King Carle the Great has made a waste of Spain,
The cities violated, the castles seized.
Now saith the King his war is at an end,
And toward Sweet France the Emperor directs
His steed.... The Count Rollánd the pennon white
Has planted on a hill, high 'gainst the sky.
In all the country round the Franks their tents
Are pitching, while the Pagans ride along
The mighty vales. In hauberk clad—their backs
In armor cased; with helmets clasped—sword girt
On thigh—shields on their necks—each lance in rest,
Within a thicket on the mount they halt.
Four hundred thousand men there wait the dawn.
The French yet know it not. Ah God! what woe!
Aoi.