The Song of Roland Part 10

The count Rollanz, when Sansun dead he saw, You may believe, great grief he had therefor.

His horse he spurs, gallops with great effort, Wields Durendal, was worth fine gold and more, Goes as he may to strike that baron bold Above the helm, that was embossed with gold, Slices the head, the sark, and all the corse, The good saddle, that was embossed with gold, And cuts deep through the backbone of his horse; He's slain them both, blame him for that or laud.

The pagans say: "'Twas hard on us, that blow."

Answers Rollanz: "Nay, love you I can not, For on your side is arrogance and wrong."

AOI.

CXVIII

Out of Affrike an Affrican was come, 'Twas Malquiant, the son of king Malcud; With beaten gold was all his armour done, Fore all men's else it shone beneath the sun.

He sate his horse, which he called Salt-Perdut, Never so swift was any beast could run.

And Anseis upon the s.h.i.+eld he struck, The scarlat with the blue he sliced it up, Of his hauberk he's torn the folds and cut, The steel and stock has through his body thrust.

Dead is that count, he's no more time to run.

Then say the Franks: "Baron, an evil luck!"

CXIX

Swift through the field Turpin the Archbishop pa.s.sed; Such shaven-crown has never else sung Ma.s.s Who with his limbs such prowess might compa.s.s; To th'pagan said "G.o.d send thee all that's bad!

One thou hast slain for whom my heart is sad."

So his good horse forth at his bidding ran, He's struck him then on his s.h.i.+eld Toledan, Until he flings him dead on the green gra.s.s.

CXX

From the other part was a pagan Grandones, Son of Capuel, the king of Capadoce.

He sate his horse, the which he called Marmore, Never so swift was any bird in course; He's loosed the reins, and spurring on that horse He's gone to strike Gerin with all his force; The scarlat s.h.i.+eld from's neck he's broken off, And all his sark thereafter has he torn, The ensign blue clean through his body's gone, Until he flings him dead, on a high rock; His companion Gerer he's slain also, And Berenger, and Guiun of Santone; Next a rich duke he's gone to strike, Austore, That held Valence and the Honour of the Rhone; He's flung him dead; great joy the pagans shew.

Then say the Franks: "Of ours how many fall."

CXXI

The count Rollanz, his sword with blood is stained, Well has he heard what way the Franks complained; Such grief he has, his heart would split in twain: To the pagan says: "G.o.d send thee every shame!

One hast thou slain that dearly thou'lt repay."

He spurs his horse, that on with speed doth strain; Which should forfeit, they both together came.

CXXII

Grandonie was both proof and valiant, And virtuous, a va.s.sal combatant.

Upon the way there, he has met Rollant; He'd never seen, yet knew him at a glance, By the proud face and those fine limbs he had, By his regard, and by his contenance; He could not help but he grew faint thereat, He would escape, nothing avail he can.

Struck him the count, with so great virtue, that To the nose-plate he's all the helmet cracked, Sliced through the nose and mouth and teeth he has, Hauberk close-mailed, and all the whole carca.s.s, Saddle of gold, with plates of silver flanked, And of his horse has deeply scarred the back; He's slain them both, they'll make no more attack: The Spanish men in sorrow cry, "Alack!"

Then say the Franks: "He strikes well, our warrant."

CXXIII

Marvellous is the battle in its speed, The Franks there strike with vigour and with heat, Cutting through wrists and ribs and chines in-deed, Through garments to the lively flesh beneath; On the green gra.s.s the clear blood runs in streams.

The pagans say: "No more we'll suffer, we.

Terra Major, Mahummet's curse on thee!

Beyond all men thy people are hardy!"

There was not one but cried then: "Marsilie, Canter, O king, thy succour now we need!"

CXXIV

Marvellous is the battle now and grand, The Franks there strike, their good brown spears in hand.

Then had you seen such sorrowing of clans, So many a slain, shattered and bleeding man!

Biting the earth, or piled there on their backs!

The Sarrazins cannot such loss withstand.

Will they or nill, from off the field draw back; By lively force chase them away the Franks.

AOI.

CXXV

Their martyrdom, his men's, Marsile has seen, So he bids sound his horns and his buccines; Then canters forth with all his great army.

Canters before a Sarrazin, Abisme, More felon none was in that company; Cankered with guile and every felony, He fears not G.o.d, the Son of Saint Mary; Black is that man as molten pitch that seethes; Better he loves murder and treachery Than to have all the gold of Galicie; Never has man beheld him sport for glee; Yet va.s.salage he's shown, and great folly, So is he dear to th' felon king Marsile; Dragon he bears, to which his tribe rally.

That Archbishop could never love him, he; Seeing him there, to strike he's very keen, Within himself he says all quietly: "This Sarrazin great heretick meseems, Rather I'ld die, than not slay him clean, Neer did I love coward nor cowardice."

AOI.

CXXVI

That Archbishop begins the fight again, Sitting the horse which he took from Grossaille --That was a king he had in Denmark slain;-- That charger is swift and of n.o.ble race; Fine are his hooves, his legs are smooth and straight, Short are his thighs, broad crupper he displays, Long are his ribs, aloft his spine is raised, White is his tail and yellow is his mane, Little his ears, and tawny all his face; No beast is there, can match him in a race.

That Archbishop spurs on by va.s.salage, He will not pause ere Abisme he a.s.sail; So strikes that s.h.i.+eld, is wonderfully arrayed, Whereon are stones, amethyst and topaze, Esterminals and carbuncles that blaze; A devil's gift it was, in Val Metase, Who handed it to the admiral Galafes; So Turpin strikes, spares him not anyway; After that blow, he's worth no penny wage; The carca.s.s he's sliced, rib from rib away, So flings him down dead in an empty place.

Then say the Franks: "He has great va.s.salage, With the Archbishop, surely the Cross is safe."

CXXVII

The count Rollanz calls upon Oliver: "Sir companion, witness you'll freely bear, The Archbishop is a right good chevalier, None better is neath Heaven anywhere; Well can he strike with lance and well with spear."

Answers that count: "Support to him we'll bear!"

Upon that word the Franks again make yare; Hard are the blows, slaughter and suffering there, For Christians too, most bitter grief and care.

Who could had seen Rollanz and Oliver With their good swords to strike and to slaughter!

And the Archbishop lays on there with his spear.

Those that are dead, men well may hold them dear.

In charters and in briefs is written clear, Four thousand fell, and more, the tales declare.

Gainst four a.s.saults easily did they fare, But then the fifth brought heavy griefs to bear.

They all are slain, those Frankish chevaliers; Only three-score, whom G.o.d was pleased to spare, Before these die, they'll sell them very dear.

AOI.

CXXVIII

The count Rollant great loss of his men sees, His companion Olivier calls, and speaks: "Sir and comrade, in G.o.d's Name, That you keeps, Such good va.s.sals you see lie here in heaps; For France the Douce, fair country, may we weep, Of such barons long desolate she'll be.

Ah! King and friend, wherefore are you not here?

How, Oliver, brother, can we achieve?

And by what means our news to him repeat?"

Says Oliver: "I know not how to seek; Rather I'ld die than shame come of this feat."

AOI.

CXXIX

Then says Rollanz: "I'll wind this olifant, If Charles hear, where in the pa.s.s he stands, I pledge you now they will return, the Franks."

Says Oliver: "Great shame would come of that And a reproach on every one, your clan, That shall endure while each lives in the land, When I implored, you would not do this act; Doing it now, no raise from me you'll have: So wind your horn but not by courage rash, Seeing that both your arms with blood are splashed."

Answers that count: "Fine blows I've struck them back."

AOI.

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