Rolland Doomed to Death, LXXIX–LXXX

Next you can see Chernubles de [Val-neire]. His hair so long, it sweeps the earth, and he Can, for his sport, lift greater weight than bear Four hundred loaded mules.—In his [far-land] They say—the sun ne'er shines, corn cannot grow, The rain falls not, the dew wets not the soil; No stone there but is black, and it is said By some that in that land the demons dwell. Thus said Chernubles:—"My sword hangs at my belt; At Ronceval I will dye it crimson! should I find Rolland the brave upon my path, Nor strike him down, then trust to me no more; This my good sword shall conquer Durendal, The French shall die, and France must be destroyed." At these words, rally King Marsile's twelve Peers, And lead one hundred thousand Saracens Who for the battle hasten and prepare, Arming themselves beneath a grove of pines. Aoi.

The Pagans put their Moorish hauberks on; The greater part are triply lined; they lace Their helms of Sarraguce, gird to their thighs Swords of Vienna steel; bright are their shields; Their lances from Valence; their banners white And blue and crimson. Mules and sumpter-beasts Are left behind. They mount their battle steeds, And forward press in closely serried lines. Clear was the day, and brilliant was the sun; No armor but reflected back the light. A thousand clarions sound their cheering blasts So loud, the French can hear—. Says Olivier: "Rolland, companion, hearken! Soon, methinks, We shall have battle with the Saracens!" To which Rolland: "God grant it may be so. Here must we do our duty to our King; A man should for his Lord and for his cause Distress endure, and bear great heat and cold, Lose all, even to his very hair and skin! 'Tis each man's part to strike with mighty blows, That evil songs of us may ne'er be sung. The wrong cause have the Pagans, we the right. No ill example e'er shall come from me." Aoi.