With swift flint-striking hoofs. Now to our shore
Puffs up the wave may prove oblivion's maw,
And drink these Dover cliffs as they were sands,
Yet England sleeps, with one lone heart at watch.
[Sound of horse approaching] Nay, two, for Roland comes.
[Enter Roland de Born, dismounted]
Rol. You, Hubert?
Hub. Ay.
You bring no aid?
Rol. The king is powerless.