[LXXVII.]
And came with Esturgant, Estramaris, His friend; both wretches, traitors, villains are.... Thus spake Marsile: "Come forth, Seigneurs; ye both To Ronceval's defiles shall go and help Me there to lead my host." Both answer: "King, At your command, Rollánd and Olivier Will we assault. No power can the twelve peers From death defend against our trenchant swords Whose blades shall redden with hot blood. The French Are doomed to death and Carle to doleful life. France, the Great Land, shall through our arms become Your realm. Come, King, to see this verified; The Emperor's self a captive we'll present." Aoi.
[LXXVIII.]
There hastens Margariz de Sibilie Who holds the country toward the distant sea. His beauty such, all ladies are his friends; Not one looks on him but to smile, nor can Restrain her laughing joy. No Pagan else More glorious deeds of chivalry achieved; Pressed through the crowd, he cries above the rest Unto the king: "Be not dismayed, for I To Ronceval will go to kill Rollánd, And Olivier shall not escape alive; To martyrdom the twelve Peers are condemned. See my good sword with gold-embossèd hilt, Given me by the Amiralz of Prime; I pledge my faith it will be dyed in blood. The French shall perish, France be steeped in shame, And Carle the old, with beard all blossom-white, Shall see no day uncursed by grief and wrath. Before one year we shall have conquered France And slept beneath the roofs of Saint-Denis." At this, the Pagan king bowed low his head. Aoi.
[LXXIX.]
Next you can see Chernubles de [Val-neire]. His hair so long, it sweeps the earth, and he Can, for his sport, lift greater weight than bear Four hundred loaded mules.—In his [far-land] They say—the sun ne'er shines, corn cannot grow, The rain falls not, the dew wets not the soil; No stone there but is black, and it is said By some that in that land the demons dwell. Thus said Chernubles:—"My sword hangs at my belt; At Ronceval I will dye it crimson! should I find Rollánd the brave upon my path, Nor strike him down, then trust to me no more; This my good sword shall conquer Durendal, The French shall die, and France must be destroyed." At these words, rally King Marsile's twelve Peers, And lead one hundred thousand Saracens Who for the battle hasten and prepare, Arming themselves beneath a grove of pines. Aoi.
[LXXX.]
The Pagans put their Moorish hauberks on; The greater part are triply lined; they lace Their helms of Sarraguce, gird to their thighs Swords of Vienna steel; bright are their shields; Their lances from Valence; their banners white And blue and crimson. Mules and sumpter-beasts Are left behind. They mount their battle steeds, And forward press in closely serried lines. Clear was the day, and brilliant was the sun; No armor but reflected back the light. A thousand clarions sound their cheering blasts So loud, the French can hear—. Says Olivier: "Rollànd, companion, hearken! Soon, methinks, We shall have battle with the Saracens!" To which Rollánd: "God grant it may be so. Here must we do our duty to our King; A man should for his Lord and for his cause Distress endure, and bear great heat and cold, Lose all, even to his very hair and skin! 'Tis each man's part to strike with mighty blows, That evil songs of us may ne'er be sung. The wrong cause have the Pagans, we the right. No ill example e'er shall come from me." Aoi.