Bids me remember his wrath and pain
     For sake of Basan and Basil slain,
     Whose necks I smote on Haltoia’s hill;
     Yet, if my life I would ransom still,
     Mine uncle the Algalif must I send,
     Or love between us were else at end.” 
     Then outspake Jurfalez, Marsil’s son: 
     “This is but madness of Ganelon. 
     For crime so deadly his life shall pay;
     Justice be mine on his head this day.” 
     Ganelon heard him, and waved his blade,
     While his back against a pine he stayed.

     XXXIX

     Into his orchard King Marsil stepped. 
     His nobles round him their station kept: 
     There was Jurfalez, his son and heir,
     Blancandrin of the hoary hair,
     The Algalif, truest of all his kin. 
     Said Blancandrin, “Summon the Christian in;
     His troth he pledged me upon our side.” 
     “Go,” said Marsil, “be thou his guide.” 
     Blancandrin led him, hand-in-hand,
     Before King Marsil’s face to stand. 
     Then was the villainous treason planned.

     XL

     “Fair Sir Ganelon,” spake the king,
     “I did a rash and despighteous thing,
     Raising against thee mine arm to smite. 
     Richly will I the wrong requite. 
     See these sables whose worth were told
     At full five hundred pounds of gold: 
     Thine shall they be ere the coming day.” 
     “I may not,” said Gan, “your grace gainsay. 
     God in His pleasure will you repay.”

     XLI

     “Trust me I love thee, Sir Gan, and fain
     Would I hear thee discourse of Carlemaine. 
     He is old, methinks, exceedingly old;
     And full two hundred years hath told;
     With toil his body spent and worn,
     So many blows on his buckler borne,
     So many a haughty king laid low,
     When will he weary of warring so?”
     “Such is not Carlemaine,” Gan replied;
     “Man never knew him, nor stood beside,
     But will say how noble a lord is he,
     Princely and valiant in high degree. 
     Never could words of mine express
     His honor, his bounty, his gentleness,
     ’Twas God who graced him with gifts so high. 
     Ere I leave his vassalage I will die.”

     XLII

     The heathen said, “I marvel sore
     Of Carlemaine, so old and hoar,
     Who counts I ween two hundred years,
     Hath borne such strokes of blades and spears,
     So many lands hath overrun,
     So many mighty kings undone,
     When will he tire of war and strife?”
     “Not while his nephew breathes in life
     Beneath the cope of heaven this day
     Such vassal leads not king’s array. 
     Gallant and sage is Olivier,
     And all the twelve, to Karl so dear,
     With twenty thousand Franks in van,
     He feareth not the face of man.”