To Carlemagne Our Lord now showed his might;

The sun stays in its course. The Pagans fly,

And fast the French pursuing, overtake

Them in the Val-Tenebre. They drive them on

Toward Sarraguce, while close behind them fall

The upraised swords, and strew the ground with dead.

No issue, no escape, by road or pass!

In front deep Ebro rolls its mighty waves:

No boat, no barge, no raft. They call for help

On Tervagant, then plunge into the flood.

Vain was their trust: some, weighted with their arms,

Sink in a moment; others are swept down,

And those most favored swallow monstrous draughts.

All drown most cruelly. The French cry out:

"For your own woe wished ye to see Rollánd!"

Aoi.