CXCVII.

Beneath an olive tree they halt, and soon Two Pagans take their curbed steeds in charge. The messengers, each holding by the cloak The other, hasten to the highest tower. Entering the vaulted hall where lay Marsile, An evil greeting offer with good will: "May Tervagan, Apollo, he who holds Us in his service, and our Sire Mahum, Preserve our king and guard the queen!" Whereat cried Bramimunde:--"What folly this! Our gods are false; too well in Ronceval They showed their evil power, and let our knights Be slain--amid the battle-field forsook My lord the king with his right hand struck off By mighty Count Rollánd. The realm of Spain Will fall enslaved beneath the sway of Carle. What shall become of me, most miserable? Alas! is there no man to give me death!" Aoi.