soil of Spain,
     From the gorge of Aspra to Dourestan,
     Till Karl grows weary such wars to plan. 
     Then for your life have you won repose.” 
     King Marsil on him his glove bestows.

     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.”