LXVII.

High are the mounts, the valleys murky-dark-- The rocks are black, the gorges terrible. The French toiled through them painfully; their march Was heard for fifteen leagues; then the Great land Reaching, they viewed Gascuigne, their lord's estate, And sweet remembrance felt of honors, fiefs, Of lovely maidens and of noble wives: Not one is there but weeps from tenderness; But more than all is Carle distressed; he mourns His nephew left in the defiles of Spain.... By pity moved he cannot choose but weep. Aoi.