CXXXVI.

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.