The Song of Roland Part 8

XCIII

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 G.o.d!

His steed he spurs, gallops with great effort; He goes, that count, to strike with all his force, The s.h.i.+eld 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."

AOI.

XCIV

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 p.r.i.c.ks with both his golden spurs, And goes to strike, ev'n as a baron doth; The s.h.i.+eld he breaks and through the hauberk cuts, His ensign's fringe into the carca.s.s 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.

AOI.

XCV

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 p.r.i.c.ks into his steed, To strike that king by virtue great goes he, The hauberk all unfastens, breaks the s.h.i.+eld, Thrusts his great spear in through the carca.s.s 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 G.o.d the glory be!"

"Monjoie!" he cries, for all the camp to hear.

XCVI

And Gerins strikes Malprimis of Brigal So his good s.h.i.+eld is nothing worth at all, Shatters the boss, was fas.h.i.+oned 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 carca.s.s caught.

And with one blow that pagan downward falls; The soul of him Satan away hath borne.

AOI.

XCVII

And his comrade Gerers strikes the admiral, The s.h.i.+eld he breaks, the hauberk unmetals, And his good spear drives into his vitals, So well he's pinned him, clean through the carca.s.s, Dead on the field he's flung him from his hand.

Says Oliver: "Now is our battle grand."

XCVIII

Sansun the Duke goes strike that almacour, The s.h.i.+eld 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."

XCIX

And Anseis has let his charger run; He goes to strike Turgis of Turtelus, The s.h.i.+eld he breaks, its golden boss above, The hauberk too, its doubled mail undoes, His good spear's point into the carca.s.s 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."

C

And Engelers the Gascoin of Burdele Spurs on his horse, lets fall the reins as well, He goes to strike Escremiz of Valtrene, The s.h.i.+eld 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 h.e.l.l."

AOI.

CI

And Otes strikes a pagan Estorgant Upon the s.h.i.+eld, 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 carca.s.s, And flings it dead, ev'n as the horse goes past; He says: "You have no warrant afterward."

CII

And Berenger, he strikes Estramariz, The s.h.i.+eld 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.

CIII

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 s.h.i.+eld, by th'golden buckle bright; Along his ribs the pagan's spear doth glide; G.o.d'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.

CIV

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 gra.s.s 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."

CV

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.

AOI.

CVI

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 s.h.i.+eld, 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."

AOI.

CVII