88 When Rollant sees that now must be combat, More fierce he's found than lion or leopard; The Franks he calls, and Oliver commands: "Now say no more, my friends, nor thou, comrade. That Emperour, who left us Franks on guard, A thousand score stout men he set apart, And well he knows, not one will prove coward. Man for his lord should suffer with good heart, Of bitter cold and great heat bear the smart, His blood let drain, and all his flesh be scarred. Strike with thy lance, and I with Durendal, With my good sword that was the King's reward. So, if I die, who has it afterward Noble vassal's he well may say it was." 89 From the other part is the Archbishop Turpin, He pricks his horse and mounts upon a hill; Calling the Franks, sermon to them begins: "My lords barons, Charles left us here for this; He is our King, well may we die for him: To Christendom good service offering. Battle you'll have, you all are bound to it, For with your eyes you see the Sarrazins. Pray for God's grace, confessing Him your sins! For your souls' health, I'll absolution give So, though you die, blest martyrs shall you live, Thrones you shall win in the great Paradis." The Franks dismount, upon the ground are lit. That Archbishop God's Benediction gives, For their penance, good blows to strike he bids. 90 The Franks arise, and stand upon their feet, They're well absolved, and from their sins made clean, And the Archbishop has signed them with God's seal; And next they mount upon their chargers keen; By rule of knights they have put on their gear, For battle all apparelled as is meet. The count Rollant calls Oliver, and speaks "Comrade and friend, now clearly have you seen That Guenelun hath got us by deceit; Gold hath he ta'en; much wealth is his to keep; That Emperour vengeance for us must wreak. King Marsilies hath bargained for us cheap; At the sword's point he yet shall pay our meed." 91 To Spanish pass is Rollanz now going On Veillantif, his good steed, galloping; He is well armed, pride is in his bearing, He goes, so brave, his spear in hand holding, He goes, its point against the sky turning; A gonfalon all white thereon he's pinned, Down to his hand flutters the golden fringe: Noble his limbs, his face clear and smiling. His companion goes after, following, The men of France their warrant find in him. Proudly he looks towards the Sarrazins, And to the Franks sweetly, himself humbling; And courteously has said to them this thing: "My lords barons, go now your pace holding! Pagans are come great martyrdom seeking; Noble and fair reward this day shall bring, Was never won by any Frankish King." Upon these words the hosts are come touching. 92 Speaks Oliver: "No more now will I say. Your olifant, to sound it do not deign, Since from Carlun you'll never more have aid. He has not heard; no fault of his, so brave. Those with him there are never to be blamed. So canter on, with what prowess you may! Lords and barons, firmly your ground maintain! Be minded well, I pray you in God's Name, Stout blows to strike, to give as you shall take. Forget the cry of Charles we never may." Upon this word the Franks cry out amain. Who then had heard them all "Monjoie!" acclaim Of vassalage might well recall the tale. They canter forth, God! with what proud parade, Pricking their spurs, the better speed to gain; They go to strike,-- what other thing could they? -- But Sarrazins are not at all afraid. Pagans and Franks, you'ld see them now engaged. 93 Marsile's nephew, his name is Aelroth, First of them all canters before the host, Says of our Franks these ill words as he goes: "Felons of France, so here on us you close! Betrayed you has he that to guard you ought; Mad is the King who left you in this post. So shall the fame of France the Douce be lost, And the right arm from Charles body torn." When Rollant hears, what rage he has, by God! His steed he spurs, gallops with great effort; He goes, that count, to strike with all his force, The shield he breaks, the hauberk's seam unsews, Slices the heart, and shatters up the bones, All of the spine he severs with that blow, And with his spear the soul from body throws So well he's pinned, he shakes in the air that corse, On his spear's hilt he's flung it from the horse: So in two halves Aeroth's neck he broke, Nor left him yet, they say, but rather spoke: "Avaunt, culvert! A madman Charles is not, No treachery was ever in his thought. Proudly he did, who left us in this post; The fame of France the Douce shall not be lost. Strike on, the Franks! Ours are the foremost blows. For we are right, but these gluttons are wrong." 94 A duke there was, his name was Falfarun, Brother was he to King Marsiliun, He held their land, Dathan's and Abirun's; Beneath the sky no more encrimed felun; Between his eyes so broad was he in front A great half-foot you'ld measure there in full. His nephew dead he's seen with grief enough, Comes through the press and wildly forth he runs, Aloud he shouts their cry the pagans use; And to the Franks is right contrarious: "Honour of France the Douce shall fall to us!" Hears Oliver, he's very furious, His horse he pricks with both his golden spurs, And goes to strike, ev'n as a baron doth; The shield he breaks and through the hauberk cuts, His ensign's fringe into the carcass thrusts, On his spear's hilt he's flung it dead in dust. Looks on the ground, sees glutton lying thus, And says to him, with reason proud enough: "From threatening, culvert, your mouth I've shut. Strike on, the Franks! Right well we'll overcome." "Monjoie," he shouts, 'twas the ensign of Carlun. 95 A king there was, his name was Corsablix, Barbarian, and of a strange country, He's called aloud to the other Sarrazins: "Well may we join battle upon this field, For of the Franks but very few are here; And those are here, we should account them cheap, From Charles not one has any warranty. This is the day when they their death shall meet." Has heard him well that Archbishop Turpin, No man he'ld hate so much the sky beneath; Spurs of fine gold he pricks into his steed, To strike that king by virtue great goes he, The hauberk all unfastens, breaks the shield, Thrusts his great spear in through the carcass clean, Pins it so well he shakes it in its seat, Dead in the road he's flung it from his spear. Looks on the ground, that glutton lying sees, Nor leaves him yet, they say, but rather speaks: "Culvert pagan, you lied now in your teeth, Charles my lord our warrant is indeed; None of our Franks hath any mind to flee. Your companions all on this spot we'll keep, I tell you news; death shall ye suffer here. Strike on, the Franks! Fail none of you at need! Ours the first blow, to God the glory be!" "Monjoie!" he cries, for all the camp to hear. 96 And Gerins strikes Malprimis of Brigal So his good shield is nothing worth at all, Shatters the boss, was fashioned of crystal, One half of it downward to earth flies off; Right to the flesh has through his hauberk torn, On his good spear he has the carcass caught. And with one blow that pagan downward falls; The soul of him Satan away hath borne. 97 And his comrade Gerers strikes the admiral, The shield he breaks, the hauberk unmetals, And his good spear drives into his vitals, So well he's pinned him, clean through the carcass, Dead on the field he's flung him from his hand. Says Oliver: "Now is our battle grand." 98 Sansun the Duke goes strike that almacour, The shield he breaks, with golden flowers tooled, That good hauberk for him is nothing proof, He's sliced the heart, the lungs and liver through, And flung him dead, as well or ill may prove. Says the Archbishop: "A baron's stroke, in truth." 99 And Anseis has let his charger run; He goes to strike Turgis of Turtelus, The shield he breaks, its golden boss above, The hauberk too, its doubled mail undoes, His good spear's point into the carcass runs, So well he's thrust, clean through the whole steel comes, And from the hilt he's thrown him dead in dust. Then says Rollant: "Great prowess in that thrust." 100 And Engelers the Gascoin of Burdele Spurs on his horse, lets fall the reins as well, He goes to strike Escremiz of Valtrene, The shield he breaks and shatters on his neck, The hauberk too, he has its chinguard rent, Between the arm-pits has pierced him through the breast, On his spear's hilt from saddle throws him dead; After he says "So are you turned to hell." 101 And Otes strikes a pagan Estorgant Upon the shield, before its leathern band, Slices it through, the white with the scarlat; The hauberk too, has torn its folds apart, And his good spear thrusts clean through the carcass, And flings it dead, ev'n as the horse goes past; He says: "You have no warrant afterward." 102 And Berenger, he strikes Estramariz, The shield he breaks, the hauberk tears and splits, Thrusts his stout spear through's middle, and him flings Down dead among a thousand Sarrazins. Of their dozen peers ten have now been killed, No more than two remain alive and quick, Being Chernuble, and the count Margariz. 103 Margariz is a very gallant knight, Both fair and strong, and swift he is and light; He spurs his horse, goes Oliver to strike, And breaks his shield, by th'golden buckle bright; Along his ribs the pagan's spear doth glide; God's his warrant, his body has respite, The shaft breaks off, Oliver stays upright; That other goes, naught stays him in his flight, His trumpet sounds, rallies his tribe to fight. 104 Common the fight is now and marvellous. The count Rollanz no way himself secures, Strikes with his spear, long as the shaft endures, By fifteen blows it is clean broken through Then Durendal he bares, his sabre good Spurs on his horse, is gone to strike Chemuble, The helmet breaks, where bright carbuncles grew, Slices the cap and shears the locks in two, Slices also the eyes and the features, The hauberk white, whose mail was close of woof, Down to the groin cuts all his body through To the saddle; with beaten gold 'twas tooled. Upon the horse that sword a moment stood, Then sliced its spine, no join there any knew, Dead in the field among thick grass them threw. After he said "Culvert, false step you moved, From Mahumet your help will not come soon. No victory for gluttons such as you." 105 The count Rollanz, he canters through the field, Holds Durendal, he well can thrust and wield, Right great damage he's done the Sarrazines You'd seen them, one on other, dead in heaps, Through all that place their blood was flowing clear! In blood his arms were and his hauberk steeped, And bloodied o'er, shoulders and neck, his steed. And Oliver goes on to strike with speed; No blame that way deserve the dozen peers, For all the Franks they strike and slay with heat, Pagans are slain, some swoon there in their seats, Says the Archbishop: "Good baronage indeed!" "Monjoie" he cries, the call of Charles repeats. 106 And Oliver has cantered through the crush; Broken his spear, the truncheon still he thrusts; Going to strike a pagan Malsarun; Flowers and gold, are on the shield, he cuts, Out of the head both the two eyes have burst, And all the brains are fallen in the dust; He flings him dead, sev'n hundred else amongst. Then has he slain Turgin and Esturgus; Right to the hilt, his spear in flinders flew. Then says Rollant: "Companion, what do you? In such a fight, there's little strength in wood, Iron and steel should here their valour prove. Where is your sword, that Halteclere I knew? Golden its hilt, whereon a crystal grew." Says Oliver: "I had not, if I drew, Time left to strike enough good blows and true." 107 Then Oliver has drawn his mighty sword As his comrade had bidden and implored, In knightly wise the blade to him has shewed; Justin he strikes, that Iron Valley's lord, All of his head has down the middle shorn, The carcass sliced, the broidered sark has torn, The good saddle that was with old adorned, And through the spine has sliced that pagan's horse; Dead in the field before his feet they fall. Says Rollant: "Now my brother I you call; He'll love us for such blows, our Emperor." On every side "Monjoie" you'ld hear them roar. 108 That count Gerins sate on his horse Sorel, On Passe-Cerf was Gerers there, his friend; They've loosed their reins, together spurred and sped, And go to strike a pagan Timozel; One on the shield, on hauberk the other fell; And their two spears went through the carcass well, A fallow field amidst they've thrown him dead. I do not know, I never heard it said Which of the two was nimbler as they went. Esperveris was there, son of Borel, And him there slew Engelers of Burdel. And the Archbishop, he slew them Siglorel, The enchanter, who before had been in hell, Where Jupiter bore him by a magic spell. Then Turpin says "To us he's forfeited." Answers Rollanz: "The culvert is bested. Such blows, brother Olivier, I like well." 109 The battle grows more hard and harder yet, Franks and pagans, with marvellous onset, Each other strike and each himself defends. So many shafts bloodstained and shattered, So many flags and ensigns tattered; So many Franks lose their young lustihead, Who'll see no more their mothers nor their friends, Nor hosts of France, that in the pass attend. Charles the Great weeps therefor with regret. What profits that? No succour shall they get. Evil service, that day, Guenes rendered them, To Sarraguce going, his own to sell. After he lost his members and his head, In court, at Aix, to gallows-tree condemned; And thirty more with him, of his kindred, Were hanged, a thing they never did expect. 110 Now marvellous and weighty the combat, Right well they strike, Olivier and Rollant, A thousand blows come from the Archbishop's hand, The dozen peers are nothing short of that, With one accord join battle all the Franks. Pagans are slain by hundred, by thousand, Who flies not then, from death has no warrant, Will he or nill, foregoes the allotted span. The Franks have lost the foremost of their band, They'll see no more their fathers nor their clans, Nor Charlemagne, where in the pass he stands. Torment arose, right marvellous, in France, Tempest there was, of wind and thunder black, With rain and hail, so much could not be spanned; Fell thunderbolts often on every hand, And verily the earth quaked in answer back From Saint Michael of Peril unto Sanz, From Besencun to the harbour of Guitsand; No house stood there but straight its walls must crack: In full mid-day the darkness was so grand, Save the sky split, no light was in the land. Beheld these things with terror every man, And many said: "We in the Judgement stand; The end of time is presently at hand." They spake no truth; they did not understand; 'Twas the great day of mourning for Rollant. 111 The Franks strike on; their hearts are good and stout. Pagans are slain, a thousandfold, in crowds, Left of five score are not two thousands now. Says the Archbishop: "Our men are very proud, No man on earth has more nor better found. In Chronicles of Franks is written down, What vassalage he had, our Emperour." Then through the field they go, their friends seek out, And their eyes weep with grief and pain profound For kinsmen dear, by hearty friendship bound. King Marsilies and his great host draw round. 112 King Marsilies along a valley led The mighty host that he had gathered. Twenty columns that king had numbered. With gleaminag gold their helms were jewelled. Shone too their shields and sarks embroidered. Sounded the charge seven thousand trumpets, Great was the noise through all that country went. Then said Rollanz: "Olivier, brother, friend, That felon Guenes hath sworn to achieve our death; For his treason no longer is secret. Right great vengeance our Emperour will get. Battle we'll have, both long and keenly set, Never has man beheld such armies met. With Durendal my sword I'll strike again, And, comrade, you shall strike with Halteclere. These swords in lands so many have we held, Battles with them so many brought to end, No evil song shall e'er be sung or said." 113 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 God, 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 vassalage 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." 114 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 noble 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 vassalage, He will not pause ere Abisme he assail; So strikes that shield, 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 carcass he's sliced, rib from rib away, So flings him down dead in an empty place. Then say the Franks: "He has great vassalage, With the Archbishop, surely the Cross is safe." 115 When the Franks see so many there, pagans, On every side covering all the land, Often they call Olivier and Rollant, The dozen peers, to be their safe warrant. And the Archbishop speaks to them, as he can: "My lords barons, go thinking nothing bad! For God I pray you fly not hence but stand, Lest evil songs of our valour men chant! Far better t'were to perish in the van. Certain it is, our end is near at hand, Beyond this day shall no more live one man; But of one thing I give you good warrant: Blest Paradise to you now open stands, By the Innocents your thrones you there shall have." Upon these words grow bold again the Franks; There is not one but he "Monjoie" demands. 116 A Sarrazin was there, of Sarraguce, Of that city one half was his by use, 'Twas Climborins, a man was nothing proof; By Guenelun the count an oath he took, And kissed his mouth in amity and truth, Gave him his sword and his carbuncle too. Terra Major, he said, to shame he'ld put, From the Emperour his crown he would remove. He sate his horse, which he called Barbamusche, Never so swift sparrow nor swallow flew, He spurred him well, and down the reins he threw, Going to strike Engelier of Gascune; Nor shield nor sark him any warrant proved, The pagan spear's point did his body wound, He pinned him well, and all the steel sent through, From the hilt flung him dead beneath his foot. After he said: "Good are they to confuse. Pagans, strike on, and so this press set loose!" "God!" say the Franks, "Grief, such a man to lose!" 117 The count Rollanz called upon Oliver: "Sir companion, dead now is Engeler; Than whom we'd no more valiant chevalier." Answered that count: "God, let me him avenge!" Spurs of fine gold into his horse drove then, Held Halteclere, with blood its steel was red, By virtue great to strike that pagan went, Brandished his blade, the Sarrazin upset; The Adversaries of God his soul bare thence. Next he has slain the duke Alphaien, And sliced away Escababi his head, And has unhorsed some seven Arabs else; No good for those to go to war again. Then said Rollanz: "My comrade shews anger, So in my sight he makes me prize him well; More dear by Charles for such blows are we held." Aloud he's cried: "Strike on, the chevaliers!" 118 From the other part a pagan Valdabron. Warden he'd been to king Marsilion, And lord, by sea, of four hundred dromonds; No sailor was but called his name upon; Jerusalem he'd taken by treason, Violated the Temple of Salomon, The Partiarch had slain before the fonts. He'd pledged his oath by county Guenelon, Gave him his sword, a thousand coins thereon. He sate his horse, which he called Gramimond, Never so swift flew in the air falcon; He's pricked him well, with sharp spurs he had on, Going to strike e'en that rich Duke, Sanson; His shield has split, his hauberk has undone, The ensign's folds have through his body gone, Dead from the hilt out of his seat he's dropt: "Pagans, strike on, for well we'll overcome!" "God!" say the Franks, "Grief for a brave baron!" 119 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." 120 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 shield 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!" 121 Swift through the field Turpin the Archbishop passed; Such shaven-crown has never else sung Mass Who with his limbs such prowess might compass; To th'pagan said "God 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 shield Toledan, Until he flings him dead on the green grass. 122 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 shield 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." 123 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: "God 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. 124 Grandonie was both proof and valiant, And virtuous, a vassal 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 carcass, 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." 125 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. 126 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 grass 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!" 127 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 assaults easily did they fare, But then the fifth brought heavy griefs to bear. They all are slain, those Frankish chevaliers; Only three-score, whom God was pleased to spare, Before these die, they'll sell them very dear. 128 The count Rollant great loss of his men sees, His companion Olivier calls, and speaks: "Sir and comrade, in God's Name, That you keeps, Such good vassals 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." 129 Then says Rollanz: "I'll wind this olifant, If Charles hear, where in the pass 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." 130 Then says Rollant: "Strong it is now, our battle; I'll wind my horn, so the King hears it, Charles." Says Oliver: "That act were not a vassal's. When I implored you, comrade, you were wrathful. Were the King here, we had not borne such damage. Nor should we blame those with him there, his army." Says Oliver: "Now by my beard, hereafter If I may see my gentle sister Alde, She in her arms, I swear, shall never clasp you." 131 Then says Rollanz: "Wherefore so wroth with me?" He answers him: "Comrade, it was your deed: Vassalage comes by sense, and not folly; Prudence more worth is than stupidity. Here are Franks dead, all for your trickery; No more service to Carlun may we yield. My lord were here now, had you trusted me, And fought and won this battle then had we, Taken or slain were the king Marsilie. In your prowess, Rollanz, no good we've seen! Charles the great in vain your aid will seek -- None such as he till God His Judgement speak; -- Here must you die, and France in shame be steeped; Here perishes our loyal company, Before this night great severance and grief." 132 That Archbishop has heard them, how they spoke, His horse he pricks with his fine spurs of gold, Coming to them he takes up his reproach: "Sir Oliver, and you, Sir Rollant, both, For God I pray, do not each other scold! No help it were to us, the horn to blow, But, none the less, it may be better so; The King will come, with vengeance that he owes; These Spanish men never away shall go. Our Franks here, each descending from his horse, Will find us dead, and limb from body torn; They'll take us hence, on biers and litters borne; With pity and with grief for us they'll mourn; They'll bury each in some old minster-close; No wolf nor swine nor dog shall gnaw our bones." Answers Rollant: "Sir, very well you spoke." 133 Rollant hath set the olifant to his mouth, He grasps it well, and with great virtue sounds. High are those peaks, afar it rings and loud, Thirty great leagues they hear its echoes mount. So Charles heard, and all his comrades round; Then said that King: "Battle they do, our counts!" And Guenelun answered, contrarious: "That were a lie, in any other mouth." 134 The Count Rollanz, with sorrow and with pangs, And with great pain sounded his olifant: Out of his mouth the clear blood leaped and ran, About his brain the very temples cracked. Loud is its voice, that horn he holds in hand; Charles hath heard, where in the pass he stands, And Neimes hears, and listen all the Franks. Then says the King: "I hear his horn, Rollant's; He'ld never sound, but he were in combat." Answers him Guenes "It is no battle, that. Now are you old, blossoming white and blanched, Yet by such words you still appear infant. You know full well the great pride of Rollant Marvel it is, God stays so tolerant. Noples he took, not waiting your command; Thence issued forth the Sarrazins, a band With vassalage had fought against Rollant; A He slew them first, with Durendal his brand, Then washed their blood with water from the land; So what he'd done might not be seen of man. He for a hare goes all day, horn in hand; Before his peers in foolish jest he brags. No race neath heav'n in field him dare attack. So canter on! Nay, wherefore hold we back? Terra Major is far away, our land." 135 The count Rollanz, though blood his mouth doth stain, And burst are both the temples of his brain, His olifant he sounds with grief and pain; Charles hath heard, listen the Franks again. "That horn," the King says, "hath a mighty strain!" Answers Duke Neimes: "A baron blows with pain! Battle is there, indeed I see it plain, He is betrayed, by one that still doth feign. Equip you, sir, cry out your old refrain, That noble band, go succour them amain! Enough you've heard how Rollant doth complain." 136 That Emperour hath bid them sound their horns. The Franks dismount, and dress themselves for war, Put hauberks on, helmets and golden swords; Fine shields they have, and spears of length and force Scarlat and blue and white their ensigns float. His charger mounts each baron of the host; They spur with haste as through the pass they go. Nor was there one but thus to 's neighbour spoke: "Now, ere he die, may we see Rollant, so Ranged by his side we'll give some goodly blows." But what avail? They've stayed too long below. 137 That even-tide is light as was the day; Their armour shines beneath the sun's clear ray, Hauberks and helms throw off a dazzling flame, And blazoned shields, flowered in bright array, Also their spears, with golden ensigns gay. That Emperour, he canters on with rage, And all the Franks with wonder and dismay; There is not one can bitter tears restrain, And for Rollant they're very sore afraid. The King has bid them seize that county Guene, And charged with him the scullions of his train; The master-cook he's called, Besgun by name: "Guard me him well, his felony is plain, Who in my house vile treachery has made." He holds him, and a hundred others takes From the kitchen, both good and evil knaves; Then Guenes beard and both his cheeks they shaved, And four blows each with their closed fists they gave, They trounced him well with cudgels and with staves, And on his neck they clasped an iron chain; So like a bear enchained they held him safe, On a pack-mule they set him in his shame: Kept him till Charles should call for him again. 138 High were the peaks and shadowy and grand, The valleys deep, the rivers swiftly ran. Trumpets they blew in rear and in the van, Till all again answered that olifant. That Emperour canters with fury mad, And all the Franks dismay and wonder have; There is not one but weeps and waxes sad And all pray God that He will guard Rollant Till in the field together they may stand; There by his side they'll strike as well they can. But what avail? No good there is in that; They're not in time; too long have they held back. 139 In his great rage on canters Charlemagne; Over his sark his beard is flowing plain. Barons of France, in haste they spur and strain; There is not one that can his wrath contain That they are not with Rollant the Captain, Whereas he fights the Sarrazins of Spain. If he be struck, will not one soul remain. -- God! Sixty men are all now in his train! Never a king had better Capitains. 140 Rollant regards the barren mountain-sides; Dead men of France, he sees so many lie, And weeps for them as fits a gentle knight: "Lords and barons, may God to you be kind! And all your souls redeem for Paradise! And let you there mid holy flowers lie! Better vassals than you saw never I. Ever you've served me, and so long a time, By you Carlon hath conquered kingdoms wide; That Emperour reared you for evil plight! Douce land of France, o very precious clime, Laid desolate by such a sour exile! Barons of France, for me I've seen you die, And no support, no warrant could I find; God be your aid, Who never yet hath lied! I must not fail now, brother, by your side; Save I be slain, for sorrow shall I die. Sir companion, let us again go strike!" 141 The count Rollanz, back to the field then hieing Holds Durendal, and like a vassal striking Faldrun of Pui has through the middle sliced, With twenty-four of all they rated highest; Was never man, for vengeance shewed such liking. Even as a stag before the hounds goes flying, Before Rollanz the pagans scatter, frightened. Says the Archbishop: "You deal now very wisely! Such valour should he shew that is bred knightly, And beareth arms, and a good charger rideth; In battle should be strong and proud and sprightly; Or otherwise he is not worth a shilling, Should be a monk in one of those old minsters, Where, day, by day, he'ld pray for us poor sinners." Answers Rollant: "Strike on; no quarter give them!" Upon these words Franks are again beginning; Very great loss they suffer then, the Christians. 142 The man who knows, for him there's no prison, In such a fight with keen defence lays on; Wherefore the Franks are fiercer than lions. Marsile you'd seen go as a brave baron, Sitting his horse, the which he calls Gaignon; He spurs it well, going to strike Bevon, That was the lord of Beaune and of Dijon, His shield he breaks, his hauberk has undone, So flings him dead, without condition; Next he hath slain Yvoerie and Ivon, Also with them Gerard of Russillon. The count Rollanz, being not far him from, To th'pagan says: "Confound thee our Lord God! So wrongfully you've slain my companions, A blow you'll take, ere we apart be gone, And of my sword the name I'll bid you con." He goes to strike him, as a brave baron, And his right hand the count clean slices off; Then takes the head of Jursaleu the blond; That was the son of king Marsilion. Pagans cry out "Assist us now, Mahom! God of our race, avenge us on Carlon! Into this land he's sent us such felons That will not leave the fight before they drop." Says each to each: "Nay let us fly!" Upon That word, they're fled, an hundred thousand gone; Call them who may, they'll never more come on. 143 But what avail? Though fled be Marsilies, He's left behind his uncle, the alcaliph Who holds Alferne, Kartagene, Garmalie, And Ethiope, a cursed land indeed; The blackamoors from there are in his keep, Broad in the nose they are and flat in the ear, Fifty thousand and more in company. These canter forth with arrogance and heat, Then they cry out the pagans' rallying-cheer; And Rollant says: "Martyrdom we'll receive; Not long to live, I know it well, have we; Felon he's named that sells his body cheap! Strike on, my lords, with burnished swords and keen; Contest each inch your life and death between, That neer by us Douce France in shame be steeped. When Charles my lord shall come into this field, Such discipline of Sarrazins he'll see, For one of ours he'll find them dead fifteen; He will not fail, but bless us all in peace." 144 When Rollant sees those misbegotten men, Who are more black than ink is on the pen With no part white, only their teeth except, Then says that count: "I know now very well That here to die we're bound, as I can tell. Strike on, the Franks! For so I recommend." Says Oliver: "Who holds back, is condemned!" Upon those words, the Franks to strike again. 145 Franks are but few; which, when the pagans know, Among themselves comfort and pride they shew; Says each to each: "Wrong was that Emperor." Their alcaliph upon a sorrel rode, And pricked it well with both his spurs of gold; Struck Oliver, behind, on the back-bone, His hauberk white into his body broke, Clean through his breast the thrusting spear he drove; After he said: "You've borne a mighty blow. Charles the great should not have left you so; He's done us wrong, small thanks to him we owe; I've well avenged all ours on you alone." 146 Oliver feels that he to die is bound, Holds Halteclere, whose steel is rough and brown, Strikes the alcaliph on his helm's golden mount; Flowers and stones fall clattering to the ground, Slices his head, to th'small teeth in his mouth; So brandishes his blade and flings him down; After he says: "Pagan, accurst be thou! Thou'lt never say that Charles forsakes me now; Nor to thy wife, nor any dame thou'st found, Thou'lt never boast, in lands where thou wast crowned, One pennyworth from me thou'st taken out, Nor damage wrought on me nor any around." After, for aid, "Rollant!" he cries aloud. 147 Oliver feels that death is drawing nigh; To avenge himself he hath no longer time; Through the great press most gallantly he strikes, He breaks their spears, their buckled shields doth slice, Their feet, their fists, their shoulders and their sides, Dismembers them: whoso had seen that sigh, Dead in the field one on another piled, Remember well a vassal brave he might. Charles ensign he'll not forget it quite; Aloud and clear "Monjoie" again he cries. To call Rollanz, his friend and peer, he tries: "My companion, come hither to my side. With bitter grief we must us now divide." 148 Then Rollant looked upon Olivier's face; Which was all wan and colourless and pale, While the clear blood, out of his body sprayed, Upon the ground gushed forth and ran away. "God!" said that count, "What shall I do or say? My companion, gallant for such ill fate! Neer shall man be, against thee could prevail. Ah! France the Douce, henceforth art thou made waste Of vassals brave, confounded and disgraced! Our Emperour shall suffer damage great." And with these words upon his horse he faints. 149 You'd seen Rollant aswoon there in his seat, And Oliver, who unto death doth bleed, So much he's bled, his eyes are dim and weak; Nor clear enough his vision, far or near, To recognise whatever man he sees; His companion, when each the other meets, Above the helm jewelled with gold he beats, Slicing it down from there to the nose-piece, But not his head; he's touched not brow nor cheek. At such a blow Rollant regards him keen, And asks of him, in gentle tones and sweet: "To do this thing, my comrade, did you mean? This is Rollanz, who ever held you dear; And no mistrust was ever us between." Says Oliver: "Now can I hear you speak; I see you not: may the Lord God you keep! I struck you now: and for your pardon plead." Answers Rollanz: "I am not hurt, indeed; I pardon you, before God's Throne and here." Upon these words, each to the other leans; And in such love you had their parting seen. 150 Oliver feels death's anguish on him now; And in his head his two eyes swimming round; Nothing he sees; he hears not any sound; Dismounting then, he kneels upon the ground, Proclaims his sins both firmly and aloud, Clasps his two hands, heavenwards holds them out, Prays God himself in Paradise to allow; Blessings on Charles, and on Douce France he vows, And his comrade, Rollanz, to whom he's bound. Then his heart fails; his helmet nods and bows; Upon the earth he lays his whole length out: And he is dead, may stay no more, that count. Rollanz the brave mourns him with grief profound; Nowhere on earth so sad a man you'd found. 151 So Rollant's friend is dead whom when he sees Face to the ground, and biting it with's teeth, Begins to mourn in language very sweet: "Unlucky, friend, your courage was indeed! Together we have spent such days and years; No harmful thing twixt thee and me has been. Now thou art dead, and all my life a grief." And with these words again he swoons, that chief, Upon his horse, which he calls Veillantif; Stirrups of gold support him underneath; He cannot fall, whichever way he lean. 152 Soon as Rollant his senses won and knew, Recovering and turning from that swoon. Bitter great loss appeared there in his view: Dead are the Franks; he'd all of them to lose, Save the Archbishop, and save Gualter del Hum; He is come down out of the mountains, who Gainst Spanish men made there a great ado; Dead are his men, for those the pagans slew; Will he or nill, along the vales he flew, And called Rollant, to bring him succour soon: "Ah! Gentle count, brave soldier, where are you? For By thy side no fear I ever knew. Gualter it is, who conquered Maelgut, And nephew was to hoary old Drouin; My vassalage thou ever thoughtest good. Broken my spear, and split my shield in two; Gone is the mail that on my hauberk grew; This body of mine eight lances have gone through; I'm dying. Yet full price for life I took." Rollant has heard these words and understood, Has spurred his horse, and on towards him drew. 153 Grief gives Rollanz intolerance and pride; Through the great press he goes again to strike; To slay a score of Spaniards he contrives, Gualter has six, the Archbishop other five. The pagans say: "Men, these, of felon kind! Lordings, take care they go not hence alive! Felon he's named that does not break their line, Recreant, who lets them any safety find!" And so once more begin the hue and cry, From every part they come to break the line. 154 Count Rollant is a noble and brave soldier, Gualter del Hum's a right good chevalier, That Archbishop hath shewn good prowess there; None of them falls behind the other pair; Through the great press, pagans they strike again. Come on afoot a thousand Sarrazens, And on horseback some forty thousand men. But well I know, to approach they never dare; Lances and spears they poise to hurl at them, Arrows, barbs, darts and javelins in the air. With the first flight they've slain our Gualtier; Turpin of Reims has all his shield broken, And cracked his helm; he's wounded in the head, From his hauberk the woven mail they tear, In his body four spear-wounds doth he bear; Beneath him too his charger's fallen dead. Great grief it was, when that Archbishop fell. 155 Turpin of Reims hath felt himself undone, Since that four spears have through his body come; Nimble and bold upon his feet he jumps; Looks for Rollant, and then towards him runs, Saying this word: "I am not overcome. While life remains, no good vassal gives up." He's drawn Almace, whose steel was brown and rough, Through the great press a thousand blows he's struck: As Charles said, quarter he gave to none; He found him there, four hundred else among, Wounded the most, speared through the middle some, Also there were from whom the heads he'd cut: So tells the tale, he that was there says thus, The brave Saint Giles, whom God made marvellous, Who charters wrote for th' Minster at Loum; Nothing he's heard that does not know this much. 156 The count Rollanz has nobly fought and well, But he is hot, and all his body sweats; Great pain he has, and trouble in his head, His temples burst when he the horn sounded; But he would know if Charles will come to them, Takes the olifant, and feebly sounds again. That Emperour stood still and listened then: "My lords," said he, "Right evilly we fare! This day Rollanz, my nephew shall be dead: I hear his horn, with scarcely any breath. Nimbly canter, whoever would be there! Your trumpets sound, as many as ye bear!" Sixty thousand so loud together blare, The mountains ring, the valleys answer them. The pagans hear, they think it not a jest; Says each to each: "Carlum doth us bestead." 157 The pagans say: "That Emperour's at hand, We hear their sound, the trumpets of the Franks; If Charles come, great loss we then shall stand, And wars renewed, unless we slay Rollant; All Spain we'll lose, our own clear father-land." Four hundred men of them in helmets stand; The best of them that might be in their ranks Make on Rollanz a grim and fierce attack; Gainst these the count had well enough in hand. 158 The count Rollanz, when their approach he sees Is grown so bold and manifest and fierce So long as he's alive he will not yield. He sits his horse, which men call Veillantif, Pricking him well with golden spurs beneath, Through the great press he goes, their line to meet, And by his side is the Archbishop Turpin. "Now, friend, begone!" say pagans, each to each; "These Frankish men, their horns we plainly hear Charle is at hand, that King in Majesty." 159 The count Rollanz has never loved cowards, Nor arrogant, nor men of evil heart, Nor chevalier that was not good vassal. That Archbishop, Turpins, he calls apart: "Sir, you're afoot, and I my charger have; For love of you, here will I take my stand, Together we'll endure things good and bad; I'll leave you not, for no incarnate man: We'll give again these pagans their attack; The better blows are those from Durendal." Says the Archbishop: "Shame on him that holds back! Charle is at hand, full vengeance he'll exact." 160 The pagans say: "Unlucky were we born! An evil day for us did this day dawn! For we have lost our peers and all our lords. Charles his great host once more upon us draws, Of Frankish men we plainly hear the horns, "Monjoie " they cry, and great is their uproar. The count Rollant is of such pride and force He'll never yield to man of woman born; Let's aim at him, then leave him on the spot!" And aim they did: with arrows long and short, Lances and spears and feathered javelots; Count Rollant's shield they've broken through and bored, The woven mail have from his hauberk torn, But not himself, they've never touched his corse; Veillantif is in thirty places gored, Beneath the count he's fallen dead, that horse. Pagans are fled, and leave him on the spot; The count Rollant stands on his feet once more. 161 Pagans are fled, enangered and enraged, Home into Spain with speed they make their way; The count Rollanz, he has not given chase, For Veillantif, his charger, they have slain; Will he or nill, on foot he must remain. To the Archbishop, Turpins, he goes with aid; He's from his head the golden helm unlaced, Taken from him his white hauberk away, And cut the gown in strips, was round his waist; On his great wounds the pieces of it placed, Then to his heart has caught him and embraced; On the green grass he has him softly laid, Most sweetly then to him has Rollant prayed: "Ah! Gentle sir, give me your leave, I say; Our companions, whom we so dear appraised, Are now all dead; we cannot let them stay; I will go seek and bring them to this place, Arrange them here in ranks, before your face." Said the Archbishop: "Go, and return again. This field is yours and mine now; God be praised!"

LXXXVIII Quant Rollant veit que la bataille serat, Plus se fait fiers que leon ne leupart. Franceis escriet, Oliver apelat: «Sire cumpainz, amis, nel dire ja! Li emperere, ki Franceis nos laisat, Itels .XX. milie en mist a une part Sun escientre n'en i out un cuard. Pur sun seignur deit hom susfrir granz mals E endurer e forz freiz e granz chalz, Sin deit hom perdre del sanc e de la char. Fier de [ta] lance e jo de Durendal, Ma bone espee, que li reis me dunat. Se jo i moert, dire poet ki l'avrat (E purrunt dire) que ele fut a noble vassal.» LXXXIX D'altre part est li arcevesques Turpin, Sun cheval broche e muntet un lariz, Franceis apelet, un sermun lur ad dit: «Seignurs baruns, Carles nus laissat ci; Pur nostre rei devum nus ben murir. Chrestientet aidez a sustenir! Bataille avrez, vos en estes tuz fiz, Kar a voz oilz veez les Sarrazins. Clamez vos culpes, si preiez Deu mercit! Asoldrai vos pur voz anmes guarir. Se vos murez, esterez seinz martirs, Sieges avrez el greignor pareïs.» Franceis de[s]cendent, a tere se sunt mis, E l'arcevesque de Deu les beneïst: Par penitence les cumandet a ferir. XC Franceis se drecent, si se metent sur piez. Ben sunt asols e quites de lur pecchez, E l'arcevesque de Deu les ad seignez; Puis sunt muntez sur lur curanz destrers. Adobez sunt a lei de chevalers E de bataille sunt tuit apareillez. Li quens Rollant apelet Oliver: «Sire cumpainz, mult ben le saviez Que Guenelun nos ad tuz espiez; Pris en ad or e aveir e deners. Li emperere nos devreit ben venger. Li reis Marsilie de nos ad fait marchet; Mais as espees l'estuvrat esleger.» XCI As porz d'Espaigne en est passet Rollant Sur Veillantif, sun bun cheval curant. Portet ses armes, mult li sunt avenanz, Mais sun espiet vait li bers palmeiant, Cuntre le ciel vait la mure turnant, Laciet en su un gunfanun tut blanc; Les renges li batent josqu'as mains. Cors ad mult gent, le vis cler e riant. Sun cumpaignun apres le vait sivant, E cil de France le cleiment a guarant. Vers Sarrazins reguardet fierement E vers Franceis humeles e dulcement, Si lur ad dit un mot curteisement: «Seignurs barons, suef pas alez tenant! Cist paien vont grant martirie querant. Encoi avrum un eschec bel e gent: Nuls reis de France n'out unkes si vaillant.» A cez paroles vunt les oz ajustant. XCII Dist Oliver: «N'ai cure de parler. Vostre olifan ne deignastes suner, Ne de Carlun mie vos n'en avez. Il n'en set mot, n'i ad culpes li bers. Cil ki la sunt ne funt mie a blasmer. Kar chevalchez a quanque vos puez! Seignors baruns, el camp vos retenez! Pur deu vos pri, ben seiez purpensez De colps ferir, de receivre e (de) duner! L'enseigne Carle n'i devum ublier.» A icest mot sunt Franceis escriet. Ki dunc oïst «Munjoie» demander, De vasselage li poüst remembrer. Puis si chevalchent, Deus! par si grant fiertet! Brochent ad ait pur le plus tost aler, Si vunt ferir, que fereient il el? E Sarrazins nes unt mie dutez; Francs e paiens, as les vus ajustez. XCIII Li nies Marsilie, il ad a num Aelroth; Tut premereins chevalchet devant l'ost. De noz Franceis vait disant si mals moz: «Feluns Franceis, hoi justerez as noz, Traït vos ad ki a guarder vos out. Fols est li reis ki vos laissat as porz. Enquoi perdrat France dulce sun los, Charles li magnes le destre braz del cors.» Quant l'ot Rollant, Deus! si grant doel en out! Sun cheval brochet, laiset curre a esforz, Vait le ferir li quens quanque il pout. L'escut li freint e l'osberc li desclot, Trenchet le piz, si li briset les os, Tute l'eschine li desevret del dos, Od sun espiet l'anme li getet fors, Enpeint le ben, fait li brandir le cors, Pleine sa hanste del cheval l'abat mort, En dous meitiez li ad briset le col; Ne leserat, ço dit, que n'i parolt: «Ultre culvert! Carles n'est mie fol, Ne traïsun unkes amer ne volt. Il fist que proz qu'il nus laisad as porz: Oí n'en perdrat France dulce sun los. Ferez i, Francs, nostre est li premers colps! Nos avum dreit, mais cist glutun unt tort.» XCIV Un duc i est, si ad num Falsaron: Icil er[t] frere al rei Marsiliun; Il tint la tere Datliun e Balbiun. Suz cel nen at plus encrisme felun. Entre les dous oilz mult out large le front, Grant demi pied mesurer i pout hom. Asez ad doel quant vit mort sun nevold, Ist de la prese, si se met en bandun, E se s'escriet l'enseigne paienor; Envers Franceis est mult cuntrarius: «Enquoi perdrat France dulce s'onur!» Ot le Oliver, sin ad mult grant irur; Le cheval brochet des oriez esperuns, Vait le ferir en guise de baron. L'escut li freint e l'osberc li derumpt, El cors li met les pans del gunfanun, Pleine sa hanste l'abat mort des arçuns; Guardet a tere, veit gesir le glutun, Si li ad dit par mult fiere raison: «De voz manaces, culvert, jo n'ai essoign. Ferez i, Francs, kar tres ben les veincrum!» - «Munjoie!» escriet, ço est l'enseigne Carlun. XCV Uns reis i est, si ad num Corsablix: Barbarins est, d'un estra[n]ge païs. Si apelad les altres Sarrazins: «Ceste bataille ben la puum tenir, Kar de Franceis i ad asez petit. Cels ki ci sunt devum aveir mult vil; Ja pur Charles n'i ert un sul guarit: Or est le jur qu'els estuvrat murir.» Ben l'entendit li arc[e]vesques Turpin. Suz ciel n'at hume que [tant] voeillet haïr; Sun cheval brochet des esperuns d'or fin, Par grant vertut si l 'est alet ferir. L'escut li freinst, l'osberc li descumfist, Sun grant espiet par mi le cors li mist, Empeint le ben, que mort le fait brandir, Pleine sa hanste l'abat mort el chemin. Guardet arere, veit le glutun gesir, Ne laisserat que n'i parolt, ço dit: «Culvert paien, vos i avez mentit! Carles, mi sire, nus est guarant tuz dis; Nostre Franceis n'unt talent de fuïr. Voz cumpaignuns feruns trestuz restifs; Nuveles vos di: mort vos estoet susfrir. Ferez, Franceis! Nul de vus ne s'ublit! Cist premer colp est nostre, Deu mercit!» - «Munjoie!» escriet por le camp retenir. XCVI Engelers fiert Malprimis de Brigal; Sis bons escuz un dener ne li valt: Tute li freint la bucle de cristal, L'une meitiet li turnet cuntreval; L'osberc li rumpt entresque a la charn, Sun bon espiet enz el cors li enbat. Li paiens chet cuntreval a un quat; L'anme de lui en portet Sathanas. XCVII E sis cumpainz Gerers fiert l'amurafle: L'escut li freint e l'osberc li desmailet, Sun bon espiet li me(n)t en la curaille, Empeint le bien, par mi le cors li passet, Que mort l'abat el camp, pleine sa hanste. Dist Oliver: «Gente est nostre bataille!» XCVIII Sansun li dux, (il) vait ferir l'almaçur: L'escut li freinst, ki est a flurs e ad ór, Li bons osbercs ne li est guarant prod, Trenchet li le coer, le firie e le pulmun, Que l'abat [mort], qui qu'en peist u qui nun. Dist l'arcevesque: «Cist colp est de baron!» XCIX E Anseïs laiset le cheval curre, Si vait ferir Turgis de Turteluse; L'escut li freint desuz l'oree bucle, De sun osberc li derumpit les dubles, Del bon espiet el cors li met la mure, Empeinst le ben, tut le fer li mist ultre, Pleine sa hanste el camp mort le tresturnet. Ço dist Rollant: «Cist colp est de produme!» C Et Engelers li Guascuinz de Burdele Sun cheval (...) brochet, si li laschet la resne, Si vait ferir Escremiz de Valterne: L'escut del col li freint e escantelet, De sun osberc li rumpit la ventaille, Sil fiert el piz entre les dous furceles, Pleine sa hanste l'abat mort de la sele; Apres li dist: «Turnet estes a perdre!» CI E Gualter fie[r]t un paien, Estorgans, Sur sun escut en la pene devant, Que tut li trenchet le vermeill e le blanc; De sun osberc li ad rumput les pans, El cors li met sun bon espiet tre[n]chant, Que mort l'abat de sun cheval curant. Apres li dist: «Ja n'i avrez guarant!» CII E Berenger, il fiert Astramariz: L'escut li freinst, l'osberc li descumfist, Sun fort escut par mi le cors li mist, Que mort l'abat entre mil Sarrazins. Des .XII. pers li .X. en sunt ocis; Ne mes que dous n'en i ad remes vifs; Ço est Chernubles e li quens Margariz. CIII Margariz est mult vaillant chevalers, E bels e forz e isnels e legers. Le cheval brochet, vait ferir Oliver: L'escut li freint suz la bucle d'or mer, Lez le costet li conduist sun espiet. Deus le guarit, qu'el(l) cors ne l'ad tuchet. La hanste fruisset, mie n'en a(d)[b]atiet. Ultre s'en vait, qu'il n'i ad desturber; Sunet sun gresle pur les soens ralier. CIV La bataille est merveilluse e cumune. Li quens Rollant mie ne s'asoüret, Fiert de l'espiet tant cume hanste li duret; A .XV. cols l'ad fraite e [...] perdue, Trait Durendal, sa bone espee nue, Sun cheval brochet, si vait ferir Chernuble: L'elme li freint u li carbuncle luisent, Trenchet la cors e la cheveleüre, Si li trenchat les oilz e la faiture, Le blanc osberc, dunt la maile est menue, E tut le cors tresqu'en la furcheüre, Enz en la sele, ki est a or batue; El cheval est l'espee aresteüe, Trenchet l'eschine, hunc n'i out quis [joi]nture, Tut abat mort el pred sur l'erbe drue; Apres li dist: «Culvert, mar i moüstes! De Mahumet ja n'i avrez aiude. Par tel glutun n'ert bataille oi vencue.» CV Li quens Rollant par mi le champ chevalchet, Tient Durendal, ki ben trenchet e taillet, Des Sarrazins lur fait mult grant damage. Ki lui veïst l'un geter mort su[r] l'altre, Li sanc tuz clers gesir par cele place! Sanglant en ad e l'osberc e [la] brace, Sun bon cheval le col e les [es]palles. E Oliver de ferir ne se target, Li .XII. per n'en deivent aveir blasme, E li Franceis i fierent e si caplent. Moerent paien e alquanz en i pasment. Dist l'arcevesque: «Ben ait nostre barnage!» - «Munjoie!» escriet, ço est l'enseigne Carle. CVI E Oliver chevalchet par l'estor, Sa hanste est frait, n'en ad que un trunçun, E vait fer(en)[ir] un paien, Malun: L'escut li freint, ki est ad or e a flur, Fors de la teste li met les oilz ansdous, E la cervele li chet as piez desuz; Mort le tresturnet od tut .VII.C. des lur. Pois ad ocis Turgis e Esturguz; La hanste briset e esclicet josqu'as poinz. Ço dist Rollant: «Cumpainz, que faites vos? En tel bataille n'ai cure de bastun; Fers e acers i deit aveir valor. U est vostre espee, ki Halteclere ad num? D'or est li helz e de cristal li punz.» - «Ne la poi traire,» Oliver li respunt, «Kar de ferir oi jo si grant bosoign.» CVII Danz Oliver trait ad sa bone espee, Que ses cumpainz Rollant li ad tant demandee, E il li ad cum chevaler mustree. Fiert un paien, Justin de Val Ferree: Tute la teste li ad par mi sevree, Trenchet le cors e [la] bronie safree, La bone sele, ki a ór est gemmee, E al ceval a l'eschine trenchee; Tut abat mort devant loi en la pree. Ço dist Rollant: «Vos receif jo, frere! Por itels colps nos eimet li emperere.» De tutes parz est «Munjo[i]e» escriee. CVIII Li quens Gerins set el ceval Sorel E sis cumpainz Gerers en Passecerf, Laschent lor reisnes, brochent amdui a ait, E vunt ferir un paien, Timozel, L'un en l'escut e li altre en l'osberc, Lur dous espiez enz el cors li unt frait, Mort le tresturnent tres enmi un guaret, Ne l'oï dire ne jo mie nel sai Liquels d'els dous en fut li plus isnels. Esprieres icil fut filz Burdel, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . E l'arcevesque lor ocist Siglorel, L'encanteür ki ja fut en enfer: Par artimal l'i cundoist Jupiter. Ço dist Turpin: «Icist nos ert forsfait.» Respunt Rollant: «Vencut est le culvert. Oliver, frere, itels colps me sunt bel!» CIX La bataille est aduree endementres. Franc e paien merveilus colps i rendent. Fierent li un, li altre se defendent. Tant hanste i ad e fraite e sanglente, Tant gunfanun rumpu e tant enseigne! Tant bon Franceis i perdent lor juvente! Ne reverrunt lor meres ne lor femmes, Ne cels de France ki as porz les atendent. AOI. Karles li magnes en pluret, si se demente. De ço qui calt? N'en avrunt sucurance. Malvais servis[e] le jur li rendit Guenes, Qu'en Sarraguce sa maisnee alat vendre; Puis en perdit e sa vie e ses membres; El plait ad Ais en fut juget a prendre, De ses parenz ensembl'od lui tels trente Ki de murir nen ourent esperance. CX La bataille est merveilluse e pesant; Mult ben i fiert Oliver e Rollant, Li arcevesques plus de mil colps i rent, Li .XII. per ne s'en targent nient, E li Franceis i fierent cumunement. Moerent paien a miller(e)[s] e a cent; Ki ne s'en fuit de mort n'i ad guarent; Voillet o nun, tut i laisset sun tens. Franceis i perdent lor meillors guarnemenz; Ne reverrunt lor peres ne lor parenz Ne Carlemagne, ki as porz les atent. En France en ad mult merveillus turment; Orez i ad de tuneire e de vent, Pluies e gresilz desmesureement; Chiedent i fuildres e menut e suvent, E terremoete ço i ad veirement. De seint Michel de(l) P(aris)[eril] josqu'as Seinz Des Besençun tresqu'as [port] de Guitsand N'en ad recet dunt del mur ne cravent. Cuntre midi tenebres i ad granz; N'i ad clartet, se li ciels nen i fent. Hume nel veit,ki mult ne s espaent. Dient plusor: «Ço est li definement, La fin del secle ki nus est en present.» Il nel sevent, ne dient veir nient: Ço est li granz dulors por la mort de Rollant. CXI Franceis i unt ferut de coer e de vigur; Paien sunt morz a millers e a fuls: De cent millers n'en poent guarir dous. Rollant dist: «Nostre hume sunt mult proz: Suz ciel n'ad home plus en ait de meillors.» Il est escrit en la Geste Francor Que vassals ad li nostre empereür. Vunt par le camp, si requerent les lor, Plurent des oilz de doel e de tendrur Por lor parenz par coer e par amor. Li reis Marsilie od sa grant ost lor surt. CXII Marsilie vient par mi une valee Od sa grant ost que il out asemblee. .XX. escheles ad li reis anumbrees. Lacent cil'elme as perres d'or gemmees, E cil escuz e cez bronies sasfrees; .VII. milie graisles i sunent la menee: Grant est la noise par tute la contree. Ço dist Rollant: «Oliver, compaign, frere, Guenes li fels ad nostre mort juree; La traïsun ne poet estre celee; Mult grant venjance en prendrat l'emperere. Bataille avrum e forte [e] aduree, Unches mais hom tel ne vit ajustee. Jo i ferrai de Durendal, m'espee, E vos, compainz, ferrez de Halteclere. En tanz lius les avum nos portees! Tantes batailles en avum afinees! Male chançun n'en deit estre cantee.» CXIII Marsilies veit de sa gent le martirie, Si fait suner ses cors e ses buisines, Puis si chevalchet od sa grant ost banie. Devant chevalchet un Sarrasin, Abisme: Plus fel de lui n'out en sa cumpagnie. Te(t)ches ad males e mult granz felonies; Ne creit en Deu, le filz sainte Marie; Issi est neirs cume peiz ki est demise; Plus aimet il traïsun e murdrie Qu'(e) il ne fesist trestut l'or de Galice; Unches nuls hom nel vit juer ne rire. Vasselage ad e mult grant estultie: Por ço est drud al felun rei Marsilie; Sun dragun portet a qui sa gent s'alient. Li arcevesque ne l'amerat ja mie; Cum il le vit, a ferir le desiret. Mult quiement le dit a sei meïsme: «Cel Sarraz[in] me semblet mult herite: Mielz est mult que jo l'alge ocire. Unches n'amai cuard ne cuardie.» CXIV Li arcevesque cumencet la bataille. Siet el cheval qu'il tolit a Grossaille, Ço ert uns reis qu'l ocist en Denemarche. Li destrers est e curanz e aates, Piez ad copiez e les gambes ad plates, Curte la quisse e la crupe bien large, Lungs les costez e l'eschine ad ben halte, Blanche la cue e la crignete jalne Petites les oreilles, la teste tute falve; Beste nen est nule ki encontre lui alge. Li arcevesque brochet par tant grant vasselage: Ne laisserat qu'Abisme nen asaillet; Vait le ferir en l'escut amiracle: Pierres i ad, ametistes e topazes, Esterminals e carbuncles ki ardent; En Val Metas li dunat uns diables, Si li tramist li amiralz Galafes. Turpins i fiert, ki nient ne l'esparignet, Enpres sun colp ne quid que un dener vaillet, Le cors li trenchet tres l'un costet qu'a l'altre, Que mort l'abat en une voide place. Dient Franceis: «Ci ad grant vasselage! En l'arcevesque est ben la croce salve.» CXV Franceis veient que paiens i ad tant, De tutes parz en sunt cuvert li camp; Suvent regretent Oliver e Rollant Les .XII. pers, qu'il lor seient guarant. E l'arcevesque lur dist de sun semblant: «Seignors barons, n'en alez mespensant! Pur Deu vos pri que ne seiez fuiant, Que nuls prozdom malvaisement n'en chant. Asez est mielz que moerium cumbatant. Pramis nus est, fin prendrum a itant, Ultre cest jurn ne serum plus vivant; Mais d'une chose vos soi jo ben guarant: Seint pareïs vos est abandunant; As Innocenz vos en serez seant.» A icest mot si s'esbaldissent Franc, Cel nen i ad «Munjoie!» ne demant. CXVI Un Sarrazin i out de Sarraguce, De la citet l'une meitet est sue: Ço est Climborins, ki pas ne fut produme. Fiance prist de Guenelun le cunte, Par amistiet l'en baisat en la buche, Si l'en dunat s'espee e s'escarbuncle. Tere Major ço dit, metrat a hunte, A l'emperere si toldrat la curone. Siet el ceval qu'il cleimet Barbamusche, Plus est isnels que esprever ne arunde. Brochet le bien, le frein li abandunet, Si vait ferir Engeler de Guascoigne. Nel poet guarir sun escut ne sa bronie: De sun espiet el cors li met la mure, Empeint le ben, tut le fer li mist ultre, Pleine sa hanste el camp mort le tresturnet. Apres escriet: «Cist sunt bon a (o)[c]unfundre! Ferez, paien, pur la presse derumpre!» Dient Franceis: «Deus quel doel de prodome!» CXVII Li quens Rollant en apelet Oliver: «Sire cumpainz, ja est morz Engeler; Nus n'avium plus vaillant chevaler.» Respont li quens: «Deus le me doinst venger!» Sun cheval brochet des esperuns d'or mier, Tient Halteclere, sanglent en est l'acer, Par grant vertut vait ferir le paien. Brandist sun colp e li Sarrazins chiet; L'anme de lui en portent aversers. Puis ad ocis le duc Alphaïen; Escababi i ad le chef trenchet; .VII. Arrabiz i ad deschevalcet: Cil ne sunt proz ja mais pur guerreier. Ço dist Rollant: «Mis cumpainz est irez! Encuntre mei fait asez a preiser. Pur itels colps nos ad Charles plus cher.» A voiz escriet: «Ferez i, chevaler!» CXVIII D'altre part est un paien, Valdabrun: Celoi levat le rei Marsiliun, Sire est par mer de .IIII.C. drodmunz; N'i ad eschipre quis cleim se par loi nun. Jerusalem prist ja par traïsun, Si violat le temple Salomon, Le patriarche ocist devant les funz. Cil ot fiance del cunte Guenelon: Il li dunat s'espee e mil manguns. Siet el cheval qu'il cleimet Gramimund, Plus est isnels que nen est uns falcuns. Brochet le bien des aguz esperuns, Si vait ferir li riche duc Sansun, L'escut li freint e l'osberc li derumpt, El cors li met les pans del gunfanun, Pleine sa hanste l'abat mort des arçuns: «Ferez paien, car tres ben les veintrum!» Dient Franceis: «Deus quel doel de baron.!» CXIX Li quens Rollant, quant il veit Sansun mort, Poez saveir que mult grant doel en out. Sun ceval brochet, si li curt ad esforz; Tient Durendal, qui plus valt que fin ór. Vait le ferir li bers, quanque il pout, Desur sun elme, ki gemmet fut ad or: Trenchet la teste e la bronie e le cors, La bone sele, ki est gemmet ad or, E al cheval parfundement le dos; Ambure ocit, ki quel blasme ne quil lot. Dient paien(t) [...]: «Cist colp nus est mult fort!» Respont Rollant: «Ne pois amer les voz; Devers vos est li orguilz e li torz.» CXX D'Affrike i ad un Affrican venut, Ço est Malquiant, le filz al rei Malcud. Si guarnement sunt tut a or batud; Cuntre le ciel sur tuz les altres luist. Siet el ceval qu'il cleimet Salt Perdut: Beste nen est ki poisset curre a lui. Il vait ferir Anseïs en l'escut: Tut li trenchat le vermeill e l'azur; De sun osberc li ad les pans rumput, El cors li met e le fer e le fust; Morz est li quens, de sun tens n'i ad plus. Dient Franceis: «Barun, tant mare fus!» CXXI Par le camp vait Turpin li arcevesque; Tel coronet ne chantat unches messe Ki de sun cors feïst [...] tantes proecces. Dist al paien: «Deus tut mal te tramette! Tel ad ocis dunt al coer me regrette.» Sun bon ceval i ad fait esdemetre, Si l'ad ferut sur l'escut de Tulette, Que mort l'abat desur le herbe verte. CXXII De l'altre part est un paien, Grandonies, Filz Capuel, le rei de Capadoce(neez). Siet el cheval que il cleimet Marmorie, Plus est isnels que n'est oisel ki volet; Laschet la resne, des esperuns le brochet, Si vait ferir Gerin par sa grant force. L'escut vermeill li freint, de col li portet; Aprof li ad sa bronie desclose, El cors li met tute l'enseingne bloie, Que mort l'abat en une halte roche. Sun cumpaignun Gerers ocit uncore E Berenger e Guiun de Seint Antonie; Puis vait ferir un riche duc Austorje, Ki tint Valeri e envers sur le Rosne. Il l'abat mort; paien en unt grant joie. Dient Franceis: «Mult decheent li nostre!» CXXIII [L]i quens Rollant tint s'espee sanglente. Ben ad oït que Franceis se dementent; Si grant doel ad que par mi quiet fendre; Dist al paien: «Deus tut mal te consente! Tel as ocis que mult cher te quid vendre!» Sun ceval brochet, ki oït del cuntence. Ki quel cumpert, venuz en sunt ensemble. CXXIV Grandonie fut e prozdom e vaillant E vertuus e vassal cumbatant. Enmi sa veie ad encuntret Rollant. Enceis nel vit, sil recunut veirement Al fier visage e al cors qu'il out gent E al reguart e al contenement: Ne poet muer qu'il ne s'en espoent, Fuïr s'en voel, mais ne li valt nient: Li quens le fiert tant vertuusement Tresqu'al nasel tut le elme li fent, Trenchet le nes e la buche e les denz, Trestut le cors e l'osberc jazerenc De l'oree sele (se)[les] dous alves d'argent E al ceval le dos parfundement; Ambure ocist seinz nul recoevrement, E cil d'Espaigne s'en cleiment tuit dolent. Dient Franceis: «Ben fiert nostre guarent!» CXXV La bataille est e merveillose e grant. Franceis i ferent des espiez brunisant. La veïssez si grant dulor de gent, Tant hume mort e nasfret e sanglent! L'un gist sur l'altre e envers e adenz. Li Sarrazin nel poent susfrir tant: Voelent u nun, si guerpissent le camp. Par vive force les encacerent Franc. CXXVI La (la) b[at]aille est m[erv]eilluse e hastive. Franceis i ferent par vigur e par ire, Tren[chen]t cez poinz, cez costez, cez eschines, Cez vestemenz entresque as chars vives. Sur l'erbe verte li cler sancs s'en afilet. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . «Tere Major, Mahummet te maldie! Sur tute gent est la tue hardie.» Cel nen i ad ki ne criet: «Marsilie! Cevalche, rei! Bosuign avum d'aïe!» CXXVII Li quens Rollant apelet Oliver: «Sire cumpaign, sel volez otrier, Li arcevesque est mult bon chevaler, Nen ad meillor en tere ne suz cel; Ben set ferir e de lance e d'espiet.» Respunt li quens: «Kar li aluns aider!» A icest mot l'unt Francs recumencet. Dur sunt li colps e li caples est grefs; Mu(n)lt grant dulor i ad de chrestiens. Ki puis veïst Rollant e Oliver De lur espees e ferir e capler! Li arcevesque i fiert de sun espiet, Cels qu'il unt mort, ben les poet hom preiser; Il est escrit es cartres e es brefs, Ço dit la Geste, plus de .IIII. milliers. As quatre [es]turs lor est avenut ben; Li quint apres lor est pesant e gref. Tuz sunt ocis cist Franceis chevalers, Ne mes seisante, que Deus i ad esparniez: Einz que il moergent, se vendrunt mult cher. CXXVIII Li quens Rollant des soens i veit grant perte; AOI. Sun cumpaignun Oliver en apelet: «Bel sire, chers cumpainz, pur Deu, que vos enhaitet? Tanz bons vassals veez gesir par tere! Pleindre poüms France dulce, la bele: De tels barons cum or remeint deserte! E! reis, amis, que vos ici nen estes? Oliver, frere, cumment le purrum nus faire? Cum faitement li manderum nuveles?» Dist Oliver: «Jo nel sai cument quere. Mielz voeill murir que hunte nus seit retraite.» CXXIX Ço dist Rollant: «Cornerai l'olifant, Si l'orrat Carles, ki est as porz passant. Jo vos plevis ja returnerunt Franc.» Dist Oliver: «Vergoigne sereit grant E reprover a trestuz voz parenz; Iceste hunte dureit al lur vivant! Quant jel vos dis, n'en feïstes nient; Mais nel ferez par le men loement. Se vos cornez, n'ert mie hardement. Ja avez vos ambsdous les braz sanglanz!» Respont li quens: «Colps i ai fait mult genz!» CXXX Ço dit Rollant: «Forz est nostre bataille; Jo cornerai, si l'orrat li reis Karles.» Dist Oliver: «Ne sereit vasselage! Quant jel vos dis, cumpainz, vos ne deignastes. Si fust li reis, n'i oüsum damage. Cil ki la sunt n'en deivent aveir blasme.» Dist Oliver: «Par ceste meie barbe, Se puis veeir ma gente sorur Alde, Ne jerrei(e)z ja mais entre sa brace!» CXXXI Ço dist Rollant: «Por quei me portez ire?» (E cil) E il respont: «Cumpainz, vos le feïstes, Kar vasselage par sens nen est folie; Mielz valt mesure que ne fait estultie. Franceis sunt morz par vostre legerie. Jamais Karlon de nus n'avrat servise. Sem(e) creïsez, venuz i fust mi sire; Ceste bataille oüsum faite u prise; U pris ú mort i fust li reis Marsilie. Vostre proecce, Rollant, mar la ve[ï]mes! Karles li Magnes de nos n'avrat aïe. N'ert mais tel home des qu'a Deu juïse. Vos i murrez e France en ert (...) huníe. Oi nus defalt la leial cumpaignie: Einz le vesp(e)re mult ert gref la departie.» CXXXII Li arceves[ques] les ót cuntrarier, Le cheval brochet des esperuns d'or mer, Vint tresqu'a els, sis prist a castier: «Sire Rollant, e vos, sire Oliver, Pur Deu vos pri, ne vos cuntraliez! Ja li corners ne nos avreit mester, Mais nepurquant si est il asez melz: Venget li reis, si nus purrat venger; Ja cil d'Espaigne ne s'en deivent turner liez. Nostre Franceis i descendrunt a pied, Truverunt nos e morz e detrenchez, Leverunt nos en bieres sur sumers, Si nus plurrunt de doel e de pitet, Enfuerunt [nos] en aitres de musters; N'en mangerunt ne lu ne porc ne chen.» Respunt Rollant: «Sire, mult dites bien.» CXXXIII Rollant ad mis l'olifan a sa buche, Empeint le ben, par grant vertut le sunet. Halt sunt li pui e la voiz est mult lunge, Granz .XXX. liwes l'oïrent il respundre. Karles l'oït e ses cumpaignes tutes. Ço dit li reis: «Bataille funt nostre hume!» E Guenelun li respundit encuntre: «S'altre le desist, ja semblast grant mençunge!» CXXXIV Li quens Rollant, par peine e par ahans, Par grant dulor sunet sun olifan. Par mi la buche en salt fors li cler sancs. De sun cervel le temple en est rumpant. Del corn qu'il tient l'oiïe en est mult grant: Karles l'entent, ki est as porz passant. Naimes li duc l'oïd, si l'escultent li Franc. Ce dist li reis: «Jo oi le corn Rollant! Unc nel sunast se ne fust (cu)cumbatant.» Guenes respunt: «De bataille est il nient! Ja estes veilz e fluriz e blancs; Par tels paroles vus resemblez enfant. Asez savez le grant orgoill Rollant; Ço est merveille que Deus le soefret tant. Ja prist il Noples seinz le vostre comant; Fors s'en eissirent li Sarrazins dedenz, Sis cumbatirent al bon vassal Rollant; (...) Puis od les ewes lavat les prez del sanc, Pur cel le fist ne fust a[pa]rissant. Pur un sul levre vat tute jur cornant, Devant ses pers vait il ore gabant. Suz cel n'ad gent ki [l']osast (re)querre en champ. Car chevalcez! Pur qu'alez arestant? Tere Major mult est loinz ça devant.» CXXXV Li quens Rollant ad la buche sanglente. De sun cervel rumput en est li temples. L'olifan sunet a dulor e a peine. Karles l'oït e ses Franceis l'entendent, Ço dist li reis: «cCel corn ad lunge aleine!» Respont dux Neimes: «Baron i fait la p[e]ine! Bataille i ad, par le men escientre. Cil l'at traït ki vos en roevet feindre. Adubez vos, si criez vostre enseigne, Si sucurez vostre maisnee gente: Asez oez que Rollant se dementet!» CXXXVI Li empereres ad fait suner ses corns. Franceis descendent, si adubent lor cors D'osbercs e de helmes e d'espees a or. Escuz unt genz e espiez granz e forz, E gunfanuns blancs e vermeilz e blois. Es destrers muntent tuit li barun de l'ost, Brochent ad ait tant cum durent li port. N'i ad celoi (a celoi) a l'altre ne parolt: «Se veïssum Rollant einz qu'il fust mortz, Ensembl'od lui i durriums granz colps.» De ço qui calt? car demuret i unt trop. CXXXVII Esclargiz est li vespres e li jurz. Cuntre le soleil reluisent cil adub, Osbercs e helmes i getent grant flambur, E cil escuz, ki ben sunt peinz a flurs, E cil espiez(z), cil oret gunfanun. Li empereres cevalchet par irur E li Franceis dolenz et cur[uçus](ius); N'i ad celoi ki durement ne plurt, E de Rollant sunt en grant poür. Li reis fait prendre le cunte Guenelun, Sil cumandat as cous de sa maisun. Tut li plus maistre en apelet, Besgun. «Ben le me guarde, si cume tel felon! De ma maisnee ad faite traïsun.» Cil le receit, si met .C. cumpaignons De la quisine, des mielz e des pejurs. Icil li peilent la barbe e les gernuns; (Morz est Turpin le guerreier Charlun) Cascun le fiert .IIII. colps de sun puign; Ben le batirent a fuz e a bastuns; E si li metent el col un caeignun, Si l'encaeinent altresi cum un urs; Sur un sumer l'unt mis a deshonor. Tant le guardent quel rendent a Charlun. CXXXVIII Halt sunt li pui e tenebrus e grant, AOI. Li val parfunt e les ewes curant. Sunent cil graisle e derere e devant, E tuit rachatent encuntre l'olifant. Li empereres chevalchet ireement, E li Franceis cur(i[...]us)uçus e dolent; N'i ad celoi n'i plurt e se dement, E p[ri]ent Deu qu'il guarisset Rollant Josque il vengent el camp cumunement: Ensembl'od lui i ferrunt veirement. De ço qui calt? car ne lur valt nient. Demurent trop, n'i poedent estre a tens. CXXXIX Par grant irur chevalchet li reis Charles; Desur (...) sa brunie li gist sa blanche barbe. Puignent ad ait tuit li barun de France; N'i ad icel ne demeint irance Que il ne sunt a Rollant le cataigne, Ki se cumbat as Sarrazins d'Espaigne; Si est blecet, ne quit que anme i remaigne. Deus! quels seisante humes i ad en sa cumpaigne! Unches meillurs n'en out reis ne c[at]aignes. CXL Rollant reguardet es munz e es lariz; De cels de France i veit tanz morz gesir! E il les pluret cum chevaler gentill: «Seignors barons, de vos ait Deus mercit! Tutes voz anmes otreit il pareïs! En seintes flurs il les facet gesir! Meillors vassals de vos unkes ne vi. Si lungement tuz tens m'avez servit, A oes Carlon si granz païs cunquis! Li empereres tant mare vos nurrit! Tere de France mult estes dulz païs Oi desertet a tant rubostl exill. Barons Franceis, pur mei vos vei murir: Jo ne vos pois tenser ne guarantir. Aït vos Deus, ki unkes ne mentit! Oliver, frere, vos ne dei jo faillir. De doel murra, se altre ne m'i ocit. Sire cumpainz, alum i referir!» CXLI Li quens Rollant el champ est repairet: Tient Durendal, cume vassal i fiert. Faldrun de Pui i ad par mi trenchet, E .XXIIII. de tuz les melz preisez: Jamais n'iert home plus se voeillet venger. Si cum li cerfs s'en vait devant les chiens, Devant Rollant si s'en fuient paiens. Dist l'arcevesque: «Asez le faites ben! Itel valor deit aveir chevaler Ki armes portet e en bon cheval set; En bataille deit estre forz e fiers, U altrement ne valt .IIII. deners; Einz deit monie estre en un de cez mustiers, Si prierat tuz jurz por noz peccez.» Respunt Rollant: «Ferez, nes esparignez!» A icest mot l'unt Francs recumencet. Mult grant damage i out de chrestiens. CXLII Home ki ço set, que ja n'avrat prisun En tel bataill[e] fait grant defension: Pur ço sunt Francs si fiers cume leuns. As vus Marsilie en guise de barunt. Siet el cheval qu'il apelet Gaignun, Brochet le ben, si vait ferir Bevon, Icil ert sire de Belne e de Digun, L'escut li freint e l'osberc li derumpt, Que mort l'abat seinz altre descunfisun; Puis ad ocis Yvoeries e Ivon Ensembl'od els Gerard de Russillun. Li quens Rollant ne li est guaires loign; Dist al paien: «Damnesdeus mal te duinst! A si grant tort m'ociz mes cumpaignuns! Colp en avras einz que nos departum, E de m'espee enquoi savras le nom.» Vait le ferir en guise de baron: Trenchet li ad li quens le destre poign. Puis prent la teste de Jurfaleu le Blund, Icil ert filz al rei Marsiliun. Paien escrient: «Aíe nos, Mahum! Li nostre deu, vengez nos de Carlun. En ceste tere nus ad mis tels feluns! Ja pur murir le camp ne guerpirunt.» Dist l'un a l'altre: «E! car nos en fuiums!» A icest mot tels .C. milie s'en vunt: Ki ques rapelt, ja n'en returnerunt. CXLIII De ço qui calt? Se fuit s'en est Marsilies, Remes i est sis uncles, Marganices, Ki tint Kartagene, Alfrere, Garmalie E Ethiope, une tere maldite. La neire gent en ad en sa baillie; Granz unt les nes e lees les oreilles, E sunt ensemble plus de cinquante milie. Icil chevalchent fierement e a íre, Puis escrient l'enseigne paenime. Ço dist Rollant: «Ci recevrums ma[r]tyrie, E or sai ben n'avons guaires a vivre; Mais tut seit fel cher ne se vende primes! Ferez, seignurs, des espees furbies, Si calengez e voz (e) mors e voz vies! Que dulce France par nus ne seit hunie! Quant en cest camp vendrat Carles, mi sire, De Sarrazins verrat tel discipline, Cuntre un des noz en truverat morz .XV., Ne lesserat que nos ne beneïsse.» CXLIV Quan Rollant veit la contredite gent Ki plus sunt neirs que nen est arrement, Ne n'unt de blanc ne mais que sul les denz, Ço dist li quens: «Or sai jo veirement Que hoi murrum par le mien escient. Ferez Franceis, car jol vos recumenz!» Dist Oliver: «Dehet ait li plus lenz!» A icest mot Franceis se fierent enz. CXLV Quant paien virent que Franceis i out poi, Entr'els en unt e orgoil e cunfort. Dist l'un a l'altre: «L'empereor ad tort.» Li Marganices sist sur un ceval sor, Brochet le ben des esperuns a or, Fiert Oliver derere en mi le dos. Le blanc osberc li ad descust el cors, Par mi le piz sun espiet li mist fors, E dit apres: «Un col avez pris fort! Carles li magnes mar vos laissat as porz! Tort nos ad fait: nen est dreiz qu'il s'en lot, Kar de vos sul ai ben venget les noz.» CXLVI Oliver sent que a mort est ferut. Tient Halteclere, dunt li acer fut bruns, Fiert Marganices sur l'elme a or, agut, E flurs (e) e cristaus en acraventet jus; Trenchet la teste d'ici qu'as denz menuz, Brandist sun colp, si l'ad mort abatut, E dist apres: «Paien mal aies tu! Iço ne di que Karles n'i ait perdut; Ne a muiler ne a dame qu'aies veüd, N'en vanteras el regne dunt tu fus Vaillant a un dener que m'i aies tolut, Ne fait damage ne de mei ne d'altrui!» Apres escriet Rollant qu'il li aiut. CXLVII Oliver sent qu'il est a mort nasfret. De lui venger ja mais ne li ert lez. En la grant presse or i fiert cume ber, Trenchet cez hanstes e cez escuz buclers, E piez e poinz e seles e costez. Ki lui veïst Sarrazins desmembrer, Un mort sur altre geter, De bon vassal li poüst remembrer. L'enseigne Carle n'i volt mie ublier: «Munjoie!» escriet e haltement e cler. Rollant apelet, sun ami e sun per: «Sire cumpaign, a mei car vus justez! A grant dulor ermes hoi desevrez.» CXLVIII Rollant reguardet Oliver al visage: Teint fut e pers, desculuret e pale. Li sancs tuz clers par mi le cors li raiet: Encuntre tere en cheent les esclaces. «Deus!» dist li quens, «or ne sai jo que face. Sire cumpainz, mar fut vostre barnage! Jamais n'iert hume ki tun cors cuntrevaillet. E! France dulce, cun hoi remendras guaste De bons vassals, cunfundue e chaiete! Li emperere en avrat grant damage.» A icest mot sur sun cheval se pasmet. CXLIX As vus Rollant sur sun cheval pasmet, E Oliver ki est a mort nasfret: Tant ad seinet (ki) li oil li sunt trublet; Ne loinz ne pres (es) ne poet vedeir si cler Que rec[on]oistre poisset nuls hom mortel. Sun cumpaignun, cum il l'at encontret, Sil fiert amunt sur l'elme a or gemet: Tut li detrenchet d'ici qu'al nasel; Mais en la teste ne l'ad mie adeset. A icel colp l'ad Rollant reguardet, Si li demandet dulcement e suef: «Sire cumpain, faites le vos de gred? Ja est ço Rollant, ki tant vos soelt amer! Par nule guise ne m'aviez desfiet!» Dist Oliver: «Or vos oi jo parler; Jo ne vos vei, veied vus Damnedeu! Ferut vos ai, car le me pardunez!» Rollant respunt: «Jo n'ai nient de mal. Jol vos parduins ici e devant Deu.» A icel mot l'un a l'altre ad clinet. Par tel [...] amur as les vus desevred! CL Oliver sent que la mort mult l'angoisset. Ansdous les oilz en la teste li turnent, L'oíe pert e la veüe tute; Descent a piet, a l[a] tere se culchet, Durement en halt si recleimet sa culpe, Cuntre le ciel ambesdous ses mains juintes, Si priet Deu que pareïs li dunget E beneïst Karlun e France dulce, Sun cumpaignun Rollant sur tuz humes. Falt li le coer, le helme li embrunchet, Trestut le cors a la tere li justet. Morz est li quens, que plus ne se demuret. Rollant li ber le pluret, sil duluset; Jamais en tere n'orrez plus dolent hume! CLI Or veit Rollant que mort est sun ami, Gesir adenz, a la tere sun vis, Mult dulcement a regreter le prist: «Sire cumpaign, tant mar fustes hardiz! Ensemble avum estet e anz e dis; Nem fesis mal ne jo nel te forsfis. Quant tu es mor[t], dulur est que jo vif!» A icest mot se pasmet li marchis Sur sun ceval que cleimet Veillantif. Afermet est a ses estreus d'or fin: Quel part qu'il alt, ne poet mie chaïr. CLII Ainz que Rollant se seit aperceüt, De pasmeisuns guariz ne revenuz, Mult grant damage li est apareüt: Morz sunt Franceis, tuz les i ad perdut, Senz l'arcevesque e senz Gualter del Hum. Repairez est des muntaignes jus; A cels d'Espaigne mult s'i est cumbatuz; Mort sunt si hume, sis unt paiens (...) vencut; Voeillet (illi) o nun, desuz cez vals s'en fuit, Si reclaimet Rollant, qu'il li aiut: «E! gentilz quens, vaillanz hom, ú ies tu? Unkes nen oi poür, la u tu fus. Ço est Gualter, ki cunquist Maelgut, Li nies Droün, al vieill e al canut! Pur vasselage suleie estre tun drut. Ma hanste est fraite e percet mun escut, E mis osbercs desmailet e rumput; Par mi le cors hot une lances [...] ferut. Sempres murrai, mais cher me sui vendut!» A icel mot l'at Rollant entendut; Le cheval brochet, si vient poignant vers lui. CLIII Rollant ad doel, si fut maltalentifs; En la grant presse cumencet a ferir. De cels d'Espaigne en ad get[et] mort .XX., E Gualter .VI. e l'arcevesque .V. Dient paien: «(Felun) Feluns humes ad ci! Guardez, seignurs, qu'il n'en algent vif! Tut par seit fel ki nes vait envaïr, E recreant ki les lerrat guar[ir]!» Dunc recumencent e le hu e le cri; De tutes parz le revunt envaïr. CLIV Li quens Rollant fut noble guerrer, Gualter de Hums est bien bon chevaler, Li arcevesque prozdom e essaiet: Li uns ne volt l'altre nient laisser. En la grant presse i fierent as paiens. Mil Sarrazins i descendent a piet, E a cheval sunt .XL. millers. Men escientre nes osent aproismer. Il lor lancent e lances e espiez, E wigres e darz e museras e agiez e gieser. As premers colps i unt ocis Gualter, Turpins de Reins tut sun escut percet, Quasset sun elme, si l'unt nasfret el chef, E sun osberc rumput e desmailet; Par mi le cors nasfret de .IIII. espiez; Dedesuz lui ocient sun destrer. Or est grant doel quant l'arcevesque chiet. CLV Turpins de Reins, quant se sent abatut, De .IIII. espiez par mi le cors ferut, Isnelement li ber resailit sus; Rollant reguardet, puis si li est curut, E dist un mot: «Ne sui mie vencut! Ja bon vassal nen ert vif recreüt.» Il trait Almace, s'espee de acer brun, En la grant presse mil colps i fiert e plus, Puis le dist Carles qu'il n'en esparignat nul; Tels .IIII. cenz i troevet entur lui: Alquanz nafrez, alquanz par mi ferut, Si out d'icels ki les chefs unt perdut. Ço dit la Geste e cil ki el camp fut: Li ber Gilie, por qui Deus fait vertuz, E fist la chartre el muster de Loüm. Ki tant ne set ne l'ad prod entendut. CLVI Li quens Rollant genteme[n]t se cumbat, Mais le cors ad tressuet e mult chalt; En la teste ad e dulor e grant mal: Rumput est li temples, por ço que il cornat. Mais saveir volt se Charles i vendrat: Trait l'olifan, fieblement le sunat. Li emperere s'estut, si l'escultat: «Seignurs,» dist il, «mult malement nos vait! Rollant mis nies hoi cest jur nus defalt. Jo oi al corner que guaires ne vivrat. Ki estre i voelt isnelement chevalzt! Sunez voz graisles tant que en cest ost ad!» Seisante milie en i cornent si halt, Sunent li munt e respondent li val: Paien l'entendent, nel tindrent mie en gab; Dit l'un a l'altre: «Karlun avrum nus ja!» CLVII Dient paien: «L'emperere repairet! AOI. De cels de France oe(n)z suner les graisles! Se Carles vient, de nus i avrat perte. Se R[ollant] vit, nostre guere renovelet, Perdud avuns Espaigne, nostre tere.» Tels .IIII. cenz s'en asemble[nt] a helmes, E des meillors ki el camp quient estre: A Rollant rendent un estur fort e pesme. Or ad li quens endreit sei asez que faire. AOI. CLVIII Li quens Rollant, quant il les veit venir, Tant se fait fort e fiers e maneviz! Ne lur lerat tant cum il serat vif. Siet el cheval qu'om cleimet Veillantif, Brochet le bien des esperuns d'or fin, En la grant presse les vait tuz envaïr, Ensem[b]l'od lui arcevesques Turpin. Dist l'un a l'altre: «Ça vus traiez ami! De cels de France les corns avuns oït: Carles repairet, li reis poesteïfs!» CLIX Li quens Rollant unkes n'amat cuard Ne orguillos, ne malvais (...) hume de male part, Ne chevaler, se il ne fust bon vassal. Li arcevesques Turpin en apelat: «Sire, a pied estes e jo sui a ceval; Pur vostre amur ici prendrai estal; Ensemble avruns e le ben e le mal; Ne vos lerrai pur nul hume de car. Encui rendruns a paiens cest asalt. Les colps des mielz, cels sunt de Durendal.» Dist l'arcevesque: «Fel seit ki ben n'i ferrat. Carles repairet, ki ben nus vengerat.» CLX Paien dient: «Si mare fumes nez! Cum pes[mes] jurz nus est hoi ajurnez! Perdut avum noz seignurs e noz pers. Carles repeiret od sa grant ost li ber; De cels de France odum les graisles clers, Grant est la noise de «Munjoie!» escrier. Li quens Rollant est de tant grant fiertet, Ja n'ert vencut pur nul hume carnel. Lancuns a lui, puis sil laissums ester.» E il si firent darz e wigres asez, Espiez e lances e museraz enpennez; (Le) L'escut Rollant unt frait e estroet, E sun osberc rumput e desmailet; Mais enz el cors ne l'unt mie adeset. Mais Veillantif unt en .XXX. lius nafret, Desuz le cunte, si l'i unt mort laisset. Paien s'en fuient, puis sil laisent ester. Li quens Rollant i est remes a pied. AOI. CLXI Paien s'en fuient, curucus e irez; Envers Espaigne tendent de l'espleiter. Li quens Rollant nes ad dunt encalcer: Perdut i ad Veillantif sun destrer; Voellet o nun, remes i est a piet. A l'arcevesque Turpin alat aider: Sun elme ad or li deslaçat del chef, Si li tolit le blanc osberc leger, E sun blialt li ad tut detrenchet; En ses granz plaies les pans li ad butet; Cuntre sun piz puis si l'ad enbracet; Sur l'erbe verte puis l'at suef culchet, Mult dulcement li ad Rollant preiet: «E! gentilz hom, car me dunez cunget! Noz cumpaignuns, que oümes tanz chers, Or sunt il morz: nes i devuns laiser. Joes voell aler querre e entercer, Dedevant vos juster e enrenger.» Dist l'arcevesque: «Alez e repairez! Cist camp est vostre, mercit Deu [...] mien.»

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