Count Roland sprang to a hill-top's height, And donned his peerless armor bright; Laced his helm, for a baron made; Girt Durindana, gold-hilted blade; Around his neck he hung the shield, With flowers emblazoned was the field; Nor steed but Veillantif will ride; And he grasped his lance with its pennon's pride. White was the pennon, with rim of gold; Low to the handle the fringes rolled. Who are his lovers men now may see; And the Franks exclaim, "We will follow thee." LXVI Roland hath mounted his charger on; Sir Olivier to his side hath gone; Gerein and his fellow in arms, Gerier; Otho the Count, and Berengier, Samson, and with him Anseis old, Gerard of Roussillon, the bold. Thither the Gascon Engelier sped; "I go," said Turpin, "I pledge my head;" "And I with thee," Count Walter said; "I am Roland's man, to his service bound." So twenty thousand knights were found. LXVII Roland beckoned Count Walter then. "Take of our Franks a thousand men; Sweep the heights and the passes clear, That the Emperor's host may have nought to fear." "I go," said Walter, "at your behest," And a thousand Franks around him pressed. They ranged the heights and passes through, Nor for evil tidings backward drew, Until seven hundred swords outflew. The Lord of Belferna's land, that day, King Almaris met him in deadly fray. LXVIII Through Roncesvalles the march began; Ogier, the baron, led the van; For them was neither doubt nor fear, Since Roland rested to guard the rear, With twenty thousand in full array: Theirs the battle--be God their stay. Gan knows all; in his felon heart Scarce hath he courage to play his part. LXIX High were the peaks, and the valleys deep, The mountains wondrous dark and steep; Sadly the Franks through the passes wound, Full fifteen leagues did their tread resound. To their own great land they are drawing nigh, And they look on the fields of Gascony. They think of their homes and their manors there, Their gentle spouses and damsels fair. Is none but for pity the tear lets fall; But the anguish of Karl is beyond them all. His sister's son at the gates of Spain Smites on his heart, and he weeps amain. LXX