Page:The Song of Roland.djvu/148

 That is Loewis, what further can I say; He is my son, and shall my marches take.” Aide answered him: “That word to me is strange. Never, please God, His Angels and His Saints, When Rollant’s dead shall I alive remain!” Her colour fails, at th’ feet of Charlemain, She falls; she’s dead. Her soul God’s Mercy awaits! Barons of France weep therefore and complain.

Aide the fair is gone now to her rest. Yet the King thought she was but swooning then, Pity he had, our Emperour, and wept, Took her in ’s hands, raised her from th’ earth again; On her shoulders her head still drooped and leant. When Charlès saw that she was truly dead Four countesses at once he summonèd; To a monast’ry of nuns they bare her thence, All night their watch until the dawn they held; Before the altar her tomb was fashioned well; Her memory the King with honour kept. AOI.

That Emperour is now returned to Aix. The felon Guene, all in his iron chains Is in that town, before the King’s Palace; Those serfs have bound him, fast upon his stake, In deer-hide thongs his hands they’ve helpless made, With clubs and whips they trounce him well and baste: He has deserved not any better fate; In bitter grief his trial there he awaits.

Written it is, and in an ancient geste How Charlès called from many lands his men,