Chapter 5

The King commands Count Ganelon be seized And given to the scullions of his house. Their chief, named Bègue, he calls and bids: "Guard well This man as one who all my kin betrayed." Him Bègue received, and set upon the Count One hundred of his kitchen comrades--best And worst;--they pluck his beard on lip and cheek; Each deals him with his fist four blows, and falls On him with lash and stick; they chain his neck As they would chain a bear, and he is thrown For more dishonor on a sumpter mule, There guarded so until to Carle brought back. Aoi.

CXL.

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 look Rides on the Emp'ror; filled with wrath and grief, Follow the French, each sobbing, each in tears, Praying that God may guard Rollánd, until They reach the battle-field. With him what blows Will they not strike? Alas! what boots it now? Too late they are and can not come in time. Aoi.

CXLI.

Carle in great anger rides--his snow-white beard O'erspreads his breast-plate. Hard the Barons spur, For never one but inwardly doth rage That 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 ROUT.

CXLII.

The Count Rollánd casts o'er the mounts and vales A 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 flowers Repose!--No better vassals lived! so long Have ye served me! So many lands for Carle Ye won!--The Emperor for this ill fate Has nurtured you!--O land of France, most sweet Art thou, but now forsaken and a waste. Barons of France, to-day I see you die For me; nor can I save or e'en defend Your 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.

CXLIII.

Soon to the field returns the Count Rollánd With Durendal in hand; as a true knight He fights. Faldrun del Pin he cleaves in half With 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 Knight Should have, when mounted, armed, on his good steed! Else, not four deniers is he worth: a monk In cloister should he be, and spend his life In praying for our sins!...." "Strike," said Rollànd, "No quarter!"--At the word the French renew The combat ... yet the Christian loss was great. Aoi.

CXLIV.

When soldiers on the battle-field expect No quarter--desperate they fight; and thus The French, like lions, fiercely stand at bay. Like a true baron King Marsile rides forth Upon his steed Gaignon, and spurs him on Against Bevum, of Belne and Digun lord, His buckler cleaves, his hauberk with a blow Shatters, and lays him dead upon the field. Then fall beneath the Pagan King, Ivoire And Ivun; then Gerard de Roussillon.-- The Count Rollánd is nigh and cries aloud: "God give damnation unto thee who thus So foully slay'st my friends! But ere we part, Dearly shalt thou abye it, and to-day Shalt learn the name my good sword bears."--He strikes The King a true Knight's stroke, and his right hand Lops 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 each To each cries: "Let us fly!"--Upon the word, A hundred thousand turn in sudden flight. Whoever calls them, ne'er will they return. Aoi.

CXLV.

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 shout The Pagan war-cry.--"Here," said Count Rollànd, "Here shall we fall as martyrs. Well I know Our end is nigh; but dastard I count him Who sells not dear his life. Barons, strike well, Strike with your burnished swords, and set such price On death and life, that naught of shame shall fall On our sweet France. When Carle, my lord, shall come Upon this field, and see such slaughter here Of Saracens, fifteen to one of ours, Then will he breathe a blessing on his Knights." Aoi.

OLIVIER'S DEATH.

CXLVI.

When sees Rollánd this tribe accursed, more black Than ink, with glist'ning teeth, their only gleam Of white, he said:--"Truly I know to-day We 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.

CXLVII.

The Pagans, when they mark how few the French, Are filled with pride and comfort, and they say One 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.

CXLVIII.

Olivier knows his death-wound. In his hand He grasps Halteclere's bright steel, and strikes a blow Well 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 boast In thine own land, that thou hast reft from Carle One denier's worth, or me or others harmed!" And then he called Rollànd unto his aid. Aoi.

CXLIX.

Olivier feels that he is hurt to death. No vengeance can suffice him; Baron-like He strikes amid the press, cuts shields embossed And ashen shafts, and spears, feet, shoulders, wrists And breasts of horsemen. He who saw him thus Dismember Saracens, corse over corse Heap on the ground, would of a vassal true Remembrance keep. Nor does he now forget The rallying cry of Carle:--"Montjoie!" he cries Loudly and clear; then calls Rollánd, his friend And compeer:--"Sire companion, stand by me! This day our breaking hearts forever part!" Aoi.

CL.

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

CLI.

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

CLII.

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 smites His breast, aloud confessing all his sins; With joined hands tow'rd Heaven lifted up He prays to God to give him Paradise, To bless Carl'magne, sweet France, and far beyond All other men, Rollánd, his _compagnon_. His heart fails--forward droops his helmet--prone Upon the earth he lies--'tis over now.... The Count is dead. Rollánd, the Baron, mourns And weeps as never mortal mourned before. Aoi.

CLIII.

When sees the Count Rollánd the breath of life Gone from his friend, his body stretched on earth, His face low in the dust, his tears gush out With heavy sobs. Then tenderly he speaks: "Alas! for all thy valor, comrade dear! Year after year, day after day, a life Of 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, The _Marchis_ faints on Veillantif, his steed. But still firm in his stirrups of pure gold: Where'er Rollánd may ride, he cannot fall. Aoi.

CLIV.

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 him Save the Archbishop and Gualtier de l'Hum, Who had descended from the mountain height Where he the men of Spain all day withstood Till 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 am Old gray-haired Droün's nephew; till this day My courage won thy love. So well I fought Against 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.

CLV.

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

CHARLEMAGNE APPROACHES.

CLVI.

The Count Rollánd was ever great in war; Most valiant is Gualtier de l'Hum; Turpin The Archbishop, of a valor proved: each leaves The other naught to do, and 'mid the throng Strikes Pagans down, who though one thousand foot And forty thousand horsemen mustering, yet Dare not approach, forsooth; but from afar Against them hurl their jav'lins, spears and darts, Their lances and winged arrows. First of all Is slain Gualtier; Turpin de Reins' good shield Is pierced, his helmet broken, and his head Wounded, his hauberk shattered and dislinked; Four spears have pierced his body; his good steed Dies under him. Alas! the Archbishop falls. Aoi.

CLVII.

Hardly had Turpin fallen on the earth, By four spear-shafts transfixed, when the brave knight Sprang quickly to his feet once more. His look Sought 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 blows And more he deals.--Carle said in after days, Turpin spared none, as dead upon the field He 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-Gille For whom God showed his might; who in the cloister Of Loüm wrote the record of these deeds. Who knows not this, he knows not any thing. Aoi.

CLVIII.

As hero fights the Count Rollánd; but all His body burns with heat and drips with sweat; His head is torn by pain; his temple burst By that strong blast he gave the olifant. Still would he know if Carle returns; once more He 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 need Urge 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.

CLIX.

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

CLX.

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

CLXI.

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 you I by your side will stand; together we Will share or good or ill; I leave you not For aught of human mold. This day we shall Hurl back the Pagan charge, and Durendal Shall deal his mightiest blows!"--To this replies The Archbishop: "Traitor he who strikes not well! King Carle returns--Great shall his vengeance be!" Aoi.

CLXII.

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 host King Carle returns, the mighty Baron--Hark! His clarions sound, and loud the cry 'Montjoie;' Rollánd has so great pride, no man of flesh Can make him yield, or vanquished fall. 'Twere best We pierced him from afar, and left him lying Upon the field!"----'Twas done: darts, lances, spears, Javelins, winged arrows flew so thick, That his good shield was pierced, his hauberk rent And torn apart--his body yet unharmed. Veillantif, pierced with thirty wounds, falls dead Beneath the Count.--The affrighted Pagans fly. The Count Rollánd stands on the field, alone. Aoi.

THE LAST BENEDICTION OF THE ARCHBISHOP.

CLXIII.

Raging in wrath the Pagans fly, and toward The land of Spain they haste. The Count Rollánd Pursues 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 white And light, then ripped the sides of his _blialt_ To find his gaping wounds; then tenderly Pressing him in his arms, on the green sward He laid him gently down, and fondly prayed: "O noble man, grant me your leave in this; Our brave compeers, so dear to us, have breathed Their 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 soon Return," the Archbishop said; "the field is yours And also mine, thanks to Almighty God!" Aoi.

CLXIV.

Alone the Count Rollánd retraced his steps Throughout the field. Vales, mounts, he searched, and found Gerin and his companion Gerier, then Berengier and Otun; here Anseïs, There Sansun, then beyond, Gerard the old De Roussillon he found--one after one He bore each knight within his arms, and placed Them gently, side by side, before the knees Of Turpin who cannot restrain his tears; With lifted hands he blesses them and says: "Most hapless Knights!--May God the Glorious Receive your souls, and in his Paradise 'Mid holy flowers place them!--In this hour Of death, my deepest grief is that no more The mighty Emperor I shall behold!" Aoi.

CLXV.

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 among The other knights. The Archbishop then assoils And signs him with the holy cross. The grief And pity were more sore than heart can bear.... Then said Rollánd:--"Fair comrade Olivier, Son of the good Count Renier, he who held The marches to the distant shores of Gennes; To break a lance, to pierce a shield, the brave To counsel, traitors to dismay and foil, No land e'er saw a better _chevalier_." Aoi.

CLXVI.

When Count Rollánd beheld his Peers lie dead, And Olivier, that friend so tenderly Beloved, his soul by pity was o'erflowed; Tears from his eyes gush out, his countenance Turns 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.

CLXVII.

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 heart Fails, and he sinks in mortal agony. Aoi.

CLXVIII.

Meantime the Count Rollánd revives.--Erect He stands, but with great pain; then downward looks And upward. Then he sees the noble lord The Archbishop, holy minister of God, Beyond his comrades lying on the sward Stretched out.--He lifts his eyes to Heav'n, recalls His 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 Lord Grant him His holy blessing evermore! Aoi.

CLXIX.

The Count Rollánd sees lifeless on the field The Archbishop lie; gush from the gaping wounds His entrails in the dust, and through his skull The oozing brain pours o'er his brow.--In form Of holy Cross upon his breast Rollánd Disposes 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 wide Before it ope the Gates of Paradise!" Aoi.

ROLAND'S DEATH.

CLXX.

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 call Their souls to Him; to the Angel Gabriel He recommends his spirit. In one hand He takes the olifant, that no reproach May rest upon him; in the other grasps Durendal, his good sword. Forward he goes, Far as an arblast sends a shaft, across A new-tilled ground and toward the land of Spain. Upon a hill, beneath two lofty trees, Four terraces of marble spread:--he falls Prone fainting on the green, for death draws near. Aoi.

CLXXI.

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 Saracen Who lies among the corpses, feigning death, His face and body all besmeared with blood. Sudden he rises to his feet, and bounds Upon the Baron.--Handsome, brave and strong He was, but from his pride sprang mortal rage. He seized the body of Rollánd, and grasped His arms, exclaiming thus:--"Here vanquished Carle's Great nephew lies!"--"This sword to Araby I'll bear."--He drew it;--this aroused the Count. Aoi.

CLXXII.

Rollánd perceived an alien hand would rob Him of his sword; his eyes he oped; one word He spoke:--"I trow, not one of us art thou!" Then with his olifant from which he parts Never, he smites the golden studded helm, Crushing the steel, the head, the bones; both eyes Are from their sockets beaten out--o'erthrown Dead at the Baron's feet he falls:--"O wretch," He cries, "how durst thou, or for good or ill, Lay hands upon Rollánd? Who hears of this Will call thee fool. Mine olifant is cleft, Its gems and gold all scattered by the blow." Aoi.

CLXXIII.

Now feels Rollánd that death is near at hand And struggles up with all his force; his face Grows livid;--[Durendal, his naked sword] He holds;--beside him rises a gray rock On which he strikes ten mighty blows through grief And rage--The steel but grinds; it breaks not, nor Is notched; then cries the Count:--"Saint Mary, help! O Durendal! Good sword! ill starred art thou! Though we two part, I care not less for thee. What victories together thou and I, Have gained, what kingdoms conquered, which now holds White-bearded Carle! No coward's hand shall grasp Thy hilt: a valiant knight has borne thee long, Such as none shall e'er bear in France the Free!" Aoi.

CLXXIV.