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 piercèd 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,