When Carle sees all the Pagans dead--some slain, The others drowned, his chevaliers enriched With spoils, the noble King dismounts, on earth Prostrates himself and offers thanks to God. When he arose, the sun had set. "'Tis time," He said, "to think of camping now. Too late It is for our advance to Ronceval. Our horses are all weary and foredone: Unsaddle them and take the bridles off; And let them roam at large about these meads." The French reply: "Sire, you have spoken well." Aoi. CLXXXIV. The Emperor makes here his harborage. The French dismount, take off the golden curbs And saddles from their steeds, and turn them loose In the green mead, amid the plenteous grass: No other care they need. Upon the ground The over-wearied cast themselves and sleep. No watch was set in all the host that night. Aoi. CLXXXV. The Emperor reposes on the field, His mighty lance hard by his pillow planted, For he, on such a night will not disarm. His hauberk white, with orfreyed-marge he wears, His helmet, rich with gold and gems is laced, Girded Joyeuse, the sword without a peer, Who thirty times a day can change his hue. Many a time you all heard of the lance Wherewith Our Lord was pierced upon the cross, The steel whereof Carle has, thanks be to God, Closed in the golden pommel of his sword. For this great glory and exceeding worth The brand was called _Joyeuse_. This all French Knights Should bear in mind, for it was hence they took Their war-cry of _Montjoie_, and for this cause No other people can resist their arms. Aoi. CLXXXVI. Clear is the night, bright shines the moon; at rest Lies Carle; but grief is with him for Rolland, And Olivier is heavy on his heart; The twelve Peers, too, and all the men of France, Left stark and bloody there at Ronceval. He cannot help but weep, and sob, and pray That mighty God be keeper of their souls. Tired is the King, his toils being very great; Deeply asleep he falls, and can no more. Through all the fields the scattered French sleep sound, Nor there a horse has strength enough to stand; If one need grass, he bites it as he lies. Right wise is he that's wise in lore of woe. Aoi. CLXXXVII.