Chapter LXVII

High are the mounts, the valleys murky-dark--
The rocks are black, the gorges terrible.
The French toiled through them painfully; their march
Was heard for fifteen leagues; then the Great land
Reaching, they viewed Gascuigne, their lord's estate,
And sweet remembrance felt of honors, fiefs,
Of lovely maidens and of noble wives:
Not one is there but weeps from tenderness;
But more than all is Carle distressed; he mourns
His nephew left in the defiles of Spain....
By pity moved he cannot choose but weep.
Aoi.