Chapter CXCVII

Beneath an olive tree they halt, and soon
Two Pagans take their curbed steeds in charge.
The messengers, each holding by the cloak
The other, hasten to the highest tower.
Entering the vaulted hall where lay Marsile,
An evil greeting offer with good will:
"May Tervagan, Apollo, he who holds
Us in his service, and our Sire Mahum,
Preserve our king and guard the queen!"
Whereat cried Bramimunde:--"What folly this!
Our gods are false; too well in Ronceval
They showed their evil power, and let our knights
Be slain--amid the battle-field forsook
My lord the king with his right hand struck off
By mighty Count Rolland. The realm of Spain
Will fall enslaved beneath the sway of Carle.
What shall become of me, most miserable?
Alas! is there no man to give me death!"
Aoi.