In early morn the Emperor arose. Having attended mass and matins both, Upon the verdant grass, before his tent He stood, surrounded by the Count Rolland, The valorous Olivier, and the Duke Naimes, With many more besides. There also came The perjurer, the treacherous Ganelon, Who, stepping forth, with most perfidious tongue Began to speak:--"Hail! God save Carle the King!-- I bring you here the keys of Sarraguce: Great treasures follow through my care conveyed With hostages a score. So, guard them well. The King Marsile the brave bears not the blame If I bring not the Kalif unto you. Myself three hundred thousand men in arms Beheld, with hauberks clad, and helmets clasped, Swords by their sides, hilts bright with gold inlaid, Who with him crossed the sea, not to submit To Christ's law which they will not hold nor keep. But scarce five leagues had they sailed on the main, When wind and tempest rising, down they sank. All perished!... Never shall you see them more. Had but the Kalif lived, I would have brought Him hither. For the Pagan King, know well, Ere you shall see this first month pass away, Your vassal will he be, with joined hands, And hold the realm of Spain a fief from you." Thus said the King:--"Thanks be to God for this! Well have you done, and great your recompense Shall be."--He bids a thousand trumpets sound... The camp is struck:--the Franks then load their mules And set forth on their journey to Sweet France. Aoi. THE REAR GUARD. ROLLAND DOOMED TO DEATH. LVI. King Carle the Great has made a waste of Spain, The cities violated, the castles seized. Now saith the King his war is at an end, And toward Sweet France the Emperor directs His steed.... The Count Rolland the pennon white Has planted on a hill, high 'gainst the sky. In all the country round the Franks their tents Are pitching, while the Pagans ride along The mighty vales. In hauberk clad--their backs In armor cased; with helmets clasped--sword girt On thigh--shields on their necks--each lance in rest, Within a thicket on the mount they halt. Four hundred thousand men there wait the dawn. The French yet know it not. Ah God! what woe! Aoi. LVII. Passes the day; the shades of night have fallen. Carle the great Emp'ror sleeps; and in a dream He marches through the deep defiles of Sizre. In his right hand his ashen spear he holds, Which suddenly Count Ganelon has snatched From him, and shook and brandished in such wise That, breaking, high tow'rd Heav'n the splinters flew. Carle sleeps--naught from his slumber can arouse him. Aoi. LVIII.