ANGULAFFRE was stretched on the ground, surrounded by his companions in arms when the surgeons came to dress his wounds, he rejected their aid.
“Go to the Evil One, vile concocters of drugs! My soul is not foolish enough to dwell in so dilapidated a mansion as that which I have to offer now. All your remedies will but drive her away the sooner. Come hither, Alcalde of Valentia, Corsablix, Margariz—all of you—come round me, that I may die while looking on the faces of friends. Tell to King Marsillus the manner of Murad’s death—and mine. Tell him that: with my last breath I called for vengeance on Roland. I bequeath to you a hatred so fierce and strong, that it cannot but survive me. I leave all my property, without exception, for the furtherance of vengeance. If bribery can help you, spare nothing: there is no human integrity that could withstand the sight of the wealth you have to offer. Swear to me you will spare no means of hastening the downfall of this accursed one, and I shall die more happy.”
“Rely upon us,” said Priamus. “We inherit your hatred; and whether it be ten years, or whether it be twenty years hence, rely on it, this Roland shall perish by our hands!”
“We will hew him into as many pieces as he has given you wounds,” said Garlan the Bearded.
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“His death shall become a tradition,” added Abysm, the favourite of Marsillus. “I swear to you, people shall speak of it when the recollection of this petty Charles shall be extinct.”
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“You had better implore the aid and protection of the Prophet in your undertaking, for he who has vanquished me is not to be lightly overcome,” said Angoulaffre.
“If we have to unpeople Nubia, Persia, Egypt, the Atlas, the Caucasus, Scythia, and Spain, to swell our forces,” said Ecremis of Vauterne, “as sure as Mahomet is greater than St. Peter, Charles and his knights shall perish ere long.”
“Before a year elapses we will sleep at Cologne,” said another.
“Enough, babblers and boasters!” said Angoulaffre, who felt the chills of death approaching; “do your best to carry back your carcasses whole to Spain, and if Mahomet grants you that favour, renew there these promises. In the meantime, take care of your precious hides in to-morrow’s tourney. Death grasps me by the throat—farewell! Ah, dog of a Roland!”
These were the last words of the Governor of Jerusalem.
Sixty Saracens, marching in two files, bearing thirty spears between them (a soldier holding each end of a spear), extemporised a litter, on which the dead body of the giant was placed.
Two hours before, he had entered the lists, mounted on his steed, followed by a brilliant suite of kings, emits, and alcaldes, and preceded by a band of barbarous music; proud of his strength, relying on his own bravery, boasting, and threatening. But if Heaven does not favour the cause of the lion, it not unfrequently happens that the Iamb gets considerably the better of him.
The enraged Garlan.
