La Chanson de Roland, CCXXXI–CCXXXVII

The Emir, Baron-like, wears on his chin A beard as white as summer flower, and gained Among the wisest of his creed a fame; In battle fierce and proud. His son Malprime Of knightly soul, and from his noble race Holding a valiant heart and strength of arm, Addressed his father:—"Sire, to horse! to horse! Against them! I much wonder whether Carle We e'er shall meet."—"Yea," answered Baligant, "Carle is a valorous knight; his glorious deeds Are writt'n, but now his nephew is no more; Against our strength no other man's can stand." Aoi.

"Fair son, Malprime," said th' Emir Baligant, "Yesterday fell in death the noble knight Rolland, and Olivier the wise and brave, And the twelve Peers by Carle so dearly loved, With twenty thousand combatants of France; Not at a glove's worth hold I all the rest. Anon my Syrian messenger reports The emperor's approach; ten armies Carle Has called in close array; the knight who bears The olifant, with clear resounding blast Leads his companions, riding in the front; Together with them fifteen thousand men Of France, all bachelors, whom Carle is wont To call his children. These as many follow Who for the fiercest combat seem prepared." Thus said Malprime: "The first stroke I demand!" Aoi.

"Fair son," said Baligant, "to you I grant Your full request. Against the French at once Engage. Let your companions be Torleu The Persian King, and Dapamort who rules Leutis. If you subdue the vaunting Carle, A portion of my kingdom shall you have In fief from the Orient to Val-Marchis." Responds Malprime: "To you, O sire, all thanks!" And stepping forward, he receives the boon. This land had once been swayed by King Fleuri, But by Malprime was neither ruled nor seen. Aoi.

The Emir Baligant rides through the ranks Of all his host, escorted by his son Of giant stature, and the Kings Torleu And Dapamort. In line of battle soon Stand thirty legions ranked. Countless the knights, And fifteen thousand strong the weakest band Can number. First are those of Butentrot, The next of Misnia: enormous heads O'ertop the spine enrooted in their backs, Their shaggy bodies bristling with coarse hair Like boars; the third, of Nubles and of Blos; The legion fourth of Bruns and Esclavos; The fifth of Sorbres and Sorz; from the Ermines And Mors is formed the sixth; from Jericho The seventh, and the eighth from those of Nigre. Of Gros the ninth, and from Balide-la-Fort, The legion tenth, men never good for aught. With strongest oaths the Emir swears aloud By all Mohammed's might and body, "Carle Of France rides like a madman to his doom, For combat we shall have; recoils he not, His brow shall never more wear golden crown." Aoi.

Ten other legions are arrayed: the first Of Canelieux—ill-visaged people, come Athwart, from Valfuit; Turks the next; the third Persians; the fourth, Persians and Pinceneis; The fifth from Soltras come and from Avers; Englez and Ormaleis make up the sixth; The seventh scions are of Samuel's race; The eighth from Braise; Esclavers form the ninth; As for the tenth, a horde perverse that came From Ociant's deserted land—a race Not loving God the Lord; ne'er shall you hear Of viler breed: their heathen skin as hard As iron, whence it is they need no helms Nor hauberks mailed—in battle treach'rous fiends. Aoi.

The Emir has himself ten legions armed. To form the first the giants of Malpruse Were summoned; to the second came the Huns; The Hungres made the third; Baldise-la-Lungue The fourth, and Val-Penuse the fifth; the sixth Maruse; the seventh Leuz and Astrimonies; The eighth Argoilles; Clarbone the ninth; the tenth Formed of the bearded men of Val-Fonde, A tribe that never would love God. The songs Of Geste of France thus thirty legions count: A mighty host where many a trumpet blasts. Forward, like valiant knights, the Pagans ride. Aoi.

The Emir, rich and mighty lord, commands Before him to display his dragon-flag, The standard of Mahum and Tervagant; With it Apollo's image, evil god. Ten Canelieus about him ride, and cry This sermon with loud voice: "Who by our Gods Craves to be saved, with the most contrite heart Must pray!" And then the Pagans low incline Their heads and chins, with brilliant helms bent down To earth.—"Now, gluttons, comes your hour to die!" Cry out the French; "Confusion be your lot. This day, O God of ours, defend King Carle, Turn Thou the scale of battle to his side!" Aoi.