"Lords barons," resumes Charlemagne, "whom, then, shall we send to Saragossa to King Marsilion?"
"By your favor, I will go," answers Naymes. "Give me, therefore, the gauntlet and the staff."
"No," says the emperor. "No, by my beard! A sage like you go so far away? You will in nowise go. Sit down again." ... "Well, my lords barons, whom, then, shall we send?"
"Send me," says Roland.
"You!" cries Oliver. "Your courage is too fiery. You would not fail to get yourself into some difficulty. If the king permits it, I can very well go."
"Neither you nor he," answers the emperor; "both of you hold your peace. In that place not one of my twelve peers shall set his foot!"
At these words, every one keeps silence. However, Turpin rises from his seat—Turpin, Archbishop of Rheims. He, in turn, asks for the glove and staff; but Charles commands him to sit down, and not say another word. Then addressing himself once more to his barons, he says, "Free knights, will you not, then, tell me who shall carry my message to Marsilion?"
And Roland answers: "Let it be my father-in-law, Ganelon." And the French agreed, saying: "He is the man you want; for a more skilful one you could not find."
Ganelon at these words falls into a horrible anguish. He lets slip from his shoulders his great mantle of marten; his figure is imposing, and shows well under his coat of silk. His eye sparkles with anger. "Fool!" he says to Roland, "whence this madness? If God permits me to return, the gratitude I owe thee shall end but with thy life!"
"I heed not your threatenings," answers Roland. "Pride takes away your reason. A wise messenger is needed. If the emperor gives me leave, I set out in your stead."