Now when Rolland the battle sees at hand, More than a leopard's or a lion's pride He shows. He calls the French and Olivier: "Companion, friend, pray, speak of this no more. The Emperor who left his French in trust To us, has chos'n those twenty thousand men. Right well he knows none has a coward's soul. A man should suffer hurt for his good lord, Endure great cold or scorching heat, and give Even to his flesh and blood--Strike with your lance, And I with Durendal, my trusty sword, Carle's gift. If here I die, may he who wins It, say:--'Twas once the sword of a brave knight." Aoi. XC. Turpin the Archbishop from another side, Spurring his courser, mounts a hill and calls The French around. This sermon to them speaks: "_Seigneurs Barons_, Carle left us here: for him, Our King, our duty is to die, to aid In saving Christendom, the Faith of Christ Uphold. There, battle will ye have, for there Before your eyes behold the Saracens. Confess your sins, and for God's mercy pray! For your soul's cure I absolution give.... If you should die, as holy martyrs ye Will fall, and places find in Paradise!" The French alight and fall upon their knees; The Godly Archbishop grants them benison, Giving for penance his command to strike. Aoi. XCI. The French arise. They stand assoiled and quit Of all sins, blessed by Turpin in God's name. On swift destriers they mount, armed cap-a-pie As Knights arrayed for battle. Count Rolland Calls Olivier:--"Companion, sire, full well You know, it is Count Ganelon who has Betrayed us all, and guerdon rich received In gold and silver; well the Emp'ror should Avenge us! King Marsile a bargain made Of us, but swords will make the reck'ning good." Aoi. XCII. Through the defiles of Spain hath passed Rolland Mounted on Veillantif, his charger swift And strong, bearing his bright and glitt'ring arms. On goes the brave Rolland, his lance borne up Skyward, beneath its point a pennon bound, Snow-white, whose fringes flap his hand. Fair is his form, his visage bright with smiles. Behind him follows Olivier his friend; The French with joy, him as their champion, hail. He on the Heathens throws a haughty glance, But casts a sweet and humble look upon His French, and to them speaks with courteous tone: "_Seigneurs Barons_, march steadily and close. These Pagans hither came to find a grave; We here shall conquer such great spoil to-day As never yet was gained by Kings of France." Even as he spoke the word, the armies met. Aoi. XCIII.