Page:The Song of Roland.djvu/87

 No race ’neath heav’n in field him dare attack. So canter on! Nay, wherefore hold we back? Terra Major is far away, our land.” AOI.

The count Rollanz, though blood his mouth doth stain, And burst are both the temples of his brain, His olifant he sounds with grief and pain; Charlès hath heard, listen the Franks again. “That horn,” the King says, “hath a mighty strain!” Answers Duke Neimes: “A baron blows with pain! Battle is there, indeed I see it plain, He is betrayed, by one that still doth feign. Equip you, sir, cry out your old refrain, That noble band, go succour them amain! Enough you’ve heard how Rollant doth complain.”

That Emperour hath bid them sound their horns. The Franks dismount, and dress themselves for war, Put hauberks on, helmets and golden swords; Fine shields they have, and spears of length and force Scarlat and blue and white their ensigns float. His charger mounts each baron of the host; They spur with haste as through the pass they go. Nor was there one but thus to ’s neighbour spoke: “Now, ere he die, may we see Rollant, so Ranged by his side we’ll give some goodly blows.” But what avail? They’ve stayed too long below.

That even-tide is light as was the day; Their armour shines beneath the sun’s clear ray,