The men of Bavaria and Allemaine, Norman and Breton return again, And with all the Franks aloud they cry, That Gan a traitor's death shall die. They bade be brought four stallions fleet; Bound to them Ganelon, hands and feet: Wild and swift was each savage steed, And a mare was standing within the mead; Four grooms impelled the coursers on,-- A fearful ending for Ganelon. His every nerve was stretched and torn, And the limbs of his body apart were borne; The bright blood, springing from every vein, Left on the herbage green its stain. He dies a felon and recreant: Never shall traitor his treason vaunt. _End of the Song._ Having thus punished the traitor and converted the heathen, Charlemagne, lying in his chamber one night, receives a visit from the angel Gabriel, who bids him go forth and do further battle against the pagans. Weary of warfare and longing for rest, the aged emperor moans, "God, how painful is my life!" for he knows he must obey. When the emperor's justice was satisfied, His mighty wrath did awhile subside. Queen Bramimonde was a Christian made. The day passed on into night's dark shade; As the king in his vaulted chamber lay, Saint Gabriel came from God to say, "Karl, thou shalt summon thine empire's host, And march in haste to Bira's coast; Unto Impha city relief to bring, And succor Vivian, the Christian king. The heathens in siege have the town essayed, And the shattered Christians invoke thine aid." Fain would Karl such task decline. "God! what a life of toil is mine!" He wept; his hoary beard he wrung. Here ends the Song of Théroulde. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 8: Another version of this story can be found in the author's "Legends of the Middle Ages."] [Footnote 9: See the author's "Story of Old France."] [Footnote 10: All the quotations in this chapter are from John O'Hagen's translation of the "Song of Roland."] [Footnote 11: See the author's "Legends of the Rhine."] AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE Who would list to the good lay Gladness of the captive grey? 'Tis how two young lovers met, Aucassin and Nicolette, Of the pains the lover bore And the sorrow he outwore, For the goodness and the grace, Of his love, so fair of face. Sweet the song, the story sweet, There is no man hearkens it, No man living 'neath the sun, So outwearied, so foredone, Sick and woful, worn and sad, But is healèd, but is glad. 'Tis so sweet. So say they, speak they, tell they the tale.[12]