"Let us flee, and save us," the heathen cried;
"These are the trumpets of France we hear--
It is Karl, the mighty Emperor, near."
CLXXX
Count Roland never hath loved the base,
Nor the proud of heart, nor the dastard race,--
Nor knight, but if he were vassal good,--
And he spake to Turpin, as there he stood;
"On foot are you, on horseback I;
For your love I halt, and stand you by.
Together for good and ill we hold;
I will not leave you for man of mould.
We will pay the heathen their onset back,
Nor shall Durindana of blows be slack."
"Base," said Turpin, "who spares to smite:
When the Emperor comes, he will all requite."
CLXXXI
The heathens said, "We were born to shame.
This day for our disaster came:
Our lords and leaders in battle lost,
And Karl at hand with his marshalled host;
We hear the trumpets of France ring out,
And the cry '_Montjoie!_' their rallying shout.
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