XXX

     Said Blancandrin, “Your Franks are high of fame,
     But your dukes and counts are sore to blame. 
     Such counsel to their lord they give,
     Nor he nor others in peace may live.” 
     Ganelon answered, “I know of none,
     Save Roland, who thus to his shame hath done. 
     Last morn the Emperor sat in the shade,
     His nephew came in his mail arrayed,—­
     He had plundered Carcassonne just before,
     And a vermeil apple in hand he bore: 
     ‘Sire,’ he said, ’to your feet I bring
     The crown of every earthly king.’ 
     Disaster is sure such pride to blast;
     He setteth his life on a daily cast. 
     Were he slain, we all should have peace at last.”

     XXXI

     “Ruthless is Roland,” Blancandrin spake,
     “Who every race would recreant make. 
     And on all possessions of men would seize;
     But in whom doth he trust for feats like these?”
     “The Franks! the Franks!” Count Ganelon cried;
     “They love him, and never desert his side;
     For he lavisheth gifts that seldom fail,
     Gold and silver in countless tale,
     Mules and chargers, and silks and mail,
     The king himself may have spoil at call. 
     From hence to the East he will conquer all.”

     XXXII

     Thus Blancandrin and Ganelon rode,
     Till each on other his faith bestowed
     That Roland should be by practice slain,
     And so they journeyed by path and plain,
     Till in Saragossa they bridle drew,
     There alighted beneath a yew. 
     In a pine-tree’s shadow a throne was set;
     Alexandrian silk was the coverlet: 
     There the monarch of Spain they found,
     With twenty thousand Saracens round,
     Yet from them came nor breath nor sound;
     All for the tidings they strained to hear,
     As they saw Blancandrin and Ganelon near.

     XXXIII

     Blancandrin stepped before Marsil’s throne,
     Ganelon’s hand was in his own. 
     “Mahound you save,” to the king he said,
     “And Apollin, whose holy law we dread! 
     Fairly your errand to Karl was done;
     But other answer made he none,
     Save that his hands to Heaven he raised,
     Save that a space his God he praised;
     He sends a baron of his court,
     Knight of France, and of high report,
     Of him your tidings of peace receive.” 
     “Let him speak,” said Marsil, “we yield him leave.”

     XXXIV

     Gan had bethought him, and mused with art;
     Well was he skilled to play his part;
     And he said to Marsil, “May God you save,
     The God of glory, whose grace we crave! 
     Thus saith the noble Carlemaine: 
     You shall make in Christ confession plain. 
     And he gives you in fief full half of Spain;