On the Spanish marches the twelve abide, With twice ten thousand Franks beside. Fear to die have they none, nor care: But Karl returns into France the fair; Beneath his mantle his face he hides. Naimes, the duke, at his bridle rides. "Say, sire, what grief doth your heart oppress?" "To ask," he said, "brings worse distress; I cannot but weep for heaviness. By Gan the ruin of France is wrought. In an angel's vision, last night, methought He wrested forth from my hand the spear: 'Twas he gave Roland to guard the rear. God! should I lose him, my nephew dear, Whom I left on a foreign soil behind, His peer on earth I shall never find!" LXXI Karl the Great cannot choose but weep, For him hath his host compassion deep; And for Roland, a marvellous boding dread. It was Gan, the felon, this treason bred; He hath heathen gifts of silver and gold, Costly raiment, and silken fold, Horses and camels, and mules and steeds.-- But lo! King Marsil the mandate speeds, To his dukes, his counts, and his vassals all, To each almasour and amiral. And so, before three suns had set, Four hundred thousand in muster met. Through Saragossa the tabors sound; On the loftiest turret they raise Mahound: Before him the Pagans bend and pray, Then mount and fiercely ride away, Across Cerdagna, by vale and height, Till stream the banners of France in sight, Where the peers of Carlemaine proudly stand, And the shock of battle is hard at hand. LXXII Up to King Marsil his nephew rode, With a mule for steed, and a staff for goad: Free and joyous his accents fell, "Fair Sir King, I have served you well. So let my toils and my perils tell. I have fought and vanquished for you in field. One good boon for my service yield,-- Be it mine on Roland to strike the blow; At point of lance will I lay him low; And so Mohammed to aid me deign, Free will I sweep the soil of Spain, From the gorge of Aspra to Dourestan, Till Karl grows weary such wars to plan. Then for your life have you won repose." King Marsil on him his glove bestows. LXXIII His nephew, while the glove he pressed, Proudly once more the king addressed. "Sire, you have crowned my dearest vow; Name me eleven of your barons now, In battle against the twelve to bide." Falsaron first to the call replied; Brother to Marsil, the king, was he; "Fair Sir nephew, I go with thee; In mortal combat we front, to-day, The rear-guard of the grand array. Foredoomed to die by our spears are they." LXXIV