishop heard their strife. In haste he drivesInto his horse his spurs of purest gold,And quick beside them rides. Then chiding them,Says:—"Sire Rollánd, and you, Sire Olivier,In God's name be no feud between you two;No more your horn shall save us; nathless 'twereFar better Carle should come and soon avengeOur deaths. So joyous then these Spanish foesWould not return. But as our Franks alight,Find us or slain or mangled on the field,They will our bodies on their chargers' backsLift in their shrouds with grief and pity, allIn tears, and bury us in holy ground:And neither wolves, nor swine, nor curs shall feedOn us—" Replies Rollánd:—"Well have you said."Aoi.

Rollánd raised to his lips the olifant,Drew a deep breath, and blew with all his force.High are the mountains, and from peak to peakThe sound re-echoes; thirty leagues away'Twas heard by Carle and all his brave compeers.Cried the king:—"Our men make battle!—" GanelonRetorts in haste:—"If thus another daredTo speak, we should denounce it as a lie."Aoi.

The Count Rollánd in his great anguish blowsHis olifant so mightily, with suchDespairing agony, his mouth pours forthThe crimson blood, and his swoll'n temples burst.Yea, but so far the ringing blast resounds;Carle hears it, marching through the pass, Naimes harks,The French all listen with attentive ear."That is Rollánd's horn!—" Carle cried, "which ne'er yetWas, save in battle, blown!—" But GanelonReplies:—"No fight is there!—you, sire, are old,Your hair and beard are all bestrewn with gray,And as a child your speech. Well do you knowRollánd's great pride. 'Tis marvelous God bearsWith him so long. Already took he NobleWithout your leave. The Pagans left their wallsAnd fought Rollánd, your brave Knight, in the field;With his good blade he slew them all, and thenWashed all the plain with water, that no traceOf blood was left—yea, oftentimes he runsAfter a hare all day and blows his horn.Doubtless he takes his sport now with his peers;And who 'neath Heav'n would dare attack Rollánd?None, as I deem. Nay, sire, ride on apace;Why do you halt? Still far is the Great Land."Aoi.

Rollánd with bleeding mouth and temples burst,Still in his anguish, blows his olifant;Carle hears it, and his Franks. The king exclaims:"That horn has a long breath!" Duke Naimes replies:"Rollánd it is, and in a sore distress,Upon my faith, a battle rages there!A traitor he who would deceive you now.To arms! Your war-cry shout, your kinsman save!Plainly enough you hear his call for help."Aoi.

Carle orders all the trumpeters to soundThe march. The French alight. They arm themselvesWith helmets, hauberks and gold hilted swords,Bright bucklers, long sharp spears, with pennons whiteAnd red and blue. The barons of the hostLeap on their steeds, all spurring on; while throughThe pass they march, each to the other says:"Could we but reach Rollánd before he dies,What deadly blows, with his, our swords would strike!"But what avails?—Too late they will arrive.Aoi.

The ev'n is clear, the sun its radiant beamsReflects upon the marching legions. Spears,Hauberks and helms, shields painted with bright flowers,Gold pennons all ablaze with glitt'ring hues.Burning with wrath the Emperor rides on;The French with sad and angered looks. None thereBut weeps aloud. All tremble for Rollánd.The King commands Count Ganelon be seizedAnd given to the scullions of his house.Their chief, named Bègue, he calls and bids: "Guard wellThis man as one who all my kin betrayed."Him Bègue received, and set upon the CountOne hundred of his kitchen comrades—bestAnd worst;—they pluck his beard on lip and cheek;Each deals him with his fist four blows, and fallsOn him with lash and stick; they chain his neckAs they would chain a bear, and he is thrownFor more dishonor on a sumpter mule,There guarded so until to Carle brought back.Aoi.

High are the mountains, gloomy, terrible,The valleys deep, and swift the rushing streams.In van, in rear, the brazen trumpets blow,Answ'ring the olifant. With angry lookRides on the Emp'ror; filled with wrath and grief,Follow the French, each sobbing, each in tears,Praying that God may guard Rollánd, untilThey reach the battle-field. With him what blowsWill they not strike? Alas! what boots it now?Too late they are and can not come in time.Aoi.

Carle in great anger rides—his snow-white beardO'erspreads his breast-plate. Hard the Barons spur,For never one but inwardly doth rageThat he is far from their great chief, Rollánd,Who combats now the Saracens of Spain:If wounded he, will one of his survive?O God! What Knights those sixty left by him!Nor King nor captain better ever had....Aoi.

The Count Rollánd casts o'er the mounts and valesA glance: French corses strew the plains in heaps;He for them mourns as gentle chevalier.At such a sight the noble hero weeps:"Seigneurs, to you may God be merciful!To all your souls may He grant Paradise,And there may they on beds of heavenly flowersRepose!—No better vassals lived! so longHave ye served me! So many lands for CarleYe won!—The Emperor for this ill fateHas nurtured you!—O land of France, most sweetArt thou, but now forsaken and a waste.Barons of France, to-day I see you dieFor me; nor can I save or e'en defendYour lives. Be God your aid, who ne'er played false!Olivier, brother, I must not fail thee!If other death comes not, of grief I die.Come, sire companion ... come to fight again!"Aoi.

Soon to the field returns the Count RollándWith Durendal in hand; as a true knightHe fights. Faldrun del Pin he cleaves in halfWith twenty-four among the bravest foes.Never was man so bent upon revenge.As run wild deer before the chasing hounds,Before Rollánd the Pagans flee.—"Well done!"The Archbishop cries, "Such valor a true KnightShould have, when mounted, armed, on his good steed!Else, not four deniers is he worth: a monkIn cloister should he be, and spend his lifeIn praying for our sins!...." "Strike," said Rollànd,"No quarter!"—At the word the French renewThe combat ... yet the Christian loss was great.Aoi.

When soldiers on the battle-field expectNo quarter—desperate they fight; and thusThe French, like lions, fiercely stand at bay.Like a true baron King Marsile rides forthUpon his steed Gaignon, and spurs him onAgainst Bevum, of Belne and Digun lord,His buckler cleaves, his hauberk with a blowShatters, and lays him dead upon the field.Then fall beneath the Pagan King, IvoireAnd Ivun; then Gerard de Roussillon.—The Count Rollánd is nigh and cries aloud:"God give damnation unto thee who thusSo foully slay'st my friends! But ere we part,Dearly shalt thou abye it, and to-dayShalt learn the name my good sword bears."—He strikesThe King a true Knight's stroke, and his right handLops at the wrist; then Turfaleu the fair,Marsile's own son, beheads. The Pagans say:"Aid us, Mahum! Avenge us, Gods of ours,On Carle, who brought such villains to our land,As rather than depart will die."—And eachTo each cries: "Let us fly!"—Upon the word,A hundred thousand turn in sudden flight.Whoever calls them, ne'er will they return.Aoi.

Alas, it not avails! If Marsile flies,His uncle Marganice unhurt remained.'Tis he who held Carthage, Alferne, Garnaille,And Ethiopia, a land accursed;Chief of the Blacks, a thick-nosed, large-eared race.Of these he more than fifty thousand leads,Who ride on proudly, full of wrath, and shoutThe Pagan war-cry.—"Here," said Count Rollànd,"Here shall we fall as martyrs. Well I knowOur end is nigh; but dastard I count himWho sells not dear his life. Barons, strike well,Strike with your burnished swords, and set such priceOn death and life, that naught of shame shall fallOn our sweet France. When Carle, my lord, shall comeUpon this field, and see such slaughter hereOf Saracens, fifteen to one of ours,Then will he breathe a blessing on his Knights."Aoi.

When sees Rollánd this tribe accursed, more blackThan ink, with glist'ning teeth, their only gleamOf white, he said:—"Truly I know to-dayWe die! Strike, Frenchmen, that is my command."And Olivier, "Woe to the laggards," cries.These words the French hearts fired to meet the fray.Aoi.

The Pagans, when they mark how few the French,Are filled with pride and comfort, and they sayOne to the other:—"Their King Carle is wrong!"—Upon his sorrel steed sits Marganice;Urging him hard with pricking spurs of gold,Encounters Olivier—strikes him behind,Drives his white hauberk-links into his heart,And through in front came forth the pointed lance.The Kalif cries:—"That blow struck home! Carlmagne,For thy mishap, left you to guard the Pass!That he has wronged us, little may he boast.Your death alone for us a vengeance full!"Aoi.

Olivier knows his death-wound. In his handHe grasps Halteclere's bright steel, and strikes a blowWell aimed upon the Kalif's pointed helm;He scatters golden flow'rs and gems in dust.His head the trenchant blade cleaves to the teeth,And dead the Kalif falls.—"Pagan accursed,"He cries, "not here shalt thou say Carle lost aught;To wife nor lady shalt thou ever boastIn thine own land, that thou hast reft from CarleOne denier's worth, or me or others harmed!"And then he called Rollànd unto his aid.Aoi.

Olivier feels that he is hurt to death.No vengeance can suffice him; Baron-likeHe strikes amid the press, cuts shields embossedAnd ashen shafts, and spears, feet, shoulders, wristsAnd breasts of horsemen. He who saw him thusDismember Saracens, corse over corseHeap on the ground, would of a vassal trueRemembrance keep. Nor does he now forgetThe rallying cry of Carle:—"Montjoie!" he criesLoudly and clear; then calls Rollánd, his friendAnd compeer:—"Sire companion, stand by me!This day our breaking hearts forever part!"Aoi.

Rollánd looks Olivier full in the face;Pale, livid, colorless; pure crimson bloodDrips from his body, and streams on the earth."God!" cried Rollánd, "I know not what to do,Companion, friend, thy courage was betrayedTo-day; nor will such courage e'er be seenIn human heart. Sweet France, oh! how shalt thou,As widow, wail thy vassals true and brave,Humbled and wrecked! The great heart of King CarleWill break!" He spake and on his saddle swooned.Aoi.

Behold Rollánd, there, fainting on his steed,While Olivier stands wounded to the death.So great the loss of blood, his troubled eyesSee naught afar or near, nor mortal manCan recognize. Encount'ring there Rollánd,Upon his golden-studded helm he struckA dreadful blow, which to the nose-plate cleft,And split the crest in twain, but left the headUntouched. Rollánd at this, upon him looks,And softly, sweetly asks:—"Sirecompagnon!Was that blow meant for me? I am RollándBy whom you are beloved so well; to meCould you by any chance, defiance give?"Said Olivier:—"I hear your speech, but seeYou now no more. May God behold you, friend!I struck the blow; beseech you, pardon me."Rollánd responds:—"I am not wounded—hereAnd before God I pardon you." At this,Each to the other bends in courtesy.With such great tenderness and love they part.Aoi.

Olivier feels the agony of death;His vacant eyes roll wildly in his head,And all his hearing and his sight are lost.Dismounting, on the ground he lies, and smitesHis breast, aloud confessing all his sins;With joined hands tow'rd Heaven lifted upHe prays to God to give him Paradise,To bless Carl'magne, sweet France, and far beyondAll other men, Rollánd, hiscompagnon.His heart fails—forward droops his helmet—proneUpon the earth he lies—'tis over now....The Count is dead. Rollánd, the Baron, mournsAnd weeps as never mortal mourned before.Aoi.

When sees the Count Rollánd the breath of lifeGone from his friend, his body stretched on earth,His face low in the dust, his tears gush outWith heavy sobs. Then tenderly he speaks:"Alas! for all thy valor, comrade dear!Year after year, day after day, a lifeOf love we led; ne'er didst thou wrong to me,Nor I to thee. If death takes thee away,My life is but a pain." While speaking thus,TheMarchisfaints on Veillantif, his steed.But still firm in his stirrups of pure gold:Where'er Rollánd may ride, he cannot fall.Aoi.

Scarce hath the Count recovered from his swoon,When all the great disaster meets his sight;The French lie on the field; all lost to himSave the Archbishop and Gualtier de l'Hum,Who had descended from the mountain heightWhere he the men of Spain all day withstoodTill all his own fell 'neath the Pagan swords.Willed he or not, he fled into the vale,And now upon Rollánd he calls for aid;"Most gentle Count, most valiant, where art thou?Ne'er had I fear where'er thou wert!—'tis I,Gualtier, who conquered Maëlgut, who amOld gray-haired Droün's nephew; till this dayMy courage won thy love. So well I foughtAgainst the Saracens, my spear was broke,My shield was pierced, my hauberk torn and wrung,And in my body eight steel darts I bear.Done are my days, but dear the last I sold!"The words of that brave knight Rollánd has heard,Spurs on his steed and gallops to his help.Aoi.

With grief and rage Rollánd's great heart is full;Amidst the thick ranks of a swarming foeHe rides. He fights—and twenty Pagans fallSlain by his hand; by Gualtier's six, and fiveBy the Archbishop's. Loud the Pagans cry:"Vile wretches these! Let none escape alive!Eternal shame to them who dare not makeAttack; foul recreants those who let their flightAvail."—Renewing then their hues and cries,The Pagans rush from all parts 'gainst the knights.Aoi.

The Count Rollánd was ever great in war;Most valiant is Gualtier de l'Hum; TurpinThe Archbishop, of a valor proved: each leavesThe other naught to do, and 'mid the throngStrikes Pagans down, who though one thousand footAnd forty thousand horsemen mustering, yetDare not approach, forsooth; but from afarAgainst them hurl their jav'lins, spears and darts,Their lances and winged arrows. First of allIs slain Gualtier; Turpin de Reins' good shieldIs pierced, his helmet broken, and his headWounded, his hauberk shattered and dislinked;Four spears have pierced his body; his good steedDies under him. Alas! the Archbishop falls.Aoi.

Hardly had Turpin fallen on the earth,By four spear-shafts transfixed, when the brave knightSprang quickly to his feet once more. His lookSought for Rollánd to whom he ran in haste.One word he said:—"Unconquered yet am I!While life doth last, a true knight yields it not!"He draws Almace, his sword of burnished steel,And rushing 'mid the throng, one thousand blowsAnd more he deals.—Carle said in after days,Turpin spared none, as dead upon the fieldHe saw four hundred men, some cut in twain,Some with lopped heads: so says the Geste of France,And one who saw the field, the brave Saint-GilleFor whom God showed his might; who in the cloisterOf Loüm wrote the record of these deeds.Who knows not this, he knows not any thing.Aoi.

As hero fights the Count Rollánd; but allHis body burns with heat and drips with sweat;His head is torn by pain; his temple burstBy that strong blast he gave the olifant.Still would he know if Carle returns; once moreHe blows his horn—Alas, with feeble blast.Carle caught the distant sound, and, list'ning, waits:"Seigneurs," cried he, "great evils fall apace;I hear his dying blast upon his horn.If we would find him yet alive, we needUrge on our steeds. Let all our trumpets blow!"Then sixty thousand trumps rang forth their peals;The hills reëcho, and the vales respond.The Pagans hear—and stay their gabbling mirth.One to the other says:—"'Tis Carle who comes!"Aoi.

The Pagans say:—"The Emperor returns;These are the clarions of the French we hear.If Carle should come, 'twill be our doom; if livesRollánd, the war begins anew, and SpainOur land is lost to us for evermore."Four hundred warriors well armed cap-a-pie,The bravest of the host, then closed their ranksAnd dashed in fierce attack against Rollánd.Mighty the deeds the Count must now achieve!Aoi.

As they draw near, Rollánd calls up his prideAnd summons all his strength to meet the charge.No foot of ground he yields while life remains.Firm on his courser Veillantif he sitsAnd gores his flanks with spurs of purest gold.Into the thickest ranks he and TurpinThe Archbishop rush. And now the Pagans allUnto each other cry: "Hence, friends, away!The horns of those of France we now have heard,Carlemagne the mighty Emperor returns!"Aoi.

Ne'er could the Count Rollánd a coward love,Nor proud, nor wicked men, nor faithless knights.He calls to the Archbishop: "You, on foot,And I on horseback, sire! For love of youI by your side will stand; together weWill share or good or ill; I leave you notFor aught of human mold. This day we shallHurl back the Pagan charge, and DurendalShall deal his mightiest blows!"—To this repliesThe Archbishop: "Traitor he who strikes not well!King Carle returns—Great shall his vengeance be!"Aoi.

The Pagans say: "For such ill were we born!What fatal morn this day for us has ris'n!Dead lie our lords and Peers! With his great hostKing Carle returns, the mighty Baron—Hark!His clarions sound, and loud the cry 'Montjoie;'Rollánd has so great pride, no man of fleshCan make him yield, or vanquished fall. 'Twere bestWe pierced him from afar, and left him lyingUpon the field!"——'Twas done: darts, lances, spears,Javelins, winged arrows flew so thick,That his good shield was pierced, his hauberk rentAnd torn apart—his body yet unharmed.Veillantif, pierced with thirty wounds, falls deadBeneath the Count.—The affrighted Pagans fly.The Count Rollánd stands on the field, alone.Aoi.

Raging in wrath the Pagans fly, and towardThe land of Spain they haste. The Count RollándPursues them not, for Veillantif lies dead.On foot he stands whether he will or not.To help Turpin, the Archbishop, fast he ran,His helm unclasped, removed the hauberk whiteAnd light, then ripped the sides of hisblialtTo find his gaping wounds; then tenderlyPressing him in his arms, on the green swardHe laid him gently down, and fondly prayed:"O noble man, grant me your leave in this;Our brave compeers, so dear to us, have breathedTheir last—we should not leave them on the field;I will their bodies seek and gather here,To lay them out before you."—"Go, and soonReturn," the Archbishop said; "the field is yoursAnd also mine, thanks to Almighty God!"Aoi.

Alone the Count Rollánd retraced his stepsThroughout the field. Vales, mounts, he searched, and foundGerin and his companion Gerier, thenBerengier and Otun; here Anseïs,There Sansun, then beyond, Gerard the oldDe Roussillon he found—one after oneHe bore each knight within his arms, and placedThem gently, side by side, before the kneesOf Turpin who cannot restrain his tears;With lifted hands he blesses them and says:"Most hapless Knights!—May God the GloriousReceive your souls, and in his Paradise'Mid holy flowers place them!—In this hourOf death, my deepest grief is that no moreThe mighty Emperor I shall behold!"Aoi.

Rollánd turns back, and searching through the field,Has found, alas! his comrade Olivier....He pressed him 'gainst his bosom tenderly,And, as he could, returning to Turpin,Stretched on a shield he lays him down amongThe other knights. The Archbishop then assoilsAnd signs him with the holy cross. The griefAnd pity were more sore than heart can bear....Then said Rollánd:—"Fair comrade Olivier,Son of the good Count Renier, he who heldThe marches to the distant shores of Gennes;To break a lance, to pierce a shield, the braveTo counsel, traitors to dismay and foil,No land e'er saw a betterchevalier."Aoi.

When Count Rollánd beheld his Peers lie dead,And Olivier, that friend so tenderlyBeloved, his soul by pity was o'erflowed;Tears from his eyes gush out, his countenanceTurns pale; distressed, he can no longer stand.Would he or not, he swooned and fell to earth.The Archbishop said: "Baron, what woe is yours!"Aoi.

The Archbishop, when he saw Count Rollánd swoon,Felt keener grief than e'er he felt before;Stretched forth his hand, and took the olifant.—Ronceval there is a running stream;Thence will he water bring to Count Rollánd.Staggering, with feeble steps, thither he goes,But loss of blood has made him all too weak:Ere he has gone an acre's length, his heartFails, and he sinks in mortal agony.Aoi.

Meantime the Count Rollánd revives.—ErectHe stands, but with great pain; then downward looksAnd upward. Then he sees the noble lordThe Archbishop, holy minister of God,Beyond his comrades lying on the swardStretched out.—He lifts his eyes to Heav'n, recallsHis sins, and raising both his joinèd hands,He prays Our God to grant him paradise.—Turpin, Carle's Knight, is dead, who all his life,With doughty blows and sermons erudite,Ne'er ceased to fight the Pagans. May the LordGrant him His holy blessing evermore!Aoi.

The Count Rollánd sees lifeless on the fieldThe Archbishop lie; gush from the gaping woundsHis entrails in the dust, and through his skullThe oozing brain pours o'er his brow.—In formOf holy Cross upon his breast RollándDisposes both his hands so fair and white,And mourned him in the fashion of his land:"O noble man! O knight of lineage pure!To the Glorious One of Heav'n I thee commend;For ne'er was man who Him more truly served,Nor since the Apostles' days, such prophet, strong,To keep God's law and draw the hearts of men.From ev'ry pain your soul be freed, and wideBefore it ope the Gates of Paradise!"Aoi.

Rollánd now feels his death is drawing nigh:From both his ears the brain is oozing fast.For all his peers he prays that God may callTheir souls to Him; to the Angel GabrielHe recommends his spirit. In one handHe takes the olifant, that no reproachMay rest upon him; in the other graspsDurendal, his good sword. Forward he goes,Far as an arblast sends a shaft, acrossA new-tilled ground and toward the land of Spain.Upon a hill, beneath two lofty trees,Four terraces of marble spread:—he fallsProne fainting on the green, for death draws near.Aoi.

High are the mounts, and lofty are the trees.Four terraces are there, of marble bright:There Count Rollánd lies senseless on the grass.Him at this moment spies a SaracenWho lies among the corpses, feigning death,His face and body all besmeared with blood.Sudden he rises to his feet, and boundsUpon the Baron.—Handsome, brave and strongHe was, but from his pride sprang mortal rage.He seized the body of Rollánd, and graspedHis arms, exclaiming thus:—"Here vanquished Carle'sGreat nephew lies!"—"This sword to ArabyI'll bear."—He drew it;—this aroused the Count.Aoi.

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