"I am here!" cried Roland.
"Not you! You are too hot-headed to venture into the court of the enemy!" cried his friend Olivier. "Let me go instead, sire!"
"Nay!" cried the king. "Silence! Not one of the twelve peers sets his foot in the kingdom of the Moors."
"Then let my step-father go," suggested Roland. "No wiser man than he can be found."
"Come forward," said the king, as the Franks murmured assent, "and receive the staff and glove. The Franks have chosen you."
Ganelon rose, wrathful, casting off his fur robe. His eyes were gray, his face fierce, his form noble.
"This is Roland's work. I shall hate him forever, and Olivier, and the twelve peers, because they love him. Ne'er shall I return; full well I know it. If e'er I do, it will be to wreak vengeance on my enemy."
"Go!" said the king. "You have said enough!"
As Ganelon went forward, full of rage, to receive the king's glove, it fell ere he touched it. "A bad omen!" exclaimed the French.
"Sirs, ye shall hear of this!" said Ganelon.