The Emperor homeward hath turned his face,
     To Gailne city he marched apace,
     (By Roland erst in ruins strown—­
     Deserted thence it lay and lone,
     Until a hundred years had flown). 
     Here waits he, word of Gan to gain
     With tribute of the land of Spain;
     And here, at earliest break of day,
     Came Gan where the encampment lay.

     LV

     The Emperor rose with the day dawn clear,
     Failed not Matins and Mass to hear,
     Sate at his tent on the fair green sward,
     Roland and Olivier nigh their lord,
     Duke Naimes and all his peers of fame. 
     Gan the felon, the perjured, came—­
     False was the treacherous tale he gave,—­
     And these his words, “May God you save! 
     I bear you Saragossa’s keys,
     Vast the treasure I bring with these,
     And twenty hostages; guard them well,
     The noble Marsil bids me tell—­
     Not on him shall your anger fall,
     If I fetch not the Algalif here withal;
     For mine eyes beheld, beneath their ken,
     Three hundred thousand armed men,
     With sword and casque and coat of mail,
     Put forth with him on the sea to sail,
     All for hate of the Christian creed,
     Which they would neither hold nor heed. 
     They had not floated a league but four,
     When a tempest down on their galleys bore
     Drowned they lie to be seen no more. 
     If the Algalif were but living wight,
     He had stood this morn before your sight. 
     Sire, for the Saracen king I say,
     Ere ever a month shall pass away,
     On into France he will follow free,
     Bend to our Christian law the knee,
     Homage swear for his Spanish land,
     And hold the realm at your command.” 
     “Now praise to God,” the Emperor said,
     “And thanks, my Ganelon, well you sped.” 
     A thousand clarions then resound,
     The sumpter-mules are girt on ground,
     For France, for France the Franks are bound.

     LVI

     Karl the Great hath wasted Spain,
     Her cities sacked, her castles ta’en;
     But now “My wars are done,” he cried,
     “And home to gentle France we ride.” 
     Count Roland plants his standard high
     Upon a peak against the sky;
     The Franks around encamping lie. 
     Alas! the heathen host the while,
     Through valley deep and dark defile,
     Are riding on the Chistians’ track,
     All armed in steel from breast to back;
     Their lances poised, their helmets laced,
     Their falchions glittering from the waist,
     Their bucklers from the shoulder swung,
     And so they ride the steeps among,
     Till, in a forest on the height,
     They rest to wait the morning light,
     Four hundred thousand crouching there. 
     O God! the Franks are unaware.