CLVII

     The evening passed into brightening dawn. 
     Against the sun their harness shone;
     From helm and hauberk glanced the rays,
     And their painted bucklers seemed all ablaze. 
     The Emperor rode in wrath apart. 
     The Franks were moody and sad of heart;
     Was none but dropped the bitter tear,
     For they thought of Roland with deadly fear.—­
     Then bade the Emperor take and bind
     Count Gan, and had him in scorn consigned
     To Besgun, chief of his kitchen train. 
     “Hold me this felon,” he said, “in chain.” 
     Then full a hundred round him pressed,
     Of the kitchen varlets the worst and best;
     His beard upon lip and chin they tore,
     Cuffs of the fist each dealt him four,
     Roundly they beat him with rods and staves;
     Then around his neck those kitchen knaves
     Flung a fetterlock fast and strong,
     As ye lead a bear in a chain along;
     On a beast of burthen the count they cast,
     Till they yield him back to Karl at last.

     CLVIII

     Dark, vast, and high the summits soar,
     The waters down through the valleys pour. 
     The trumpets sound in front and rear,
     And to Roland’s horn make answer clear. 
     The Emperor rideth in wrathful mood,
     The Franks in grievous solicitude;
     Nor one among them can stint to weep,
     Beseeching God that He Roland keep,
     Till they stand beside him upon the field,
     To the death together their arms to wield. 
     Ah, timeless succor, and all in vain! 
     Too long they tarried, too late they strain.

     CLIX

     Onward King Karl in his anger goes;
     Down on his harness his white beard flows. 
     The barons of France spur hard behind;
     But on all there presseth one grief of mind—­
     That they stand not beside Count Roland then,
     As he fronts the power of the Saracen. 
     Were he hurt in fight, who would then survive? 
     Yet three score barons around him strive. 
     And what a sixty!  Nor chief nor king
     Had ever such gallant following.

     CLX

     Roland looketh to hill and plain,
     He sees the lines of his warriors slain,
     And he weeps like a noble cavalier,
     “Barons of France, God hold you dear,
     And take you to Paradise’s bowers,
     Where your souls may lie on the holy flowers;
     Braver vassals on earth were none,
     So many kingdoms for Karl ye won;
     Years a-many your ranks I led,
     And for end like this were ye nurtured. 
     Land of France, thou art soothly fair;
     To-day thou liest bereaved and bare;
     It was all for me your lives you gave,
     And I was helpless to shield or save. 
     May the great God save you who cannot lie. 
     Olivier, brother, I stand thee by;
     I die of grief, if I ’scape unslain: 
     In, brother, in to the fight again.”