The twelve Peers staid in Spain. A thousand score

Of Franks are under their command, to whom

Unknown is wavering fear or dread of death.

Carl'magne to France returns—within his cloak

He hides his face—Naimes, riding near, inquired:

"What thought, O King, weighs now upon your heart?"—

"Who questions me doth wrong. So sad am I

I can but mourn. Sweet France by Ganelon

Shall be destroyed. An angel in my sleep

Appeared, and, dreaming, I beheld my lance

Broken up within my hand by him who named

My nephew for the rear guard ... and I left

Him in a foreign land;—O mighty God,

Should I lose him, I ne'er should find his peer!"


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