"Of such I know but one," says Ganelon; "it is Roland, and he shall repent him yet." Thereupon he relates that on a certain day, before Carcassone, the emperor being seated in a shady meadow, his nephew came to him, clad in his cuirass, and holding in his hand a rosy apple, which he presented to his uncle, saying: "Behold, fair sire, of all the kings in the world I offer you the crowns!" "This mad pride will end in his ruin, seeing that every day he exposes himself to death. Welcome will be the stroke that shall slay him! What peace would then be ours!"
"But," said Blancandrin, "this Roland, who is so cruel—this Roland, who would have every king at his mercy, and take possession of their dominions—by whose aid will he accomplish his design?"
"By the aid of the French," answered Ganelon. "They so greatly love him that never will they suffer any fault to be laid at his door. All of them, even to the emperor, march but at his will. He is a man to conquer the world from hence to the far East."
By dint of talking as they rode along, they made a compact to work the death of Roland. By dint of riding, they arrived at Saragossa, and under a yew-tree they got down.
King Marsilion is in the midst of his Saracens. They keep a gloomy silence, anxious to learn what news the messengers may bring.
"You are saved!" exclaims Blancandrin, advancing to the feet of Marsilion, and holding Ganelon by the hand—"saved by Mahomet and Apollo, whose holy laws we observe. Charles has answered nothing; but he sends this noble baron, by whose mouth you shall learn whether you will have peace or war."
"Let him speak," said the king.
Ganelon, after considering a moment, thus begins: "May you be saved by the God whom we are all bound to adore! The will of the puissant Charlemagne is this: you shall receive the Christian law; the half of Spain will be given you in fief. If you refuse to accept these terms, you shall be taken and bound, led to Aix, and condemned to a shameful death."
At this discourse the king grows pale, and trembles with fury. His golden javelin quivers in his hand; he is about to cast it at Ganelon, but is held back. Ganelon grasps his sword, drawing it two fingers' length out of the scabbard, and saying, "My beautiful sword! while you gleam at my side, none shall tell our emperor that I fell alone in this strange land; with the blood of the best you shall first pay for me."
The Saracens cry out: Let us hinder the combat. At their entreaties, Marsilion, calming himself, resumed his seat. "What evil possesses you?" said his uncle, the caliph, "that you would strike this Frenchman when you ought to hear him?" And Ganelon, meanwhile, composed his countenance, but kept his right hand still on the hilt of his sword. The beholders said to themselves, "Truly, he is a noble baron!"