The Count Rollánd in his great anguish blows

His olifant so mightily, with such

Despairing agony, his mouth pours forth

The crimson blood, and his swoll'n temples burst.

Yea, but so far the ringing blast resounds;

Carle hears it, marching through the pass, Naimes harks,

The French all listen with attentive ear.

"That is Rollánd's horn!—" Carle cried, "which ne'er yet

Was, save in battle, blown!—" But Ganelon

Replies:—"No fight is there!—you, sire, are old,

Your hair and beard are all bestrewn with gray,

And as a child your speech. Well do you know

Rollánd's great pride. 'Tis marvelous God bears

With him so long. Already took he Noble

Without your leave. The Pagans left their walls

And fought Rollánd, your brave Knight, in the field;

With his good blade he slew them all, and then

Washed all the plain with water, that no trace

Of blood was left—yea, oftentimes he runs

After a hare all day and blows his horn.

Doubtless he takes his sport now with his peers;

And who 'neath Heav'n would dare attack Rollánd?

None, as I deem. Nay, sire, ride on apace;

Why do you halt? Still far is the Great Land."

Aoi.