The twelve Peers staid in Spain. A thousand score Of Franks are under their command, to whom Unknown is wavering fear or dread of death. Carl'magne to France returns--within his cloak He hides his face--Naimes, riding near, inquired: "What thought, O King, weighs now upon your heart?"-- "Who questions me doth wrong. So sad am I I can but mourn. Sweet France by Ganelon Shall be destroyed. An angel in my sleep Appeared, and, dreaming, I beheld my lance Broken up within my hand by him who named My nephew for the rear guard ... and I left Him in a foreign land;--O mighty God, Should I lose him, I ne'er should find his peer!" Aoi. LXIX. Carle the great King, no more restrains his tears: One hundred thousand Franks great sympathy Give him, with strangest fear for Count Rolland. Vile Ganelon, the wretch, this treason wrought! He, from the Pagan King received rich gifts Of gold and silver, silk and ciclatons, Lions and camels, horses, mules. Behold, King Marsile summons all his Counts from Spain, His Viscounts, Dukes and Almazours; with these The Emirs, and the sons of noble Counts; Four hundred thousand gathered in three days, In Sarraguce are beaten all the drums; Mohammed's image to the loftiest tower Is raised on high.--No Pagan but adores And prays before him.--They then madly ride Throughout the land, o'er mountain and o'er vale. At last they see the gonfalons of France; It is the rear-guard of the twelve compeers: Nor will they fail to give them battle now. Aoi. LXX. Hastes to the front the nephew of Marsile, Goading the mule that bears him, with a staff. Says to his uncle, gayly laughing loud: "Fair King, till now I served you well; for you Endured hard pain and grief.--The only fee I ask is this:--To strike Rolland! I swear To give him death with my good trenchant sword, And if his help Mohammed will bestow, On me, forever shall all Spain be free, From the defiles of Aspre to Durestant. Carle then will yield,--the Franks, surrender all; No more in all your life will you have war." The King Marsile bestows on him the glove. Aoi. LXXI. The nephew of Marsile holds in his grasp The glove, and to the King with haughty pride Speaks:--"Fair Sire King, your gift I dearly prize; Choose you for me eleven of your Knights, And I will go and combat the twelve Peers." The first response was that of Falsaun: He was the brother of the King Marsile.-- "Fair nephew, we shall go, both you and I; In battle side by side, we shall engage. The rear of Carle's great host is doomed to die!" Aoi. LXXII.