Chapter CLXXXII

To Carlemagne Our Lord now showed his might;
The sun stays in its course. The Pagans fly,
And fast the French pursuing, overtake
Them in the Val-Tenebre. They drive them on
Toward Sarraguce, while close behind them fall
The upraised swords, and strew the ground with dead.
No issue, no escape, by road or pass!
In front deep Ebro rolls its mighty waves:
No boat, no barge, no raft. They call for help
On Tervagant, then plunge into the flood.
Vain was their trust: some, weighted with their arms,
Sink in a moment; others are swept down,
And those most favored swallow monstrous draughts.
All drown most cruelly. The French cry out:
"For your own woe wished ye to see Rolland!"
Aoi.

CLXXXIII.

When Carle sees all the Pagans dead--some slain,
The others drowned, his chevaliers enriched
With spoils, the noble King dismounts, on earth
Prostrates himself and offers thanks to God.
When he arose, the sun had set. "'Tis time,"
He said, "to think of camping now. Too late
It is for our advance to Ronceval.
Our horses are all weary and foredone:
Unsaddle them and take the bridles off;
And let them roam at large about these meads."
The French reply: "Sire, you have spoken well."
Aoi.