The Song of Roland Part 13

Gualter it is, who conquered Maelgut, And nephew was to h.o.a.ry old Drouin; My va.s.salage thou ever thoughtest good.

Broken my spear, and split my s.h.i.+eld 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.

AOI.

CLIII

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.

AOI.

CLI

Count Rollant is a n.o.ble 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 s.h.i.+eld 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.

AOI.

CLV

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 va.s.sal 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 G.o.d made marvellous, Who charters wrote for th' Minster at Loum; Nothing he's heard that does not know this much.

CLVI

The count Rollanz has n.o.bly 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."

AOI.

CLVII

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.

AOI.

CLVIII

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, p.r.i.c.king 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."

CLIX

The count Rollanz has never loved cowards, Nor arrogant, nor men of evil heart, Nor chevalier that was not good va.s.sal.

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."

CLX

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 s.h.i.+eld 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.

AOI.

CLXI

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; I 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 gra.s.s 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; G.o.d be praised!"

CLXII

So Rollanz turns; through the field, all alone, Searching the vales and mountains, he is gone; He finds Gerin, Gerers his companion, Also he finds Berenger and Otton, There too he finds Anseis and Sanson, And finds Gerard the old, of Rossillon; By one and one he's taken those barons, To the Archbishop with each of them he comes, Before his knees arranges every one.

That Archbishop, he cannot help but sob, He lifts his hand, gives benediction; After he's said: "Unlucky, Lords, your lot!

But all your souls He'll lay, our Glorious G.o.d, In Paradise, His holy flowers upon!

For my own death such anguish now I've got; I shall not see him, our rich Emperor."

CLXIII

So Rollant turns, goes through the field in quest; His companion Olivier finds at length; He has embraced him close against his breast, To the Archbishop returns as he can best; Upon a s.h.i.+eld he's laid him, by the rest; And the Archbishop has them absolved and blest: Whereon his grief and pity grow afresh.

Then says Rollanz: "Fair comrade Olivier, You were the son of the good count Reinier, Who held the march by th' Vale of Runier; To shatter spears, through buckled s.h.i.+elds to bear, And from hauberks the mail to break and tear, Proof men to lead, and prudent counsel share, Gluttons in field to frighten and conquer, No land has known a better chevalier."

CLXIV

The count Rollanz, when dead he saw his peers, And Oliver, he held so very dear, Grew tender, and began to shed a tear; Out of his face the colour disappeared; No longer could he stand, for so much grief, Will he or nill, he swooned upon the field.

Said the Archbishop: "Unlucky lord, indeed!"

CLXV

When the Archbishop beheld him swoon, Rollant, Never before such bitter grief he'd had; Stretching his hand, he took that olifant.

Through Rencesvals a little river ran; He would go there, fetch water for Rollant.

Went step by step, to stumble soon began, So feeble he is, no further fare he can, For too much blood he's lost, and no strength has; Ere he has crossed an acre of the land, His heart grows faint, he falls down forwards and Death comes to him with very cruel pangs.