When Roland felt that the battle came, Lion or leopard to him were tame; He shouted aloud to his Franks, and then Called to his gentle compeer agen. "My friend, my comrade, my Olivier, The Emperor left us his bravest here; Twice ten thousand he set apart, And he knew among them no dastard heart. For his lord the vassal must bear the stress Of the winter's cold and the sun's excess-- Peril his flesh and his blood thereby: Strike thou with thy good lance-point and I, With Durindana, the matchless glaive Which the king himself to my keeping gave, That he who wears it when I lie cold May say 'twas the sword of a vassal bold." XCII Archbishop Turpin, above the rest, Spurred his steed to a jutting crest. His sermon thus to the Franks he spake:-- "Lords, we are here for our monarch's sake; Hold we for him, though our death should come; Fight for the succor of Christendom. The battle approaches--ye know it well, For ye see the ranks of the infidel. Cry _mea culpa_, and lowly kneel; I will assoil you, your souls to heal. In death ye are holy martyrs crowned." The Franks alighted, and knelt on ground; In God's high name the host he blessed, And for penance gave them--to smite their best. XCIII The Franks arose from bended knee, Assoiled, and from their sins set free; The archbishop blessed them fervently: Then each one sprang on his bounding barb, Armed and laced in knightly garb, Apparelled all for the battle line. At last said Roland, "Companion mine, Too well the treason is now displayed, How Ganelon hath our band betrayed. To him the gifts and the treasures fell; But our Emperor will avenge us well. King Marsil deemeth us bought and sold; The price shall be with our good swords told." XCIV Roland rideth the passes through, On Veillantif, his charger true; Girt in his harness that shone full fair, And baron-like his lance he bare. The steel erect in the sunshine gleamed, With the snow-white pennon that from it streamed; The golden fringes beat on his hand. Joyous of visage was he, and bland, Exceeding beautiful of frame; And his warriors hailed him with glad acclaim. Proudly he looked on the heathen ranks, Humbly and sweetly upon his Franks. Courteously spake he, in words of grace-- "Ride, my barons, at gentle pace. The Saracens here to their slaughter toil: Reap we, to-day, a glorious spoil, Never fell to Monarch of France the like." At his word, the hosts are in act to strike. XCV