CXXXVI. The Count Rolland in his great anguish blows His olifant so mightily, with such Despairing agony, his mouth pours forth The crimson blood, and his swoll'n temples burst. Yea, but so far the ringing blast resounds; Carle hears it, marching through the pass, Naimes harks, The French all listen with attentive ear. "That is Rolland's horn!--" Carle cried, "which ne'er yet Was, save in battle, blown!--" But Ganelon Replies:--"No fight is there!--you, sire, are old, Your hair and beard are all bestrewn with gray, And as a child your speech. Well do you know Rolland's great pride. 'Tis marvelous God bears With him so long. Already took he Noble Without your leave. The Pagans left their walls And fought Rolland, your brave Knight, in the field; With his good blade he slew them all, and then Washed all the plain with water, that no trace Of blood was left--yea, oftentimes he runs After a hare all day and blows his horn. Doubtless he takes his sport now with his peers; And who 'neath Heav'n would dare attack Rolland? None, as I deem. Nay, sire, ride on apace; Why do you halt? Still far is the Great Land." Aoi. CXXXVII. Rolland with bleeding mouth and temples burst, Still in his anguish, blows his olifant; Carle hears it, and his Franks. The king exclaims: "That horn has a long breath!" Duke Naimes replies: "Rolland it is, and in a sore distress, Upon my faith, a battle rages there! A traitor he who would deceive you now. To arms! Your war-cry shout, your kinsman save! Plainly enough you hear his call for help." Aoi. CXXXVIII. Carle orders all the trumpeters to sound The march. The French alight. They arm themselves With helmets, hauberks and gold hilted swords, Bright bucklers, long sharp spears, with pennons white And red and blue. The barons of the host Leap on their steeds, all spurring on; while through The pass they march, each to the other says: "Could we but reach Rolland before he dies, What deadly blows, with his, our swords would strike!" But what avails?--Too late they will arrive. Aoi. CXXXIX. The ev'n is clear, the sun its radiant beams Reflects upon the marching legions. Spears, Hauberks and helms, shields painted with bright flowers, Gold pennons all ablaze with glitt'ring hues. Burning with wrath the Emperor rides on; The French with sad and angered looks. None there But weeps aloud. All tremble for Rolland. * * * * *