The following sections of this BookRags Literature Study Guide is offprint from Gale's For Students Series: Presenting Analysis, Context, and Criticism on Commonly Studied Works: Introduction, Author Biography, Plot Summary, Characters, Themes, Style, Historical Context, Critical Overview, Criticism and Critical Essays, Media Adaptations, Topics for Further Study, Compare & Contrast, What Do I Read Next?, For Further Study, and Sources.
(c)1998-2002; (c)2002 by Gale. Gale is an imprint of The Gale Group, Inc., a division of Thomson Learning, Inc. Gale and Design and Thomson Learning are trademarks used herein under license.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Encyclopedia of Popular Fiction: "Social Concerns", "Thematic Overview", "Techniques", "Literary Precedents", "Key Questions", "Related Titles", "Adaptations", "Related Web Sites". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
All other sections in this Literature Study Guide are owned and copyrighted by BookRags, Inc.
Title: The Harvard Classics, Volume 49, Epic and Saga With Introductions And Notes
Author: Various
Release Date: November 11, 2004 [EBook #14019]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** Start of this project gutenberg EBOOK epic and saga ***
Produced by Ted Garvin, Charlie Kirschner and the
PG Online
Distributed Proofreading Team.
Edited by Charles W. Eliot LLD.
THE SONG OF ROLAND
WITH INTRODUCTIONS AND NOTES
1910
TRANSLATED BY
INTRODUCTORY NOTE
In the year 778 A.D., Charles the Great, King of the Franks, returned from a military expedition into Spain, whither he had been led by opportunities offered through dissensions among the Saracens who then dominated that country. On the 15th of August, while his army was marching through the passes of the Pyrenees, his rear-guard was attacked and annihilated by the Basque inhabitants of the mountains, in the valley of Roncesvaux About this disaster many popular songs, it is supposed, soon sprang up; and the chief hero whom they celebrated was Hrodland, Count of the Marches of Brittany.
There are indications that the earliest of these songs arose among the Breton followers of Hrodland or Roland; but they spread to Maine, to Anjou, to Normandy, until the theme became national. By the latter part of the eleventh century, when the form of the “Song of Roland” which we possess was probably composed, the historical germ of the story had almost disappeared under the mass of legendary accretion. Charlemagne, who was a man of thirty-six at the time of the actual Roncesvaux incident, has become in the poem an old man with a flowing white beard, credited with endless conquests; the Basques have disappeared, and the Saracens have taken their place; the defeat is accounted for by the invention of the treachery of Ganelon; the expedition of 777-778 has become a campaign of seven years; Roland is made the nephew of Charlemagne, leader of the twelve peers, and is provided with a faithful friend Oliver, and a betrothed, Alda.
The poem is the first of the great French heroic poems known as “chansons de geste.” It is written in stanzas of various length, bound together by the vowel-rhyme known as assonance. It is not possible to reproduce effectively this device in English, and the author of the present translation has adopted what is perhaps the nearest equivalent—the romantic measure of Coleridge and Scott.
Simple almost to bareness in style, without subtlety or high imagination, the Song of Roland is yet not without grandeur; and its patriotic ardor gives it a place as the earliest of the truly national poems of the modern world._
THE TREASON OF GANELON
I
The king our Emperor
Carlemaine,
Hath been for seven
full years in Spain.
From highland to sea
hath he won the land;
City was none might
his arm withstand;
Keep and castle alike
went down—
Save Saragossa, the
mountain town.
The King Marsilius holds
the place,
Who loveth not God,
nor seeks His grace:
He prays to Apollin,
and serves Mahound;
But he saved him not
from the fate he found.
II
In Saragossa King Marsil
made
His council-seat in
the orchard shade,
On a stair of marble
of azure hue.
There his courtiers
round him drew;
While there stood, the
king before,
Twenty thousand men
and more.
Thus to his dukes and
his counts he said,
“Hear ye, my lords,
we are sore bested.
The Emperor Karl of
gentle France
Hither hath come for
our dire mischance.
Nor host to meet him
in battle line,
Nor power to shatter
his power, is mine.
Speak, my sages; your
counsel lend:
My doom of shame and
death forefend.”
But of all the heathens
none spake word
Save Blancandrin, Val
Fonde’s lord.
III
Blancandrin was a heathen
wise,
Knightly and valiant
of enterprise,
Sage in counsel his
lord to aid;
And he said to the king,
“Be not dismayed:
Proffer to Karl, the
haughty and high,
Lowly friendship and
fealty;
Ample largess lay at
his feet,
Bear and lion and greyhound
fleet.
Seven hundred camels
his tribute be,
A thousand hawks that
have moulted free.
Let full four hundred
mules be told,
Laden with silver enow
and gold
For fifty waggons to
bear away;
So shall his soldiers
receive their pay.
Say, too long hath he
warred in Spain,—
Let him turn to France—to
his Aix—again.
At Saint Michael’s
feast you will thither speed,
Bend your heart to the
Christian creed,
And his liegeman be
in duty and deed.
Hostages he may demand
Ten or twenty at your
hand.
We will send him the
sons whom our wives have nursed;
Were death to follow,
mine own the first.
Better by far that they
there should die
Than be driven all from
our land to fly,
Flung to dishonor and
beggary.”
IV
“Yea,” said
Blancandrin, “by this right hand,
And my floating beard
by the free wind fanned,
Ye shall see the host
of the Franks disband
And hie them back into
France their land;
Each to his home as
beseemeth well,
And Karl unto Aix—to
his own Chapelle.
He will hold high feast
on Saint Michael’s day
And the time of your
tryst shall pass away.
Tale nor tidings of
us shall be;
Fiery and sudden, I
know, is he:
He will smite off the
heads of our hostages all:
Better, I say, that
their heads should fall
Than we the fair land
of Spain forego,
And our lives be laden
with shame and woe.”
“Yea,” said
the heathens, “it may be so.”
V
King Marsil’s
council is over that day,
And he called to him
Clarin of Balaguet,
Estramarin, and Eudropin
his peer,
Bade Garlon and Priamon
both draw near,
Machiner and his uncle
Maheu—with these
Joimer and Malbien from
overseas,
Blancandrin for spokesman,—of
all his men
He hath summoned there
the most felon ten.
“Go ye to Carlemaine,”
spake their liege,—
“At Cordres city
he sits in siege,—
While olive branches
in hand ye press,
Token of peace and of
lowliness.
Win him to make fair
treaty with me,
Silver and gold shall
your guerdon be,
Land and lordship in
ample fee.”
“Nay,” said
the heathens, “enough have we.”
VI
So did King Marsil his
council end.
“Lords,”
he said, “on my errand wend;
While olive branches
in hand ye bring,
Say from me unto Karl
the king,
For sake of his God
let him pity show;
And ere ever a month
shall come and go,
With a thousand faithful
of my race,
I will follow swiftly
upon his trace,
Freely receive his Christian
law,
And his liegemen be
in love and awe.
Hostages asks he? it
shall be done.”
Blancandrin answered,
“Your peace is won.”
VII
Then King Marsil bade
be dight
Ten fair mules of snowy
white,
Erst from the King of
Sicily brought
Their trappings with
silver and gold inwrought—
Gold the bridle, and
silver the selle.
On these are the messengers
mounted well;
And they ride with olive
boughs in hand,
To seek the Lord of
the Frankish land.
Well let him watch;
he shall be trepanned.
At Cordres. CARLEMAINE’S council
VIII
King Karl is jocund
and gay of mood,
He hath Cordres city
at last subdued;
Its shattered walls
and turrets fell
By Catapult and mangonel;
Not a heathen did there
remain
But confessed him Christian
or else was slain.
The Emperor sits in
IX
Blancandrin first his
errand gave,
And he said to the king,
“May God you save,
The God of glory, to
whom you bend!
Marsil, our king, doth
his greeting send.
Much hath he mused on
the law of grace,
Much of his wealth at
your feet will place—
Bears and lions, and
dogs of chase,
Seven hundred camels
that bend the knee,
A thousand hawks that
have moulted free,
Four hundred mules,
with silver and gold
Which fifty wains might
scantly hold,
So shall you have of
the red bezants
To pay the soldiers
of gentle France.
Overlong have you dwelt
in Spain,—
To Aix, your city, return
again.
The lord I serve will
thither come,
Accept the law of Christendom,
With clasped hands your
liegeman be,
And hold his realm of
you in fee.”
The Emperor raised his
hands on high,
Bent and bethought him
silently.
X
The Emperor bent his
head full low;
Never hasty of speech
I trow;
Leisurely came his words,
and slow,
Lofty his look as he
raised his head:
“Thou hast spoken
well,” at length he said.
“King Marsil was
ever my deadly foe,
And of all these words,
so fair in show,
How may I the fulfilment
know?”
“Hostages will
you?” the heathen cried,
“Ten or twenty,
or more beside.
I will send my son,
were his death at hand,
With the best and noblest
of all our land;
And when you sit in
your palace halls,
And the feast of St.
Michael of Peril falls,
Unto the waters will
come our king,
Which God commanded
for you to spring;
There in the laver of
Christ be laved.”
“Yea!” said
Karl, “he may yet be saved.”
XI
Fair and bright did
the evening fall:
The ten white mules
were stabled in stall;
On the sward was a fair
pavilion dressed,
To give to the Saracens
cheer of the best;
Servitors twelve at
their bidding bide,
And they rest all night
until morning tide.
The Emperor rose with
the day-dawn clear,
Failed not Matins and
Mass to hear,
Then betook him beneath
a pine,
Summoned his barons
by word and sign:
As his Franks advise
will his choice incline.
XII
Under a pine is the
Emperor gone,
And his barons to council
come forth anon:
Archbishop Turpin, Duke
Ogier bold
With his nephew Henry
was Richard the old,
Gascony’s gallant
Count Acelin,
Tybalt of Rheims, and
Milo his kin,
Gerein and his brother
in arms, Gerier,
Count Roland and his
faithful fere,
The gentle and valiant
Olivier:
More than a thousand
Franks of France
And Ganelon came, of
woful chance;
By him was the deed
of treason done.
So was the fatal consult
begun.
XIII
“Lords my barons,”
the Emperor said,
“King Marsil to
me hath his envoys sped.
He proffers treasure
surpassing bounds,
Bears and lions, and
leashed hounds;
Seven hundred camels
that bend the knee;
A thousand hawks that
have moulted free;
Four hundred mules with
Arab gold,
Which fifty wains might
scantly hold.
But he saith to France
must I wend my way:
He will follow to Aix
with brief delay,
Bend his heart unto
Christ’s belief,
And hold his marches
of me in fief;
Yet I know not what
in his heart may lie.”
“Beware! beware!”
was the Franks’ outcry.
XIV
Scarce his speech did
the Emperor close,
When in high displeasure
Count Roland rose,
Fronted his uncle upon
the spot,
And said, “This
Marsil, believe him not:
Seven full years have
we warred in Spain;
Commibles and Noples
for you have I ta’en,
Tudela and Sebilie,
cities twain;
Valtierra I won, and
the land of Pine,
And Balaguet fell to
this arm of mine.
King Marsil hath ever
a traitor been:
He sent of his heathens,
at first fifteen.
Bearing each one on
olive bough,
Speaking the self-same
words as now.
Into council with your
Franks you went,
Lightly they flattered
your heart’s intent;
Two of your barons to
him you sent,—
They were Basan and
Basil, the brother knights:
He smote off their heads
on Haltoia’s heights.
War, I say!—end
as you well began,
Unto Saragossa lead
on your van;
Were the siege to last
your lifetime through,
Avenge the nobles this
felon slew.”
XV
The Emperor bent him
and mused within,
Twisted his beard upon
lip and chin,
Answered his nephew
nor good nor ill;
And the Franks, save
Ganelon, all were still:
Hastily to his feet
he sprang,
Haughtily his words
outrang:—
“By me or others
be not misled,—
Look to your own good
ends,” he said.
“Since now King
Marsil his faith assures,
That, with hands together
clasped in yours,
He will henceforth your
vassal be,
Receive the Christian
law as we,
And hold his realm of
you in fee,
Whoso would treaty like
this deny,
Recks not, sire, by
what death we die:
Good never came from
counsel of pride,—
List to the wise, and
let madmen bide.”
XVI
Then his form Duke Naimes
upreared,
White of hair and hoary
of beard.
Better vassal in court
was none.
“You have hearkened,”
he said, “unto Ganelon.
Well hath Count Ganelon
made reply;
Wise are his words,
if you bide thereby.
King Marsil is beaten
and broken in war;
You have captured his
castles anear and far,
With your engines shattered
his walls amain,
His cities burned, his
soldiers slain:
Respite and ruth if
he now implore,
Sin it were to molest
him more.
Let his hostages vouch
for the faith he plights,
And send him one of
your Christian knights.
’Twere time this
war to an ending came.”
“Well saith the
duke!” the Franks exclaim.
XVII
“Lords my barons,
who then were best
In Saragossa to do our
hest?”
“I,” said
Naimes, “of your royal grace,
Yield me in token your
glove and mace.”
“Nay—my
sagest of men art thou:
By my beard upon lip
and chin I vow
Thou shalt never depart
so far from me:
Sit thee down till I
summon thee.”
XVIII
“Lords my barons,
whom send we, then,
To Saragossa, the Saracen
den?”
“I,” said
Roland, “will blithely go.”
“Nay,” said
Olivier; “nay, not so.
All too fiery of mood
thou art;
Thou wouldst play, I
fear me, a perilous part.
I go myself, if the
king but will.”
“I command,”
said Karl, “that ye both be still.
Neither shall be on
this errand bound,
Nor one of the twelve—my
peers around;
So by my blanching beard
I swear.”
The Franks are abashed
and silent there.
XIX
Turpin of Rheims from
amid the ranks
Said: “Look,
my liege, on your faithful Franks:
Seven full years have
they held this land,
With pain and peril
on every hand.
To me be the mace and
the glove consigned;
I will go this Saracen
lord to find,
And freely forth will
I speak my mind.”
The Emperor answered
in angry plight,
“Sit thee down
on that carpet white;
Speak not till I thy
speech invite.”
XX
“My cavaliers,”
he began anew,
“Choose of my
marches a baron true,
Before King Marsil my
best to do.”
“Be it, then,”
said Roland, “my stepsire Gan,
In vain ye seek for
a meeter man.”
The Franks exclaim,
“He is worth the trust,
So it please the king
it is right and just.”
Count Ganelon then was
with anguish wrung,
His mantle of fur from
his neck he flung,
Stood all stark in his
silken vest,
And his grey eyes gleamed
with a fierce unrest
Fair of body and large
of limb,
All in wonderment gazed
on him.
“Thou madman,”
thus he to Roland cried,
“What may this
rage against me betide?
I am thy stepsire, as
all men know,
And thou doom’st
me on hest like this to go;
But so God my safe return
bestow,
I promise to work thee
scathe and strife
Long as thou breathest
the breath of life.”
“Pride and folly!”
said Roland, then.
“Am I known to
wreck of the threats of men?
But this is work for
the sagest head.
So it please the king,
I will go instead.”
XXI
“In my
stead?—never, of mine accord.
Thou art not my vassal
nor I thy lord.
Since Karl commands
me his hest to fill,
Unto Saragossa ride
forth I will;
Yet I fear me to wreak
some deed of ill,
Thereby to slake this
passion’s might.”
Roland listened, and
laughed outright.
XXII
At Roland’s laughter
Count Ganelon’s pain
Was as though his bosom
were cleft in twain.
He turned to his stepson
as one distraught:
“I do not love
thee,” he said, “in aught;
Thou hast false judgment
against me wrought.
O righteous Emperor,
here I stand
To execute your high
command.”
XXIII
“Unto Saragossa
I needs must go;—
Who goeth may never
return, I know;—
Yet withal, your sister
is spouse of mine,
And our son—no
fairer of mortal line—
Baldwin bids to be goodly
knight;
I leave him my honors
and fiefs of right.
Guard him—no
more shall he greet my sight”
Saith Karl, “Thou
art over tender of heart.
Since I command it,
thou shalt depart.”
XXIV
“Fair Sir Gan,”
the Emperor spake,
“This my message
to Marsil take:
He shall make confession
of Christ’s belief,
And I yield him, full
half of Spain in fief;
In the other half shall
Count Roland reign.
If he choose not the
terms I now ordain,
I will march unto Saragossa’s
gate,
Besiege and capture
the city straight,
Take and bind him both
hands and feet,
Lead him to Aix, to
my royal seat,
There to be tried and
judged and slain,
Dying a death of disgrace
and pain.
I have sealed the scroll
of my command.
Deliver it into the
heathen’s hand.”
XXV
“Gan,” said
the Emperor, “draw thou near:
Take my glove and my
baton here;
On thee did the choice
of thy fellows fall.”
“Sire, ’twas
Roland who wrought it all.
I shall not love him
while life may last,
Nor Olivier his comrade
fast,
Nor the peers who cherish
and prize him so,—
Gage of defiance to
all I throw.”
Saith Karl, “Thine
anger hath too much sway.
Since I ordain it, thou
must obey.”
“I go, but warranty
none have I
That I may not like
Basil and Basan die.”
XXVI
The Emperor reached
him his right-hand glove;
Gan for his office had
scanty love;
As he bent him forward,
it fell to ground:
“God, what is
this?” said the Franks around;
“Evil will come
of this quest we fear.”
“My lords,”
said Ganelon, “ye shall hear.”
XXVII
“Sire,”
he said, “let me wend my way;
Since go I must, what
boots delay?”
Said the king, “In
Jesus’ name and mine!”
And his right hand sained
him with holy sign.
Then he to Ganelon’s
grasp did yield
His royal mace and missive
sealed.
XXVIII
Home to his hostel is
Ganelon gone,
His choicest of harness
and arms to don;
On his charger Taschebrun
to mount and ride,
With his good sword
Murgleis girt at side.
On his feet are fastened
the spurs of gold,
And his uncle Guinemer
doth his stirrup hold.
Then might ye look upon
cavaliers
A-many round him who
spake in tears.
“Sir,” they
said, “what a woful day!
Long were you ranked
in the king’s array,
A noble vassal as none
gainsay.
For him who doomed you
to journey hence
Carlemagne’s self
shall be scant defence;
Foul was the thought
in Count Roland’s mind,
When you and he are
so high affined.
Sir,” they said,
“let us with you wend.”
“Nay,” said
Ganelon, “God forefend.
Liefer alone to my death
I go,
Than such brave bachelors
perish so.
Sirs, ye return into
France the fair;
Greeting from me to
my lady bear,
To my friend and peer
Sir Pinabel,
And to Baldwin, my son,
whom ye all know well,—
Cherish him, own him
your lord of right.”
He hath passed on his
journey and left their sight.
The embassy and crime of Ganelon
XXIX
Ganelon rides under
olives high,
And comes the Saracen
envoys nigh.
Blancandrin lingers
until they meet,
And in cunning converse
each other greet.
The Saracen thus began
their parle:
“What a man, what
a wondrous man is Karl!
Apulia—Calabria—all
subdued,
Unto England crossed
he the salt sea rude,
Won for Saint Peter
his tribute fee;
But what in our marches
maketh he?”
Ganelon said, “He
is great of heart,
Never man shall fill
so mighty a part.”
XXX
Said Blancandrin, “Your
Franks are high of fame,
But your dukes and counts
are sore to blame.
Such counsel to their
lord they give,
Nor he nor others in
peace may live.”
Ganelon answered, “I
know of none,
Save Roland, who thus
to his shame hath done.
Last morn the Emperor
sat in the shade,
His nephew came in his
mail arrayed,—
He had plundered Carcassonne
just before,
And a vermeil apple
in hand he bore:
‘Sire,’
he said, ’to your feet I bring
The crown of every earthly
king.’
Disaster is sure such
pride to blast;
He setteth his life
on a daily cast.
Were he slain, we all
should have peace at last.”
XXXI
“Ruthless is Roland,”
Blancandrin spake,
“Who every race
would recreant make.
And on all possessions
of men would seize;
But in whom doth he
trust for feats like these?”
“The Franks! the
Franks!” Count Ganelon cried;
“They love him,
and never desert his side;
For he lavisheth gifts
that seldom fail,
Gold and silver in countless
tale,
Mules and chargers,
and silks and mail,
The king himself may
have spoil at call.
From hence to the East
he will conquer all.”
XXXII
Thus Blancandrin and
Ganelon rode,
Till each on other his
faith bestowed
That Roland should be
by practice slain,
And so they journeyed
by path and plain,
Till in Saragossa they
bridle drew,
There alighted beneath
a yew.
In a pine-tree’s
shadow a throne was set;
Alexandrian silk was
the coverlet:
There the monarch of
Spain they found,
With twenty thousand
Saracens round,
Yet from them came nor
breath nor sound;
All for the tidings
they strained to hear,
As they saw Blancandrin
and Ganelon near.
XXXIII
Blancandrin stepped
before Marsil’s throne,
Ganelon’s hand
was in his own.
“Mahound you save,”
to the king he said,
“And Apollin,
whose holy law we dread!
Fairly your errand to
Karl was done;
But other answer made
he none,
Save that his hands
to Heaven he raised,
Save that a space his
God he praised;
He sends a baron of
his court,
Knight of France, and
of high report,
Of him your tidings
of peace receive.”
“Let him speak,”
said Marsil, “we yield him leave.”
XXXIV
Gan had bethought him,
and mused with art;
Well was he skilled
to play his part;
And he said to Marsil,
“May God you save,
The God of glory, whose
grace we crave!
Thus saith the noble
Carlemaine:
You shall make in Christ
confession plain.
And he gives you in
fief full half of Spain;
XXXV
King Marsil’s
cheek the hue hath left,
And his right hand grasped
his weapon’s heft.
When Ganelon saw it,
his sword he drew
Finger lengths from
the scabbard two.
“Sword,”
he said, “thou art clear and bright;
I have borne thee long
in my fellows’ sight,
Mine emperor never shall
say of me,
That I perished afar,
in a strange countrie,
Ere thou in the blood
of their best wert dyed.”
“Dispart the mellay,”
the heathens cried.
XXXVI
The noblest Saracens
thronged amain,
Seated the king on his
throne again,
And the Algalif said,
“’Twas a sorry prank,
Raising your weapon
to slay the Frank.
It was yours to hearken
in silence there.”
“Sir,” said
Gan, “I may meetly bear,
But for all the wealth
of your land arrayed,
For all the gold that
God hath made,
Would I not live and
leave unsaid,
What Karl, the mightiest
king below,
Sends, through me, to
his mortal foe.”
His mantle of fur, that
was round him twined,
With silk of Alexandria
lined,
Down at Blancandrin’s
feet he cast,
But still he held by
his good sword fast,
Grasping the hilt by
its golden ball.
“A noble knight,”
say the heathens all.
XXXVII
Ganelon came to the
king once more.
“Your anger,”
he said, “misserves you sore.
As the princely Carlemaine
saith, I say,
You shall the Christian
law obey.
And half of Spain you
shall hold in fee,
The other half shall
Count Roland’s be,
(And a haughty partner
’tis yours to see).
Reject the treaty I
here propose,
Round Saragossa his
lines will close;
You shall be bound in
fetters strong,
Led to his city of Aix
along.
Nor steed nor palfrey
shall you bestride,
Nor mule nor jennet
be yours to ride;
On a sorry sumpter you
shall be cast,
And your head by doom
stricken off at last.
So is the Emperor’s
mandate traced,”—
And the scroll in the
heathen’s hand he placed.
XXXVIII
Discolored with ire
was King Marsil’s hue;
The seal he brake and
to earth he threw,
Read of the scroll the
tenor clear.
“So Karl the Emperor
writes me here.
XXXIX
Into his orchard King
Marsil stepped.
His nobles round him
their station kept:
There was Jurfalez,
his son and heir,
Blancandrin of the hoary
hair,
The Algalif, truest
of all his kin.
Said Blancandrin, “Summon
the Christian in;
His troth he pledged
me upon our side.”
“Go,” said
Marsil, “be thou his guide.”
Blancandrin led him,
hand-in-hand,
Before King Marsil’s
face to stand.
Then was the villainous
treason planned.
XL
“Fair Sir Ganelon,”
spake the king,
“I did a rash
and despighteous thing,
Raising against thee
mine arm to smite.
Richly will I the wrong
requite.
See these sables whose
worth were told
At full five hundred
pounds of gold:
Thine shall they be
ere the coming day.”
“I may not,”
said Gan, “your grace gainsay.
God in His pleasure
will you repay.”
XLI
“Trust me I love
thee, Sir Gan, and fain
Would I hear thee discourse
of Carlemaine.
He is old, methinks,
exceedingly old;
And full two hundred
years hath told;
With toil his body spent
and worn,
So many blows on his
buckler borne,
So many a haughty king
laid low,
When will he weary of
warring so?”
“Such is not Carlemaine,”
Gan replied;
“Man never knew
him, nor stood beside,
But will say how noble
a lord is he,
Princely and valiant
in high degree.
Never could words of
mine express
His honor, his bounty,
his gentleness,
’Twas God who
graced him with gifts so high.
Ere I leave his vassalage
I will die.”
XLII
The heathen said, “I
marvel sore
Of Carlemaine, so old
and hoar,
Who counts I ween two
hundred years,
Hath borne such strokes
of blades and spears,
So many lands hath overrun,
So many mighty kings
undone,
When will he tire of
war and strife?”
“Not while his
nephew breathes in life
Beneath the cope of
heaven this day
Such vassal leads not
king’s array.
Gallant and sage is
Olivier,
And all the twelve,
to Karl so dear,
With twenty thousand
Franks in van,
He feareth not the face
of man.”
XLIII
“Strange,”
said Marsil, “seems to me,
Karl, so white with
eld is he,
Twice a hundred years,
men say,
Since his birth have
passed away.
All his wars in many
lands,
All the strokes of trenchant
brands,
All the kings despoiled
and slain,—
When will he from war
refrain?”
“Not till Roland
breathes no more,
For from hence to eastern
shore,
Where is chief with
him may vie?
Olivier his comrades
by,
And the peers, of Karl
the pride,
Twenty thousand Franks
beside,
Vanguard of his host,
and flower:
Karl may mock at mortal
power.”
XLIV
“I tell thee,
Sir Gan, that a power is mine;
Fairer did never in
armor shine,
Four hundred thousand
cavaliers,
With the Franks of Karl
to measure spears.”
“Fling such folly,”
said Gan, “away;
Sorely your heathen
would rue the day.
Proffer the Emperor
ample prize,
A sight to dazzle the
Frankish eyes;
Send him hostages full
of score,
So returns he to France
once more.
But his rear will tarry
behind the host;
There, I trow, will
be Roland’s post—
There will Sir Olivier
remain.
Hearken to me, and the
counts lie slain;
The pride of Karl shall
be crushed that day,
And his wars be ended
with you for aye.”
XLV
“Speak, then,
and tell me, Sir Ganelon,
How may Roland to death
be done?”
“Through Cizra’s
pass will the Emperor wind,
But his rear will linger
in march behind;
Roland and Olivier there
shall be,
With twenty thousand
in company.
Muster your battle against
them then,
A hundred thousand heathen
men.
Till worn and spent
be the Frankish bands,
Though your bravest
perish beneath their hands.
For another battle your
powers be massed,
Roland will sink, overcome
at last.
There were a feat of
arms indeed,
And your life from peril
thenceforth be freed.”
XLVI
“For whoso Roland
to death shall bring,
From Karl his good right
arm will wring,
The marvellous host
will melt away,
No more shall he muster
a like array,
And the mighty land
will in peace repose.”
King Marsil heard him
to the close;
Then kissed him on the
neck, and bade
His royal treasures
be displayed.
XLVII
What said they more?
Why tell the rest?
Said Marsil, “Fastest
bound is best;
Come, swear me here
to Roland’s fall.”
“Your will,”
said Gan, “be mine in all.”
He swore on the relics
in the hilt
Of his sword Murgleis,
and crowned his guilt.
XLVIII
A stool was there of
ivory wrought.
King Marsil bade a book
be brought,
Wherein was all the
law contained
Mahound and Termagaunt
ordained.
The Saracen hath sworn
thereby,
If Roland in the rear-guard
lie,
With all his men-at-arms
to go,
And combat till the
count lay low.
Sir Gan repeated, “Be
it so.”
XLIX
King Marsil’s
foster-father came,
A heathen, Valdabrun
by name.
He spake to Gan with
laughter clear.
“My sword, that
never found its peer,—
A thousand pieces would
not buy
The riches in the hilt
that lie,—
To you I give in guerdon
free;
Your aid in Roland’s
fall to see,
Let but the rear-guard
be his place.”
“I trust,”
said Gan, “to do you grace.”
Then each kissed other
on the face.
L
Next broke with jocund
laughter in,
Another heathen, Climorin.
To Gan he said, “Accept
my helm,
The best and trustiest
in the realm,
Conditioned that your
aid we claim
To bring the marchman
unto shame.”
“Be it,”
said Ganelon, “as you list.”
And then on cheek and
mouth they kissed.
LI
Now Bramimonde, King
Marsil’s queen,
To Ganelon came with
gentle mien.
“I love thee well,
Sir Count,” she spake,
“For my lord the
king and his nobles’ sake.
See these clasps for
a lady’s wrist,
Of gold, and jacinth,
and amethyst,
That all the jewels
of Rome outshine;
Never your Emperor owned
so fine;
These by the queen to
your spouse are sent.”
The gems within his
boot he pent.
LII
Then did the king on
his treasurer call,
“My gifts for
Karl, are they ready all?”
“Yea, sire, seven
hundred camels’ load
Of gold and silver well
bestowed,
And twenty hostages
thereby,
The noblest underneath
the sky.”
LIII
On Ganelon’s shoulder
King Marsil leant.
“Thou art sage,”
he said, “and of gallant bent;
But by all thy holiest
law deems dear,
Let not thy thought
from our purpose veer.
Ten mules’ burthen
I give to thee
Of gold, the finest
of Araby;
Nor ever year henceforth
shall pass
But it brings thee riches
in equal mass.
Take the keys of my
city gates,
Take the treasure that
Karl awaits—
Render them all; but
oh, decide
That Roland in the rear-guard
bide;
So may I find him by
pass or height,
As I swear to meet him
in mortal fight.”
Cried Gan, “Meseemeth
too long we stay,”
Sprang on his charger
and rode away.
LIV
The Emperor homeward
hath turned his face,
To Gailne city he marched
apace,
(By Roland erst in ruins
strown—
Deserted thence it lay
and lone,
Until a hundred years
had flown).
Here waits he, word
of Gan to gain
With tribute of the
land of Spain;
And here, at earliest
break of day,
Came Gan where the encampment
lay.
LV
The Emperor rose with
the day dawn clear,
Failed not Matins and
Mass to hear,
Sate at his tent on
the fair green sward,
Roland and Olivier nigh
their lord,
Duke Naimes and all
his peers of fame.
Gan the felon, the perjured,
came—
False was the treacherous
tale he gave,—
And these his words,
“May God you save!
I bear you Saragossa’s
keys,
Vast the treasure I
bring with these,
And twenty hostages;
guard them well,
The noble Marsil bids
me tell—
Not on him shall your
anger fall,
If I fetch not the Algalif
here withal;
For mine eyes beheld,
beneath their ken,
Three hundred thousand
armed men,
With sword and casque
and coat of mail,
Put forth with him on
the sea to sail,
All for hate of the
Christian creed,
Which they would neither
hold nor heed.
They had not floated
a league but four,
When a tempest down
on their galleys bore
Drowned they lie to
be seen no more.
If the Algalif were
but living wight,
He had stood this morn
before your sight.
Sire, for the Saracen
king I say,
Ere ever a month shall
pass away,
On into France he will
follow free,
Bend to our Christian
law the knee,
Homage swear for his
Spanish land,
And hold the realm at
your command.”
“Now praise to
God,” the Emperor said,
“And thanks, my
Ganelon, well you sped.”
A thousand clarions
then resound,
The sumpter-mules are
girt on ground,
For France, for France
the Franks are bound.
LVI
Karl the Great hath
wasted Spain,
Her cities sacked, her
castles ta’en;
But now “My wars
are done,” he cried,
“And home to gentle
France we ride.”
Count Roland plants
his standard high
Upon a peak against
the sky;
The Franks around encamping
lie.
Alas! the heathen host
the while,
Through valley deep
and dark defile,
Are riding on the Chistians’
track,
All armed in steel from
breast to back;
Their lances poised,
their helmets laced,
Their falchions glittering
from the waist,
Their bucklers from
the shoulder swung,
And so they ride the
steeps among,
Till, in a forest on
the height,
They rest to wait the
morning light,
Four hundred thousand
crouching there.
O God! the Franks are
unaware.
LVII
The day declined, night
darkling crept,
And Karl, the mighty
Emperor, slept.
He dreamt a dream:
he seemed to stand
In Cizra’s pass,
with lance in hand.
Count Ganelon came athwart,
and lo,
He wrenched the aspen
spear him fro,
Brandished and shook
it aloft with might,
Till it brake in pieces
before his sight;
High towards heaven
the splinters flew;
Karl awoke not, he dreamed
anew.
LVIII
In his second dream
he seemed to dwell
In his palace of Aix,
at his own Chapelle.
A bear seized grimly
his right arm on,
And bit the flesh to
the very bone.
Anon a leopard from
Arden wood,
Fiercely flew at him
where he stood.
When lo! from his hall,
with leap and bound,
Sprang to the rescue
a gallant hound.
First from the bear
the ear he tore,
Then on the leopard
his fangs he bore.
The Franks exclaim,
“’Tis a stirring fray,
But who the victor none
may say.”
Karl awoke not—he
slept alway.
LIX
The night wore by, the
day dawn glowed,
Proudly the Emperor
rose and rode,
Keenly and oft his host
he scanned.
“Lords, my barons,
survey this land,
See the passes so straight
and steep:
To whom shall I trust
the rear to keep?”
“To my stepson
Roland:” Count Gan replied.
“Knight like him
have you none beside.”
The Emperor heard him
with moody brow.
“A living demon,”
he said, “art thou;
Some mortal rage hath
thy soul possessed.
To head my vanguard,
who then were best?”
“Ogier,”
he answered, “the gallant Dane,
Braver baron will none
remain.”
LX
Roland, when thus the
choice he saw,
Spake, full knightly,
by knightly law:
“Sir Stepsire,
well may I hold thee dear,
That thou hast named
me to guard the rear;
Karl shall lose not,
if I take heed,
Charger, or palfrey,
or mule or steed,
Hackney or sumpter that
groom may lead;
The reason else our
swords shall tell.”
“It is sooth,”
said Gan, “and I know it well.”
LXI
Fiercely once more Count
Roland turned
To speak the scorn that
in him burned.
“Ha! deem’st
thou, dastard, of dastard race,
That I shall drop the
glove in place,
As in sight of Karl
thou didst the mace?”
LXII
Then of his uncle he
made demand:
“Yield me the
bow that you hold in hand;
Never of me shall the
tale be told,
As of Ganelon erst,
that it failed my hold.”
Sadly the Emperor bowed
his head,
With working finger
his beard he spread,
Tears in his own despite
he shed.
LXIII
But soon Duke Naimes
doth by him stand—
No better vassal in
all his band.
“You have seen
and heard it all, O sire,
Count Roland waxeth
much in ire.
On him the choice for
the rear-guard fell,
And where is baron could
speed so well?
Yield him the bow that
your arm hath bent,
And let good succor
to him be lent.”
The Emperor reached
it forth, and lo!
He gave, and Roland
received, the bow.
LXIV
“Fair Sir Nephew,
I tell thee free.
Half of my host will
I leave with thee.”
“God be my judge,”
was the count’s reply,
“If ever I thus
my race belie.
But twenty thousand
with me shall rest,
Bravest of all your
Franks and best;
The mountain passes
in safety tread,
While I breathe in life
you have nought to dread.”
LXV
Count Roland sprang
to a hill-top’s height,
And donned his peerless
armor bright;
Laced his helm, for
a baron made;
Girt Durindana, gold-hilted
blade;
Around his neck he hung
the shield,
With flowers emblazoned
was the field;
Nor steed but Veillantif
will ride;
And he grasped his lance
with its pennon’s pride.
White was the pennon,
with rim of gold;
Low to the handle the
fringes rolled.
Who are his lovers men
now may see;
And the Franks exclaim,
“We will follow thee.”
LXVI
Roland hath mounted
his charger on;
Sir Olivier to his side
hath gone;
Gerein and his fellow
in arms, Gerier;
Otho the Count, and
Berengier,
Samson, and with him
Anseis old,
Gerard of Roussillon,
the bold.
Thither the Gascon Engelier
sped;
“I go,”
said Turpin, “I pledge my head;”
“And I with thee,”
Count Walter said;
“I am Roland’s
man, to his service bound.”
So twenty thousand knights
were found.
LXVII
Roland beckoned Count
Walter then.
“Take of our Franks
a thousand men;
Sweep the heights and
the passes clear,
That the Emperor’s
host may have nought to fear.”
“I go,”
said Walter, “at your behest,”
And a thousand Franks
around him pressed.
They ranged the heights
and passes through,
Nor for evil tidings
backward drew,
Until seven hundred
swords outflew.
The Lord of Belferna’s
land, that day,
King Almaris met him
in deadly fray.
LXVIII
Through Roncesvalles
the march began;
Ogier, the baron, led
the van;
For them was neither
doubt nor fear,
Since Roland rested
to guard the rear,
With twenty thousand
in full array:
Theirs the battle—be
God their stay.
Gan knows all; in his
felon heart
Scarce hath he courage
to play his part.
LXIX
High were the peaks,
and the valleys deep,
The mountains wondrous
dark and steep;
Sadly the Franks through
the passes wound,
Full fifteen leagues
did their tread resound.
To their own great land
they are drawing nigh,
And they look on the
fields of Gascony.
They think of their
homes and their manors there,
Their gentle spouses
and damsels fair.
Is none but for pity
the tear lets fall;
But the anguish of Karl
is beyond them all.
His sister’s son
at the gates of Spain
Smites on his heart,
and he weeps amain.
LXX
On the Spanish marches
the twelve abide,
With twice ten thousand
Franks beside.
Fear to die have they
none, nor care:
But Karl returns into
France the fair;
Beneath his mantle his
face he hides.
Naimes, the duke, at
his bridle rides.
“Say, sire, what
grief doth your heart oppress?”
“To ask,”
he said, “brings worse distress;
I cannot but weep for
heaviness.
By Gan the ruin of France
is wrought.
In an angel’s
vision, last night, methought
He wrested forth from
my hand the spear:
’Twas he gave
Roland to guard the rear.
God! should I lose him,
my nephew dear,
Whom I left on a foreign
soil behind,
His peer on earth I
shall never find!”
LXXI
Karl the Great cannot
choose but weep,
For him hath his host
compassion deep;
And for Roland, a marvellous
boding dread.
It was Gan, the felon,
this treason bred;
He hath heathen gifts
of silver and gold,
Costly raiment, and
silken fold,
Horses and camels, and
mules and steeds.—
But lo! King Marsil
the mandate speeds,
To his dukes, his counts,
and his vassals all,
To each almasour and
amiral.
And so, before three
suns had set,
Four hundred thousand
in muster met.
Through Saragossa the
tabors sound;
On the loftiest turret
they raise Mahound:
Before him the Pagans
bend and pray,
Then mount and fiercely
ride away,
Across Cerdagna, by
vale and height,
Till stream the banners
of France in sight,
Where the peers of Carlemaine
proudly stand,
And the shock of battle
is hard at hand.
LXXII
Up to King Marsil his
nephew rode,
With a mule for steed,
and a staff for goad:
Free and joyous his
accents fell,
“Fair Sir King,
I have served you well.
So let my toils and
my perils tell.
I have fought and vanquished
for you in field.
One good boon for my
service yield,—
Be it mine on Roland
to strike the blow;
At point of lance will
I lay him low;
And so Mohammed to aid
me deign,
Free will I sweep the
LXXIII
His nephew, while the
glove he pressed,
Proudly once more the
king addressed.
“Sire, you have
crowned my dearest vow;
Name me eleven of your
barons now,
In battle against the
twelve to bide.”
Falsaron first to the
call replied;
Brother to Marsil, the
king, was he;
“Fair Sir nephew,
I go with thee;
In mortal combat we
front, to-day,
The rear-guard of the
grand array.
Foredoomed to die by
our spears are they.”
LXXIV
King Corsablis the next
drew nigh,
Miscreant Monarch of
Barbary;
Yet he spake like vassal
staunch and bold—
Blench would he not
for all God’s gold.
The third, Malprimis,
of Brigal’s breed,
More fleet of foot than
the fleetest steed,
Before King Marsil he
raised his cry,
“On unto Roncesvalles
I:
In mine encounter shall
Roland die.”
LXXV
An Emir of Balaguet
came in place,
Proud of body, and fair
of face;
Since first he sprang
on steed to ride,
To wear his harness
was all his pride;
For feats of prowess
great laud he won;
Were he Christian, nobler
baron none.
To Marsil came he, and
cried aloud,
“Unto Roncesvalles
mine arm is vowed;
May I meet with Roland
and Olivier,
Or the twelve together,
their doom is near.
The Franks shall perish
in scathe and scorn;
Karl the Great, who
is old and worn,
Weary shall grow his
hosts to lead,
And the land of Spain
be for ever freed.”
King Marsil’s
thanks were his gracious meed.
LXXVI
A Mauritanian Almasour
(Breathed not in Spain
such a felon Moor)
Stepped unto Marsil,
with braggart boast:
“Unto Roncesvalles
I lead my host,
Full twenty thousand,
with lance and shield.
Let me meet with Roland
upon the field,
Lifelong tears for him
Karl shall yield.”
LXXVII
Turgis, Count of Tortosa
came.
Lord of the city, he
bears its name.
Scathe to the Christian
to him is best,
And in Marsil’s
presence he joined the rest.
To the king he said,
“Be fearless found;
Peter of Rome cannot
mate Mahound.
If we serve him truly,
we win this day;
Unto Roncesvalles I
ride straightway.
No power shall Roland
from slaughter save:
See the length of my
peerless glaive,
That with Durindana
to cross I go,
And who the victor,
ye then shall know.
Sorrow and shame old
Karl shall share,
Crown on earth never
more shall wear.”
LXXVIII
Lord of Valtierra was
Escremis;
Saracen he, and the
region his;
He cried to Marsil,
amid the throng,
“Unto Roncesvalles
I spur along,
The pride of Roland
in dust to tread,
Nor shall he carry from
thence his head;
Nor Olivier who leads
the band.
And of all the twelve
is the doom at hand.
The Franks shall perish,
and France be lorn,
And Karl of his bravest
vassals shorn.”
LXXIX
Estorgan next to Marsil
hied,
With Estramarin his
mate beside.
Hireling traitors and
felons they.
Aloud cried Marsil,
“My lords, away
Unto Roncesvalles, the
pass to gain,
Of my people’s
captains ye shall be twain.”
“Sire, full welcome
to us the call,
On Roland and Olivier
we fall.
None the twelve from
their death shall screen,
The swords we carry
are bright and keen;
We will dye them red
with the hot blood’s vent
The Franks shall perish
and Karl lament.
We will yield all France
as your tribute meet.
Come, that the vision
your eyes may greet;
The Emperor’s
self shall be at your feet.”
LXXX
With speed came Margaris—lord
was he
Of the land of Sibilie
to the sea;
Beloved of dames for
his beauty’s sake,
Was none but joy in
his look would take,
The goodliest knight
of heathenesse,—
And he cried to the
king over all the press,
“Sire, let nothing
your heart dismay;
I will Roland in Roncesvalles
slay,
Nor thence shall Olivier
scathless come,
The peers await but
their martyrdom.
The Emir of Primis bestowed
this blade;
Look on its hilt, with
gold inlaid:
It shall crimsoned be
with the red blood’s trace:
Death to the Franks,
and to France disgrace!
Karl the old, with his
beard so white,
Shall have pain and
sorrow both day and night;
France shall be ours
ere a year go by;
At Saint Denys’
bourg shall our leaguer lie.”
King Marsil bent him
reverently.
LXXXI
Chernubles is there,
from the valley black,
His long hair makes
on the earth its track;
A load, when it lists
him, he bears in play,
Which four mules’
burthen would well outweigh.
Men say, in the land
where he was born
Nor shineth sun, nor
springeth corn,
Nor falleth rain, nor
droppeth dew;
The very stones are
of sable hue.
’Tis the home
of demons, as some assert.
And he cried, “My
good sword have I girt,
In Roncesvalles to dye
it red.
Let Roland but in my
pathway tread,
Trust ye to me that
I strike him dead,
His Durindana beat down
with mine.
The Franks shall perish
and France decline.”
Thus were mustered King
Marsil’s peers,
With a hundred thousand
heathen spears.
In haste to press to
the battle on,
In a pine-tree forest
their arms they don.
LXXXII
They don their hauberks
of Saracen mould,
Wrought for the most
with a triple fold;
In Saragossa their helms
were made;
Steel of Vienne was
each girded blade;
Valentia lances and
targets bright,
Pennons of azure and
red and white.
They leave their sumpters
and mules aside,
Leap on their chargers
and serried ride.
Bright was the sunshine
and fair the day;
Their arms resplendent
gave back the ray.
Then sound a thousand
clarions clear,
Till the Franks the
mighty clangor hear,
“Sir Comrade,”
said Olivier, “I trow
There is battle at hand
with the Saracen foe.”
“God grant,”
said Roland, “it may be so.
Here our post for our
king we hold;
For his lord the vassal
bears heat and cold,
Toil and peril endures
for him,
Risks in his service
both life and limb.
For mighty blows let
our arms be strung,
Lest songs of scorn
be against us sung.
With the Christian is
good, with the heathen ill:
No dastard part shall
ye see me fill.”
The prelude of the great
battle
Roncesvalles
LXXXIII
Olivier clomb to a mountain
height,
Glanced through the
valley that stretched to right;
He saw advancing the
Saracen men,
And thus to Roland he
spake agen:
“What sights and
sounds from the Spanish side,
White gleaming hauberks
and helms in pride?
In deadliest wrath our
Franks shall be!
Ganelon wrought this
perfidy;
It was he who doomed
us to hold the rear.”
“Hush,”
said Roland; “O Olivier,
No word be said of my
stepsire here.”
[Footnote 1: The stanzas of the translation not found in the Oxford Ms., but taken from the stanzas inserted from other versions by M. Gautier, are, as regards Part II, the following: Stanzas 113, 114, 115, 118, 119, 120, 122, 123, 126, 127, 139, 143, 144, 145, 146, 163.]
LXXXIV
Sir Olivier to the peak
hath clomb,
Looks far on the realm
of Spain therefrom;
He sees the Saracen
power arrayed,—
Helmets gleaming with
gold inlaid,
Shields and hauberks
in serried row,
Spears with pennons
that from them flow.
He may not reckon the
mighty mass,
So far their numbers
his thought surpass.
All in bewilderment
and dismay,
Down from the mountain
he takes his way,
Comes to the Franks
the tale to say.
LXXXV
“I have seen the
paynim,” said Olivier.
“Never on earth
did such host appear:
A hundred thousand with
targets bright,
With helmets laced and
hauberks white,
Erect and shining their
lances tall;
Roland’s pride
LXXXVI
“In mighty strength
are the heathen crew,”
Olivier said, “and
our Franks are few;
My comrade, Roland,
sound on your horn;
Karl will hear and his
host return.”
“I were mad,”
said Roland, “to do such deed;
Lost in France were
my glory’s meed.
My Durindana shall smite
full hard,
And her hilt be red
to the golden guard.
The heathen felons shall
find their fate;
Their death, I swear,
in the pass they wait.”
LXXXVII
“O Roland, sound
on your ivory horn,
To the ear of Karl shall
the blast be borne:
He will bid his legions
backward bend,
And all his barons their
aid will lend.”
“Now God forbid
it, for very shame,
That for me my kindred
were stained with blame,
Or that gentle France
to such vileness fell:
This good sword that
hath served me well,
My Durindana such strokes
shall deal,
That with blood encrimsoned
shall be the steel.
By their evil star are
the felons led;
They shall all be numbered
among the dead.”
LXXXVIII
“Roland, Roland,
yet wind one blast!
Karl will hear ere the
gorge be passed,
And the Franks return
on their path full fast.”
“I will not sound
on mine ivory horn:
It shall never be spoken
of me in scorn,
That for heathen felons
one blast I blew;
I may not dishonor my
lineage true.
But I will strike, ere
this fight be o’er,
A thousand strokes and
seven hundred more,
And my Durindana shall
drip with gore.
Our Franks will bear
them like vassals brave
The Saracens flock but
to find a grave.”
LXXXIX
“I deem of neither
reproach nor stain.
I have seen the Saracen
host of Spain,
Over plain and valley
and mountain spread,
And the regions hidden
beneath their tread.
Countless the swarm
of the foe, and we
A marvellous little
company.”
Roland answered him,
“All the more
My spirit within me
burns therefore.
God and his angels of
heaven defend
That France through
me from her glory bend.
Death were better than
fame laid low.
Our Emperor loveth a
downright blow.”
XC
Roland is daring and
Olivier wise,
Both of marvellous high
emprise;
On their chargers mounted,
and girt in mail,
To the death in battle
they will not quail.
Brave are the counts,
and their words are high,
And the Pagans are fiercely
Xci
When Roland felt that
the battle came,
Lion or leopard to him
were tame;
He shouted aloud to
his Franks, and then
Called to his gentle
compeer agen.
“My friend, my
comrade, my Olivier,
The Emperor left us
his bravest here;
Twice ten thousand he
set apart,
And he knew among them
no dastard heart.
For his lord the vassal
must bear the stress
Of the winter’s
cold and the sun’s excess—
Peril his flesh and
his blood thereby:
Strike thou with thy
good lance-point and I,
With Durindana, the
matchless glaive
Which the king himself
to my keeping gave,
That he who wears it
when I lie cold
May say ’twas
the sword of a vassal bold.”
Xcii
Archbishop Turpin, above
the rest,
Spurred his steed to
a jutting crest.
His sermon thus to the
Franks he spake:—
“Lords, we are
here for our monarch’s sake;
Hold we for him, though
our death should come;
Fight for the succor
of Christendom.
The battle approaches—ye
know it well,
For ye see the ranks
of the infidel.
Cry mea culpa,
and lowly kneel;
I will assoil you, your
souls to heal.
In death ye are holy
martyrs crowned.”
The Franks alighted,
and knelt on ground;
In God’s high
name the host he blessed,
And for penance gave
them—to smite their best.
XCIII
The Franks arose from
bended knee,
Assoiled, and from their
sins set free;
The archbishop blessed
them fervently:
Then each one sprang
on his bounding barb,
Armed and laced in knightly
garb,
Apparelled all for the
battle line.
At last said Roland,
“Companion mine,
Too well the treason
is now displayed,
How Ganelon hath our
band betrayed.
To him the gifts and
the treasures fell;
But our Emperor will
avenge us well.
King Marsil deemeth
us bought and sold;
The price shall be with
our good swords told.”
Xciv
Roland rideth the passes
XCV
Said Olivier, “Idle
is speech, I trow;
Thou didst disdain on
thy horn to blow.
Succor of Karl is far
apart;
Our strait he knows
not, the noble heart:
Not to him nor his host
be blame;
Therefore, barons, in
God’s good name,
Press ye onward, and
strike your best,
Make your stand on this
field to rest;
Think but of blows,
both to give and take,
Never the watchword
of Karl forsake.”
Then from the Franks
resounded high—
“Montjoie!”
Whoever had heard that cry
Would hold remembrance
of chivalry.
Then ride they—how
proudly, O God, they ride!—
With rowels dashed in
their coursers’ side.
Fearless, too, are their
paynim foes.
Frank and Saracen, thus
they close.
The mellay
Xcvi
King Marsil’s
nephew, Aelroth his name,
Vaunting in front of
the battle came,
Words of scorn on our
Franks he cast:
“Felon Franks,
ye are met at last,
By your chosen guardian
betrayed and sold,
By your king left madly
the pass to hold.
This day shall France
of her fame be shorn,
And from Karl the mighty
his right arm torn.”
Roland heard him in
wrath and pain!—
He spurred his steed,
he slacked the rein,
Drave at the heathen
with might and main,
Shattered his shield
and his hauberk broke,
Right to the breast-bone
went the stroke;
Pierced him, spine and
marrow through,
And the felon’s
soul from his body flew.
A moment reeled he upon
his horse,
Then all heavily dropped
the corse;
Wrenched was his neck
as on earth he fell,
Yet would Roland scorn
with scorn repel.
“Thou dastard!
never hath Karl been mad,
Nor love for treason
or traitors had.
To guard the passes
he left us here,
Like a noble king and
chevalier.
Nor shall France this
day her fame forego.
Strike in, my barons;
the foremost blow
Dealt in the fight doth
to us belong:
We have the right and
these dogs the wrong.”
Xcvii
A duke was there, named
Falsaron,
Of the land of Dathan
and Abiron;
Brother to Marsil, the
king, was he;
More miscreant felon
ye might not see.
Huge of forehead, his
eyes between,
A span of a full half-foot,
I ween.
Bitter sorrow was his,
to mark
His nephew before him
lie slain and stark.
Hastily came he from
forth the press,
Raising the war-cry
of heathenesse.
Braggart words from
his lips were tost:
“This day the
honour of France is lost.”
Hotly Sir Olivier’s
anger stirs;
He pricked his steed
with golden spurs,
Fairly dealt him a baron’s
blow,
And hurled him dead
from the saddle-bow.
Buckler and mail were
reft and rent,
And the pennon’s
flaps to his heart’s blood went.
He saw the miscreant
stretched on earth:
“Caitiff, thy
threats are of little worth.
On, Franks! the felons
before us fall;
Montjoie!”
’Tis the Emperor’s battle-call.
XCVIII
A king was there of
a strange countrie,
King Corsablis of Barbary;
Before the Saracen van
he cried,
“Right well may
we in this battle bide;
Puny the host of the
Franks I deem,
And those that front
us, of vile esteem.
Not one by succor of
Karl shall fly;
The day hath dawned
that shall see them die.”
Archbishop Turpin hath
heard him well;
No mortal hates he with
hate so fell:
He pricked with spurs
of the fine gold wrought,
And in deadly passage
the heathen sought;
Shield and corselet
were pierced and riven,
And the lance’s
point through his body driven;
To and fro, at the mighty
thrust,
He reeled, and then
fell stark in dust.
Turpin looked on him,
stretched on ground.
“Loud thou liest,
thou heathen hound!
King Karl is ever our
pride and stay;
Nor one of the Franks
shall blench this day,
But your comrades here
on the field shall lie;
I bring you tidings:
ye all shall die.
Strike, Franks! remember
your chivalry;
First blows are ours,
high God be praised!”
Once more the cry, “Montjoie!”
he raised.
Xcix
Gerein to Malprimis
of Brigal sped,
Whose good shield stood
him no whit in stead;
Its knob of crystal
was cleft in twain,
And one half fell on
the battle plain.
Right through the hauberk,
and through the skin,
He drave the lance to
the flesh within;
Prone and sudden the
heathen fell,
And Satan carried his
soul to hell.
C
Anon, his comrade in
arms, Gerier,
Spurred at the Emir
with levelled spear;
Severed his shield and
his mail apart,—
The lance went through
them, to pierce his heart.
Dead on the field at
the blow he lay.
Olivier said, “’Tis
a stirring fray.”
CI
At the Almasour’s
shield Duke Samson rode—
With blazon of flowers
and gold it glowed;
But nor shield nor cuirass
availed to save,
When through heart and
lungs the lance he drave.
Dead lies he, weep him
who list or no.
The Archbishop said,
“’Tis a baron’s blow.”
CII
Anseis cast his bridle
free;
At Turgis, Tortosa’s
lord, rode he:
Above the centre his
shield he smote,
Brake his mail with
its double coat,
Speeding the lance with
a stroke so true,
That the iron traversed
his body through.
So lay he lifeless,
at point of spear.
Said Roland, “Struck
like a cavalier.”
CIII
Engelier, Gascon of
Bordeaux,
On his courser’s
mane let the bridle flow;
Smote Escremis, from
Valtierra sprung,
Shattered the shield
from his neck that swung;
On through his hauberk’s
vental pressed,
And betwixt his shoulders
pierced his breast.
Forth from the saddle
he cast him dead.
“So shall ye perish
all,” he said.
CIV
The heathen Estorgan
was Otho’s aim:
Right in front of his
shield he came;
Rent its colors of red
and white,
Pierced the joints of
his harness bright,
Flung him dead from
his bridle rein.
Said Otho, “Thus
shall ye all be slain.”
CV
Berengier smote Estramarin,
Planting his lance his
heart within,
Through shivered shield
and hauberk torn.
The Saracen to earth
was borne
Amid a thousand of his
train.
Thus ten of the heathen
twelve are slain;
But two are left alive
I wis—
Chernubles and Count
Margaris.
CVI
Count Margaris was a
valiant knight,
Stalwart of body, and
lithe and light:
He spurred his steed
unto Olivier,
Brake his shield at
the golden sphere,
Pushed the lance till
it touched his side;
God of his grace made
it harmless glide.
Margaris rideth unhurt
withal,
Sounding his trumpet,
his men to call.
CVII
Mingled and marvellous
grows the fray,
And in Roland’s
heart is no dismay.
He fought with lance
while his good lance stood;
Fifteen encounters have
strained its wood.
At the last it brake;
then he grasped in hand
His Durindana, his naked
brand.
He smote Chernubles’
helm upon,
Where, in the centre,
carbuncles shone:
Down through his coif
and his fell of hair,
Betwixt his eyes came
the falchion bare,
Down through his plated
harness fine,
Down through the Saracen’s
chest and chine,
Down through the saddle
with gold inlaid,
Till sank in the living
horse the blade,
Severed the spine where
CVIII
Count Roland rideth
the battle through,
With Durindana, to cleave
and hew;
Havoc fell of the foe
he made,
Saracen corse upon corse
was laid,
The field all flowed
with the bright blood shed;
Roland, to corselet
and arm, was red—
Red his steed to the
neck and flank.
Nor is Olivier niggard
of blows as frank;
Nor to one of the peers
be blame this day,
For the Franks are fiery
to smite and slay.
“Well fought,”
said Turpin, “our barons true!”
And he raised the war-cry,
“Montjoie!” anew.
CIX
Through the storm of
battle rides Olivier,
His weapon, the butt
of his broken spear,
Down upon Malseron’s
shield he beat,
Where flowers and gold
emblazoned meet,
Dashing his eyes from
forth his head:
Low at his feet were
the brains bespread,
And the heathen lies
with seven hundred dead!
Estorgus and Turgin
next he slew,
Till the shaft he wielded
in splinters flew.
“Comrade!”
said Roland, “what makest thou?
Is it time to fight
with a truncheon now?
Steel and iron such
strife may claim;
Where is thy sword,
Hauteclere by name,
With its crystal pommel
and golden guard?”
“Of time to draw
it I stood debarred,
Such stress was on me
of smiting hard.”
CX
Then drew Sir Olivier
forth his blade,
As had his comrade Roland
prayed.
He proved it in knightly
wise straightway,
On the heathen Justin
of Val Ferree.
At a stroke he severed
his head in two,
Cleft him body and harness
through;
Down through the gold-incrusted
selle,
To the horse’s
chine, the falchion fell:
Dead on the sward lay
man and steed.
Said Roland, “My
brother, henceforth, indeed!
The Emperor loves us
for such brave blows!”
Around them the cry
of “Montjoie!” arose.
CXI
Gerein his Sorel rides;
Gerier
Is mounted on his own
Pass-deer:
The reins they slacken,
and prick full well
Against the Saracen
Timozel.
One smites his cuirass,
and one his shield,
Break in his body the
spears they wield;
They cast him dead on
the fallow mould.
I know not, nor yet
to mine ear was told.
Which of the twain was
more swift and bold.
Then Espreveris, Borel’s
son,
By Engelier unto death
was done.
Archbishop Turpin slew
Siglorel,
The wizard, who erst
had been in hell,
By Jupiter thither in
magic led.
“Well have we
’scaped,” the archbishop said:
“Crushed is the
caitiff,” Count Roland replies,
“Olivier, brother,
such strokes I prize!”
CXII
Furious waxeth the fight,
and strange;
Frank and heathen their
blows exchange;
While these defend,
and those assail,
And their lances broken
and bloody fail.
Ensign and pennon are
rent and cleft,
And the Franks of their
fairest youth bereft,
Who will look on mother
or spouse no more,
Or the host that waiteth
the gorge before.
Karl the Mighty may
weep and wail;
What skilleth sorrow,
if succour fail?
An evil service was
Gan’s that day,
When to Saragossa he
bent his way,
His faith and kindred
to betray.
But a doom thereafter
awaited him—
Amerced in Aix, of life
and limb,
With thirty of his kin
beside,
To whom was hope of
grace denied.
CXIII
King Almaris with his
band, the while,
Wound through a marvellous
strait defile,
Where doth Count Walter
the heights maintain
And the passes that
lie at the gates of Spain.
“Gan, the traitor,
hath made of us,”
Said Walter, “a
bargain full dolorous.”
CXIV
King Almaris to the
mount hath clomb,
With sixty thousand
of heathendom.
In deadly wrath on the
Franks they fall,
And with furious onset
smite them all:
Routed, scattered, or
slain they lie.
Then rose the wrath
of Count Walter high;
His sword he drew, his
helm he laced,
Slowly in front of the
line he paced,
And with evil greeting
his foeman faced.
CXV
Right on his foemen
doth Walter ride,
And the heathen assail
him on every side;
Broken down was his
shield of might,
Bruised and pierced
was his hauberk white;
Four lances at once
did his body wound:
No longer bore he—four
times he swooned;
He turned perforce from
the field aside,
Slowly adown the mount
he hied,
And aloud to Roland
for succour cried.
CXVI
Wild and fierce is the
battle still:
Roland and Olivier fight
their fill;
The Archbishop dealeth
a thousand blows
Nor knoweth one of the
peers repose;
The Franks are fighting
commingled all,
And the foe in hundreds
and thousands fall;
Choice have they none
but to flee or die,
Leaving their lives
despighteously.
Yet the Franks are reft
of their chivalry,
Who will see nor parent
nor kindred fond,
Nor Karl who waits them
the pass beyond.
CXVII
Now a wondrous storm
o’er France hath passed,
With thunder-stroke
and whirlwind’s blast;
Rain unmeasured, and
hail, there came,
Sharp and sudden the
lightning’s flame;
And an earthquake ran—the
sooth I say,
From Besancon city to
Wissant Bay;
From Saint Michael’s
CXVIII
Dread are the omens
and fierce the storm,
Over France the signs
and wonders swarm:
From noonday on to the
vesper hour,
Night and darkness alone
have power;
Nor sun nor moon one
ray doth shed,
Who sees it ranks him
among the dead.
Well may they suffer
such pain and woe,
When Roland, captain
of all, lies low.
Never on earth hath
his fellow been,
To slay the heathen
or realms to win.
CXIX
Stern and stubborn is the fight; Staunch are the Franks with the sword to smite; Nor is there one but whose blade is red, “Montjoie!” is ever their war-cry dread. Through the land they ride in hot pursuit, And the heathens feel ’tis a fierce dispute.
CXX
In wrath and anguish,
the heathen race
Turn in flight from
the field their face;
The Franks as hotly
behind them strain.
Then might ye look on
a cumbered plain:
Saracens stretched on
the green grass bare,
Helms and hauberks that
shone full fair,
Standards riven and
arms undone:
So by the Franks was
the battle won.
The foremost battle
that then befell—
O God, what sorrow remains
to tell!
CXXI
With heart and prowess
the Franks have stood;
Slain was the heathen
multitude;
Of a hundred thousand
survive not two:
The archbishop crieth,
“O staunch and true!
Written it is in the
Frankish geste,
That our Emperor’s
vassals shall bear them best.”
To seek their dead through
the field they press,
And their eyes drop
tears of tenderness:
Their hearts are turned
to their kindred dear.
Marsil the while with
his host is near.
CXXII
Distraught was Roland
with wrath and pain;
Distraught were the
twelve of Carlemaine—
With deadly strokes
the Franks have striven,
And the Saracen horde
to the slaughter given;
Of a hundred thousand
escaped but one—
King Margaris fled from
the field alone;
But no disgrace in his
flight he bore—
Wounded was he by lances
four.
To the side of Spain
did he take his way,
To tell King Marsil
what chanced that day.
CXXIII
Alone King Margaris
left the field,
With broken spear and
pierced shield,
Scarce half a foot from
the knob remained,
And his brand of steel
with blood was stained;
On his body were four
lance wounds to see:
Were he Christian, what
a baron he!
He sped to Marsil his
tale to tell;
Swift at the feet of
the king he fell:
“Ride, sire, on
to the field forthright,
You will find the Franks
in an evil plight;
Full half and more of
their host lies slain,
And sore enfeebled who
yet remain;
Nor arms have they in
their utmost need:
To crush them now were
an easy deed,”
Marsil listened with
heart aflame.
Onward in search of
the Franks he came.
CXXIV
King Marsil on through
the valley sped,
With the mighty host
he has marshalled.
Twice ten battalions
the king arrayed:
Helmets shone, with
their gems displayed,
Bucklers and braided
hauberks bound,
Seven thousand trumpets
the onset sound;
Dread was the clangor
afar to hear.
Said Roland, “My
brother, my Olivier,
Gan the traitor our
death hath sworn,
Nor may his treason
be now forborne.
To our Emperor vengeance
may well belong,—
To us the battle fierce
and strong;
Never hath mortal beheld
the like.
With my Durindana I
trust to strike;
And thou, my comrade,
with thy Hauteclere:
We have borne them gallantly
otherwhere.
So many fields ’twas
ours to gain,
They shall sing against
us no scornful strain.”
CXXV
As the Franks the heathen
power descried,
Filling the champaign
from side to side,
Loud unto Roland they
made their call,
And to Olivier and their
captains all,
Spake the archbishop
as him became:
“O barons, think
not one thought of shame;
Fly not, for sake of
our God I pray.
That on you be chaunted
no evil lay.
Better by far on the
field to die;
For in sooth I deem
that our end is nigh.
But in holy Paradise
ye shall meet,
And with the innocents
be your seat.”
The Franks exult his
words to hear,
And the cry “Montjoie!”
resoundeth clear.
CXXVI
King Marsil on the hill-top
bides,
While Grandonie with
his legion rides.
He nails his flag with
three nails of gold:
“Ride ye onwards,
my barons bold.”
Then loud a thousand
clarions rang.
And the Franks exclaimed
as they heard the clang—
“O God, our Father,
what cometh on!
Woe that we ever saw
Ganelon:
Foully, by treason,
he us betrayed.”
Gallantly then the archbishop
said,
“Soldiers and
lieges of God are ye,
And in Paradise shall
your guerdon be.
CXXVII
Thus doth King Marsil
divide his men:
He keeps around him
battalions ten.
As the Franks the other
ten descry,
“What dark disaster,”
they said, “is nigh?
What doom shall now
our peers betide?”
Archbishop Turpin full
well replied.
“My cavaliers,
of God the friends,
Your crown of glory
to-day He sends,
To rest on the flowers
of Paradise,
That never were won
by cowardice.”
The Franks made answer,
“No cravens we,
Nor shall we gainsay
God’s decree;
Against the enemy yet
we hold,—
Few may we be, but staunch
and bold.”
Their spurs against
the foe they set,
Frank and paynim—once
more they met.
CXXVIII
A heathen of Saragossa
came.
Full half the city was
his to claim.
It was Climorin:
hollow of heart was he,
He had plighted with
Gan in perfidy,
What time each other
on mouth they kissed,
And he gave him his
helm and amethyst.
He would bring fair
France from her glory down
And from the Emperor
wrest his crown.
He sate upon Barbamouche,
his steed,
Than hawk or swallow
more swift in speed.
Pricked with the spur,
and the rein let flow,
To strike at the Gascon
of Bordeaux,
Whom shield nor cuirass
availed to save.
Within his harness the
point he drave,
The sharp steel on through
his body passed,
Dead on the field was
the Gascon cast.
Said Climorin, “Easy
to lay them low:
Strike in, my pagans,
give blow for blow.”
For their champion slain,
the Franks cry woe.
CXXIX
Sir Roland called unto
Olivier,
“Sir Comrade,
dead lieth Engelier;
Braver knight had we
none than he.”
“God grant,”
he answered, “revenge to me.”
His spurs of gold to
his horse he laid,
Grasping Hauteclere
with his bloody blade.
Climorin smote he, with
stroke so fell,
Slain at the blow was
the infidel.
Whose soul the Enemy
bore away.
Then turned he, Alphaien,
the duke, to slay;
From Escababi the head
he shore,
And Arabs seven to the
earth he bore.
Saith Roland, “My
comrade is much in wrath;
Won great laud by my
side he hath;
Us such prowess to Karl
endears.
Fight on, fight ever,
my cavaliers.”
CXXX
Then came the Saracen
Valdabrun,
Of whom King Marsil
was foster-son.
Four hundred galleys
he owned at sea,
And of all the mariners
lord was he.
Jerusalem erst he had
falsely won,
Profaned the temple
of Solomon,
Slaying the patriarch
at the fount.
’Twas he who in
plight unto Gan the count,
His sword with a thousand
coins bestowed.
Gramimond named he the
steed he rode,
Swifter than ever was
falcon’s flight;
Well did he prick with
the sharp spurs bright,
To strike Duke Samson,
the fearless knight.
Buckler and cuirass
at once he rent,
And his pennon’s
flaps through his body sent;
Dead he cast him, with
levelled spear.
“Strike, ye heathens;
their doom is near.”
The Franks cry woe for
their cavalier.
CXXXI
When Roland was ware
of Samson slain,
Well may you weet of
his bitter pain.
With bloody spur he
his steed impelled,
While Durindana aloft
he held,
The sword more costly
than purest gold;
And he smote, with passion
uncontrolled,
On the heathen’s
helm, with its jewelled crown,—
Through head, and cuirass,
and body down,
And the saddle embossed
with gold, till sank
The griding steel in
the charger’s flank;
Blame or praise him,
the twain he slew.
“A fearful stroke!”
said the heathen crew.
“I shall never
love you,” Count Roland cried,
“With you are
falsehood and evil pride.”
CXXXII
From Afric’s shore,
of Afric’s brood,
Malquiant, son of King
Malcus stood;
Wrought of the beaten
gold, his vest
Flamed to the sun over
all the rest.
Saut-perdu hath he named
his horse,
Fleeter than ever was
steed in course;
He smote Anseis upon
the shield,
Cleft its vermeil and
azure field,
Severed the joints of
his hauberk good,
In his body planted
both steel and wood.
Dead he lieth, his day
is o’er,
And the Franks the loss
of their peer deplore.
CXXXIII
Turpin rideth the press
among;
Never such priest the
Mass had sung,
Nor who hath such feats
of his body done.
“God send thee,”
he said, “His malison!
For the knight thou
slewest my heart is sore.”
He sets the spur to
his steed once more,
Smites the shield in
Toledo made,
And the heathen low
on the sward is laid.
CXXXIV
Forth came the Saracen
Grandonie,
Bestriding his charger
Marmorie;
He was son unto Cappadocia’s
king,
And his steed was fleeter
than bird on wing.
He let the rein on his
neck decline,
And spurred him hard
against Count Gerein,
Shattered the vermeil
shield he bore,
And his armor of proof
CXXXV
Count Roland graspeth
his bloody sword:
Well hath he heard how
the Franks deplored;
His heart is burning
within his breast.
“God’s malediction
upon thee rest!
Right dearly shalt thou
this blood repay.”
His war-horse springs
to the spur straightway,
And they come together—go
down who may.
CXXXVI
A gallant captain was
Grandonie,
Great in arms and in
chivalry.
Never, till then, had
he Roland seen,
But well he knew him
by form and mien,
By the stately bearing
and glance of pride,
And a fear was on him
he might not hide.
Fain would he fly, but
it skills not here;
Roland smote him with
stroke so sheer,
That it cleft the nasal
his helm beneath,
Slitting nostril and
mouth and teeth,
Cleft his body and mail
of plate,
And the gilded saddle
whereon he sate,
Deep the back of the
charger through:
Beyond all succor the
twain he slew.
From the Spanish ranks
a wail arose,
And the Franks exult
in their champion’s blows.
CXXXVII
The battle is wondrous
yet, and dire,
And the Franks are cleaving
in deadly ire;
Wrists and ribs and
chines afresh,
And vestures, in to
the living flesh;
On the green grass streaming
the bright blood ran,
“O mighty country,
Mahound thee ban!
For thy sons are strong
over might of man.”
And one and all unto
Marsil cried,
“Hither, O king,
to our succor ride.”
CXXXVIII
Marvellous yet is the
fight around,
The Franks are thrusting
with spears embrowned;
And great the carnage
there to ken,
Slain and wounded and
bleeding men,
Flung, each by other,
on back or face.
Hold no more can the
heathen race.
They turn and fly from
the field apace;
The Franks as hotly
pursue in chase.
CXXXIX
Knightly the deeds by
Roland done,
Respite or rest for
his Franks is none;
Hard they ride on the
heathen rear,
At trot or gallop in
full career.
With crimson blood are
their bodies stained,
And their brands of
steel are snapped or strained;
And when the weapons
their hands forsake,
Then unto trumpet and
horn they take.
Serried they charge,
in power and pride;
And the Saracens cry—“May
ill betide
The hour we came on
this fatal track!”
So on our host do they
turn the back,
The Christians cleaving
them as they fled,
Till to Marsil stretcheth
the line of dead.
CXL
King Marsil looks on
his legions strown,
He bids the clarion
blast be blown,
With all his host he
onward speeds:
Abime the heathen his
vanguard leads.
No felon worse in the
host than he,
Black of hue as a shrivelled
pea;
He believes not in Holy
Mary’s Son;
Full many an evil deed
hath done.
Treason and murder he
prizeth more
Than all the gold of
Galicia’s shore;
Men never knew him to
laugh nor jest,
But brave and daring
among the best—
Endeared to the felon
king therefor;
And the dragon flag
of his race he bore.
The archbishop loathed
him—full well he might,—
And as he saw him he
yearned to smite,
To himself he speaketh,
low and quick,
“This heathen
seems much a heretic;
I go to slay him, or
else to die,
For I love not dastards
or dastardy.”
CXLI
The archbishop began
the fight once more;
He rode the steed he
had won of yore,
When in Denmark Grossaille
the king he slew.
Fleet the charger, and
fair to view:
His feet were small
and fashioned fine,
Long the flank, and
high the chine,
Chest and croup full
amply spread,
With taper ear and tawny
head,
And snow-white tail
and yellow mane:
To seek his peer on
earth were vain.
The archbishop spurred
him in fiery haste,
And, on the moment Abime
he faced,
Came down on the wondrous
shield the blow,
The shield with amethysts
all aglow,
Carbuncle and topaz,
each priceless stone;
’Twas once the
Emir Galafir’s own;
A demon gave it in Metas
vale;
But when Turpin smote
it might nought avail—
From side to side did
his weapon trace,
And he flung him dead
in an open space.
Say the Franks, “Such
deeds beseem the brave.
Well the archbishop
his cross can save.”
CXLII
Count Roland Olivier
bespake:
“Sir comrade,
dost thou my thought partake?
A braver breathes not
this day on earth
Than our archbishop
in knightly worth.
How nobly smites he
with lance and blade!”
Saith Olivier, “Yea,
let us yield him aid;”
And the Franks once
more the fight essayed.
Stern and deadly resound
the blows.
For the Christians,
alas, ’tis a tale of woes!
CXLIII
The Franks of France
of their arms are reft,
Three hundred blades
alone are left.
The glittering helms
they smite and shred,
And cleave asunder full
many a head;
Through riven helm and
hauberk rent,
Maim head and foot and
lineament.
“Disfigured are
we,” the heathens cry.
“Who guards him
not hath but choice to die.”
Right unto Marsil their
way they take.
CXLIV
Then with the lance
did the heathens smite
On shield and gleaming
helmet bright;
Of steel and iron arose
the clang,
Towards heaven the flames
and sparkles sprang;
Brains and blood on
the champaign flowed;
But on Roland’s
heart is a dreary load,
To see his vassals lie
cold in death;
His gentle France he
remembereth,
And his uncle, the good
King Carlemaine;
And the spirit within
him groans for pain.
CXLV
Count Roland entered
within the prease,
And smote full deadly
without surcease;
While Durindana aloft
he held,
Hauberk and helm he
pierced and quelled,
Intrenching body and
hand and head.
The Saracens lie by
the hundred dead,
And the heathen host
is discomfited.
CXLVI
Valiantly Olivier, otherwhere,
Brandished on high his
sword Hauteclere—
Save Durindana, of swords
the best.
To the battle proudly
he him addressed.
His arms with the crimson
blood were dyed.
“God, what a vassal!”
Count Roland cried.
“O gentle baron,
so true and leal,
This day shall set on
our love the seal!
The Emperor cometh to
find us dead,
For ever parted and
severed.
France never looked
on such woful day;
Nor breathes a Frank
but for us will pray,—
From the cloister cells
shall the orisons rise,
And our souls find rest
in Paradise.”
Olivier heard him, amid
the throng,
Spurred his steed to
his side along.
Saith each to other,
“Be near me still;
We will die together,
if God so will.”
CXLVII
Roland and Olivier then
are seen
To lash and hew with
their falchions keen;
With his lance the archbishop
thrusts and slays,
And the numbers slain
we may well appraise;
In charter and writ
is the tale expressed—
Beyond four thousand,
saith the geste.
In four encounters they
sped them well:
Dire and grievous the
fifth befell.
The cavaliers of the
Franks are slain
All but sixty, who yet
remain;
God preserved them,
that ere they die,
They may sell their
lives full hardily.
The horn
CXLVIII
As Roland gazed on his
slaughtered men,
He bespake his gentle
compeer agen:
“Ah, dear companion,
may God thee shield!
Behold, our bravest
lie dead on field!
Well may we weep for
France the fair,
Of her noble barons
despoiled and bare.
Had he been with us,
our king and friend!
Speak, my brother, thy
counsel lend,—
How unto Karl shall
we tidings send?”
Olivier answered, “I
wist not how.
Liefer death than be
recreant now.”
CXLIX
“I will sound,”
said Roland, “upon my horn,
Karl, as he passeth
the gorge, to warn.
The Franks, I know,
will return apace.”
Said Olivier, “Nay,
it were foul disgrace
On your noble kindred
to wreak such wrong;
They would bear the
stain their lifetime long.
Erewhile I sought it,
and sued in vain;
But to sound thy horn
thou wouldst not deign.
Not now shall mine assent
be won,
Nor shall I say it is
knightly done.
Lo! both your arms are
streaming red.”
“In sooth,”
said Roland, “good strokes I sped.”
CL
Said Roland, “Our
battle goes hard, I fear;
I will sound my horn
that Karl may hear.”
“’Twere
a deed unknightly,” said Olivier;
“Thou didst disdain
when I sought and prayed:
Saved had we been with
our Karl to aid;
Unto him and his host
no blame shall be:
By this my beard, might
I hope to see
My gentle sister Alda’s
face,
Thou shouldst never
hold her in thine embrace.”
CLI
“Ah, why on me
doth thine anger fall?”
“Roland, ’tis
thou who hast wrought it all.
Valor and madness are
scarce allied,—
Better discretion than
daring pride.
All of thy folly our
Franks lie slain,
Nor shall render service
to Karl again,
As I implored thee,
if thou hadst done,
The king had come and
the field were won;
Marsil captive, or slain,
I trow.
Thy daring, Roland,
hath wrought our woe.
No service more unto
Karl we pay,
That first of men till
the judgment day;
Thou shalt die, and
France dishonored be
Ended our loyal company—
A woful parting this
eve shall see.”
CLII
Archbishop Turpin their
strife hath heard,
His steed with the spurs
of gold he spurred,
And thus rebuked them,
riding near:
“Sir Roland, and
thou, Sir Olivier,
Contend not, in God’s
great name, I crave.
Not now availeth the
horn to save;
And yet behoves you
to wind its call,—
Karl will come to avenge
our fall,
Nor hence the foemen
in joyance wend.
The Franks will all
from their steeds descend;
When they find us slain
and martyred here,
They will raise our
CLIII
Then to his lips the
horn he drew,
And full and lustily
he blew.
The mountain peaks soared
high around;
Thirty leagues was borne
the sound.
Karl hath heard it,
and all his band.
“Our men have
battle,” he said, “on hand.”
Ganelon rose in front
and cried,
“If another spake,
I would say he lied.”
CLIV
With deadly travail,
in stress and pain,
Count Roland sounded
the mighty strain.
Forth from his mouth
the bright blood sprang,
And his temples burst
for the very pang.
On and onward was borne
the blast,
Till Karl hath heard
as the gorge he passed,
And Naimes and all his
men of war.
“It is Roland’s
horn,” said the Emperor,
“And, save in
battle, he had not blown.”
“Battle,”
said Ganelon, “is there none.
Old are you grown—all
white and hoar;
Such words bespeak you
a child once more.
Have you, then, forgotten
Roland’s pride,
Which I marvel God should
so long abide,
How he captured Noples
without your hest?
Forth from the city
the heathen pressed,
To your vassal Roland
they battle gave,—
He slew them all with
the trenchant glaive,
Then turned the waters
upon the plain,
That trace of blood
might none remain.
He would sound all day
for a single hare:
’Tis a jest with
him and his fellows there;
For who would battle
against him dare?
Ride onward—wherefore
this chill delay?
Your mighty land is
yet far away.”
CLV
On Roland’s mouth
is the bloody stain,
Burst asunder his temple’s
vein;
His horn he soundeth
in anguish drear;
King Karl and the Franks
around him hear.
Said Karl, “That
horn is long of breath.”
Said Naimes, “’Tis
Roland who travaileth.
There is battle yonder
by mine avow.
He who betrayed him
deceives you now.
Arm, sire; ring forth
your rallying cry,
And stand your noble
household by;
For you hear your Roland
in jeopardy.”
CLVI
The king commands to
sound the alarm.
To the trumpet the Franks
alight and arm;
With casque and corselet
and gilded brand,
Buckler and stalwart
lance in hand,
Pennons of crimson and
white and blue,
The barons leap on their
steeds anew,
And onward spur the
passes through;
Nor is there one but
to other saith,
“Could we reach
but Roland before his death,
Blows would we strike
for him grim and great.”
Ah! what availeth!—’tis
all too late.
CLVII
The evening passed into
brightening dawn.
Against the sun their
harness shone;
From helm and hauberk
glanced the rays,
And their painted bucklers
seemed all ablaze.
The Emperor rode in
wrath apart.
The Franks were moody
and sad of heart;
Was none but dropped
the bitter tear,
For they thought of
Roland with deadly fear.—
Then bade the Emperor
take and bind
Count Gan, and had him
in scorn consigned
To Besgun, chief of
his kitchen train.
“Hold me this
felon,” he said, “in chain.”
Then full a hundred
round him pressed,
Of the kitchen varlets
the worst and best;
His beard upon lip and
chin they tore,
Cuffs of the fist each
dealt him four,
Roundly they beat him
with rods and staves;
Then around his neck
those kitchen knaves
Flung a fetterlock fast
and strong,
As ye lead a bear in
a chain along;
On a beast of burthen
the count they cast,
Till they yield him
back to Karl at last.
CLVIII
Dark, vast, and high
the summits soar,
The waters down through
the valleys pour.
The trumpets sound in
front and rear,
And to Roland’s
horn make answer clear.
The Emperor rideth in
wrathful mood,
The Franks in grievous
solicitude;
Nor one among them can
stint to weep,
Beseeching God that
He Roland keep,
Till they stand beside
him upon the field,
To the death together
their arms to wield.
Ah, timeless succor,
and all in vain!
Too long they tarried,
too late they strain.
CLIX
Onward King Karl in
his anger goes;
Down on his harness
his white beard flows.
The barons of France
spur hard behind;
But on all there presseth
one grief of mind—
That they stand not
beside Count Roland then,
As he fronts the power
of the Saracen.
Were he hurt in fight,
who would then survive?
Yet three score barons
around him strive.
And what a sixty!
Nor chief nor king
Had ever such gallant
following.
CLX
Roland looketh to hill
and plain,
He sees the lines of
his warriors slain,
And he weeps like a
noble cavalier,
“Barons of France,
God hold you dear,
And take you to Paradise’s
bowers,
Where your souls may
lie on the holy flowers;
Braver vassals on earth
were none,
So many kingdoms for
Karl ye won;
Years a-many your ranks
I led,
And for end like this
were ye nurtured.
Land of France, thou
art soothly fair;
To-day thou liest bereaved
and bare;
It was all for me your
lives you gave,
And I was helpless to
shield or save.
May the great God save
you who cannot lie.
Olivier, brother, I
stand thee by;
I die of grief, if I
’scape unslain:
In, brother, in to the
fight again.”
CLXI
Once more pressed Roland
within the fight,
His Durindana he grasped
with might;
Faldron of Pui did he
cleave in two,
And twenty-four of their
bravest slew.
Never was man on such
vengeance bound;
And, as flee the roe-deer
before the hound,
So in face of Roland
the heathen flee.
Saith Turpin, “Right
well this liketh me.
Such prowess a cavalier
befits,
Who harness wears, and
on charger sits;
In battle shall he be
strong and great,
Or I prize him not at
four deniers’ rate;
Let him else be monk
in a cloister cell,
His daily prayers for
our souls to tell.”
Cries Roland, “Smite
them, and do not spare.”
Down once more on the
foe they bear,
But the Christian ranks
grow thinned and rare.
CLXII
Who knoweth ransom is
none for him,
Maketh in battle resistance
grim;
The Franks like wrathful
lions strike,
But King Marsil beareth
him baron-like;
He bestrideth his charger,
Gaignon hight,
And he pricketh him
hard, Sir Beuve to smite,
The Lord of Beaune and
of Dijon town,
Through shield and cuirass,
he struck him down:
Dead past succor of
man he lay.
Ivon and Ivor did Marsil
slay;
Gerard of Roussillon
beside.
Not far was Roland,
and loud he cried,
“Be thou forever
in God’s disgrace,
Who hast slain my fellows
before my face,
Before we part thou
shalt blows essay,
And learn the name of
my sword to-day.”
Down, at the word, came
the trenchant brand,
And from Marsil severed
his good right hand:
With another stroke,
the head he won
Of the fair-haired Jurfalez,
Marsil’s son.
“Help us, Mahound!”
say the heathen train,
“May our gods
avenge us on Carlemaine!
Such daring felons he
hither sent,
Who will hold the field
till their lives be spent.”
“Let us flee and
save us,” cry one and all,
Unto flight a hundred
thousand fall,
Nor can aught the fugitives
recall.
CLXIII
But what availeth? though
Marsil fly,
His uncle, the Algalif,
still is nigh;
Lord of Carthagena is
he,
Of Alferna’s shore
and Garmalie,
And of Ethiopia, accursed
land:
The black battalions
at his command,
With nostrils huge and
flattened ears,
Outnumber fifty thousand
spears;
And on they ride in
haste and ire,
Shouting their heathen
war-cry dire.
“At last,”
said Roland, “the hour is come,
Here receive we our
martyrdom;
Yet strike with your
burnished brands—accursed
Who sells not his life
right dearly first;
In life or death be
your thought the same,
That gentle France be
not brought to shame.
When the Emperor hither
his steps hath bent,
And he sees the Saracens’
chastisement,
Fifteen of their dead
against our one,
He will breathe on our
souls his benison.”
Death of Olivier
CLXIV
When Roland saw the
abhorred race,
Than blackest ink more
black in face,
Who have nothing white
but the teeth alone,
“Now,” he
said, “it is truly shown,
That the hour of our
death is close at hand.
Fight, my Franks, ’tis
my last command.”
Said Olivier, “Shame
is the laggard’s due.”
And at his word they
engage anew.
CLXV
When the heathen saw
that the Franks were few,
Heart and strength from
the sight they drew;
They said, “The
Emperor hath the worse.”
The Algalif sat on a
sorrel horse;
He pricked with spurs
of the gold refined,
Smote Olivier in the
back behind.
On through his harness
the lance he pressed,
Till the steel came
out at the baron’s breast.
“Thou hast it!”
the Algalif, vaunting, cried,
“Ye were sent
by Karl in an evil tide.
Of his wrongs against
us he shall not boast;
In thee alone I avenge
our host.”
CLXVI
Olivier felt the deadly
wound,
Yet he grasped Hauteclere,
with its steel embrowned;
He smote on the Algalif’s
crest of gold,—
Gem and flowers to the
earth were rolled;
Clave his head to the
teeth below,
And struck him dead
with the single blow.
“All evil, caitiff,
thy soul pursue.
Full well our Emperor’s
loss I knew;
But for thee—thou
goest not hence to boast
To wife or dame on thy
natal coast,
Of one denier from the
Emperor won,
Or of scathe to me or
to others done.”
Then Roland’s
aid he called upon.
CLXVII
Olivier knoweth him hurt to death; The more to vengeance he hasteneth; Knightly as ever his arms he bore, Staves of lances and shields he shore; Sides and shoulders and hands and feet,— Whose eyes soever the sight would greet, How the Saracens all disfigured lie, Corpse upon corpse, each other by, Would think upon gallant deeds; nor yet Doth he the war-cry of Karl forget— “Montjoie!” he shouted, shrill and clear; Then called he Roland, his friend and peer, “Sir, my comrade, anear me ride; This day of dolor shall us divide.”
CLXVIII
Roland looked Olivier
in the face,—
Ghastly paleness was
there to trace;
Forth from his wound
did the bright blood flow,
And rain in showers
to the earth below.
“O God!”
said Roland, “is this the end
Of all thy prowess,
my gentle friend?
Nor know I whither to
bear me now:
On earth shall never
be such as thou.
Ah, gentle France, thou
art overthrown,
Reft of thy bravest,
despoiled and lone;
The Emperor’s
loss is full indeed!”
At the word he fainted
upon his steed.
CLXIX
See Roland there on
his charger swooned,
Olivier smitten with
his death wound.
His eyes from bleeding
are dimmed and dark,
Nor mortal, near or
far, can mark;
And when his comrade
beside him pressed,
Fiercely he smote on
his golden crest;
Down to the nasal the
helm he shred,
But passed no further,
nor pierced his head.
Roland marvelled at
such a blow,
And thus bespake him
soft and low:
“Hast thou done
it, my comrade, wittingly?
Roland who loves thee
so dear, am I,
Thou hast no quarrel
with me to seek?”
Olivier answered, “I
hear thee speak,
But I see thee not.
God seeth thee.
Have I struck thee,
brother? Forgive it me.”
“I am not hurt,
O Olivier;
And in sight of God,
I forgive thee here.”
Then each to other his
head has laid,
And in love like this
was their parting made.
CLXX
Olivier feeleth his
throe begin;
His eyes are turning
his head within,
Sight and hearing alike
are gone.
He alights and couches
the earth upon;
His Mea Culpa
aloud he cries,
And his hands in prayer
unto God arise,
That he grant him Paradise
to share,
That he bless King Karl
and France the fair,
His brother Roland o’er
all mankind;
Then sank his heart,
and his head declined,
Stretched at length
on the earth he lay,—
So passed Sir Olivier
away.
Roland was left to weep
alone:
Man so woful hath ne’er
been known.
CLXXI
When Roland saw that
life had fled,
And with face to earth
his comrade dead,
He thus bewept him,
soft and still:
“Ah, friend, thy
prowess wrought thee ill!
So many days and years
gone by
We lived together, thou
and I:
And thou hast never
done me wrong,
Nor I to thee, our lifetime
long.
Since thou art dead,
to live is pain.”
He swooned on Veillantif
again,
Yet may not unto earth
be cast,
His golden stirrups
held him fast.
CLXXII
When passed away had
Roland’s swoon,
With sense restored,
he saw full soon
What ruin lay beneath
his view.
His Franks have perished
all save two—
The archbishop and Walter
of Hum alone.
From the mountain-side
hath Walter flown,
Where he met in battle
the bands of Spain,
And the heathen won
and his men were slain
In his own despite to
the vale he came;
Called unto Roland,
his aid to claim.
“Ah, count! brave
gentleman, gallant peer!
Where art thou?
With thee I know not fear.
I am Walter, who vanquished
Maelgut of yore,
Nephew to Drouin, the
old and hoar.
For knightly deeds I
was once thy friend.
I fought the Saracen
CLXXIII
“Walter,”
said Roland, “thou hadst affray
With the Saracen foe
on the heights to-day.
Thou wert wont a valorous
knight to be:
A thousand horsemen
gave I thee;
Render them back, for
my need is sore.”
“Alas, thou seest
them never more!
Stretched they lie on
the dolorous ground,
Where myriad Saracen
swarms we found,—
Armenians, Turks, and
the giant brood
Of Balisa, famous for
hardihood,
Bestriding their Arab
coursers fleet,
Such host in battle
’twas ours to meet;
Nor vaunting thence
shall the heathen go,—
Full sixty thousand
on earth lie low.
With our brands of steel
we avenged us well,
But every Frank by the
foeman fell.
My hauberk plates are
riven wide,
And I bear such wounds
in flank and side,
That from every part
the bright blood flows,
And feebler ever my
body grows.
I am dying fast, I am
well aware:
Thy liegeman I, and
claim thy care.
If I fled perforce,
thou wilt forgive,
And yield me succor
while thou dost live.”
Roland sweated with
wrath and pain,
Tore the skirts of his
vest in twain,
Bound Walter’s
every bleeding vein.
CLXXIV
In Roland’s sorrow
his wrath arose,
Hotly he struck at the
heathen foes,
Nor left he one of a
score alive;
Walter slew six, the
archbishop five.
The heathens cry, “What
a felon three!
Look to it, lords, that
they shall not flee.
Dastard is he who confronts
them not;
Craven, who lets them
depart this spot.”
Their cries and shoutings
begin once more,
And from every side
on the Franks they pour.
CLXXV
Count Roland in sooth
is a noble peer;
Count Walter, a valorous
cavalier;
The archbishop, in battle
proved and tried,
Each struck as if knight
there were none beside.
From their steeds a
thousand Saracens leap,
Yet forty thousand their
saddles keep;
I trow they dare not
approach them near,
But they hurl against
them lance and spear,
Pike and javelin, shaft
and dart.
Walter is slain as the
missiles part;
The archbishop’s
shield in pieces shred,
Riven his helm, and
pierced his head;
His corselet of steel
they rent and tore,
Wounded his body with
lances four;
His steed beneath him
dropped withal:
What woe to see the
archbishop fall!
CLXXVI
When Turpin felt him
flung to ground,
And four lance wounds
within him found,
He swiftly rose, the
dauntless man,
To Roland looked, and
nigh him ran.
Spake but, “I
am not overthrown—
Brave warrior yields
with life alone.”
He drew Almace’s
burnished steel,
A thousand ruthless
blows to deal.
In after time, the Emperor
said
He found four hundred
round him spread,—
Some wounded, others
cleft in twain;
Some lying headless
on the plain.
So Giles the saint,
who saw it, tells,
For whom High God wrought
miracles.
In Laon cell the scroll
he wrote;
He little weets who
knows it not.
CLXXVII
Count Roland combateth
nobly yet,
His body burning and
bathed in sweat;
In his brow a mighty
pain, since first,
When his horn he sounded,
his temple burst;
But he yearns of Karl’s
approach to know,
And lifts his horn once
more—but oh,
How faint and feeble
a note to blow!
The Emperor listened,
and stood full still.
“My lords,”
he said, “we are faring ill.
This day is Roland my
nephew’s last;
Like dying man he winds
that blast.
On! Who would aid,
for life must press.
Sound every trump our
ranks possess.”
Peal sixty thousand
clarions high,
The hills re-echo, the
vales reply.
It is now no jest for
the heathen band.
“Karl!”
they cry, “it is Karl at hand!”
CLXXVIII
They said, “’Tis
the Emperor’s advance,
We hear the trumpets
resound of France.
If he assail us, hope
in vain;
If Roland live, ’tis
war again,
And we lose for aye
the land of Spain.”
Four hundred in arms
together drew,
The bravest of the heathen
crew;
With serried power they
on him press,
And dire in sooth is
the count’s distress.
CLXXIX
When Roland saw his
coming foes,
All proud and stern
his spirit rose;
Alive he shall never
be brought to yield:
Veillantif spurred he
across the field,
With golden spurs he
pricked him well,
To break the ranks of
the infidel;
Archbishop Turpin by
his side.
“Let us flee,
and save us,” the heathen cried;
“These are the
trumpets of France we hear—
It is Karl, the mighty
Emperor, near.”
CLXXX
Count Roland never hath
loved the base,
Nor the proud of heart,
nor the dastard race,—
Nor knight, but if he
were vassal good,—
And he spake to Turpin,
as there he stood;
“On foot are you,
on horseback I;
For your love I halt,
and stand you by.
Together for good and
ill we hold;
I will not leave you
for man of mould.
We will pay the heathen
their onset back,
Nor shall Durindana
of blows be slack.”
“Base,”
said Turpin, “who spares to smite:
When the Emperor comes,
he will all requite.”
CLXXXI
The heathens said, “We
were born to shame.
This day for our disaster
came:
Our lords and leaders
in battle lost,
And Karl at hand with
his marshalled host;
We hear the trumpets
of France ring out,
And the cry ‘Montjoie!’
their rallying shout.
Roland’s pride
is of such a height,
Not to be vanquished
by mortal wight;
Hurl we our missiles,
and hold aloof.”
And the word they spake,
they put in proof,—
They flung, with all
their strength and craft,
Javelin, barb, and plumed
shaft.
Roland’s buckler
was torn and frayed,
His cuirass broken and
disarrayed,
Yet entrance none to
his flesh they made.
From thirty wounds Veillantif
bled,
Beneath his rider they
cast him, dead;
Then from the field
have the heathen flown:
Roland remaineth, on
foot, alone.
THE LAST BENEDICTION OF THE ARCHBISHOP
CLXXXII
The heathens fly in
rage and dread;
To the land of Spain
have their footsteps sped;
Nor can Count Roland
make pursuit—
Slain is his steed,
and he rests afoot;
To succor Turpin he
turned in haste,
The golden helm from
his head unlaced,
Ungirt the corselet
from his breast,
In stripes divided his
silken vest;
The archbishop’s
wounds hath he staunched and bound,
His arms around him
softly wound;
On the green sward gently
his body laid,
And, with tender greeting,
thus him prayed:
“For a little
space, let me take farewell;
Our dear companions,
who round us fell,
I go to seek; if I haply
find,
I will place them at
thy feet reclined.”
“Go,” said
Turpin; “the field is thine—
To God the glory, ’tis
thine and mine.”
CLXXXIII
Alone seeks Roland the
field of fight,
He searcheth vale, he
searcheth height.
Ivon and Ivor he found,
laid low,
And the Gascon Engelier
of Bordeaux,
Gerein and his fellow
in arms, Gerier;
Otho he found, and Berengier;
Samson the duke, and
Anseis bold,
Gerard of Roussillon,
the old.
Their bodies, one after
one, he bore,
And laid them Turpin’s
feet before.
The archbishop saw them
stretched arow,
Nor can he hinder the
tears that flow;
In benediction his hands
he spread:
“Alas! for your
doom, my lords,” he said,
“That God in mercy
your souls may give,
On the flowers of Paradise
to live;
Mine own death comes,
with anguish sore
That I see mine Emperor
never more.”
CLXXXIV
Once more to the field
doth Roland wend,
Till he findeth Olivier
his friend;
The lifeless form to
his heart he strained,
Bore him back with what
strength remained,
On a buckler laid him,
beside the rest,
The archbishop assoiled
them all, and blessed.
Their dole and pity
anew find vent,
And Roland maketh his
fond lament:
“My Olivier, my
chosen one,
Thou wert the noble
Duke Renier’s son,
Lord of the March unto
Rivier vale.
To shiver lance and
shatter mail,
The brave in council
to guide and cheer,
To smite the miscreant
foe with fear,—
Was never on earth such
cavalier.”
CLXXXV
Dead around him his
peers to see,
And the man he loved
so tenderly,
Fast the tears of Count
Roland ran,
His visage discolored
became, and wan,
He swooned for sorrow
beyond control.
“Alas,”
said Turpin, “how great thy dole!”
CLXXXVI
To look on Roland swooning
there,
Surpassed all sorrow
he ever bare;
He stretched his hand,
the horn he took,—
Through Roncesvailes
there flowed a brook,—
A draught to Roland
he thought to bring;
But his steps were feeble
and tottering,
Spent his strength,
from waste of blood,—
He struggled on for
scarce a rood,
When sank his heart,
and drooped his frame,
And his mortal anguish
on him came.
CLXXXVII
Roland revived from his swoon again; On his feet he rose, but in deadly pain; He looked on high, and he looked below, Till, a space his other companions fro, He beheld the baron, stretched on sward, The archbishop, vicar of God our Lord. Mea Culpa was Turpin’s cry, While he raised his hands to heaven on high, Imploring Paradise to gain. So died the soldier of Carlemaine,— With word or weapon, to preach or fight, A champion ever of Christian right, And a deadly foe of the infidel. God’s benediction within him dwell!
CLXXXVIII
When Roland saw him
stark on earth
(His very vitals were
bursting forth,
And his brain was oozing
from out his head),
He took the fair white
hands outspread,
Crossed and clasped
them upon his breast,
And thus his plaint
to the dead addressed,—
So did his country’s
law ordain:—
“Ah, gentleman
of noble strain,
I trust thee unto God
the True,
Whose service never
man shall do
With more devoted heart
and mind:
To guard the faith,
to win mankind,
From the apostles’
days till now,
Such prophet never rose
as thou.
Nor pain or torment
thy soul await,
But of Paradise the
open gate.”
THE DEATH OF ROLAND
CLXXIX
Roland feeleth his death
is near,
His brain is oozing
by either ear.
For his peers he prayed—God
keep them well;
Invoked the angel Gabriel.
That none reproach him,
his horn he clasped;
His other hand Durindana
grasped;
Then, far as quarrel
from crossbow sent,
Across the march of
Spain he went,
Where, on a mound, two
trees between,
Four flights of marble
steps were seen;
Backward he fell, on
the field to lie;
And he swooned anon,
for the end was nigh.
CXC
High were the mountains
and high the trees,
Bright shone the marble
terraces;
On the green grass Roland
hath swooned away.
A Saracen spied him
where he lay:
Stretched with the rest
he had feigned him dead,
His face and body with
blood bespread.
To his feet he sprang,
and in haste he hied,—
He was fair and strong
and of courage tried,
In pride and wrath he
was overbold,—
And on Roland, body
and arms, laid hold.
“The nephew of
Karl is overthrown!
To Araby bear I this
sword, mine own.”
He stooped to grasp
it, but as he drew,
Roland returned to his
sense anew.
CXCI
He saw the Saracen seize
his sword;
His eyes he oped, and
he spake one word—
“Thou art not
one of our band, I trow,”
And he clutched the
horn he would ne’er forego;
On the golden crest
he smote him full,
Shattering steel and
bone and skull,
Forth from his head
his eyes he beat,
And cast him lifeless
before his feet.
“Miscreant, makest
thou then so free,
As, right or wrong,
to lay hold on me?
Who hears it will deem
thee a madman born;
Behold the mouth of
mine ivory horn
Broken for thee, and
the gems and gold
Around its rim to earth
are rolled.”
CXCII
Roland feeleth his eyesight
reft,
Yet he stands erect
with what strength is left;
From his bloodless cheek
is the hue dispelled,
But his Durindana all
bare he held.
In front a dark brown
rock arose—
He smote upon it ten
grievous blows.
Grated the steel as
it struck the flint,
Yet it brake not, nor
bore its edge one dint.
“Mary, Mother,
be thou mine aid!
Ah, Durindana, my ill-starred
blade,
I may no longer thy
guardian be!
What fields of battle
I won with thee!
What realms and regions
’twas ours to gain,
Now the lordship of
Carlemaine!
Never shalt thou possessor
know
Who would turn from
face of mortal foe;
A gallant vassal so
long thee bore,
Such as France the free
shall know no more.”
CXCIII
He smote anew on the
marble stair.
It grated, but breach
nor notch was there.
When Roland found that
it would not break,
Thus began he his plaint
to make.
“Ah, Durindana,
how fair and bright
Thou sparklest, flaming
against the light!
When Karl in Maurienne
valley lay,
God sent his angel from
heaven to say—
‘This sword shall
a valorous captain’s be,’
And he girt it, the
gentle king, on me.
With it I vanquished
Poitou and Maine,
Provence I conquered
and Aquitaine;
I conquered Normandy
the free,
Anjou, and the marches
of Brittany;
Romagna I won, and Lombardy,
Bavaria, Flanders from
side to side,
And Burgundy, and Poland
wide;
Constantinople affiance
vowed,
And the Saxon soil to
his bidding bowed;
Scotia, and Wales, and
Ireland’s plain,
Of England made he his
own domain.
What mighty regions
I won of old,
For the hoary-headed
Karl to hold!
But there presses on
me a grievous pain,
Lest thou in heathen
hands remain.
O God our Father, keep
France from stain!”
CXCIV
His strokes once more
on the brown rock fell,
And the steel was bent
past words to tell;
Yet it brake not, nor
was notched the grain,
Erect it leaped to the
sky again.
When he failed at the
last to break his blade,
His lamentation he inly
made.
“Oh, fair and
holy, my peerless sword,
What relics lie in thy
pommel stored!
Tooth of Saint Peter,
Saint Basil’s blood,
Hair of Saint Denis
beside them strewed,
Fragment of holy Mary’s
vest.
’Twere shame that
thou with the heathen rest;
Thee should the hand
of a Christian serve
One who would never
in battle swerve.
What regions won I with
thee of yore,
The empire now of Karl
the hoar!
Rich and mighty is he
therefore.”
CXCV
That death was on him he knew full well; Down from his head to his heart it fell. On the grass beneath a pine-tree’s shade, With face to earth, his form he laid, Beneath him placed he his horn and sword, And turned his face to the heathen horde. Thus hath he done the sooth to show, That Karl and his warriors all may know, That the gentle count a conqueror died. Mea Culpa full oft he cried; And, for all his sins, unto God above, In sign of penance, he raised his glove.
CXCVI
Roland feeleth his hour
at hand;
On a knoll he lies towards
the Spanish land.
With one hand beats
he upon his breast:
“In thy sight,
O God, be my sins confessed.
From my hour of birth,
both the great and small,
Down to this day, I
repent of all.”
As his glove he raises
to God on high,
Angels of heaven descend
him nigh.
CXCVII
Beneath a pine was his
resting-place,
To the land of Spain
hath he turned his face,
On his memory rose full
many a thought—
Of the lands he won
and the fields he fought;
Of his gentle France,
of his kin and line;
Of his nursing father,
King Karl benign;—
He may not the tear
and sob control,
Nor yet forgets he his
parting soul.
To God’s compassion
he makes his cry:
“O Father true,
who canst not lie,
Who didst Lazarus raise
unto life agen,
And Daniel shield in
the lions’ den;
Shield my soul from
its peril, due
For the sins I sinned
my lifetime through.”
He did his right-hand
glove uplift—
Saint Gabriel took from
his hand the gift;
Then drooped his head
upon his breast,
And with clasped hands
he went to rest.
God from on high sent
down to him
One of his angel Cherubim—
Saint Michael of Peril
of the sea,
Saint Gabriel in company—
From heaven they came
for that soul of price,
And they bore it with
them to Paradise.
THE REPRISALS
THE CHASTISEMENT OF THE SARACENS
CXCVIII
Dead is Roland; his
soul with God.
While to Roncesvalles
the Emperor rode,
Where neither path nor
track he found,
Nor open space nor rood
of ground,
But was strewn with
Frank or heathen slain,
“Where art thou,
Roland?” he cried in pain:
“The Archbishop
where, and Olivier,
Gerein and his brother
in arms, Gerier?
Count Otho where, and
Berengier,
Ivon and Ivor, so dear
to me;
And Engelier of Gascony;
Samson the duke, and
Anseis the bold;
Gerard, of Roussillon,
the old;
My peers, the twelve
whom I left behind?”
In vain!—No
answer may he find.
“O God,”
he cried, “what grief is mine
That I was not in front
of this battle line!”
For very wrath his beard
he tore,
His knights and barons
weeping sore;
Aswoon full fifty thousand
fall:
Duke Naimes hath pity
and dole for all.
CXCIX
Nor knight nor baron
was there to see
But wept full fast,
and bitterly;
For son and brother
their tears descend,
For lord and liege,
for kin and friend;
Aswoon all numberless
they fell,
But Naimes did gallantly
and well.
He spake the first to
the Emperor—
“Look onward,
sire, two leagues before,
See the dust from the
ways arise,—
There the strength of
the heathen lies.
Ride on; avenge you
for this dark day.”
“O God,”
said Karl, “they are far away!
Yet for right and honor,
the sooth ye say.
Fair France’s
flower they have torn from me.”
CC
The Emperor bade his
clarions ring,
Marched with his host
the noble king.
They came at last on
the heathens’ trace,
And all together pursued
in chase;
But the king of the
falling eve was ware:
He alighted down in
a meadow fair,
Knelt on the earth unto
God to pray
That he make the sun
in his course delay,
Retard the night, and
prolong the day.
Then his wonted angel
who with him spake,
Swiftly to Karl did
answer make,
“Ride on!
Light shall not thee forego;
God seeth the flower
of France laid low;
Thy vengeance wreak
on the felon crew.”
The Emperor sprang to
his steed anew.
CCI
God wrought for Karl
a miracle:
In his place in heaven
the sun stood still.
The heathens fled, the
Franks pursued,
And in Val Tenebres
beside them stood;
Towards Saragossa the
rout they drave,
And deadly were the
strokes they gave.
They barred against
them path and road;
In front the water of
Ebro flowed:
Strong was the current,
deep and large,
Was neither shallop,
nor boat, nor barge.
With a cry to their
idol Termagaunt,
The heathens plunge,
but with scanty vaunt.
Encumbered with their
armor’s weight,
Sank the most to the
bottom, straight;
Others floated adown
the stream;
And the luckiest drank
their fill, I deem:
All were in marvellous
anguish drowned.
Cry the Franks, “In
Roland your fate ye found.”
CCII
As he sees the doom
of the heathen host,
Slain are some and drowned
the most,
(Great spoil have won
the Christian knights),
The gentle king from
his steed alights,
And kneels, his thanks
unto God to pour:
The sun had set as he
rose once more.
“It is time to
rest,” the Emperor cried,
“And to Roncesvalles
’twere late to ride.
Our steeds are weary
and spent with pain;
Strip them of saddle
and bridle-rein,
Free let them browse
on the verdant mead.”
“Sire,”
say the Franks, “it were well indeed.”
CCIII
The Emperor hath his
quarters ta’en,
And the Franks alight
in the vacant plain;
The saddles from their
steeds they strip,
And the bridle-reins
from their heads they slip;
They set them free on
the green grass fair,
Nor can they render
them other care.
On the ground the weary
warriors slept;
Watch nor vigil that
night they kept.
CCIV
In the mead the Emperor
made his bed,
With his mighty spear
beside his head,
Nor will he doff his
arms to-night,
But lies in his broidered
hauberk white.
Laced is his helm, with
gold inlaid,
Girt on Joyeuse, the
peerless blade,
Which changes thirty
times a day
The brightness of its
varying ray.
Nor may the lance unspoken
be
Which pierced our Saviour
on the tree;
Karl hath its point—so
God him graced—
Within his golden hilt
enchased.
And for this honor and
boon of heaven,
The name Joyeuse to
the sword was given;
The Franks may hold
it in memory.
Thence came “Montjoie,”
their battle-cry,
And thence no race with
them may vie.
CCV
Clear was the night,
and the fair moon shone.
But grief weighed heavy
King Karl upon;
He thought of Roland
and Olivier,
Of his Franks and every
gallant peer,
Whom he left to perish
in Roncesvale,
Nor can he stint but
to weep and wail,
Imploring God their
souls to bless,—
Till, overcome with
long distress,
He slumbers at last
for heaviness.
The Franks are sleeping
throughout the meads;
Nor rest on foot can
the weary steeds—
They crop the herb as
they stretch them prone.—
Much hath he learned
who hath sorrow known.
CCVI
The Emperor slumbered
like man forespent,
While God his angel
Gabriel sent
The couch of Carlemaine
to guard.
All night the angel
kept watch and ward,
And in a vision to Karl
presaged
A coming battle against
him waged.
’Twas shown in
fearful augury;
The king looked upward
to the sky—
There saw he lightning,
and hail, and storm,
Wind and tempest in
fearful form.
A dread apparel of fire
and flame,
Down at once on his
host they came.
Their ashen lances the
flames enfold,
And their bucklers in
to the knobs of gold;
Grated the steel of
helm and mail.
Yet other perils the
Franks assail,
And his cavaliers are
in deadly strait.
Bears and lions to rend
them wait,
Wiverns, snakes and
fiends of fire,
More than a thousand
griffins dire;
Enfuried at the host
they fly.
“Help us, Karl!”
was the Franks’ outcry,
Ruth and sorrow the
king beset;
Fain would he aid, but
CCVII
Another vision came
him o’er:
He was in France, his
land, once more;
In Aix, upon his palace
stair,
And held in double chain
a bear.
When thirty more from
Arden ran,
Each spake with voice
of living man:
“Release him,
sire!” aloud they call;
“Our kinsman shall
not rest in thrall.
To succor him our arms
are bound.”
Then from the palace
leaped a hound,
On the mightiest of
the bears he pressed,
Upon the sward, before
the rest.
The wondrous fight King
Karl may see,
But knows not who shall
victor be.
These did the angel
to Karl display;
But the Emperor slept
till dawning day.
CCVIII
At morning-tide when
day-dawn broke,
The Emperor from his
slumber woke.
His holy guardian, Gabriel,
With hand uplifted sained
him well.
The king aside his armor
laid,
And his warriors all
were disarrayed.
Then mount they, and
in haste they ride,
Through lengthening
path and highway wide
Until they see the doleful
sight
In Roncesvalles, the
field of fight.
CCIX
Unto Roncesvalles King
Karl hath sped,
And his tears are falling
above the dead;
“Ride, my barons,
at gentle pace,—
I will go before, a
little space,
For my nephew’s
sake, whom I fain would find.
It was once in Aix,
I recall to mind,
When we met at the yearly
festal-tide,—
My cavaliers in vaunting
vied
Of stricken fields and
joustings proud,—
I heard my Roland declare
aloud,
In foreign land would
he never fall
But in front of his
peers and his warriors all,
He would lie with head
to the foeman’s shore,
And make his end like
a conqueror.”
Then far as man a staff
might fling,
Clomb to a rising knoll
the king.
CCX
As the king in quest
of Roland speeds,
The flowers and grass
throughout the meads
He sees all red with
our baron’s blood,
And his tears of pity
break forth in flood.
He upward climbs, till,
beneath two trees,
The dints upon the rock
he sees.
Of Roland’s corse
he was then aware;
Stretched it lay on
the green grass bare.
No marvel sorrow the
king oppressed;
He alighted down, and
in haste he pressed,
Took the body his arms
between,
And fainted: dire
his grief I ween.
CCXI
As did reviving sense
begin,
Naimes, the duke, and
Count Acelin,
The noble Geoffrey of
Anjou,
And his brother Henry
nigh him drew.
They made a pine-tree’s
trunk his stay;
But he looked to earth
where his nephew lay,
And thus all gently
made his dole:
“My friend, my
Roland, God guard thy soul!
Never on earth such
knight hath been,
Fields of battle to
fight and win.
My pride and glory,
alas, are gone!”
He endured no longer;
he swooned anon.
CCXII
As Karl the king revived
once more,
His hands were held
by barons four.
He saw his nephew, cold
and wan;
Stark his frame, but
his hue was gone;
His eyes turned inward,
dark and dim;
And Karl in love lamented
him:
“Dear Roland,
God thy spirit rest
In Paradise, amongst
His blest!
In evil hour thou soughtest
Spain:
No day shall dawn but
sees my pain,
And me of strength and
pride bereft.
No champion of mine
honor left;
Without a friend beneath
the sky;
And though my kindred
still be nigh,
Is none like thee their
ranks among.”
With both his hands
his beard he wrung.
The Franks bewailed
in unison;
A hundred thousand wept
like one.
CCXIII
“Dear Roland,
I return again
To Laon, to mine own
domain;
Where men will come
from many a land,
And seek Count Roland
at my hand.
A bitter tale must I
unfold—
‘In Spanish earth
he lieth cold,’
A joyless realm henceforth
I hold,
And weep with daily
tears untold.”
CCXIV
“Dear Roland,
beautiful and brave,
All men of me will tidings
crave,
When I return to La
Chapelle.
Oh, what a tale is mine
to tell!
That low my glorious
nephew lies.
Now will the Saxon foeman
rise;
Bulgar and Hun in arms
will come,
Apulia’s power,
the might of Rome,
Palermitan and Afric
bands,
And men from fierce
and distant lands.
To sorrow sorrow must
succeed;
My hosts to battle who
shall lead,
When the mighty captain
is overthrown?’
Ah! France deserted
now, and lone.
Come, death, before
such grief I bear.”
Once more his beard
and hoary hair
Began he with his hands
to tear;
A hundred thousand fainted
there.
CCXV
“Dear Roland,
and was this thy fate?
May Paradise thy soul
await.
Who slew thee wrought
fair France’s bane:
I cannot live, so deep
my pain.
For me my kindred lie
undone;
And would to Holy Mary’s
Son,
Ere I at Cizra’s
gorge alight,
My soul may take its
parting flight:
My spirit would with
theirs abide;
My body rest their dust
beside.”
With sobs his hoary
beard he tore.
“Alas!”
said Naimes, “for the Emperor.”
CCXVI
“Sir Emperor,”
Geoffrey of Anjou said,
“Be not by sorrow
so sore misled.
Let us seek our comrades
throughout the plain,
Who fell by the hands
of the men of Spain;
And let their bodies
on biers be borne.”
“Yea,” said
the Emperor. “Sound your horn.”
CCXVII
Now doth Count Geoffrey
his bugle sound,
And the Franks from
their steeds alight to ground
As they their dead companions
find,
They lay them low on
biers reclined;
Nor prayers of bishop
or abbot ceased,
Of monk or canon, or
tonsured priest.
The dead they blessed
in God’s great name,
Set myrrh and frankincense
aflame.
Their incense to the
dead they gave,
Then laid them, as beseemed
the brave—
What could they more?—in
honored grave.
CCXVIII
But the king kept watch
o’er Roland’s bier
O’er Turpin and
Sir Olivier.
He bade their bodies
opened be,
Took the hearts of the
barons three,
Swathed them in silken
cerements light,
Laid them in urns of
the marble white.
Their bodies did the
Franks enfold
In skins of deer, around
them rolled;
Laved them with spices
and with wine,
Till the king to Milo
gave his sign,
To Tybalt, Otun, and
Gebouin;
Their bodies three on
biers they set,
Each in its silken coverlet.
* * * * *
CCXIX
To Saragossa did Marsil
flee.
He alighted beneath
an olive tree,
And sadly to his serfs
he gave
His helm, his cuirass,
and his glaive,
Then flung him on the
herbage green;
Came nigh him Bramimonde
his queen.
Shorn from his wrist
was his right hand good;
He swooned for pain
and waste of blood.
The queen, in anguish,
wept and cried,
With twenty thousand
by her side.
King Karl and gentle
France they cursed;
Then on their gods their
anger burst.
Unto Apollin’s
crypt they ran,
And with revilings thus
began:
“Ah, evil-hearted
god, to bring
Such dark dishonor on
our king.
Thy servants ill dost
thou repay.”
His crown and wand they
wrench away,
They bind him to a pillar
fast,
And then his form to
earth they cast,
His limbs with staves
they bruise and break:
From Termagaunt his
gem they take:
Mohammed to a trench
they bear,
For dogs and boars to
tread and tear.
CCXX
Within his vaulted hall
they bore
King Marsil, when his
swoon was o’er;
The hall with colored
writings stained.
And loud the queen in
anguish plained,
The while she tore her
streaming hair,
“Ah, Saragossa,
reft and bare,
Thou seest thy noble
[Footnote 2: Here intervenes the episode of the great battle fought between Charlemagne and Baligant, Emir of Babylon, who had come, with a mighty army, to the succor of King Marsil his vassal. This episode has been suspected of being a later interpolation. The translation is resumed at the end of the battle, after the Emir had been slain by Charlemagne’s own hand, and when the Franks enter Saragossa in pursuit of the Saracens.]
* * * * *
CCXXI
Fierce is the heat and thick the dust.
The Franks the flying Arabs thrust.
To Saragossa speeds their flight.
The queen ascends a turret’s height.
The clerks and canons on her wait,
Of that false law God holds in hate.
Order or tonsure have they none.
And when she thus beheld undone
The Arab power, all disarrayed,
Aloud she cried, “Mahound us aid!
My king! defeated is our race,
The Emir slain in foul disgrace.”
King Marsil turns him to the wall,
And weeps—his visage darkened all.
He dies for grief—in sin he dies,
His wretched soul the demon’s prize.
CCXXII
Dead lay the heathens,
or turned to flight,
And Karl was victor
in the fight.
Down Saragossa’s
wall he brake—
Defence he knew was
none to make.
And as the city lay
subdued,
The hoary king all proudly
stood,
There rested his victorious
powers.
The queen hath yielded
up the towers—
Ten great towers and
fifty small.
Well strives he whom
God aids withal.
CCXXIII
Day passed; the shades
of night drew on,
And moon and stars refulgent
shone.
Now Karl is Saragossa’s
lord,
And a thousand Franks,
by the king’s award,
Roam the city, to search
and see
Where mosque or synagogue
may be.
With axe and mallet
of steel in hand,
They let nor idol nor
image stand;
The shrines of sorcery
down they hew,
For Karl hath faith
in God the True,
And will Him righteous
service do.
The bishops have the
water blessed,
The heathen to the font
are pressed.
If any Karl’s
command gainsay,
He has him hanged or
burned straightway.
So a hundred thousand
to Christ are won;
But Bramimonde the queen
alone
Shall unto France be
captive brought,
And in love be her conversion
wrought.
CCXXIV
Night passed, and came
the daylight hours,
Karl garrisoned the
city’s towers;
He left a thousand valiant
knights,
To sentinel their Emperor’s
rights.
Then all his Franks
ascend their steeds,
While Bramimonde in
bonds he leads,
To work her good his
sole intent.
And so, in pride and
strength, they went;
They passed Narbonne
in gallant show,
And reached thy stately
walls, Bordeaux.
There, on Saint Severin’s
altar high,
Karl placed Count Roland’s
horn to lie,
With mangons filled,
and coins of gold,
As pilgrims to this
hour behold.
Across Garonne he bent
his way,
In ships within the
stream that lay,
And brought his nephew
unto Blaye,
With his noble comrade,
Olivier,
And Turpin sage, the
gallant peer.
Of the marble white
their tombs were made;
In Saint Roman’s
shrine are the baron’s laid,
Whom the Franks to God
and his saints commend
And Karl by hill and
vale doth wend,
Nor stays till Aix is
reached, and there
Alighteth on his marble
stair.
When sits he in his
palace hall,
He sends around to his
judges all,
From Frisia, Saxony,
Loraine,
From Burgundy and Allemaine,
From Normandy, Brittaine,
Poitou:
The realm of France
he searches through,
And summons every sagest
man.
The plea of Ganelon
then began.
CCXXV
From Spain the Emperor
made retreat,
To Aix in France, his
kingly seat;
And thither, to his
halls, there came,
Alda, the fair and gentle
dame.
“Where is my Roland,
sire,” she cried,
“Who vowed to
take me for his bride?”
O’er Karl the
flood of sorrow swept;
He tore his beard and
loud he wept.
“Dear sister,
gentle friend,” he said,
“Thou seekest
one who lieth dead:
I plight to thee my
son instead,—
Louis, who lord of my
realm shall be.”
“Strange,”
she said, “seems this to me.
God and his angels forbid
that I
Should live on earth
if Roland die.”
Pale grew her cheek—she
sank amain,
Down at the feet of
Carlemaine.
So died she. God
receive her soul!
The Franks bewail her
in grief and dole.
CCXXVI
So to her death went
Alda fair.
The king but deemed
she fainted there.
While dropped his tears
of pity warm,
He took her hands and
raised her form.
Upon his shoulder drooped
her head,
And Karl was ware that
she was dead.
When thus he saw that
life was o’er,
He summoned noble ladies
four.
Within a cloister was
she borne;
They watched beside
her until morn;
Beneath a shrine her
limbs were laid;—
Such honor Karl to Alda
paid.
CCXXVII
The Emperor sitteth
in Aix again,
With Gan, the felon,
in iron chain,
The very palace walls
beside,
By serfs unto a stake
was tied.
They bound his hands
with leathern thong,
Beat him with staves
and cordage strong;
Nor hath he earned a
better fee.
And there in pain awaits
his plea.
CCXXVIII
’Tis written in
the ancient geste,
How Karl hath summoned
east and west.
At La Chapelle assembled
they;
High was the feast and
great the day—
Saint Sylvester’s,
the legend ran.
The plea and judgment
then began
Of Ganelon, who the
treason wrought,
Now face to face with
his Emperor brought.
CCXXIX
“Lords, my barons,”
said Karl the king,
“On Gan be righteous
reckoning:
He followed in my host
to Spain;
Through him ten thousand
Franks lie slain
And slain was he, my
sister’s son,
Whom never more ye look
upon,
With Olivier the sage
and bold,
And all my peers, betrayed
for gold.”
“Shame befall
me,” said Gan, “if I
Now or ever the deed
deny;
Foully he wronged me
in wealth and land,
And I his death and
ruin planned:
Therein, I say, was
treason none.”
They said, “We
will advise thereon.”
CCXXX
Count Gan to the Emperor’s
presence came,
Fresh of hue and lithe
of frame,
With a baron’s
mien, were his heart but true.
On his judges round
his glance he threw,
And on thirty kinsmen
by his side,
And thus, with mighty
voice, he cried:
“Hear me, barons,
for love of God.
In the Emperor’s
host was I abroad—
Well I served him, and
loyally,
But his nephew, Roland,
hated me:
He doomed my doom of
death and woe,
That I to Marsil’s
court should go.
My craft, the danger
put aside,
But Roland loudly I
defied,
With Olivier, and all
their crew,
As Karl, and these his
barons, knew.
Vengeance, not treason,
have I wrought.”
“Thereon,”
they answered, “take we thought.”
CCXXXI
When Ganelon saw the
plea begin,
He mustered thirty of
his kin,
With one revered by
all the rest—
Pinabel of Sorrence’s
crest.
Well can his tongue
his cause unfold,
And a vassal brave his
arms to hold.
“Thine aid,”
said Ganelon, “I claim;
To rescue me from death
and shame.”
Said Pinabel, “Rescued
shalt thou be.
Let any Frank thy death
decree,
And, wheresoe’er
the king deems meet,
I will him body to body
greet,
Give him the lie with
my brand of steel.”
Ganelon sank at his
feet to kneel.
CCXXXII
Come Frank and Norman
to council in,
Bavarian, Saxon, and
Poitevin,
With all the barons
of Teuton blood;
But the men of Auvergne
are mild of mood—
Their hearts are swayed
unto Pinabel.
Saith each to other,
“Pause we well.
Let us leave this plea,
and the king implore
To set Count Ganelon
free once more.
Henceforth to serve
him in love and faith:
Count Roland lieth cold
in death:
Not all the gold beneath
the sky
Can give him back to
mortal eye;
Such battle would but
madness be.”
They all applauded his
decree,
Save Thierry—Geoffrey’s
brother he.
CCXXXIII
The barons came the
king before.
“Fair Sire, we
all thy grace implore,
That Gan be suffered
free to go,
His faith and love henceforth
to show.
Oh, let him live—a
noble he.
Your Roland you shall
never see:
No wealth of gold may
him recall.”
Karl answered, “Ye
are felons all.”
CCXXXIV
When Karl saw all forsake
him now,
Dark grew his face and
drooped his brow.
He said, “Of men
most wretched I!”
Stepped forth Thierry
speedily,
Duke Geoffrey’s
brother, a noble knight,
Spare of body, and lithe
and light,
Dark his hair and his
hue withal,
Nor low of stature,
nor over tall:
To Karl, in courteous
wise, he said,
“Fair Sire, be
not disheartened.
I have served you truly,
and, in the name
Of my lineage, I this
quarrel claim.
If Roland wronged Sir
Gan in aught,
Your service had his
safeguard wrought.
Ganelon bore him like
caitiff base,
A perjured traitor before
your face.
I adjudge him to die
on the gallows tree;
Flung to the hounds
let his carcase be,
The doom of treason
and felony.
Let kin of his but say
I lie,
And with this girded
sword will I
My plighted word in
fight maintain.”
“Well spoken,”
cry the Franks amain.
CCXXXV
Sir Pinabel stood before
Karl in place,
Vast of body and swift
of pace,—
Small hope hath he whom
his sword may smite.
“Sire, it is yours
to decide the right,
Bid this clamor around
to pause.
Thierry hath dared to
adjudge the cause;
He lieth. Battle
thereon I do.”
And forth his right-hand
glove he drew.
But the Emperor said,
“In bail to me
Shall thirty of his
kinsmen be;
I yield him pledges
on my side:
Be they guarded well
till the right be tried.”
When Thierry saw the
fight shall be,
To Karl his right glove
reacheth he;
The Emperor gave his
pledges o’er.
And set in place were
benches four—
Thereon the champions
take their seat,
And all is ranged in
order meet,—
The preparations Ogier
speeds,—
And both demand their
arms and steeds.
CCXXXVI
But yet, ere lay they
lance in rest,
They make their shrift,
are sained and blessed;
They hear the Mass,
the Host receive,
Great gifts to church
and cloister leave.
They stand before the
Emperor’s face;
The spurs upon their
feet they lace;
Gird on their corselets,
strong and light;
Close on their heads
the helmets bright.
The golden hilts at
belt are hung;
Their quartered shields
from shoulder swung.
In hand the mighty spears
they lift,
Then spring they on
their chargers swift.
A hundred thousand cavaliers
The while for Thierry
drop their tears;
They pity him for Roland’s
sake.
God knows what end the
strife will take.
CCXXXVII
At Aix is a wide and
grassy plain,
Where met in battle
the barons twain.
Both of valorous knighthood
are,
Their chargers swift
and apt for war.
They prick them hard
with slackened rein;
Drive each at other
with might and main.
Their bucklers are in
fragments flung,
Their hauberks rent,
their girths unstrung;
With saddles turned,
they earthward rolled.
A hundred thousand in
tears behold.
CCXXXVIII
Both cavaliers to earth
are gone,
Both rise and leap on
foot anon.
Strong is Pinabel, swift
and light;
Each striketh other,
unhorsed they fight;
With golden-hilted swords,
they deal
Fiery strokes on the
helms of steel.
Trenchant and fierce
is their every blow.
The Franks look on in
wondrous woe.
“O God,”
saith Karl, “Thy judgment show.”
CCXXXIX
“Yield thee, Thierry,”
said Pinabel.
“In love and faith
will I serve thee well,
And all my wealth to
thy feet will bring,
Win Ganelon’s
pardon from the king.”
“Never,”
Thierry in scorn replied,
“Shall thought
so base in my bosom bide!
God betwixt us this
day decide.”
CCXL
“Ah, Pinabel!”
so Thierry spake,
“Thou art a baron
of stalwart make,
Thy knighthood known
to every peer,—
Come, let us cease this
battle here.
With Karl thy concord
shall be won,
But on Ganelon be justice
done;
Of him henceforth let
speech be none.”
“No,” said
Pinabel; “God forefend!
My kinsman I to the
last defend;
Nor will I blench for
mortal face,—
Far better death than
such disgrace.”
Began they with their
glaves anew
The gold-encrusted helms
to hew;
Towards heaven the fiery
sparkles flew.
They shall not be disjoined
again,
Nor end the strife till
one be slain.
CCXLI
Pinabel, lord of Sorrence’s
keep,
Smote Thierry’s
helm with stroke so deep
The very fire that from
it came
Hath set the prairie
round in flame;
The edge of steel did
his forehead trace
Adown the middle of
his face;
His hauberk to the centre
clave.
God deigned Thierry
from death to save.
CCXLII
When Thierry felt him
wounded so,
For his bright blood
flowed on the grass below,
He smote on Pinabel’s
helmet brown,
Cut and clave to the
nasal down;
Dashed his brains from
forth his head,
And, with stroke of
prowess, cast him dead.
Thus, at a blow, was
the battle won:
“God,” say
the Franks, “hath this marvel done.”
CCXLIII
When Thierry thus was
conqueror,
He came the Emperor
Karl before.
Full fifty barons were
in his train,
Duke Naimes, and Ogier
the noble Dane,
Geoffrey of Anjou and
William of Blaye.
Karl clasped him in
his arms straightway
With skin of sable he
wiped his face;
Then cast it from him,
and, in its place,
Bade him in fresh attire
be drest.
His armor gently the
knights divest;
On an Arab mule they
make him ride:
So returns he, in joy
and pride.
To the open plain of
Aix they come,
Where the kin of Ganelon
wait their doom.
CCXLIV
Karl his dukes and his
counts addressed:
“Say, what of
those who in bondage rest—
Who came Count Ganelon’s
plea to aid,
And for Pinabel were
bailsmen made?”
“One and all let
them die the death.”
And the king to Basbrun,
his provost, saith
“Go, hang them
all on the gallows tree.
By my beard I swear,
so white to see,
If one escape, thou
shalt surely die.”
“Mine be the task,”
he made reply.
A hundred men-at-arms
are there:
The thirty to their
doom they bear.
The traitor shall his
guilt atone,
With blood of others
and his own.
CCXLV
The men of Bavaria and
Allemaine,
Norman and Breton return
again,
And with all the Franks
aloud they cry,
That Gan a traitor’s
death shall die.
They bade be brought
four stallions fleet;
Bound to them Ganelon,
hands and feet:
Wild and swift was each
savage steed,
And a mare was standing
within the mead;
Four grooms impelled
the coursers on,—
A fearful ending for
Ganelon.
His every nerve was
stretched and torn,
And the limbs of his
body apart were borne;
The bright blood, springing
from every vein,
Left on the herbage
green its stain.
He died a felon and
recreant:
Never shall traitor
his treason vaunt.
CCXLVI
Now was the Emperor’s
vengeance done,
And he called to the
bishops of France anon
With those of Bavaria
and Allemaine.
“A noble captive
is in my train.
She hath hearkened to
sermon and homily,
And a true believer
in Christ will be;
Baptize her so that
her soul have grace.”
They say, “Let
ladies of noble race,
At her christening,
be her sponsors vowed.”
And so there gathered
a mighty crowd.
At the baths of Aix
was the wondrous scene—
There baptized they
the Spanish queen;
Julienne they have named
her name.
In faith and truth unto
Christ she came.
CCXLVII
When the Emperor’s
justice was satisfied,
His mighty wrath did
awhile subside.
Queen Bramimonde was
a Christian made,
The day passed on into
night’s dark shade;
As the king in his vaulted
chamber lay,
Saint Gabriel came from
God to say,
“Karl, thou shalt
summon thine empire’s host,
And march in haste to
Bira’s coast;
Unto Impha city relief
to bring,
And succor Vivian, the
Christian king.
The heathens in siege
have the town essayed
And the shattered Christians
invoke thine aid.”
Fain would Karl such
task decline.
“God! what a life
of toil is mine!”
He wept; his hoary beard
he wrung.
* * * * *
So ends the lay Turoldus sung.
THE DESTRUCTION OF DA DERGA’S HOSTEL
WHITLEY STOKES, D.C.L.
The vast and interesting epic literature of Ireland remained practically inaccessible to English readers till within the last sixty years. In 1853, Nicholas O’Kearney published the Irish text and an English translation of “The Battle of Gabra,” and since that date the volume of printed texts and English versions has steadily increased, until now there lies open to the ordinary reader a very considerable mass of material illustrating the imaginative life of medieval Ireland.
Of these Irish epic tales, “The Destruction of Da Derga’s Hostel” is a specimen of remarkable beauty and power. The primitive nature of the story is shown by the fact that the plot turns upon the disasters that follow on the violation of tabus or prohibitions often with a supernatural sanction, by the monstrous nature of many of the warriors, and by the utter absence of any attempt to rationalise or explain the beliefs implied or the marvels related in it. The powers and achievements of the heroes are fantastic and extraordinary beyond description, and the natural and extra-natural constantly mingle; yet nowhere, does the narrator express surprise. The technical method of the tale, too, is curiously and almost mechanically symmetrical, after the manner of savage art; and both description and narration are marked by a high degree of freshness and vividness.
The following translation is, with slight modification, that of Dr. Whitley Stokes, from a text constructed by him on the basis of eight manuscripts, the oldest going back to about 1100 A.D. The story itself is, without doubt, several centuries earlier, and belongs to the oldest group of extant Irish sagas._
There was a famous and noble king over Erin, named Eochaid Feidlech. Once upon a time he came over the fairgreen of Bri Leith, and he saw at the edge of a well a woman with a bright comb of silver adorned with gold, washing in a silver basin wherein were four golden birds and little, bright gems of purple carbuncle in the rims of the basin. A mantle she had, curly and purple, a beautiful cloak, and in the mantle silvery fringes arranged, and a brooch of fairest gold. A kirtle she wore, long, hooded, hard-smooth, of green silk, with red embroidery of gold. Marvellous clasps of gold and silver in the kirtle on her breasts and her shoulders and spaulds on every side. The sun kept shining upon her, so that the glistening of the gold against the sun from the green silk was manifest to men. On her head were two golden-yellow tresses, in each of which was a plait of four locks, with a bead at the point of each lock. The hue of that hair seemed to them like the flower of the iris in summer, or like red gold after the burnishing thereof.
There she was, undoing her hair to wash it, with her arms out through the sleeve-holes of her smock. White as the snow of one night were the two hands, soft and even, and red as foxglove were the two clear-beautiful cheeks. Dark as the back of a stag-beetle the two eyebrows. Like a shower of pearls were the teeth in her head. Blue as a hyacinth were the eyes. Red as rowan-berries the lips. Very high, smooth and soft-white the shoulders. Clear-white and lengthy the fingers. Long were the hands. White as the foam of a wave was the flank, slender, long, tender, smooth, soft as wool. Polished and warm, sleek and white were the two thighs. Round and small, hard and white the two knees. Short and white and rulestraight the two shins. Justly straight and beautiful the two heels. If a measure were put on the feet it would hardly have found them unequal, unless the flesh of the coverings should grow upon them. The bright radiance of the moon was in her noble face: the loftiness of pride in her smooth eyebrows: the light of wooing in each of her regal eyes. A dimple of delight in each of her cheeks, with a dappling (?) in them at one time, of purple spots with redness of a calf’s blood, and at another with the bright lustre of snow. Soft womanly dignity in her voice; a step steady and slow she had: a queenly gait was hers. Verily, of the world’s women ’twas she was the dearest and loveliest and justest that the eyes of men had ever beheld. It seemed to King Eochaid and his followers that she was from the elfmounds. Of her was said: “Shapely are all till compared with Etain,” “Dear are all till compared with Etain.”
A longing for her straightway seized the king; so he sent forward a man of his people to detain her. The king asked tidings of her and said, while announcing himself: “Shall I have an hour of dalliance with thee?”
“’Tis for that we have come hither under thy safeguard,” quoth she.
“Query, whence art thou and whence hast thou come?” says Eochaid.
“Easy to say,” quoth she. “Etain am I, daughter of Etar, king of the cavalcade from the elfmounds. I have been here for twenty years since I was born in an elfmound. The men of the elfmound, both kings and nobles, have been wooing me; but nought was gotten from me, because ever since I was able to speak, I have loved thee and given thee a child’s love for the high tales about thee and thy splendour. And though I had never seen thee, I knew thee at once from thy description: it is thou, then, I have reached.”
“No ‘seeking of an ill friend afar’ shall be thine,” says Eochaid. “Thou shalt have welcome, and for thee every other woman shall be left by me, and with thee alone will I live so long as thou hast honour.”
“My proper bride-price to me!” she says, “and afterwards my desire.”
“Thou shalt have both,” says Eochaid.
Seven cumals[3] are given to her.
[Footnote 3: I.e., twenty-one cows.]
Then the king, even Eochaid Feidlech, dies, leaving one daughter named, like her mother, Etain, and wedded to Cormac, king of Ulaid.
After the end of a time Cormac, king of Ulaid, “the man of the three gifts,” forsakes Eochaid’s daughter, because she was barren save for one daughter that she had borne to Cormac after the making of the pottage which her mother—the woman from the elfmounds—gave her. Then she said to her mother: “Bad is what thou hast given me: it will be a daughter that I shall bear.”
“That will not be good,” says her mother; “a king’s pursuit will be on her.”
Then Cormac weds again his wife, even Etain, and this was his desire, that the daughter of the woman who had before been abandoned [i.e. his own daughter] should be killed. So Cormac would not leave the girl to her mother to be nursed. Then his two thralls take her to a pit, and she smiles a laughing smile at them as they were putting her into it. Then their kindly nature came to them. They carry her into the calfshed of the cowherds of Etirscel, great-grandson of Iar, king of Tara, and they fostered her till she became a good embroideress; and there was not in Ireland a king’s daughter dearer than she.
A fenced house of wickerwork was made by the thralls for her, without any door, but only a window and a skylight. King Eterscel’s folk espy that house and suppose that it was food that the cowherds kept there. But one of them went and looked through the skylight, and he saw in the house the dearest, beautifullest maiden! This is told to the king, and straightway he sends his people to break the house and carry her off without asking the cowherds. For the king was childless, and it had been prophesied to him by his wizards that a woman of unknown race would bear him a son.
Then said the king: “This is the woman that has been prophesied to me!”
Now while she was there next morning she saw a Bird on the skylight coming to her, and he leaves his birdskin on the floor of the house, and went to her and possessed her, and said: “They are coming to thee from the king to wreck thy house and to bring thee to him perforce. And thou wilt be pregnant by me, and bear a son, and that son must not kill birds[4]. And ‘Conaire, son of Mess Buachalla’ shall be his name,” for hers was Mess Buachalla, “the Cowherds’ fosterchild.”
[Footnote 4: This passage indicates the existence in Ireland of totems, and of the rule that the person to whom a totem belongs must not kill the totem-animal.—W.S.]
And then she was brought to the king, and with her went her fosterers, and she was betrothed to the king, and he gave her seven cumals and to her fosterers seven other cumals. And afterwards they were made chieftains, so that they all became legitimate, whence are the two Fedlimthi Rechtaidi. And then she bore a son to the king, even Conaire son of Mess Buachalla, and these were her three urgent prayers to the king, to wit, the nursing of her son among three households, that is, the fosterers who had nurtured her, and the two Honeyworded Maines, and she herself is the third; and she said that such of the men of Erin as should wish to do aught for this boy should give to those three households for the boy’s protection.
So in that wise he was reared, and the men of Erin straightway knew this boy on the day he was born. And other boys were fostered with him, to wit, Fer Le and Fer Gar and Fer Rogein, three great-grandsons of Donn Desa the champion, an army-man of the army from Muc-lesi.
Now Conaire possessed three gifts, to wit, the gift of hearing and the gift of eyesight and the gift of judgment; and of those three gifts he taught one to each of his three fosterbrothers. And whatever meal was prepared for him, the four of them would go to it. Even though three meals were prepared for him each of them would go to his meal. The same raiment and armour and colour of horses had the four.
Then the king, even Eterscele, died. A bull-feast is gathered by the men of Erin, in order to determine their future king; that is, a bull used to be killed by them and thereof one man would eat his fill and drink its broth, and a spell of truth was chanted over him in his bed. Whosoever he would see in his sleep would be king, and the sleeper would perish if he uttered a falsehood.
Four men in chariots were on the Plain of Liffey at their game, Conaire himself and his three fosterbrothers. Then his fosterers went to him that he might repair to the bull-feast. The bull-feaster, then in his sleep, at the end of the night beheld a man stark-naked, passing along the road of Tara, with a stone in his sling.
“I will go in the morning after you,” quoth he.
He left his fosterbrothers at their game, and turned his chariot and his charioteer until he was in Dublin. There he saw great, white-speckled birds, of unusual size and colour and beauty. He pursues then until his horses were tired. The birds would go a spearcast before him, and would not go any further. He alighted, and takes his sling for them out of the chariot. He goes after them until he was at the sea. The birds betake themselves to the wave. He went to them and overcame them. The birds quit their birdskins, and turn upon him with spears and swords. One of them protects him, and addressed him, saying: “I am Nemglan, king of thy father’s birds; and thou hast been forbidden to cast at birds, for here there is no one that should not be dear to thee because of his father or mother.”
“Till to-day,” says Conaire, “I knew not this.”
“Go to Tara tonight,” says Nemglan; “’tis fittest for thee. A bull-feast is there, and through it thou shalt be king. A man stark-naked, who shall go at the end of the night along one of the roads of Tara, having a stone and a sling—’tis he that shall be king.”
So in this wise Conaire fared forth; and on each of the four roads whereby men go to Tara there were three kings awaiting him, and they had raiment for him, since it had been foretold that he would come stark-naked. Then he was seen from the road on which his fosterers were, and they put royal raiment about him, and placed him in a chariot, and he bound his pledges.
The folk of Tara said to him: “It seems to us that our bull-feast and our spell of truth are a failure, if it be only a young, beardless lad that we have visioned therein.”
“That is of no moment,” quoth he. “For a young, generous king like me to be in the kingship is no disgrace, since the binding of Tara’s pledges is mine by right of father and grandsire.”
“Excellent! excellent!” says the host. They set the kingship of Erin upon him. And he said: “I will enquire of wise men that I myself may be wise.”
Then he uttered all this as he had been taught by the man at the wave, who said this to him: “Thy reign will be subject to a restriction, but the bird-reign will be noble, and this shall be thy restriction, i.e. thy tabu.
“Thou shalt not go righthandwise round Tara and lefthandwise round Bregia.
“The evil-beasts of Cerna must not be hunted by thee.
“And thou shalt not go out every ninth night beyond Tara.
“Thou shalt not sleep in a house from which firelight is manifest outside, after sunset, and in which light is manifest from without.
“And three Reds shall not go before thee to Red’s house.
“And no rapine shall be wrought in thy reign.
“And after sunset a company of one woman or one man shall not enter the house in which thou art.
“And thou shalt not settle the quarrel of thy two thralls.
Now there were in his reign great bounties, to wit, seven ships in every June in every year arriving at Inver Colptha[5], and oakmast up to the knees in every autumn, and plenty of fish in the rivers Bush and Boyne in the June of each year, and such abundance of good will that no one slew another in Erin during his reign. And to every one in Erin his fellow’s voice seemed as sweet as the strings of lutes. From mid-spring to mid-autumn no wind disturbed a cow’s tail. His reign was neither thunderous nor stormy.
[Footnote 5: The mouth of the river Boyne.—W.S.]
Now his fosterbrothers murmured at the taking from them of their father’s and their grandsire’s gifts, namely Theft and Robbery and Slaughter of men and Rapine. They thieved the three thefts from the same man, to wit, a swine and an ox and a cow, every year, that they might see what punishment therefor the king would inflict upon them, and what damage the theft in his reign would cause to the king.
Now every year the farmer would come to the king to complain, and the king would say to him. “Go thou and address Donn Desa’s three great-grandsons, for ’tis they that have taken the beasts.” Whenever he went to speak to Donn Desa’s descendants they would almost kill him, and he would not return to the king lest Conaire should attend his hurt.
Since, then, pride and wilfulness possessed them, they took to marauding, surrounded by the sons of the lords of the men of Erin. Thrice fifty men had they as pupils when they (the pupils) were were-wolfing in the province of Connaught, until Maine Milscothach’s swineherd saw them, and he had never seen that before. He went in flight. When they heard him they pursued him. The swineherd shouted, and the people of the two Maines came to him, and the thrice fifty men were arrested, along with their auxiliaries, and taken to Tara. They consulted the king concerning the matter, and he said: “Let each (father) slay his son, but let my fosterlings be spared.”
“Leave, leave!” says every one: “it shall be done for thee.”
“Nay indeed,” quoth he; “no ‘cast of life’ by me is the doom I have delivered. The men shall not be hung; but let veterans go with them that they may wreak their rapine on the men of Alba.”
This they do. Thence they put to sea and met the son of the king of Britain, even Ingcel the One-eyed, grandson of Conmac: thrice fifty men and their veterans they met upon the sea.
They make an alliance, and go with Ingcel and wrought rapine with him.
This is the destruction which his own impulse gave him. That was the night that his mother and his father and his seven brothers had been bidden to the house of the king of his district. All of them were destroyed by Ingcel in a single night. Then the Irish pirates put out to sea to the land of Erin to seek a destruction as payment for that to which Ingcel had been entitled from them.
In Conaire’s reign there was perfect peace in Erin, save that in Thomond there was a joining of battle between the two Carbres. Two fosterbrothers of his were they. And until Conaire came it was impossible to make peace between them. ’Twas a tabu of his to go to separate them before they had repaired to him. He went, however, although to do so was one of his tabus, and he made peace between them. He remained five nights with each of the two. That also was a tabu of his.
After settling the two quarrels, he was travelling to Tara. This is the way they took to Tara, past Usnech of Meath; and they saw the raiding from east and west, and from south and north, and they saw the warbands and the hosts and the men stark-naked; and the land of the southern O’Neills was a cloud of fire around him.
“What is this?” asked Conaire. “Easy to say,” his people answer. “Easy to know that the king’s law has broken down therein, since the country has begun to burn.”
“Whither shall we betake ourselves?” says Conaire.
“To the Northeast,” says his people.
So then they went righthandwise round Tara, and lefthandwise round Bregia, and the evil beasts of Cerna were hunted by him. But he saw it not till the chase had ended.
They that made of the world that smoky mist of magic were elves, and they did so because Conaire’s tabus had been violated.
Great fear then fell on Conaire because they had no way to wend save upon the Road of Midluachair and the Road of Cualu.
So they took their way by the coast of Ireland southward.
Then said Conaire on the Road of Cualu: “whither shall we go tonight?”
“May I succeed in telling thee! my fosterling Conaire,” says Mac cecht, son of Snade Teiched, the champion of Conaire, son of Eterscel. “Oftener have the men of Erin been contending for thee every night than thou hast been wandering about for a guesthouse.”
“Judgment goes with good times,” says Conaire. “I had a friend in this country, if only we knew the way to his house!”
“What is his name?” asked Mac cecht.
“Da Derga of Leinster,” answered Conaire. “He came unto me to seek a gift from me, and he did not come with a refusal. I gave him a hundred kine of the drove. I gave him a hundred fatted swine. I gave him a hundred mantles made of close cloth. I gave him a hundred blue-coloured weapons of battle. I gave him ten red, gilded brooches. I gave him ten vats good and brown. I gave him ten thralls. I gave him ten querns. I gave him thrice nine hounds all-white in their silvern chains. I gave him a hundred racehorses in the herds of deer. There would be no abatement in his case though he should come again. He would make return. It is strange if he is surly to me tonight when reaching his abode.”
“When I was acquainted with his house,” says Mac cecht, “the road whereon thou art going towards him was the boundary of his abode. It continues till it enters his house, for through the house passes the road. There are seven doorways into the house, and seven bedrooms between every two doorways; but there is only one door-valve on it, and that valve is turned to every doorway to which the wind blows.”
“With all that thou hast here,” says Conaire, “thou shalt go in thy great multitude until thou alight in the midst of the house.”
“If so be,” answers Mac cecht, “that thou goest thither, I go on that I may strike fire there ahead of thee.”
When Conaire after this was journeying along the Road of Cualu, he marked before him three horsemen riding towards the house. Three red frocks had they, and three red mantles: three red bucklers they bore, and three red spears were in their hands: three red steeds they bestrode, and three red heads of hair were on them. Red were they all, both body and hair and raiment, both steeds and men.
“Who is it that fares before us?” asked Conaire. “It was a tabu of mine for those Three to go before me—the three Reds to the house of Red. Who will follow them and tell them to come towards me in my track?”
“I will follow them,” says Le fri flaith, Conaire’s son.
He goes after them, lashing his horse, and overtook them not. There was the length of a spearcast between them: but they did not gain upon him and he did not gain upon them.
He told them not to go before the king. He overtook them not; but one of the three men sang a lay to him over his shoulder:
“Lo, my son, great the news, news from a hostel.... Lo my son!”
They go away from him then: he could not detain them.
The boy waited for the host. He told his father what was said to him. Conaire liked it not. “After them, thou!” says Conaire, “and offer them three oxen and three bacon-pigs, and so long as they shall be in my household, no one shall be among them from fire to wall.”
So the lad goes after them, and offers them that, and overtook them not. But one of the three men sang a lay to him over his shoulder:
“Lo, my son, great the news! A generous king’s great ardour whets thee, burns thee. Through ancient men’s enchantments a company of nine yields. Lo, my son!”
The boy turns back and repeated the lay to Conaire.
“Go after them,” says Conaire, “and offer them six oxen and six bacon-pigs, and my leavings, and gifts tomorrow, and so long as they shall be in my household no one to be among them from fire to wall.”
The lad then went after them, and overtook them not; but one of the three men answered and said:
“Lo, my son, great the news. Weary are the steeds we ride. We ride the steeds of Donn Tetscorach from the elfmounds. Though we are alive we are dead. Great are the signs; destruction of life: sating of ravens: feeding of crows, strife of slaughter: wetting of sword-edge, shields with broken bosses in hours after sundown. Lo, my son!”
Then they go from him.
“I see that thou hast not detained the men,” says Conaire.
“Indeed it is not I that betrayed it,” says Le fri flaith.
He recited the last answer that they gave him. Conaire and his retainers were not blithe thereat: and afterwards evil forebodings of terror were on them.
“All my tabus have seized me tonight,” says Conaire, “since those Three Reds are the banished folks[6].”
[Footnote 6: They had been banished from the elfmounds, and for them to precede was to violate one of his tabus.—W.S.]
They went forward to the house and took their seats therein, and fastened their red steeds to the door of the house.
That is the Forefaring of the Three Reds in the Bruden Da Derga.
This is the way that Conaire took with his troops, to Dublin.
’Tis then the man of the black, cropt hair, with his one hand and one eye and one foot, overtook them. Rough cropt hair upon him. Though a sackful of wild apples were flung on his crown, not an apple would fall on the ground, but each of them would stick on his hair. Though his snout were flung on a branch they would remain together. Long and thick as an outer yoke was each of his two shins. Each of his buttocks was the size of a cheese on a withe. A forked pole of iron black-pointed was in his hand. A swine, black-bristled, singed, was on his back, squealing continually, and a woman big-mouthed, huge, dark, sorry, hideous, was behind him. Though her snout were flung on a branch, the branch would support it. Her lower lip would reach her knee.
He starts forward to meet Conaire, and made him welcome. “Welcome to thee, O master Conaire! Long hath thy coming hither been known.”
“Who gives the welcome?” asks Conaire.
“Fer Caille here, with his black swine for thee to consume that thou be not fasting tonight, for ’tis thou art the best king that has come into the world!”
“What is thy wife’s name?” says Conaire.
“Cichuil,” he answers.
“Any other night,” says Conaire, “that pleases you, I will come to you,—and leave us alone to night.”
“Nay,” say the churl, “for we will go to thee to the place wherein thou wilt be tonight, O fair little master Conaire!”
So he goes towards the house, with his great, big-mouthed wife behind him, and his swine short-bristled, black, singed, squealing continually, on his back. That was one of Conaire’s tabus, and that plunder should be taken in Ireland during his reign was another tabu of his.
Now plunder was taken by the sons of Donn Desa, and five hundred there were in the body of their marauders, besides what underlings were with them. This, too, was a tabu of Conaire’s. There was a good warrior in the north country, “Wain over withered sticks,” this was his name. Why he was so called was because he used to go over his opponent even as a wain would go over withered sticks. Now plunder was taken by him, and there were five hundred in the body of their marauders alone, besides underlings.
There was after that a troop of still haughtier heroes, namely, the seven sons of Ailill and Medb, each of whom was called “Mane.” And each Mane had a nickname, to wit, Mane Fatherlike and Mane Motherlike, and Mane otherlike, and Mane Gentle-pious, Mane Very-pious, Mane Unslow, and Mane Honeyworded, Mane Grasp-them-all, and Mane the Loquacious. Rapine was wrought by them. As to Mane Motherlike and Mane Unslow there were fourteen score in the body of their marauders. Mane Fatherlike had three hundred and fifty. Mane Honeyworded had five hundred. Mane Grasp-them-all had seven hundred. Mane the Loquacious had seven hundred. Each of the others had five hundred in the body of his marauders.
There was a valiant trio of the men of Cualu of Leinster, namely, the three Red Hounds of Cualu, called Cethach and Clothach and Conall. Now rapine was wrought by them, and twelve score were in the body of their marauders, and they had a troop of madmen. In Conaire’s reign a third of the men of Ireland were reavers. He was of sufficient strength and power to drive them out of the land of Erin so as to transfer their marauding to the other side (Great Britain), but after this transfer they returned to their country.
When they had reached the shoulder of the sea, they meet Ingcel the One-eyed and Eiccel and Tulchinne, three great-grandsons of Conmac of Britain, on the raging of the sea. A man ungentle, huge, fearful, uncouth was Ingcel. A single eye in his head, as broad as an oxhide, as black as a chafer, with three pupils therein. Thirteen hundred were in the body of his marauders. The marauders of the men of Erin were more numerous then they.
They go for a sea-encounter on the main. “Ye should not do this,” says Ingcel: “do not break the truth of men (fair play) upon us, for ye are more in number than I.”
“Nought but a combat on equal terms shall befall thee,” say the reavers of Erin.
“There is somewhat better for you,” quoth Ingcel. “Let us make peace since ye have been cast out of the land of Erin, and we have been cast out of the land of Alba and Britain. Let us make an agreement between us. Come ye and wreak your rapine in my country, and I will go with you and wreak my rapine in your country.”
They follow this counsel, and they gave pledges therefor from this side and from that. There are the sureties that were given to Ingcel by the men of Erin, namely, Fer gair and Gabur (or Fer lee) and Fer rogain, for the destruction that Ingcel should choose to cause in Ireland and for the destruction that the sons of Donn Desa should choose in Alba and Britain.
A lot was cast upon them to see with which of them they should go first. It fell that they should go with Ingcel to his country. So they made for Britain, and there his father and mother and his seven brothers were slain, as we have said before. Thereafter they made for Alba, and there they wrought the destruction, and then they returned to Erin.
’Tis then, now, that Conaire son of Eterscel went towards the Hostel along the Road of Cualu.
’Tis then that the reavers came till they were in the sea off the coast of Bregia overagainst Howth.
Then said the reavers: “Strike the sails, and make one band of you on the sea that ye may not be sighted from land; and let some lightfoot be found from among you to go on shore to see if we could save our honors with Ingcel. A destruction for the destruction he has given us.”
“Who will go on shore to listen? Let some one go,” says Ingcel, “who should have there the three gifts, namely gift of hearing, gift of far sight, and gift of judgment.”
“I,” says Mane Honeyworded, “have the gift of hearing.”
“And I,” says Mane Unslow, “have the gift of far sight and of judgment.”
“’Tis well for you to go thus,” say the reavers: “good is that wise.”
Then nine men go on till they were on the Hill of Howth, to know what they might hear and see.
“Be still a while!” says Mane Honeyworded.
“What is that?” asks Mane Unslow.
“The sound of a good king’s cavalcade I hear.”
“By the gift of far sight, I see,” quoth his comrade.
“What seest thou here?”
“I see there,” quoth he, “cavalcades splendid, lofty, beautiful, warlike, foreign, somewhat slender, weary, active, keen, whetted, vehement, a good course that shakes a great covering of land. They fare to many heights, with wondrous waters and invers[7].”
[Footnote 7: Mouths of rivers.]
“What are the waters and heights and invers that they traverse?”
“Easy to say: Indeoin, Cult, Cuilten, Mafat, Ammat, Iarmafat, Finne, Goiste, Guistine. Gray spears over chariots: ivory-hilted swords on thighs: silvery shields above their elbows. Half red and half white. Garments of every color about them.
“Thereafter I see before them special cattle specially keen, to wit, thrice fifty dark-gray steeds. Small-headed are they, red-nosed, pointed, broad-hoofed, big-nosed, red-chested, fat, easily-stopt, easily-yoked, foray-nimble, keen, whetted, vehement, with their thrice fifty bridles of red enamel upon them.”
“I swear by what my tribe swears,” says the man of the long sight, “these are the cattle of some good lord. This is my judgment thereof: it is Conaire, son of Eterscel, with multitudes of the men of Erin around him, who has travelled the road.”
Back then they go that they may tell it to the reavers. “This,” they say, “is what we have heard and seen.”
Of this host, then, there was a multitude, both on this side and on that, namely, thrice fifty boats, with five thousand in them, and ten hundred in every thousand. Then they hoisted the sails on the boats, and steer them thence to shore, till they landed on the Strand of Fuirbthe.
When the boats reached land, then was Mac cecht a-striking fire in Da Derga’s Hostel. At the sound of the spark the thrice fifty boats were hurled out, so that they were on the shoulders of the sea.
“Be silent a while!” said Ingcel. “Liken thou that, O Fer rogain.”
“I know not,” answers Fer rogain, “unless it is Luchdonn the satirist in Emain Macha, who makes this hand-smiting when his food is taken from him perforce: or the scream of Luchdonn in Temair Luachra: or Mac cecht’s striking a spark, when he kindles a fire before a king of Erin where he sleeps. Every spark and every shower which his fire would let fall on the floor would broil a hundred calves and two half-pigs.”
“May God not bring that man (even Conaire) there to-night!” say Donn Desa’s sons. “Sad that he is under the hurt of foes!”
“Meseems,” says Ingcel, “it should be no sadder for me than the destruction I gave you. This were my feast that Conaire should chance to come there.”
Their fleet is steered to land. The noise that the thrice fifty vessels made in running ashore shook Da Derga’s Hostel so that no spear nor shield remained on rack therein, but the weapons uttered a cry and fell all on the floor of the house.
“Liken thou that, O Conaire,” says every one: “what is this noise?”
“I know nothing like it unless it be the earth that has broken, or the Leviathan that surrounds the globe and strikes with its tail to overturn the world, or the barque of the sons of Donn Desa that has reached the shore. Alas that it should not be they who are there! Beloved foster-brothers of our own were they! Dear were the champions. We should not have feared them tonight.”
Then came Conaire, so that he was on the green of the Hostel.
When Mac cecht heard the tumultuous noise, it seemed to him that warriors had attacked his people. Thereat he leapt on to his armour to help them. Vast as the thunder-feat of three hundred did they deem his game in leaping to his weapons. Thereof there was no profit.
Now in the bow of the ship wherein were Donn Desa’s sons was the champion, greatly-accoutred, wrathful, the lion hard and awful, Ingcel the One-eyed, great-grandson of Conmac. Wide as an oxhide was the single eye protruding from his forehead, with seven pupils therein, which were black as a chafer. Each of his knees as big as a stripper’s caldron; each of his two fists was the size of a reaping-basket: his buttocks as big as a cheese on a withe: each of his shins as long as an outer yoke.
So after that, the thrice fifty boats, and those five thousands—with ten hundred in every thousand,—landed on the Strand of Fuirbthe.
Then Conaire with his people entered the Hostel, and each took his seat within, both tabu and non-tabu. And the three Reds took their seats, and Fer caille with his swine took his seat.
Thereafter Da Derga came to them, with thrice fifty warriors, each of them having a long head of hair to the hollow of his polls, and a short cloak to their buttocks. Speckled-green drawers they wore, and in their hands were thrice fifty great clubs of thorn with bands of iron.
“Welcome, O master Conaire!” quoth he. “Though the bulk of the men of Erin were to come with thee, they themselves would have a welcome.”
When they were there they saw a lone woman coming to the door of the Hostel, after sunset, and seeking to be let in. As long as a weaver’s beam was each of her two shins, and they were as dark as the back of a stag-beetle. A greyish, wooly mantle she wore. Her lower hair used to reach as far as her knee. Her lips were on one side of her head.
She came and put one of her shoulders against the doorpost of the house, casting the evil eye on the king and the youths who surrounded him in the Hostel. He himself addressed her from within.
“Well, O woman,” says Conaire, “if thou art a wizard, what seest thou for us?”
“Truly I see for thee,” she answers, “that neither fell nor flesh of thine shall escape from the place into which thou hast come, save what birds will bear away in their claws.”
“It was not an evil omen we foreboded, O woman,” saith he: “it is not thou that always augurs for us. What is thy name, O woman?”
“Cailb,” she answers.
“That is not much of a name,” says Conaire.
“Lo, many are my names besides.”
“Which be they?” asks Conaire.
“Easy to say,” quoth she. “Samon,
Sinand, Seisclend, Sodb, Caill, Coll,
Dichoem, Dichiuil, Dithim, Dichuimne, Dichruidne,
Dairne, Darine,
Deruaine, Egem, Agam, Ethamne, Gnim, Cluiche, Cethardam,
Nith, Nemain,
Noennen, Badb, Blosc, B[l]oar, Huae, oe Aife la Sruth,
Mache,
Mede, Mod.”
On one foot, and holding up one hand, and breathing one breath she sang all that to them from the door of the house.
“I swear by the gods whom I adore,” says Conaire, “that I will call thee by none of these names whether I shall be here a long or a short time.”
“What dost thou desire?” says Conaire.
“That which thou, too, desirest,” she answered.
“’Tis a tabu of mine,” says Conaire, “to receive the company of one woman after sunset.”
“Though it be a tabu,” she replied, “I will not go until my guesting come at once this very night.”
“Tell her,” says Conaire, “that an ox and a bacon-pig shall be taken out to her, and my leavings: provided that she stays tonight in some other place.”
“If in sooth,” she says, “it has befallen the king not to have room in his house for the meal and bed of a solitary woman, they will be gotten apart from him from some one possessing generosity—if the hospitality of the Prince in the Hostel has departed.”
“Savage is the answer!” says Conaire. “Let her in, though it is a tabu of mine.”
Great loathing they felt after that from the woman’s converse, and ill-foreboding; but they knew not the cause thereof.
The reavers afterwards landed, and fared forth till they were at Lecca cinn slebe. Ever open was the Hostel. Why it was called a Bruden was because it resembles the lips of a man blowing a fire.
Great was the fire which was kindled by Conaire every night, to wit, a “Boar of the Wood.” Seven outlets it had. When a log was cut out of its side every flame that used to come forth at each outlet was as big as the blaze of a burning oratory. There were seventeen of Conaire’s chariots at every door of the house, and by those that were looking from the vessels that great light was clearly seen through the wheels of the chariots.
“Canst thou say, O Fer rogain, what that great light yonder resembles?”
“I cannot liken it to aught,” answers Fer rogain, “unless it be the fire of a king. May God not bring that man there tonight! ’Tis a pity to destroy him!”
“What then deemest thou,” says Ingcel, “of that man’s reign in the land of Erin?”
“Good is his reign,” replied Fer rogain. “Since he assumed the kingship, no cloud has veiled the sun for the space of a day from the middle of spring to the middle of autumn. And not a dewdrop fell from grass till midday, and wind would not touch a beast’s tail until nones. And in his reign, from year’s end to year’s end, no wolf has attacked aught save one bullcalf of each byre; and to maintain this rule there are seven wolves in hostageship at the sidewall in his house, and behind this a further security, even Maclocc, and ’tis he that pleads for them in Conaire’s house. In Conaire’s reign are the three crowns on Erin, namely, crown of corn-ears, and crown of flowers, and crown of oak mast. In his reign, too, each man deems the other’s voice as melodious as the strings of lutes, because of the excellence of the law and the peace and the goodwill prevailing throughout Erin. May God not bring that man there tonight! ’Tis sad to destroy him. ’Tis ’a branch through its blossom,’ ’Tis a swine that falls before mast. ’Tis an infant in age. Sad is the shortness of his life!”
“This was my luck,” says Ingcel, “that he should be there, and there should be one Destruction for another. It were not more grievous to me than my father and my mother and my seven brothers, and the king of my country, whom I gave up to you before coming on the transfer of the rapine.”
“’Tis true, ’tis true!” say the evildoers who were along with the reavers.
The reavers make a start from the Strand of Fuirbthe, and bring a stone for each man to make a cairn; for this was the distinction which at first the Fians made between a “Destruction” and a “Rout.” A pillar-stone they used to plant when there would be a Rout. A cairn, however, they used to make when there would be a Destruction. At this time, then, they made a cairn, for it was a Destruction. Far from the house was this, that they might not be heard or seen therefrom.
For two causes they built their cairn, namely, first, since this was a custom in marauding, and, secondly, that they might find out their losses at the Hostel. Every one that would come safe from it would take his stone from the cairn: thus the stones of those that were slain would be left, and thence they would know their losses. And this is what men skilled in story recount, that for every stone in Carn leca there was one of the reavers killed at the Hostel. From that cairn Leca in Hui Cellaig is so called.
A “boar of a fire” is kindled by the sons of Donn Desa to give warning to Conaire. So that is the first warning-beacon that has been made in Erin, and from it to this day every warning-beacon is kindled.
This is what others recount: that it was on the eve of samain (All-Saints-day) the destruction of the Hostel was wrought, and that from yonder beacon the beacon of samain is followed from that to this, and stones (are placed) in the samain-fire.
Then the reavers framed a counsel at the place where they had put the cairn.
“Well, then,” says Ingcel to the guides, “what is nearest to us here?”
“Easy to say: the Hostel of Hua Derga, chief-hospitaller of Erin.”
“Good men indeed,” says Ingcel, “were likely to seek their fellows at that Hostel to-night.”
This, then, was the counsel of the reavers, to send one of them to see how things were there.
“Who will go there to espy the house?” say everyone.
“Who should go,” says Ingcel, “but I, for ’tis I that am entitled to dues.”
Ingcel went to reconnoitre the Hostel with one of the seven pupils of the single eye which stood out of his forehead, to fit his eye into the house in order to destroy the king and the youths who were around him therein. And Ingcel saw them through the wheels of the chariots.
Then Ingcel was perceived from the house. He made a start from it after being perceived.
He went till he reached the reavers in the stead wherein they were. Each circle of them was set around another to hear the tidings—the chiefs of the reavers being in the very centre of the circles. There were Fer ger and Fer gel and Fer rogel and Fer rogain and Lomna the Buffoon, and Ingcel the One-eyed—six in the centre of the circles. And Fer rogain went to question Ingcel.
“How is that, O Ingcel?” asks Fer rogain.
“However it be,” answers Ingcel, “royal is the custom, hostful is the tumult: kingly is the noise thereof. Whether a king be there or not, I will take the house for what I have a right to. Thence my turn of rapine cometh.”
“We have left it in thy hand, O Ingcel!” say Conaire’s fosterbrothers. “But we should not wreak the Destruction till we know who may be therein.”
“Question, hast thou seen the house well, O Ingcel?” asks Fer rogain.
“Mine eye cast a rapid glance around it, and I will accept it for my dues as it stands.”
“Thou mayest well accept it, O Ingcel,” saith Fer rogain: “the foster father of us all is there, Erin’s overking, Conaire, son of Eterscel.”
“Question, what sawest thou in the champion’s high seat of the house, facing the King, on the opposite side?”
“I saw there,” says Ingcel, “a man of noble countenance, large, with a clear and sparkling eye, an even set of teeth, a face narrow below, broad above. Fair, flaxen, golden hair upon him, and a proper fillet around it. A brooch of silver in his mantle, and in his hand a gold-hilted sword. A shield with five golden circles upon it: a five-barbed javelin in his hand. A visage just, fair, ruddy he hath: he is also beardless. Modest-minded is that man!”
“And after that, whom sawest thou there?”
“There I saw three men to the west of Cormac, and three to the east of him, and three in front of the same man. Thou wouldst deem that the nine of them had one mother and one father. They are of the same age, equally goodly, equally beautiful, all alike. Thin rods of gold in their mantles. Bent shields of bronze they bear. Ribbed javelins above them. An ivory-hilted sword in the hand of each. An unique feat they have, to wit, each of them takes his sword’s point between his two fingers, and they twirl the swords round their fingers, and the swords afterwards extend themselves by themselves. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain,” says Ingcel.
“Easy,” says Fer rogain, “for me to liken them. It is Conchobar’s son, Cormac Condlongas, the best hero behind a shield in the land of Erin. Of modest mind is that boy! Evil is what he dreads tonight. He is a champion of valour for feats of arms; he is an hospitaller for householding. These are yon nine who surround him, the three Dungusses, and the three Doelgusses, and the three Dangusses, the nine comrades of Cormac Condlongas, son of Conchobar. They have never slain men on account of their misery, and they never spared them on account of their prosperity. Good is the hero who is among them, even Cormac Condlongas. I swear what my tribe swears, nine times ten will fall by Cormac in his first onset, and nine times ten will fall by his people, besides a man for each of their weapons, and a man for each of themselves. And Cormac will share prowess with any man before the Hostel, and he will boast of victory over a king or crown-prince or noble of the reavers; and he himself will chance to escape, though all his people be wounded.”
“Woe to him who shall wreak this Destruction!” says Lomna Druth, “even because of that one man, Cormac Condlongas, son of Conchobar.” “I swear what my tribe swears,” says Lomna son of Donn Desa, “if I could fulfil my counsel, the Destruction would not be attempted were it only because of that one man, and because of the hero’s beauty and goodness!”
“It is not feasible to prevent it,” says Ingcel: “clouds of weakness come to you. A keen ordeal which will endanger two cheeks of a goat will be opposed by the oath of Fer rogain, who will run. Thy voice, O Lomna,” says Ingcel, “hath taken breaking upon thee: thou art a worthless warrior, and I know thee. Clouds of weakness come to you....”
Neither old men nor historians shall declare that I quitted the Destruction, until I shall wreak it.”
“Reproach not our honour, O Ingcel,” say Ger and Gabur and Fer rogain. “The Destruction shall be wrought unless the earth break under it, until all of us are slain thereby.”
“Truly, then, thou hast reason, O Ingcel,” says Lomna Druth son of Donn Desa. “Not to thee is the loss caused by the Destruction. Thou wilt carry off the head of the king of a foreign country, with thy slaughter of another; and thou and thy brothers will escape from the Destruction, even Ingcel and Ecell and the Yearling of the Rapine.”
“Harder, however, it is for me,” says Lomna Druth: “woe is me before every one! woe is me after every one! ’Tis my head that will be first tossed about there to-night after an hour among the chariot-shafts, where devilish foes will meet. It will be flung into the Hostel thrice, and thrice will it be flung forth. Woe to him that comes! woe to him with whom one goes! woe to him to whom one goes! wretches are they that go! wretches are they to whom they go!”
“There is nothing that will come to me,” says Ingcel, “in place of my mother and my father and my seven brothers, and the king of my district, whom ye destroyed with me. There is nothing that I shall not endure henceforward.”
“Though a ... should go through them,” say Ger and Gabur and Fer rogain, “the Destruction will be wrought by thee to-night.”
“Woe to him who shall put them under the hands of foes!” says Lomna. “And whom sawest thou afterwards?”
“I saw another room there, with a huge trio in it: three brown, big men: three round heads of hair on them, even, equally long at nape and forehead. Three short black cowls about them reaching to their elbows: long hoods were on the cowls. Three black, huge swords they had, and three black shields they bore, with three dark broad-green javelins above them. Thick as the spit of a caldron was the shaft of each. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!”
“Hard it is for me to find their like. I know not in Erin that trio, unless it be yon trio of Pictland, who went into exile from their country, and are now in Conaire’s household. These are their names: Dublonges son of Trebuat, and Trebuat son of Hua-Lonsce, and Curnach son of Hua Faich. The three who are best in Pictland at taking arms are that trio. Nine decads will fall at their hands in their first encounter, and a man will fall for each of their weapons, besides one for each of themselves. And they will share prowess with every trio in the Hostel. They will boast a victory over a king or a chief of the reavers; and they will afterwards escape though wounded. Woe to him who shall wreak the Destruction, though it be only on account of those three!”
Says Lomna Druth: “I swear to God what my tribe swears, if my counsel were taken, the Destruction would never be wrought.”
“Ye cannot,” says Ingcel: “clouds of weakness are coming to you. A keen ordeal which will endanger, etc. And whom sawest thou there afterwards?”
“There I beheld a room with nine men in it. Hair fair and yellow was on them: they all are equally beautiful. Mantles speckled with colour they wore, and above them were nine bagpipes, four-tuned, ornamented. Enough light in the palace were the ornament on these four-tuned pipes. Liken thou them, O Fer rogain.”
“Easy for me to liken them,” says Fer rogain. “Those are the nine pipers that came to Conaire out of the Elfmound of Bregia, because of the noble tales about him. These are their names: Bind, Robind, Riarbind, Sibe, Dibe, Deichrind, Umall, Cumal, Ciallglind. They are the best pipers in the world. Nine enneads will fall before them, and a man for each of their weapons, and a man for each of themselves. And each of them will boast a victory over a king or a chief of the reavers. And they will escape from the Destruction; for a conflict with them will be a conflict with a shadow. They will slay, but they will not be slain, for they are out of an elfmound. Woe to him who shall wreak the Destruction, though it be only because of those nine!”
“Ye cannot,” says Ingcel. “Clouds of weakness come to you,” etc. “And after that, whom sawest thou there?”
“There I saw a room with one man in it. Rough cropt hair upon him. Though a sack of crab-apples should be flung on his head, not one of them would fall on the floor, but every apple would stick on his hair. His fleecy mantle was over him in the house. Every quarrel therein about seat or bed comes to his decision. Should a needle drop in the house, its fall would be heard when he speaks. Above him is a huge black tree, like a millshaft, with its paddles and its cap and its spike. Liken thou him, O Fer rogain!”
“Easy for me is this. Tuidle of Ulaid is he, the steward of Conaire’s household. ’Tis needful to hearken to the decision of that man, the man that rules seat and bed and food for each. ’Tis his household staff that is above him. That man will fight with you. I swear what my tribe swears, the dead at the Destruction slain by him will be more numerous than the living. Thrice his number will fall by him, and he himself will fall there. Woe to him who shall wreak the Destruction!” etc.
“Ye cannot,” says Ingcel. “Clouds of weakness come upon you. What sawest thou there after that?”
There I beheld another room with a trio in it, three half-furious nobles: the biggest of them in the middle, very noisy ... rock-bodied, angry, smiting, dealing strong blows, who beats nine hundred in battle-conflict. A wooden shield, dark, covered with iron, he bears, with a hard ... rim, a shield whereon would fit the proper litter of four troops of ten weaklings on its ... of ... leather. A ... boss thereon, the depth of a caldron, fit to cook four oxen, a hollow maw, a great boiling, with four swine in its mid-maw great.... At his two smooth sides are two five-thwarted boats fit for three parties of ten in each of his two strong fleets.
A spear he hath, blue-red, hand-fitting, on its puissant shaft. It stretches along the wall on the roof and rests on the ground. An iron point upon it, dark-red, dripping. Four amply-measured feet between the two points of its edge.
Thirty amply-measured feet in his deadly-striking sword from dark point to iron hilt. It shews forth fiery sparks which illumine the Mid-court House from roof to ground.
’Tis a strong countenance that I see. A swoon from horror almost befell me while staring at those three. There is nothing stranger.
Two bare hills were there by the man with hair. Two loughs by a mountain of the ... of a blue-fronted wave: two hides by a tree. Two boats near them full of thorns of a white thorn tree on a circular board. And there seems to me somewhat like a slender stream of water on which the sun is shining, and its trickle down from it, and a hide arranged behind it, and a palace house-post shaped like a great lance above it. A good weight of a plough-yoke is the shaft that is therein. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!
“Easy, meseems, to liken him! That is Mac cecht son of Snaide Teichid; the battle-soldier of Conaire son of Eterscel. Good is the hero Mac cecht! Supine he was in his room, in his sleep, when thou beheldest him. The two bare hills which thou sawest by the man with hair, these are his two knees by his head. The two loughs by the mountain which thou sawest, these are his two eyes by his nose. The two hides by a tree which thou sawest, these are his two ears by his head. The two five-thwarted boats on a circular board, which thou sawest, these are his two sandals on his shield. The slender stream of water which thou sawest, whereon the sun shines, and its trickle down from it, this is the flickering of his sword. The hide which thou sawest arranged behind him, that is his sword’s scabbard. The palace-housepost which thou sawest, that is his lance; and he brandishes this spear till its two ends meet, and he hurls a wilful cast of it when he pleases. Good is the hero, Mac cecht!”
“Six hundred will fall by him in his first encounter, and a man for each of his weapons, besides a man for himself. And he will share prowess with every one in the Hostel, and he will boast of triumph over a king or chief of the reavers in front of the Hostel. He will chance to escape though wounded. And when he shall chance to come upon you out of the house, as numerous as hailstones, and grass on a green, and stars of heaven will be your cloven heads and skulls, and the clots of your brains, your bones and the heaps of your bowels, crushed by him and scattered throughout the ridges.”
Then with trembling and terror of Mac cecht they flee over three ridges.
They took the pledges among them again, even Ger and Gabur and Fer rogain.
“Woe to him that shall wreak the Destruction!” says Lomna Druth; “your heads will depart from you.”
“Ye cannot,” says Ingcel: “clouds of weakness are coming to you” etc.
“True indeed, O Ingcel,” says Lomna Druth son of Donn Desa. “Not unto thee is the loss caused by the Destruction. Woe is me for the Destruction, for the first head that will reach the Hostel will be mine!”
“’Tis harder for me,” says Ingcel: “’tis my destruction that has been ... there.”
“Truly then,” says Ingcel, “maybe I shall be the corpse that is frailest there,” etc.
“And afterwards whom sawest thou there?”
“There I beheld a room with a trio in it, to wit, three tender striplings, wearing three silken mantles. In their mantles were three golden brooches. Three golden-yellow manes were on them. When they undergo head-cleansing their golden-yellow mane reaches the edge of their haunches. When they raise their eye it raises the hair so that it is not lower than the tips of their ears, and it is as curly as a ram’s head. A ... of gold and a palace-flambeau above each of them. Every one who is in the house spares them, voice and deed and word. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain,” says Ingcel.
Fer rogain wept, so that his mantle in front of him became moist. And no voice was gotten out of his head till a third of the night had passed.
“O little ones,” says Fer rogain, “I have good reason for what I do! Those are three sons of the king of Erin: Oball and Obline and Corpre Findmor.”
“It grieves us if the tale be true,” say the sons of Donn Desa. “Good is the trio in that room. Manners of ripe maidens have they, and hearts of brothers, and valours of bears, and furies of lions. Whosoever is in their company and in their couch, and parts from them, he sleeps not and eats not at ease till the end of nine days, from lack of their companionship. Good are the youths for their age! Thrice ten will fall by each of them in their first encounter, and a man for each weapon, and three men for themselves. And one of the three will fall there. Because of that trio, woe to him that shall wreak the Destruction!”
“Ye cannot,” says Ingcel: “clouds of weakness are coming to you, etc. And whom sawest thou afterwards?”
I beheld there a room with a trio in it, to wit, a trio horrible, unheard-of, a triad of champions, etc.
* * * * *
Liken thou that, O Fer rogain?
“’Tis hard for me to liken that trio. Neither of the men of Erin nor of the men of the world do I know it, unless it be the trio that Mac cecht brought out of the land of the Fomorians by dint of duels. Not one of the Fomorians was found to fight him, so he brought away those three, and they are in Conaire’s house as sureties that, while Conaire is reigning, the Fomorians destroy neither corn nor milk in Erin beyond their fair tribute. Well may their aspect be loathy! Three rows of teeth in their heads from one ear to another. An ox with a bacon-pig, this is the ration of each of them, and that ration which they put into their
“Ye cannot,” says Ingcel, etc. “And whom sawest thou there after that?”
THE ROOM OF MUNREMAR SON OF GERRCHENN AND BIRDERG SON OF RUAN AND MAL SON OF TELBAND
“I beheld a room there, with a trio in it. Three brown, big men, with three brown heads of short hair. Thick calf-bottoms (ankles?) they had. As thick as a man’s waist was each of their limbs. Three brown and curled masses of hair upon them, with a thick head: three cloaks, red and speckled, they wore: three black shields with clasps of gold, and three five-barbed javelins; and each had in hand an ivory-hilted sword. This is the feat they perform with their swords: they throw them high up, and they throw the scabbards after them, and the swords, before reaching the ground, place themselves in the scabbards. Then they throw the scabbards first, and the swords after them, and the scabbards meet the swords and place themselves round them before they reach the ground. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!”
“Easy for me to liken them! Mal son of Telband, and Munremar son of Gerrchenn, and Birderg son of Ruan. Three crown-princes, three champions of valour, three heroes the best behind weapons in Erin! A hundred heroes will fall by them in their first conflict, and they will share prowess with every man in the Hostel, and they will boast of the victory over a king or chief of the reavers, and afterwards they will chance to escape. The Destruction should not be wrought even because of those three.”
“Woe to him that shall wreak the Destruction!” says Lomna. “Better were the victory of saving them than the victory of slaying them! Happy he who should save them! Woe to him that shall slay them!”
“It is not feasible,” says Ingcel, etc. “And afterwards whom sawest thou?”
“There I beheld in a decorated room the fairest man of Erin’s heroes. He wore a tufted purple cloak. White as snow was one of his cheeks, the other was red and speckled like foxglove. Blue as hyacinth was one of his eyes, dark as a stag-beetle’s back was the other. The bushy head of fair golden hair upon him was as large as a reaping-basket, and it touches the edge of his haunches. It is as curly as a ram’s head. If a sackful of red-shelled nuts were spilt on the crown of his head, not one of them would fall on the floor, but remain on the hooks and plaits and swordlets of their hair. A gold hilted sword in his hand; a blood-red shield which has been speckled with rivets of white bronze between plates of gold. A long, heavy, three-ridged spear: as thick as an outer yoke is the shaft that is in it. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!”
“Easy for me to liken him, for the men of Erin know that scion. That is Conall Cernach, son of Amorgen. He has chanced to be along with Conaire at this time. ’Tis he whom Conaire loves beyond every one, because of his resemblance to him in goodness of form and shape. Goodly is the hero that is there, Conall Cernach! To that blood-red shield on his fist, which has been speckled with rivets of white bronze, the Ulaid have given a famous name, to wit, the Bricriu of Conall Cernach.
“I swear what my tribe swears, plenteous will be the rain of red blood over it to-night before the Hostel! That ridged spear above him, many will there be unto whom to-night, before the Hostel, it will deal drinks of death. Seven doorways there are out of the house, and Conall Cernach will contrive to be at each of them, and from no doorway will he be absent. Three hundred will fall by Conall in his first conflict, besides a man for each (of his) weapons and one for himself. He will share prowess with every one in the Hostel, and when he shall happen to sally upon you from the house, as numerous as hailstones and grass on green and stars of heaven will be your half-heads and cloven skulls, and your bones under the point of his sword. He will succeed in escaping though wounded. Woe to him that shall wreak the Destruction, were it but for this man only!”
“Ye cannot,” says Ingcel. “Clouds,” etc.
“And after that whom sawest thou?”
“There I beheld a room, more beautifully decorated than the other rooms of the house. A silvery curtain around it, and there were ornaments in the room. I beheld a trio in it. The outer two of them were, both of them, fair, with their hair and eyelashes; and they are as bright as snow. A very lovely blush on the cheek of each of the twain. A tender lad in the midst between them. The ardour and energy of a king has he, and the counsel of a sage. The mantle I saw around him is even as the mist of Mayday. Diverse are the hue and semblance
“Then,” quoth Ingcel, “I said, gazing at him:
I see a high, stately prince, etc.
I see a famous king, etc.
I see his white prince’s diadem, etc.
I see his two blue-bright cheeks, etc.
I see his high wheel ... round
his head ... which is over his
yellow-curly hair.
I see his mantle red, many-coloured, etc.
I see therein a huge brooch of gold, etc.
I see his beautiful linen frock ... from ankle to kneecaps.
I see his sword golden-hilted,
inlaid, its in scabbard of
white silver, etc.
I see his shield bright, chalky, etc.
A tower of inlaid gold,” etc.
Now the tender warrior was asleep, with his feet in the lap of one of the two men and his head in the lap of the other. Then he awoke out of his sleep, and arose, and chanted this lay:
“The howl of Ossar (Conaire’s dog) ... cry of warriors on the summit of Tol Geisse; a cold wind over edges perilous: a night to destroy a king is this night.”
He slept again, and awoke thereout, and sang this rhetoric:
“The howl of Ossar ... a battle he announced: enslavement of a people: sack of the Hostel: mournful are the champions: men wounded: wind of terror: hurling of javelins: trouble of unfair fight: wreck of houses: Tara waste: a foreign heritage: like is lamenting Conaire: destruction of corn: feast of arms: cry of screams: destruction of Erin’s king: chariots a-tottering: oppression of the king of Tara: lamentations will overcome laughter: Ossar’s howl.”
He said the third time:
“Trouble hath been shewn to me: a multitude of elves: a host supine; foes’ prostration: a conflict of men on the Dodder[8]: oppression of Tara’s king: in youth he was destroyed; lamentations will overcome laughter: Ossar’s howl.”
[Footnote 8: A small river near Dublin, which is said to have passed through the Bruden.—W.S.]
“Liken thou, O Fer rogain, him who has sung that lay.”
“Easy for me to liken him,” says Fer rogain. No “conflict without a king” this. He is the most splendid and noble and beautiful and mighty king that has come into the whole world. He is the mildest and gentlest and most perfect king that has come to it, even Conaire son of Eterscel. ’Tis he that is overking of all Erin. There is no defect in that man, whether in form or shape or vesture: whether in size or fitness or proportion, whether in eye or hair or brightness, whether in wisdom or skill or eloquence, whether in weapon or dress or appearance, whether in splendour or abundance or dignity, whether in knowledge or valour or kindred.
“Great is the tenderness of the sleepy simple man till he has chanced on a deed of valour. But if his fury and his courage be awakened when the champions of Erin and Alba are at him in the house, the Destruction will not be wrought so long as he is therein. Six hundred will fall by Conaire before he shall attain his arms, and seven hundred will fall by him in his first conflict after attaining his arms. I swear to God what my tribe swears, unless drink be taken from him, though there be no one else in the house, but he alone, he would hold the Hostel until help would reach it which the man would prepare for him from the Wave of Clidna[9] and the Wave of Assaroe[10] while ye are at the Hostel.”
[Footnote 9: In the bay of Glandore, co. Cork.—W.S.]
[Footnote 10: At Ballyshannon, co. Donegal.—W.S.]
“Nine doors there are to the house, and at each door a hundred warriors will fall by his hand. And when every one in the house has ceased to ply his weapon, ’tis then he will resort to a deed of arms. And if he chance to come upon you out of the house, as numerous as hailstones and grass on a green will be your halves of heads and your cloven skulls and your bones under the edge of his sword.
“’Tis my opinion that he will not chance to get out of the house. Dear to him are the two that are with him in the room, his two fosterers, Dris and Snithe. Thrice fifty warriors will fall before each of them in front of the Hostel and not farther than a foot from him, on this side and that, will they too fall.”
“Woe to him who shall wreak the Destruction, were it only because of that pair and the prince that is between them, the over-king-of Erin, Conaire son of Eterscel! Sad were the quenching of that reign!” says Lomna Druth, son of Donn Desa.
“Ye cannot,” says Ingcel. “Clouds of weakness are coming to you,” etc.
“Good cause hast thou, O Ingcel,” says Lomna son of Donn Desa. “Not unto thee is the loss caused by the Destruction: for thou wilt carry off the head of the king of another country, and thyself will escape. Howbeit ’tis hard for me, for I shall be the first to be slain at the Hostel.”
“Alas for me!” says Ingcel, “peradventure I shall be the frailest corpse,” etc.
“And whom sawest thou afterwards?”
“There I saw twelve men on silvery hurdles all around that room of the king. Light yellow hair was on them. Blue kilts they wore. Equally beautiful were they, equally hardy, equally shapely. An ivory-hilted sword in each man’s hand, and they cast them not down; but it is the horse-rods in their hands that are all round the room. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain.”
“Easy for me to say. The king of Tara’s guardsmen are there. These are their names: three Londs of Liffey-plain: three Arts of Ath cliath (Dublin): three Buders of Buagnech: and three Trenfers of Cuilne. I swear what my tribe swears, that many will be the dead by them around the Hostel.
And they will escape from it although they are wounded. Woe to him who shall wreak the Destruction were it only because of that band! And afterwards whom sawest thou there?”
“There I beheld a red-freckled boy in a purple cloak. He is always a-wailing in the house. A stead wherein is the king of a cantred, whom each man takes from bosom to bosom.
“So he is with a blue silvery chair under his seat in the midst of the house, and he always a-wailing. Truly then, sad are his household listening to him! Three heads of hair on that boy, and these are the three: green hair and purple hair and all-golden hair. I know not whether they are many appearances which the hair receives, or whether they are three kinds of hair which are naturally upon him. But I know that evil is the thing he dreads to-night. I beheld thrice fifty boys on silvern chairs around him, and there were fifteen bulrushes in the hand of that red-freckled boy, with a thorn at the end of each of the rushes. And we were fifteen men, and our fifteen right eyes were blinded by him, and he blinded one of the seven pupils which was in my head” saith Ingcel. “Hast thou his like, O Fer rogain?”
“Easy for me to liken him!” Fer rogain wept till he shed his tears of blood over his cheeks. “Alas for him!” quoth he. This child is a ’scion of contention’ for the men of Erin with the men of Alba for hospitality, and shape, and form and horsemanship. Sad is his slaughter! ’Tis a ‘swine that goes before mast,’ ’tis a babe in age! the best crown-prince that has ever come into Erin! The child of Conaire son of Eterscel, Le fri flaith is his name. Seven years there are in his age. It seems to me very likely that he is miserable because of the many appearances on his hair and the various hues that the hair assumes upon him. This is his special household, the thrice fifty lads that are around him.”
“Woe,” says Lomna, “to him that shall wreak the Destruction, were it only because of that boy!”
“Ye cannot,” says Ingcel. “Clouds of weakness are coming on you, etc.” “And after that whom sawest thou there?”
“There I saw six men in front of the same room. Fair yellow manes upon them: green mantles about them: tin brooches at the opening of their mantles. Half-horses (centaurs) are they, like Conall Cernach. Each of them throws his mantle round another and is as swift as a millwheel. Thine eye can hardly follow them. Liken thou those, O Fer rogain!”
“This is easy for me. Those are the King of Tara’s six cupbearers, namely Uan and Broen and Banna, Delt and Drucht and Dathen. That feat does not hinder them from their skinking, and it blunts not their intelligence thereat. Good are the warriors that are there! Thrice their number will fall by them. They will share prowess with any six in the Hostel, and they will escape from their foes, for they are out of the elfmounds. They are the best cupbearers in Erin. Woe to him that shall wreak the Destruction were it only because of them!”
“Ye cannot,” says Ingcel. “Clouds, etc.” “And after that, whom sawest thou there?”
“There I beheld a great champion, in front of the same room, on the floor of the house. The shame of baldness is on him. White as mountain cotton-grass is each hair that grows through his head. Earrings of gold around his ears. A mantle speckled, coloured, he wore. Nine swords in his hand, and nine silvern shields, and nine apples of gold. He throws each of them upwards, and none of them falls on the ground, and there is only one of them on his palm; each of them rising and falling past another is just like the movement to and fro of bees on a day of beauty. When he was swiftest, I beheld him at the feat, and as I looked, they uttered a cry about him and they were all on the house-floor. Then the Prince who is in the house said to the juggler: ’We have come together since thou wast a little boy, and till to-night thy juggling never failed thee.’
“’Alas, alas, fair master Conaire, good cause have I. A keen, angry eye looked at me: a man with the third of a pupil which sees the going of the nine bands. Not much to him is that keen, wrathful sight! Battles are fought with it,’ saith he. ’It should be known till doomsday that there is evil in front of the Hostel.’
“Then he took the swords in his hand, and the silvern shields and the apples of gold; and again they uttered a cry and were all on the floor of the house. That amazed him, and he gave over his play and said:
’O Fer caille, arise! Do not ... its slaughter. Sacrifice thy pig! Find out who is in front of the house to injure the men of the Hostel.’
‘There,’ said he, ’are Fer Cualngi, Fer le, Fer gar, Fer rogel, Fer rogain. They have announced a deed which is not feeble, the annihilation of Conaire by Donn Desa’s five sons, by Conaire’s five loving fosterbrothers.’
“Liken thou that, O Fer rogain! Who has chanted that lay?”
“Easy for me to liken him,” says Fer rogain. “Taulchinne the chief juggler of the King of Tara; he is Conaire’s conjurer. A man of great might is that man. Thrice nine will fall by him in his first encounter, and he will share prowess with every one in the Hostel, and he will chance to escape therefrom though wounded. What then? Even on account of this man only the Destruction should not be wrought.”
“Long live he who should spare him!” says Lomna Druth.
“Ye cannot,” says Ingcel, etc.
“I beheld a trio in the front of the house: three dark crowntufts on them: three green frocks around them: three dark mantles over them: three forked ...(?) above them on the side of the wall. Six black greaves they had on the mast. Who are yon, O Fer rogain?”
“Easy to say,” answers Fer rogain: “the three swineherds of the king, Dub and Donn and Dorcha: three brothers are they, three sons of Mapher of Tara. Long live he who should protect them! woe to him who shall slay them! for greater would be the triumph of protecting them than the triumph of slaying them!”
“Ye cannot,” says Ingcel, etc.
“I beheld another trio in front of them: three plates of gold on their foreheads: three short aprons they wore, of grey linen embroidered with gold: three crimson capes about them: three goads of bronze in their hands. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!”
“I know them,” he answered. “Cul and Frecul and Forcul, the three charioteers of the King: three of the same age: three sons of Pole and Yoke. A man will perish by each of their weapons, and they will share the triumph of slaughter.”
“I beheld another room. Therein were eight swordsmen, and among them a stripling. Black hair is on him, and very stammering speech has he. All the folk of the Hostel listen to his counsel. Handsomest of men he is: he wears a shirt and a bright-red mantle, with a brooch of silver therein.”
“I know him,” says Fer rogain: “’tis Cuscraid Menn of Armagh, Conchobar’s son, who is in hostageship with the king. And his guards are those eight swordsmen around him, namely, two Flanns, two Cummains, two Aeds, two Crimthans. They will share prowess with every one in the Hostel, and they will chance to escape from it with their fosterling.”
“I beheld nine men: on the mast were they. Nine capes they wore, with a purple loop. A plate of gold on the head of each of them. Nine goads in their hands. Liken thou.”
“I know those,” quoth Fer rogain: “Riado, Riamcobur, Riade, Buadon, Buadchar, Buadgnad, Eirr, Ineirr, Argatlam—nine charioteers in apprenticeship with the three chief charioteers of the king. A man will perish at the hands of each of them,” etc.
“On the northern side of the house I beheld nine men. Nine very yellow manes were on them. Nine linen frocks somewhat short were round them: nine purple plaids over them without brooches therein. Nine broad spears, nine red curved shields above them.”
“We know them,” quoth he. “Oswald and his two fosterbrothers, Osbrit Longhand and his two fosterbrothers, Lindas and his two fosterbrothers. Three crown-princes of England who are with the king. That set will share victorious prowess,” etc.
“I beheld another trio. Three cropt heads of hair on them, three frocks they wore, and three mantles wrapt around them. A whip in the hand of each.”
“I know those,” quoth Fer rogain. “Echdruim, Echriud, Echruathar, the three horsemen of the king, that is, his three equerries. Three brothers are they, three sons of Argatron. Woe to him who shall wreak the Destruction, were it only because of that trio.”
“I beheld another trio in the room by them. A handsome man who had got his baldness newly. By him were two young men with manes upon them. Three mixed plaids they wore. A pin of silver in the mantle of each of them. Three suits of armour above them on the wall. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!”
“I know those,” quoth he. “Fergus Ferde, Fergus Fordae and Domaine Mossud, those are the king’s three judges. Woe to him who shall wreak the Destruction were it only because of that trio! A man will perish by each of them.”
“To the east of them I beheld another ennead. Nine branchy, curly manes upon them. Nine grey, floating mantles about them: nine pins of gold in their mantles. Nine rings of crystal round their arms. A thumb-ring of gold round each man’s thumb: an ear-tie of gold round each man’s ear: a torque of silver round each man’s throat. Nine bags with golden faces above them on the wall. Nine rods of white silver in their hands. Liken thou them.”
“I know those,” quoth Fer rogain. “They are the king’s nine harpers, with their nine harps above them: Side and Dide, Dulothe and Deichrinne, Caumul and Cellgen, Ol and Olene and Olchoi. A man will perish by each of them.”
“I saw another trio on the dais. Three bedgowns girt about them. Four-cornered shields in their hands, with bosses of gold upon them. Apples of silver they had, and small inlaid spears.”
“I know them,” says Fer rogain. “Cless and Clissine and Clessamun, the king’s three conjurers. Three of the same age are they: three brothers, three sons of Naffer Rochless. A man will perish by each of them.”
“I beheld another trio hard by the room of the King himself. Three blue mantles around them, and three bedgowns with red insertion over them. Their arms had been hung above them on the wall.”
“I know those,” quoth he. “Dris and Draigen and Aittit (’Thorn and Bramble and Furze’), the king’s three lampooners, three sons of Sciath foilt. A man will perish by each of their weapons.”
“I beheld a trio, naked, on the roof-tree of the house: their jets of blood coming through them, and the ropes of their slaughter on their necks.”
“Those I know,” saith he, “three ... of awful boding. Those are the three that are slaughtered at every time.”
“I beheld a trio cooking, in short inlaid aprons: a fair grey man, and two youths in his company.”
“I know those,” quoth Fer rogain: “they are the King’s three chief kitcheners, namely, the Dagdae and his two fosterlings, Seig and Segdae, the two sons of Rofer Singlespit. A man will perish by each of them,” etc.
“I beheld another trio there. Three plates of gold over their heads. Three speckled mantles about them: three linen shirts with red insertion: three golden brooches in their mantles: three wooden darts above them on the wall.”
“Those I know,” says Fer rogain: “the three poets of that king: Sui and Rodui and Fordui: three of the same age, three brothers: three sons of Maphar of the Mighty Song. A man will perish for each of them, and every pair will keep between them one man’s victory. Woe to him who shall wreak the Destruction!” etc.
“There I beheld two warriors standing over the king. Two curved shields they had, and two great pointed swords. Red kilts they wore, and in the mantles pins of white silver.”
“Bole and Root are those,” quoth he, “the king’s two guards, two sons of Maffer Toll.”
“I beheld nine men in a room there in front of the same room. Fair yellow manes upon them: short aprons they wore and spotted capes: they carried smiting shields. An ivory-hilted sword in the hand of each of them, and whoever enters the house they essay to smite him with the swords. No one dares to go to the room of the King without their consent. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!”
“Easy for me is that. Three Mochmatnechs of Meath, three Buageltachs of Bregia, three Sostachs of Sliab Fuait, the nine guardsmen of that King. Nine decads will fall by them in their first conflict, etc. Woe to him that shall wreak the Destruction because of them only!”
“Ye cannot,” says Ingcel. “Clouds of weakness,” etc. “And whom sawest thou then?”
“There I beheld another room, and a pair was in it, and they are ‘oxtubs,’ stout and thick. Aprons they wore, and the men were dark and brown. They had short back-hair on them, but high upon their foreheads. They are as swift as a waterwheel, each of them past another, one of them to the King’s room, the other to the fire. Liken thou those, O Fer rogain!”
“Easy to me. They are Nia and Bruthne, Conaire’s two table-servants. They are the pair that is best in Erin for their lord’s advantage. What causes brownness to them and height to their hair is their frequent haunting of the fire. In the world is no pair better in their art than they. Thrice nine men will fall by them in their first encounter, and they will share prowess with every one, and they will chance to escape. And after that whom sawest thou?”
“I beheld the room that is next to Conaire. Three chief champions, in their first greyness, are therein. As thick as a man’s waist is each of their limbs. They have three black swords, each as long as a weaver’s beam. These swords would split a hair on water. A great lance in the hand of the midmost man, with fifty rivets through it. The shaft therein is a good load for the yoke of a plough-team. The midmost man brandishes that lance so that its edge-studs hardly stay therein, and he strikes the haft thrice against his palm. There is a great boiler in front of them, as big as a calf’s caldron, wherein is a black and horrible liquid. Moreover he plunges the lance into that black fluid. If its quenching be delayed it flames on its shaft and then thou wouldst suppose that there is a fiery dragon in the top of the house. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!”
“Easy to say. Three heroes who are best at grasping weapons in Erin, namely, Sencha the beautiful son of Ailill, and Dubthach Chafer of Ulaid, and Goibnenn son of Lurgnech. And the Luin of Celtchar son of Uthider which was found in the battle of Mag Tured, this is in the hand of Dubthach Chafer of Ulaid. That feat is usual for it when it is ripe to pour forth a foeman’s blood. A caldron full of poison is needed to quench it when a deed of man-slaying is expected. Unless this come to the lance, it flames on its haft and will go through its bearer or the master of the palace wherein it is. If it be a blow that is to be given thereby it will kill a man at every blow, when it is at that feat, from one hour to another, though it may not reach him. And if it be a cast, it will kill nine men at every cast, and one of the nine will be a king or crown-prince or chieftain of the reavers.
“I swear what my tribe swears, there will be a multitude unto whom tonight the Luin of Celtchar will deal drinks of death in front of the Hostel. I swear to God what my tribe swears that, in their first encounter, three hundred will fall by that trio, and they will share prowess with every three in the Hostel tonight. And they will boast of victory over a king or chief of the reavers, and the three will chance to escape.”
“Woe,” says Lomna Druth, “to him who shall wreak the Destruction, were it only because of that trio!”
“Ye cannot,” says Ingcel, etc. “And after that, whom sawest thou there?”
“There I beheld a room with a trio in it. Three men mighty, manly, overbearing, which see no one abiding at their three hideous crooked aspects. A fearful view because of the terror of them. A ... dress of rough hair covers them ... of cow’s hair, without garments enwrapping down to the right heels. With three manes, equine, awful, majestic, down to their sides. Fierce heroes who wield against foeman hard-smiting swords. A blow, they give with three iron flails having seven chains triple-twisted, three-edged, with seven iron knobs at the end of every chain: each of them as heavy as an ingot of ten smeltings. Three big brown men. Dark equine back-manes on them, which reach their two heels. Two good thirds of an oxhide in the girdle round each one’s waist, and each quadrangular clasp that closes it as thick as a man’s thigh. The raiment that is round them is the dress that grows through them. Tresses of their back-manes were spread, and a long staff of iron, as long and thick as an outer yoke was in each man’s hand, and an iron chain out of the end of every club, and at the end of every chain an iron pestle as long and thick as a middle yoke. They stand in their sadness in the house, and enough is the horror of their aspect. There is no one in the house that would not be avoiding them. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!”
Fer rogain was silent. “Hard for me to liken them. I know none such of the world’s men unless they be yon trio of giants to whom Cuchulainn gave quarter at the beleaguerment of the Men of Falga, and when they were getting quarter they killed fifty warriors. But Cuchulainn would not let them be slain, because of their wondrousness. These are the names of the three: Srubdaire son of Dordbruige, and Conchenn of Cenn maige, and Fiad sceme son of Scipe. Conaire bought them from Cuchulainn for ... so they are along with him. Three hundred will fall by them in their first encounter, and they will surpass in prowess every three in the Hostel; and if they come forth upon you, the fragments of you will be fit to go through the sieve of a corn-kiln, from the way in which they will destroy you with the flails of iron. Woe to him that shall wreak the Destruction, though it were only on account of those three! For to combat against them is not a ‘paean round a sluggard.’” “Ye cannot,” says Ingcel. “Clouds of weakness are coming to you,” etc. “And after that, whom sawest thou there?”
“There I beheld another room, with one man therein and in front of him two servants with two manes upon them, one of the two dark, the other fair. Red hair on the warrior, and red eyebrows. Two ruddy cheeks he had, and an eye very blue and beautiful. He wore a green cloak and a shirt with a white hood and a red insertion. In his hand was a sword with a hilt of ivory, and he supplies attendance of every room in the house with ale and food, and he is quick-footed in serving the whole host. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!”
“I know those men. That one is Da Derga. ’Tis by him that the Hostel was built, and since it was built its doors have never been shut save on the side to which the wind comes—the valve is closed against it—and since he began housekeeping his caldron was never taken from the fire, but it has been boiling food for the men of Erin. The pair before him, those two youths, are his fosterlings, two sons of the king of Leinster, namely Muredach and Corpre. Three decads will fall by that trio in front of their house and they will boast of victory over a king or a chief of the reavers. After this they will chance to escape from it.”
“Long live he who should protect them!” says Lomna.
“Better were triumph of saving them than triumph of slaying them! They should be spared were it only on account of that man. ’Twere meet to give that man quarter,” says Lomna Druth.
“Ye cannot,” says Ingcel. “Clouds,” etc. “And after that whom sawest thou there?”
“There I beheld a room with a trio in it. Three red mantles they wore, and three red shirts, and three red heads of hair were on them. Red were they all together with their teeth. Three red shields above them. Three red spears in their hands. Three red horses in their bridles in front of the Hostel. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!”
“Easily done. Three champions who wrought falsehood in the elfmounds. This is the punishment inflicted upon them by the king of the elfmounds, to be destroyed thrice by the King of Tara. Conaire son of Eterscel is the last king by whom they are destroyed. Those men will escape from you. To fulfil their own destruction, they have come. But they will not be slain, nor will they slay anyone. And after that whom sawest thou?”
“There I beheld a trio in the midst of the house at the door. Three holed maces in their hands. Swift as a hare was each of them round the other towards the door. Aprons were on them, and they had gray and speckled mantles. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!”
“Easily done: Three doorwardens of Tara’s King are those, namely Echur (’Key’) and Tochur and Tecmang, three sons of Ersa (’Doorpost’) and Comla (’Valve’). Thrice their number will fall by them, and they will share a man’s triumph among them. They will chance to escape though wounded.”
“Woe to him that shall wreak!” etc., says Lomna Druth.
“Ye cannot,” says Ingcel, etc. “And after that whom sawest thou?”
“There I beheld at the fire in front a man with black cropt hair, having only one eye and one foot and one hand, having on the fire a pig bald, black, singed, squealing continually, and in his company a great big-mouthed woman. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!”
“Easily done: Fer caille with his pig and his wife Cichuil. They (the wife and the pig) are his proper instruments on the night that ye destroy Conaire King of Erin. Alas for the guest who will run between them! Fer caille with his pig is one of Conaire’s tabus.”
“Woe to him who shall wreak the Destruction!” says Lomna.
“Ye cannot,” quoth Ingcel. “And after that, whom sawest thou there?”
“There I beheld a room with three enneads in it. Fair yellow manes upon them, and they are equally beautiful. Each of them wore a black cape, and there was a white hood on each mantle, a red tuft on each hood, and an iron brooch at the opening of every mantle, and under each man’s cloak a huge black sword, and the swords would split a hair on water. They bore shields with scalloped edges. Liken thou them, O Fer rogain!”
“Easily done. That is the robber-band of the three sons of Baithis of Britain. Three enneads will fall by them in their first conflict, and among them they will share a man’s triumph. And after that whom sawest thou?”
“There I beheld a trio of jesters hard by the fire. Three dun mantles they wore. If the men of Erin were in one place, even though the corpse of his mother or his father were in front of each, not one could refrain from laughing at them. Wheresoever the king of a cantred is in the house, not one of them attains his seat on his bed because of that trio of jesters. Whenever the king’s eye visits them it smiles at every glance. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!”
“Easily done. Mael and Mlithe and Admlithe—those are the king of Erin’s three jesters. By each of them a man will perish, and among them they will share a man’s triumph.”
“Woe to him that will wreak the Destruction!” says Lomna, etc. “And after that whom sawest thou there?”
“There I beheld a room with a trio in it. Three grey-floating mantles they wore. There was a cup of water in front of each man, and on each cup a bunch of watercress. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!”
“Easily done. Black and Dun and Dark: they are the King of Tara’s three cupbearers, to wit, the sons of Day and Night. And after that, whom sawest thou there?”
“There I beheld a one-eyed man asquint with a ruinous eye. A swine’s head he had on the fire, continually squealing. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!”
“Easy for me to name the like. He is Nar the Squinter with the left eye, the swineherd of Bodb of the Elfmound on Femen, ’tis he that is over the cooking. Blood hath been spilt at every feast at which he has ever been present.”
* * * * *
“Rise up, then, ye champions!” says Ingcel, “and get you on to the house!”
With that the reavers march to the Hostel, and made a murmur about it.
“Silence a while!” says Conaire, “what is this?”
“Champions at the house,” says Conall Cernach.
“There are warriors for them here,” answers Conaire.
“They will be needed tonight,” Conall Cernach rejoins.
Then went Lomna Druth before the host of reavers into the Hostel. The doorkeepers struck off his head. Then the head was thrice flung into the Hostel, and thrice cast out of it, as he himself had foretold.
Then Conaire himself sallies out of the Hostel together with some of his people, and they fight a combat with the host of reavers, and six hundred fell by Conaire before he could get to his arms. Then the Hostel is thrice set on fire, and thrice put out from thence: and it was granted that the Destruction would never have been wrought had not work of weapons been taken from Conaire.
Thereafter Conaire went to seek his arms, and he dons his battle-dress, and falls to plying his weapons on the reavers, together with the band that he had. Then, after getting his arms, six hundred fell by him in his first encounter.
After this the reavers were routed. “I have told you,” says Fer rogain son of Donn Desa, “that if the champions of the men of Erin and Alba attack Conaire at the house, the Destruction will not be wrought unless Conaire’s fury and valour be quelled.”
“Short will his time be,” say the wizards along with the reavers. This was the quelling they brought, a scantness of drink that seized him.
Thereafter Conaire entered the house, and asked for a drink.
“A drink to me, O master Mac cecht!” says Conaire.
Says Mac cecht: “This is not the order that I have hitherto had from thee, to give thee a drink. There are spencers and cupbearers who bring drink to thee. The order I have hitherto had from thee is to protect thee when the champions of the men of Erin and Alba may be attacking thee around the Hostel. Thou wilt go safe from them, and no spear shall enter thy body. Ask a drink of thy spencers and thy cupbearers.”
Then Conaire asked a drink of his spencers and his cupbearers who were in the house.
“In the first place there is none,” they say; “all the liquids that had been in the house have been spilt on the fires.”
The cupbears found no drink for him in the Dodder (a river), and the Dodder had flowed through the house.
Then Conaire again asked for a drink. “A drink to me, O fosterer, O Mac cecht! ’Tis equal to me what death I shall go to, for anyhow I shall perish.”
Then Mac cecht gave a choice to the champions of valour of the men of Erin who were in the house, whether they cared to protect the King or to seek a drink for him.
Conall Cernach answered this in the house—and cruel he deemed the contention, and afterwards he had always a feud with Mac cecht.—“Leave the defence of the King to us,” says Conall, “and go thou to seek the drink, for of thee it is demanded.”
So then Mac cecht fared forth to seek the drink, and he took Conaire’s son, Le fri flaith, under his armpit, and Conaire’s golden cup, in which an ox with a bacon-pig would be boiled; and he bore his shield and his two spears and his sword, and he carried the caldron-spit, a spit of iron.
He burst forth upon them, and in front of the Hostel he dealt nine blows of the iron spit, and at every blow nine reavers fell. Then he makes a sloping feat of the shield and an edge-feat of the sword about his head, and he delivered a hostile attack upon them. Six hundred fell in his first encounter, and after cutting down hundreds he goes through the band outside.
The doings of the folk of the Hostel, this is what is here examined, presently.
Conall Cernach arises, and takes his weapons, and wends over the door of the Hostel, and goes round the house. Three hundred fell by him, and he hurls back the reavers over three ridges out from the Hostel, and boasts of triumph over a king, and returns, wounded, into the Hostel.
Cormac Condlongas sallies out, and his nine comrades with him, and they deliver their onsets on the reavers. Nine enneads fall by Cormac and nine enneads by his people, and a man for each weapon and a man for each man. And Cormac boasts of the death of a chief of the reavers. They succeed in escaping though they be wounded.
The trio of Picts sally forth from the Hostel, and take to plying their weapons on the reavers. And nine enneads fall by them, and they chance to escape though they be wounded.
The nine pipers sally forth and dash their warlike work on the reavers; and then they succeed in escaping.
Howbeit then, but it is long to relate, ’tis weariness of mind, ’tis confusion of the senses, ’tis tediousness to hearers, ’tis superfluity of narration to go over the same things twice. But the folk of the Hostel came forth in order, and fought their combats with the reavers, and fell by them, as Fer rogain and Lomna Druth had said to Ingcel, to wit, that the folk of every room would sally forth still and deliver their combat, and after that escape. So that none were left in the Hostel in Conaire’s company save Conall and Sencha and Dubthach.
Now from the vehement ardour and the greatness of the contest which Conaire had fought, his great drouth of thirst attacked him, and he perished of a consuming fever, for he got not his drink. So when the king died those three sally out of the Hostel, and deliver a wily stroke of reaving on the reavers, and fare forth from the Hostel, wounded, to-broken and maimed.
Touching Mac cecht, however, he went his way till he reached the Well of Casair, which was near him in Crich Cualann; but of water he found not therein the full of his cup, that is, Conaire’s golden cup which he had brought in his hand. Before morning he had gone round the chief rivers of Erin, to wit, Bush, Boyne, Bann, Barrow, Neim, Luae, Laigdae, Shannon, Suir, Sligo, Samair, Find, Ruirthech, Slaney, and in them he found not the full of his cup of water.
Then before morning he had travelled to the chief lakes of Erin, to wit, Lough Derg, Loch Luimnig, Lough Foyle, Lough Mask, Long Corrib, Loch Laig, Loch Cuan, Lough Neagh, Morloch, and of water he found not therein the full of his cup.
He went his way till he reached Uaran Garad on Magh Ai. It could not hide itself from him: so he brought thereout the full of his cup, and the boy fell under his covering.
After this he went on and reached Da Derga’s Hostel before morning.
When Mac cecht went across the third ridge towards the house, ’tis there were twain striking off Conaire’s head. Then Mac cecht strikes off the head of one of the two men who were beheading Conaire. The other man then was fleeing forth with the king’s head. A pillar-stone chanced to be under Mac cecht’s feet on the floor of the Hostel. He hurls it at the man who had Conaire’s head and drove it through his spine, so that his back broke. After this Mac cecht beheads him. Mac cecht then spilt the cup of water into Conaire’s gullet and neck. Then said Conaire’s head, after the water had been put into its neck and gullet:
“A good man Mac
cecht! an excellent man Mac cecht!
A good warrior without,
good within,
He gives a drink, he
saves a king, he doth a deed.
Well he ended the champions
I found.
He sent a flagstone
on the warriors.
Well he hewed by the
door of the Hostel ... Fer le,
So that a spear is against
one hip.
Good should I be to
far-renowned Mac cecht
If I were alive.
A good man!”
After this Mac cecht followed the routed foe.
’Tis this that some books relate, that but a very few fell around Conaire, namely, nine only. And hardly a fugitive escaped to tell the tidings to the champions who had been at the house.
Where there had been five thousand—and in every thousand ten hundred—only one set of five escaped, namely Ingcel, and his two brothers Echell and Tulchinne, the “Yearling of the Reavers”—three great-grandsons of Conmac, and the two Reds of Roiriu who had been the first to wound Conaire.
Thereafter Ingcel went into Alba, and received the kingship after his father, since he had taken home triumph over a king of another country.
This, however, is the recension in other books, and it is more probably truer. Of the folk of the Hostel forty or fifty fell, and of the reavers three fourths and one fourth of them only escaped from the Destruction.
Now when Mac cecht was lying wounded on the battle-field, at the end of the third day, he saw a woman passing by.
“Come hither, O woman!” says Mac cecht.
“I dare not go thus,” says the woman, “for horror and fear of thee.”
“There was a time when I had this, O woman, even horror and fear of me on some one. But now thou shouldst fear nothing. I accept thee on the truth of my honour and my safeguard.”
Then the woman goes to him.
“I know not,” says he, “whether it is a fly or a gnat, or an ant that nips me in the wound.”
It happened that it was a hairy wolf that was there, as far as its two shoulders in the wound!
The woman seized it by the tail, and dragged it out of the wound, and it takes the full of its jaws out of him.
“Truly,” says the woman, “this is ‘an ant of ancient land.’”
Says Mac cecht “I swear to God what my people swears, I deemed it no bigger than a fly, or a gnat, or an ant.”
And Mac cecht took the wolf by the throat, and struck it a blow on the forehead, and killed it with a single blow.
Then Le fri flaith, son of Conaire, died under Mac cecht’s armpit, for the warrior’s heat and sweat had dissolved him.
Thereafter Mac cecht, having cleansed the slaughter, at the end of the third day, set forth, and he dragged Conaire with him on his back, and buried him at Tara, as some say. Then Mac cecht departed into Connaught, to his own country, that he might work his cure in Mag Brengair. Wherefore the name clave to the plain from Mac cecht’s misery, that is, Mag Bren-guir.
Now Conall Cernach escaped from the Hostel, and thrice fifty spears had gone through the arm which upheld his shield. He fared forth till he reached his father’s house, with half his shield in his hand, and his sword, and the fragments of his two spears. Then he found his father before his garth in Taltiu.
“Swift are the wolves that have hunted thee, my son,” saith his father.
“’Tis this that has wounded us, thou old hero, an evil conflict with warriors,” Conall Cernach replied.
“Hast thou then news of Da Derga’s Hostel?” asked Amorgin. “Is thy lord alive?”
“He is not alive,” says Conall.
“I swear to God what the great tribes of Ulaid swear, it is cowardly for the man who went thereout alive, having left his lord with his foes in death.”
“My wounds are not white, thou old hero,” says Conall.
He shews him his shield-arm, whereon were thrice fifty wounds: this is what was inflicted upon it. The shield that guarded it is what saved it. But the right arm had been played upon, as far as two thirds thereof, since the shield had not been guarding it. That arm was mangled and maimed and wounded and pierced, save that the sinews kept it to the body without separation.
“That arm fought tonight, my son,” says Amorgein.
“True is that, thou old hero,” says Conall Cernach. “Many there are unto whom it gave drinks of death tonight in front of the Hostel.”
Now as to the reavers, every one of them that escaped from the Hostel went to the cairn which they had built on the night before last, and they brought thereout a stone for each man not mortally wounded. So this is what they lost by death at the Hostel, a man for every stone that is (now) in Carn Lecca.
It endeth: Amen: it endeth.